In a live conversation taped at the 92nd Street Y in New York City, Malcolm chats with his old friend and New Yorker magazine colleague, Adam Gopnik, about Adam’s latest book, The Real Work: On the Mystery of Mastery. In the book, Adam follows numerous masters of their craft to find out just how they do what they do—and discovers that there is mastery all around us. In this episode, Malcolm and Adam highlight a few of the folks from the book, and what they have to teach us. You can purchase the audiobook version of The Real Work: On the Mystery of Mastery at Pushkin.fm
Pushkin Hello, Hello everyone, Malcolm Glabell here. You may have noticed that Revisionist History looks a little different this season, more things in your podcast feed, but I want to make clear you're still going to get your annual dose of ten scripted revisionist history jewel boxes. It's just that people kept coming up to me in the subway and saying, why can't we have more revisionist history, And finally I thought, like the man said, give the people what they want. So coming up this year we have the standard old school revisionist history lineup, including some on education, a crazy one about mothers, and a bunch of guns. And I'm very excited about it. But we're also doing more episodes answering your questions or arguing with you with the help of our embarrassingly overqualified ombus person, Maria Konikova. You can reach us by the way and Maria at info at Pushkin dot fm if you have questions or concerns or just want a.
Rant for a while.
And one of my favorite things we're doing, though, is we're bringing you a series of conversations live talks or taped live anyway with people I admire, people I want to learn something from and who I think you'll enjoy as well. We had an amazing reaction to the chat with Justin Richmond, and if you haven't heard that yet, please go back and listen. This week and next we're running a match set of revisionist history live conversations we taped at the ninety second Street Y in New York. The first Today's episode was with my old friend New Yorker magazine colleague, and most crucially fellow Canadian, Adam Gopnik. Maybe you know his most famous book, Paris to the Moon, or perhaps you saw his cameo in the film Tar, where he played himself convincingly How might add Adam is a new book, The Real Work on the Mystery of Mastery, in which he follows masters of their craft to find out just how they do what they do. So here we go my conversation with the one and only Adam Gopnick.
Thank you all for coming, Adam.
It's a pleasure to see you. Malcolm.
It's the first time we've been together, certainly since the pandemic.
Yes, the last time we were on stage together was were we not both debating the proposition that cats were better than dogs or dogs better than cats.
We were, and I took the dog's side. I took the cat, and you took the cat's side. And I ended my puration, my claim by saying that you had to understand that not only was it the case that on the merrit it's all cats were Republicans and all dogs were Democrats, but you also had to understand that all cats were Guyish and all dogs were Jewish. And somehow we won the debate in the middle of Manhattan. It was the dirtiest thing somehow you want to I was going to say it was the dirtiest that.
Is by appealing to Jewish democrats.
Well, there are so few of them in New York. You know that it was. It showed some bravery.
You were, yes, playing to the crowd. I suspect there'll be more than a little of that tonight as well. We're here to discuss your book, but as it's always the case, we shouldn't really just discuss the book tonight, because we want people to read the book. Yes, so I thought we'd talk around the book.
Absolutely, it's a book to talk around.
And I want to do something very specific. But before I introduced the specific thing, I'd like to do. I'd like to offer an overly simplistic, highly reductionist theory about the difference.
Between dogs and cats.
No, no, between you and I? Or is it you and me?
Me? Me?
Yes, me?
That would be one of the differences.
Right, Yes, here's the theory.
Right, I start with an idea I'd like to explore, search for someone to be kind of window dressing, someone appropriate to dress it up, and then pursue it. This is the problem with my writing, of course, because the reader's senses halfway through that I've chosen the subject the person simply as a convenience to advance this agenda of mine.
I'm going to dispute that, but all right, you do the opposite.
Essentially, all of your writing is about you meet someone, you fall in love with him, and then you come up with some elaborate theory to justify your affection for your character.
That I will I will accept that as a roughly true. I think, though, that there are a lot of people in your stuff, Malcolm who live on you.
We're not discussing me, all right.
You can only discuss you, don't discuss your half.
I certainly think it's generally true, and I will say this, and I will I will say it with a certain amount of vanity that I love getting engaged with people, odd people, strange people, interesting people, and I you know, John Opdyke once said, you know, someone said what's the purpose of life? And he answered instantly to give praise? And I always thought that was a beautiful.
