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Beware of blurbs
From back-scratching to overpraise, why author endorsements are so bad -- and so unreliable
BY LAURA MILLER
Over at the Guardian site, they’re holding a
contest for who can write the most ludicrous
blurb for a Dan Brown novel, with
predictably hilarious results. The inspiration
for this antic is a pre-publication blurb
written by Nicole Krauss, author of “The
History of Love,” for the new novel by David
Grossman, “To the End of the Land.” The
literary blog Conversational Reading lodged
the initial objection to Krauss’ blurb, which
was prominently printed on the front cover
of the advance reader’s copy:

Very rarely, a few times in a lifetime, you

open a book and when you close it again
nothing can ever be the same. Walls have
been pulled down, barriers broken, a
dimension of feeling, of existence itself, has opened in you that was not there before. “To the End of the Land” is a book
of this magnitude. David Grossman may be the most gifted writer I’ve ever read; gifted not just because of his
imagination, his energy, his originality, but because he has access to the unutterable, because he can look inside a
person and discover the unique essence of her humanity. For twenty-six years he has been writing novels about what it
means to defend this essence, this unique light, against a world designed to extinguish it. “To the End of the Land” is his
most powerful, shattering, and unflinching story of this defense. To read it is to have yourself taken apart, undone,
touched at the place of your own essence; it is to be turned back, as if after a long absence, into a human being.

Even the book’s publisher seems to have realized that Krauss’ praise is over-the-top and a bit icky; a commenter at
Conversational Reading reported that his ARC of the novel featured an abbreviated version of the blurb.

It’s easy to ridicule Krauss for this hyperbolic extravaganza, but in her defense, she’s not a critic or an ad copywriter; she’s a
novelist. She didn’t get paid to write that phalanx of clichés, and chances are she’d have preferred not to. It was a favor,
intended to help out a fellow author.

The conventions and excesses of blurbology do invite mockery. (The term “blurb” is sometimes mistakenly used for the
publisher-generated description printed on a book’s dust jacket — that’s actually the flap copy. “Blurb” really only applies to
bylined endorsements by other authors or cultural figures.) Like anything that people would rather not do, blurb-writing
usually isn’t done very well. So why is it done at all? Because you, dear reading public, persist in giving credence to it. Please

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gay-positive memoirist will try for Augusten Burroughs or David Sedaris; a female writer of mordant short stories approaches
Mary Gaitskill, and so on — but these can be nearly impossible to obtain.

The most prominent authors are inundated with such manuscripts, far more than they can ever read, especially if they hope to
get on with their real job — which is, of course, writing their own books. Many have adopted a blanket no-blurb policy, and
most of these will at least occasionally wind up departing from that policy, usually for personal reasons. They might do it for a
good friend or a former student, or as a favor to their editor or agent.

So when publishing people look at the lineup of testimonials on the back of a new hardcover, they don’t see hints as to what the
book they’re holding might be like. Instead, they see evidence of who the author knows, the influence of his or her agent, and
which MFA program in creative writing he or she attended. In other words, blurbs are a product of all the stuff people claim to
hate about publishing: its cliquishness and insularity.

And, in fact, you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone in publishing who wouldn’t agree with that judgment. Everyone seems to
hate the process, from the authors who are compelled to plead for blurbs to the publishing professionals who have to lash their
authors onto it, to the blurbers themselves, who often wind up walking a knife’s edge between honesty and generosity. It stands
to reason that, if many blurbs are bestowed for extraliterary reasons like friendship or professional collegiality, then many of
them are insincere.

Faint or highly strategic praise is a sign that the blurber was less than enthralled by the work. Perhaps in such cases the blurber
ought to refuse to endorse the book at all, but this is hard to do if the author knows you’ve already read the manuscript. It
would invariably lead to awkwardness and hurt feelings when the whole point of agreeing to do the blurb in the first place was
to avoid both. “A sweet tale of first impressions, second chances” — to take one example from a blurb for a book that shall
remain unnamed — is a quintessential example of noncommittal blurbology. (“Sweet” is, in my experience, not a word anyone
uses to describe a novel they genuinely like.)

When even mediocre works get glowing blurbs, you end up with praise inflation. Without a doubt Nicole Krauss truly admires
David Grossman, an Israeli author of impeccable international credentials but a relatively small American audience. He’s older
and more accomplished than she is, but she’s had more success stateside and was recently named one of the best 20 fiction
writers under 40 by the New Yorker. Like many young authors who have scored a hit among their peers, she’s eager to do what
she can to draw more readers to a novelist she regards as a master.

But to convey the full power of her enthusiasm, Krauss has to distinguish her blurb from the usual run of exaggerated approval.
Even a practiced critic can testify that positive reviews are the hardest of all to write, so when a relative novice is obliged to
ratchet up her compliments to the stratosphere in, say, 100 words or less, is it any wonder that the results are atrocious?

Most of the people involved in this system are well-meaning: Blurbers want to help other authors, publishers want to win more
attention for their books, and authors want to do everything they can to prove that their publishers’ faith in their work has been
justified. The result, however, is broken and borderline (sometimes outright) corrupt.

A few celebrated authors have made a point of regularly seeking out and championing books by writers with whom they have no
connection — Stephen King is the most prominent example. (That said, I haven’t found King’s recommendations particularly
useful.) But overall, blurbs just aren’t very meaningful. Yet, apart from a minority of skeptics, much of the public still seems to
take them at face value. One British publisher claims to have seen research showing that as many as 62 percent of book buyers
choose titles on the basis of blurbs.

Anecdotal evidence from online discussions and personal experience confirms this baffling preference. “I liked [Sara Gruen's]

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Referenced in this article:

The Guardian invites readers to outblurb Grossman’s literary admirers.

Conversational Reading complains about Krauss’ ‘painfully overwrought blurb.

James Spackman of Hodder & Stoughton describes a study on the power of blurbs by Book Marketing Limited.

Laura Miller is a senior writer for Salon. She is the author of "The Magician's Book: A Skeptic's Adventures in Narnia"
and has a Web site, magiciansbook.com.

Copyright © 2011 Salon.com. All rights reserved.

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La  contracarátula,  ese  ornitorrinco    
 
Solapa,  contracarátula,  contratapa,  contracubierta,  cuarta  de  cubierta,  cuarta  de  forros.  
Términos  que  quieren  retener  el  mismo  objeto:  esas  palabras  que  comentan  un  libro  desde  la  
parte  de  atrás  de  la  cubierta.  Una  “forma  literaria  humilde  y  difícil”,  dice  un  editor  hábil  en  el  
arte  de  componerlas,  Roberto  Calasso,  en  el  prólogo  a  su  libro  Cien  cartas  a  un  desconocido  
(Anagrama,  2007).  Las  metáforas  y  símiles  para  referirse  a  ese  texto  breve  también  cunden:  
“es  el  agujero  de  la  cerradura  por  el  que  se  vislumbra  el  libro”  (María  Palomar  en  El  Universal);  
“es  la  espalda  de  los  libros  (que  debe  ser  recta  y  fuerte)”,  “mensaje  en  botella,  voz  poseída  de  
médium,  nota  de  rescate”  (Rodrigo  Fresán  en  Radar  Libros).  Y  hay  más.    
 
