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61 pages 2 hours read

Malcolm Gladwell

What the Dog Saw: And Other Adventures

Nonfiction | Book | Adult | Published in 2009

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Key Figures

Malcolm Gladwell (1963-)

Author Malcolm Gladwell is a Canadian born in England to English and Jamaican parents. He came to writing because it was “fun,” having been rejected by all the advertising agencies he applied to (xiv). His first job was at the conservative magazine American Spectator in Indiana; then, from 1987-1996, he covered science and business for The Washington Post before becoming a staff writer for The New Yorker in 1996. At The New Yorker, he has pursued the mission of fun—not in the sense that he writes on exclusively jovial subjects but in that he follows his personal interests, no matter how esoteric, above trending topics.

Gladwell, who was named one of Time’s most influential people in 2005 and in 2011 won the Order of Canada, has gained a reputation for being an independent thinker who can take evidence that would normally be interpreted one way and reach his own conclusions, in addition to finding stories of triumph, failure, and intrigue in places where others would not expect them. Rather than framing himself as a specialist in any one area, Gladwell prefers to straddle spheres as diverse as business, foreign policy, and the everyday, drawing examples from different points in history to explore the fundamentals of the human condition, such as interpretation of data, decision-making, and learning from mistakes. In What the Dog Saw, this is apparent in his comparisons between areas as global as military strategy and as intimate as female breast examinations. He shows in this instance how these macro- and microspheres are united by a human overconfidence in imagery, even when interpretative powers fall behind.

These days, Gladwell’s influence extends into the multimedia sphere, as his podcast, Revisionist History, began in 2016 to revisit little-known or misunderstood parts of history. He is also the author of a Masterclass on writing, in which he advocates—in a similar manner to the Preface of What the Dog Saw—that aspiring writers should be interested in everything and everyone, as the potential for great stories can come from anywhere.

The New Yorker (1925-)

The New Yorker magazine debuted in 1925. It was intended to be a combination of current affairs, arts criticism, and literature and cartoons for an urban, well-educated audience. It has a roster of famous contributors, including renowned authors like JD Salinger and Dorothy Parker, and also employs staff writers such as Gladwell, who are regular contributors to the magazine.

Staff writers respond to happenings in the cultural milieu but also follow personal interests in their pieces. Many, with lives as content creators outside of the magazine, emerge as personalities who attract a particular readership. This is the case with Gladwell, who has published seven books in addition to his columns and has his own podcast, Revisionist History. Nevertheless, the shorter format of the magazine article was important in offering Gladwell the space and resources to test out his many ideas before committing them to a book. He also benefited from the magazine’s scrupulous editing.

During Gladwell’s tenure as a staff writer, the magazine has strengthened its commitment to accurate reporting to battle against the proliferation of fake news. While Gladwell’s 2002 essay “Blowing Up” included the accidentally invented term “igon values,” from 2010 onward, the magazine has employed dozens of dedicated fact-checkers to weed out such inaccuracies (71). Whereas in a more reliable news climate, the magazine was able to focus on the exploration of ideas without branding itself as a news outlet reporting hard facts, more recently it has changed its approach to stand out as a reliable news source.

The Minor Genius

Minor geniuses are defined by Gladwell not as “towering architects of the world in which we live” but those like Ron Popeil and Shirley Polykoff who changed the experience of our everyday lives (x). While the major geniuses Gladwell cites, such as Einstein and Winston Churchill, changed the course of world events and our understanding of our place in the universe, the minor genius’s inventions and insights change our daily experiences of the world.

For example, Ron Popeil’s increasingly elaborate kitchen gadgets gave people the feeling of being professional chefs in their own homes. However, Gladwell makes clear that part of Popeil’s genius was the ability to find as many ways as necessary to persuade people that they needed a gadget they never dreamed of. Popeil thereby had a varied portfolio of skills, including those of the actor and storyteller as well as the obsessive inventor in his kitchen. This multiplicity of skills forms the basis of the pragmatism that Gladwell praises elsewhere in the essays’ stories of success.

Shirley Polykoff also had to demonstrate a variety of skills as the copywriter who made hair-dye respectable, whereas her rival at L’Oréal, Ilon Specht, had to use her intuition to step ahead with the times and find a new slogan that matched liberated working women’s higher sense of self-esteem. “Because I’m worth it” became a mantra both for women who already believed that they were worth more expensive hair dye and those who wanted to believe it, as they imagined new, confident versions of themselves (87). While this seems like a small change, Specht was able to coin a catchphrase that would steal a rival’s profits and resonate with women for decades.