Well, this is exactly what I was going to say next, which is the other distinctive feature is of your writing, is that all of your real pieces, as opposed to your critics pieces, which I don't mean they're not real, but I mean all the pieces of some journalists.
That are not the higher homework.
Right. Yes, you always like the subject the subject. You're never at odds to the subject. And even when you are at obbosit of the subject, you've got great pains to suggest you're not really at allous.
That just happens in his book. But we'll get there.
Yes, Yes, that's interesting you say that, Malcolm. I've never quite conceptualized it that way. I think it's true. You know, the great kind of transformative moment of my life as a writer, my life is a man as a person, was when I joined the New Yorker in nineteen eighty six, and I was put to work writing the Talk of the Town. Back in those days, Talk of the Town was beautifully anonymous. That was part of the glory of it, because John McPhee would contribute, or John Updyke, and then you know, a little schnor like me would be thrown into the mix as well. And it was the great epiphany of my life because up until that moment I had been a graduate student. I mean, my whole life, I'd been a graduate student. I was a graduate student when I was six years old because I come from a like you, I come from an academic family, and that was the way I had been raised, you know, pursuing a PhD since third grade, and the way you become, the way you're trained and taught to think and write is argumentative through buts my sister, Allison, brilliant mind still works that way, right. Somebody says something and you controvert it, you say, but on the other hand, that's not entirely true. People say that parenting is the most important thing in the world, but in truth, you can't parent.
Difference between improv and academia, yeah, academia is.
Yes, but yes, I yes, and and that's what I realized when I was thrown out onto the streets to go cover table hockey tournaments and Flatbush and wonderful editor Chipmograph and you know slack rope walkers lived on houseboats in the Hudson is that you couldn't argue with these people. You had to illuminate them. You had to caricature them at times in a positive sense. You had to draw quick portraits of them. But yes, exactly, it was yes, and that the only way to write beautifully, the only way to write descriptively, evocatively, significantly, was to construct small, descriptive sentences connected by Ann's not long contentious sentences.
Disrupted by butts.
And that moment of moving from one to the other was the great moment in mind.
You were the first person to come to the New Yorker and be forced to dumb it down.
Well, yes there's a truth in that, but dumb it down all not in the in ultimate sense. To embrace a form of if you like, phone naive writing, to embrace a form of minimalism, that wonderful New York And tradition that extends from you be white and Thurber right into my fingers. At least if no one else's, and that with many others, but I mean, I esteem it particularly, So Yes, I think that's true, and I think it's one of the things that makes the New Yorker tradition remarkable, is the is its insistence, or it's implied insistence through a tradition that the best writing are small, descriptive sentences connected by ants.
Okay, so here's what I want to do.
Yes, I'm just gonna I'm just going to name names from the book, and I would like you to tell us something about your relationship with that character. Oh well, but how you met them, why you like them, what they're like. You don't need to touch on their role in the book, but you can get there. But there's all these there's a ton of names, and I'm going to pick them more or less at random. And then some of them I moony picked because I have things I want to say about them, just so I can be involved in this conversation.
But let's start with your mother.
Oh, my mother? Where to begin with my mother?
Describe your mother?
Like physically, physically, my mother is a small woman who is, among other things, was a professor of linguistic It's a very distinguished scientist, instrumental discovering the first gene for grammar HOFX and P.
We all had to learn the name of it when we were children. But she's a small one.
She also designs jewelry, and she wears somewhat eccentric clothing. So if you saw her, you'd see this woman with long, unkempt hair, looks a little like Streganona, who's wearing all of this avant garde jewelry. You can't really approach her to hug her because it's too dangerous. The jewelry is a little like barbed wire and is an in constant activity, constant active. Now I should add that she's, you know, a little more subdued now at eighty eight than she used to in the book. I go up to bake with her because I had never done that. I have a complicated relationship with her. I don't mean to be sacriine about it at all. You know, we're very much alike. And she's a driven person, as am I in lots of ways, in every way. But she's an amazing baker, and she's an amazingly inventive and impatient person. And I thought in this book and in life generally that the best way I could connect with her was through a shared activity. It's always been the only the best way to connect with her. You know, can't really can't really talk with her. I mean, of course you can, but I have a conversation. But the happiest moments were always when we were doing something together. I have this incredibly intense memory, which is the book begins with, of when I'm really little with my I have many sisters, but this is my sister Allison, and she.
