A word before I begin: I have nothing against publishers. On the contrary, I often admire them. Part of their job is to understand before others do what might interest the public. If they sense that a name, an event or a curiosity could translate into hundreds of thousands of copies sold, they have simply done their job well.
The question that interests me is a different one: why do we buy?
I am not interested here in debating whether a famous person has the right to tell their own life story. Of course they do. What interests me is understanding why fame, perhaps born of a song, a film, a goal or even a scandal, seems to translate automatically into publishing value.
This reflection began with a famous case: the commercial success of Monica's Story, the authorised biography of Monica Lewinsky written by Andrew Morton and published in 1999. Whatever one's view of the affair, from a publishing perspective the venture made sense: worldwide interest was enormous, and a capable publisher could hardly fail to see the opportunity to turn that attention into a book.
And the public did indeed respond.
A Publisher Does Not Have to Educate Me: They Have to Know Whether I Will Buy
Sometimes people talk about publishers as though they had a moral duty to publish only what enriches humanity's culture. That is a naive idea. A publisher is also an entrepreneur: they pay costs upfront, print, distribute, promote and take a risk. If they see a market, they try to reach it.
From this perspective, publishing the autobiography of someone at the centre of worldwide attention can be a perfectly rational choice. The book does not need to contain a new philosophical theory. It is enough that many people want to read it.
A publisher's skill lies precisely in sensing a desire the reader may not yet have articulated. They see a name and think: put this name on a cover, and people will stop in front of a bookshelf. If they are right, they have shown foresight.
The Leap I Cannot Make
But I stop short of that. I can adore a singer while they sing without feeling the slightest need to know what they eat for breakfast. I can admire a footballer for an impossible piece of ball control without wanting to know their views on raising children. I can consider an actor extraordinary without being curious about their romantic relationships.
In my eyes, fame remains tied to the skill that produced it. If someone sings magnificently, then to me they possess an extraordinary quality: they know how to sing magnificently. I do not infer that their life must be interesting, or that their thinking is necessarily deeper than mine or that of millions of unknown people.
And this is where the wires cross: the market for celebrity autobiographies often depends precisely on the leap I do not make. Admiration for what someone can do becomes curiosity about who that person is, what they think, love, fear, buy and remember.
From Talent to Biography: Four Examples
This phenomenon is not confined to a single kind of celebrity. It happens in music, sport, cinema, television and now on social media too.
The singer. An artist may have written unforgettable songs. Their autobiography can certainly be interesting if it tells the story of how those works came into being, the work in the studio, the artistic choices, the mistakes and the professional relationships. But when the book becomes chiefly a collection of love affairs, arguments and private details, its connection to what made that person interesting grows weaker.
The footballer. Here the paradox is even more striking. A great champion has unique knowledge of the game: training, pressure, the dressing room, tactics and handling defeat. It would be fascinating to read a book genuinely centred on these areas of expertise. Yet promotion often focuses instead on quarrels, infidelity, parties or personal revelations. The market knows that private details sell more easily than technical analysis.
The actor. A performer can describe their work on a character, their relationship with a director and the way a scene is built. Here too there is genuinely interesting material. But a very well-known name is enough to make even a book devoted largely to romantic relationships and encounters with other celebrities marketable.
The celebrity created by celebrity. This is perhaps the most curious case: people known primarily for being known. Reality shows, social networks and celebrity gossip have produced public figures whose main narrative material is their own life. Here the book and the public persona almost coincide: it is not a profession being described, but private existence being marketed directly.
The Name as a Brand
In many areas of commerce, we buy a brand because we trust what it stands for. Something similar happens in celebrity publishing, but with one difference: the brand is a person.
The name on the cover performs an immensely powerful function. It reduces uncertainty. The reader does not have to ask who the author is: they already know. They may never have read a single line by that person, but they have listened to their songs, watched their films or followed their matches. The book therefore starts with a huge advantage over one by an unknown writer.
A debut writer has to win us over through the book. A celebrity often reaches the book after having already won us over elsewhere. And it is precisely this transfer of trust that intrigues me: why should value earned in one field automatically carry over into another?
Not All Autobiographies Are the Same
Of course, it would be wrong to conclude that autobiographies by famous people are useless by definition. Some can have genuine historical, professional or human value. First-hand testimony can give us an inside view of a world we would otherwise know only from the outside.
