Apparently Daphne Guinness is writing an autobiographical novel. This week's New Yorker offers a brief excerpt about climbing out of the attic in her childhood home to reach neighboring roofs:

"There were spikes to prevent exactly this sort of thing, but I was small and nimble, and not much made me afraid. Not physical things anyway, only other people — and mainly those who drank."

But more interesting is how the New Yorker's Rebecca Mead observes Guinness, who immaculately attires herself at all times without a care for comfort, but with every care for looking like an original. At a David Bowie–inspired editorial for German Vogue:

To incarnate Ziggy Stardust, she let a stylist place an enormous metallic collar around her neck; the stylist apologized for any discomfort. “Are you kidding?” Guinness replied. “Uncomfortable is the name of the game.

Also at that shoot:

Teresa Alfonso, Guinness’s personal assistant, tried to get her to eat some of the pasta that had been prepared for the production team. “If I eat, I can’t work,” Guinness, who had been subsisting on Red Bull and Ensure, said. “I’ll eat when I’m dead.”

And the effect of all this discomfort? Mead observes:

She costumes herself with the bodily rigor that is seen among ballet dancers, whose art depends upon the denial of pain and the mastery of appetite. Even if Guinness insists that her heelless shoes are comfortable, they connote suffering, and render her literally unstable. Her appearance conveys a sense of immense discipline combined with boundless fragility. It is impossible to look at her and not wonder when, in some way or another, she will topple.

PRECARIOUS BEAUTY [NYer]