It was just over 200 years ago, on February 12, 1809 to be exact, that Charles Darwin and Abraham Lincoln were born to very different families on opposite sides of the Atlantic. Indeed, there are more differences between these two men than there are similarities—though the similarities are striking. It is above all mere history that has aligned them, through the essential randomness of a birth date, and through the synchronized peaks of their influence. Today, with questions of racial destiny and religious tensions reigning so prominently in public discourse, it’s not difficult to make a case for Darwin and Lincoln as the most influential and enduringly controversial figures in the West.
With Angels and Ages: A Short Book about Darwin, Lincoln, and Modern Life (Knopf, $27.95), Adam Gopnik has produced a captivating and concise volume that sifts through the myths, biographies and historical powers of both men to flush out the ways in which they speak most directly to the present. The book’s purpose is in one sense pragmatic; given the proliferation of writing on both men, Gopnik successfully offers overwhelmed readers an engaging and informative starting point. But if the book possesses a particular thesis of its own, one that illuminates these disparate lives through a single prism, it is “that literary eloquence is essential to a liberal civilization.” There were others who could’ve unleashed big ideas similar to Darwin’s and Lincoln’s upon the world, but, as Gopnik argues, it’s highly unlikely that anyone could have delivered these ideas in such a persuasive and meaningful way.
If I quote Gopnik a lot in my attempts to convey something of his readings of these two men, it’s only to give you some hint as to how Gopnik himself, a staff writer for The New Yorker, utilizes a special talent for articulating something as difficult to characterize as literary or oratory style, as well as providing a sense of how this style accumulates in complexity and resonates across the ages. And he makes you crave more. If Angels and Ages acquires a large readership, it will surely expand the readership of The Origin of the Species in kind.
Gladwell exposes how hockey stardom is fixed from the time children try to get on teams; how Bill Gates lucked out by getting thousands of free hours on a computer back when they filled garages and were difficult to access; how the Beatles honed their craft thanks to landing that early and arduous Hamburg gig; how Robert Oppenheimer clawed his way to science superstardom even after attempting to murder his tutor; how plane crashes proliferate under air crews who come from countries where people typically speak in deference to superiors; how the Chinese rock at math because the way they verbalize numbers just makes more sense. These are all great stories—I was especially intrigued when Gladwell compares Oppenheimer’s career to that of Chris Langan, some freakin’ genius who lives in obscurity because, it would seem, he lacks good communication skills—and in a basic, anecdotal way, every one of them rings true.
With Angels and Ages: A Short Book about Darwin, Lincoln, and Modern Life (Knopf, $27.95), Adam Gopnik has produced a captivating and concise volume that sifts through the myths, biographies and historical powers of both men to flush out the ways in which they speak most directly to the present. The book’s purpose is in one sense pragmatic; given the proliferation of writing on both men, Gopnik successfully offers overwhelmed readers an engaging and informative starting point. But if the book possesses a particular thesis of its own, one that illuminates these disparate lives through a single prism, it is “that literary eloquence is essential to a liberal civilization.” There were others who could’ve unleashed big ideas similar to Darwin’s and Lincoln’s upon the world, but, as Gopnik argues, it’s highly unlikely that anyone could have delivered these ideas in such a persuasive and meaningful way.
“A love of the grease and a feel for the gist, the habit of compromise even at the cost of absolute clarity…” such were the attributes of Lincoln’s famously monosyllabic oratory style. Darwin, meanwhile, “was one of the great natural English prose stylists… a man who had learned to cast his thesis in a succession of incidents so that action and argument became one.” Gopnik stresses the importance of Lincoln’s law practice and Darwin’s observational skills. He writes of their tender and yet challenging relationships with their wives, debunking some myths about 19th century sex life while he’s at it, and considers the grief over the loss of a favoured 11-year-old child each of them suffered. (And I love the fact that Gopnik compares Darwin to Colombo.) He draws parallels, addresses some lingering mysteries, and yet avoids over-working history for superfluous sweeping overstatement. “The past is so often unknowable,” Gopnik writes, “not because it is befogged now but because it was befogged then, too, back when it was still the present.”
If I quote Gopnik a lot in my attempts to convey something of his readings of these two men, it’s only to give you some hint as to how Gopnik himself, a staff writer for The New Yorker, utilizes a special talent for articulating something as difficult to characterize as literary or oratory style, as well as providing a sense of how this style accumulates in complexity and resonates across the ages. And he makes you crave more. If Angels and Ages acquires a large readership, it will surely expand the readership of The Origin of the Species in kind.
“Coincidence,” Gopnik observes, “is the vernacular of history, the slang of memory.” It’s a statement that could slip easily into the foreplay of one of the many intellectual sucker-punches Malcolm Gladwell doles out in Outliers: The Story of Success (Little, Brown, $30.99). Gladwell, author of the best-selling pop provocations The Tipping Point and Blink, has set out to discredit the myth of the self-made man, the heroic figure who conquers adversity through sheer will power, vision and a dazzling array of innate gifts. Circumstances—class, era, race, cultural demeanor, opportunity—matter too, Gladwell reminds us, and if that sounds like common sense, it’s Gladwell’s willingness to actually prove it through one case study after another that forces the reader to reconsider their assumptions. At least for as long as it takes to read Outliers, which is not long at all. The book’s lively, diverse and colourful in subject matter, and so inclusive and methodical in tone you’ll feel like you’re taking a beginner’s business seminar: “Just as we did, then, with Bill Joy and Chris Langan, let’s start over with Joseph Flom, this time putting to use everything we’ve learned from the first four chapters of this book.” Ready, kids?
Gladwell exposes how hockey stardom is fixed from the time children try to get on teams; how Bill Gates lucked out by getting thousands of free hours on a computer back when they filled garages and were difficult to access; how the Beatles honed their craft thanks to landing that early and arduous Hamburg gig; how Robert Oppenheimer clawed his way to science superstardom even after attempting to murder his tutor; how plane crashes proliferate under air crews who come from countries where people typically speak in deference to superiors; how the Chinese rock at math because the way they verbalize numbers just makes more sense. These are all great stories—I was especially intrigued when Gladwell compares Oppenheimer’s career to that of Chris Langan, some freakin’ genius who lives in obscurity because, it would seem, he lacks good communication skills—and in a basic, anecdotal way, every one of them rings true.
The problem arises when Gladwell uses these stories as avatars. So many questions arise when we start to apply these generalizations to all cases. Why do some people fail when they actually have every single one of Gladwell’s ingredients for success? What exactly is success anyway, especially in, for example, the popular arts? Awards are a most dubious measure. Plenty of world famous and enduringly appealing rock bands never had their Hamburg—some of them, strictly speaking, didn’t even know how to play their instruments. And if Gladwell’s “10,000-Hour Rule” of practice is true, how do we apply it to, say, filmmakers? What exactly should they practice doing for 10,000 hours to become masters?
Make no mistake, Outliers is a terrific read. It feels like a carefully edited transcript of a really smart guy effortlessly holding court at a dinner party. It’ll teach you things, and make you think twice. Just be wary of accepting Gladwell’s over-confident conclusions. The promise of universality draws us in, but the success of a good story often lies in part on its singularity.
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