Steve Jobs: monster and genius

An insight into the man who crowdsourced his own marriage.

Steve Jobs was obsessive about the pursuit of perfection. When he bought a family home after his son was born, he didn't just pop to Ikea for a coffee table and some chairs. Oh no. "We spoke about furniture in theory for eight years," his wife, Laurene, says. "We spent a lot of time asking ourselves, 'What is the purpose of a sofa?'" (I know this one: it's to sit on.)

Walter Isaacson's biography of the Apple svengali is peppered throughout with such eyebrow-raising anecdotes. For several years up to his death in October, Jobs gave the writer his full co-operation, and did not (for once) attempt to exercise any control over how he was portrayed. The result sometimes feels less "warts-and-all" and more "all-warts".

The computer pioneer could be, in his own words, an "asshole". Colleagues said he projected a "reality distortion field", which convinced employees, rivals and the press that the impossible was possible. It sprang from a belief that the rules of normal behaviour did not apply to him. In the early days of Apple, he claimed his vegan diet meant he didn't need to shower, and he relaxed by soaking his feet in the loo ("a practice that was not as soothing for his colleagues", Isaacson writes drily). Pulled over for speeding in 1984, he waited for a few moments as the policeman wrote his ticket, then honked his horn impatiently. He was, he explained to the traffic cop, in a hurry.

Jobs may have cried frequently when crossed, but he could be frighteningly cold to those he believed had betrayed him. Often he would scream at employees and tell them their work was "totally shitty", even if he later embraced it - and took the credit. Jonathan Ive, the trusted English-born lieutenant whose close collaboration with Jobs led to the sinuous designs of the iPod and iPhone, is one of several friends who complain about this.

Yet perhaps the most shocking example of his callousness is one that Isaacson describes with little fanfare. After abandoning a pregnant girlfriend at 23 - Jobs's reality distortion field became a mirror and he convinced himself that he was not the father of her baby - he met a young graduate called Laurene Powell and proposed to her twice before she became pregnant. Then, abruptly, he broke up with her and crowdsourced a decision on their future, asking dozens of his friends if she was prettier than his ex. "It was probably fewer than a hundred,"saacson writes. (The two then married and lived happily for 20 years until his death.)

The triumph of this biography, however, is that Jobs's mountain of peccadilloes is weighted perfectly against his undeniable triumphs. Isaacson makes a convincing case that he was an artistic visionary with pure motives, driven only by a love of "the product". Jobs knew how to inflame desire for something you didn't even know you wanted: a computer with a graphical rather than text interface, a phone with no keyboard, a computer the size and thickness of a magazine.

He also ruthlessly exploited other companies' shortfalls. Take the graphical user interface - essentially, the use of a picture-based desktop rather than lines of text - that put the early Apple computers so far ahead of the competition. The interface was originally developed by a rival firm called Xerox Parc, but the management there did not understand its potential significance. Jobs did, and promptly appropriated it. (When Bill Gates used the same tool to design Windows, Jobs accused him of "ripping us off". Gates's reply is immensely endearing: "Well, Steve . . . I think it's more like we both had this rich neighbour called Xerox and I broke into his house to steal his TV set and found out that you had already stolen it.")

The comparison to Gates, his near-exact contemporary, is illuminating. The Microsoft man is cool, methodical and humane: Jobs was fiery, intuitive and unreasonably demanding. Their approaches to design were equally opposed, Gates believing in licensing Windows to any hardware manufacturer who would pay, while Jobs wanted "end-to-end control" of the user's experience.

Throughout the 1980s and 1990s, it seemed that Gates's promiscuous approach guaranteed him market dominance, until Jobs made a triumphant return to Apple in 1997, 11 years after being ousted in a boardroom coup, and led the company to greatness with a raft of iDevices. Apple surpassed Microsoft's valuation in May 2010, and last quarter it had larger cash reserves than the US Treasury.

The only duff moment here, aside from too much boardroom infighting for my taste, is when Jobs woos Bono to release U2's records on iTunes. The author retells the story breathlessly, but it is clear that behind the billing and cooing about artistic integrity, two monumental egos were jockeying shamelessly for supremacy.

Isaacson ends the book with Jobs slowly succumbing to the cancer that killed him last month. The unspoken question is whether Apple can thrive without its founder. This biography's great achievement is to interweave the personal and the professional, showing how Jobs the monster and Jobs the genius were indivisible. Apple may survive, but it will miss its monstrous genius.

Steve Jobs
Walter Isaacson
Little, Brown, 627pp, £25

Helen Lewis is deputy editor of the New Statesman. She has presented BBC Radio 4’s Week in Westminster and is a regular panellist on BBC1’s Sunday Politics.

