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James
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Meridian
Press
AMAZON
J E F F
B E Z
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H E
I N V
E N T
I O
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G L O
B A
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E M P
I R E
A
Biography
by
James
K
.
Halloran
M
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Meridian
Press
Copyright © 2026 by James K. Halloran
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distrib-
uted, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying,
recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior writ-
ten permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embod-
ied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by
copyright law.
Meridian Press
11 Varick Street, New York, NY 10013
meridianpress.com
This is a work of nonfiction. It is based on the public record and on widely re-
ported events. The publisher is not affiliated with Amazon.com, Inc., or with
the Bezos family.
Cataloging-in-Publication data is available from the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-61458-102-8
First Edition: March 2026
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Typeset in Source Serif 4 and Cormorant Garamond. Cover design by
Andrew Merritt. Printed in the United States of America.
ii
3 / 38
“
We
are
what
we
choose
.”
Jeff
Bezos
,
commencement
address
,
Princeton
University
,
May
2010
“
Wandering
is
an
essential
counterbalance
to
focus
.”
Jeff
Bezos
,
in
a
letter
to
Amazon
shareholders
iii
4 / 38
C
O
N
T
E
N
T
S
Introduction: The Man Behind the Box
1
Part One · The Making of a Founder
5
Chapter One · Origins: Albuquerque and the Deserts of Childhood, 1964–1982
6
Chapter Two · The Quant’s Apprenticeship: Wall Street, 1982–1994
10
Part Two · The Everything Store
14
Chapter Three · Earth’s Biggest Bookstore, 1994–1997
15
Chapter Four · The Great Expansion and the Fire, 1998–2005
19
Chapter Five · The Flywheel: Cloud, Kindle, and Prime’s Kingdom, 2006–2012
23
Part Three · Empire Without End
27
Chapter Six · Washington, Space, and Scrutiny, 2013–2020
28
Chapter Seven · The Chairman’s Age, 2021–
32
Conclusion: The Invention of a Global Empire
36
Afterword: A Note on Sources
39
Appendix I · Chronological Timeline
40
Appendix II · Major Achievements
42
Appendix III · Awards and Honors
43
Appendix IV · Legacy
44
Select Bibliography
45
Index
46
About the Author
47
5 / 38
I
I
N
T
R
O
D
U
C
T
I
O
N
The
Man
Behind
the
Box
n the summer of 1994, a thirty-year-old banker and his wife climbed into a 1988
Chevrolet Blazer in New York and began the longest drive of their lives. They
pointed the car west and did not stop until they reached the Pacific, four thousand
miles and one world away from Wall Street. Jeff Bezos had resigned from one of the
most sought-after jobs on the Street to sell books over a network that most
Americans had never heard of. Somewhere in the expanse of highway and sky, he
telephoned a lawyer and registered a company. The name he had chosen was
Amazon.
To his own parents, he had put the odds plainly: seven chances in ten that the ven-
ture would fail, that the money would vanish, that the ordinary life he had left be-
hind would no longer be waiting on the porch. His father, Miguel, and his mother,
Jackie, invested anyway, writing a check for more than one hundred thousand dol-
lars of the family’s savings. His wife, MacKenzie, had told him to go. The books them-
selves — hundreds of thousands of titles, more than any physical store could hold —
were the excuse. The imagination was the point.
This book is the story of that drive, and of everything that followed from it: the
garage company, the improbable public offering, the dot-com catastrophe, the slow
construction of a machine that remade shopping, computing, publishing, media,
and finally spaceflight itself. It is a biography of a man who became the architect of
the world’s first truly global empire of commerce — an empire built not with armies
or colonies but with warehouses, algorithms, and a fanatical devotion to the
customer.
A M A Z ON
I N TROD U C TI ON
1
6 / 38
Jeffrey Preston Bezos was born in the American Southwest at the midpoint of the
1960s, the child of a teenage mother and an absent father, and adopted into a Cuban-
American family in which hard work, education, and table conversation were the
household religion. Everything about his later life can be read as an attempt to build
worlds that were more orderly, more logical, and more abundant than the one he
entered. The child who tried to turn his grandfather’s Texas ranch into a laboratory
became the adult who treated the earth itself as a project.
To call the result an empire invites caution. Empires have emperors, and Bezos has
always rejected the title. Yet the scale of Amazon’s dominion answers the caution
better than any argument. The hundreds of millions of households reached by
Prime. The cloud infrastructure on which an appreciable share of the internet de-
pends. The orbital company with lunar contracts and a rocket that has reached orbit.
The newspaper of the American capital, owned in his private name. The empire is
real. This book is the story of how it was invented, by a man whose favorite word for
his own company was Day 1.
Every biography is a negotiation with its subject. A biographer of Bezos must reckon
with a man who has controlled his public image with unusual care, who speaks in
carefully rehearsed aphorisms, and who regards the long view as a competitive
weapon. The narrative that follows is built from the public record: Bezos’s own let-
ters, speeches, and congressional testimony; the filings Amazon has made with se-
curities regulators for three decades; and the reporting of the major newspapers that
have covered the company since its first months.
Where accounts differ, I have tried to say so. I have tried to be fair to the faithful,
who see in Amazon the fulfillment of the internet’s promise; to the critics, who see
monopoly and the concentration of unelected power; and to the workers, towns, and
small businesses who have known the machine’s weight. A biography of an empire
must hold all these perspectives at once, because the empire itself does.
A M A Z ON
I N TROD U C TI ON
2
7 / 38
Above all, I have tried to keep in view the strangeness of the achievement. The com-
pany that began with a bell rung by hand in a Seattle garage went on to collect the
largest logistics network in the United States, the dominant cloud platform in the
world, the most successful subscription franchise in the history of commerce, and a
seat at the table of space exploration. Its founder’s fortune came to exceed, on paper,
the gross domestic product of entire nations. A stranger arriving from the year 1994
would find all of this more difficult to believe than any work of science fiction.
Bezos himself would say that there was no magic in it — only compounding. He
would point to the 1997 letter to shareholders, with its declaration that everything
was about the long term, and to the thousands of small decisions taken in the
shadow of that declaration. He would say that Amazon simply gave customers more
than they expected, more patiently than anyone else was willing to, for longer than
anyone thought rational. The explanation is true as far as it goes, which is roughly
as far as saying that Notre-Dame is a pile of stones arranged in a certain order.
