| Sumario: | If you are only casting a covetous eye at the Scotch tweeds, Paris cloches, and proud bearings that parade through an issue of Vogue magazine, you may believe that you have entered a woman’s world of privilege and taste, where the feminine graces ride high as ladies step crisp and cheerful into suburban days, slim and intimate into city nights. But if you are peering methodically through its bulk of ads in search of a spring dress, you begin to shift uneasily in front of the hollow cheeks and zombie stares of the Vogue models, and to feel the generally chilly atmosphere of this publication. As its pages offer up bosoms disrupted by military pleats and swooping folds, stomachs disguised by sudden pockets, folds and drapings, you fear that the designing Diors, Molyneuxs, and Patous cherish some deep-rooted animus against the natural lines of a woman’s figure. These uncertainties are all cleared up in the autobiography of Vogue’s editor, Edna Woolman Chase, written with entire candor and strong self-righteousness by herself and her daughter, Ilka Chase. It turns out that Vogue has nothing against women, it simply recognizes that their welfare and good looks must recede before the high principles of commercial enterprise: the inspirational sales idea, the all-out effort to produce, and the nasty dig for anyone misguided enough to leave the fold
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