Things someone who grew up in NJ might write - hypnagogicfun

Guns At Last Light: The Good War Done Well

In 2013 Rick Atkinson finished the third and final volume of his popular history of the United States military in the WWII Atlantic theater, The Guns at Last Light: The War in Europe, 1944-1945. It is the best kind of history for the broader public: well-written, informative, and driven by a clear focus. World War II is reputed to be humanity’s largest collective enterprise. It is damned difficult task for an historian to capture the scope of the conflict and still make it understandable. Atkinson handles the challenge with skill and verve.

The first two volumes, An Army at Dawn: The War in North Africa, 1942-1943, and The Day of Battle: The War in Sicily and Italy, 1943-1944, are equally well written. The first garnered a Pulitzer Prize. With the third in place, it is possible to see Atkinson’s strengths and weaknesses more clearly. The volumes, too, drive home the importance of revisiting the war and what it meant to America and the world. There are no easy answers when it comes to World War II.

Atkinson is an expert and mixing personal details with broader, well-established history. He knows how to maintain drama and interest with just the right quote culled from a journal or letter. To his credit, Atkinson never lets the reader forget that this was not just an international conflict pitting organization against organization. It was a battle among people. Maintaining that agenda, without losing sight of the larger shifts, makes for gripping history.

He is also writer with an expansive vocabulary and a love of rich prose. With a less sure hand, or a topic less important, the florid language might seem overdone. Considering he is writing about a war that killed 60 million, extremes are necessary.

On the other hand, Atkinson is not primarily an historian of battles or strategy. These books are not the best resource to analyze the strengths and weaknesses of the Normandy campaign or to consider supply line challenges. Atkinson mentions them, to be sure, but they are referenced in terms of people and ideas, not as examples of grand design. Further, the Atlantic Theater is best understood within the context of a global conflict. Atkinson’s theme – what the US military did and experienced – is valid. However, thoughtful readers should realize that there cannot be one definitive account of the war.

There are many volumes looking at WWII from a range of perspectives. What Atkinson has done in the Liberation Trilogy is make the heroic efforts of the United States military in the Atlantic Theater, warts and all, with its incomprehensible scale, and human sized. It is accessible intellectually and emotionally. It is an impressive achievement.

David Potash

February 9, 2015 Reviews, Things someone who grew up in NJ might write

You Can’t Keep Them Down On The Farm – Glaeser’s Triumph of the City

Edward Glaeser, Harvard economist and prolific blogger, is enraptured with cities. His 2011 book, Triumph of the City, is a paean to all things urban, with a special place for the twenty-first century mega-city. The work is a breezy airport read. Informative and lightly pedantic, it is a departure for Glaeser, who is a well-respected economic researcher. It is a work well suited for what we used to call the middlebrow market.

Triumph jets around the globe, zooming in on this city or that from 35,000 feet . There is little to no original scholarship here. Instead, Glaeser has skillfully assembled a host of anecdotes and a panoply of data points to argue that cities are good for people and the planet. His narrative rests on his observations and insights. He is smart, well-informed, and confident in his prose. The argument driving the book is summarized neatly in the subtitle: “How our greatest invention makes us richer, smarter, greener, healthier, and happier.”

Cities, Glaeser claims, are magnets for smart human talent. As they create opportunities, they and their inhabitants flourish. Density promotes competition and competition forces innovation. Glaeser promotes ever greater density here. He criticizes mindless historic preservation as an impediment to urban success with a nod to Jane Jacobs. The narrative presents pros and cons of various urban policies, but is distant from the human politics that create the cities and decide those policies.

For all of Glaeser’s urban enthusiasm, the book has an oddly antiseptic feel to it. Some is due to the author’s relative lack of interest in people as individuals. He is, after all, a social scientist. The deeper reason is that Glaeser’s argument is fundamentally about the relative benefit of cities to society; it is not about the joy of living in a city or in a particular city. This is not an issue of class, integrity, or design. I share Glaeser’s affirmation of high-density mixed use, though I am less keen on the high-rise. Nor is it about crime or grit. Missing is a sense of the flavors that go with city life.