Was unrolling strudle on a table.
We were living in a housing project at that point, and just watching her looking up and watching her unroll this rule and make it kind of parchment thin. I thought, that's real. That was my first experience of mastery. That's my mother.
Since you're talking about your whether I want to test seven ideo. Recently, I have come to believe in the asymmetrical theory of parental memories, which is that everyone, when pressed, has way more memories of one parent than the other. So we all have one not that we one parent that we favor, no, but one parent who is who is vivid, yes, who consumes all of our kind of stories, like in your case, your mother and your work has loomed much larger than your father.
Yes, although even though in fact I'm extremely close to my father and admire him limitlessly, dedicated the book on Liberalism to him because he had taught me all of those things. But my father is, in his nature a more recessive person than my mother. There is one chapter that's very much about my father in this and it's the first time I've ever really written about him about learning to drive, because when I was learning to drive in my fifties, with my son Luke getting we got our licenses on the same day. I believe that's the only time that's ever happened. And my father was haunting me the whole time. Because my father is the most gently competent human being you will meet. And one of the things was he had been driving since he was fourteen, and he was the sort of person who thought nothing. You know, he has six kids and twenty grandchildren of driving to a grandchild in Baltimore from rural Ontario where they live for nineteen hours, and we just would do things like that.
He was an utterly competent man.
And I think we all make ourselves a little bit in the shadow of our father's accomplishments, but also by bending away from the shadow into our own sunshine. So my father was so super competent in all those ways that I made myself notably incompetent in the little tasks of life. So my wife Martha did all the driving in our family, and I was the one in the as my daughter Olivia, who's here someplace? And I would pint out the gendered seat, which we usually assigned to women in our culture, where I'm the one passing out the cookies and saying, hey, kids, kids, got to be quiet. Mom's trying to find the exit. Now, you know when we would be that will be there soon. I promise you will be there soon. Let mom concentrate. And I was in that seat for decades, and then I wanted to just nudge over to the other seat a bit. And so that was very much about my father, But absolutely my mother is the vivid person.
All right, all right, next name on the list. None of us knew him, but both of us are fascinated by him. Bud Schulberg. Oh, can we do a Bud Schulberg shout out?
We should definitely do a Bud Sholdberg shout out.
We're better than at the Why I've been trying to get the Library of America to put Bud Schulberg in print, you know, for a while, and maybe I still can't. Bud Schulberg, as all of you will know, was a writer, a journalist, most famous as a screenwriter. Wrote the screenplay for On the Waterfront and other things. But he wrote one of the most beautiful and forgotten novels in American English, called The Disenchanted, about his bizarre adventures writing a screenplay with the then on the brink of death Scott Fitzgerald. And it's the most beautiful portrait of Scott Fitzgerald that we have, and the remarkable guy and his stuff should be back in print. And I suspect quick parenthetical that his name hurt him. One of my pet theories is that writers are very dependent on their names. Right, there's a moment there was a doctor Johnson said someplace that there was a poet laureate an England named Elkana Settle, and no one could ever believe that he could write a good poem with a name like el Conna Settle. And I have struggled with this my whole life because Gopnik has got to be the single ugliest, most non euphonious name there is. And Bud Shoulberg, right, it sounds like a guy who runs a store, right, Whereas you know, J. D. Salinger is clearly a writer of you, so that's something we all say.
It should be a version of Elis Island for writers.
Yes, exactly, exactly.
That's the whole story there about why the name Gotic didn't get changed to Elis Island.
But I'll spare you for the moment.
Jamie Swiss, Oh, Jamie Swiss is a different I just was texting with him. Jamie is the most gifted and most irascible magician there's ever been. He's a true intellectual of the magic world, and he is a truly contentious person. And what I love about Jamie's is he's a magnificent sleight of handman, a great teacher. He taught my son Luke card magic, and he was the most exacting, demanding and rewarding, replenishing teacher you could possibly have. But Jamie's just a beautifully irascible person who cannot take anything lightly. You know, as you know I say in the book someplace, you know that people don't take magicians seriously, right, And they go up to the magicians say oh, I know how you did that, which is like going up to yo yo ma and saying, oh, I know how you did that. You just scraped that thing along the strings, didn't you. I know how you did that. I have an uncle who does the same thing all the time. And most magicians just kind of bite their lips and say, oh good.
