It was also an advantage not to have anyone telling me which operas were great and which were passé. Not until much later, for instance, would I learn that by the nineties, Gounod’s Faust was already a century past its prime. It debuted in Paris in 1859 and quickly became a worldwide hit, especially in the U.S., where it was chosen to inaugurate the newly founded Metropolitan Opera in 1883. But in time, Faust’s blockbuster status made it a byword for middlebrow entertainment, a bit like The Phantom of the Opera today. When Edith Wharton set the first chapter of The Age of Innocence at a performance of Faust, it was a way of critiquing the provincialism of 1870s New York from the vantage point of 1920. For instance, Wharton pokes fun at the fact that the opera, originally written in French, is sung in Italian, the language Americans were used to hearing in the opera house at the time.
Blurb, then, is a twentieth-century euphemism for a particular kind of advertisement, one that uses evaluation as a figleaf for a sales pitch. In the twenty-first century book world, the blurbs are inescapable. Burgess had in his sights the vacuous forms of recommendation used by publishers to move units but he hardly made them slow down. Indeed the act of blurbing is now business as usual in the book trade. In the blurb-saturated present, authors can decry blurbs as corrupt and silly all they like. When they publish new books, however, they will be conscripted to marketing duties, obliged to solicit blurbs, and most will provide glowing snippets to hype their friends and colleagues too. Writers who negotiate complex narrative positions and personas find themselves turned into spruikers when they write blurbs. Anything less than euphoric approbation breaks with the etiquette of blurb culture.
Yet for all the blurbs that are written, be they earnest recommendations, ironic appraisals or acts of shameless nepotism, for all the exhortations to buy this amazing book right now, few Australian books sell sufficient copies to bring their authors a decent income.
A basement apartment in Brooklyn. A cat named Jack. A crew of cartoonists who share a studio known as Pizza Island. These are among the people, things and places inhabiting Julia Wertz’s latest graphic memoir, “Impossible People: A Completely Average Recovery Story.” But it is, more generally, a story about the self-deprecating and sometimes curmudgeonly Wertz’s alcoholism and rocky road to recovery as she grapples with depression and an overactive sense of guilt.
It can seem, these days, like we are meant to be constantly acquiring things while also constantly getting rid of them. Mass consumption is everywhere—endless online shopping; always a new iPhone or device—as is the reactionary minimalist ethos that demands that we declutter our lives. But the relationships we have with our things tend to be more complicated than either of those extremes allow. Objects are more than just the sum of their parts. I would never give up my copies of my grandmother’s cookbooks. I’m also not going to quit my search for the perfect pair of jeans. I remember a great outfit, and what I did in it, for a long time.
The writer Katy Kelleher is seemingly no different. In her debut book, The Ugly History of Beautiful Things, she seeks to understand both her collector’s impulse and her longing “for more, always more, even when I know I already have enough.” A magpie’s nest of research and anecdotes about the objects that attract her, the book examines the tension she feels between wanting the things she wants—clothes, cosmetics, home goods—and acknowledging the murkier story of how some of those items were made and marketed. “I’ve never found an object,” she writes, “that was untouched by the depravity of human greed or unblemished by the chemical undoings of time.”