A certain kind of urban aesthetics about how one leads one’s life necessarily must inform writing about cities. For all of Glaeser’s intellectual enthusiasm, his book does not carry much personal passion for city life. The tensions, interactions, and felicity that accompany the forced socialization that accompanies being squeezed together in a city do not complicate this work. Glaeser does not strike this reader as in love with cities, though he certainly does wax warmly for New York. But I see him in a high-rise condo, perhaps on the upper East Side. It is difficult to picture him in a walk-up in Brooklyn or Queens. It came as no surprise to learn that he now lives in the suburbs with his family and children.

I guess my aesthetic is just different – another good reason cities are a great place to live.

David Potash

February 3, 2015 Things someone who grew up in NJ might write

Lost The Rink and Take The Ribbon

Skating rinks are, by definition, rinky. You skate in a circle and then, after the Zamboni, if you are lucky, you skate in the same circle in the other direction. Great rinks have great views; mediocre rinks have little or nothing to see. Good rinks make you feel fast and accomplished. Bad rinks are easily recognized by their bad ice, overpriced snacks, and loud distorted music, usually pop rock hits from two decades hence. I think “Slap Shot.” For those of us who are no great shakes on the ice – and I count myself among them – the pleasure derived from a skating trip often happens in spite of the rink.

Those dynamics have changed. I recently had a chance to enjoy the J.B. and M.K. Pritzker Family Skating Ribbon, the new ice skating feature at Maggie Daley Park. It was a delightful skating experience, probably my favorite ever, save a time on a frozen lake in my teens. Planners have abandoned the rink in favor of a trail. The ribbon twists and turns for a quarter-mile through Maggie Daley Park in downtown Chicago. And even though the lockers are not all ready, the food vendors have yet to set up, and construction crews are still around, it is lovely. Chicago has moved beyond the rink. It is something special.

Circling the Ribbon was a good time to look around. Chicago may not be perfect, but it truly features a truly world-class downtown. Folks journey from all over the world, in great numbers, as any local can attest. Particularly in Millennium Park. Our downtown enjoys beautiful vistas, inspirational architecture, and public spaces that make you feel good to be alive. I am a sucker for a good downtown and Chicago’s makes me smile. Especially on the Ribbon, which is spectacular. I encourage you to give it a whirl – and most definitely bring your own skates.

David Potash

January 27, 2015 American Culture Today, Things someone who grew up in NJ might write

City of Ambition – When Folks Could Make It There

Academic history is assiduously researched and tightly argued. Popular history, in contrast, pays homage to those methods with different goals. It aims to surprise and engage. Popular history provokes, and most importantly, it is designed to give the reader pleasure and information.

Mason B. Williams, author of City of Ambition: FDR, LaGuardia, and the Making of Modern New York, understands this well. The key protagonists in his book are well-known and well-researched figures. President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, known for the New Deal and leading the United States through World War II, is perhaps the nation’s most important political leader of the twentieth century. Fiorello LaGuardia, mayor of New York City from 1934 to 1945, is perhaps America’s best known mayor. With multiple biographies on each and multitudes of studies, essays, and books about them, Williams does not aim to captivate us through deeper research and finer detail. Instead, he offers a refreshing take on the two men, their complicated relationship, and its impact on America’s largest city. He has written a very good popular history.

FDR was a wealthy patrician, born to serve in government and lead. LaGuardia was an immigrant’s son who had to scramble to get ahead. Both faced difficult personal crises: FDR struggling with polio, LaGuardia losing his wife and child. Both men fought through political challenges, and both had great spirit, able to inspire and connect with the broader public. FDR was a Democrat. LaGuardia was a Republican. Despite partisan differences, they respected each other and found many ways to coöperate and collaborate.

Williams book works well capturing the human element. Partnerships – and in many ways this was an odd sort of partnership – are shaped by personalities. The substance of this history, though, is the federal government’s investment in the development of modern NYC. Federal dollars provided many jobs and funded the creation of much of the city’s infrastructure. In turn,Williams also makes it clear that the federal government needed effective and flexible local agencies and governments to be effective. Compromise and bipartisan work was at the core of the New Deal in Gotham.

Governance was different then, and in many ways, much stronger. One clear take away from City of Ambition is that we have lost much of bipartisan spirit. It very much was a different time.