And I'm glad to hear that.
And Jamie is the one who says, you have no idea, idea how the fuck I did that. You have no fucking idea how I did that, So don't tell me you do. And he's a contentious magician and it's wonderful and he's brilliant. He's one of my dearest friends. And I love him exactly because he takes magic at the most serious and conceivable level and won't allow it to be minimized or condescended to though he did say to me once the only reason mimes exists is so the magicians have someone to patronize.
What I love about your best way. The chapter of this book on magic is magic. It's the thing that I never really understood about magic until you wrote about it, and I could never tell whether this is true of magic or just true of you on magic, which is that all these magicians, at least the ones you write about, have thought so deeply and beautifully and profoundly about their craft in a way that no other you know, I've just spent, for pat of reasons the last couple of weeks months really interviewing one trauma surgeon after another. Huh, And trauma surgents are incredibly interesting. The work they do is really really, really really hard. The technology changes every and technique changes every ten minutes.
But they don't.
They're not talking about it on a philosophical level. It's they've taken something that's beautifully powerfully complicated and they have made it intensely practical.
And they talk about it well. Shop talk is the most beautiful talk that there is. One of the reasons writers are so occupationally miserable. It's because we have no shop talk really to talk about, right, talk about keyboards, computers, advances and publishers, and then that's it, right, we don't.
Magicians have the most beautiful.
And rapturous shop talk of anyone because they can only talk about it to other magicians. They have a high level of trauma surgeon like technique, but they can't tell you or me about it. They can only talk about it to other magicians. There's an intensity, an intellectual intensity to what they do. I will add as well, of course, and this is the implicit, if tenderly loving accusation you're making. I seek out the intellectual magicians, and they seek and they choose to speak to me.
What is it that drew you to magic? Was it that did Luke discovered? Or did you Luke?
It was simultaneously that my son Luke discovered magic and found that he gave him far more meaning, accomplishment, significance than anything he was studying in school. So I was drawn into it through Luke's obsessive interest in magic. But then I loved it too, once I started going to Monday Night Magic and other things too, because it seemed like such a.
Model of art of a very modest kind.
You know, magicians aren't because they feel oppressed all the time.
But the idea that you would have a profound.
Technique that you kept to yourself, the idea that your primary impulse was to entertain rather than to impress or to intimidate, that that would be that you would have all of these skills, but you would use them for the purposes of delight. That spoke somehow to my ideals for writing and my ideals for art generally. And I was very taken, instantly taken by the company of magicians. I loved the company of magicians. The people I most have enjoyed hanging out with in life are magicians and cooks, and they have a great deal in common.
They both.
There's an artisanal basis to everything they do. They are expert at doing something. But there and there tend to be very temperamental people who have very difficult lives. Nothing is harder than running a restaurant, except running a magic show. And yet the whole purpose of their existence is to delight. And I find that I find this something sort of noble and even saintly about that.
I love it.
There's no high theory attached to the cook chef.
Oh yeah, there is.
If you get chefs talking that, you know, I don't have it as much in this book. But you get chefs talking about the ethics of seasonality, or what counts as local and what doesn't, or you even get them talking about whether you have tarragon leaves or tarragon stems in a Brene sauce.
They'll go on forever. You know. They have the same kind of passionate chop talk, which I love to hear.
More from the real work on the mystery of Mastery in a moment. Now back to my conversation on Mastery with Adam Gopnik at the ninety second Street Y in New York. George Plimpton. I bring him up only because in this book Adam goes in a series of quests to master certain activities baking, boxing, magic, et cetera. Driving, drawing, Drawing is the first one, and I'm wondering, is it an echo of George Plimpton? And how do you feel about George.
