It takes a bit of searching to find Sergey Brin’s office at the Googleplex. Tucked away in a corner of Building Number 43 on a sprawling campus near the southern tip of San Francisco Bay, past rows of colourfully decorated cubicles and dorm-like meeting spaces, Office 211 has a nondescript exterior and sits far from the public eye.
Brin’s office is not protected— as you would expect for the co-founder of a $150-billion company — by a Russian doll’s-worth of doors and gatekeepers. Brin, 33, shares the space with his Google co-founder, fellow Stanford PhD dropout and billionaire pal, 34-year-old Larry Page, an arrangement that began eight years ago in the company’s first humble headquarters in a garage in Menlo Park, California. Since then, Google has grown from just another Silicon Valley start-up into the world’s largest media corporation.
It achieved these lofty heights by revolutionising how people surf the internet. Before Brin and Page analysed the links between web pages to deliver search results speedily based on relevance, looking up information on the web was a shot in the dark.
Stepping through the sliding glass door into their office is like walking into a playroom for tech-savvy adults. A row of sleek flat-screen monitors lining one wall displays critical information: email, calendars, documents and, naturally, the Google search engine.
Assorted plants and an air purifier keep the oxygen flowing, while medicine balls provide appropriately kinetic seating. Upstairs, a private mezzanine with Astroturf carpetingand an electric massage chair afford Brin and Page a comfortable perch from which to entertain visitors and survey the carnival of innovation going on below. And there is ample space for walking around, which is absolutely essential for Brin, who just cannot seem to sit still. Trim and boyishly handsome, with low sloping shoulders that give him a perpetually relaxed appearance,
Brin bounces around the Googleplex with apparently endless energy. He has dark hair, penetrating eyes and a puckish sense of humour that often catches people off guard. A typical workday finds him in jeans, sneakers and a fitted black T-shirt, though his casual manner belies a serious, even aggressive sense of purpose. This intensity emerges during weekly strategy meetings, where he and Page — who share the title of Google president — command the last word on approving new products, reviewing new hires
and funding long-term research.
Brin also holds sway over the unscientific but all-important realms of people, policy and politics. Google’s workers enjoy such familyfriendly perks as three free meals a day, free home food delivery for new parents, designated private spaces for nursing mothers, and full on-site medical care, all of which led Fortune
magazine to rank the company as the number one to work for in the United States. The co-presidents share management duties with Eric Schmidt, a seasoned software executive whom they hired in 2001 to oversee the day-to-day aspects of Google’s business — in short, to be the “adult” in the playroom. But
they have no intention of ceding control.
Since day one, they have resisted outside meddling, preferring to do everything their own way, from opting to piece together computers on the cheap to flouting Wall Street in an unconventional public stock offering.
Blazing one’s own trail comes naturally to Brin. The Moscow-born entrepreneur and his parents have been doing it their entire lives. Brin’s family background also informs how he has spent his vast fortune. The Google billionaire has bought a new house on the peninsula south of San Francisco, traded in his hybrid Toyota Prius for a fancier car, and continued shopping at discount wholesaler Costco.
“From my parents, I certainly learned to be frugal and to be happy without very many things,” he says. “It’s interesting — I still find myself not wanting to leave anything on the plate uneaten. I still look at prices. I try to force myself to do this less, not to be so frugal. But I was raised being happy with not so much.”
Brin’s Jewish sensibility is, likewise, grounded in his family’s experience of life in the Soviet Union, and their eventual emigration to the United States. “I do somewhat feel like a minority,” he says. “Being Jewish, especially in Russia, is one aspect of that. Then, being an immigrant in the US. And then, since I was significantly ahead in maths in school, being the youngest one in a class. I never felt like a part of the majority. So I think that is part of the Jewish heritage in a way.” Brin’s father, Michael, is a 59-year-old mathematics professor at the University of Maryland. His wife, Eugenia, 58, is a research scientist at NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Centre. They are gracious and down-to-earth, and still somewhat
astonished by their son’s success.
“ I t ’ s mind-boggl ing, ” marvels Genia, as family and friends call her. She speaks slowly, in a syrupy, Russianaccented English that quickens when she is competing with her husband. “It’s hard to comprehend, really. He was a very capable child in maths and computers, but we could have never
imagined this.” Brin senior adds with typical pragmatism: “Google has saved more time for more people than anything else in the world.” The dining room in their home in a suburb of Washington DC is simply decorated, even sparse — the only signs of wealth are a big-screen TV in the living room and a Lexus
in the driveway.