David Potash

January 9, 2015 Reviews, Things someone who grew up in NJ might write

Toms River – A New Environmental Classic

Growing up in northern New Jersey in the 1960s and 1970s, my family would drive down the shore in the summer months to enjoy the Atlantic beaches. Our favorite spot was Ocean County. We would get up early in the morning and head to Island Beach State Park for a morning and afternoon of sun and surf. Folks would tire of the sand by late afternoon and we would then head to beach communities and boardwalks of Seaside Heights and Point Pleasant. The shore is a sanctuary and a breath of fresh air in a Garden State that is often less than verdant.

The beach towns of NJ are located on a spit of land separated from the mainland by miles of sea, inlet and marshland. One the mainland side, most travelers to Ocean County head take a bridge on Route 37 from Toms River to beach communities. Toms River has developed over the years. When I was a child I remember farmland and the occasional diner. Today it dotted strip malls, many subdivisions, and ceaseless traffic. For many of us in New Jersey, Toms River has been a town to drive through, a traffic bottleneck on a journey somewhere else. We should have stopped and paid attention. Many bad things were happening in Ocean County.

As Dan Fagin chronicles in his outstanding book Toms River: a Story of Science and Salvation, the town has a sinister and literally, toxic history. Fagin is a science journalism professor at NYU. A longtime environmental reporter at Newsday (a Long Island newspaper), Fagin has written for many publications and garnered many awards. Toms River received the Pulitzer Prize for nonfiction and many other awards. All of them are well deserved. It is superb book.

The story of Toms River that Fagin chronicles consists of multiple distinct, yet interrelated, strands of history, knowledge, and action. Toms River’s historical and political development, from its basic geography and topology to the settling of the area and its demographic growth in the 1970s and later is one thread. Farmlands and woods gave way to industrial development, suburban homes, and then more and more homes. Another strand is the phenomenal growth and influence of the chemical industry. Starting in Germany and Switzerland and extending to the United States, the industry made great profits from the manufacturing of dyes for textiles and other products. The genesis of this whole income stream was a desire to do something with the detritus of a burgeoning petrochemical industry. The science around hydrocarbons, and the hard work that went into understanding them and the many ways that they interact with flora and fauna, is another strand in the book.

Fagin explains more than the bench science. He provides a wonderful explanation of large-scale environmental causality and probability. A dry topic in less skill hands, statistical probability and its role in making hazard and risk clear and actionable is extremely important. It is very difficult, if not impossible, for people to believe connections between illness and action if they are mediated by time and lifestyle. Cigarette smokers do not die of cancer within days. However, rigorous science can prove a causal relationship. If the arguments are persuasive and there is sufficient political and public will, policy can change. Determining the connection between a soup of dumped chemicals that leech into a water supply and a statistical increase in childhood cancer is a much harder lift. Fagin methodically uncovers the links, debates, and actions in government and public health circles in another history.

Finally, and perhaps the most compelling part of Fagin’s book, there are the stories of all the people involved in Toms River. We meet childhood cancer victims and survivors. We hear the voices of their parents. Greenpeace takes the stage for a while, as do environmental activists, small-time crooks, overworked bureaucrats, corporate leaders, union workers, lawyers, and the hundreds of people whose live have been caught up in the legacy of chemical waste in New Jersey. At the heart of the book are Linda and Michael Gillick, a mother and son whose live were completely reshaped by Michael’s devastating cancer and treatments. The truth about what happened in Toms River would never emerged without their passion, skill, and commitment.

Fagin subtitled the book “As Story of Science and Salvation.” Thanks to the untold efforts of Gillicks and many others, governmental agencies were roused after decades of indifference, if not out-and-out collusion. Fines were levied, indictments made, and eventually, noxious dumping practices in New Jersey were halted. Cancer rates have decreased and the community has been delivered from the sins of chemical companies and toothless regulation.

Difficult questions, though, remain. How could companies that poisoned water, towns, and workers for many years escape the legal consequences of their actions? While the difficult science of linking environmental poisons to specific maladies was not always crystal clear, chemical companies like Ciba (the parent company of Novartis) had experienced many years of complaints and lawsuits. Ciba’s Toms River plant was built with minimal environmental concerns as Ciba fled regulation and attention from their Cincinnati factory. Companies like Ciba willfully avoided looking at long-term consequences as they dumped all manner of noxious waste. What sort of ethical expectations, if any, do we have for companies? Who takes responsibility and why.