The chapters that follow move along a single chronological line. The first two parts
trace the formation of the founder and the founding of the company. The third part
follows the expansion of the empire across every front of modern life. The appendi-
ces reduce the whole story to its skeleton: a timeline, a ledger of achievements, a
catalogue of honors, and a meditation on legacy. Taken together, they tell one story:
how a river in South America became the name of the century’s most consequential
company.
A river that was once a bookstore. A company named for magnitude before it was
large. A man who told the world he was willing to be misunderstood for long
stretches of time — decades, if necessary — as the price of building what he imag-
ined. Every legend begins somewhere. This one began on the road, in July, with the
windows down and the future open, and a man who had decided, at the age of thirty,
that he would rather be the author of his life than its reader.
A M A Z ON
I N TROD U C TI ON
3
8 / 38
One of the quiet truths about Bezos is how much of his public manner is a construc-
tion — a cultivated instrument. The distinctive laugh, the slow cadence, the way he
leans into a question as though hearing it for the first time: these are the tools of a
man who trained himself, in his Wall Street years, to think in probabilities and to
speak in certainties. He told interviewers that kindness and cleverness were a choice,
that wandering was essential to invention, that the customer was always——not al-
most always, but always——beautifully, wonderfully dissatisfied. The aphorisms be-
came a kind of scripture inside Amazon, repeated at meetings and memorized by
managers.
The empire he built rests on four foundations that will recur throughout this book.
The first is customer obsession, elevated from slogan to operational religion. The
second is long-termism, the willingness to accept losses for years — even a decade or
more — in pursuit of a prize that competitors could not see. The third is invention,
the institutionalized tolerance for failure that produced the Fire Phone alongside
the Kindle and Alexa beside it. The fourth is unbounded ambition, the refusal to rec-
ognize any horizon as final. Books led to everything. Retail led to computing.
Computing led to space.
What follows is the biography of that ambition, and of the world it made. I have tried
to write it with the virtues of the best historical biography: evidence at the front,
judgment behind it, and prose that does not flinch from the size of the subject. If the
reader finishes this book with a sharper sense of how the modern world was actually
assembled — by a peculiar man in a Seattle garage who believed, with total convic-
tion, that the future was a problem to be solved — the biography will have done its
work.
A M A Z ON
I N TROD U C TI ON
4
9 / 38
P
A
R
T
O
N
E
✡
✡
✡
The
Making
of
a
Founder
“
Cleverness
is
a
gift
;
kindness
is
a
choice
.”
—
The
grandfather
’
s
lesson
,
often
retold
10 / 38
J
C
H
A
P
T
E
R
O
N
E
Origins
Albuquerque
and
the
Deserts
of
Childhood
,
1964
–
1982
effrey Preston Jorgensen entered the world on January 12, 1964, in Albuquerque,
New Mexico, the child of a seventeen-year-old mother with dreams of her own
and a father who would not remain part of the story. His mother, Jacklyn Gise, was
bright, bookish, and stubborn, the daughter of a banker and government adminis-
trator who had settled the family in the high desert of the Sandia Mountains. The
marriage of his birth parents did not survive his infancy. When Jeffrey was four,
Jacklyn remarried, and her new husband, Miguel Bezos, a Cuban-born engineer who
had come to the United States as a teenager, adopted the boy and gave him his name.
That act of adoption did more than change a surname. Miguel Bezos had arrived in
America with almost nothing, learned English from television and night school, and
made himself into a successful Exxon executive. He was living proof, in the boy’s own
house, that the distance from nothing to something was a matter of will. The family
moved to Houston, where the streets were flat and hot, and where Miguel’s career
lifted the household into a secure, comfortable middle class. The young Jeff — shy,
tall for his age, and already absorbed by how things worked — was given every en-
couragement to tinker.
The summers that shaped him belonged not to the city but to the desert. His mater-
nal grandfather, Lawrence Preston Gise, had left the Atomic Energy Commission to
run a cattle ranch near Cotulla, Texas, in the brush country south of San Antonio.
There, in a landscape of mesquite, dust, and uninterrupted sky, the boy from
Houston learned the ranch economy: fixing windmills, stringing fence, moving cat-
tle, and rising before dawn because animals had no respect for a boy’s sleep.
A M A Z ON
C H A PTE R
ON E
6
11 / 38
Gise was a demanding teacher. He had a genius for making a child think, and a low
tolerance for whining. From him, Jeff acquired an almost religious respect for self-
reliance and for the mathematics of hard work. The grandfather’s most famous in-
struction, repeated in commencement speeches decades later, was that being clever
is a gift but being kind is a choice — the lesson being that gifts are inherited free of
charge while choices are the only honest measure of a person. The boy took it in
with the ranch dust, and it never left him.
There was also, in those years, the first appearance of the inventive reflex that would
define his life. He built an automatic gate for his bedroom — an elaborate apparatus
of pulleys and rope that slammed the door when he pressed a switch. He tried to
make a solar cooker out of an umbrella and aluminum foil, and was said to have
roasted a wiener with it in the Texas sun. In Houston, he converted the family garage
into a laboratory of half-finished projects, and his parents learned to look for him
among the soldering irons and disassembled appliances. He was not a child who col-
lected things. He was a child who took things apart.
One invention from those years became family legend. As a boy he wanted to sleep
late in the summers, but hated waking to the blare of an alarm clock. He built a de-
vice out of a Radio Shack kit that would, at the appointed hour, dump a handful of
marbles onto his chest from a tray above the bed. The marbles rolled, the boy rose,
and the invention was judged a success. His mother would tell the story for the rest
of her life, usually adding that the boy could never leave a problem alone until he
had solved it in his own way.
✶
✶
✶
In the early 1970s the family moved again, to Miami, where Miguel pursued a new
posting and young Jeff entered Palmetto Senior High School. He was an unusual
teenager: polite to teachers, indifferent to the social pecking order, and already sure
of his direction. He dated rarely, spent weekends at the computer, and took a job flip-
ping eggs at a McDonald’s Kitchen — his first experience, he would later say, of work-
ing with people who were not at all like him and of discovering that he respected
most of them deeply.