The Brins are a compact, young-looking couple — Michael is sceptical in demeanour with a precise manner of speaking, and Genia soft and nurturing. Both have sincere, easygoing laughs. Michael frequently interrupts to take cigarette breaks, for which he heads outside with the family dog, Toby. Smoking is a habit he brought with him from the Soviet Union in 1979, when he immigrated to the US with
his mother, Maya, Genia and Sergey, then six. (A second son, Sam, was born in 1987.) One of Michael’s stories is particularly striking. In the summer of 1990, a few weeks before Sergey’s 17th birthday, Michael led a group of gifted high-school maths students on a two-week exchange programme to the Soviet Union.
He decided to bring the family along, despite uneasiness about the welcome they could expect
from Communist authorities. It would give them a chance to visit family members still living in Moscow, including Sergey’s paternal grandfather — like Michael, a PhD mathematician.
It did not take long for Sergey, a precocious teenager about to enter college, to size up his former environs. The Soviet empire was crumbling and, in the drab, cinder-block landscape, he could see first-hand the bleak future that would have been his. On the second day of the trip, while the group toured a sanatorium in the countryside near Moscow, Sergey took his father aside, looked him in the eye and said: “Thank you for taking us all out of Russia.” “There were only two occasions when my children were grateful to me,” Michael says drily. The other occasion, he says, involved Sergey's younger brother, Sam, and the repair
of a broken toilet. As Sergey recalls, the trip awakened his childhood fear of authority. In his crisp tenor
voice, tinged with a faint accent that is no longer identifiably Russian, he reflects that teenagers have their own way of transforming fear into defiance. He recalls that his impulse on confronting Soviet oppression had been to throw pebbles at a police car. The two officers sitting inside got out of the car "quite upset"
he says but, luckily, his parents were able to defuse the matter. "My rebelliousness, I think, came out of
being born in Moscow," Sergey says, adding: "I'd say this is something that followed me into adulthood."
At a bagel shop across the street from the Maryland campus where he has taught dynamic systems and statistics for 25 years, Michael talks of the discrimination that drove him to take his family out of Russia. He explains how he was forced to abandon his dream of becoming an astronomer even before he reached college. Officially, antisemitism did not exist in the USSR. But, in reality, Communist Party heads barred Jews from upper professional ranks by denying them entry to universities. Jews were excluded from the physics department, in particular, at the prestigious Moscow State University, because Soviet leaders did not trust them with nuclear rocket research. Unfortunately for Michael, astronomy fell under the rubric of physics. Brin senior opted to study mathematics instead. But gaining acceptance to the maths department at Moscow State, home of arguably the brightest mathematicians in the world, also proved exceedingly difficult. Discrimination there was administered by means of entrance exams for which Jews were tested in different rooms from other applicants - morbidly nicknamed "gas chambers" - and graded more harshly.
Nevertheless, with help from a well-connected family friend, Michael was accepted and in 1970 graduated with an honours degree. "I had all As except for three classes where I got Bs: history of the Communist Party, military training and statistics," he says. "But nobody would consider me for graduate school
because I was Jewish. That was normal." So Michael became an economist for Gosplan, the central state planning agency. "I was trying to prove that, in a few years, living standards in Russia would be higher than in the United States," he says. "And I proved it. I know enough about maths to prove whatever you want."
He continued to study mathematics on his own, sneaking into evening seminars at the university and writing research papers. After several were published, Brin senior began a doctoral thesis. At the time, a student in the Soviet Union could earn a doctorate without going to graduate school if he passed certain
exams and an institution agreed to consider his thesis. Michael found two advisers, an official adviser, an ethnic Russian, and an informal Jewish mentor. ("Jews could not have Jewish advisers," he says.) With their help, he successfully defended his thesis at a university in Kharkov, Ukraine, but life did not change much even after he received his PhD. He continued in his day job at Gosplan and received a small
100-rouble raise. "I thought I was rich. Life was beautiful," he says with a wry chuckle. For Genia, life in Moscow was also comfortable enough. She, too, had managed to overcome the entrance hurdles to attend Moscow State, graduating from the School of Mechanics and Mathematics. In a research lab of the Soviet
Oil and Gas Institute, a prestigious industrial school, she worked alongside a number of other Jews. "I was content in my job and had many friends," she says.
