If only every choice weren't so momentous. The waiter arrives, the menu is presented. The gnocchi will surely be delicious, but the spaghetti al limone suits your mood. And yet you're in Rome, it's winter and spaghetti al limone is really Amalfi's dish, best served in sunshine by the sea. What kind of rube will this fine waiter take you for? Your appetite is gone now, you feel doomed, and your date wishes he weren't stuck with such a loser.

The freedom to choose brings you little freedom. In fact, it fills you with unspeakable anguish. Can you be helped? Psychologist Barry Schwartz would like to think so. In The Paradox of Choice: Why More Is Less , Mr. Schwartz, a professor of social theory and social action at Swarthmore, offers 11 thoughtful steps toward relief from what he believes to be our national misery: too much choice. Want a cell phone? Well, this one is tri-band, this one sends pictures, and this one comes in a pretty box. Or maybe some new shampoo? Fine! Is your hair dry? Thick? Thin? Dull? Would you like it to smell like flowers or fruit? And then there are vital choices-about medical care, education, marriage, career, even faith-which arise nearly every day. If the abundance of options boggles the mind, Mr. Schwartz suggests, think what it's done to the soul.

So Mr. Schwartz sets out to "explore and explain this 'darker side' of freedom": Despite what we may think, "choice no longer liberates, but debilitates. It might even be said to tyrannize." When the good doctor offers strategies "for fighting back against the tyranny of overwhelming choices," you believe he wants to help. Fortunately, Mr. Schwartz's sincerity is appealing and engaging-because as a writer, he's jargon-happy and mind-numbingly dull.

This is the kind of plodding paragraph you'll meet on nearly every page: "When considering a decision involving complex possibilities, the fact that there is no one option that is best in all respects will induce people to consider the opportunity costs associated with choosing the best option. And the more options there are, the more likely it is that there will be some that are better in some respects than the chosen one. So opportunity costs will mount as the number of options increases, and as opportunity costs mount, so will regret." Occasionally, he livens things up with hypothetical situations that provide exquisitely pure flashbacks to SAT anxiety: "If there are six hundred sick people, saving two hundred (choice A in the first problem) …. " Yikes.

Where do you read a book like this? At your favorite café? (I feel the dread building: cappuccino or a pot of tea?) By the pool? (Should I pack Tracy Chevalier or Barry Schwartz?) But readers of The Paradox of Choice won't choose this book-a profound task in itself, given the choices crowding the shelves in the Psychology section of most bookstores-so as to be entertained. They will, like me, come seeking advice on how to change their behavior.

Think of what you could accomplish, of the places you could visit and the love you could share if your mind were not consumed with the distinction between "aspirin … caplets, capsules, and tablets." Our televisions are equipped with "picture-in-picture" technology, so that we can choose to watch two shows at the same time. E-mail, always accessible, forces people to "face decisions every minute of every day about whether or not to be working." Mr. Schwartz provides detailed and depressing descriptions of the headaches and panic associated with buying a car, investing in the market or researching insurance providers.

And yet, despite the professor's nerdy delivery, The Paradox of Choice is genuine and useful. The book is well-reasoned and solidly researched. Mr. Schwartz considers Adam Smith, Camus and Plato in trying to determine when enough ought to be enough. But he relies most heavily on the Nobel Prize–winning economist and psychologist Herbert Simon, who introduced the concept of "satisficing" in the 1950's. Satisficers, you will learn in this book, are the happier opposites of "maximizers." Huh? Simply put, Hamlet was a maximizer. Maximizers want only the very best option; their standards for what makes something "the very best" vary with public opinion; and they will second-guess their every decision for fear of making the wrong one. On the other side of the equation, there are characters like TV's Olivia Walton, the ur-satisficer: She had only reasonable expectations, understood what would meet her clearly defined high standards while also accepting the realities of her Depression-era world, and was delighted when things worked out better than she had hoped.

By nature, the satisficers have it easy; they welcome limits and rejoice in serendipity. The maximizers have a tougher time; Mr. Schwartz is writing for them. "I believe that learning how to satisfice is an important step not only in coping with a world of choice but in simply enjoying life." The problem, writes Mr. Schwartz, is that "our culture sanctifies freedom of choice so profoundly that the benefits of infinite options seem self-evident."

Our constant hunger for individuality, Mr. Schwartz believes, has become a vexing social problem-far more distressing than our choice of salad dressings. Excessive individuality-imagine, for instance, a radical feminist Methodist with socialist leanings-distresses the social fabric; a self-defined "me" makes participation in a community of "us" less likely.