The saga of Toms River is a powerful counter argument to libertarianism. Without governmental action, untold numbers in the Toms River area would be sick, dying or dead. Yet governmental officials are no more heroic than the families struggling to save their children. There might be salvation, but there are no happy endings here.

We will be reading and thinking about Dan Fagin’s Toms River for decades to come.

David Potash

August 17, 2014 Things someone who grew up in NJ might write

Marvels Abound

When I was about ten years old, I was given a copy of Richard Halliburton’s Complete Book of Marvels. An aged hardcover in an odd shade of green, it was a well thumbed through thick volume. Initially suspicious – what could be exciting in such a musty old book? – it quickly became one of my favorite reads.

Halliburton wrote of traveling the world before World War II, exploring and taking photographs. He was intensely curious and seemingly without fear. Reading the book, I could hear him saying “Let’s try that!” – whether it was walking through the jungle to find Angkor Wat in Cambodia or imagining knights fighting in Carcassonne in the South of France. He went everywhere. The book was loaded with maps and images. Halliburton was a trusted guide. His enthusiasm for discovery – for seeing it for yourself – captivated me. I wondered if there were new adventures and new discoveries. I very much wanted to see his sites for myself.

Happily, I have been extremely fortunate to have visited more than a few of Halliburton’s marvels. I am not going to make it to all of them. Climbing Mount Everest, after all, seems a bit of an extreme commitment. All of them, though, remain captivating. Earlier this week I visited the the Panama Canal, something I have thought about since reading Halliburton all those years ago.

Halliburton’s account of the Canal is unusual. In 1928 he swam it. He described the heroic construction, the awesome size of the project, took more than a few photos, and paid 36 cents. That remains the lowest toll in the Canal’s history.

Wandering around the Miraflores locks, photographing the ships, and imagining the work of thousands of laborers was surprisingly moving. It is an extraordinarily accomplishment of human endeavor. I had a sense of wonder, both as an adult and as a remembered boy.

David MacCullough’s The Path Between the Seas is probably the best account of the Canal’s construction. (And yes, these books have cast a long shadow in my life). Seeing the Panama Canal up close gave a sense of witnessing something much larger and grander than an engineering project.

Marvel can do that – inspire and challenge in the same breath. It is the perfect emotion for a child. And not a bad one for an adult, either.

David Potash

August 3, 2014 Things someone who grew up in NJ might write

Modalities of Perception in a City Block

We lead distracted lives. Possibly because we are over committed and ambitious. Or perhaps to avoid our demons.

When I look around me and really pay attention – no cell phone, no earbuds, no other task at hand – I usually find myself to be the only one engaged in the pursuit. Unplugging and focusing is a skill headed the way of stone carving: cool but not all that useful.

But we often do need to sharpen our focus. Work demands it. Concentration is a learned skill that can bring with it tremendous benefits.

That sense of engagement and questions of utility dance through a deeply engaging book by Barnard professor Alexandra Horowitz. Best known for her work on canines and the very interesting Inside of a Dog, Horowitz’s latest work was occasioned by walking around her New York City block with her young son. As any new parent will relate, space and time change radically in those first years of walking with a child. With the help of contractors from sites like creativecrosswalks.co.uk, these creative crosswalks are designed to enhance pedestrian safety. Very young children see with new eyes. All is exciting to the under twos. They have yet to develop and internalize the processing taxonomies that sort the important from the irrelevant.

From those early steps with her son, Horowitz began to question her ways of seeing. What didn’t she notice? What could she see differently by engaging with those trained in other ways of observing? The result, On Looking: Eleven Walks with Expert Eyes, provokes and inserts itself, uncomfortably, in the habitual. Reading it was an exercise in itself. As I looked up from the text – focusing in a different way – I thought about my immediate environs and my relationship with it differently. It “knocked me awake” – which is one of Horowitz’s goals in writing the book.