The Brins' encounters with institutional antisemitism did not extend to day-to-day interactions with colleagues and neighbours. Highly assimilated into Russian culture, they were part of the intelligentsia and had a circle of university-educated friends. Occupying a tiny, three-room apartment in central Moscow, they were better off than many Muscovites who still lived in communal apartments. After Sergey was born, on August 21, 1973, the courtyard of their hulking five-story building became his playground. In keeping with Russian tradition, he spent two hours in the morning and evening each day outdoors, regardless of the season. The history of Russian-Jewish emigration in the mid-1970s can be neatly summarised in a
joke from the era. Two Jews are talking in the street; a third walks by and says to them, "I don't know what you're talking about, but yes, it's time to get out of here!" "I've known for a long time that my father
wasn't able to pursue the career he wanted," Sergey says. As a young boy, though, he had only a vague awareness of why his family wanted to leave their native Russia. He picked up the ugly details of the antisemitism they faced bit by bit years later, he says. Nevertheless, he sensed, early on, all of the
things that he wasn't - he wasn't Russian; he wasn't welcome in his own country; he wasn't going to get a fair shake in advancing through its schools. Further complicating his understanding of his Jewish identity was the fact that, under the atheist Soviet regime, there were few religious or cultural models of what being Jewish was. The negatives were all he had.
Sergey Brin is too young to remember the day, in the summer of 1977, when his father came home and announced that it was time for the family to emigrate. "We cannot stay here any more," he told his wife and mother. He had arrived at his decision while attending a mathematics conference in Warsaw. For the first
time, he had been able to mingle freely with colleagues from the West. Discovering that his intellectual brethren "were not monsters", he listened as they described the opportunities and comforts of life beyond the Iron Curtain. "He said he wouldn't stay, now that he had seen what life could be about," says Genia.
The couple knew, of course, the perils of applying for an exit visa. They could easily end up refuseniks, unable to find work, shunned, in perpetual limbo. Nobody had promised Michael a position abroad, but he was confident he could find work in the West that was intellectually stimulating and would support the family.
Genia, however, was unconvinced. They had lived in Moscow their entire lives. They had decent jobs and a young son. Was it worth it to try to leave? "I didn't want to go," she says. "It took a while for me and his mother to agree. I had a lot more attachments." It was up to Michael to do the convincing. "I was the only one in the family who decided it was really important to leave - not in some distant future," he says.
The Brins' story provides a clue to the origins of Sergey's entrepreneurial instincts. His parents, academics through and through, deny any role in forming their son's considerable business acumen - "he did not learn it from us, absolutely not our area," Michael says. Yet Sergey's willingness to take risks, his sense of whom to trust and ask for help, his vision to see something better and the conviction to go after it - these traits are evident in much of what Michael Brin did in circumventing the system and working twice as hard as others to earn his doctorate, then leave the Soviet Union. For Genia, the decision ultimately came down to Sergey. While her husband admits he was thinking as much about his own future as his son's, for her, "it was 80/20 about Sergey". They formally applied for an exit visa in September 1978. Michael was promptly fired. Genia, who had obtained her job through a relative, had to quit to insulate him from any recrimination.
"When he got a whiff of our intentions," she says, "he said: ‘Please get out of there as soon as possible.' It had to be a secret from everybody at work, my real reason for leaving. So I lied to all of my co-workers that I
was simply leaving my job because I got another job. I made up - totally made up - the name of a place where I was planning to work." There was no other job, of course, and suddenly they found themselves with no income. To get by, Michael translated technical books into English. He also began to teach himself
computer programming, having no expectation of getting an academic position if they ever got out.
And then they waited. For many Soviet Jews, exit visas never came. But, in May 1979, the Brins were granted papers to leave the USSR. "We hoped it would happen," Genia says, "but we were completely
surprised by how quickly it did." The timing was fortuitous - they were among the last Jews allowed to leave until the Gorbachev era. Sergey Brin, who turned six that summer, remembers what followed as simply unsettling" - literally so. "We were in different places from day to day," he says. The journey was a blur. First Vienna, where the family was met by representatives of the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, which helped thousands of Eastern European Jews establish new lives in the West. Then, on to the suburbs of Paris, where Michael's "unofficial" Jewish PhD adviser, Anatole Katok, had arranged a temporary research position for him. Katok, who had emigrated the year before with his family, looked after the Brins and paved the way for Michael to teach at Maryland. The family finally landed at New York's Kennedy Airport on October 25 1979. They had made it to America.
