Malcolm Gladwell is a cerebral and jaunty writer, with an unusual gift for making the complex seem simple and for seeking common-sense explanations for many of the apparent mysteries, coincidences and problems of the everyday. He is also an intellectual opportunist, always on the look-out for a smart phrase or new fad with which to define and explain different social phenomena.
The success of the book, which began as an article in the New Yorker, the magazine for which he works as a staff writer, propelled Gladwell into the realm of super-consultancy. He has since become a lauded pontificant and ideas progenitor on the international lecture circuit. He is the go-to man for a corporate business elite seeking to understand the way we live, think and consume today.
It helps that with his wild, unruly curls and wide-eyed gaze, Gladwell has the look of an übergeek. He seems to have absorbed one important lesson of the consumerist culture he deconstructs - that the image you project is paramount; in effect, he has made himself, superficially at least, into a brand. If you didn't know he was a writer and journalist, you wouldn't be surprised to hear that he was a leading operator at Microsoft or Google. As it is, he's a kind of literary Bill Gates, a guy so far ahead of the rest of the pack that you never quite know what he will do next.
What is an outlier? The word may not be a neologism but I have never heard anyone use it in conversation. According to one dictionary definition, an outlier is 'something that is situated away from or classed differently from a main or related body'. But Gladwell uses the word with more metaphorical flexibility. For him, an outlier is a truly exceptional individual who, in his or her field of expertise, is so superior that he defines his own category of success. Bill Gates is an outlier and so are Steve Jobs of Apple, Robert Oppenheimer and many others Gladwell speaks to or writes about as he seeks to offer a more complete understanding of success.
The trouble with the book is that Gladwell is ultimately engaged in a long argument with nobody but himself. Throughout, he defines his position against a floating, ubiquitous, omnipotent 'we'; a Greek chorus of predictable opposition and received opinion. 'There is something profoundly wrong with the way we look at success,' he writes. 'We cling to the idea that success is a simple function of individual merit and that the world in which we grow up and the rules we choose to write as a society don't matter at all.' And so he goes on.
These assumptions can be irritating, since who is this naive, unquestioning, plural intelligence identified as 'we'? Do we in wider society really believe that outstanding success, in whichever field, is achieved without extraordinary dedication, talent and fortuitous circumstance, as Gladwell would have it? Do we really take no account of the sociopolitical context into which someone was born and through which they emerged when we attempt to quantify outlandish achievement? Do we really believe that genius is simply born rather than formed? Gladwell wants his readers to take away from this book 'the idea that the values of the world we inhabit and the people we surround ourselves with have a profound effect on who we are'. But I don't know anyone who would dispute this.
The world for Gladwell is a text that he reads as closely as he can in seeking to decode and interpret it. He is adept at identifying underlying trends from which he extrapolates to form hypotheses, presenting them as if they were general laws of social behaviour. But his work has little philosophical rigour. He's not an epistemologist; his interest is in what we think, rather than in the how and why of knowledge itself.
There is also a certain one-dimensional Americanness at work: many of his examples and case studies are American and he spends rather too much time in New York, at one point even riffing at length about the founder of the literary agency that represents him. The book would have been more interesting if he'd roamed wider and travelled more, if it had been more internationalist in ambition and outlook.
However, it's still fun to follow Gladwell on his meandering intellectual journeys, even if the conclusions he arrives at here are so obviously self-evident as to be banal. Even when he is not at his best he is worth taking seriously. He has a lucid, aphoristic style. His case studies are well chosen, such as when he writes about the birth dates of elite ice hockey players and discovers a pattern: most are born in the first three months of the year. His range is wide, and he writes as well in Outliers about sport as he does about corporate law firms in New York or aviation. Little is beneath his notice.
One last thing, as Gladwell might say. There's perhaps another way of reading Outliers and that's as a quest for self-understanding, since the author himself is obviously an outlier. In seeking to find out more about how other people like him came to be who they are and to occupy the exalted positions they do, he's also indirectly seeking to learn more about himself, about how he came to be who he is: the smartest guy at the New Yorker, with the big ideas and the lucrative book deals.
• Jason Cowley is editor of the New Statesman. His book The Last Game: Love, Death and Football will be published in April 2009.