A M A Z ON
C H A PTE R
ON E
7
12 / 38
At Palmetto, the future founder was already assembling the pieces of his public
identity. He was a National Merit Scholar, a member of the track team, and the vale-
dictorian of the Class of 1982. His graduation speech was not the conventional
thanks and farewell; he chose instead to speak about the challenges of bringing a lu-
nar colony to life, to an audience of parents who had not the faintest idea what to
make of him. The theme was telling. Even at eighteen, the ambition was not to suc-
ceed at a job but to participate in the human future.
Princeton accepted him, and he enrolled planning to become a theoretical physicist.
He had been drawn to physics because it seemed the most ambitious way to under-
stand the universe. The universe, however, had different plans. At Princeton he dis-
covered that he was competing with young people for whom the most difficult
mathematics was effortless, fellow students who seemed to have been born with the
answers already in their heads. The old ranch lesson returned: talent is a gift, and
there is no dishonor in measuring yours honestly.
The story he later told at Princeton’s commencement, in one of his most quoted
speeches, was about the moment he recognized his ceiling in physics. He had wres-
tled for three hours with a problem that had stumped him for days, only to watch a
gifted classmate solve it in minutes. Instead of despair, he felt a strange relief. He
would not be a great physicist, and now he knew it. He went to his academic adviser
and asked what the future was pointing toward. The answer, in 1983, was computers.
He switched his course of study to computer science and electrical engineering, and
discovered an aptitude that had been waiting for the right instrument. The machine
did not care where you came from or who your father was; it cared whether your
logic was sound. He also found, in the Students for the Exploration and Development
of Space, a community of fellow dreamers who shared his conviction that the human
future lay beyond the atmosphere. He served as president of the Princeton chapter,
organizing lectures and writing papers about space settlement, and he carried that
conviction into everything that followed.
A M A Z ON
C H A PTE R
ON E
8
13 / 38
He graduated summa cum laude with membership in Phi Beta Kappa in 1986, one of
the youngest and most decorated members of his class. The offers that followed
came from the places ambitious graduates of that era went: the banks, the consul-
tancies, the young technology companies of the East Coast. Bezos chose the path
that paid least in prestige but taught most about building things — a small financial-
technology startup called Fitel, where he helped construct networks that connected
international securities markets. He was twenty-two years old, and he had already
begun to think of Wall Street not as the destination but as the training ground.
Looking back, the childhood of the future founder was a preparation for the empire
he would build in ways that even he may not have fully appreciated at the time. The
ranch taught him that systems work only when every part is maintained. The garage
taught him that failure is the tuition of invention. The high school computer labs
taught him that machines reward audacity. And the adoption that gave him the
name Bezos — a gift of a father who chose him — taught him something subtler: that
identity is not inherited but assembled, and that a person can decide what his life
will mean.
By the time he drove out of his own commencement, the pieces were in place: the
mathematical mind, the desert discipline, the hunger for the future, and the habit,
already unbreakable, of converting every problem into a project. Wall Street would
refine him. The internet would release him. But the architecture of the man — the
optimism, the rigor, the impatience with limits — was complete by the age of
twenty-two. He was, as his grandfather might have put it, ready to work.
A M A Z ON
C H A PTE R
ON E
9
14 / 38
T
C
H
A
P
T
E
R
T
W
O
The
Quant
’
s
Apprenticeship
Wall
Street
,
1982
–
1994
he Wall Street of the late 1980s was a place of testosterone, telephones, and pro-
prietary trading desks the size of aircraft carriers. The young Jeff Bezos did not
fit the stereotype of the master of the universe. He was polite, analytical, and allergic
to bluster. He did, however, fit the quieter stereotype of the era’s rising class of
quants: mathematicians and computer scientists hired to build the models and sys-
tems that were beginning to automate finance itself. Fitel, his first employer, was a
tiny firm building computer networks that linked international securities markets
— an early fintech startup in every modern sense of the term.
The lesson of Fitel was not glamorous, but it was formative. Startups, he learned, are
places where everyone does everything, where the hierarchies of the corporate
world are flattened by necessity, and where a person who can build something new
is worth more than a person who can merely manage what already exists. He worked
with a small team, shipped real systems, and watched how lightly funded young
companies survive on speed and concentration. The experience inoculated him, per-
manently, against the caution of large organizations.
From Fitel he moved to Bankers Trust, one of the most aggressive banks of the era,
where he became a vice president at the age of twenty-five — the youngest, by the
bank’s accounting, in its history. He was building systems that helped the bank’s
enormous pension and mutual fund clients move money across borders and across
asset classes. The work paid well and taught him the scale of global capital. It also
taught him that he would never be satisfied running someone else’s machine.
A M A Z ON
C H A PTE R
TW O
10
15 / 38
In 1990, he was recruited by David Shaw, a Columbia computer scientist whose
eponymous hedge fund, D. E. Shaw & Co., was the most intellectually glamorous
quant shop on Wall Street. Shaw collected brilliant people the way museums collect
paintings, and he paid them accordingly. Bezos joined as one of the firm’s youngest
employees and climbed rapidly, becoming a vice president by the age of thirty. His
title was technical — he explored markets, built models, and launched new busi-
nesses for the firm — but his real education was in the nature of Shaw himself, a
man who treated every assumption as a testable hypothesis.
It was at D. E. Shaw that the internet found him. In the spring of 1994 — the dawn of
the commercial Web — Bezos came across a statistic that rearranged his mental fur-
niture: the World Wide Web was growing at a rate of roughly 2,300 percent a year. He
had spent his career learning to read numbers, and this one was unambiguous.
Something extraordinary was happening, and very few people understood it yet. He
made a list of twenty products that could plausibly be sold over the Web. Books won
the analysis for reasons that now seem obvious but were then radical: more than
three million titles existed in English; no physical store could hold more than a few
hundred thousand; and the great bookstore chains had barely begun to think about
the internet.
The bookstore idea was, in David Shaw’s eyes, perfectly reasonable — which is to say,
insufficiently strange. Shaw had been building a secret project to create the
internet’s own merchant bank and invited Bezos to join it. The offer was generous,
the resources enormous, and the intellectual appeal real. But Bezos had caught a dif-
ferent vision. He wanted to build the bookstore himself, and he wanted to build it
with the fury of a company that believed in nothing but the future. He told Shaw he
was leaving. Shaw took him on a long walk through Central Park, trying to persuade
him otherwise. Every argument failed. The date was the spring of 1994.