When the Brin family finally landed in America after leaving the Soviet Union in 1979, they were met at New York's Kennedy Airport by friends from Moscow. Sergey's first memory of the United States was of sitting in
the back seat of the car, amazed - aged six - at all the giant cars on the highway as their hosts drove them home to Long Island. The Brins found a house torent in Maryland, in a lowermiddle- class neighbourhood
not far from the university. With a $2,000 loan from the local Jewish community, they bought a 1973 Ford Maverick. And, at the suggestion of their friend Anatole Katok, they enrolled Sergey in Paint Branch Montessori School in Adelphi, Maryland. He struggled to adjust. Bright-eyed and bashful, with
only a rudimentary knowledge of English, Sergey spoke with a heavy accent when he started school. "It was a difficult year for him, the first year," recalls his mother, Genia. "We were constantly discussing the fact we had been told that children are like sponges, that they immediately grasp the language and have no problem, and that wasn't the case."
Patty Barshay, the school's director, became a friend and mentor to Sergey and his parents. She invited them to a party at her house that first December ("a bunch of Jewish people with nothing to do on Christmas Day"), and wound up teaching Genia how to drive. Everywhere they turned, there was so much to take in. "I remember them inviting me over for dinner one day," Barshay says, "and I asked Genia: ‘What kind of meat is this?' She had no idea." They had never seen so much meat as American supermarkets offered. Barshay is obviously proud of Sergey's achievements. "Sergey wasn't a particularly outgoing child," she says, "but he always had the self-confidence to pursue what he had his mind set on." He gravitated toward puzzles, maps and maths games. "I really enjoyed the Montessori method," he says now. "I could grow at my own pace." He adds that the Montessori environment - which gives students the freedom
to choose activities that suit their interests - helped to foster his creativity. "He was interested in everything," Barshay says, but adds: "I never thought he was any brighter than anyone else."
One thing the Brins shared with thousands of other families emigrating to the West from the Soviet Union was the discovery that, suddenly, they were free to be Jews. "Russian Jews lacked the vocabulary to even articulate what they were feeling," says Lenny Gusel, the founder of a San Francisco-based network
of Russian-Jewish immigrants. "They were considered Jews back home. Here, they were considered Russians. Many longed just to assimilate as Americans." Gusel's group, which he calls the "79ers", after the peak year of immigration in the 1970s, and its New York cousin, RJeneration, have attracted hundreds of 20- and 30-something immigrants who grapple with their Jewish identity. "Sergey is the absolute emblem of our group, the number one Russian-Jewish immigrant success story," he says.
The Brins were no different from their fellow immigrants in that being Jewish was an ethnic, not a religious, experience. "We felt our Jewishness in different ways, not by keeping kosher or going to synagogue. It is genetic," explains Sergey's father Michael. "We were not very religious. My wife doesn't eat on Yom Kippur;
I do." Genia interjects: "We always have a Passover dinner. We have a Seder. I have the recipe for gefilte fish from my grandmother." Religious or not, on arriving in the suburbs of Washington, the Brins were adopted by a synagogue, Mishkan Torah of Greenbelt, Maryland, which helped them acquire furnishings
for their home. "We didn't need that much, but we saw how much the community helped other families," Genia says. Sergey attended Hebrew school at Mishkan Torah for almost three years but hated the language instruction - and everything else, too. "He was teased there by other kids and he begged us not to send him any more," his other remembers. "Eventually, it worked." the Conservative congregation turned out to be too religious for the Brins and they drifted.
When a three-week trip to Israel awakened 11- year-old Sergey's interest in all things Jewish, the family inquired at another synagogue about restarting studies to prepare for a barmitzvah. But the rabbi said it would take more than a year to catch up and Sergey abandoned the pursuit. If there was one Jewish value the Brin family upheld without reservation, Michael says, it was scholarship. Sergey's brother - who in his younger years was more fond of basketball than homework - even got the notion that advanced degrees were mandatory for all professions. His dad recalls: "Sam once asked us: ‘Is it true that before you play in the NBA [National Basketball Association] you have to get a PhD?' To which the professor couldn't
resist replying: ‘Yes, Sam, that's it.'" Sergey attended Eleanor Roosevelt High School, in Greenbelt. He raced through in three years. At the University of Maryland, he majored in mathematics and computer science and graduated near the top of his class. When he won a prestigious National Science
Foundation scholarship for graduate school, he insisted on Stanford, in California. The prestigious Massachusetts Institute of Technology had rejected him.