READ MORE ABOUT THIS BOOK HERE
In his first book, The Tipping Point, he studied events such as crime waves and fashion trends and settled on an arresting metaphor to explain why they happen. 'Ideas and products and messages and behaviours spread just like viruses,' he wrote, suggesting that we contaminate and infect one another with preferences and recommendations, until we reach a 'tipping point', after which a social epidemic becomes contagious and crosses a threshold to reach saturation point. The tipping point: who does not now use this phrase to describe a moment of definitive transition? ('Tipping point' seems to have become this generation's 'paradigm shift', a phrase popularised by Thomas Kuhn in his 1962 book The Structure of Scientific Revolutions
The success of the book, which began as an article in the New Yorker, the magazine for which he works as a staff writer, propelled Gladwell into the realm of super-consultancy. He has since become a lauded pontificant and ideas progenitor on the international lecture circuit. He is the go-to man for a corporate business elite seeking to understand the way we live, think and consume today.
It helps that with his wild, unruly curls and wide-eyed gaze, Gladwell has the look of an übergeek. He seems to have absorbed one important lesson of the consumerist culture he deconstructs - that the image you project is paramount; in effect, he has made himself, superficially at least, into a brand. If you didn't know he was a writer and journalist, you wouldn't be surprised to hear that he was a leading operator at Microsoft or Google. As it is, he's a kind of literary Bill Gates, a guy so far ahead of the rest of the pack that you never quite know what he will do next.
What is an outlier? The word may not be a neologism but I have never heard anyone use it in conversation. According to one dictionary definition, an outlier is 'something that is situated away from or classed differently from a main or related body'. But Gladwell uses the word with more metaphorical flexibility. For him, an outlier is a truly exceptional individual who, in his or her field of expertise, is so superior that he defines his own category of success. Bill Gates is an outlier and so are Steve Jobs of Apple, Robert Oppenheimer and many others Gladwell speaks to or writes about as he seeks to offer a more complete understanding of success.
The trouble with the book is that Gladwell is ultimately engaged in a long argument with nobody but himself. Throughout, he defines his position against a floating, ubiquitous, omnipotent 'we'; a Greek chorus of predictable opposition and received opinion. 'There is something profoundly wrong with the way we look at success,' he writes. 'We cling to the idea that success is a simple function of individual merit and that the world in which we grow up and the rules we choose to write as a society don't matter at all.' And so he goes on.
These assumptions can be irritating, since who is this naive, unquestioning, plural intelligence identified as 'we'? Do we in wider society really believe that outstanding success, in whichever field, is achieved without extraordinary dedication, talent and fortuitous circumstance, as Gladwell would have it? Do we really take no account of the sociopolitical context into which someone was born and through which they emerged when we attempt to quantify outlandish achievement? Do we really believe that genius is simply born rather than formed? Gladwell wants his readers to take away from this book 'the idea that the values of the world we inhabit and the people we surround ourselves with have a profound effect on who we are'. But I don't know anyone who would dispute this.
The world for Gladwell is a text that he reads as closely as he can in seeking to decode and interpret it. He is adept at identifying underlying trends from which he extrapolates to form hypotheses, presenting them as if they were general laws of social behaviour. But his work has little philosophical rigour. He's not an epistemologist; his interest is in what we think, rather than in the how and why of knowledge itself.
There is also a certain one-dimensional Americanness at work: many of his examples and case studies are American and he spends rather too much time in New York, at one point even riffing at length about the founder of the literary agency that represents him. The book would have been more interesting if he'd roamed wider and travelled more, if it had been more internationalist in ambition and outlook.
However, it's still fun to follow Gladwell on his meandering intellectual journeys, even if the conclusions he arrives at here are so obviously self-evident as to be banal. Even when he is not at his best he is worth taking seriously. He has a lucid, aphoristic style. His case studies are well chosen, such as when he writes about the birth dates of elite ice hockey players and discovers a pattern: most are born in the first three months of the year. His range is wide, and he writes as well in Outliers about sport as he does about corporate law firms in New York or aviation. Little is beneath his notice.
One last thing, as Gladwell might say. There's perhaps another way of reading Outliers and that's as a quest for self-understanding, since the author himself is obviously an outlier. In seeking to find out more about how other people like him came to be who they are and to occupy the exalted positions they do, he's also indirectly seeking to learn more about himself, about how he came to be who he is: the smartest guy at the New Yorker, with the big ideas and the lucrative book deals.
• Jason Cowley is editor of the New Statesman. His book The Last Game: Love, Death and Football will be published in April 2009.
READ MORE ABOUT THIS BOOK HERE
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