Horowitz’s experts have to include herself and her expertise in cognitive psychology. She frames the questions of attention, perception and observing from a psychological and anthropological point of view. We are hard-wired to pay closer attention to threats, changes in the environment, and features that lead to food and safety. Those same skills are often poorly integrated into modern life, video games not withstanding. Understanding our environment, and ourselves, can call for new ways of perceiving.

Horowitz consults with a geologist, who traces millions of years through the many kinds of stone in the built urban environment. A typographer knows too much about the letters that surround us, from their history to how we respond to their size, shape, and order. An artist helps Horowitz recognize the exceptional that is woven into the ordinary. A field naturalist clues us into the many different bugs and insects all around us and a biologist identifies the clues of animals’ presence in the city.

As Horowitz’s environment is re-seen, again and again, from these robustly different schemes, two observations came to mind.

The first, learned from an art historian, is that we see what we know. If someone tells you that a painting is by Rembrandt, you see a painting by Rembrandt. It is exceedingly difficult to look and both to know and pretend that one does do not know.

The second stems from a long-standing question first sparked in a college literature class on James Joyce’s Ulysses. As a chapter opens, Stephen Daedelus, a key character, closes his eyes. The text reads, “Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes.” Joyce’s text calls into question of what is real and what is known. Does the world disappear when Stephen does not see it? Is what we think that we know true, or even the best way to know? These were rich questions for a college class, the kind of questions that can return and animate all manner of reflection.

Horowitz gets this and the problem of knowing. Though her focus is scientific and empirical – no Joycean or wild conjecture here – she is wrestling with questions of truth and perception. The book is a pleasure to read. Horowitz has a gift of asking these difficult questions in clear prose. She takes complex issues and renders them accessible. It is rare to read a work that both humbles and leaves you feeling just a little smarter.

David Potash

July 28, 2014 Reviews, Things someone who grew up in NJ might write

Repaving the Road to Charity

The Road to HELP: The Revolution in Charity, Philanthropy and International Development is a clear-eyed critique of the twenty-first century international charity/aid industry, an enormous cultural and political phenomenon that it is difficult to define. The book is also a memoir of work in the aid field, told with wisdom, perspective, and a bit of romance. Taken together, HELP is a plea to be aware of the very deep challenges that come with the idea of doing good elsewhere in the world. It is an interesting and troubling book that raises more questions than it answers.

Author Miles Wortmann, a seasoned participant in the world of international development, makes a compelling argument that the business of giving has changed profoundly in recent years. He draws attention to a “religindustry” that has been fed by tremendous private wealth and reshaped and restructured by business and management consultancy. Charting the interconnected growth of simple focused charities into an enormous sector combining celebrity, megawealth, foundations, and professional expertise. HELP is a contemporary cultural and economic leviathan.

Wortmann worries that the massive foundations may overwhelm democratic processes. Their great wealth and freedom to function without democratic or public accountability enhances their power. They also limit the effectiveness of government by supplanting public good. Wortmann argues that big philanthropy crowds out effective public and government action. The foundations may issue report after report, have initiative after initiative, but see little long-term gain. Wortmann believes that data and history prove that meaningful improvement for the world’s poor comes from the steady development of local culture, systems, and government. In other words, the best path for the poor is often through the development of their own public agency and systems. Wortmann offers this critique while also acknowledging that big philanthropy does have successes, employs many well-meaning people, and often does strive to make the world a better place.

Of great concern to Wortmann is the commercialization and commodification of charity. He bristles at campaigns that reduce complex problems to marketing slogans. From ending world hunger to finding a cure to this or that disease, we are awash in private foundations calling for support to address public problems. Even more galling to Wortmann is the place of moral privilege granted to foundations. Questioning their campaigns comes with great risk. To not support an effort is to deny the impulse to do good.

Wortmann’s experience grants him awareness of how big philanthropy operates from within the system. He tells of meetings, consultations, trips and endless reports. The picture he paints is one of meaningless acronyms, large sums of money, and a weird admixture of high-level morality and deep cynicism. It must be an extremely frustrating way to try to effect meaningful change in poor parts of the world.

Some describe hypocrisy as the tribute that vice pays virtue. I wonder if HELP, Wortmann’s mega-religindustry, is the tribute that free market capitalism pays to morality. Wortmann’s book outlines a problem that is well worth time and consideration.