Para  los  editores  es  prácticamente  la  única  oportunidad  que  tienen  de  justificar  la  elección  de  
ese  título  en  particular  entre  los  tantos  que  buscan  su  ingreso  a  la  casa,  de  saludar  a  ese  nuevo  
muchacho  que  entra  al  catálogo.  Es  un  espacio  bendecido  desde  donde  pueden  animar  una  
compra,  dicen.  Algunos  lectores  habrán  comentado  en  sus  eternas  conversaciones  que  
eligieron  equis  libro  por  el  título,  por  el  autor,  por  la  ilustración  de  la  carátula  incluso.  ¿Ha  oído  
a  alguno  decir  sin  despeinarse  “compré  este  libro  por  la  contracubierta”?    
 
+  +  +  
 
El  origen  del  texto  de  contracubierta,  dice  Calasso  en  el  libro  citado,  está  en  la  epístola  
dedicatoria:  “otro  género  literario,  florecido  a  partir  del  siglo  XVI,  en  que  el  autor  (o  el  
impresor)  se  dirigía  al  Príncipe  que  había  dado  su  protección  a  la  obra”.  En  la  de  El  Príncipe  
vemos  a  Maquiavelo  genuflexo:  “siendo  mi  deseo  ofrecer  a  Vuestra  Magnificencia  algún  
testimonio  de  mi  devoción  a  Vos,  no  he  encontrado  nada  más  estimado  ni  más  querido  que  
mis  conocimientos”.  Este  es  el  comienzo  de  la  del  Quijote,  dirigida  al  duque  de  Béjar:  “En  fe  del  
buen  acogimiento  y  honra  que  hace  Vuestra  Excelencia  a  toda  suerte  de  libros,  como  príncipe  
tan  inclinado  a  favorecer  las  buenas  artes,  mayormente  las  que  por  su  nobleza  no  se  abaten  al  
servicio  y  granjerías  del  vulgo,  he  determinado  de  sacar  a  luz  al  Ingenioso  hidalgo  don  Quijote  
de  la  Mancha,  al  abrigo  del  clarísimo  nombre  de  Vuestra  Excelencia”.  La  de  Vicente  Espinel  al  V  
duque  de  Alba  es  un  poema  hermoso:  “…  sólo  te  ofrezco  de  mi  pobre  seso/  una  simplicidad  y  
una  llaneza/  entre  pastores  de  sustancia  y  peso…”.  El  destinatario  de  esas  epístolas  crece  en  
tamaño  y  dignidad:  quienquiera  que  sea  siempre  es  “dignísimo”,  “sombra  amiguísima”,  
“generosísimo”,  “clarísimo  varón”.    
 
Los  primeros  libros  que  salieron  de  las  imprentas  en  el  siglo  XV  carecían  de  portada.  Buscaban  
imitar  los  manuscritos  que  se  empeñaban  en  transcribir  una  y  otra  vez,  una  y  otra  vez  los  
monjes  copistas  de  la  Edad  Media.  Los  primeros  incunables  ni  siquiera  tenían  un  título  claro  al  
comienzo:  en  el  íncipit,  unas  breves  palabras  antes  del  texto,  se  comentaba  el  asunto  que  se  
iba  a  tratar,  y  unas  veces  sí  otras  veces  no  incluían  el  nombre  del  autor.  Para  mayores  señas,  
los  lectores  debían  ir  al  colofón,  esas  palabras  finales  que  sí  han  estado  desde  el  origen  de  los  
tiempos  del  libro.  “Efectivamente,  en  este  lugar  del  volumen  se  acostumbró  desde  muy  pronto  
a  declarar  el  lugar  de  la  impresión,  el  nombre  del  tipógrafo  y  con  frecuencia  también  el  título  
exacto  de  la  obra  y  el  nombre  de  su  autor”,  dicen  Lucien  Febvre  y  Henri-­‐Jean  Martin  en  ese  
monumento  que  es  La  aparición  del  libro  (Unión  Tipográfica  Editorial  Hispano-­‐Americana,  
1962).    
 
Desde  los  orígenes  de  los  impresos,  pues,  a  los  libros  se  los  ha  reducido  por  los  extremos.  Se  
les  rodea.  El  lector  se  prepara  para  caminar  por  territorio  desconocido;  lo  acompañan,  a  veces,  
algunas  señas  de  ese  lugar,  recogidas  de  amigos  que  ya  han  transitado  por  allí:  el  voz  a  voz.  En  
ocasiones  ese  lector  ha  consultado  mapas  del  territorio  desconocido:  ha  leído  alguna  reseña.  
Pero  en  la  librería  o  en  la  biblioteca  el  lector  ha  hecho  desde  siempre  los  mismos  movimientos  
con  ese  objeto  que  lo  inquieta:  primero  revisa  el  frente,  después  estudia  la  retaguardia.    
 
+  +  +  
 
El  título  es  pretencioso:  Marketing  editorial:  la  guía  (Libraria-­‐Fondo  de  Cultura  Económica,  
2003).  En  el  capítulo  10  su  autor,  David  Cole,  aporta  ocho  recomendaciones  para  escribir  
textos  promocionales  efectivos.  La  primera  está  dictada  por  Perogrullo:  “sea  claro”.  Pero  
nosotros,  en  los  textos  de  contracubierta  de  nuestros  libros  nacionales,  leemos  cosas  como  
esta:  “Estas  historias,  trátese  de  hombres  o  de  objetos,  han  sido  rescatadas  del  naufragio  de  
los  usos  y  abusos  en  las  aceras  de  Medellín  y  una  de  ellas  en  Montería”.  Pero  nosotros,  en  los  
textos  de  contracubierta  de  nuestros  libros  nacionales,  leemos  cosas  como  esta:  “el  narrador  
[…]  pelea  con  su  bagaje  de  ‘sudaca  resentido’  y  con  un  imponderable  dominio  y  capacidad  de  
asombro  hacia  nuestra  lengua.  Con  estos  relatos  las  historias  de  otros  colombianos,  
mexicanos,  peruanos,  argentinos  y  demás  perseguidores  del  sueño  americano  dejan  de  ser  
literatura  catalogable  que  a  fuerza  de  sufrimiento  ambiciona  escribirse”.  Pero  nosotros,  
etcétera,  leemos  cosas  como  esta:  “un  astronauta  cosmopoético  que  nos  lleva  en  un  viaje  
desde  las  moléculas  hasta  la  luna  y  nos  devuelve  iluminados”.      
 
Qué  olvidado  que  está  ese  librito  sabio  de  Martín  Alonso,  Ciencia  del  lenguaje  y  arte  del  estilo  
(Aguilar,  1967).  Bastaría  que  los  redactores  de  contracubiertas  tuvieran  en  frente,  siempre,  
una  sola  de  sus  sentencias:  “Entre  dos  explicaciones,  elige  la  más  clara;  entre  dos  formas,  la  
elemental;  entre  dos  palabras,  la  más  breve”.    
 
