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Lauren Weisberger

The Devil Wears Prada

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A sharp, witty and hugely entertaining novel, The Devil Wears Prada has become a generation-defining bestselling classic.
Welcome to the dollhouse, baby!
When Andrea first sets foot in the plush Manhattan offices of Runway she knows nothing. She's never heard of the world's most fashionable magazine, or its feared and fawned-over editor, Miranda Priestly. But she's going to be Miranda's assistant, a job millions of girls would die for.
A year later, she knows altogether too much:
That it's a sacking offence to wear anything lower than a three-inch heel to work.
That Miranda believes Hermes scarves are disposable, and you must keep a life-time supply on hand at all times.
That you can charge cars, manicures, anything at all to the Runway account, but you must never, ever, leave your desk, or let Miranda's coffee get cold.
And that at 3 a.m. on a Sunday, when your boyfriend's dumping you because you're always at work, and your best friend's just been arrested, if Miranda phones, you jump.
Most of all, Andrea knows that Miranda is a monster who makes Cruella de Vil look like a fluffy bunny. But also that this is her big break, and it's going to be worth it in the end.
Isn't it?
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495 páginas impresas
Año de publicación
2012
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Citas

  • Cris Locompartió una citahace 5 años
    continued to answer her questions about myself with a forthrightness and confidence that surprised me.
  • ClydeBunnycompartió una citael año pasado
    dedicated to the only three
    people alive who genuinely believe it rivals
    War and Peace:

    my mother,Cheryl,the mom
    “a million girls would die for”;

    my father,Steve,who is handsome, witty,
    brilliant, and talented, and who
    insisted on writing his own dedication;

    my phenomenal sister,Dana,their favorite
    (until I wrote a book).
  • ClydeBunnycompartió una citael año pasado
    he letter smelled like Jean Naté, that acrid-smelling toilet water– spray preferred by preteen girls the country over. But that wasn’t what was causing the tightness in my chest, the constriction in my throat. How many Anitas were there out there? Young girls with so little else in their lives that they measured their worth, their confidence, their entire existence around the clothes and the models they saw inRunway ? How many more had decided to unconditionally love the woman who put it all together each month—the orchestrator of such a seductive fantasy—even though she wasn’t worth one single second of their adoration? How many girls had no idea that the object of their worship was a lonely, deeply unhappy, and oftentimes cruel woman who didn’t deserve the briefest moment of their innocent affection and attention?

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