A great athlete can describe the psychology of competition with a precision no observer possesses. A musician can recount the creation of an album that defined an era. An actor can explain techniques, fears and disciplines invisible to the audience. Someone involved in a major public event can provide documents, memories and perspectives that become historical material.
The point, then, is not: "famous people should not write books". It is simpler than that: fame alone is not content.
When the Reader Buys an Imaginary Relationship
Perhaps part of the answer lies in the peculiar relationship we have with famous people. We watch them for years, listen to their voices and recognise their gestures. They know nothing about us, but we feel as though we know them.
An autobiographical book promises to narrow that distance still further. We are not just buying information: we are buying a form of access. For a few hours, that person speaks to us in the first person. They tell us things they would not normally tell us. It is a one-sided closeness, but a psychologically effective one.
At that point, we can also understand why insignificant details can become interesting when they belong to a celebrity. If our next-door neighbour told them, we would probably change the subject. If they come from someone we have been watching on television for twenty years, they suddenly acquire narrative value.
A Thought Experiment
Imagine removing the author's name and photograph from the cover. Three hundred pages remain. We read them without knowing who wrote them.
How many celebrity autobiographies would still seem interesting to us? How many would be bought if they were presented simply as the story of an unknown person recounting their childhood, relationships, successes and difficulties?
Perhaps it is an unfair test, because an author's identity is inevitably part of an autobiography. But it makes the mechanism clear: in many cases, it is not the content that makes the name valuable; it is the name that makes the content valuable.
Expertise Is Not Contagious
There is another, even broader effect. Once someone becomes famous, they are asked about every subject. The singer no longer speaks only about music. The footballer no longer speaks only about football. The actor no longer speaks only about cinema. Celebrity creates a kind of general authority that has no logical basis.
Being exceptional in one field does not automatically make someone competent in others. An award, a record, millions of records sold or an extraordinary film career demonstrate something specific and important. They do not demonstrate everything.
The same mistake is reflected in books. If a famous person decides to set out their ideas about happiness, family, education, success or society, their name immediately guarantees attention. An unknown person with more original and better-argued ideas might not even find a publisher.
The Publisher's Real Achievement
And so we return to the publisher. I might criticise this situation, but it would be difficult to blame someone who makes commercial use of it. If millions of people attach value to the name, the publisher deserves professional credit for having understood that.
In the case of someone at the centre of enormous media attention, the choice may even seem obvious once the book has succeeded. But publishing decisions are made before the outcome is known. An advance must be set, promotion organised, print runs estimated, rights and translations negotiated. The risk remains with the publisher.
That is why I can simultaneously think: "I would not buy that book" and "well done to whoever realised that hundreds of thousands of other people would buy it". The two statements are not contradictory.
What I Look for in a Book
In the end, the question becomes personal. When I open a book, I would like at least one of these things to happen: to learn something I did not know, to understand better something I knew only superficially, to encounter an idea I had never formulated, or to see the world through a perspective capable of surprising me.
A famous life guarantees none of this. An unknown life, on the other hand, might offer it.
And perhaps this is publishing's most beautiful paradox: millions of anonymous people have had experiences, developed ideas and acquired extraordinary expertise without any publisher seeking them out. Meanwhile, a famous person can attract publishing attention before even writing the first page.
It is not necessarily an injustice. It is a market. But that is precisely why it is worth asking, whenever we pick up a celebrity's book: am I buying what is inside it, or the name on its cover?
"Fame can explain why a book gets published. On its own, it is not enough to explain why it should be worth reading."
Editorial note: this text explores the subject from the perspective of books and the publishing market, leaving the broader reflection on the relationship between talent, celebrity and private life in the background.
What I Would Like to Leave My Children
I would like to leave all three of you this freedom: to admire someone without feeling obliged to admire everything about them. Talent deserves recognition, but it does not make every opinion authoritative or every page valuable. Keep the right to make up your own minds.
When you open a book, look for what can help you grow, not just what makes you feel close to a famous name. And give someone you do not know a chance too: a quiet voice may offer you a thought that will stay with you for years.
I would also like you to remember this: your life is worth no less because it does not end up on a book cover. The experiences, questions and words you can offer others will be valuable for what they contain, not for how many people know your name.
Papy