As a self-proclaimed book fiend, K-drama enthusiast and a frequent experiencer of raging FOMO, there is nary a decision in my life that I am able to make entirely independently. Thanks to the 21st Century miracles that are Letterboxd, Goodreads and (I am slightly begrudging to admit) TikTok, there is a vast arsenal of information available at my fingertips. With the meticulous air of a surgeon, I analyse dozens of reviews and comments on these platforms, dissecting them until I’ve formed my own opinion, and can pick up my TV remote with confidence.
For me, the main reason for my overreliance on reviews is for the money and time-saving factor. As an IB student, both are things that I am sorely lacking. Why risk spending money on a book you’ll inevitably leave to disintegrate on your shelf, when you can listen to impassioned BookTokers debating the merits of the latest fantasy novel, in a manner that better resembles the sheer ferocity of rival nations engaged in battle, than intelligent academic discourse? Why spend time watching a movie you hate, wasting hours of precious time? I have a friend who goes into books blind, without reading the blurb. She is a statistical anomaly, who puzzles the best of scientists, librarians, and academics. She should not be made an example to impressionable youths.
With the sheer wealth of knowledge available, from the extremely reliable, 100% accurate opinions of others, I reckon this is as close as humanity will ever get to restoring the library of Alexandria. It’s the personal touch that makes it all the more valuable: an actual human being experienced this, and therefore is imparting their newly acquired wisdom with me. There cannot possibly be a more legitimate source (my English teacher disagrees, however: much to my dismay and her chagrin, I have been reliably informed that citing Quora as a source on my academic paper is not, in fact, an encouraged practice).
Recommendations from people you know are even better. When a friend says “This album reminded me of you”, what they’re really saying is “I think of you often, and I picture you as the things I love”. When a teacher says “I think you’ll enjoy this book”, what they’re saying is “I’ve known you well enough to attempt to discern what you like, and will attempt to share something that I think will make you happy”. If you’re sharing your opinion on films and music with me, it won’t be long before I ask for your opinion on wedding cakes, too.
This is why getting a bad recommendation has a can-count-on-fingers rank on my top least favourite experiences. I have bestowed upon you, stranger on the internet, the immense honour of being able to decide which book for me to flip through next. You have let me down. My disappointment is immeasurable and my day is ruined.
Then again, it would be unfair of me to place the blame on others, especially because each individual has specific tastes and interests, and it is simply impossible to write a review that will resonate with everyone. Most of the time, it’s a well-meaning friend, a teacher doing their job, an elder from a completely different generation assuring that this piece of media, in fact, was ‘made for you’. There’s a certain degree of guilt involved, that compels me to give their recommendation a try, even if I absolutely despise it. Naturally, with expectations set so high, and well-intentioned friends waiting expectantly for you to gush over the book, it can be tempting to fake a smile, and lie through your teeth: yes, I did in fact thoroughly enjoy the work of literature you recommended. No, I did not use it as hamster litter. No, I have not read IKEA manuals more compelling and/or with better fleshed-out plotlines.
Perhaps, this is why receiving a good recommendation feels like the sun is shining directly into your brain. First, it’s a relief. Second, it’s the joy that comes with enjoying a particularly good piece of media. Third, it’s the notion that someone associated this, this beautiful, thought-provoking, insightful piece of art, with you. Everytime you rewatch or reread or relisten to this newly discovered masterpiece, you’ll be reminded of the person who recommended it to you, and find kinship in the shared interest. You get me, you note fondly. You, Letterboxd user with a Pikachu profile picture, you think to yourself, understand me like nobody else ever has.
Some good recommendations I’ve received recently? The book Darker By Four, courtesy of my good friend Carthi. The Hvala Café, courtesy of user @matchatteokbokki on the app Lemon8. The Matcha Diaries podcast, recommended to me by the faithful Spotify algorithm. Recommendations are everywhere. The recommendations never end. I am an extremely pampered consumer of media.
Conversely: I love giving recommendations. One of my close friends, Aasmi, often jokes about how I run a five-star library service as a side job. In a desperate bid to push my reading taste onto unsuspecting victims, I’ve taken to lending my closest friends my favourite books, and inevitably coercing them into adoring them as much as I do. I am an avid collector of books I love, and in an age where digitalisation is becoming all the more prevalent, I am oftentimes the only one in my social circle who actually owns physical books. After being a loyal customer of the Nicola Library, we’ve now reached the stage where Aasmi will simply send me a screenshot of a TikTok advertising some self-help book, and I’ll dutifully trot off to my personal bookshelf and find it for her.
Many of my friends will tell you about my affinity for unsolicited recommendations (I’m sorry! I’m working on it!), and will, by extension, either rave or rant about how excellent/flat-out terrible these recommendations are. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, unless it contradicts mine, in which case I must concur that you are wrong.
So to conclude, one thing I’d like to recommend? My recommendations.
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what i'm currently reading: welcome to the hyunam-dong bookshop by hwang bo-reum
song recommendation (HAHA) of the day: pocket locket by alaina castillo
favourite recent discovery: the HVALA café