+  +  +  
 
¿Quién  escribe  las  contracubiertas?  Editores  afanados.  Correctores  de  estilo.  O  el  autor:  en  el  
Manual  del  autor  de  Editorial  Trillas  leemos:  “Puesto  que  el  autor  es  la  persona  que  más  
conoce  su  obra,  su  participación  nos  ayudará  a  conducir  acertadamente  la  labor  publicitaria  
respectiva”.  Y  no  es  el  único  caso.  ¿Qué  decir?  Error:  para  el  autor  su  obra  es  el  novamás  de  la  
perfección.  Y  así,  encontramos  contracubiertas  con  la  misma  frase  dicha  de  cien  maneras  
distintas.  Todas  las  obras  son  únicas,  todas  revolucionan  la  literatura  contemporánea  –en  las  
contracubiertas  se  usa  mucho  la  palabra  contemporáneo–.  ¿Cuántas  veces  ha  leído  en  una  
solapa  la  frase  “esta  obra  atrapa  al  lector  desde  sus  primeras  líneas”?  ¿O  “en  esta  obra  el  
protagonista  es  el  lenguaje”?  En  un  libro  de  poesía  de  una  editorial  cubana  leemos:  “[Aquí  el  
título]  nos  comunica,  en  un  tono  siempre  grave  y  sentencioso,  reflexiones  de  hondo  calado  
existencial”.  En  otro  libro  del  mismo  género  y  la  misma  colección:  “[Aquí  el  título]  nos  dibuja,  
desde  el  sólido  discurso  de  su  poesía,  arriesgada  y  vital,  la  valía  existencial  del  hombre”.  La  
fórmula  del  redactor  está  clara.    
 
Últimamente  se  ha  dado  en  invitar  a  un  autor  de  renombre  para  que  escriba  un  comentario  
sobre  el  libro,  para  ponerlo  en  la  contracubierta.  Pierde  así  ese  carácter  anónimo  que  siempre  
tuvo:  por  el  título  responde  el  autor,  por  la  cubierta  el  diseñador,  por  el  libro  todo  la  editorial,  
pero  nadie  respondía  por  ese  texto  que  habla  al  lector  desde  el  cuarto  de  atrás.  Compuesta  
por  un  autor  con  oficio  la  contracubierta  gana,  en  ocasiones,  claridad  y  sustancia.    
 
+  +  +  
 
“Venda  el  beneficio”  es  un  lugar  común  que  conocen  bien  los  publicistas  y  que  menciona  David  
Cole  en  Marketing  editorial:  la  guía,  citado  arriba.  ¿Qué  ventaja  le  va  a  dar  al  consumidor  ese  
producto?  Identifíquela  y  destáquela.  Fácil:  “Con  la  dieta  que  el  doctor  Smith  describe  en  este  
libro  usted  bajará  diez  kilos  en  tres  semanas,  sin  ejercicios  y  sin  pasar  hambre”.  Pero  la  cosa  se  
complica:  ¿cuáles  son  los  beneficios  de  esta  novela?  Una  trama  envolvente,  una  apuesta  por  el  
lenguaje,  una  estructura  novedosa...  Pero  ¿cuántas  novelas  presentan  estos  beneficios?  
¿Cuántas  colecciones  de  ensayo  no  intentan  –ojo–  dilucidar  el  mundo  –ojo–  contemporáneo?  
Los  redactores  de  contracubiertas  tienen  interiorizado  el  beneficio,  pero  siempre  apelan  a  la  
misma  docena  de  frases.    
 
En  su  último  libro,  Oficio  editor  (El  Aleph,  2011),  Mario  Muchnik  apenas  esboza  su  comercio  
con  las  contracubiertas  de  las  editoriales  que  ha  tenido  o  manejado  en  su  larga  vida  de  editor.  
“Las  solapas  y  la  contracubierta  suelen  tener  una  función  vendedora,  hablando  del  tema  
tratado,  de  las  otras  obras  del  autor  y  dando  algunos  datos  biográficos.  ¡Pero  cuidado  con  las  
exageraciones!”.  A  continuación  hace  un  bonito  juego:  compone  un  Frankestein  de  
contraportada  típico  con  frases  tomadas  de  libros  publicados  en  España  en  los  últimos  treinta  
años:  “Por  su  trama  férrea  y  unitaria,  por  su  lenguaje  de  rara  precisión  (lenguaje  riquísimo,  
único  en  su  género  entre  nosotros),  por  su  explosión  de  humor  y  de  nostalgia  expiatorias,  por  
su  ritmo  estimulante  y  variado,  puede  decirse  que  este  libro,  presidido  por  la  unidad  de  lo  
fragmentario,  es  uno  de  los  títulos  más  personales  y  atractivos  de  la  novela  española  
contemporánea”.    
 
En  la  revista  Luke  (mayo  de  2006)  José  Morella  había  hecho  un  ejercicio  similar,  aunque  sin  
integrar  las  frases  en  un  solo  monigote:  “escojo  los  libros  que  estoy  leyendo  ahora  y  alguno  de  
los  que  he  leído  en  las  últimas  semanas:  ‘Una  novela  directa  como  un  knock  out,  que  
transforma  la  palabra  en  ritmo  puro’;  ‘apasionante  novela  que  consigue  una  narración  ágil  y  
deslumbrante’;  ‘sensualidad  que  plasma  la  belleza  de  la  vida’;  ‘poesía  próxima  al  surrealismo,  
entreverada  de  sutil  erotismo,  humor  terso  y  melancólico  y  memorable  música  verbal’  ”.  Haga  
el  ejercicio,  tome  algunos  libros  de  su  biblioteca  y  mire  las  contraportadas.    
 
+  +  +    
 
Puede  que  exista  la  solapa  perfecta.  ¿Alguien  la  ha  visto?  Las  de  Acantilado,  por  poner  un  caso  
que  no  es  único  pero  sí  raro  en  el  mundo  del  libro  en  castellano,  se  acercan  mucho  a  la  solapa  
justa.  ¿De  eso  se  trata?  Habrá  que  conformarse  con  evitarle  al  lector  decepciones,  como  
cuando  uno  ve  el  tráiler  de  una  película  y  en  esos  45  segundos  le  anuncian  una  cinta  llena  de  
giros  envolventes,  pero  cuando  va  al  cine  los  89  minutos  y  15  segundos  restantes  son  un  
coñazo.  A  eso  se  arriesga  quien  mira  por  el  agujero  de  una  cerradura.  Los  inconvenientes  de  
tomar  la  parte  por  el  todo.  
 
