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As an instrument of mass snobbery, this remarkable magazine , dedicated simply to the personal cult of its editress, to the fetishism of the flower , outdistances all its competitors in the audacity of its conception. It is a leap into the Orwellian future, a magazine without content or point of view beyond its proclamation of itself, one hundred and twenty pages of sheer presentation, a journalistic mirage. The articles, in fact, seem meant not to be read but inhaled like a whiff of scent from the mystic rose at the center . Nobody, one imagines, has read them, not even their authors: grammatical sentences are arranged around a vanishing point of meaning. (en) |