Aside from the physical beauty of Stanford's campus, Sergey knew the school's reputation for supporting high-tech entrepreneurs. At the time, though, his focus was squarely on getting his doctorate. Personable, with an easy smile, Sergey brims with a healthy self-assuredness that at times spills over into arrogance. At Stanford, he was known for his habit of bursting in on professors without knocking. One of his advisers,
Rajeev Motwani, recalls: "He was the brash young man. But he was so smart, it just oozed out of him." His abiding interest was computer science, specifically data mining, or how to extract meaningful patterns from mountains of information. But he also took time out to enjoy Stanford social life and all manner of sports
- skiing, Rollerblading, even the trapeze. His father once remarked: "I asked him if he was taking any advanced courses, and he said: ‘Yes, advanced swimming.'" What came next is Google legend. In the
spring of 1995, Sergey met an opinionated computer- science student from the University of Michigan named Larry Page. They argued over the course of two days, each finding the other cocky and obnoxious. They also formed an instant bond, relishing the intellectual combat. Like Sergey, Larry is the son of high-powered intellects steeped in computer science. The two young graduate students also share
a Jewish background.
Larry's maternal grandfather made aliyah, and his mother was raised Jewish. Larry, however, brought up in
the mould of his father, a computer-science professor whose religion was technology, does not readily identify as a Jew. He, too, never had a barmitzvah. Larry and Sergey soon began working on ways to harness information on the web, spending so much time together that they took on a joint identity, LarryandSergey". By 1996, Larry had hit on the idea of using the links between web pages to rank their elative importance. Borrowing from academia the concept of citations in research papers as a measure of
topicality and value, he and Brin applied that thinking to the web - if one page linked to another, it was in effect "citing" or casting a vote for that page. The more votes a page had, the more valuable it was. At the time, it was groundbreaking. Calling their new invention Google - a misspelling of the mathematical term for a very large number - Larry and Sergey shopped it around to various companies for the price of $1 million. No one was interested. In the technology boom of the late 1990s, conventional thinking was that so-called web portals like Yahoo! and AOL would make the most money. No one cared about search. But Sergey and Larry knew they were on to something, so they decided to take leave of absence from Stanford and build a company themselves. Sergey's parents were sceptical. "We were definitely upset," Genia
says. "We thought everybody in their right mind ought to get a PhD." Soliciting funds from faculty members,
family and friends, Sergey and Larry scraped together enough to buy some servers and rent a garage in Menlo Park, California. Their venture quickly bore fruit. After viewing a quick demo, Sun Microsystems co-founder Andy Bechtolsheim (himself a Jewish immigrant from Germany) wrote a $100,000 cheque to "Google, Inc". The only problem was, "Google, Inc" did not yet exist - the company had not yet been
incorporated. For two weeks, as they handled the paperwork, the young men had nowhere to deposit the money.
It is difficult to pinpoint the moment when Google became a true American phenomenon.But there is no oubt about when Wall Street began to take the quirky California company seriously. It was April 29, 2004, when Google formally filed paperwork for its initial public offering of stock. Two things shocked the investment world that day. First were the company's staggeringly large revenue and profit figures, which until then had been closely guarded secrets. Second was the ruthlessly earnest "founders' letter" that Sergey and Larry had included with the filing, which began by stating that Google was "not a conventional company" and did not intend to become one. On August 16, 2004, its first day of trading, Google stock shot from $85 to $100 per share. Last November, it crossed the $500 mark, a number seldom seen in stock market history and far above the share prices of rivals Microsoft and Yahoo! At that price, Sergey and Larry,
who together hold a controlling interest the company, each boasted an estimated net worth of $15 billion.
While everyone who knows them well repeats the same line - "they're good guys" - gossip web sites occasionally print rumours of Larry's and Sergey's soirees in exclusive private clubs and other typical jet-setter antics. They are without a doubt two of the most eligible bachelors on Google Earth, but both are reported to be in serious relationships - Sergey is reportedly engaged to Anne Wojcicki, a healthcare
investor and the sister of Google executive Susan Wojcicki, who owned the garage where Google got started. In a 2001 interview, Genia said she hoped Sergey would find "somebody exciting who could be really interesting to him... [who] had a sense of humour that could match his". As one might expect, she also prefers that Sergey marry a Jewish girl. "I hope that he would keep it in mind," she confided.
