Britain's GDP fell again in the fourth quarter of 2012, raising the specter of a triple-dip recession
Britain's economy is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, but this much is clear: it's a disaster. After its Olympics-fueled growth, such as it was, lifted it out of recession in the third quarter of 2012, Britain might be headed back after its economy fell 0.3 percent at the end of the year -- the fourth time in five quarters its GDP has contracted. Britain's now verging on a triple-dip recession, which is just another way of saying a depression.
But it's not so simple.
Britain is stuck in its worst GDP slump in a century, but not so for jobs. As you can see in the chart below from Jonathan Portes, the director of the National Institute of Economic and Social Research, Britain's stagnating economy has left it in worse shape at this point of its recovery than it was during the Great Depression. GDP is still more than 3 percent below its 2008 peak, and it hasn't done anything to catchup in years. At this pace, there will be no recovery in our time, or any other time.
It's no accident this era of zero growth has coincided with an era of austerity. Despite entering office with borrowing costs at 50-year lows, the Cameron coalition decided the government deficit, and not the growth deficit, was the chief threat to future prosperity. It raised taxes and cut the growth of spending, but did so with little regard for what constituted smart cuts and what did not. As Portes points out, public net investment -- things like roads and bridges and schools, and everything else the economy needs to grow -- has fallen by half the past three years, and is set to fall even further the next two. It's the economic equivalent of shooting yourself in both feet, just in case shooting yourself in one doesn't completely cripple you. Austerity has driven down Britain's borrowing costs even further, but that's been due to investors losing faith in its recovery, rather than having more faith in its public finances. Indeed, weak growth has kept deficits from coming down all that much, despite the higher taxes and slower spending. In other words, it's economic pain for no fiscal gain.
But the story of Britain's flatlining growth isn't just one of ignoring Keynes' maxim that the boom, not the slump, is the time for austerity. It's more like an economic whodunit. The euro crisis -- yes, we're rounding up the usual suspects -- has kept Britain from exporting its way out of trouble, as its largest trading partner, the euro zone, has been too busy flirting with breakup and recession to buy as much stuff as it otherwise would. It hasn't helped that some of Britain's big productivity industries like oil and finance have gone into what might be the start of long-term declines; the North Sea oil and gas fields and the City of London have both shed output and jobs. But this downtrend in Britain's top industries doesn't nearly explain the real puzzle of its economy -- the collapse in productivity.
In other words, the disconnect between GDP and jobs. While the economy is, at best, stuck in neutral, Britain has been adding jobs at a better-than-decent clip the past year or so. Unemployment recently reached an 18-month low, and, in absolute terms, more people have a job today than in 2008 (though underemployment is a problem). This combination of zero GDP growth with positive job growth means Britain is working more to do less. Richard Davies of The Economist calculates Britain is 12 percent less productive today than it was at similar points in other recoveries -- and the decline of the North Sea fields and the City probably only explain 1-2 percentage points of this gap. That leaves a pair of, hardly mutually exclusive, possibilities: either Britain has some serious GDP mismeasurement problems or some serious economic problems, full stop. The former is usually the case any time there's an apparent disparity between GDP and jobs data, but the disparity is so large and so persistent in this case that it seems something else is going on. Davies hypothesizes zombie firms are starving new, more productive firms, for credit, which may well be true, but, again, doesn't seem to explain the full scope of the disaster.
The good news, if there is any, is Britain just poached Mark Carney, one of the top central bankers in the world, to run the Bank of England, and he seems determined to do more than his predecessor to get the country out of its economic rut. And that's it. There is no other good news. Thank goodness for stiff upper lips.
The Islamic State is no mere collection of psychopaths. It is a religious group with carefully considered beliefs, among them that it is a key agent of the coming apocalypse. Here’s what that means for its strategy—and for how to stop it.
What is the Islamic State?
Where did it come from, and what are its intentions? The simplicity of these questions can be deceiving, and few Western leaders seem to know the answers. In December, The New York Times published confidential comments by Major General Michael K. Nagata, the Special Operations commander for the United States in the Middle East, admitting that he had hardly begun figuring out the Islamic State’s appeal. “We have not defeated the idea,” he said. “We do not even understand the idea.” In the past year, President Obama has referred to the Islamic State, variously, as “not Islamic” and as al-Qaeda’s “jayvee team,” statements that reflected confusion about the group, and may have contributed to significant strategic errors.
