It is not, in fact, difficult to like Paris Hilton. The mogul-heiress-reality television star’s mononymous Paris: The Memoir dropped last month into a cultural landscape thoroughly cratered with tell-alls from female celebrities of a similar vintage. They presume the opposite: that you, suffering a hangover from premodern, Letterman-like snark at best (and unreconstructed woman-hating at worst), harbor a perception of said women as any number of misogynistic epithets — strumpets, flibbertigibbets, sluts, whatever. Lucky for you, books such as Paris are here to help. With a bit of cultural reframing, you will realize the error of your ways and see them in their full humanity.