+  +  +  
 
El  indómito  Rafael  Reig  hace  una  comparación  espeluznante  en  una  nota  publicada  en  la  
revista  Qué  Leer  (octubre  de  2004):  “Por  su  contenido,  su  desvergüenza  y  sus  características  
formales,  la  solapa  sólo  puede  compararse  a  la  sección  de  Contactos  o  Relax  del  periódico:  
piezas  breves  que  atraen  la  atención  del  cliente  para  que  se  lleve  el  libro  a  su  domicilio  u  
hotel”.  Y  sigue:  “Un  caballero  no  necesita  que  le  expliquen  lo  que  es  ‘francés  completo’  o  ‘beso  
negro’  ni  lo  que  significa  ‘una  obra  exigente  y  sin  concesiones’;  es  decir,  una  novela  aburrida,  
un  tostón  que  cuesta  trabajo  leer,  pero  que  luego  se  puede  presumir  de  haber  leído”.    
 
+  +  +    
 
Por  cada  libro  leído  se  habrán  revisado  al  menos  una  docena  de  contracubiertas.  Un  tipo  
puede  pasar  por  lector  a  punta  de  leer  contracubiertas:  ahora  las  conversaciones  de  los  
hombres  de  letras  no  se  detienen  en  la  figura  original,  en  el  adjetivo  majestuoso,  en  el  arte  de  
la  prosa.  Bastan  un  par  de  datos  del  autor  y  generalidades  de  la  trama  para  pasar  por  “culto”.  
El  mexicano  Gabriel  Zaid  viene  insistiendo  en  ello  desde  hace  décadas.  ¿Entonces  eso  es?  
¿Para  eso  sirven  las  contracubiertas?  También.  ¿Son  un  argumento  determinante  para  
comprar  ese  libro  del  cual  ya  nos  han  hablado,  sobre  el  cual  ya  hemos  leído  reseñas?  Esa  
utilidad  no  la  veo  tan  clara,  aunque  los  editores  en  general  se  empeñen  en  verla  como  tal.  
¿Deberían  abolirse?  En  ciertos  casos,  sí.  Los  libros  de  poesía  de  Pre-­‐Textos  y  otras  editoriales  
finas  no  las  llevan.  ¿Qué  queremos  saber  de  un  libro  de  poesía  que  el  propio  poeta  no  lo  diga  
con  sus  versos?  Llamemos  al  poeta  José  Hierro:  “Cuando  no  tengo  nada  que  decir,  no  lo  digo;  y  
cuando  tengo  algo  que  decir  y  no  sé  cómo  decirlo,  tampoco  lo  digo”.    
 
+  +  +  
 
Sigue  siendo  la  contracarátula,  solapa,  cuarta  de  forros,  etcétera,  un  ornitorrinco.  Mamífero,  
ave  y  reptil.  Texto  promocional,  estrategia  para  lectores  sin  tiempo,  resumen,  interpretación  
abusiva,  palabrería,  breve  ensayo  iluminador.  La  justa  sería  la  que  pretenda  presentar  sin  
mentir,  elogiar  sin  aburrir,  describir  con  elegancia  y  economía.  Esa  solapa  justa  permitía  
repetir  el  intercambio  breve  que  imagina  Gabriel  Zaid  en  El  secreto  de  la  fama  (DeBolsillo,  
2010):    
“–¿Lo  leíste?    
–No  personalmente”.  
 
 
 
Please note that I am unable to provide a blurb or quotation for any
forthcoming publications. Due to the increasing number of requests and the
demands of my own work, I have had to make a decision to say “no” to all. I
wrote this poem to explain my reasons for this decision.

Letter sent in reply to requests for blurbs

(I blurb only for the dead, these days)

“You are well-known, Ms. Atwood,” the Editor said,

And we long for your quote on this book;
A few well-placed words wouldn’t bother your head,
And would help us to get in the hook!”

“In my youth,” said Ms. Atwood, “I blurbed with the best;

I practically worked with a stencil!
I strewed quotes about with the greatest largesse,
And the phrases flowed swift from my pencil.

Intelligent, lucid, accomplished, supreme,

Magnificent, touching but rough ,
And lucent and lyrical, plangent, a dream,
Vital, muscular, elegant, tough!

But now I am aging; my brain is all shrunk,

And my adjective store is depleted;
My hair’s getting stringy, I walk as though drunk;
As a quotester I’m nigh-on defeated.

I would like to be useful; God knows, as a girl

I was well-taught to help and to share;
But the books and the pleas for quotes pour through the door
Till the heaps of them drive to despair!

So at last I’ve decided to say No to all.

What you need is a writer who’s youthful;
Who has energy, wit, and a lot on the ball,
And would find your new book a sweet toothful,
Or else sees no need to be truthful.

Such a one would be happy, dear Editor, to

Write you quotes until blue in the brain.
It’s a person like this who can satisfy you,
Not poor me, who am half down the drain.

So I wish you Good Luck, and your author, and book,

Which I hope to read later, with glee.
Long may you publish, and search out the blurbs,
Though you will not get any from me.”
La batalla de la contratapa
Martín López Navia: El editor editado, Lugo, Penalufre, 2012

… Contratapa, que algo queda

La contra de cubierta es un género editorial que se mueve entre el epitafio, el certificado de bautismo y la carta
de recomendación. Tiene de epitafio el hecho de que alguien ajeno escribe sobre tu última página el resumen de
tu vida. A veces, eso sí, si el editor es hospitalario deja que el autor y la autora intervengan y dicten el contenido
de ese punto y final. Como certificado de bautismo la contra recoge los datos imprescindibles para que el libro
circule por la vida civil: nombre y apellidos, filiación, fecha y lugar de nacimiento, raza, religión e ideología,
género y diferencia específica, vocación y target. Como carta de recomendación ofrece encomios y alabanzas
que puedan resultar atractivas para ese público al que tanto quiero y tanto amo: el brillo y tersura de la piel,
agilidad y ritmo, voz seductora, ese ligero defecto tan resultante, su buena educación y empaque, la expectativa
de éxito como certificado de nobleza.
La contra es el género propio de nuestro (aunque de nuestro tiene poco) tiempo: suma la ficción con el
documento, el testimonio con el delirio, la mentira con el deseo, la crítica con el halago, el mañana con el
retorno, el canto con el silencio, la publicidad con la autoayuda, el imperativo con la ausencia, los adjetivos con
el capital simbólico, la biografía con la cuenta corriente, la identidad con el autobombo, el blog con la unidad de
destino en lo universal, la literatura con la casa de citas, el éxito con la existencia, la lista de libros más vendidos
con el club de los editores muertos.
Si Kant dijo aquello de que mentir solo está permitido cuando un autor te pregunta por el juicio que te ha
merecido su libro, la contra es ese vicio impune donde los editores dejan de ser críticos frustrados y ponen gesto
de escritores sin vergüenza ni reparos. La contra es el género patético por antonomasia porque deja patente
las carencias, el estilo y el deseo hacia el best-seller de tu prójimo. La contra es un mensaje de miedo escrito con
sangre venal, encerrado en una botella opaca y arrojada al mar mercantil.
Porque los enemigos del editor son tres: el éxito, el fracaso y la cuenta de resultados. Y siete sus pecados
capitales: las erratas, las sangrías, la contratapa, las devoluciones, el presupuesto, la vanidad y las comidas de
trabajo…

