Coming later this month to an Internet near you:

MANOLO says, many years ago, when the young Manolo was sunk into despair over the dismal and impoverished conditions in which he had found himself, he sat down at the rickety table in his tiny garret, picked up his pen, and turned to his muses to help him write the few lines of baleful poetry commemorative of his state. As the tears of the Manolo spilled onto the paper, causing the lavender ink of his sorrowful verse to run, there appeared to him, as in a dream, the tall, majestic older woman clad in the finely tailored pink Chanel suit of the cut and style that was not of that season, nor the last, but of the previous generation.

In the right hand this regal woman carried the Hermès bag; in the left she brought illustrated books of the sort that appear on the finest coffee tables in this benighted land. Her countenance was kindly and wise, her upswept silvery hair bore the faint traces of the master coiffeur’s art, and upon her feets were the handsome and luxurious shoes made of the opulent leather and adorned with the tiny gems of the most costly type.

“Ayyyyy!” shouted the Manolo. “Who are you?”

She did not immediately answer, but seated herself at the end of the Manolo’s hard, narrow bed and placed her tastefully jeweled hand upon his shoulder.

“I am Lady Fashion, my child.”

“Ayyyyyyyy!” the Manolo again shouted, this time for joy, for in that instant the Manolo saw that it was true, that here in his chilly room was the personification of the deity whom the young Manolo worshipped with his entire being.

“O, Mistress of All Virtues,” asked the Manolo, the tears welling in his eyes, “why have you come down from the Fashion Heaven to visit this lonely place of banishment and sorrow?”

(Via Dr. Korncrake, the author of the introduction.)