Before we get into this, I’m reminded of Anton Ego’s monologue in the movie Ratatouille in which he says:
We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face is that, in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so.
Now with that hand-wringing out of the way, let’s move on the the review of Paris Hilton’s memoir:
Now, in her early 40s, she has published a memoir, which for ephemeral, unreflective celebrities like her is usually a way of fending off imminent obsolescence. The book—ventriloquized by Joni Rodgers, who describes herself as a ‘story whisperer’—is as vapid and vaporous as the fragrances Hilton sells; all the same, archaeologists may one day consult it in the hope of understanding how and why our species underwent a final mutation into something glossily post-human.
“Ventriloquized” made me laugh out loud. It’s no surprise that most of these books were ghost-written.
On Prince Harry’s book Spare:
But for a title written explicitly in the cause of securing sympathy and understanding for its so-called author, boy, does it misfire. It’s not only that Harry is so petulant: a man who thinks nothing, even now, of complaining about the bedroom he was allotted for his summer hols in Granny’s castle. With every page, his California makeover grows less convincing.
It goes on and on like this, and shows you how much of the literary world has been hijacked by celebrities looking to advance an agenda or make a quick buck.