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Byline: Sally Singer
On a warm afternoon in May, I go to Book Soup on Sunset Boulevard in L.A. with Winona Ryder and her father, Michael Horowitz. She is spectacularly pretty, and he is handsome, albeit in a nebbishy, professorial sort of way befitting a cultural critic and dealer in rare books such as himself. There is something anachronistic about the duo. Ryder, in fisherman's cap, men's cashmere hoodie by Marc Jacobs, black miniskirt, black tights, and black boots (also Marc Jacobs), lacks only a battered copy of Howl to be utterly and ravishingly Beat; Horo_witz, in beat-up denims, a gray cloth cap, and a Joy Division tee layered under a skinny striped ...