I waded in thus encumbered with doubts and reluctance, and vowed to limit my initial excursion into Gladwellia to a dash across the border to see if I’d return later.
This feeling of Gladwell déjà vu isn’t helped by the fact that his books’ designs are so monotonous - white cover, stark type, single iconic image, same trim size. I’ve read his books and his writing in the New Yorker for years, which has resulted in a creeping intolerance for Gladwell’s approaches to framing ideas and his style of writing. Not only had I read “The Sports Gene,” which to me did a much better job of exploring the 10,000-hour rule Gladwell wrote about in “Outliers,” but I was channeling the Gladwell fatigue emanating from many quarters, and which I suffered from a bit myself. I had reservations about delving back into a Gladwell book. “David and Goliath” by Malcolm Gladwell moldered on my nightstand for many months before I recently picked it up. David and Goliath, a colour lithograph by Osmar Schindler (c.
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