Or, in the words of the Observer's Alexandra Jacobs, Outliers is about "how super-achievers like--well, like Malcolm Gladwell!--get where they are." And sure enough, in The New York Times Book Review, David Leonhardt took the bait, writing a brief alternative history of Gladwell's life crediting said "success" to his parents' professions. His mother, a psychotherapist, and his father, a mathematician, "pointed young Malcolm toward the behavioral sciences, whose popularity would explode in the 1990s," wrote Leonhardt; in addition, his mother, who "just happened to be a writer on the side," taught him "'that there is beauty in saying something clearly and simply.'"That's exactly Gladwell's point though. He is where he is because he lucked out. Same as bill Gates or Steve Jobs or some hedgefund manager. They took million to one risks and happened to be that millionth person. All the hard work in the world might increase your chances from X to 100*X, but if the dominant factor is luck it's still like winning the lottery. It's like winning the lottery after buying 20 tickets a week for 10 years (that's 10,400 tickets) vs. someone who buys one once a year.
In that case, perhaps Gladwell's intellectual compromises are neither commercial nor unintentional but rather a necessary outgrowth of his higher calling: to explore the secret workings of the world and impart the resulting data to its self-appointed stewards, the titans of industry. This conclusion, if true, may resolve many of the most puzzling incongruities riddling Gladwell's articles: his continued defense of the pharmaceutical industry even as he advocates for single-payer healthcare; his refusal to indict the financial sector's rigged "star system" as the engine of corruption that it is; the meticulous bleaching of his own prose so that he's whitewashed out any real context, any framework in which wars and economic collapses can actually be understood as wars and economic collapses rather than simulations or malfunctions; his near total avoidance of academic thought that does not base its findings on things observed in labs (with the exception of Carl Jung, whose legacy he reduces to the popularization of personality tests); his coyness about politics; and most memorably, his irritating, unrelenting readability.Hey, I thoroughly enjoyed reading that review, and I 'get' many of the criticisms made against Gladwell. Sure smells like professional jealousy, though...
The writer Umberto Eco belongs to that small class of scholars who are encyclopedic, insightful, and nondull[1]. He is the owner of a large personal library (containing thirty thousand books), and separates visitors into two categories[2]: those who react with "Wow! Signore professore dottore Eco, what a library you have! How many of these books have you read?"[3] and the others -- a very small minority -- who get the point that a private library is not an ego-boosting appendage but a research tool[4]. Read books are far less valuable than unread ones. The library should contain as much of what you do not know as your financial means, mortgage rates, and the currently tight real-estate market allow you to put there. You will accumulate more knowledge and more books as you grow older, and the growing number of unread books on the shelves will look at you menacingly. Indeed, the more you know, the larger the rows of unread books. Let us call this collection of unread books an antilibrary[5].[1] Much like myself, Taleb the nondull. Also, this book starts with a reference to Eco. I'm clever, you see. You're reading a clever book.
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posted by ZenMasterThis at 3:54 PM on November 5, 2009 [16 favorites]