Peter Lindbergh's earlier books are far superior to this. Maybe I am missing something here but this book isn't really "Stories" at all. I thought the stories would be mysterious, enchanting, romantic, sensual or at least interesting photographs. Nothing here is. Everything is overly contrived including a ridiculous invasion by midgets in flying saucers. Really!? ... True there are a few, very few in my opinion, gorgeous pictures of beautiful models. Most of the models have disgusting cigarettes hanging from their lips or dangling from their fingers - not very sexy. In fact this book seems more a tribute to the Marlboro man than to the beauty of his models. Wim Wenders wrote the introduction and I admire and respect his work very much. He apparently sees things in this book that I am clearly missing. I have paged through this book three times now to see if I could "get it". I don't. Wenders introduction drones on with the continuing question "How does Peter Lindbergh do it?" I don't know what Lindbergh has done except contrive and exaggerate to absurdity. I am disappointed.