Why you should ignore the superlatives on book jackets

Cover blurbs aren't reviews, they're advertisements that offer no space for balanced, nuanced positivity
Nathan Filer

Recently I was at a literature festival, being interviewed by a man who hadn't had the chance to read my novel. It
was fine. These things happen and we muddle through.
Unable to draw upon the themes of the work my kindly interviewer took to reading from the cover, attempting to
bolster audience appreciation of me by quoting what someone else thought of my writing. He landed on a quote
by the author Joe Dunthorne: "Terrific," Joe had said. "Engaging, funny and inventive." My interviewer grinned
and asked how such a comment made me feel?
It may have been the heat. It may have been my irritation at the mother letting her child run around in front
of the stage. It may have simply been ungraciousness on my part. At any rate, I felt the imp of the perverse take
hold: "I should confess," I offered. "I've known Joe Dunthorne for many years. I think he owed me a favour."
Some tittering in the audience; my host barked a laugh.
"To be honest," I continued. "When he sent it, I considered pressing for more. Why not intensely engaging,
riotously funny and, um-"
"Indefatigably inventive?" my host offered helpfully.
"Precisely! Where were the superlatives?"
I was joking, of course. Or was I? I thought about it again today when the post arrived. Post in our household has
become considerably more exciting since my novel, The Shock of the Fall, won the Costa book award; in the last
six months I have received 42 (I just counted) unsolicited novels.
Better yet, these are advance copies of works, yet to be published. In the book trade they're called "uncorrected
proofs" and are used to start generating support for a work prior to its publication. I remember first seeing the
uncorrected proof of my own novel. I had gone to my publishers for some meeting or other, and caught sight of
one on a table in the foyer. Nobody had come to join me yet, so I got to spend a bit of time with it, all by myself.
It was my favourite moment in the whole publishing journey; when my story ceased to be the stack of dog-eared
pages I'd spent so long living with, and became a proper book. But a book with no gushing praise adorning it.
And apparently that won't do.
This isn't a conclusion I would have reached myself. Before being published, I don't recall paying much attention
to cover quotes. I would mostly buy books on the recommendation of friends or if I already knew I liked the
author. Yet somewhere along the path from that joyous wonder of discovering the proof of my novel to it
 appearing in hardback, I became all but obsessed with it garnering adoration. I shan't seek to abdicate too much
responsibility for this; but the publishing industry doesn't help – and I think it might just be going a bit crazy.
With each book I receive in the post comes a letter from its publisher. They all follow the same basic template: a
few pleasantries followed by three or four paragraphs explaining how the book you are holding is the most
incredible, astounding, breathtaking work of literature to ever exist, that it will break hearts, move mountains,
define the age, live with you long after the final page, and it is with trembling excitement we now share it, and
hope you might etc. And how else could it be? If the publisher isn't an advocate for their own books then
something has gone wrong.
The hope is that two or three recognisable names will agree with the hyperbole and quote it back to
the publisher. I've known this happen verbatim. I shan't say which book, but it's doing rather well right now, and
the author quote on the cover is plucked straight from the letter that accompanied the proofs. Dunthorne received
no such letter with my book, though doubtless many authors will have done. Instead my publisher suggested
that, as we were friends, it might be best for me to contact him myself. I could have declined on the grounds of
embarrassment and they'd have been fine with that, but by now I had caught the strange fever that infects the
industry: if I was to shift a single book then I needed other authors to say very nice things. We got our quotes.
We moved on.
Now the books come to me. It's my turn to give something back. I've offered endorsements for about 10 novels,
and thought long and hard over each of them. It's no easy thing, to distil a whole reading experience into a
couple of lines. My first attempt – for a book I enjoyed immensely, but was slightly disappointed with the ending
– left the editor somewhat cold. But that's just it. Cover blurbs aren't reviews. They're advertisements. No space
for balanced, nuanced positivity. Nothing can be interesting; it must be fascinating. Good isn't good enough; it
must be great. With today's post came "an epically brilliant work", according to the blurb already in place. A
slight volume, it consists of a hundred or so different tweets, harvested by the author from Twitter, and each
containing the phrase "working on my novel". It's quirky, sure. And nicely presented. But is that really "epically
brilliant"?
Where do we go from there? What's left for War and Peace? Though perhaps this doesn't matter, now that books
are "classics" before they reach the shelves. It's all too easy to get swept away. Increasingly I've found myself
reaching for superlatives because increasingly, anything short of this reads as damning with faint praise. I
wonder if this trend can really be helping anyone?
So I've taken a step back. As grateful as I am for my free novels, I've started going back to bookshops, to reading
books that don't come with letters attached. I've just finished To Kill a Mockingbird. I'm not sure what made me
pick it. Perhaps it felt safe – to read a book that I already knew was great. But there are lots of great books, so
why this one? An unconscious response to the quote on the back cover (pictured above)? On this edition there's
only one. It's from Truman Capote. I read somewhere once that he and Harper Lee were good friends. Perhaps
he owed her a favour.

JohnSelfsAsylum
31 July 2014 8:11am
A common phrase in emails from publicists is "a new book we're very excited about." Publicity departments
must be very excitable places.
One thing I always take as a bad sign is when there's a 'letter' from the publisher/editor on the flyleaf of the proof
copy, telling you how this is the best book they've published in years. I always assume it means the editor paid
too much for a mediocre book and is worried that they won't make their money back on it unless they, as well as
the publicity team, exhibit how "very excited" they are about it.
o
TimHannigan JohnSelfsAsylum
31 July 2014 10:04am
Ha! I got one just this week, with a letter telling me it is "revelatory and groundbreaking" and a "superlative
choice". I think perhaps they do this to implant those words in your head in the hope that you'll cough them back
out. The book is actually pretty good, as it turns out. But I'm not sure about "superlative"...
o
HoldenCarver TimHannigan
31 July 2014 5:37pm
I saw one editor this week describe a book as "seminal."
Now, I'm sure there's every chance it is a very good book, and deserving of praise.
But it's not out yet.
One cannot describe a book that is yet to be released as "seminal"!
Ah, editors. I love them really, but sometimes it feels like like when they're pushing one of their books they just
turn their brains off and aren't quite thinking about what they're saying. Other than making sure it sounds
laudatory enough ('is that enough? No, needs more hyperbole!')
o
Glozboy nicholasroyle
31 July 2014 9:59am
It's even worse when the author has got his mates to provide quotes for the cover and insist that they're included.

