Nobody does profiles like the New Yorker. That's partly because the pieces are so darn long; but it's more the degree of access and economy of prose which typifies this most brilliant of magazines. If you're beginning to tire, as many of us are, of the introduction which locates you firmly in a time and place - "On Saturday, July 2nd, 2011..." begins the latest one - forgive the writers, who are edited the hell out of, and just enjoy the brilliant depictions of fascinating characters. Fascinating characters like Elisabeth Murdoch, who Ken Auletta has profiled this week.
To give you a flavour, here's Auletta's final paragraph: 'I asked Murdoch a final question: How much of her drive was motivated by a desire to impress her father? “You’d love your parents to be proud of you,” she began. “Of course that influenced me. But not so much anymore, because I feel—how to say this?—I feel that I know who I am. Each time I tried to work in his company, he wasn’t impressed. I realized I had to just go and be myself.”'