People she likes are the very best, the greatest, the loveliest, the most outstanding at whatever they do. If Krantz fails to cite as a pal any single figure in show business, publishing, fashion or New York, California and French cafe society, I cannot think who he or she may be. She whines about every step.īarely a page passes without Krantz dropping a name - or a flock of them.
On promotional tours, she is treated in a manner almost any living writer would find exquisite: stretch limos, bookings on every possible show and venue. There are endless stories of a honeymoon that went utterly wrong, of a mother and father who never loved her, of slights, of people failing to serve her needs. She belabors her years of psychoanalysis - and savagely repudiates her analysts as uncaring mercenaries, while insisting that some good may have come from the process. From adolescence onward, she reveals herself as a relentless manipulator, a heartless cynic. So much for Paris' - and the world's - devotion to the very idea of romance. In the last analysis, unlike any woman in all the songs of Piaf, I was in control of my heart." I was a fundamentally logical American girl and it was contrary to every fiber in my being to make a decision that could only end tragically.
Writing of herself in her 20s, she observes, "Blind passion wasn't within my potential. Then, as her narrative moved onward, it became gradually clear that she is relentlessly superficial, self-indulgent, self-congratulatory, self-contrived and contriving. Throughout the book, she insists she is a lifelong atheist.)įor its first 80 pages or so, her book lured me in and held me. As a child, and adult, Judith had no religious participation or training. She calls herself a "Nice Jewish Girl Who Had Some Amazing Fun and Went Interestingly Askew." (The Tarchers were entirely secular, but proudly Jewish.
Krantz decided to write this memoir in July 1998, as she approached 70.
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