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I first read “Man and Superman”, Malcolm Gladwell’s piece on performance-enhancing drugs, at two in the morning. Unable to sleep, I was slumped on the couch stumbling through the Internet in the hope that my reclined position and mounting sleep debt would gradually overpower a small, glowing screen full of text.
It did not. Barely a quarter of the way through the piece, sleep was out of the question. My hackles raised in resolute response to this glittering turd of ethically reprehensible journalism.
Flushed and fuming, I tore through the article once, twice, again and again. Blood pressure rising, I angrily emailed my colleagues, unable to contain my horrified indignation. Clusters of frustration and abhorrence bombed my insomniac brain, and I fought the urge to wake my sleeping husband, to howl with him at the sheer absurdity of it all. Because to read Gladwell’s “Man and Superman” is to be completely misled.
Gladwell cherry-picks his way through the complicated fields of physiology, genetics, and sport to frame an argument that is not only ill-informed, it’s downright dangerous.
His...
It did not. Barely a quarter of the way through the piece, sleep was out of the question. My hackles raised in resolute response to this glittering turd of ethically reprehensible journalism.
Flushed and fuming, I tore through the article once, twice, again and again. Blood pressure rising, I angrily emailed my colleagues, unable to contain my horrified indignation. Clusters of frustration and abhorrence bombed my insomniac brain, and I fought the urge to wake my sleeping husband, to howl with him at the sheer absurdity of it all. Because to read Gladwell’s “Man and Superman” is to be completely misled.
Gladwell cherry-picks his way through the complicated fields of physiology, genetics, and sport to frame an argument that is not only ill-informed, it’s downright dangerous.
His...