To those who claim the novel is a dying form, I say this: behold Nicole Ritchie and her new book "The Truth About Diamonds". For all those who care about the future of American literature it was thrilling to see Ms. Ritchie occupying the hot seat on Larry King Live this week (the substitute host was noted belles lettrist Ryan Seacrest) gamely answering questions about her presumed anorexia, her famous dad, and,yes, her new novel, which she claims to have written herself, unlike that fraud Pamela Anderson who reportedly used a ghostwriter.
Nicole's book is a roman a clef and concerns the author's erstwhile relationship with a certain blonde heiress known for, among other things, writhing on the hood of a luxury automobile while gamely shoving a large hamburger down her own throat, and dimly lit sex tapes available on the Internet (and probably at Ralph's Supermarket by now).
No less a tastemaker than the New York Times ran a feature about the newly-minted authoress on the front page of the arts section this week. In describing a well-attended book signing at the Virgin Megastore in Times Square, a young man was quoted as saying "I live for her!", the exact same words Verlaine used when talking about Rimbaud.
Indeed, the stylish, svelte Ms. Ritchie is an inspiration to authors everywhere. That she was able to overcome the twin nightmares of heroin addiction and chubbiness to ascend the heights of media approbation speaks to the honored place literature holds in the American cultural conversation.
I intend to read her book as soon as I finish Scooter Libby's.
Comments for this entry are currently under maintenance but will be restored soon.