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The review remarked that Outliers was repetitive in parts, but that Gladwell eventually pulls the stories together into an overarching narrative. Criticism focused on the book's style and oversimplified conceptualizations. Displeased with Gladwell's generalizations drawn from small amounts of data, Roger Gathman wrote in The Austin American-Statesman that this was uncharacteristic of him, and believed that the approach points to a "certain exhaustion in his favorite method".

Jason Cowley , reviewing the book in The Guardian , felt that Outliers was an argument between Gladwell and himself, referring to the many times that he uses the word "we" when defining his position, such as in the example: "There is something profoundly wrong with the way we look at success. Finding it ironic that Outliers provided suggestions on how to resolve cultural biases, the Sunday Times review by Kevin Jackson agreed that the book itself suffered from an unbalanced focus on American subjects, predicting that this would lead to better sales in the United States than in the United Kingdom.

Jackson was disappointed in the book's lack of new ideas, noting that it merely expands on the concept that "you have to be born at the right moment; at the right place; to the right family posh usually helps ; and then you have to work really, really hard. That's about it. I think there is a lot of truth in it [ I think, however, when you look at a group who has been successful I think you always will find that amount of work in the background. But I don't think it's a rule that if you do that amount of work, you're going to be as successful as the Beatles. Macnamara and colleagues have subsequently performed a comprehensive review of 9, research papers about practice relating to acquiring skills.

They focused specifically on 88 papers that collected and recorded data about practice times.

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In their paper, they note regarding the 10,hour rule that "This view is a frequent topic of popular-science writing" but "we conducted a meta-analysis covering all major domains in which deliberate practice has been investigated. We conclude that deliberate practice is important, but not as important as has been argued". Lee discussed the strategic timing of King's ascent from a "Gladwellian" perspective, citing Outliers as the inspiration for his argument. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Outliers Outliers book cover.

Dewey Decimal. Anders Br J Sports Med. The A. Retrieved USA Today. The Tampa Tribune. The Georgia Straight. Little, Brown and Company. The Wall Street Journal. The New York Times. The Globe and Mail. Austin American-Statesman. The Independent. The Guardian. The New Republic. Archived from the original on The Times. He looks startled. This is just a place to keep all my thoughts. They get away from me, otherwise.

The driver of the Advanced Transit bus honks twice. We both turn in the direction of the noise. In a town the size of Westerbrook, which was derived of Yankee Mayflower stock, being Jewish made my sisters and I anomalies, as different from our classmates as if our skin happened to be bright blue.

I went to Hebrew school because my sisters did, but when the time came to be bat mitvahed, I begged to drop out. I used to sit at Friday night services listening to the cantor sing in Hebrew and wondered why Jewish music was full of minor chords. My parents did, however, fast on Yom Kippur and refused to have a Christmas tree. To me, it seemed they were following an abridged version of Judaism, so who were they to tell me how and what to believe? I said this to my parents when I was lobbying to not have a bat mitzvah.

My father got very quiet. Then he sent me to my room without supper, which was truly shocking because in our household, we were encouraged to state our opinions, no matter how controversial. It was my mother who sneaked upstairs with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for me.

I have a problem going to Hebrew School. This was a seemingly random observation. She had been born in Poland and still had an accent that made it sound like she was always singing. And yes, Grandma Minka wore sweaters, even when it was ninety degrees out, but she also wore too much blush and leopard prints. It took me a moment to realize what my mother was telling me. How had I made it to age twelve without knowing this? Why would my parents have hidden this information from me?

We had studied the Holocaust in social studies class. It was hard to imagine the textbook pictures of living skeletons matching the plump woman who always smelled like lilacs, who never missed her weekly hair appointment, who kept brightly colored canes in every room of her house so that she always had easy access to one.

She was not part of history. She was just my grandma. But your father, he started going. I think it was his way of processing what happened to her. Here I was, trying desperately to shed my religion so I could blend in, and it turned out being Jewish was truly in my blood; that I was the descendant of a Holocaust survivor. Frustrated, angry, and selfish, I threw myself backward against my pillows. It has nothing to do with me. If she had been in a concentration camp during World War II, she must have been a completely different person at the time. The picture book was of Cinderella, but she must have been thinking of something else, because her tale was about a dark forest and monsters; a trail of oats and grain.

I kept reaching for it, pulling at her sweater. At one point, the wool rode up just far enough for me to be distracted by the faded blue numbers on her inner forearm. I had memorized my telephone number the previous year in preschool, so that if I got lost, the police could call home. The next day, when Josef Weber comes into the bakery at , I bring out a small bag of homemade dog biscuits for Eva, and a loaf of bread for him. You can smell it, when an artisanal bread comes out of the oven: the earthy, dark scent, as if you are in the thick of the woods.

I glance with pride at the variegated crumb. We chat — about the weather, about Eva, about my favorite recipes. We chat, as Mary closes up the bakery around us. We chat, even as I dart back and forth into the kitchen to answer the call of various timers. There are even moments during our conversation that when I forget to disguise the pitted side of my face by ducking my head or letting my hair fall in front of it.

But Josef, he is either too polite or too embarrassed to mention it. Or maybe, just maybe, there are other things about me he finds more interesting. His hand shakes as he reaches for his mug of coffee. The pocked drawstring of skin flapping the corner of my right eye. The silver hatchmarks cutting through my eyebrow. The way my mouth tugs upward, because of the way my cheekbone healed.