In the name of emotional well-being, college students are increasingly demanding protection from words and ideas they don’t like. Here’s why that’s disastrous for education—and mental health.
Something strange is happening at America’s colleges and universities. A movement is arising, undirected and driven largely by students, to scrub campuses clean of words, ideas, and subjects that might cause discomfort or give offense. Last December, Jeannie Suk wrote in an online article for The New Yorker about law students asking her fellow professors at Harvard not to teach rape law—or, in one case, even use the word violate (as in “that violates the law”) lest it cause students distress. In February, Laura Kipnis, a professor at Northwestern University, wrote an essay in The Chronicle of Higher Education describing a new campus politics of sexual paranoia—and was then subjected to a long investigation after students who were offended by the article and by a tweet she’d sent filed Title IX complaints against her. In June, a professor protecting himself with a pseudonym wrote an essay for Vox describing how gingerly he now has to teach. “I’m a Liberal Professor, and My Liberal Students Terrify Me,” the headline said. A number of popular comedians, including Chris Rock, have stopped performing on college campuses (see Caitlin Flanagan’s article in this month’s issue). Jerry Seinfeld and Bill Maher have publicly condemned the oversensitivity of college students, saying too many of them can’t take a joke.
Scores of highly qualified students are failing to secure spots at the Golden State’s public universities.
Monday was the deadline to apply for a coveted spot as a University of California student. For certain UC hopefuls, that deadline marked the culmination of years of sleep deprivation and SAT prep, writing-center visits, new extracurriculars, and one last frenzied Thanksgiving break.
But a majority of this year’s UC applicants won’t be admitted. That’s true for both in- and out-of-state students; even some of the brightest and most qualified of the bunch won’t make the cut. The UC system famously ranks among the Ivies and other elite colleges when it comes to selectivity. California’s 1960 Master Plan for Higher Education built exclusivity into the university’s brand, guaranteeing tuition-free admission to the top 12.5 percent of California’s public high-school graduates. Today, even as California’s high-school population grows in size and in ability, the plan’s enrollment thresholds remain fixed in place. The Campaign for College Opportunity, a nonprofit that advocates for access to higher education for all Californians, released a report on Monday suggesting the state is far from providing every in-state student a chance to pursue such education. And according to Michele Siqueiros, the CCO’s president, that means “students need to be virtually perfect to get a spot at the University of California.”
Mark Zuckerberg and Priscilla Chan on Tuesday announced the arrival of their daughter and pledged to give away 99 percent of their Facebook shares.
Mark Zuckerberg and Priscilla Chan announced the birth of their daughter Max on Tuesday in a long and heartfelt note on Facebook. The birth announcement was accompanied by something that quickly eclipsed news of their bundle of joy: A pledge to give away the majority of their fortune to a charitable initiative that will focus on “personalized learning, curing disease, connecting people and building strong communities.”
We will give 99% of our Facebook shares -- currently about $45 billion -- during our lives to advance this mission. We know this is a small contribution compared to all the resources and talents of those already working on these issues. But we want to do what we can, working alongside many others.
Without the financial support that many white families can provide, minority young people have to continually make sacrifices that set them back.
The year after my father died, I graduated from grad school, got a new job, and looked forward to saving for a down payment on my first home, a dream I had always had, but found lofty. I pulled up a blank spreadsheet and made a line item called “House Fund.”
That same week I got a call from my mom—she was struggling to pay off my dad’s funeral expenses. I looked at my “House Fund” and sighed. Then I deleted it and typed the words “Funeral Fund” instead.
My father’s passing was unexpected. And so was the financial burden that came with it.
For many Millennials of color, these sorts of trade-offs aren’t an anomaly. During key times in their lives when they should be building assets, they’re spending money on basic necessities and often helping out family. Their financial future is a rocky one, and much of it comes down to how much—or how little—assistance they receive.
The competition is fierce, the key players are billionaires, but the path—and even the destination—remains uncertain.