This article first appeared in the 07 November 2011 issue of the New Statesman, The triumph of the Taliban

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The Wallets

A short story by Colin Barrett.

Doon was doing nothing, just killing time, while he waited for his mam to finish at meeting. Once she went down the steps into the basement he got out of there. The hour was too long to wait and he did not like seeing the others. There was always one freshly dire specimen hanging around outside, wrung-eyed and jitter-limbed and making a pitiable hames of trying to light up a cigarette. Sometimes he recognised the parent of some kid out of his class. He didn’t want to see the parents and he didn’t want them to see him. The meetings were another world. His mam went down there and an hour later she came back out.

He did laps of the town with his hoodie up. The drawstrings of his hoodie had little laminate tubes at the end that flailed as he walked. It was autumn, blond and ochre and umber leaves matted together and turning to slick mush underfoot. He was wearing dark olive combat boots laced tight, the ends of his combat trousers crimped into the tops of the boots. Passing an apartment block he saw something on the blue wooden slats of a bench seat. It was a wallet. He commended himself for noticing it and kept right on walking. As he walked he clenched his stomach muscles, an isometric exercise to promote definition and also a means of keeping warm.

He browsed a Men’s Fitness magazine in a newsagents, reread three times an article detailing the correct techniques for executing power cleans and deadlifts off the rack, and bought a large raspberry slushie. He’d loved slushies as a kid. Every six months or so, usually in one of the small newsagents still scattered around the town, he’d notice the plastic rotors mesmerically churning the blue- and blood-coloured ice in their transparent bins, and would buy one. Only after tasting it would he remember how nauseating they were. Three strawfuls in and there was already the sickly sensation of the syrup turning in his stomach and a bout of brainfreeze running through his head like static.

He went a few doors down, into the lobby of the Western Range Hotel. Still stubbornly sucking on the slushie, he strolled into the hotel bar. The bar was a spacious rectangle of smoked glass, carved teak and piped muzak, and went back a long way. Four men in suits were stalled by the counter, luggage cases on wheels poised beside them like immaculately behaved pets. A pair of them bid goodbye to the others, and headed towards the lobby. Doon watched the automated doors, the way they seemed to flinch before smoothly and decisively giving way. To escape the chatter of the remaining men he went and stood at the far end of the room. A recessed bank of floor-to-ceiling windows yielded a direct view on to the town’s main street, already streaming with Saturday morning shoppers. He watched the flow of bodies, the pockets of arrest within the flow. Directly across the street was the gated rear entrance to the county district court. The gating was innocuous, black bars without identifying signage, and if you did not know it led into the court, you would not have been able to tell. The gate was ajar, a concrete step leading down into the narrow mouth of an alley. In the alley a tall redheaded woman in a suit jacket was urgently conferring with a rough unit on one crutch. The man’s smashed-and-resmashed-looking face, the colour of baked clay, was tilted towards the sky. It was impossible to tell his age. He was leaning on his crutch and staring into the blazing nullity of the sky as the woman attempted to direct his attention to something in the heavy-looking black ledger she was holding tucked against her diaphragm. A page lifted up, levitated free of the ledger and fluttered down the street. The woman cursed, slammed closed the ledger, and stooped after the page as it curlicued along at shin level. The man turned his face from the sky and stared with bovine dispassion at her scooting, bobbing rump.

“You can’t eat that in here.”

Doon turned. The barman was behind him, a kid not much older than Doon with awry lugs glowing either side of his head, his black barman’s shirt squeezed over a snub-nosed paunch.

“I’m not eating anything.”

“That.” The barman pointed at the slushie. “Can’t eat that in here.”

“Don’t make me correct you again, I’m not eating anything,” Doon said, and took an emphatic suck of the slushie. From the depth of the plastic cup came a clotted suctioning noise that reminded him of being at the dentist: Snnnrgggkkk.

“C’mon man,” the barman said, his fussy little face turning the same colour as his lugs. “Just go finish it outside.”

“You get at all your potential customers like this?”

“You’re not a customer.”

“Could’ve been a case I was about to be.”

Snnnrgggkkk.

“Even if you want something, you’ve to finish that outside first.”

Snnnrgggkkk.

“So no one’s allowed just stand here for five minutes, make their mind up on giving you their custom.”

“Not no one,” the barman said, “but you’re you. You’ve to take that outside.”

“Nah.”

“C’mon.”

“This is profiling, lad,” Doon said.

The two men remaining at the bar were watching this exchange. The older, a tall lean man with grey hair, laughed, then cut the air with his hand, like enough.

