In my teens, I wanted to be famous. I did absolutely nothing to further this goal, but I spent ages daydreaming about being profiled in Vogue, showcasing my great beauty and coolness, and choosing eight obscure indie tracks for Desert Island Discs (I listened to Radio 4 a lot; further proof of my coolness). Then I grew up and fame became horrible.
Fame was probably always horrible – think of all those golden age starlets used, abused and spat out by the studio system – but it’s extra horrible now. Lena Dunham’s new memoir, Famesick, catalogues with candour the distorting effect of internet-age global celebrity: the way it warps relationships, self-image, every interaction. Dunham describes the infinite torrent of online hate and ferocious disgust (she compulsively tallied how many times she was described as “fat” or “ugly” on Twitter); the way friends, acquaintances and strangers treated her as a “bottomless resource”; the toxic impact of fame on her mental health.
