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It was fun, we got to look at different things together… looking at font serifs is fun.

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Looking back, she says, she supposes this was somewhat naive; clearly his ability to engage with Brennan-Jobs and her mother was indexed to what was happening at Apple. She adds quickly that she never did wish failure on him. To let me be the star, probably. And at such a young age, and so used to the spotlight, and to everybody fawning on him It is still slightly amazing that she dared to write any of this. When she was eight, it was established that she would spend every Wednesday night at his house, but she became so anxious that she wet the bed and her mother made other arrangements.

This book would surely have enraged the control-freak side of Jobs, and yet, she believes, he gave her tacit permission. And he kept on repeating it and crying.

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And so she did something shrewdly calculating: she called Aaron Sorkin, who was writing the screenplay, and arranged to have coffee with him. And I did love my father. And so I sought Sorkin out, just to make sure he knew I was a human being. He deprived himself.


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And after all, her life has been successful. You could hardly pay attention to other things because you were so worried about him. And he kept on trying, even though he kept on failing. Because when he was engaged with work, he was often delightful. It was fun, we got to look at different things together… looking at font serifs is fun. Looking back, she says, she supposes this was somewhat naive; clearly his ability to engage with Brennan-Jobs and her mother was indexed to what was happening at Apple. She adds quickly that she never did wish failure on him.

To let me be the star, probably. And at such a young age, and so used to the spotlight, and to everybody fawning on him It is still slightly amazing that she dared to write any of this. When she was eight, it was established that she would spend every Wednesday night at his house, but she became so anxious that she wet the bed and her mother made other arrangements.

This book would surely have enraged the control-freak side of Jobs, and yet, she believes, he gave her tacit permission. And he kept on repeating it and crying. And he was very serious about it. But when he got ill, she remembered the other stuff. And so she did something shrewdly calculating: she called Aaron Sorkin, who was writing the screenplay, and arranged to have coffee with him.

And I did love my father. And so I sought Sorkin out, just to make sure he knew I was a human being.

He deprived himself. He had one house.

But if he could go back, I imagine he would not have done to us what he did when I was little. Did you love who you loved as well as you could? Jobs would seem to have failed substantially at the love part of these aphorisms, but the point, says his daughter, is that he tried. And when, for example, he snapped her head off for asking about the Porsche?

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That was so important to me. Being in New York is important, too. Her father loved California and she needed to find space for herself elsewhere. In spite of his regret and his sorrow, in some ways her dad was himself up until the very end, and there is consolation in that, too — the integrity of even an unpleasant truth.

The Love Child

Now on weekends when he was around, my father came over to take me skating, my mother waving goodbye to us as we set off. I was nine. He was in the process of starting a new company called NeXT that would make computer hardware and software. I knew he also owned a computer animation company called Pixar that made a short film about two lamps, a parent and child. I assumed small fry meant the kind of french fries left at the bottom of the bag, cold and crusty; I thought he was calling me a runt, or misbegotten.

Later, I learned fry is an old word for young fishes sometimes thrown back into the sea to give them more time to grow. Sometimes he worried he was getting too thin. The palm trees that gave Palm Drive its name grew in the dirt between the sidewalk and the road. We looked up at the hills beyond the university — from far away they appeared smooth and unblemished.

The neon-green blades shot up through the dirt clods two or three days after the first heavy rain and remained through winter. We reached the Oval and then the Stanford quadrangle with its covered, shaded pathways made of diamonds of cement in alternating earth-toned colours, like a faded harlequin costume. He leaned down and grasped under my armpits — I was small for my age — and hoisted me up.

His weight tilted and bobbed. We did a loop around the square, under the arches, past the gold numbers on the glass doors. He held my shins in his hands, but let go when he started to lose his balance. He tripped, tripped again, struggling to stay upright — I swayed, terrifyingly high up.


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And then he fell. On the way down I worried for myself, for my face and my knees, the parts of me that might hit the ground. Over time I learned he would always fall. Still, I let him carry me because it seemed important to him. I felt this like a change of pressure in the air: this was part of his notion of what it meant to be a father and daughter.

We got up and brushed ourselves off — he wound up with a bruise on his butt and a scrape on his hand; I got a skinned knee — and headed for the drinking fountain at the side of the quadrangle. On the way back through the campus, on the sloping downhill on the rough cement, I was a tuning fork for the road, flying out ahead of him.

Better just to go out and get into the world. At that moment, I felt like we were the centre of the world.