The bald notch at my scalp that no longer grows hair, that my bangs are brushed to carefully cover. The face of a monster. Maybe because loneliness is a mirror; and recognizes itself. My hand falls away, letting the curtain of my hair cover my scars again. I just wish it were that easy to camouflage the ones inside me.

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To his credit, Josef does not gasp or recoil. Steadily, he meets my gaze.

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He lives at the end of small cul-de-sac, and I am parked at the curb trying to concoct a reason that I might be dropping by when he knocks on the window of my car. She dances around his feet in circles. I consider telling him that it is a coincidence, that I took a wrong turn. Or that I have a friend who lives nearby. But instead, I wind up speaking the truth.

His home is not decorated the way I would have expected. There are chintz couches with lace doilies on the back, photographs on top of a dusty mantel, a collection of Hummel figurines on a shelf. For fifty-one very good years and one not-so-good. This must have been the reason he started coming to grief group, I realize. He takes the teabag from his mug and carefully wraps a noose around it on the bowl of the spoon.

In fifty years, I never once forgot, but she never gave me the benefit of the doubt. Drove me crazy. Now, I would give anything to hear her remind me again. I felt like the biggest loser on earth. And now I realize how lucky I was. He shakes his head. My gaze lands on a chess set on a sideboard behind Josef.

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The pieces are all carefully carved: pawns shaped like tiny unicorns, rooks fashioned into centaurs, a set of Pegasus knights. I stare with even more admiration at the chessboard, with its seamless inlay of cherry and maple squares; at the tiny jeweled eyes of the mermaid. I pick up the vampire and run my finger over the smooth, slick skull of the creature. Marta had no patience for the game. I look up at him. Josef becomes a regular at Our Daily Bread, and I spend hours at his house, learning chess.

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He teaches me to control the center of the board. To not give up any pieces unless absolutely necessary, and how to assign arbitrary point values to each knight and bishop and rook and pawn so that I can make those decisions. As we play, Josef asks me questions. Was my mother a redhead, like me? Did my father ever miss the restaurant industry, once he went into industrial sales? Did either of them ever get a chance to taste some of my recipes? It feels less like a wound; more like a poultice. Two weeks later, Josef and I carpool to our next grief group meeting. We sit beside each other, and it is as if we have a subtle telepathy between us as the other group members speak.

Sometimes he catches my gaze and hides a smile, sometimes I roll my eyes at him. We are suddenly partners in crime. Today we are talking about what happens to us after we die.

Jodi Picoult

In Heaven and Hell people sit at banquet tables filled with amazing food, but no one can bend their elbows. I assume Josef will ignore her question, or shake his head, like usual. But to my surprise, he speaks. And everything is over. His blunt words settle like a shroud over the rest of us. I find him waiting in the hallway of the church. As if it were this easy. Everyone is both of these at once.

Jodi Picoult · The Storyteller

As if his words have heat behind them, my scar burns. I wonder if this has been my problem all along: not being able to dissect the two. I have come to the only viable conclusion: Josef is lying comatose in his bed. Or worse. My evenings are ordered to military precision, with me working a mile a minute to divide dough and shape it into hundreds of loaves; to have them proofed and ready for baking when the oven is free.

The bakery itself becomes a living, breathing thing; each station a new partner to dance with. Mess up on the timing, and you will find yourself standing alone while chaos whirls around you. I find myself compensating in a frenzy, trying to produce the same amount of product in less time. Josef opens the front door. He sneezes violently and wipes his nose with a white cloth handkerchief. Well, as you can see, I am still standing.

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He hesitates, his hand on the doorknob. A twenty-five year old disfigured girl and a nonagenarian? I suppose there have been stranger duos. Now you must go back to work so that I can have a roll with my coffee. Twenty minutes later, I am back in the kitchen, turning off a half dozen angry timers and assessing the damage caused by my hour AWOL. There are loaves that have proofed too much; the dough has lost its shape and sags to one side or the other. My output for the whole night will be affected; Mary will be devastated. I wish I could bake for my mother: boules and pain au chocolat and brioche, piled high on her table at Heaven.

I wish I could be the one to feed her. But this. I look around the bakery kitchen. This, I can reclaim, by working the dough very briefly and letting it rise again. Mary, who at first is tight-lipped and angry at my reduced nightly output, slices open a ciabatta. When she asked what happened, I lied. I told her that I got a migraine and fell asleep for two hours. Then she picks up a slice of the bread, ready to spread it with strawberry jam.

She points to the crumb.

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Artisanal bread is judged on its variegated crumb, other breads — like Wonder which is barely even a bread, nutritionally have uniform, tiny crumb. The first visitors to our little miracle are the women who work in the shrine gift shop, who take a picture with the piece of bread between them. Then Father Dupree — the priest at the shrine — arrives. The door flies open and a reporter with frizzy red hair enters, trailed by a bear of a cameraman. Then Harriet sticks her microphone in my face. The camera has a red light above its cyclopean eye, which blinks awake while filming.

I stare at it, stricken by the thought of the whole state seeing me on the midday news. I drop my chin to my chest, obliterating my face, even as my cheeks burn with embarrassment. How much has he already filmed? Just a glimpse of my scar before I ducked my head?