Unwittingly, the federal government did its part to create the modern consulting business. Starting in the last part of the nineteenth century, Washington made periodic regulatory efforts to curb the power of big business, including the 1890 Sherman Antitrust Act, the Federal Trade Commission Act and Clayton Act of 1914, and the Glass-Steagall Act of 1933. The intended effect of these measures was to prevent corporations from colluding with one another to fix prices and otherwise manipulate the markets. The unintended effect, according to historian Christopher McKenna, was to accelerate the creation of an informal—but legal—way of sharing information among oligopolists. Who could do that? Consultants.
Regulatory efforts paid another rich benefit to the likes of McKinsey: Restricted from cutting backroom deals with each other, firms were thus obliged to actually compete, which meant they needed to make their operations more efficient. Here again, consultants were the answer.
But perhaps the circumstance that most aided the creation of the consulting industry was the entry of a new, key player into business itself. Empire builders with names like Carnegie, Duke, Ford, and Rockefeller had built huge, vertically integrated companies, but they had neither the time, the talent, nor the inclination to create and carry out management systems for those entities. These were the conquerors of capitalism, not its administrators. And yet, as Chandler pointed out, “their strategies of expansion, consolidation, and integration demanded structural changes and innovations at all levels of administration.”
Into the breach stepped a new economic actor who was neither capital nor labor: the professional manager. Gradually, he replaced the robber baron as the steward of American business.
Duff MacDonald, from The Making of McKinsey: A Brief History of Management Consulting in America
It’s an ephemeral amnesiac data flow, one that swaps the art world’s market-driven frenzy for networked global visibility. On Jogging, it’s not really the individual posts that count—the blog’s métier lies in its ceaseless and restless stream of information. The best images on Jogging are the ones that walk a fine line between sharp humor and weird ambiguity. Rather than being fully digested, these meme-like works are meant to be quickly favorited, reblogged, and forgotten. They embrace the blips and flickers of the screen, celebrating the life span of a meme as a metric for artistic legacy.
Kenneth Goldsmith, “The Writer as Meme Machine: How Has the Internet Altered Poetry?”
From the literary side, of course, the assumption has long been that poems are meant to be read, and so the mere idea of a poem made of words does not intervene in the discipline in the same way as conceptual art’s linguistic turn does. Indeed, the equivalent move for a poetry that wanted to model itself on conceptual art would be to posit a nonlinguistic object as “the poem.” That kind of conceptual poetry would insist on a poem without words. Although they often abandon traditional aesthetic criteria, none of the works included here attempts that kind of radical renominalization.
Craig Dworkin, from Against Expression
Everybody talks about disruption now," George Gilder, a technology writer and one time business partner of Christensen’s, says. "Clayton inserted that word in the mind of every CEO in technology. Everywhere you go, people explain that they’re disrupting this or they’re disrupting that. Every big company now tries to disrupt itself all the time, and it’s not clear to me that it’s always a good thing — companies that have a good business may prematurely disinvest from it because they see this inexorable process that Clayton describes.
Larissa MacFarquhar, “When Giants Fail”