[...] Contrary to what one might expect, nothing like a dreamworld is to be found here, but instead a strictly realistic description of a specific social milieu, that of the magazine's female readers. In other words, astrology is definitely not--at least not here--the prolegomenon to a dream, but only a mirror, the mere institution of reality.

The chief rubrics of destiny (Chance, Outside, At Home, Your Heart) scrupulously produce the complete rhythm of a working life; its unit is the week, in which "chance" marks one or two days. Chance here is the portion reserved for interiority, for moods: it is the experiential sign for duration, the only category by which subjective time is expressed and released. For the other days, the stars know nothing but a schedule: Outside is the professional timetable, the six days of the week, the seven hours a day of office or store. At Home is the evening meal, the rest of the evening before bedtim. Your Heart is the date after work or the Sunday adventure. But between these "realms," no communication: nothing which, from one agenda to another, might suggest the notion of a total alienation; the prisons are contiguous, they adjoin but don't contaminate one another. The stars never postulate a reversal of order, they influence on short terms, à la petite semaine, respectful of social status and the boss's calendar.

Then what purpose can it serve, this pure description, since it seems to offer no oneiric compensation?