Primpton's That's that's such an acute question, because I deliberately dropped George Plimpton's name in the opening chapter, thinking no one will pick up on my little homage to Plimpton in the opening chapter because it goes by very quickly. But I put that there exactly for that reason. George Plimpton did these wonderful books Paper Lion, mad Ducks and Bears about his own engagement as an amateur would go and he would box with Archie Moore, or he would play quarterback for the Detroit Lions, and so on, And so there's certainly an element of plymptoness in this. His book Mad Ducks and Bears is one of the most entertaining sports books ever written. So I greatly admire his prose writing. But it isn't the Plimpton like book in the sense that Plimpton's comedy came out of his incapacity to do it. You know, if Plimpton was making it was had He was a wonderful writer, but he had kind of one joke to tell, right, I attempt to do this thing, I learn a lot, and then I fail at it. And I wanted to tell two jokes. I attempt to do this thing and I enter into the world of the people who do it.
Well, Plimpton did that too, I guess.
But yes, certainly Plympton is one of the ghosts who's someplace in the back of the book. And I put him in one sentence and you caught it.
But he But I want you to talk a little bit more about the difference. So both of you are beginning in the same spirit, Yes, which is there are worlds outside your own experience that fascinates you, and you would like to you would like to bear witness to them, to experience.
I guess, and I say this in there's every reason to prefer Plimpton's approach, which is more amateur to my own. But I can't resist being a bit of a generalizer, a theory producer about it. And the book is full of my generalizations, my guesses, my attempts to find the commonality across all of these dimensions, boxing and dancing. What do they have in common? What's similar about the way we learn them? I can't I can't not be my mother's son in that way. My mother was a professor, my father was a professor. All of my brothers and sisters are professors. So I am the only one who isn't. I'm what's called a Jewish dropout, and the and every so I think that that urge to teach, to explicate is very strong, was not at all in you know, Plimpton was an aristocratic wasp, and for him teaching and explicating I think was a little vulgar.
He was.
He's a performer, Yeah, he's a performer.
Yeah, a literary performer. And yes you are.
You're much more of a professor.
Yeah, I'm there's I'm a ham as well, But there's more professorialness in my performance than there ever.
Was in his.
Yeah.
One thing you don't talk about in this book was your foray into music.
I do talk about it a bit, A little bit, a little bit.
Not a great land I thought I was wondering about. There has always been this kind of desire to experiment with your experiences in a way that that's not true of a lot of very adventurous and one of the interestings you did was describe a little bit about your kind of musical adventures.
And well, when I came to New York, when Martha and I came to New York on a bus from Canada, like in the Bad Forties movie, I wanted to be a songwriter. That was my primary ambition. Well, I wanted to be a songwriter and a writer for the New Yorker. I figured I could do both. I could be Stephen Sondheim and John Updyke simultaneously. It turned out not to be the case, but I wanted to.
Do that, and.
I never pursued it adequately. You know, it was one of those things that I left behind too soon. So in the course of life, a wonderful composer, David Schier, approached me about writing a musical with him, and to somewhat to his shock, I jumped at the opportunity because it was the form I love most in the world. And we wrote a show called Our Table, which you can find on Spotify, and we wrote some sixty songs together, and I am I loved it.
Excuse me how many songs?
Sixty songs?
Zero six zero, because that's the usual ratio in Broadway musicals. They have a very strong you call them trunk songs. You write sixty songs and you throw out forty. I mean, that's the standard rate at which it's done. It's a funny thing. Not that the forty or worse than the twenty. It's a kind of weird, kind of almost religious discipline that Broadway people have.
And in any way, I love it.
Hold on, take it over this sixty. So every Broadway play has forty songs. They're just lying in a vault.
Somewhere yes, in a word, yes, And those are called trunk songs. I don't know if it's always forty and twenty. It could be sometimes thirty and ten. But yes, every songwriting team and everybody songwriter will tell you that they even Somedheim threw away four different endings for Company before he arrived at Being Alive. It's part of the discipline of the craft. I'm not always sure that it's a productive discipline in the sense that the ones you throw away may actually be better than the one you arrive at.
Does anyone independently analyze the ones that are thrown away? Like, is there some this should be some central committee of Broadway that kind of takes all these in.
And like like a FDA inspectors who come in and say, you don't have to throw this away.
This smells good to me, Yes, exactly.
This is unbelievable.
