The Emperor's Clothes Syndrome is particularly prevalent in the world of the arts, and visual art especially.

Just think of the light switch installation at the Tate Britain some years ago, or the neon sign outside Edinburgh's Gallery of Modern Art proclaiming "There will be no miracles here".

For the most part, though, books escape the worst of the affliction. Only one area has stood out spectacularly from the rest in its vacuity. This unedifying corner is the celebrity memoir which, for the past decade and more, publishers have been happy to pay for with their souls. To the chagrin of 'real' authors, rather than those with ghost writers at their command, a slew of actors and chefs, comedians and footballers, politicians, presidents and models have been treated by the world's most prestigious publishers as if they were literature's royalty.

Such is the fanfare given to their autobiographies, one might have thought they had won the Nobel Prize. But, of course, Nobel laureates never get the red carpet treatment the likes of Hillary Clinton or Wayne Rooney enjoy. Marketing budgets for acclaimed writers are minuscule by comparison, as are their accommodation and restaurant bills.

So, for years, as the celebrity memoir topped the Christmas charts and elbowed better titles out of bookshop windows, those who saw through the hype to the shivering body beneath were perplexed. How could so many commissioning editors lose their grip, and most other of their senses, in the face of the famous? The answer is obvious, of course. The promise of money, and lots of it. Thus, with a few notable exceptions, every year the industry has puffed the anodyne, the unreadable, the vulgar and the crass, as if they were something to be proud of.

At last, though, there's good news. Charlie Redmayne, UK chief executive of HarperCollins, has said he is halving the number of celebrity memoirs he intends to buy, and will be reining in ridiculous advances too. As he remarked, "A lot of books were bought last year for large amounts of money which just didn't do the numbers at all." In his opinion, the genre has peaked. The Emperor has learnt his lesson.

One thinks of Canongate's costly comeuppance with Julian Assange's memoir, which he did not deliver. Such a disaster could have ruined a less robust firm. Then there was Pippa Middleton's party book, Celebrate, for which Penguin reputedly paid a £400k advance. How, we wondered, could such an upmarket company stoop so low? Unlike some, it did not even have the excuse of being cash-strapped.

Redmayne's comments will certainly have a snowball effect. Advances are sure to be lowered and, as they are, celebs are likely to lose interest in what was previously a gratifying money-spinner. Gradually that sickly layer of icing on the publishing catalogue will grow thinner.

Whenever I'm in a bookshop the flood of celebrity memoirs has never much bothered me, because you can simply hurry past the towering displays and make for the quieter corners where good books are hidden. What has galled me is the undue attention some book festivals pay to stars of TV and screen, who attract crowds more interested in seeing what the famous look like in the flesh than reading a word they - or anyone else - have written.

Not that there is anything wrong with being interested in such people. It's just that a well-balanced festival should sprinkle stardust with a light hand. Most do, but there are still too many who act as if they were merely a handmaiden of this most venal part of the publishing industry, their purpose being to showcase celebrities rather than books.

While you can understand the need to have sell-out sessions to help pay for less popular literary events, it is dispiriting to think that the least glorious part of the publishing business is that on which some festivals rely for their exalted reputation. As the genre wanes, one hopes book festivals will parade fewer Versace suits and Prada heels on their stages. Instead there will be more of the excellent writers on whom the world of books is truly built.