A M A Z ON
C H A PTE R
TW O
11
16 / 38
There was another presence in that decision, and her importance can hardly be
overstated. MacKenzie Tuttle had arrived at D. E. Shaw as a research associate in the
early 1990s, a published novelist with degrees from Princeton and a quiet intensity
that matched her husband’s. The two married in 1993, and within a year Bezos was
telling her that he wanted to abandon a career worth a fortune to sell books from a
garage. Her answer, by his own account, was immediate and unhesitating: “You have
to go.” She meant it as a statement of fact. She would drive the car, keep the books,
and work the shipping table alongside him. The empire was founded by two people,
and the smaller share of the credit has never been honestly apportioned.
The decision itself was governed by what Bezos later called the regret minimization
framework. He imagined himself at eighty years old, looking back at his life, and
asked which choice would leave him with fewer regrets. Leaving D. E. Shaw to chase
the internet, even if it failed, would leave him proud that he had tried. Staying, and
watching the revolution from the windows of a hedge fund, would leave him with a
question he could never answer. The framework was, characteristically, one part
mathematics and one part courage. It became the first of the aphorisms that would
define his public voice.
The couple’s departure was a story out of a road movie. They sold much of their be-
longings, bought a 1988 Chevrolet Blazer, and set off from New York toward Seattle,
with Bezos researching the book business in the passenger seat as his wife drove. He
had been told that he should locate near a major book distributor, and Seattle offered
the right combination of software talent and proximity to the Ingram warehouse in
Roseburg, Oregon. On July 5, 1994, somewhere amid the plains of the American
heartland, he telephoned an attorney and incorporated the company that would
soon be called Amazon.
A M A Z ON
C H A PTE R
TW O
12
17 / 38
The name arrived after a legal near-miss. Bezos had first called the company
Cadabra, a wizard’s word that he liked for its mystery. When a lawyer heard it as “ca-
daver,” the name was doomed. He wanted a name that began with A, that was exotic
without being obscure, and that suggested something very large. He found it in the
world atlas: the Amazon, the greatest river on earth, carrying more water than the
next seven rivers combined. The name was, he said, both honest and aspirational. It
said we intend to be vast, and it said so from the first day.
The garage at 10704 N.E. 28th Street in Bellevue became the company’s first head-
quarters. It was not romantic. The space was cramped, unheated, and filled with the
smell of computer equipment and dust. The furniture was bought from a building
supply store, doors turned on their sides to make desks — a tradition that would out-
live the garage by decades and become a symbol of the company’s founding frugal-
ity. The only way to tell the stock had grown was the bell, which was rung every
time the company made a sale. In the first weeks, the bell rang rarely.
The incorporation took place on July 5, 1994, and the company opened for business
on the Web a year later, in July 1995. Between those two dates lay a year of writing
code, building databases, and persuading a skeptical world that people would buy
books from a machine. The man who had driven across America with a laptop on the
passenger seat had found his life’s work. He would call it Day 1, and he would never
stop calling it that. On the first morning of Amazon, Jeff Bezos stood in the doorway
of his garage, looked at the desert of the possible, and chose to walk into it.
A M A Z ON
C H A PTE R
TW O
13
18 / 38
P
A
R
T
T
W
O
✡
✡
✡
The
Everything
Store
“
We
want
to
be
the
place
where
you
can
buy
anything
.”
—
Jeff
Bezos
,
on
the
founding
ambition
19 / 38
T
C
H
A
P
T
E
R
T
H
R
E
E
Earth
’
s
Biggest
Bookstore
1994
–
1997
he founding of Amazon was an act of faith performed with the precision of an
engineer. Bezos had no inventory, no warehouse, and no employees when the
site opened. He had a database of titles from the book wholesalers’ electronic cata-
logs, a handful of computers, and a conviction that selection was the new religion.
When a customer ordered a book, Amazon’s systems would locate it at a distributor,
order it, and have it shipped directly to the customer’s door. The company did not
need to own the books. It needed to own the relationship.
The relationship began hesitantly. The first sale came in April 1995, before the site
was even announced, when a curious customer who had stumbled across the beta
ordered a copy of Douglas Hofstadter’s
Fluid Concepts and Creative Analogies
. Bezos and
his early employees were so startled that they checked to make sure the order was
real. It was. The bell rang. The machine had taken its first breath. By July 1995, when
the site opened to the public under the banner of “Earth’s Biggest Bookstore,” the
company had a working store, a broken-in garage, and a future that consisted en-
tirely of unknown quantities.
The early months were a blur of improvisation. There was no customer service de-
partment; Bezos and his colleagues answered emails themselves, often within hours,
in a voice that was earnest, apologetic, and relentlessly helpful. When a customer
complained that a book had not arrived, Bezos took the complaint personally. The
company’s operating manual was not a business plan but a set of principles that
Bezos repeated until they ossified into doctrine: obsess over the customer; move
fast; be willing to be misunderstood; and treat the long term as the only term that
matters.
A M A Z ON
C H A PTE R
TH RE E
15
20 / 38
The marketplace of ideas was unforgiving. Established retailers regarded the upstart
with a mixture of amusement and contempt. In May 1997, Barnes & Noble filed a law-
suit alleging that Amazon could not honestly call itself the world’s biggest bookstore
when it held no inventory on its own shelves. The suit went nowhere, and Amazon’s
reply was, in essence, a theory of the future: size is a function of selection, not shelf
space. In the same year, the company adopted an internal mantra — “get big fast” —
that struck outsiders as reckless and insiders as inevitable.
The numbers began to argue for the future. Revenue in 1995 was barely perceptible.
In 1996 it passed fifteen million dollars. In 1997 it approached one hundred and fifty
million, a tenfold leap that stunned even the optimists. The company lost money ev-
ery year, by design and by confession, and yet the growth curve was so steep that
Wall Street began to treat losses as a sign of health. In May 1997, Amazon went public
at eighteen dollars a share, raising fifty-four million dollars. It was a strange and, to
many observers, inexplicable debut: a company that had never turned a profit being
valued as though it had already conquered the world.
