Autumn of the Moguls: My Misadventures with the Titans, Poseurs, and Money Guys who Mastered and Messed Up Big Media. Michael Wolff
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countless play dates before him—are not very reliable reporters. They don’t readily perceive real estate or class differences (although this changes with adolescence when they become canny appraisers and breathy gossip columnists). This may be because an eight-year-old, as yet, lacks envy’s power of observation, and it may be too because the differences between upper-middle-class real estate and upper-class real estate is not, in Manhattan, all that great. Most truly grand apartments in Manhattan are four or five thousand square feet, an American professional’s right anywhere else. An overdecorated billionaire’s apartment on the Upper East Side is a doctor’s home in Scarsdale or Shaker Heights. In Manhattan, millions are in the nuances.
And so, as difficult as it is, and as disappointing as it is, I have learned not to ask too much of my children about other people’s lots in life.
The nanny was sharply calling Steven now. There was a clattering, and I heard an impermissible flying leap between the arms of two chairs, and then my son was flinging open the French doors which I look out of, over the laptop screen, as I work.
His eyes were large. His face lit. His shirt askew. It seemed like a vast sugar high, but more profound. Revelatory. It was one of those moments as a parent that you anticipate and dread—when some piece of information, some experience gained on a play date (i.e., the street) takes your child from you. I held my breath for his epiphany.
“IZZY,” he said, momentously, his voice soaring and eerily distorting, his eyes becoming ever more saucerlike, “IS RICH!”
I inquired closely and guiltily.
In the telling, Izzy occupied a Harry Potter apartment. Some fantastic and fabulous interior world.
Great halls and monumental public rooms.
A complete Toys
Marble.
Columns.
Statuary.
A bathroom as big as a whole normal apartment!
The most delicious cookies ever served anywhere.
Izzy’s father had gone to work at the New York Times just around the time when I did (for me it was the Watergate—Yom Kippur War—overthrow-of-Salvador Allende fall of 1973).
Manual typewriters—rows and rows of them on the third floor. Dirty linoleum floors. Rotary dial phones.
It was a preyuppie age. A prebusiness age. Another world, really.
I wonder if everyone in their careers finds themselves at some point thinking they are fundamentally from another era—and that they will be found out one embarrassing day.
Actually, I most wonder if there are people who have never experienced such a temporal break. Are there people whose lives and careers have a logical continuity?
There are, after all, still people—as though in some parallel world—in the New York Times newsroom. And while the floors are cleaner, and the office equipment up-to-date, they are still doing the same job that we used to do. I know many of these people, but I do not know if they know that, in a manner of speaking, the industrial revolution began and they stayed on the farm.
But perhaps they do know this, because among the two most irritating words to a generation of Times men are “Steve Rattner”—that is, Izzy’s father.
During the seven or eight years he was at the Times, Rattner did better than almost anybody else. He was really golden. New York, London, Washington: These were assignments that already put him in a sphere to make him one of the most powerful journalists in the world. His career path was the path of a Reston or Rosenthal or Frankel.
Now, no one, in that age, even far-lesser achievers, gave up the Times. It was like giving up the Church. You couldn’t replicate the career, you couldn’t improve upon it, you couldn’t substitute for it. Achievement at the Times, just being at the Times, was sui generis achievement.
Merely reaching the Times, like the priesthood or Harvard, was an accomplishment, and then, as a separate or additional process, you moved up inside the institution.
The exceptions were people who fell out because of weakness or eccentricity. Or you could in some risky, prodigal endeavor leave the Times to write. This was in some sense like leaving the priesthood for a contemplative order. Or like leaving the priesthood, in South America, to pursue revolutionary activities. But you didn’t and wouldn’t just leave the Times for some canny career reason.
Just as, one day, Steve Rattner did, upping and going into investment banking.
Everything argued against this. There was a line in the sand, deep and meaningful, between the business side and our side.
If you were one kind of person you couldn’t be the other kind of person.
These were inimical interests.
Male. Female.
And to discuss people who did business was hardly even to discuss people who did investment banking.
When Izzy’s father decided to leave the Times and become an investment banker, it was hardly clear—certainly hardly clear to virtually all the reporters at the New York Times—what investment banking even was. Or, at least, if it was anything grander than being a stockbroker.
In 1982, investment banking was still a dumb-dumb business. In the long shadow of the sixties, and the darkness of the no-growth seventies, Wall Street was a redoubt of C-students, and sons of former Wall Streeters (who were C-students).
So when Izzy’s father made this leap, crossed this chasm, he was seeing something that few other people saw—not just a series of opportunities, but, I think, a new identity.
There is a way that Rattner is described during his early years at the Times which is telling. First, he is always described. He is singled out. He is perceived as being different. Now this could mean that among highly ambitious people, which lots of people at the Times are (lots too, interestingly, are not ambitious at all—they are, in all aspects, lifers), he is just more ambitious. Or it could mean that his ambition is of a different order. Timesian ambition is very much of a corporate kind. It is Organization Man stuff. It is to rise up within the Times but always with the implicit understanding that without the Times you would be nothing. It’s a very precise individual-to-institution calculation. You are its product—almost never the other way around.
But there was something different when people talked about Steve Rattner. A further wariness. An additional respect. An uptick of interest. And often, an undercurrent of envy and dislike.
For his part, Rattner, a short, slight, fair young man, seemed cooler, more remote, more aware than others.
He began his Times career as James Reston’s assistant—which is something like beginning a legal career as a Supreme Court clerk. Chosen. This was, then, the most honored job for a young man in journalism.
From Reston’s office he went to the Metro desk and then, in the OPEC-obsessed seventies, to writing about energy and shuttling back and forth to the Middle East, and then, at 24, to the Washington Bureau.
As it happened, his Washington rotation intersected with that of the publisher’s son, Arthur Sulzberger Jr.
This circumstance of having the heir working in Washington, as a journalist among other journalists, is played, of course, as a normal one. But everyone knows it’s weird and loaded.
Now, nobody is at the New York Times by happenstance (whereas most people find themselves working in professions and at companies they couldn’t ever have anticipated—it’s pure randomness). Everybody who is at the Times has aimed for it, considered it for years, fetishized it in greater and lesser ways.
The Sulzberger family is a complicated part of this fetish. It is one of