Judge the Book by its Cover
The Surface is the Substance
Luxury is in each detail. —Hubert de Givenchy
The medium is the message. —Marshall McLuhan
Above: Orange has always been the new black.
As I have written before, we are raised on a specific diet of well-meaning lies. The most pervasive among them is the old adage: Don’t judge a book by its cover.
It sounds noble. It sounds deep. It is also dead wrong.
You should judge a book by its cover.
In fact, in a world of infinite noise and finite attention, the cover is the only honest signal you have time to process.
The Physics of Care
When out doing some Christmas shopping, I was struck by the delta between the items I perused.
Some things possessed dignity. The rest was just debris on a short layover en route to its final destination: the landfill.
At the mall, I made my way to the Apple Store, that capitalistic cathedral largely out of place in the uncanny retail valley alongside Cinnabon, Hot Topic, and other storefronts best left unmentioned.
When I crossed the threshold, something seemed to whisper, Order lives here. Chaos stays outside. Every little thing indicated quality:
The lighting was even.
The air was quiet.
The tables were simple slabs of wood—heavy enough that they meant business, yet elegant enough that they resembled altars.
The right angles were actually right.
While playing with an overpriced slab of glass, it hit me: this presence, this feeling, is the product.
And, what’s more, it continues when you get home, because even the packaging quietly whispers: We cared.
The materials meet cleanly.
The fit is exact.
Nothing rattles or wiggles or begs for forgiveness.
And then comes the best part, the gentle exhale of the vacuum seal as you lift the lid.
It is neither a gasp nor a hiss. No, it is a small, controlled release designed by people who lost sleep over millimeters.
It’s no wonder why a company that traffics in these sensations is worth $4.12 trillion as of this writing.
However, Apple is not alone in this. Lululemon, Hermès, Porsche, Ferrari—they understand a fundamental law of physics that most companies ignore: You can’t fake heft or grain or temperature or texture.
When a company sweats the packaging, they reveal their ethos. They’re telling you who they are, why they matter, and how they operate.
More practically, they are telling you that they have conquered the chaos of manufacturing enough to care about the cardboard.
If the outside is sloppy, the inside is sloppy. Entropy is consistent, and how you do anything is how you do everything.
After all, a king does not make a home in a hovel.
This not only applies to logistics and products, but also to life and people.1
Taking pride in your appearance, dressing well, maintaining order are acts of discipline that compound into character.
When you show up put-together, you are signaling that you respect yourself and the people around you enough to present your best.
Sloppiness is no more than a leakage of character.
In Defense of Excess
We have a complicated relationship with the word “luxury.” It comes from the Latin luxus, meaning “excess, extravagance, or overindulgence.” For centuries, this has been pejorative. We view excess as waste.
But dig deeper. In a world of “good enough,” the easy way out, and the path of least resistance, excess is the only sign of life.
Excess care.
Excess attention.
Excess focus and feeling in a world clogged with optimization and leverage and efficiency.
The “excess” involved in designing a t-shirt that melts on your skin like butter on warm toast or writing a novel that makes the reader think, “What? You too? I thought I was the only one” is an act of respect and reverence and humanity.
It’s signaling that someone, somewhere, gave a shit.
The opposite of diligence is slop and this, I think, is why it (no matter how it rears its ugly, amorphous head) remains so universally reviled:
The Moral Case for Presentation
The job of the author is not just to write the truth, but to package it so it survives the journey to the reader.
If you hand me a book with a cover that simply covers (i.e. that does its job and nothing more), you signal that you didn’t have the stamina or pride to do things the right way. You silently say that you don’t respect the work enough to dress it well.
My parents taught me a simple rule: Don’t put your name on it unless you are proud of it.
The cover is where you put your name.
The packaging is where you make your promise.
If you can’t trust the wrapper, you can never trust the gift.
Wrap accordingly.
Per my about page, White Noise is a work of experimentation. I view it as a sort of thinking aloud, a stress testing of my nascent ideas. Through it, I hope to sharpen my opinions against the whetstone of other people’s feedback, commentary, and input.
If you want to discuss any of the ideas or musings mentioned above or have any books, papers, or links that you think would be interesting to share on a future edition of White Noise, please reach out to me by replying to this email or following me on Twitter X.
With sincere gratitude,
Tom
This rule applies to choices, not circumstances. It goes without saying (though I will say it) that we are talking about the intentionality of presentation, not the reality of biology. We do not judge those who present differently due to illness. Often, in humans the magic is found in the quirks.
Yes, the quirks are in all of us and described as “individuality”. I like your description of Apple and would agree about what it offers: dependability. You know quality is the focus. And when I updated Weatherbug they had this: “Another day, another update. We’re always working to keep things fast, functional, and frustration free.” I was impressed that they wanted these objectives and shared them.
Good coverage, Tom, of how we note quality when we see it and are drawn to it.