The most important document in Amazon’s history is not a contract or a patent but
a letter. In the 1997 shareholder letter, published when the company was two years
old, Bezos laid out the philosophy that would govern Amazon for the next quarter
century. Its opening line — “It’s all about the long term” — became the company’s
constitution. The letter promised to measure success by cash flow rather than ac-
counting profit, to invest relentlessly in the future, to make decisions with incom-
plete information, to hire only the best, and to treat every day as Day 1. Rivals read it
as marketing. Employees read it as scripture. Both were right.
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The culture of the early company was a strange hybrid of Silicon Valley intensity and
frontier practicality. Employees worked brutal hours in the converted garage and,
later, in a succession of rented offices. The desks remained doors. The salary was
modest, the stock was everything, and the mission was treated with the seriousness
of a war effort. Bezos led by example, answering customer service emails at two in
the morning, joining the loading dock crew during the Christmas rush, and de-
manding that every meeting produce a decision rather than a discussion.
He also began to formalize the habits that would define Amazon’s management for
decades. He insisted that every product be judged on whether it improved the cus-
tomer experience, not on whether it was profitable in the short term. He allowed —
indeed, demanded — negative customer reviews to appear on product pages, over the
objections of publishers and early employees who believed that negative reviews
would kill sales. The reviews stayed, and sales rose. The lesson was one he would re-
peat until it became the company’s first principle: you do not win by controlling the
customer’s information; you win by being the place where the customer can always
trust the truth.
The decision to expand beyond books was made with the same mixture of logic and
nerve. In 1998, Amazon added music and video to its catalog. In 1999, it added toys,
electronics, and a marketplace for third-party sellers. International sites followed —
the United Kingdom and Germany first, then Japan and France and the rest of the
world. The mission statement was rewritten to be boundless: to be earth’s most cus-
tomer-centric company, where customers can find and discover anything they
might want to buy online. The phrase was not a description. It was an ambition that
the company would spend decades trying to make true.
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The encounter with the physical world was the era’s greatest engineering challenge.
A bookseller could ship from distributor warehouses, but a company selling toys,
electronics, and lawnmowers needed its own fulfillment centers. Amazon began
building a network of vast warehouses, each the size of several football fields, staffed
by armies of pickers and packers guided by computer screens. The company’s work-
force grew from hundreds to thousands to tens of thousands in the space of three
years. The door desks came with them, but the scale was no longer that of a garage.
By the end of 1999, Amazon was the most famous company on the internet, and Jeff
Bezos was Time magazine’s Person of the Year. The award was given for the audacity
of the bet, the scale of the growth, and the sheer improbable force of the story: a boy
who had driven west with a laptop and a dream, five years earlier, was now the un-
questioned symbol of the greatest economic boom since the railroad. The company’s
market value had passed thirty billion dollars at the peak of the bubble, more than
the value of the entire chain bookstore industry that had once laughed at it. And
then, in the year that followed, the bubble burst — and the real test began.
The crash revealed the difference between the dreamer and the builder. A dreamer
would have watched the collapse in despair. A builder recognized it as the moment
when the long term finally mattered. Bezos had spent the boom insisting that the
company’s real assets were not its stock price but its customer relationships, its ful-
fillment network, and its willingness to lose money on every sale for the sake of the
future. When the future arrived in the form of a market collapse, those assets were
the only things left standing. The era of the longest-term company on earth was
about to begin.
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T
C
H
A
P
T
E
R
F
O
U
R
The
Great
Expansion
and
the
Fire
1998
–
2005
he years 1998 and 1999 were a carnival of expansion. Amazon was no longer a
bookstore; it was a machine for converting ambition into revenue. The com-
pany added music, then video, then toys, then electronics, then a home-and-garden
store, then a software download store, then an auction house intended to challenge
eBay. The auctions failed. The other expansions succeeded. The pattern that emerged
— of failures that were large, public, and educational, followed by successes that
were larger — would govern the company for the next quarter century.
The auctions, in particular, were a masterclass in what Bezos called the willingness
to be misunderstood. Amazon Auctions launched with great fanfare in 1999 and qui-
etly died. It was, in the language of the company, a “successful failure”: it taught
Amazon that its customers wanted convenience, not haggling, and that the
company’s genius lay not in inventing new forms of commerce but in perfecting ex-
isting ones. The lesson was paid for with hundreds of millions of marketplace value
and was, by the standards of the company, cheap.
Behind the scenes, the physical company was being built at breakneck speed. By the
end of 1999, Amazon had grown from a handful of employees to more than seven
thousand, and from a single garage to a network of fulfillment centers across the
United States and Europe. Each warehouse was a cathedral of logistics, staffed by
pickers who walked dozens of miles a day, guided by handheld computers that told
them where to go and what to pick. The door desks were still there, in spirit if not in
fact. The frugality was still the religion. But the operation had become industrial.
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Then the bubble burst. Between December 1999 and the autumn of 2001, Amazon’s
stock fell by more than ninety percent. Analysts whom the company had once
charmed began writing its obituary. Barron’s, the financial weekly, had already de-
clared Amazon “Amazon.bomb” in 1999; by 2000, the phrase seemed prophetic. The
company was losing money on every sale, its debt was climbing, and the capital
markets that had financed the boom had slammed shut. In the spring of 2001, with
dot-com casualties piling up across the economy, Amazon laid off roughly fifteen
percent of its workforce — about thirteen hundred people.
Bezos’s response to the catastrophe was not to apologize but to explain. He reminded
employees that the company’s strategy had never depended on the stock price; it de-
pended on customers and on cash. He borrowed an old proverb for the occasion:
sometimes you are the windshield, sometimes you are the bug. The market had be-
come the windshield. Amazon was the bug. But a bug that survived the windshield
was, by definition, a different kind of organism. He cut costs with an almost surgical
fury, closed unprofitable initiatives, renegotiated every contract, and prepared the
company for a long, lean winter.
The winter ended in December 2001, when Amazon posted its first profitable quarter
in its history. The profit was small — five million dollars on more than a billion in
revenue — but it was a profit, and it signaled something larger. The company had not
merely survived the dot-com crash. It had emerged from the crash with a model that
worked: a model built on selection, convenience, customer trust, and the willingness
to lose money for years in pursuit of a future that competitors could not see. Wall
Street began to believe again. The relief inside Amazon was enormous.