The Ten Commandments it is not, but Google does operate with a moral code of sorts. "Don't be evil" is the maxim supposed to guide behaviour at all levels of the company. When pressed for clarification, Google chief executive officer Eric Schmidt has famously said: "Evil is whatever Sergey says is evil." One malevolent practice, in Google's view, is tampering with or otherwise censoring the list of results produced
by a Google search. An early test of the Google founders' commitment to providing unfiltered information struck very close to home. The antisemitic website Jew Watch appeared prominently in Google results
for searches on the term "Jew", prompting Jewish groups to demand that Google remove the site from the top of its listings. Google refused. Sergey said at the time: "I certainly am very offended by the site, but the objectivity of our rankings is one of our very important principles." As a compromise, Google displays a
warning at the top of questionable pages. The most telling measure of Google's moral code has come in China, the world's second- largest internet market, where Communist Party bureaucrats monitor and
censor the internet.
During months of intense debate at the Googleplex (the company's California base), Sergey, Larry and other executives weighed the vast profit potential of launching a China-based service against their opposition to the country's human-rights abuses. To them, operating a censored Google site in
China was a lesser evil than providing a spotty, substandard service from outside. The outcome also happened to favour the profit motive. Viewed against the backdrop of Sergey's distaste for authority, the decision to cave in to China's totalitarian leadership seems out of character. Sergey's public comments on the matter have evolved to reflect this contradiction. While defending the decision at first, he later
acknowledged that Google had "compromised" its principles. "Perhaps now the principled approach makes more sense," he has said, but adding: "It's not where we chose to go right now." Does a company founded by two Jews, no matter how assimilated, necessarily retain some defining Jewish characteristics? The Google masterminds' penchant for pushing boundaries - without asking permission - might as well be called chutzpah.
However you label it, it is an attitude that runs deeply through Google and may help explain why the company is embroiled in lawsuits over many of its new projects: the aggressive scanning of library books it does not own; display of copyrighted material; and copyright issues connected to its acquisition of YouTube, the online video site whose popularity rests in part on the availability of pirated television and movie clips. Google's first employee and several other early hires were Jewish and, when the initial winter-holiday season rolled around, a menorah rather than a Christmas tree graced the lobby. Google's former chef, Charlie Ayers, cooked up latkes, brisket, tzimmes and matzah-ball soup for Chanucah meals and turned the Passover Seder into a Google tradition.
To some, Google's emphasis on academic achievement - hiring only the best and the brightest and employing hundreds of PhDs - could be considered Jewish. So, perhaps, could "Don't be evil". With its hint of tikkun olam, the Kabbalistic concept of "repairing the world", it reflects the company's commitment to aggressive philanthropy. Sergey and Larry have pledged $1 billion of Google's profits to the company's philanthropic arm, which will funnel money both to non-profit charities and companies that deal with global poverty, environmental issues and renewable energy. Personal philanthropy is one area where Sergey intends to proceed cautiously. "I take the philosophical view that, aside from some modest stuff now, I am
waiting to do the bulk of my philanthropy later, maybe in a few years, when I feel I'm more educated," he
says. "I don't think it's something I have had time to become an expert at."
Nevertheless, he and his parents do support a few charities. "There are people who helped me and my
family out. I do feel responsible to those organisations," he says. One of them is Hebrew Immigrant Aid
Society, the group that helped the Brins come to the United States. Genia serves on its board and heads
its project to create a digital record of Jewish-immigrant archives. Has Sergey been a target of antisemitism since he left the Soviet Union? "I've experienced it," he says. "Usually, it is fairly subtle. People arp on about all the media companies being run by Jewish executives, with the implication of a onspiracy... I think I'm fortunate that it doesn't really affect me personally, but there are hints of it all around. That's why I think it is worth noting."
Several years ago, Sergey and Larry visited a school for gifted maths students near Tel Aviv. When they took to the stage, the audience roared, as if they were rock stars. Every student there, many of them, like Sergey, immigrants, from the former Soviet Union, knew of Google.Sergey began, to the crowd's delight, with a few words in Russian, which he still speaks at home with his parents. "I have standard Russian-Jewish parents," he then continued in English. "My dad is a maths professor. They have a certain attitude about studies. And I think I can relate that here, because I was told that your school recently got seven out of the top 10 places in a maths competition throughout all Israel."
The students applauded their achievement and the recognition from Sergey, unaware that he was setting up a joke. "What I have to say," he continued, "is in the words of my father: ‘What about the other three?'" The students laughed. They knew where he was coming from. That Sergey has parlayed his skills into unimaginable business success does not mean those "standard Russian-Jewish parents" are ready to let him off the academic hook. Genia still believes that "everybody in their right mind" ought to have a doctorate, and she and Michael are not joking when they tell me that they would like to see Sergey return to
Stanford and finish what he started.