The irresistible allure of lists
What matters at this moment?
Bestseller lists, playlists, search results: lists (and listicles) are everywhere, from the Forbes 500 to the Booker Prize shortlist and the 100 places to see before you die.
List-making (my passwords, my contacts, my errands) is a ubiquitous everyday cultural practice, and we're constantly checking things off: to-do, done.
No surprise, listicles are a popular posting format, frequently cut off by a paywall. Ironically, even tech and culture critics like Ted Gioia use them all the time: „30 Ways to Revitalize Arts & Culture“, „The Anti-Tech Canon: 30 Books“, „14 YouTube Videos I'm Enjoying Right Now“.
Lists work. They condense, stimulate, and catch you off guard. They promise offloading and efficient filtering. But there’s more to lists than quick gains. Examined closely, lists seem like a remedy for our challenging era.
Selection and combination
Because lists require the selection and arrangement of elements, they are the archetype of text production—a fundamental thought process that creates structure and guides action. Unordered lists help with association and creativity. Ordered lists help with prioritizing and getting started.
Within the selection and arrangement of a list, judgments are hidden. The author chooses what is included and what is excluded. Yet lists don't create overarching meaning like a narrative does, nor do they form a dense wall of text. Instead, they contain a lot of whitespace that allows for breathing. Lists, it seems, don’t lie. Their sobriety comes across as being honest. Lists convey their contingency; they invite us to add to, replace, and, most importantly, to cross things out.
A nonideological vibe
Lists have a rich cultural history that Umberto Eco reconstructed in his 2009 book Vertigine della lista. They stimulate theoretical thought (from Jack Goody to François Jullien) and produce an austere literary aesthetic, where, if I were to make a list of the best, George Perec would rank highest.
In 1945, the German poet Günter Eich wrote one of the finest list poems of all time:
“Dies ist meine Mütze,
dies ist mein Mantel,
hier mein Rasierzeug
im Beutel aus Leinen.“
„This is my cap,
This is my coat,
Here's my shaving kit
In a linen bag.“
That's how his poem „Inventur“ (Inventory) begins. It's a classic post-war text, shaking off trauma and indoctrination. In a hungry, disillusioned Europe, the few belongings listed were all a returning soldier had to hold on to.
“Im Brotbeutel sind
ein Paar wollene Socken
und einiges, was ich
niemand verrate,“
„In the bread bag are
a pair of wool socks
and some things that I
won't tell anyone,“
These days, Eich's verses resonate in astonishing ways. They convey that lists confront our post-truth world with fundamental facts („This is my cap“), contrast our polarized times with a clarity that is open to correction.
Lists carve a path through the vastness of available information. What could be more appealing than making a list of what is truly important?
Of what matters most at this moment.