Mr. Schwartz demonstrates that we live in a "Can I get my deposit back?" world where few decisions are considered irreversible, where "the modern university is a kind of intellectual shopping mall," and where "'religion consumers shop" in the "market" for a faith offering "just the form of community that gives us what we want out of religion." Even our notion of loyalty has been distorted by the blasé way in which we switch jobs: "individuals who have worked for the same employer for five years are regarded with suspicion." And what of tying the knot? "Whereas delaying marriage … would seem to promote self-discovery, this freedom and self-exploration seems to leave many people feeling more lost than found."

So, fellow Hamlets, to read or not to read? I say skip to the last chapter, in which Mr. Schwartz offers some useful suggestions on how to think about choice. ("Choose when to choose" is my favorite.)

For all his wisdom, Mr. Schwartz can be too simplistic. "If you adopt the rule," he writes, "that you will never cheat on your partner, you will eliminate countless painful and tempting decisions that might confront you later on." Whatever. Despite the occasional lapse into nonsense, there's value here.

I guarantee it: On the very night I finished The Paradox of Choice -feeling like a laboratory rat too long in the maze-something happened which made me realize the value of the book. I met friends for dinner at a trattoria where Ada, the proprietor, chooses what you eat. Out came the white wine (we wanted red) and then the pasta (I'd had pasta for lunch). As my friends began to complain, I gleefully tucked into my penne. The newly born satisficer in me thought, "What the hell? Let her choose! No way will Ada do me wrong."

Josh Patner contributes to Elle and Slate from Rome.

Consider the extraordinary story of Calvin Klein. His father was a grocer; his best friend Barry's father was a grocer. Barry was a good boy, but Calvin had the devil in him. He hung out in the Big City and didn't even show up to get his picture taken for the yearbook. Barry graduated from high school and worked in his father's store. But Calvin had no interest in that schlubby life; Calvin wanted to be a fashion star. So he went to F.I.T., got a chump job in some dress house on Seventh Avenue, and moved his young bride from the bubbeleh Bronx to the more fashionable Forrest Hills. Calvin, who can seduce anyone, convinced his old buddy to give him 10 grand to make a few coats and dresses of his own. Then-here's where it starts to get really good-this in-debt pisher wheeled a rack of clothes up Seventh Avenue one morning and wheeled it back down that same afternoon with a $50,000 order from Bonwit Teller. And that's all before we even get to the sex, the drugs, the underwear, the kidnapping, the bailout, Linda Wachner, Kate Moss, Marky Mark, Carolyn, Kelly, Latrell Sprewell and the greatest fragrance campaign since Catherine Deneuve pushed Chanel No. 5.

If Calvin Klein was mortified by the scandals revealed in Obsession: The Life and Times of Calvin Klein (1994), he'll be bored to death by The House of Klein: Fashion, Controversy, and a Business Obsession . Lisa Marsh, fashion and retail reporter for the New York Post , has an inexplicable zeal for making the monumental life of Calvin Klein a biographical wasteland. Why would any writer take on this project? After all, the juicy bits about Klein's personal life were already well covered in Obsession nearly a decade ago. Perhaps, with the recent purchase of Calvin Klein Inc. by Phillips Van-Heusen for some $430 million, the time seemed right for a summing-up. But ah, the bore of it. House of Klein has all the gravitas and insight of one of those insta-bios that appear on bookstore shelves following the death of a celebrity. "Klein's self-doubt," Ms. Marsh writes in an epilogue, "most likely fuels his desire to drink and indulge in recreational drugs, a habit that has tragically resurfaced in Klein's daily life." Nearly the same empty words could be found in books on Princess Di, Johnny Cash or a zillion other celebrities.

Ms. Marsh warns us early on that she is "writing a business biography"-the italics are hers-as though downplaying personal scandal has an inherent nobility that exempts her from writing anything of interest. And what about writing well? I can't resist sharing a few choice lines: "However, not all was ducky in the Klein household." Or how's this for an image: "Once the fragrances hit the stores, the shit hit the fan." And is this next one even a sentence? "Andrew Rosen fit the stereotypical dilettante." This writer loves a cute phrase. Deals come "fast and furious"; a frustrated mogul has "bigger fish to fry"; consumers learn they don't have to spend "beaucoup bucks" on designer fashions. Perhaps Ms. Marsh's favorite-and most annoying-tic is to refer to Messrs. Klein and Schwartz as some variation of "scrappy men from the Bronx," "the duo from Mosholu Parkway" or "the duo from the Bronx" on nearly every page.