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The era of disciplined growth that followed produced two inventions that would re-
shape the company and the industry. The first was free super saver shipping, intro-
duced in 2001, which removed the single greatest obstacle to buying online: the cost
of delivery. The second was the Marketplace, launched quietly in 2000, which allowed
third-party sellers to offer their products on Amazon’s pages. Marketplace was, in
retrospect, the most strategically important decision Amazon ever made. It turned
the company from a retailer into a platform, and it did so at almost no cost, because
the sellers brought their own inventory, their own prices, and their own hopes.
Bezos defended negative customer reviews as a matter of principle, and the principle
paid off in trust. He also pushed the company into an invention that would become a
defining experience of online shopping: one-click ordering. Amazon patented the
one-click system in 1999, and while the patent was later challenged and diluted, its
mere existence signaled how seriously the company treated the small frictions of
the customer experience. Every click removed was an act of worship at the altar of
convenience. The cumulative effect of thousands of such small acts was the most
frictionless buying machine anyone had ever built.
The most consequential of the era’s decisions came in the winter of 2005. Bezos had
concluded that the shipping costs that kept customers from buying were, in fact, the
barrier that his company could eliminate altogether. In February 2005, Amazon in-
troduced Prime: for a flat annual fee of seventy-nine dollars, members would receive
free two-day shipping on everything they bought. The financial model made ac-
countants faint. Shipping a heavy book by air cost far more than the pro-rated mem-
bership fee. Bezos’s answer was that membership would change behavior — cus-
tomers who paid for Prime would buy more, more often, and with more loyalty, un-
til the economics became the most powerful flywheel in commerce.
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The skeptics were correct about the arithmetic and wrong about everything else.
Prime did lose money in its early years, exactly as predicted. But it transformed the
psychology of e-commerce. Once a customer had paid for Prime, the shipping cost
disappeared from every decision, and the question became not whether to buy but
what to buy. Prime members ordered more, returned less, and stayed longer than
any other segment of the customer base. The flywheel began to turn: more members
meant more volume, more volume meant lower costs, lower costs meant lower
prices, and lower prices meant more members.
The era also produced the company’s first sustained attempt to formalize its man-
agement culture. In the early 2000s, Bezos banned PowerPoint presentations at
Amazon, insisting that decisions be made on the basis of six-page narrative memos
read silently at the beginning of each meeting. The memo format forced executives
to think in prose rather than bullet points, to reason from evidence rather than as-
sertion, and to write so clearly that a stranger could follow the argument from a
standing start. The practice was mocked by outsiders and adopted, over the years, by
a generation of companies trying to copy Amazon’s rigor.
By the end of 2005, Amazon was a different company from the garage bookstore of
1994. It had become a retailer of everything, a platform for millions of sellers, a logis-
tics empire, and — unannounced and barely visible from the outside — the seed of
something stranger. The engineers who ran Amazon’s internal computing infra-
structure had begun to realize that the system they had built was itself a product. In
the next era, that realization would give birth to the cloud. The bookstore was be-
coming a system. The system was about to become the world.
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T
C
H
A
P
T
E
R
F
I
V
E
The
Flywheel
Cloud
,
Kindle
,
and
Prime
’
s
Kingdom
,
2006
–
2012
he origin of Amazon Web Services is one of the great business stories of the
twenty-first century, and it began as an internal accident. In the early 2000s,
Amazon’s engineers had built a massive computing infrastructure to run the world’s
largest retail site. They had learned to manage server farms at a scale that almost no
one else had attempted. At a 2003 retreat, a group of engineers laid out a radical vi-
sion: sell that infrastructure as a service to the outside world. Bezos, by his own ac-
count, did not fully understand the technical details. He understood the magnitude.
He gave the project his blessing.
The first public manifestations arrived in 2006. In March, Amazon launched Simple
Storage Service, known as S3, which allowed any developer to store files on Amazon’s
machines. In August, it launched Elastic Compute Cloud, or EC2, which allowed de-
velopers to rent computing power by the hour. The pricing was revolutionary —
pennies for what had once cost thousands. The philosophical shift was even larger:
Amazon was declaring that computing was not a thing you owned but a thing you
used, like electricity or water. Developers flocked to it. Startups that had once
needed to raise millions for servers could now launch a product with a credit card.
Inside the company, the cloud was a strange act of faith. Why would Amazon, a re-
tailer, sell computing to its own competitors? The answer was that Bezos did not
think of competitors at all in the way other executives did. He thought about cus-
tomers, and the customers of the cloud were developers. If Amazon could make the
world’s developers more productive, the world’s economy would grow, and a portion
of that growth would flow through Amazon’s machines. The logic was the logic of
the flywheel again, applied to the infrastructure of the entire internet.
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The same era produced the Kindle. Bezos had concluded that the one industry he
had set out to transform — books — still deserved transformation, and that the paper
book, for all its virtues, was a delivery system for text that the internet could im-
prove. In 2004, he founded Lab126, a secret hardware lab in Silicon Valley, with a
mandate to build an e-reader that would disappear into the reading experience. For
three years, the lab failed repeatedly, refined relentlessly, and consumed resources
at a scale that would have frightened any other company. Bezos’s instruction was
simple: the device must be so good that you forget you are holding a device.
The Kindle went on sale on November 19, 2007, at a price of
$
399. It sold out within
hours. The device was not the first e-reader, but it was the first one that mattered:
wirelessly connected, with a library of more than ninety thousand titles available
within minutes. Bezos described the Kindle not as a device but as a service, and he
meant it. The reader was the storefront, the catalog, and the delivery truck all in
one. By 2011, Amazon announced that Kindle books had outsold all print books com-
bined on the world’s largest bookstore. The empire had toppled its own founding
monument.
The culture of Amazon hardened into doctrine during these years. Two-pizza teams
— groups small enough to be fed on two pizzas — were given the autonomy to build
like startups inside the machine. Six-page memos replaced slide decks as the unit of
thought. “Disagree and commit” became the approved method of resolving disagree-
ment: once a decision was made, even those who opposed it were expected to exe-
cute it fully. “Are you sure?” became the question Bezos asked at every review, forc-
ing teams to defend their assumptions with evidence or abandon them. The com-
pany was building not just products but a method for building products.