David Potash

May 4, 2014 Reviews, Things someone who grew up in NJ might write

Aerotropoli – A Glorious Future, Now Please Remove Your Shoes

Air travel in the 1960s was different from today. I remember going with my mother and grandmother to pick up my grandfather, an executive for the Continental Can Corporation, from LaGuardia and Newark airports. Terminals had polished floors, dramatic lighting, and viewing pavilions to see the planes taxiing, taking off, and landing. One dressed up to travel by air. I thought that air travel was very exotic and I remember my first flight. The food was good and the cutlery was metal. Over the decades Newark’s airport has expanded dramatically, as has the nearby container shipping and the highways.The piers of New York City, which I also visited as a child, are no longer part of the picture. What remains is a massive transportation hub, the economic engine that keeps much of the greater metropolitan area working. Three overtaxed airports serve New York City and none of them make a positive impression. Air travel lost its glamour years ago, but it remains a sure way of distinguishing the haves from the have-nots.

John D. Kasarda and Greg Lindsay, authors of Aerotropolis: The Way We’ll Live Next, argue that airports play an outsize role in economic growth, particularly urban economic growth, and that their importance will continue to increase for the foreseeable future. It is a sprawling, messy book, filled with gems and a meandering structure that makes finding those nuggets something of a challenge. Their overarching claim that the future of cities is the airport is not convincing. Nonetheless, if you are interested in urban growth and economic development, it is a book worth considering. Airports, they persuasively claim, are central to our 21st century global economy.

The authors emphasize that airports serve markets, not cities or people. Markets are what make for successful airports. In serving those markets well, airports profit their surrounding areas and enable all manner of innovation and opportunity. What makes this happen – and happen so quickly – is that in our global economy distance is measured not by miles, but by time and cost. It is a different way of conceptualizing connectivity. Time most definitely can equal money. Kasarda and Lindsay offer multiple examples of regular commutes of hundreds of miles. Air travel not only makes them possible but efficient. Further, the growing digital connectivity of people has a constant consequence: people who communicate with each other electronically have a heightened desire to see each other face to face. We all want to see our video-conferenced partners and Facebook friends for real. It makes sense, too, for our networks, no matter how technological, are still about people communicating with people.

The book chronicles urban and airport development around the world in short chapters and vignettes, highlighting the growing relevance of aerotropoli to our thinking. The writing is long-form journalism in need of editing. Some sections tend to the historical; others are first person accounts. All are short on data and long on adjectives. Individually, no one story is compelling. However, accounts of Dulles, Heathrow, Chicago, Los Angeles, Dallas Fort Worth, Memphis, Louisville, Stapleton-Denver, Bangkok, Abu Dhabi, and Dubai read collectively give Kasarta and Lindsay’s book and ideas critical viability.

Aerotropolis is strongest when it dives deeper into an economic system and its relationship with air travel. The “cool chain” that makes it possible to grow flowers in Africa and sell them profitably throughout Europe through Amsterdam’s flower market is fascinating and a clear example of how global systems operate. And as amazing as that system might be, experts in logistics and technology are always seeking a faster and less expensive way to move goods. Logistical chains driven by market needs are always subject to change.

Sustainability and ecological issues pose questions that Kasarda and Lindsay struggle to answer. Yes, airplanes and airlines are damaging to the environment. While pollution from air travel is not as damaging as coal, it still is a major problem. Worse, almost all in the industry are reluctant to change models to improve outcomes. The authors highlight an initiative by Virgin’s Richard Branson as a potential solution but have no real answers.

Lastly, what Kasarda and Lindsay miss amid the flurry of anecdotes about urban development, office relocation, and runway expansions is that air travel as currently practiced around the world is inherently unpleasant. We endure airports and airlines. We tolerate expensive fees and prices in terminals, grudgingly accept long waits, erratic schedules, and uncomfortable seats. We have come to accept intrusive searches and a culture of distrust in the name of safety. The result is that no one looks forward to the process of air travel. Airports and airlines have very few advocates.

