As do many other people, but the difference between Malcolm Gladwell and the many, many successful authors who have written much more (and much better) is that

As do many other people, but the difference between Malcolm Gladwell and the many, many successful authors who have written much more (and much better) is that Gladwell lets his readers buy the vicarious enjoyment of success. It's just like watching an action-hero movie and feeling the thrill of being that brave, that strong, that resourceful, that much tougher than the bad guys. Except that Gladwell has managed to combine the best parts of reading a book about Vietnam and watching Rambo: First Blood Part II. You get the virtuous smart-person feeling of the former and the escapist fantasy of the latter. If Gladwell has any value, it's that he inspires us to imagine ourselves rising above our current limitations. He does for us as adults lusting after career success what books like the Hardy Boys adventures did for us as kids. And maybe we might elevate ourselves by acting out these fantasies in reality. However, in his article in the latest New Yorker (about the distance runner Alberto Salazar) he steps back from inspiration and embraces the vicarious, voyeuristic nature of his work. After taking us through the vicarious thrill of being so committed to winning that we run through our self-protective mental limits all the way up to the true limits of our bodies, eliminating all slack, he absolves us of responsibility: Salazar's competitive career ended ten years too early; Gladwell himself abandoned competitive running because he couldn't take the pain; we need feel no self-consciousness about failing to follow Salazar's insane example. The perfect time to read it would be while taking a nice break at work.