FearghR
31 July 2014 9:20am
My favourite example of this genre was Roddy Doyle claiming that a new Irish novel (can't remember which
one) "was like reading for the first time". What, difficult?
o
johnmcrae FearghR
31 July 2014 9:46am
For me the most irritating comment is that "this book will change your life" or "change the way you see things".
I very nearly didn't buy Eleanor MacBride's A GIRL IS A HALF-FORMED THING just because it boasted such
praise from Eleanor Catton.
I am glad I resisted the urge to put the book back on the bookshop shelf, because it is excellent, original and very
enjoyable. (And not nearly so flawed as Catton's own over-praised THE LUMINARIES, which although
engrossing, was seriously disappointing by the end.)
How many readerrs are going to buy a book, or borrow it from the library, just because it has these eulogies on
the blurb? Answer - probably most of us are at least subliminally influenced. But no blurb is ever going to have a
true reader's reaction such as "I hated this" "unbelievably tedious" or the like, is it? And these might be what we
pass on as word of mouth - infinitely more influential to potential readers.

marcreinard Bullfinchington
31 July 2014 1:17pm
I'm THAT sheep.
Being supremely lazy I just read the first line of the back cover, make sure it's got a
Guardian/Times/Telegraph/Independent/Scotsman backing and hand my money over.
Really haven't got time to agonise over whether or not it's truly great. Entertaining me on the way to work and
starving off the inevitable alzheimer's for another day is worth the £8.99 lucky dip.

chrispower
31 July 2014 10:54am
This comment has been chosen by Guardian staff because it contributes to the debate
The nadir of blurbing is John Updike's for ZZ Packer's Drinking Coffee Elsewhere: "ZZ Packer tells it like it
izz".

BooksnBrews
31 July 2014 10:54am
I once read a book because my favourite author was quoted on the back. (Also it had a dragon and I was well
into all things dragon at the time). I still read their books but not one more by the writer they paraised.
Quotes from the author of that book on the back of new books make me put them down.
Fair or unfair, if I do not like a writer's style or works, their public comments and assertations then quotes from
them put me off a book.
•
alicepleasanceliddel
31 July 2014 10:54am
you can usually tell when the quotes are from people who don't much like the book and are just doing the author
a favour. They'll use words like 'brave' or 'meticulously crafted' or 'doesn't pull any punches'. In most extreme
cases they'll come out with banalities like 'writes like an angel' or 'the best book I have read this year'
(meaningless unless you know how many they've read.
•
Ivankirby
31 July 2014 11:16am
I recently read Jeremy Dyson's disappointingly mediocre The Haunted Book. I should've been warned by the fact
that the one quote on the cover, lavishing fulsome praise on it, was from his friend and former writing partner
Mark Gatiss.

kushti
31 July 2014 11:28am
 I have written cover blurb for several books now, but I have my own rules - I will not do them for anyone I have
ever met, or for books by my own publishers. I will only write them if I genuinely like the book, and tend to do
them for new authors who need all the help they can get (to be honest, if they are already a well-established
author they will probably get blurbed by someone better known than me.) A well-known author, who I did not
know, did one for my first book, and I appreciated the gesture.
But it's true that there is a lot of log-rolling involved. The most egregious example I can think of was a work of
non-fiction which was blurbed by two very well known writers, who actually appeared in the book as friends of
the writer.
•
ID0686782
31 July 2014 11:39am
One curious case seems to be James Ellroy - who regularly claims in interviews 'not to read contemporary
fiction', but has contributed quite a few blurbs over the years - generally to authors who share a publisher, I
believe.
No particular examples off the top of my head, but I've seen weirdly enthusiastic quotes from Ellroy on a
number of unremarkable crime novels over the last decade.
I also remember him causing a scene when he ditched Facebook a few years ago because of "hack writers
begging for blurbs". (Other complaints were "old buddies looking for handouts, syphillitic ex-girlfriends looking
for extra-curricular schlong"!)

JohnSelfsAsylum
31 July 2014 11:43am
The expert's expert in over-the-top blurbs is Sebastian Barry.
On Frank McGuinness's Arimathea:
"The great spirit of Frank McGuinness radiates in this magnificent novel."
(Well, as it's by him, I would like to think it does)
On Deirdre Madden's Time Present and Time Past:
"Equipped with an almost celestial compassion, Madden is the constant genius of Irish letters."
On Paul Lynch's Red Sky in Morning:
"Lynch reaches to the root, branch and bole of things, and unfurls a signal masterpiece."
And my favourite, on John Banville's Ancient Light:
"Could any book be better? Did it even need to be as tremendous as this?"
Essentially, with that last one, he's saying, "I mean, I like a good book, but this is ridiculous."
o
Angela11 JohnSelfsAsylum
31 July 2014 12:27pm
I believe a lot of writers in Ireland travel and socialise in the same circles and are well acquainted with one
another. It's all a bit incestuous really and I don't believe one writer wants to disrespect another for fear of
alienating themselves.
•
chrispower
31 July 2014 12:31pm
This thread's made me remember what happened to a review of Chuck Palahniuk's Lullaby that I wrote for The
Face years ago. I was ambivalent about the book - great in parts, awful in others, and my final line was
something like 'Probably the most entertaining, ludicrous, funny, idiotic, boring and fascinating book of the
year", but when the paperback appeared my quote, front and centre on the cover, ran: "Probably the most
entertaining...funny...fascinating book of the year".

aliquidcow
31 July 2014 1:30pm
I remember flicking through a film magazine from the mid-90s, and noticing a distinct lack of critic quotes on
any of the film adverts. There is the same contrast with books I think, the way they're plastered with press quotes
is a relatively recent phenomenon. Books like War & Peace are thick enough that they'll even cram one on the
spine. We're at a point now where people generally don't take any notice of quotes, but the absence of them (or
the presence of only one middling quote) will set alarm bells ringing.
The one that is currently winding me up is the latest paperback editions of Cormac McCarthy's oeuvre. They've
taken review quotes of each book and incorporated it into the cover artwork so that it's almost as prominent as
the title and the author's name. I find this absurd and it puts me off buying the book.
 TimHannigan aliquidcow
31 July 2014 2:53pm
We're at a point now where people generally don't take any notice of quotes, but the absence of them (or the
presence of only one middling quote) will set alarm bells ringing.
I think this is very true. We're all merrily having a good old snigger here, and claiming that they don't sway us,
but I think they probably do have more of an impact than we would ever admit, or realise - not in what they
actually say (which is probably irrelevant), but in their presence.
They have become such a standard part of the package, that not seeing them there does raise a slight unease. And
you know what? It might actually be legitimate. Like, could they not get anyone - anyone? - to dish out a couple
of platitudes for the cover? Maybe there's something wrong with it...

