Point to any book on my shelves and I’ll tell you exactly why I bought it: because I heard about it from an essay or a list or a trusted friend or bookseller. Maybe I’m obsessed with reading everything available on the subject. Often, I loved something else the author wrote. I like the cover. I like the publisher. I like—controversially—the constellation of blurbs that tells me who the writer’s in community with. Perhaps the writer’s in community with me. They’re my buddy. My hero. My crush. My nemesis.
Rarely do I buy a book because I was seduced by the summary on the back or inside flap. As a reader, I don’t find such text all that relevant. I’ll skim it if I’m browsing in a bookstore or on a retail page—just enough to get the general contours. But lately, what used to be passive avoidance has evolved into a deliberate stance: these days, I refuse to read the jacket copy in full unless I absolutely have to. Jacket copy offers neither an effective barometer for predicting what I love nor reliable protection from buying things I regret. It is reductive, misleading, and—I have decided—none of my business.