The race to bring driverless cars to the masses is only just beginning, but already it is a fight for the ages. The competition is fierce, secretive, and elite. It pits Apple against Google against Tesla against Uber: all titans of Silicon Valley, in many ways as enigmatic as they are revered.
As these technology giants zero in on the car industry, global automakers are being forced to dramatically rethink what it means to build a vehicle for the first time in a century. Aspects of this race evoke several pivotal moments in technological history: the construction of railroads, the dawn of electric light, the birth of the automobile, the beginning of aviation. There’s no precedent for what engineers are trying to build now, and no single blueprint for how to build it.
Why are so many kids with bright prospects killing themselves in Palo Alto?
The air shrieks, and life stops. First, from far away, comes a high whine like angry insects swarming, and then a trampling, like a herd moving through. The kids on their bikes who pass by the Caltrain crossing are eager to get home from school, but they know the drill. Brake. Wait for the train to pass. Five cars, double-decker, tearing past at 50 miles an hour. Too fast to see the faces of the Silicon Valley commuters on board, only a long silver thing with black teeth. A Caltrain coming into a station slows, invites you in. But a Caltrain at a crossing registers more like an ambulance, warning you fiercely out of its way.
The kids wait until the passing train forces a gust you can feel on your skin. The alarms ring and the red lights flash for a few seconds more, just in case. Then the gate lifts up, signaling that it’s safe to cross. All at once life revives: a rush of bikes, skateboards, helmets, backpacks, basketball shorts, boisterous conversation. “Ew, how old is that gum?” “The quiz is next week, dipshit.” On the road, a minivan makes a left a little too fast—nothing ominous, just a mom late for pickup. The air is again still, like it usually is in spring in Palo Alto. A woodpecker does its work nearby. A bee goes in search of jasmine, stinging no one.
As the public’s fear and loathing surge, the frontrunner’s durable candidacy has taken a dark turn.
MYRTLE BEACH, South Carolina—All politicians, if they are any good at their craft, know the truth about human nature.
Donald Trump is very good, and he knows it better than most.
Trump stands alone on a long platform, surrounded by a rapturous throng. Below and behind him—sitting on bleachers and standing on the floor—they fill this city’s cavernous, yellow-beige convention center by the thousands. As Trump will shortly point out, there are a lot of other Republican presidential candidates, but none of them get crowds anything like this.
Trump raises an orange-pink hand like a waiter holding a tray. “They are not coming in from Syria,” he says. “We’re sending them back!” The crowd surges, whistles, cheers. “So many bad things are happening—they have sections of Paris where the police are afraid to go,” he continues. “Look at Belgium, the whole place is closed down! We can’t let it happen here, folks.”
To fulfill its revolutionary promise, the gene-editing technique will need to be edited.
More than ever, we can view the genomes of humans and other organisms as drafts—not final and canonical texts, but rough copies to be tweaked and refined. Although scientists have been able to edit genomes for many decades, their tools were often cumbersome to work with, expensive to hire, or sloppy in their efforts. And some were frustratingly artisanal: Tools like zinc finger nucleases and TALENs are specific and powerful, but you effectively need to train a new bespoke editor for every edit you want to make.
By contrast, CRISPR, the youngest technique on the block, is cheaper, more versatile, and more precise than its predecessors. And scientists are racing to improve it even further, developing new versions that are even more efficient, that can subtly change the emphasis of genetic words rather than deleting them outright, and that make fewer mistakes.
Major Lazer's “Lean On” is the top-streamed song of the year, probably because it encapsulated a lot of its trends.
Today Spotify revealed that the most streamed song of 2015 is Major Lazer’s “Lean On,” featuring MØ and DJ Snake. With 540 million listens, it’s also the most streamed song of all time, a distinction that speaks to the newness of streaming itself. Next year, there may well be a new most-streamed song of all time. Or a few of them.
But there won’t be another “Lean On.” The Spotify data makes official that this is the 2015-est song of 2015, a bizarre little creation that would have sounded avant garde as of just a few years ago but now feels like collection of sounds on the cusp of tipping from trendy to tired. I bobbed my head a lot to “Lean On” this year; a big part of me hopes to never hear it again.