Back to business: Ms. Marsh spells out in straightforward language that anyone can understand the cash-flow problems facing garment-makers, the basics of licensing deals and the tumultuous transition of Klein's business from manufacturer to licenser. But so what? Conveying any true sense of a life-even the life of a business-demands more than summary. When the bumpy story of Calvin Klein's roller-coaster ride of a career cries out for action or drama, Ms. Marsh buckles. We learn, in this book's schoolgirl tone, that with the mega-launch of Obsession, executive Robin Burns "was not fooling around. She hired Ann Gottlieb, a fragrance consultant, sometimes referred to as a 'nose,' and asked fragrance houses for samples." Imagine that. The woman was spending $10 million dollars to launch a perfume and she asked for a few samples. Or how about this: When there was a discrepancy in the acceptable parameters of the term "jeans-related products" in an offer from Fruit-of-the-Loom to buy Mr. Klein's jeans business for $50 million, Ms. Marsh writes with gee-whiz wonder that "Klein and Schwartz, sticklers for details, preferred a narrow interpretation, and this deal also unraveled." One hopes Ms. Marsh had a lawyer look at her book contract.

Remarkable as it may seem, House of Klein is not merely terrible; the book is downright implausible. Are we really expected to believe the stories in here? Former design assistant Jeffrey Banks has a T-shirt made with the young company's soon-to-be-famous logo silk-screened on the sleeve. Barry Schwartz sees the thing and wonders if it's for sale. "No," Mr. Klein is quoted as saying. "Who'd want to wear my name?" Come on! But it gets better. Mr. Banks-perhaps the only Klein "insider" who would agree to talk to Ms. Marsh-goes on to say that designing men's wear was his idea. Ms. Marsh has model Janice Dickinson claiming that she once said to Mr. Klein, "Why don't you do a line of underwear …. Just put your name on it. I bet it'll sell." Why wait for Barry Diller and David Geffen to come running to the rescue when Mr. Banks and Ms. Dickinson could have sorted things out? The absurdities go on and on. Superstar stylist Joe McKenna is mentioned as one of the "hot photographers" Mr. Klein collaborated with; Fran Liebowitz is a "conversationalist"; the Obsession campaign introduces "the idea of ambisexuality"; the designer's notorious advertising is "credited with … showing nudity and pushing sex and its various hetero-homo variations into the mainstream for all to deal with." It's too exhausting to go on.

Ever splashed on some Obsession? Compared your weight to Kate Moss' or your chest to Travis Fimmel's? Are you one of the millions of people who have pulled on a pair of Calvin Klein underwear? Then for God's sake, you already know more about this legendary man than you'll ever learn from reading this book. Sure, you won't know about the takeover attempts and the backroom deals that nearly toppled the house of Klein on numerous occasions. You won't know how a jeans-wear deal is ideally structured, or why the launch of CK One was so radically different from any other fragrance launch. You won't know why Mr. Klein's morning cup of coffee had to be matched to a Pantone chip or about his preference in paper clips. You won't know the story a "former insider" shares about the "loyalty-testing" demands Mr. Klein put on the guy sealing the cement floor of his Madison Avenue store.

Now consider this: In the end, Calvin Klein's clothes are completely irrelevant. This man built a brand-name empire with no significant contribution to the craft of fashion. He had no patience for scissors and pins. Calvin Klein could see only one thing: a future charged with sex. The next time you pull on those basket-enhancing briefs or spritz yourself with an illicitly marketed perfume, you will have become a part of Calvin Klein's obsession. He manipulates us with a hustler's secret: Make people feel desirable, and they will spend. As the elastic band from that underwear slides up your leg or the scent of a good shag fills the air, Calvin Klein will have won you over. Lisa Marsh, business biographer, will have left you cold.

Josh Patner writes about fashion for Slate .

Oh, for the days when having style meant more than just having things. Picture these lost moments: thrill-seekers strung along the cafés of Montparnasse, sharing sips of absinthe; a new bride studying James Beard before her first dinner party; young leggy girls on the King's Road in the just-sliced mini; Mrs. Kennedy and the caisson; the Duchess of Windsor and anything; a penniless Madonna arriving in New York; lunch at Mortimer's.

What will we be remembered for? If Virginia Postrel's The Substance of Style has anything to do with it, not much more than things: designer toilet brushes, sparkling green beepers, Cape Cod–style houses in California. It's not Ms. Postrel's fault that style in today's world is defined by junk; she's only reporting on the phenomenon. But what's her excuse for reporting without skepticism-or style?

If only Ms. Postrel, a New York Times financial reporter, could herself have produced less of a mere thing. The Substance of Style is a perfectly timed-and perfectly lifeless-examination of "the nature of aesthetic value and its relation to our personal, economic, and social lives." With a Cupid's bow of desire, Ms. Postrel attempts to shoot at the heart of the Frankfurt School's long-standing-and too little debated-argument that "The People" are consumers because they are manipulated toward the cash register. Frankfurt's People mindlessly feed the machine; Ms. Postrel's People gleefully feed their own dreams. Or so she would like us to believe. Certainly pleasure is-and ought to be-a driving force in spending money on a new lipstick, a new sound system, anything. But is this the age of realized dreams?