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Prime grew from a shipping feature into a kingdom. By 2012, membership was esti-
mated in the millions, with growth accelerating every year. The free two-day ship-
ping had become the default expectation of the entire retail economy, forcing com-
petitors to match it at ruinous cost. Amazon deepened the moat by adding digital
video, music, and exclusive content to the membership. The company that had be-
gun by eliminating friction became the company that manufactured joy as a sub-
scription. The flywheel was no longer a metaphor; it was the architecture of the
business.
The warehouse network expanded in proportion. Amazon’s fulfillment centers
evolved from warehouses into laboratories, populated by armies of orange robots af-
ter the company acquired Kiva Systems in 2012 for
$
775 million. The robots carried
shelves to the pickers, eliminating the miles of walking that had defined the first
generation of warehouses. The robots were a bet on the long term again: expensive
to install, revolutionary in payoff. Within a decade, Amazon’s fulfillment center
would look nothing like any warehouse that had existed before, and the entire logis-
tics industry would be racing to copy the model.
The platform strategy reached its culmination in these years. By the early 2010s,
roughly two-fifths of all units sold on Amazon came from independent third-party
sellers, and the proportion was rising. Amazon collected fees from those sellers,
hosted their listings, and competed with them through its own private-label prod-
ucts — a source of permanent controversy that the company insisted was pro-cus-
tomer. The marketplace made Amazon’s selection effectively infinite. The flywheel
turned faster with every seller added, because more selection attracted more cus-
tomers, and more customers attracted more sellers.
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The ledger of the era was astonishing. By the end of 2012, Amazon employed more
than 88,000 people and generated revenue of more than
$
61 billion a year. It was still,
by the conventions of Wall Street, barely profitable, because every available dollar
was being spent on the machine: the warehouses, the robots, the servers, the con-
tent, the international expansion, and the relentless pursuit of the next invention.
Investors complained, analysts downgraded, and Bezos repeated his catechism: it’s
all about the long term. The long term, by the arithmetic of the company, was al-
ready arriving.
The acquisitions of the era revealed the strategy beneath the chaos. Amazon bought
Audible, the audiobook pioneer, in 2008; Zappos, the beloved online shoe retailer, in
2009 for roughly
$
1.2 billion; and later Twitch, the live-streaming platform, and a
string of robotics, security, and media companies. The pattern was consistent: buy
the best in class, leave its brand and culture intact, and connect it to the Amazon
machine of customers, logistics, and data. Bezos, who had built the most centralized
company of the internet era, was quietly assembling a federation of brands.
By 2012, the empire had taken the shape it would keep for the following decade. The
bookstore had become the everything store. The everything store had become the
platform for all commerce. And underneath it all, the cloud was beginning to grow
into the largest profit engine in the history of corporate technology. None of it was
visible from the outside as a single plan. It was visible only as a pattern of decisions,
each one rational in isolation, all of them compounding toward a destination that
Bezos had glimpsed in the desert of his childhood: a future where the entire world’s
infrastructure — commercial, computational, even physical — flowed through sys-
tems he had built.
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P
A
R
T
T
H
R
E
E
✡
✡
✡
Empire
Without
End
“
I
want
you
to
feel
the
same
way
about
space
that
you
feel
about
the
inter
-
net
.”
—
Jeff
Bezos
,
on
Blue
O rigin
’
s
mission
32 / 38
O
C
H
A
P
T
E
R
S
I
X
Washington
,
Space
,
and
Scrutiny
2013
–
2020
n August 5, 2013, the world learned that the founder of Amazon had bought
the Washington Post, the newspaper of the American capital, for
$
250 million,
out of his own pocket. The purchase stunned everyone, including most of the Post’s
own staff. Bezos was a man who had built his life around the long term; newspapers
were an industry in free fall. The explanations he offered were characteristic: he did
not buy the Post to make money, he said, but because the institution mattered, and
because
the
decline
of
journalism
was
a
civic
problem
that
deserved
experimentation.
The Post under Bezos was, by most measures, a rejuvenation. He did not force an ed-
itorial line, hired no loyalists, and never told the newsroom what to write. He in-
vested in digital infrastructure, expanded subscriptions, and encouraged the Post to
speak to the whole nation rather than only the capital. The paper won Pulitzer
Prizes, grew its digital audience, and became a profitable operation at a time when
most of its peers were shrinking. The experiment did not reverse the industry’s tides,
but it demonstrated that scale, technology, and patience could still move them.
The purchase of the Post was one of two long-term bets Bezos was making in that
season. The other was Blue Origin, the space company he had founded in 2000 in a
hangar in Kent, Washington, with the motto
gradatim ferociter
— step by step, fero-
ciously. For more than a decade, Blue Origin had worked in near-total secrecy,
funded entirely by Bezos’s own fortune. Its goal was not merely to reach space but to
make space travel cheap and universal, so that millions of people could live and
work there. Bezos described spaceflight as the most important work of his life.
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Blue Origin’s New Shepard rocket, named for the first American astronaut, began its
test campaign in 2015. On November 23, 2015, the booster landed softly back on its
pad after a suborbital flight — the first such vertical landing in history. The achieve-
ment was overshadowed that year by the parallel trajectory of Elon Musk’s SpaceX,
which had been crashing and landing boosters in a more spectacular fashion. But
Bezos’s approach was deliberately different: cautious, incremental, and aimed not at
the moon but at the long-term lowering of the cost of admission to space. Step by
step. Ferociously.
The mid-2010s also made Bezos the richest person on earth. On July 27, 2017, his net
worth briefly surpassed that of Bill Gates, the first time anyone else had held the title
in decades. The context was the remarkable run of Amazon’s stock, which had
turned the company from a boom-and-bust curiosity into the default retailer of the
developed world. In 2018, Amazon’s market value crossed one trillion dollars — the
second company in history, after Apple, to reach that height. The richest man in the
world was also, by then, the most consequential businessman of his generation, and
the weight of that position was beginning to show.
