One of the few good feats of this memoir is how vibrant and fresh its voice comes across; as if directly transcribed from a very jolly conversation or soliloquium. One of its greatest defeats, on the other hand, is the slender hand of the editor, if there was any—no one appears in the credits and, after a fruitless search all through the web, I am led to believe there wasn't even one.
Instead of a window to a fascinating life, it feels more like a muffled peephole; it focuses mainly on the surface and, when it gets to a more substantial peak (her retelling of the time she met Schiaparelli at al luncheon is, perhaps, the best part so far), it loses focus and space in trivial thoughts—like musing over how "an intelligent English girl" could not really get raped by an American man because of her "fairly startling sophistication."
Fairly enough, it does survive steadily as a fashion history text, not only because it paints a detailed picture of the dawn of a completely new and radical dynamic in the traditional fashion system—the Youthquake and the big leap of British fashion across the pond—but also for the wise knowledge it offers to young designers when it comes to translating ideas to mass production and on retail marketing, even if the lessons come from a completely different society in history. But again, what is Quant's contribution if not timeless…