Listicle

Dishy books! Bruno Mars! Human excrement! Relieve the year that was in handy listicle form, on page 52.

"6 TITANIC SURVIVORS WHO SHOULD HAVE DIED." "THESE 9 NAZI ATROCITIES WILL MAKE YOU LOSE FAITH IN HUMANITY." "5 INSANE PLANS FOR FEEDING WEST BERLIN YOU WON’T BELIEVE ARE REAL." These are just some of the lists that the comic strip "XKCD" recently joked would result from retrofitting the twentieth century's most newsworthy events with modern, Internet-style headlines. Despite the growing derision of listicles exemplified by the comic, numbered lists—a venerable media format—have become one of the most ubiquitous ways to package content on the Web.

The Internet did not invent the listicle. Lists-as-arguments—lists-as-stories—have, of course, been around since long, long before Buzzfeed^([sic]) came along. And they haven't just been around; they've also been both playing with and poking fun at the list form itself, one item at a time. I mention that because the Public Domain Review has unearthed this gem, "The 25 Stages from Courtship to Marriage," a set of hand-tinted stereographs depicting a sampling of those stages, generally from the perspective of the woman being courted. The cards are undated, PDR notes, but they mostly likely originated in the late 19th century.

It seems little more than an exercise in googling, an attempt to sell the listicle as literature.

And when they do, readers may find themselves on an unfamiliar website with an odd name, faced with a photo gallery of regrettable tattoos or a listicle on 22 celebrities with ugly spouses.

“Your trivia category choices are pop culture listicles, discontinued snack foods, or dog sounds.” “Hey, no shame in going for the easiest one, gimme the listicles.”