In middle age some men take
up marathon running. Others climb the Matterhorn or buy a red sports car. Alan Rusbridger,
editor-in-chief of the Guardian, decides to master Chopin's First Ballade, Op
23. Following an epiphany during a French summer course, Rusbridger gives
himself a year to learn this fiercely demanding work, later extending his
self-imposed deadline when at various points Julian Assange and the families
Gaddafi and Murdoch eat into his practice schedule.
This is a journal of that
year: part piano diary, part day-by-day breakdown of what a 21st-century editor
actually does. The result is a unique melange of political and musical
reportage, meditations on music-making deftly interwoven with reflections on the
ever-changing newspaper industry. The frenetic pace of Rusbridger's working life
contrasts starkly with the tortoise-like speed of his pianistic progress,
documented through detailed, self-flagellating metronome marks. WikiLeaks kicks into touch
the problems of fingering and hand position; the hacking of Milly Dowler's phone puts
paid to memorising. Rusbridger's account of the volatile, dislikable Assange is
particularly compelling, and the ebb and flow of WikiLeaks runs as a strong
contrapuntal theme throughout the book. What's more, readers can now identify a
story of this magnitude as a marmalade dropper, aka, in tabloid circles, a Fuck
Me Doris.
In middle age some men take
up marathon running. Others climb the Matterhorn or buy a red sports car. Alan Rusbridger,
editor-in-chief of the Guardian, decides to master Chopin's First Ballade, Op
23. Following an epiphany during a French summer course, Rusbridger gives
himself a year to learn this fiercely demanding work, later extending his
self-imposed deadline when at various points Julian Assange and the families
Gaddafi and Murdoch eat into his practice schedule.
This is a journal of that
year: part piano diary, part day-by-day breakdown of what a 21st-century editor
actually does. The result is a unique melange of political and musical
reportage, meditations on music-making deftly interwoven with reflections on the
ever-changing newspaper industry. The frenetic pace of Rusbridger's working life
contrasts starkly with the tortoise-like speed of his pianistic progress,
documented through detailed, self-flagellating metronome marks. WikiLeaks kicks into touch
the problems of fingering and hand position; the hacking of Milly Dowler's phone puts
paid to memorising. Rusbridger's account of the volatile, dislikable Assange is
particularly compelling, and the ebb and flow of WikiLeaks runs as a strong
contrapuntal theme throughout the book. What's more, readers can now identify a
story of this magnitude as a marmalade dropper, aka, in tabloid circles, a Fuck
Me Doris.
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