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Paris: The Memoir review – how a celebrity nymph conquered the Earth

With its dizzying spirituality and devotion to ‘sacred’ skincare, Paris Hilton’s memoir exposes a culture in which the self only exists if validated by a selfie

Twenty years ago, Paris Hilton was the stiletto-heeled embodiment of the zeitgeist. With a chihuahua called Diamond Baby kennelled in her designer handbag, this nepotistic partygoer juggled five mobile phones while cantering across continents to sell branded merchandise to the fans she smarmily addresses as “my Little Hiltons”. Now, in her early 40s, she has published a memoir, which for ephemeral, unreflective celebrities like her is usually a way of fending off imminent obsolescence.

The book – ventriloquised by Joni Rodgers, who describes herself as a “story whisperer” – is as vapid and vaporous as the fragrances Hilton sells; all the same, archaeologists may one day consult it in the hope of understanding how and why our species underwent a final mutation into something glossily post-human. The antics of this entitled flibbertigibbet expose the absurdity of a culture in which the self only exists if it is validated by a selfie, membership of society depends on the mirage of social media and the reality in which we were all once anchored has been replaced by a flimsy virtual replica.

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