It's you know, it's such a it's so show off hee by the way, you know, the rest of us are like making use of every last scrap.
But so I did that, and I loved it, and I wrote all the lyrics and I felt, you know, and I put myself to work to master that craft and that art as much as I could. Because my ultimate heroes Lorenzo du Ponte, Lorenz Heart, Larry Hart took part in that.
Field, and I have no fear of embarrassment.
I live in total fear of embarrassment. But I suppose when it comes to the contest between my egotism and my embarrassment, my egotism wins somehow.
I don't know.
I mean, if I can put it in slightly kind of terms to myself, I'm ambitious, you know, and I like doing ambitious things. And I you know, it's not like I'm out there, you know, trying to compete with elon musk and rocketry. You know, what I'm good at, or what I believe myself to be good at, is shaping sentences. And some of those sentences are essays. That's the form I love most in the world is the essay, what's sometimes called the personal essay and the and the but writing lyrics or writing a show is it's the same enterprise, right. It's organizing language in ways that express emotion. And for me, you know, the thing I love most is exactly the moments in that act when you get an emotion and I had an idea humming together, and that's what I always tried to do in things, is what you were talking about before and when it's just ideas it feels arrid to me, and when it's just emotions, it feels amateurish to me. And there's no form known to man in which ideas, well, you did this, you talked about this with in your Paul Simon audiobook. There's no form in which ideas and emotions come into such intimate entanglement as in a song. So anybody who can write one good song, one memorable song, has got a little bit of purchase on immortality. And I think I've written one, but I will continue to write more.
On one level, what this book is is about the special pleasures of mediocrity. Yes, And because you embark on a series of things, and implicit in not all of them, but in some of the things that you embark on, is that you're.
Not never going to be good.
You're never going to be good at them. And this is the great discovery of my middle aged When I was very young, I only pursued things that I was good at, and I realized when I hit forty that that was a trap. And you know why ied it. I realized it because I went to Bard and when I was using the gym, I saw the barred.
Lacrosse team practice, and.
I observed them, and they observed that they were the most laughably inept lacrosse team I've ever seen. And my first thought was, you know, I have all kinds of athletic pretensions, so I was looking down my nose.
And then my second thought.
Was that is fantastic because it means that anyone who wants to play lacrosse at Bard can play lacross at Bard, and that is such a better model than every other lacrosse team. If you want to play lacrosse at Johns Hopkins, it's impossible.
Because you're never going to be good.
You're never going to make the team.
It's a pleasure is denied to you.
Why, for the completely random and totally unfair reason, the number of kids that have been playing lacrosse in you know, suburban Baltimore since they were six years old because their parents had the nutty notion that mastery of lacrosse was something they wanted to use their have their.
Kids and it would get them into Johns Hopkins.
But so what do we do we impoverish the vast pool of kids who would really enjoy playing well across in favor of a small bart flips. It just says, we're going to have a bad cross the shame.
Yes, I know, but not to be pious. But that's sort of one of the themes of the book. Maybe is the theme of the book, because the truth is, and I have a little chapter called the Mystery of Interiority where I look into that old folk legend that hummingbirds and elephants have the same number of heartbeats in the life and find that there's actually at the University of North Carolina State, there's a scientific team that looks into this question, that took up this question, and it's true. And the point of it, the metaphor of it is, is that the hummingbird's sense of existence is just as extended as the elephants. It just is only that feels that way for the hummingbird, right, not for the elephant. And in exactly the same way, the accomplishments that we master or attempt to master at which we're no good, give us the same sense of you know, little steps turning into a seamless sequence, the sense of the flow, which is the key to happiness. Happiness is absorption. Happiness is reaching that flow state. And in a weird way, any time you achieve it, you have the hummingbird's heartbeat inside you. You have a strong interior sense. Like the kids in at Bard, right, they didn't know they were bad lacrosse players, and I'm sure they talked about lacrosse all the time and tried to improve their game.
And that's exactly bad.
No, no, no, no, they do know they're bad.
No, no, I don't mean that it's a joke, right, because it's the second The corollary to the observation that there is beauty in badness is that the second thing is that it is only through pursuing something not badly you weren't bad at these things, but inexpertly, yes, that you come to a full appreciation of the expert.
Yes.