TimHannigan acwacw
31 July 2014 3:36pm
American publishers are taking samples of all the reviews from popular books and printing them in a section in
the front matter because they don't all fit on the cover.
This is a different thing from the kind of blurbs being discussed here, and would only appear on the
paperback/second printing.
What appears on first editions are one-line blurbs dished out, usually, by other authors.
When it comes to the second edition they might still use those blurbs if they're particularly pithy and from a
particularly big name. But they'll hopefully be able to supplement them with quotes from some actual objective
reviews.
Of course, we've all seen examples of creatively selective deployment of review quotes - @chrispower gave one
above. But I think they generally carry more weight than first-edition blurbs. And if you're flicking through a
paperback and you see a couple of pages of chunky quotes from apparently glowing reviews at the beginning,
well, it actually does count for something. I actually enjoy reading them, but don't usually do so until after I've
read the book myself. Occasionally, if they're particularly interesting, I'll go and search out the full review
online.
Oh, and they do do it in the UK too, but they tend not to quote quite such large chunks of the reviews...
•
MarionGropen
31 July 2014 4:33pm
The point of the cover copy, including any blurbs, is to let the RIGHT readers know that this is the book for
them.
Smart publishers don't get just any famous person to blurb a book. Smart publishers don't put just any great
sounding clips on the back.
You tailor both to appeal to the readers who are already looking for a book like this one.
If you want to understand why something is pitched a certain way, step away from your "reader" self or your
"author" self and think like a publishing insider.
•
HoldenCarver
31 July 2014 5:43pm
I'm surprised no-one's yet mentioned the time Stephen King blurbed the Hunger Games: "Constant suspense… I
couldn't stop reading."
Only to say in an interview five years later: "I read The Hunger Games and didn't feel an urge to go on. It's not
unlike The Running Man, which is about a game where people are actually killed and people are watching: a
satire on reality TV." Oops.
•
HoldenCarver
31 July 2014 5:52pm
Other great blurbs of our time:
Alan Coren was asked by his old friend, Jeffrey Archer, to blurb his latest book. Coren didn't like it at all, but he
didn't want to upset Archer. So he submitted the following blurb:
"Fans of Jeffrey Archer will not be disappointed."
Ever since I heard that story I've been a lot more wary of blurb quotes that are formulated like that example.
To Blurb or Not to Blurb? By Bill Morris

When I opened the envelope, my heart sank. The book’s title had that distinctive rotten-egg aroma of
something that came out of the hind end of a focus group. It’s called The Big Roads. Worse, the subtitle
is one of those 15-car pile-ups that sound like somebody in the focus group was trying way too hard: The
Untold Story of the Engineers, Visionaries, and Trailblazers Who Created the American Superhighways.
All the subtitle lacked was three exclamation points.

What had I gotten myself into? Earl Swift, as I say, is an old friend, but I also know that he’s a dogged
reporter and a deft writer. (Full disclosure: when we first met I owned a pink-and-black 1954 Buick and
he was driving a creamy white 1969 Oldsmobile Cutlass convertible. Never underestimate the power of
classic Detroit pig iron to make two men bond.) So of course I wanted Earl’s book to succeed. Besides,
he had shrewdly softened me up in advance by telling me how my first novel had changed his life: “I
remember reading (it) and thinking: I’m a newspaper writer. This guy’s a writer who happened to work
for a newspaper. I’m not overstating the case to say that reading that book helped prod me to get serious
about my own work. It was a wake-up. True story.”
Now Earl was counting on me. What should I do if the book was as bad as its generic title and breathless
subtitle? Was I obliged to lie in my blurb like most other blurb writers presumably do? Or did ethics
require me to back out and, in doing so, break an old friend’s heart?

2.
I’ll admit that I’m swayed by blurbs from time to time even though I’ve always thought of them as
suspect, vaguely sleazy. I suppose I’m suspicious partly because I was a big fan of Spy magazine in its
heyday, and my favorite feature was “Logrolling in Our Time,” a hilarious and devastating monthly roster
of writers who shamelessly plugged each other’s books. It was my first hint that book publishing might
not be the gentleman’s game it then pretended to be. That it might, in fact, be a sweaty little orgy of
incest.
In due time, I got a glimpse of how blurbing actually worked. When my second novel was nearing
publication, someone in my agent’s office persuaded the best-selling author Nelson DeMille to read a
galley of the book, which is set in Southeast Asia in 1963 and climaxes with the American-backed
assassination of South Vietnam’s president, Ngo Dinh Diem, less than three weeks before the
assassination of John F. Kennedy. DeMille, to everyone’s amazement, sent back the following blurb:
“This is a wonderfully atmospheric novel that captures time and place, an illumination of a pivotal point
in history. Bill Morris is an exceptionally gifted and savvy writer. The comparison to Graham Greene
is fully merited.”
When I got my jaw off the floor, my first thought was, This is bullshit! Nobody in his right mind would
compare me to a god like Graham Greene! But then I let it sink in for a while and I thought, Hmm…I’ve
got no quarrel with “wonderfully atmospheric” or “exceptionally gifted and savvy.” And even if the
Graham Greene bit is bullshit, it’s the kind of bullshit I can learn to live with. So I kept my mouth shut
and let the publisher put DeMille’s quote on the front flap of the dust jacket. Did this blurb sell any
books? Sadly, we’ll never know.