“Lad’s got a point,” the grey-haired man said to the barman, indicating Doon with a nod of his head.

“We have a policy,” the barman croaked.

“What’s that?” The man went on, “Harass the kid with the skint head and hoodie? So he’s eating a slushie, so what? I worked in a bar myself when I was a young buck. Just let the shift see itself out if it’s going quiet, lad and don’t give patrons grief that aren’t giving you grief.”

Snnnrgggkkk.

“See, listen to the oul fella,” Doon said and grinned at the man.

The man grinned back.

“Let’s resolve this simply,” the man said, taking out his wallet. “I’ll get him something, so then he counts as a customer, and we can all let him finish his drink in peace. Do you want a Coke or a coffee, lad?”

“Pint of Guinness, fella,” Doon said.

“Ha, now, lad. What age are you? I’ll buy you a coffee but I’m not buying a minor a pint on a Saturday morning.”

Doon took an extended, convulsive suck of the slushie’s remnants as the barman beetled in behind the counter. When it was empty, Doon placed the cup on the bartop.

“You’re alright so then. Coffee’s worse for you than drink,” Doon said. He considered the two men again, and grinned. “You boys are in a savagely dapper condition for this town, even of a Saturday afternoon. Is there a wedding in or something?”

The men smiled at each other. The younger one, who had a V-shaped hairline with a bald patch spreading out from his crown, like Zinedine Zidane, shook his head. “We were in for a convention. Sales conference for the NorthWest Connaught Regional Estate Agents Association.”

“Christ, I lost interest halfway through that sentence,” Doon said.

The grey-haired man grinned again.

“So,” the barman interjected, but talking to the man, not Doon. “Did you want a coffee then, or?”

“You heard me decline the fella, didn’t you?” Doon sneered. Now he turned his back on the men, to focus his ire squarely upon the barman. “Congratulations, son, three souls in your dying-on-it’s-hole bar and you’re successfully chasing a third of them off. Profiling is what you were doing.”

Doon began walking backwards towards the lobby, his face bright with contempt.

“Your mam’ll be well proud. Speaking of which, tell her I said hello,” Doon said, and stuck his raspberry-coated tongue all the way out.

He heard the two men behind him chuckle again and his leading heel struck something. “Watch,” he heard the grey-haired man say as he swung his other heel into place alongside the first. He turned, knocking over the carry cases. “Jesus,” Doon said, stepping across the two men at the exact moment they stepped forward to right their luggage. “Sorry,” he said, feinting to step one way, then another, but somehow ending up still between them and the cases. He faced the grey-haired man and grabbed hold of his forearms, as if balancing or restraining him. The man stepped back and Doon stepped with him, like a dance partner.

“Sorry, lads, sorry,” he said to the man. He was close to the man’s face. The man’s face was indrawn and baffled. Then Doon stepped off him. He turned, picked up and righted the man’s case.

“I’m all of a daze with the harassment,” he said, gripping the case’s handle and yanking it twice to extend it out, before offering the handle to the man. The man looked at it, looked at Doon, and took it. Doon was already walking straight towards the automated doors.

He went through the lobby and out on to the street. He looked left and right, because that’s what people do. He checked the wallet, took the nice big fifty, left the two tens and a fiver. He went back in, said, “Found that outside, doll,” to the best-looking receptionist, dropped the wallet on the counter and went straight back out again.

 

***

 

His mother, as usual, was one of the first ones out. She came straight up the steps with her head facing forward and did not look back. She handed him the car keys and they walked towards the car park. They passed the apartment block. The wallet was still there, on the bench, and the instant Doon knew his mother would see it, she did. She stopped. “Look at that wallet some eejit’s after leaving there.”

“Come on,” Doon said.

“Check it to see if it says whose it is,” she said, nudging him.

Doon stayed in place. “Leave it. It’s not our concern.”

His mam looked at Doon and smiled. “‘Not our concern,’” she repeated. “Christ lad, where you get your talk from sometimes. You sound like a policeman.”

“A policeman’d be over there rooting through it with his big snout.”

“I don’t mean the sentiment,” his mam said, “I mean the tone.”

“Feck off,” Doon said.

“Now, now, don’t be regressing to sewer-mouthery just cos I’ve hit a nerve.”

“You’ve NOT touched a nerve,” Doon snapped.

She placed her hand on his neck.

“I mean you’ve got this authority to you,” she said. “It’s just your way. My lad. Soul of a policeman.”

Colin Barrett’s debut short story collection, “Young Skins” (Vintage), won the Guardian First Book Award and the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge