The New Yorker:

The ninety-two-year-old Rupert Murdoch retired from the boards of Fox and News Corporation on Thursday, leaving his son Lachlan as the executive in charge. In 1995, Murdoch had already amassed huge global influence, and, with Fox News, was in the early stages of radically reshaping American civic life. “He basically wants to conquer the world,” a fellow media tycoon observed. “And he seems to be doing it.”

By Ken Auletta 
November 5, 1995

When Rupert Murdoch arrives at his office on the Twentieth Century Fox lot, in Los Angeles, the single television is set to CNN, and the sound is off. At about eight-thirty, Dot Wyndoe, Murdoch’s assistant of thirty-three years, spreads newspapers out on a shelf across from his desk: “top cop nicked my wife,” blares one of his London tabloids, the Sun; “love judge comes home,” screams the New York Post. These are the only noisy elements in the office. Even the phones are quiet. Numerous calls stack up and are announced on an electronic monitor at his right elbow. Pastel paintings by Australian artists hang on snow-white walls over white couches and armchairs.

Murdoch’s hair is turning white. He is sixty-four, and his shoulders stoop slightly. His voice is soft, and his manner is unfailingly courteous, as he sits with one leg tucked under the other. Only the hard brown eyes suggest that he is a predator.

He spends most of his time on the phone. He phones while driving his BMW to work, and he starts phoning from his desk as soon as he arrives, about 7 a.m. He always apologizes for disturbing an employee at an odd hour or on vacation, but the apology is more a ritual than a sign of genuine contrition. He hardly ever says hello or goodbye.

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