During the lunchtime chatter at a recent conference, I overheard this poet complain that not only had actor James Franco published a terrible collection of poems, not only is it far-outselling far-better works, but what really added insult to injury, was that it has garnered rave reviews from actual respected poets, with such hyperbolic pull-quotes as "dramatize[s] the fever dream of American celebrity culture" and "Franco knows it like Melville knows whaling."
Of course, such extravagance isn't just an issue with celebrity vanity-projects; for it seems like in almost every single small-press work I've ever encountered, the pull-quotes just have to make some grandiose claims like "sets a new standard in American fiction!" or "fundamentally shifts the bedrock of everything we think we know about what literature is or can be!" or the like.
They never say anything like, "I really enjoyed reading this!" or "If you're into experimental fiction, it's right up your ally!" or "Lots of fun!" (Ironically, it's popular genre fiction that is content to just have single-word reviews like "Thrilling," "Page-turner," or "Great!")
Not that I don't get the impulse towards small-press hyperbole--in an increasingly crowded field competing for an ever-dwindling reading public, the publisher's need to make their product stand-out reaches fever-pitch. Yet at the same time, if everyone's works are ground-breaking, then arguably nobody's is--the words lose their value, and if there's one thing books can't afford to do, it's devalue words.
It may be useful in moments like ours to remember that if we're playing the loud self-promotion game, that books will always lose to movies, video-games, pop-stars, who will always be louder--moreover, that the people who are still reading do so precisely because they're trying to escape the loudness. The silence of the page in a world that can't shut-up is its very appeal.
It may also be useful to consider that our era of self-promotion is also the era of self-promotion burnout--and that in a room full of screamers the hushed one can be the most unnerving; that among short-skirts the long-dress can be the most revealing; that in a bar-fight the silent one can be the most intimidating; that the scariest monsters are the most hidden; that in a world of noise understatement can be a virtue--Mark Danielewski has described his 27-volume epic The Familiar as "the story of a 12-year-old girl who finds a kitten..."
None of this is to disparage reviewers, nor to find fault with the many bold small-presses who fight to stay afloat by any means necessary. (It's not like they need my opinion anyways.) This is only to wonder aloud, as so many strive to innovate a new kind of literature, what a new kind of review might look like, too.
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