"The truly awful thing about celebrity culture," writes Clive James in Cultural Amnesia, "is how far it takes us back." An odd reflection, if you believe that the present is mad without precedent. Less so if you believe, like James, that the fracas of fame is familiarly Hobbesian.
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James' point, in his essay on German writer Heinrich Heine, is that celebrity attracts envy, selfishness and mania. Autograph collectors, wannabe writers, stalkers - a well-known name collects these. And to negotiate the constant letters, outstretched hands, phone calls and tweets of ressentiment, rudeness is sometimes necessary. From silence to surreal rejection (George Harrison to autograph buzzards: "It's Thursday"), sanity asks for a little discourtesy.
And this, James argues, takes us back to uncivilised times, when humans were obliged to fear foreigners. "Being rude to strangers," he writes, "was the only way to stay safe." Whether James' observation is correct is best left to anthropologists and historians, though we humans can be surprisingly diplomatic when cornered. Sometimes unknown players demand caution and courtesy, not bad manners. But James' chief message is characteristically clear: fame makes it difficult to be polite. Even in my own D-grade case, some letters and emails can be hilariously intrusive - or would be funny, if they weren't so aggressive or petulant. And then there is Twitter: among other (wonderful) things, a carousel for cranks on hobby horses.
This is not to say that manic or fractious correspondents don't deserve sympathy - they often do, and perhaps more than I. The point is that the constant revolving ride of insults and requests is exhausting and harrying, and sanity mandates a lapse in etiquette now and then. Crucial to James' essay, and to the question of literary celebrity in particular, is talent. One of the unfortunate taints of manic mail or trolling is that it is often badly written. Not just dull, but ugly or incoherent. To get noticed, many become verbose, loud or nasty. Obviously this can happen with authors too: the cruel ones get clicks. But even to get this far, they usually need some artistry; some thin dusting of wit or elegance.
The more belligerent or needy correspondents are below average. Fame inspires others' attention and ambition but not necessarily their skill. In a well-written hatchet job, there is at least some pleasure. The odd singing phrase, even if choked by petty snark. But rabid or fawning gobbledegook combines the cringe of an ugly psyche with dreadful prose. It offers nothing but aesthetic pain. Put another way, letters from peers and readers might be equally offended or offensive - the difference is quality. And that, from someone enduring a glut of correspondence, is what makes all the difference. Many fans or critics have an unshakeable belief in their own deserts: they are owed a reply from their favourite idol or voodoo doll. And often they are owed publication themselves, and the sycophancy and bling it seemingly invites.
But one's investment in literature - psychological and monetary - guarantees no returns other than reading itself (which is no small profit). Perhaps the most disappointing thing about art is how unfairly its gifts are distributed. There are many devotees of literature who will never achieve the greatness they rightly esteem. Not because they do not slave daily, or love language, but because they simply do not have "it". As American novelist Flannery O'Connor replied, when asked why she wrote: "Because I'm good at it." Anyone who writes for an audience does so because they believe they have some art: the greats happen to be correct.
Which brings me back to superstar culture and the "please notice me" refrain. While I cannot say with Heine that "I take pride in never being rude to anyone", I prefer dignified silence or Socratic questioning to rancour. Still, it is worth remembering: there can be more cruelty in a seemingly polite request than an abrupt answer. More vulgar than a brief lapse in courtesy is the vanity that demands a reply.
Dr Damon Young is a philosopher and author. His current work in progress is about the art of reading.