Passion is required to enliven this rather academic topic (namely, why people today buy what they buy, and why manufacturers produce what they produce). Ms. Postrel is certainly curious, but neither passionate nor artful enough to expose the complicated story of a generation obsessed with stuff. Isn't it, in fact, that we substitute "style" for substance? Ms. Postrel loses the opportunity she created for herself to document a profoundly complex moment in time-to truly see the "style" in what we now consider substantial. She reports on trends ("The aesthetic imperative is here to stay. The indicators may fluctuate with the economy … but the underlying phenomenon remains strong"), but she never sees past all the stuff.

Is there really a new substance in the style of our daily lives? One could argue that the world is a more "designed" place than ever before-Ms. Postrel eagerly offers Starbucks' "fresh and distinctive" atmosphere, the "grand mixing zone" of Los Angeles' Universal CityWalk and Nordstrom's "shiny holographic credit cards" as examples of the aesthetic uplift experienced by Bob and Mary Sixpack -but do you believe that what the mall-crawlers of America are truly seeking is the joy of self-expression?

Today's "aesthetic imperative" is more tangled and odious than Ms. Postrel makes it out to be. If, as she so tidily puts it, "[t]he proliferation of commercial styles represents not waste and delusion but the affirmation of personal pleasures," then why do kids get shot dead for the shoes they wear? Why is seemingly everyone glued to Queer Eye for the Straight Guy ? Waste and delusion seem like pretty hot commodities in America's playgrounds and living rooms these days.

Ms. Postrel makes some worthy points. No one who owns a French press coffee pot, bought the latest iMac or has a tattoo-and that's a lot of people-would argue with her when she says that aesthetics are not "a value set off from the rest of life. Decoration and adornment are neither higher nor lower than 'real' life. They are part of it." But she also feels the need to remind us that we "can't objectively declare the Westin superior to the Sheraton or Ralph Lauren superior to Prada. Their aesthetic value depends on the individual experiencing them." The Soc. 101 homilies alternate with academic drivel: "When aesthetic preferences are diametrically opposed, the spillovers are not entirely negative. To the contrary, some third parties reap benefits." Oh, for the days ….

Journalistic remove is one thing, but it's hard to swallow any argument about style from a writer who refers to the "high-style home décor" of Pottery Barn and discusses the "expert-system softwear" of 80's fashion relic Jhane Barnes to such an extent that the relic warrants a mention in the book's index. Who exactly is this book written for? Academics? Doubtful. Fashion addicts? Get real. Maybe weekend sociologists? Perhaps they will be interested to know that Ms. Postrel believes the world is less of a cookie-cutter place than it used to be. (She suggests we compare a current high-school yearbook to one from the 1950's, noting today's variation in hairstyles.) But the sad truth is that we just have more cookie-cutters to choose from. For the precious substance of real style-originality, flair, confidence-has little to do with products, economic status or the ever-broadening availability of the inexpensive holiday lighting that makes Ms. Postrel so giddy.

The real question is whether her premise-that "we are demanding and creating an enticing, stimulating, diverse, and beautiful world"-holds true. There may be more "design" (a word as empty as "gourmet") in today's everyday items, but is it really better design? What about perennial beauties like Amish furniture, Japanese bento boxes and African kente cloth? Is the proliferation of decorative pagers, OXO vegetable peelers and, more importantly, changing environmental legislation really about style?

Ms. Postrel is right to examine the recent trend in stricter, visually based building codes ("In Portland, Oregon, you can no longer build a new home whose front is less than 15 percent windows …. Environmental policy is not just about clean air and water anymore. It is, increasingly, about legislating taste"), but I wonder if aesthetics are the main motivating factors in those cases. Couldn't it be, because of invasive and currently "stylish" shows like Trading Spaces , that we've forgotten what neighborliness and community really mean? Rather than living a life of one's own-a great definition of style-are we too interested in what the other guy is doing to pull down our blinds, to live and let live?

Ms. Postrel cites economic statistics to show how "[r]ising incomes and falling prices mean we can buy more of everything, including aesthetics." What she fails to consider, though, is what exactly is being offered up for sale. Here's where we come to the junk. A woman's cashmere turtleneck "that would have cost the average factory worker thirteen hours of work in 1975 now takes fewer than six." (Ms. Postrel has apparently never de-pilled a cheap cashmere from Bloomingdale's private-label table.) A hair-coloring executive says that today the Japanese have come to view hair-coloring as a form of self-expression. Oh, for the days of haiku.

The Substance of Style is an ambitious undertaking, and Virginia Postrel takes us through a near-panting inventory of evidence of increased "look and feel" to build her case. She gives us the hunger for colorful burkas following the Taliban's defeat, Kinko's push for improved desktop graphics, G.E.'s remarkable range of plastic colors, Japanese Prime Minister Koizumi's hair. Yes, Virginia, yes! The world is filled with more things than ever before. But style, I'm afraid, is not one of them.

Josh Patner is writing a book about his adventures in the fashion business .