The death of Helen Gurley Brown two days ago has given every obituary writer a shot at disproving the adage de mortuis nil nisi bonum. The New York Times cracked, “She was 90, but parts of her were considerably younger”—alluding to Brown’s pathological addiction to plastic surgery during her declining years. The Wall Street Journal blamed Brown’s gospel of unlimited sexual adventure for the current deluge of out-of-wedlock births. Feminists screamed that Brown deserved no praise, because her particular brand of feminism—making herself agreeable to men, and then squeezing them for expensive gifts—amounted to capitulation to the patriarchy.

Helen Gurley Brown deserves her due, however, and here it is: She had grit. She was a “hillbilly” from Arkansas, she wasn’t particularly pretty (although she had gorgeous hair), and she had to work hard for everything she got. Her father died when she was a teenager, leaving her while still in high school as the sole support for a destitute mother and a sister paralyzed from polio—all holed up in a shabby Los Angeles apartment. She had to make up for it all with brains, style, ambition, and yes, low morals. But brains were the major component, as she hoisted herself from lowly secretary to advertising copywriter by dint of working harder than anyone else in the office. She transformed herself into a simulacrum of glamor—so that all those affairs with married men became just a prelude to what she really wanted, a long and highly successful marriage to a wealthy and devoted husband. And she, the advocate of unrestrained bedroom (and office) frolicking as a “single girl,” became a devoted and monomaniacally faithful wife.