3.
To find out if blurbs help sell books, I decided to conduct a highly unscientific survey. I asked several
well read friends the following questions: Do you ever buy books on the basis of blurbs? If so, do you
have to know something about the blurb writer, or will any intriguing blurb do the trick?
Marianne Schaefer, a woman who makes documentary films and devours science fiction and fantasy
novels by the metric ton, said, “Yes, blurbs from respected publications frequently convince me to buy a
book. If I know the blurb writer and really like his or her writing – Neal Stephenson, say, or China
Mieville – I’ll do further research about the book because it’s possible the blurb writer is a friend of the
author.” Now comes the juicy part. “I have also not bought a book because it was blurbed by a writer
whose recommendations I distrust. Ursula K. Le Guin is a perfect example. If she liked a book, I know
it’s politically correct, female-empowering, pretentious crap.”
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0425198197/ref=nosim/themillions-20Sara Nelson
is probably as close to an authority as anyone on the question of whether or not blurbs sell books. She
was once editor in chief of that industry bible, Publishers Weekly, and she’s now books director of O, the
Oprah magazine. For good measure, she’s also an omnivorous reader and the author of a book about
reading, So Many Books, So Little Time, which got its share of blurbs from brand-name authors. “A
feast,” wrote Pat Conroy. “A joy,” wrote Susan Isaacs. “A smart, witty, utterly original memoir about
how every book becomes a part of us,” wrote Augusten Burroughs. Most writers would kill their own
mothers for such blurbs.
Nelson told me, via e-mail, “I always look at blurbs when I’m in a bookstore, and I’m always intrigued
by them, but…I’m more interested in figuring out how/why this particular author got that particular
author to blurb him (‘Oh right, they have the same agent!’) than in thinking like a consumer. Obviously
this is not typical. When I was at Publishers Weekly, I often spoke to consumers about their buying
habits, and usually asked if blurbs influenced their book-buying decisions. Most of the time their answer
was ‘yes’ – so I guess that’s why we keep going after blurbs. But of course there’s no way of knowing”
if they work.
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0812973992/ref=nosim/themillions-20Many writers
who have hit the best-seller lists or won major awards have a strict policy of not writing blurbs. Some
even talk about being in a “blurb-free zone,” which sounds like a bad Rod Serling spinoff. Colum
McCann, who won the National Book Award in 2009 for his novel Let the Great World Spin, admits that
he has been tempted to step into the blurb-free zone. The reason is simple.
“In the past week I got exactly eight books in the post to blurb. Eight!” he wrote in an e-mail. “I also got
six separate e-mail requests from publishers and friends. Then I got two requests from former
students. That’s a total of sixteen requests in just one week. The mailman hates me!”
That works out to 832 blurb requests per year.
“I feel so damn guilty not being able to blurb all the books, but it is just plain impossible,” McCann went
on. “I’ve been trying to institute a policy of no blurbs, but I understand their necessity. They’re not even
designed for readers since I think most people see through the bullshit factor. They are designed more for
bookshops and just helping to get the books on the shelf… But again I understand the necessity. The
blurbs for Let the Great World Spin (by Richard Price, Dave Eggers, Frank McCourt, Amy Bloom,
John Boyne) were very, very important to its initial bookshop push. They helped the book succeed.”
Frank McCourt, by the way, never entered the blurb-free zone. Prior to his death in 2009 he was a
tireless blurber, a true champion of other writers, proof that some authors write blurbs even if they’re not
trying to curry favor with other writers as possible sources of future blurbs. The prolific McCourt did,
however, tend to get a bit repetitious, which seems to be an occupational hazard for serial blurbers. He
wrote that Peace Like a River by Leif Enger has passages “so wondrous and wise you’ll want to claw
yourself with pleasure.” He also wrote, “Open to any page of Helen Gurley Brown’s I’m Wild Again,
and you’ll claw yourself with pleasure.” And of Colum McCann’s 1998 novel This Side of Brightness,
McCourt wrote, “In language that makes you claw yourself with pleasure, he powerfully evokes the stink
of the present and the poignancy of the past.” We can only hope that McCourt was diligent about
trimming his fingernails.
As for McCann’s theory that blurbs help to get books on store shelves, Toby Cox, owner of Three Lives
& Company in New York’s Greenwich Village, has his doubts. “When I buy books I do it by looking
through publishers’ catalogs, and they have blurbs,” Cox told me. “A blurb generally doesn’t sway me
that I should bring a particular book into the store, but it does give me a feel for how a publisher is trying
to position a book.” As for his customers, “If the blurb is by a favorite writer of theirs, it may have an
influence. For my market it’s mostly reviews and word of mouth that sell a book. I think you can
probably trace most blurbs back to a connection – the author and blurb writer are friends, or they have the
same editor or the same agent – so I tend to take them with a grain of salt.”
One man who decidedly did not take blurbs with a grain of salt was the writer who coined the word, a
turn of the last century humorist named Gelett Burgess (1866-1951). The cover of his 1906 book Are
You a Bromide? shows a woman identified as MISS BELINDA BLURB IN THE ACT OF
BLURBING. She’s shouting the book’s praises in no uncertain terms:
YES, this is a “BLURB”! All Other Publishers commit them. Why Shouldn’t We? Say! Ain’t this book
a 90 H.P., six-cylinder Seller? … WE consider that this man Burgess has got Henry James locked into the
coal bin, telephoning for “Information.” WE expect to sell 350 copies of this great, grand book. It has
gush and go to it, it has that Certain Something which makes you want to crawl through thirty miles of
dense tropical jungle and bite somebody in the neck. No hero, no heroine, nothing like that for OURS,
but when you’ve READ this masterpiece, you’ll know what a BOOK is, and you’ll sic it onto your
mother-in-law, your dentist and the pale youth who dips hot air into Little Marjorie until 4 A.M. in the
front parlour. This book has 42-carat THRILLS in it. It fairly BURBLES. Ask the man at the counter
what HE thinks of it! He’s seen Janice Meredith faded to a mauve magenta. He’s seen BLURBS before,
and he’s dead wise. He’ll say:
This Book is the Proud Purple Penultimate!!

4.
Aware that I had a lot of tough acts to follow, I dug into The Big Roads. The title still bugged me, not
 only because it was bland but because I had a much better one: Six Sidewalks to the Moon. From the
research I’d done while writing the novel that prodded Earl Swift to get serious about his own work, I
happened to know that President Dwight Eisenhower, the putative father of our interstate highway
system, had once gushed that this engineering marvel would require enough concrete to build “six
sidewalks to the moon.”
But my misgivings began to evaporate when I reached page 5, where Swift notes that the interstates used
enough concrete to “fill sixty-four Louisiana Superdomes to the rafters.” No flies on Earl! Soon my
dread was replaced by relief, then pure delight. Earl Swift is still a deft writer, but the dogged reporter
has turned into a prodigious researcher, a real-live historian, someone’s who’s willing to paw through
acres of archives, troll the internet, conduct interviews, and read every available book, government report,
biography and article on his subject. Along the way he gives us delightful thumbnail histories of motels,
McDonald’s golden arches and that mother of all tourist traps, South of the Border. And he can be drolly
funny. One man “seized on the task like a pit bull on a flank steak.” And Ike “wasn’t much of a detail
man” but he did adhere to a “rigorous golf and vacation schedule.” Perhaps the book’s greatest
achievement is to dispel the prevailing myth that the interstate highways popped fully formed out of
Dwight Eisenhower’s shiny, empty skull. They did not. Nothing did.
As good as it is, the book isn’t perfect. It could have used a bit more…artiness. Earl does quote a
beautifully surreal passage about road-weary motorists that James Agee wrote for Fortune magazine in
1934, but he missed the chance to illustrate his point that the flame-throwing, technicolor cars of the
1950s had outgrown the roads they traveled on and, as a result, the country seemed to need the
interstates. Here’s Richard Yates on the subject, from his immortal novel Revolutionary Road, which
was written at the precise moment when Ike was talking about all those sidewalks to the moon: “Their
automobiles didn’t look right either – unnecessarily wide and gleaming in the colors of candy and ice
cream, seeming to wince at each splatter of mud, they crawled apologetically down the broken roads that
led from all directions to the deep, level slab of Route Twelve. Once there the cars seemed able to relax
in an environment all their own, a long bright valley of colored plastic and plate glass and stainless steel –
KING KONE, MOBILGAS, SHOPORAMA, EAT – but eventually they had to turn off, one by one, and
make their way up the winding country road…”
I was off the hook but I still had to write the blurb. Thinking of Pat Conroy and Susan Isaacs, I wanted to
open with something pithy. A joy ride, I thought. Not bad. Now follow it up with something that has
gush and go to it. An epic tale of… No, that’s as flat as the title. After many false starts and wrong turns,
I came up with this: Earl Swift has written the best kind of popular history – one that paints vivid
portraits, debunks myths and brings to life the fascinating and appalling stories behind the creation of
that massive mixed blessing known as America’s interstate highways.
It may not have been a work of art but at least it wasn’t bullshit. I re-read it a dozen times, then typed it
into an e-mail addressed to the book’s editor at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. My finger hovered over the
keyboard for a long time. I’m no Colum McCann, but once my blurb got published I had visions of the
mailman dropping off stacks of review copies in front of my door. Did I really want to dive down that
rabbit hole? I took a deep breath. Then another. And then I hit Send.
Yes reader, I blurbed him.