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I had a handbag epiphany recently at a literary luncheon in Milan. The occasion was a book launch for Isabel Allende, at a grand apartment behind La Scala, and the high-ceilinged rooms lined with paintings were crammed with writers, a few Italian senators, and a countess. The largely feminine company being the kind of leftist intellectuals who don't dress up, there was little flamboyance in attire, but a glance at one of the couches in the salotto told a different story. Parked there were five enormous crocodile handbags of the latest designer styles--bags as large as Christmas turkeys, groomed and bedizened, glistening and scaly as pet dragons, exuding, in their ...