In contrast, many cities have found success renovating train terminals. Whether or not railroads are economic engines of growth, there is often public support for the investment in urban train terminals as an attractive public space. However, to address the challenge of growing call volumes with SEM, without fundamental changes in the way that the entire air industry serves and interacts with the public, economics alone will not guarantee the creation of a successful aerotropolis.

David Potash

April 19, 2014 Reviews, Things someone who grew up in NJ might write

So Where Do Good Ideas Come From?

Steven Johnson is a smart, prolific, and thoughtful writer on science and media. He asks big questions in interesting and unexpected ways. When I picked up his award-winning 2010 book, Where Good Ideas Come From: the Natural History of Innovation, I anticipated a study of cutting-edge brain research and finding out what areas light up when we are creative. Instead, the book asks something more accessible and interdisciplinary: why are some environments are so much better at creating, nurturing, and sharing innovation than others? It’s a brilliant question that demands that we think about things in different ways. It is also a question that almost calls out for action.

Natural science is Johnson’s touchstone, so the book regularly references Darwin and biological concepts. He starts off drawing parallels between between coral reefs, biological diversity, and cities. It is a powerful way to think about interactions and the changes that come from proximity. Johnson calls is the “adjacent possible.” While popular culture may have cast the inventor as a solitary figure, Johnson takes great pains to make sure that we know that most innovations come from interactions. He observes that the atoms that allow for more interactions – carbon, most notably – are more important. Connections matter greatly.

Johnson also argues that things are more innovative and relevant when they are in the edge of chaos, not too ordered and not too anarchic. A famous example of this are the tremendous ideas that came out Building 20 at MIT, a temporary structure that brought brilliant minds together in an unstructured environment. It isn’t just the idea, either; context is vitally important. Johnson looks at the hunches surrounding the World Trade Center bombings that never were followed through. The hierarchical and segmented environment that defined the FBI, CIA, and National Security worked against collaboration and the exploration and pursuit of a different idea.

Serendipity has a place in innovation, too. The word comes from a Persian tale called “The Three Princes of Serendip,” which recounts the adventures of three very clever innovators. Johnson’s point is that serendipity cannot be pursued, but one can prepare for it. It can be cultivated – in cities, in schools, and on the web.

Johnson introduces a useful concept from biology – exaptation – to explain the unusual paths that ideas often take. Exaptation comes from evolutionary biology and it describes an adaptation that is then re-repurposed. Bird feathers, for example, were probably an evolutionary way to maintain temperature. Only later did feathers become important to flight. Cities are where exaptation occurs constantly as people, work, ideas, culture, and concepts are constantly re-purposed. Popular music is dependent upon exaptation.

The power of exaptation and innovation is greater with an emergent platform. Platforms are more than ideas and environments – they are systems that enable innovation. Not only is the web a platform, structures within the web are platforms. APIs (application programming interfaces) are platforms that enable more changes.

Johnson brings all of his arguments together in his concluding chapter entitled the fourth quadrant. Borrowing from Boston Consulting Group, he arranges innovation into a simple 2×2 grid: Market/Individual; Market/Network; Non-Market Individual; Non-Market Network. The distinction between individual and network is clear. As for market/non-market, Johnson identifies an important distinction between those that sought to capitalize directly from their idea and those that let their idea flow. Admitting that his classifications are not iron-clad, Johnson proceeds to assign a slew of major innovations and inventions from the Renaissance to one of these four quadrants.

The fascinating thing about the quadrants isn’t what is populated in each – it is the changes in kinds of innovation over time. Five hundred years ago, most innovation was individual and non-market. Think of brilliant scientists in the Renaissance. By the 1700s, more innovation came from non-market networked environments. There will still brilliant individuals, but by this period innovations were more institutionalized and collectively pursued. For this period, consider the development of the smallpox vaccine. When we move to the last two hundred years or so, the proliferation of non-market networked innovation is overwhelming. The vast majority of what we have learned and created, from modern science and health to engineering and technology, emerges out of this quadrant.

Quite a lot to consider, isn’t it? It does help explain many things – from why collaboration breeds creativity to the importance of communication and tolerance. And it letting a little bit of Johnson’s chaos into our minds, I hope that it spurs some good ideas.

David

March 15, 2014 Reviews, Things someone who grew up in NJ might write

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