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Masters of illusion: The great management consultancy swindle
It’s cost the NHS £300m and its practitioners are wielding the axe at magazine giant Condé Nast. But is it all just smoke and mirrors? Ex-management consultant Matthew Stewart recalls his career in the “efficiency business” – and reveals its dark arts
The Architect of 9/11
A month after 9/11, Fouad Ajami wrote in the New York Times Magazine, “I almost know Mohamed Atta, the Egyptian [at] the controls of the jet that crashed into the north tower of the World Trade Center.” While the Middle East scholar had never met the lead hijacker, Ajami knew his type: the young Arab male living abroad, tantalized by yet alienated from Western modernity, who retreats into fundamentalist piety. Eight years after 9/11, we still almost know Mohamed Atta. We can almost see him, a gaunt and spectral figure making his way through Hamburg’s red-light district en route to his radical storefront Al-Quds Mosque. We still vividly recall his ominous visa photograph. But the man in that photograph remains a cipher, his eyes vacant. How did those eyes see the world? #Sept11
A Bomb in Every Issue
How the Short, Unruly Life of Ramparts Magazine Changed America
Spinning in the Grave
The three biggest reasons music magazines are dying.
Frank Sinatra Has a Cold
Published in April 1966, one of the most celebrated magazine stories ever published, a pioneering example of what came to be called New Journalism.
The Brangelina industry
Each week celebrity magazines breathlessly report yet another twist in the Jen-Brad-Angelina love triangle. But where do the stories come from? Are they ever true? And does that even matter?
Rich People Things
My ill-starred tenure at New York magazine was, among other things, a crash course in the staggering unselfawareness of Manhattan class privilege. Sure, there was the magazine’s adoring, casual fascination with the “money culture”-a term deployed in editorial meetings without the faintest whiff of disapproval or critical distance. But more than that, there was the sashaying mood of preppy smugness that permeated nearly every interaction among the magazine’s editorial directorate—as when one majordomo tried to make awkward small talk with me by asking what it was like attending an urban public high school, or when another scion of the power elite would blithely take the credit for other people’s work and comically strategize to be seated prominently at the National Magazine Awards luncheon.