The same year brought the single largest corporate acquisition of the era: Amazon’s
purchase of Whole Foods Market for
$
13.7 billion, completed in 2017. The deal was, in
one stroke, Amazon’s entry into physical grocery, its delivery network’s connection
to perishable goods, and its answer to the question of how to win the last mile.
Whole Foods stores became laboratories for cashierless checkout, pickup lockers,
and the blurring of the line between online and offline commerce. The brick-and-
mortar empire of the future, the acquisition said, would be run by the company that
understood data best.
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The same period began the era of scrutiny. Regulators in Europe opened formal in-
vestigations into Amazon’s treatment of independent sellers. The United States
House of Representatives launched a sweeping antitrust investigation into the com-
pany in 2019. On July 29, 2020, Bezos testified before Congress alongside the chief ex-
ecutives of Apple, Google, and Facebook, in a hearing that was equal parts ritual hu-
miliation and legal reconnaissance. Pressed on whether Amazon had used data from
independent sellers to develop competing products, Bezos said that the company’s
policy forbade it. Asked whether he could guarantee the policy had never been vio-
lated, he answered that he could not.
The personal year of 2019 brought the public end of his marriage. Bezos and
MacKenzie announced their divorce in January, and it was finalized in the spring,
with MacKenzie Scott retaining a quarter of the couple’s Amazon stake — worth
roughly thirty-eight billion dollars at the time — and becoming one of the world’s
most powerful philanthropists. The settlement was among the largest in history, and
it proceeded with a dignity that both parties handled with conspicuous grace. The
empire remained whole. The family had changed forever.
Philanthropy, long a point of criticism for a man of Bezos’s wealth, became a more
serious project in these years. In September 2018, he announced the Day One Fund, a
two-billion-dollar commitment to help homeless families and to build a network of
free Montessori-inspired preschools in underserved communities. In February 2020,
he pledged ten billion dollars to launch the Bezos Earth Fund, the largest personal
commitment to climate action in history, focused on science, justice, and the transi-
tion to a carbon-free economy. The promises were enormous, the execution gradual,
and the skepticism persistent — but the direction of travel had unmistakably
changed.
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The year 2020 delivered the pandemic, and with it Amazon’s most paradoxical chap-
ter. As the world retreated indoors, the company became an essential utility.
Amazon hired an additional 175,000 workers in the spring of 2020 to keep pace with
demand, raised pay for warehouse staff, and shipped record volumes of food, masks,
and household goods to customers who had nowhere else to turn. Profits and criti-
cism surged in equal measure. Stories of grueling working conditions, aggressive
productivity quotas, and perilous warehouse floors became central to the public
conversation about the company, and Bezos found himself defending Amazon’s labor
record at the same moments his net worth was setting records.
By the autumn of 2020, Bloomberg reported that Bezos had become the first human
being on record worth two hundred billion dollars. The figure was less a measure of
personal consumption than of the market’s confidence in Amazon’s future: the pan-
demic had compressed years of e-commerce adoption into months, and the machine
Bezos had spent two decades perfecting was the only one large enough to serve the
moment. The company that had been founded on a bet about the internet’s growth
was now, quite literally, the infrastructure of a world that could not leave its house.
The era ended, as it had begun, with a statement about the long term. In February
2021, Bezos announced that he would step down as chief executive of Amazon, hand-
ing the role to Andy Jassy, the longtime head of its cloud division, and moving to a
new position as executive chairman. The announcement took effect on July 5, 2021 —
the twenty-seventh anniversary of the company’s incorporation, and the same year
Bezos would at last climb aboard a rocket of his own making. The age of the founder
as CEO was over. The age of the empire was just beginning.
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T
C
H
A
P
T
E
R
S
E
V
E
N
The
Chairman
’
s
Age
2021
–
he announcement, in an email to employees on February 2, 2021, was written
in the unmistakable cadence of its author. Bezos explained that Amazon was
succeeding beautifully, that the moment had come to pass the role of chief executive
to Andy Jassy, and that he intended to devote his attention to the Day One Fund, the
Bezos Earth Fund, Blue Origin, and the Washington Post. “Being the CEO of
Amazon,” he wrote, “is a deep responsibility, and it is consuming. When you have a
responsibility like that, it’s hard to put attention on anything else.” The most impor-
tant line was the one he had been writing for twenty-seven years: it was still Day 1.
The final shareholder letter of his tenure, published in April 2021, read like a sum-
mation of a life’s work. He conceded that Amazon had work to do for its employees,
promised that the company would become the best place on earth to work and the
safest, and then turned, most characteristically, to the future. The letter had been
written, he said, during a pandemic that had required Amazon to invent on behalf of
customers faster than at any moment in its history. It ended where it began, with
the conviction that invention was not a department but a disposition, and that the
only failure that mattered was the failure to try.
On July 20, 2021, fifty-two years to the day after the Apollo 11 moon landing, Bezos
flew to space aboard Blue Origin’s New Shepard. He was accompanied by his brother
Mark, the eighty-two-year-old aviation pioneer Wally Funk, and the eighteen-year-
old Oliver Daemen, the youngest person ever to reach space. The flight lasted eleven
minutes. At the post-flight press conference, he offered an unscripted thank-you
that became instant legend: “I want to thank every Amazon employee and every
Amazon customer, because you guys paid for all this.” The richest man on earth was
honest about who had built his rocket.
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Blue Origin’s pace, in the years that followed, was steady rather than spectacular. The
New Shepard rocket flew tourists, scientists, and paying customers on a growing se-
ries of suborbital flights. The company’s heavy-lift rocket, New Glenn — named for
the astronaut John Glenn — survived years of delays and finally reached orbit on its
first attempt in January 2025, though its booster was lost during reentry. The BE-4
engines that Blue Origin had developed for the Pentagon’s Vulcan rocket began fly-
ing on national-security missions. And in 2023, NASA awarded Blue Origin a
$
3.4 bil-
lion contract to build a lunar lander for the Artemis program, placing the company
at the center of America’s return to the moon.
The post-CEO Bezos became, in public, a different kind of figure. He moved to Miami
in late 2023, explaining that he wanted to be closer to his parents and to Blue Origin’s
expanding operations in Florida. His relationship with Lauren Sánchez, a journalist
and pilot, became a fixture of the celebrity press, and his purchase of a vast supery-
acht made headlines around the world. The spectacle of the world’s wealth
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