The person who goes up to the magician and says, I know how you did that is someone who doesn't try to be a mediocre they have If they were a mediocre magician, they would.
Know better than they would be an how they would be a true awe.
It's the same thing I was gonna say this with It is only when.
I became a mediocre runner in my middle age that I that I began to appreciate what a world class runner.
Yeah, exactly.
And it's only by being a terrible pianist that I have some glimpse of what it is to be Bill Evans or Errol Garner.
This is the greatest case for community theater.
Yes, this is true.
Which is the is the kind of whipping boy. Community theory is the whipping boy of every pretentious intellectual. I grew up with a community theater. I'm here to tell you civilization is community theater is based on community theory.
I mean that, but you know that's not you know who said that? Forgive me for a professorial moment. Frederick Laul Olmsted, the great designer of Central Park and one of the great American political thinkers, said that the thing that the commonplace civilization of a liberal society depended on community theater. He talked about glee clubs, he talked about amateur opera societies. That's the living, beating heart of a liberal society.
Are those things?
Yeah, yeah, give me.
One more name. I'm in loving this so much. It's like being in therapy.
And let's do David Blaine. Why not, let's finish on magic.
David Blaine was so Luca, my wonderful son who is now doing his pH d in philosophy at the University of Texas. After all of his adventures magic and music, he had ended as a philosopher went to work as David Blaine's personal assistant. David offered him that job, and it was a wonderful learning experience, much better than going to progressive school, because he had to learn how to keep you know, Russian models away from each other, and how to care for an albino alligator, and money the other things, and David in the middle of it. This is my favorite anecdote in the book, was doing a bullet catch.
Now bullet cap was doing it for a TV special.
And in the bullet catch, the magician has a steel cup in his mouth or her mouth, and somebody fires a bullet from a rifle directly into the cup.
You have to catch the bullet.
And now normally it's done as a trick, as a gaff, because it's too dangerous. Twelve magicians were killed in the early part of the twentieth century doing the bullet catch on stage, so nobody does it that way. And Luke explained to me David was going to do a true bullet catch, and I said, well, what's how do you do a bullet catch?
And he said, well, it's a.
Very strong titanium cup and it's a very low velocity rifle and a very small caliber bullet, and it's all laser guided. I said, oh, really, so there's no trick to the bullet catch and he said, oh no, Dad, there's a trick to the bullet catch. The trick to the bullet catch is catching the bullet. And as soon as Luke said that to me, I said, that's the wisest thing I've ever heard, right, because we all instantly know what that means, Right that, after all the preparation you do when you're writing or talking or anything, after all the ways in which you make sure that you will not be killed by the bullet, at some point you have to stand there with your mouth open and the cup in it while somebody points a rifle at you. And that, for me is, you know, the existential leap that we all have to make in artistry, mastery, whatever we choose to call it. And I thought so, I thought it was a wonderful story because everybody knows what that moment is of catching the bullet.
That trick can only be done in certain states. Yes, exactly stand your ground laws.
I can.
I can I thank you Malcolm for your incredible generosity in doing this. And can I tell you a story that I don't think you know, is that Malcolm is known in our house, as my children are growing up as not that you're not dad, Malcolm, because this is the conversation we would always have. Malcolm would come for dinner, dazzle Luke and Olivia and then going and they would say, Malcolm tells the most interesting anecdotes and he always finds the one right story to illustrate it, not that you don't dead, or Malcolm always has exactly the right question to ask, not that you're not doing that dead, And so we in our household, Malcolm Gladwell is known as not that you're not dead, Malcolm.
So thank you not that you're not.
Adam Gopnik's book, The Real Work on the Mystery of Mastery is available now, and be sure to check out the audiobook version at pushkin dot fm. Special thanks to the ninety second Street Why for hosting us. This episode of Revisionist History was produced by Kiara Powell with Ben ad F Haffrey, Lemingestu and Jacob Smith, fact checking by Kashelle Williams and Tully Emlin. Our showrunner is Peter Clowney. Extra special thanks this week to Julia Barton, Morgan Ratner, Kerry Brodie and Eric Sandler. Original scoring by Lubisquira, mastering by Sarah Bruguer, and engineering by Nina Lawrence. I'm Malcolm Glapa