Almost immediately after the cryptocurrency exchange FTX imploded last November, an agent e-mailed Hollywood buyers to reveal that the writer Michael Lewis just happened to have spent the previous six months hanging around Sam Bankman-Fried. Lewis, the agent noted, “hadn’t written anything yet,” but the recent developments had provided “a dramatic surprise ending to the story.” Nobody would have argued that point. But Lewis didn’t appear to regard this unexpected climax the way everyone else did. According to the agent, the writer had likened Bankman-Fried’s archrival, Changpeng Zhao—who had helped set in motion the bank run that brought FTX down—to “the Darth Vader of crypto” and Bankman-Fried to Luke Skywalker. This might not have been a particularly weird thing to say a month earlier. But it was a very weird thing to say at a moment when Bankman-Fried’s alleged misdeeds had made him not simply the “main character” on Twitter but in much of the actual world. Bankman-Fried stood accused of having defrauded his exchange’s customers of something like eight billion dollars, which he had apparently used to prop up his flailing crypto-trading firm, Alameda Research. Furthermore, he had funnelled, or attempted to funnel, his illicit gains into all sorts of nonsense: naming rights to stadiums, Bahamian luxury real estate, a Pacific island where his confederates might ride out one minor apocalypse or another.
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة October 16, 2023 من The New Yorker.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك ? تسجيل الدخول
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة October 16, 2023 من The New Yorker.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك? تسجيل الدخول
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Kyungha-ya. That was the entirety of Inseon’s message: my name.
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President for Sale - A survey of today's political ads.
On a mid-October Sunday not long ago sun high, wind cool-I was in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, for a book festival, and I took a stroll. There were few people on the streets-like the population of a lot of capital cities, Harrisburg's swells on weekdays with lawyers and lobbyists and legislative staffers, and dwindles on the weekends. But, on the façades of small businesses and in the doorways of private homes, I could see evidence of political activity. Across from the sparkling Susquehanna River, there was a row of Democratic lawn signs: Malcolm Kenyatta for auditor general, Bob Casey for U.S. Senate, and, most important, in white letters atop a periwinkle not unlike that of the sky, Kamala Harris for President.
