A promotional copy of Rich Kids of Instagram showed up in the mail this summer, and it sat on my desk at work for two days before I finally succumbed to its pull. I wish I hadn't.I didn't expect much. Let's be honest, the book is called Rich Kids of Instagram, and the front cover is a $100 bill topped by a line of coke. Murakami this is not.
But I did expect at least something of substance. I hoped there might be a character I liked, a surprising bit of dialogue, even a tidbit of prose that I found stimulating or unusual. Nope, nope, nope. The book was as vapid and empty as the lives of the children whose story it tells.
It's dishy and gossipy – it follows the fictionalized lives of the sons and daughters of the world's super-rich – but it manages to get by without even gossip's salacious appeal. Reading the book felt like a chore.
After I finished, I could hardly remember the names of the characters, or even hope to tell them apart. Each child had basically the same story – self-absorbed indulgence leads to a completely preventable and totally unrelatable problem that could have been solved with reasonable parenting and the tiniest dash of common sense. For goodness sakes, you don't allow a 14-year-old, even a billionaire 14-year-old, plan your magazine launch party. It's not going to end well, especially when she has a habit of popping her mother's pills.
Money can buy a lot of things, but it can't make these kids interesting or relatable. And it most certainly cannot save this book. So take my advice. If you're looking for a trashy beach read to fill your time this Christmas holiday, do yourself a favor. Pick up something, ANYTHING, else.
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