This is an automatically translated description
To look at a genius through the eyes of his child.
Topic:
This is a story about the complex relationship between Apple founder Steve Jobs and his daughter Lisa. He carried her photo in his wallet, but told everyone that she was not his child. Her half-siblings called her "daddy's mistake". Lisa told her school that her father was Steve Jobs, but she saw him mostly on magazine covers and on TV. Eventually Jobs acknowledged her, but she still felt abandoned.
Who the book is for:
For the widest range of readers, everyone who is interested in biographies and memoirs, the personality of Steve Jobs.
Why this book:
«Kids» is not a typical biography of Steve Jobs, but a frank story of one of the people closest to him - his own daughter. Through dialogues and life stories, Lisa reveals Jobs' deepest traits with his weaknesses, dark sides, and unpredictable actions, and describes the last reclusive years of her father's life.
About the author:
Lisa Brennan-Jobs — is an American journalist and columnist for Southwest Review, Massachusetts Review, Harvard Advocate, and Vogue. Her debut book is one of the top 10 books of 2018 according to the New York Times and the New Yorker.
Books on similar topics:
• «Tim Cook. The CEO who took Apple to a new level» Leander Kenny, «Our Format», 2019
• «Crash. My failure in a startup bubble Dan Lyons, «Our Format», 2018
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Reviews:
«This book takes the reader into the heart of a child who admired Jobs' genius, craved his love, and feared his unpredictability." «The author does not seek to evoke sympathy or revenge. She is trying to make sense of a relationship that has become mired in uncomfortable and unexpected situations." Guardian Quotes: On perceiving my father On imitating Steve Jobs On the peculiarities of my father's character
Publishers Weekly
His photographs were a strange shock to me: Like when you suddenly notice yourself in a mirror across the room and think it's someone else, and then realise it's your face. That's how he looked at me from magazines, newspapers and screens, no matter what city I was in. It's my father, no one knows it, but it's true.
I jumped from one image to another: on weekend mornings, I was my father's faithful, just like him, real, like jeans, Stanford Hills and Bob Dylan. Sometimes dimples appeared on his cheeks; I knew how to make the same ones. I didn't eat meat, butter, or cream, like he did. Out of love for him, I adopted his gait, with a lurch forward with each step, and, like him, I started saying «like» — like this, like that, — I thought it sounded cool.
When my father attacked someone, the safest thing to do was to stay close to him. I wanted to constantly cross this invisible line between danger and safety, the outer circle and the inner circle, and the price for being safe was to watch him attack this woman. The suffering did not decrease or increase; it was transferred from one person to another. If I jumped out of the circle to protect her, he could attack me.