Finally, Mexican immigrant dog-whisperer Cesar Millan’s ingenious use of his body not only puts angry dogs at ease but also demonstrates the communications skills that cerebral Americans have lost. His ability to both show empathy and maintain boundaries is a game changer for dogs made insecure by their owners’ erratic behavior. Here, Gladwell points out that essential innovations are not solely the province of Nobel Prize winners but also occur in subtle techniques that enable the harmonious coexistence of different species.

The Late-Blooming Genius

The late-blooming genius is both a literal and metaphorical figure in Gladwell’s book. We are introduced to them on a literal level in Gladwell’s essay “Late Bloomers,” in the figure of Paul Cézanne (1839-1906), the French Postimpressionist artist who flourished in his sixties, contrary to the popular understanding that genius was reliant upon the “exuberance and energy of youth” and a premeditated rather than experimental conception of art (299). Cézanne, who became a master of color and form in later life, would have never met the metric of an early-life artistic genius because of his lack of proficiency in drawing, the skill that art masters use to distinguish talented artists from an early age. Instead, late bloomers like Cézanne and the American PEN-winning author Ben Fountain (1958-) achieve greatness through extensive research and trial and error. This more labored, meandering path lies contrary to that of the flash of inspiration associated with early-blooming geniuses and can be therefore dismissed or overlooked by the culture. Still, the time taken can be of value itself, as it produces insights that would not have been available in a short time. For example, Fountain, in his extensive research in Haiti, was able to see the country as a “laboratory” where “everything that’s gone on in the last 500 years—colonialism, race, power, politics, ecological disasters, it’s all there in concentrated form” (300). Gladwell shows how the culture’s discomfort with stories of late-blooming genius means that they are often distorted until they resemble the more “familiar story” of a precocious genius who easily achieves success (296). Such distortion can be damaging on a societal level, as insistence on genius manifesting early might discourage the continued efforts of those with the potential to bloom later.

Late-blooming genius appears on a metaphorical level in Gladwell’s other essays, in people with more applied-art creativity, such as Popeil and Polykoff, who respond to what has come before them and the demands of their society. This concept of innovation as conversation rather than monologue is also apparent in Gladwell’s definition of a good leader, who is not a narcissist or a star-hunter at the recruitment level but rather someone who fosters a culture where everyone can contribute and be rewarded accordingly.

The Promising Failure

The promising failure is another key figure in Gladwell’s oeuvre. They manifest in the form of chokers, like Czech Wimbledon finalist Jana Novotna (1968-2017), who found that overthinking turned her from a winner to a novice within the span of a tennis match, but also in the form of talents who are relegated to obscurity for making a single mistake, like Bryony Lavery, who was accused of plagiarism.

The choker offers Gladwell an opportunity to explore one of his favorite topics, success, as well as its inverse, failure. Through the lens of underperforming sports stars, Gladwell seeks the expertise of psychologists to understand how, under pressure, intuitive sports stars can regress to playing like beginners, where once automatic actions become overlabored and mechanical as they rely on a learning system they haven’t used since their days as novices. Gladwell explores the many contextual factors for those who have the skill to rely on implicit systems regressing to explicit ones, such as being in the position of the underdog or from a demographic that is not expected to do well in a particular area. This engenders compassion and potentially calls for a reframing of the systems that assess people’s performance.

Next, figures like British playwright Bryony Lavery (1947-) who have their career destroyed owing to the commission of a single error capture Gladwell’s attention as he calls for us to understand the reasons behind a person’s behavior before we punish it. Gladwell and Lavery entered a personal exchange after Lavery quoted his article verbatim in her 1998 play Frozen without citing him. Although Gladwell initially wrote to Lavery expressing his annoyance, he almost immediately began to question how damning her crime was. On reading her play, he was impressed and flattered that his words could have an application beyond his own capacity and felt that the whole purpose of art was to recycle old content to deliver radically new messages. However, in a later in-person interview with Lavery, the latter was tearful and felt that she had never lived down the charge of stealing original work. Gladwell considers that Lavery’s context-framed failure was too harsh a punishment for lifting a few words, especially when her act was only a clunkier version of what every great artist in history has done.

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