Free Fooled by Randomness by Nassim Nicholas Taleb Page A

contrast with Kenny, who wore conservative dark suits and white shirts (his only indulgence was flashy equestrian Hermès ties), Jean-Patrice dressed like a peacock: blue shirts, plaid sports coats stuffed with gaudy silk pocket squares. No family-minded man, he rarely came to work before noon—though I can safely say that he carried his work with him to the most unlikely places. He frequently called me from
Regine’s,
an upscale nightclub in New York, waking me up at three in the morning to discuss some small (and irrelevant) details of my risk exposure. In spite of his slight corpulence, women seemed to find him irresistible; he frequently disappeared at midday and was unreachable for hours. His advantage might have been in his being a New York Frenchman with steady bathing habits. Once he invited me to discuss an urgent business issue with him. Characteristically, I found him mid-afternoon in a strange “club” in Paris that carried no nameplate and where he sat with documents strewn across the table from him. Sipping champagne, he was simultaneously caressed by two scantily dressed young ladies. Strangely, he involved them in the conversation as if they were part of the meeting. He even had one of the ladies pick up his constantly ringing mobile phone as he did not want our conversation to be interrupted.
    I am still amazed at this flamboyant man’s obsession with risks, which he constantly played in his head—he literally thought of everything that could possibly happen. He forced me to make an alternative plan should a plane crash into the office building (way before the events of September 2001)—and fumed at my answer that the financial condition of his department would be of small interest to me in such circumstances. He had a horrible reputation as a philanderer, a temperamental boss capable of firing someone at a whim, yet he listened to me and understood every word I had to say, encouraging me to go the extra mile in my study of randomness. He taught me to look for the invisible risks of blowup in any portfolio. Not coincidentally, he has an immense respect for science and an almost fawning deference for scientists; a decade or so after we worked together he showed up unexpectedly during the defense of my doctoral thesis, smiling from the back of the room. While Kenny knew how to climb the ladder of an institution, reaching a high level in the organization before being forced out, Jean-Patrice did not have such a happy career, a matter that taught me to beware of mature financial institutions.
    It can be disturbing for many self-styled “bottom line”–oriented people to be questioned about the histories that did not take place rather than the ones that actually happened. Clearly, to a no-nonsense person of the “successful in business” variety, my language (and, I have to reckon, some traits of my personality) appears strange and incomprehensible. To my amusement, the argument appears offensive to many.
    The contrast between Kenny and Jean-Patrice is not a mere coincidence that I happened to witness in a protracted career. Beware the spendthrift “businesswise” person; the cemetery of markets is disproportionately well stocked with the self-styled “bottom line” people. In contrast with their customary Masters of the Universe demeanor, they suddenly look pale, humble, and hormone-deprived on the way to the personnel office for the customary discussion of the severance agreement.
    GEORGE WILL IS NO SOLON:
ON COUNTERINTUITIVE TRUTHS
    Realism can be punishing. Probabilistic skepticism is worse. It is difficult to go about life wearing probabilistic glasses, as one starts seeing fools of randomness all around, in a variety of situations—obdurate in their perceptional illusion. To start, it is impossible to read a historian’s analysis without questioning the inferences: We know that Hannibal and Hitler were mad in their pursuits, as Rome is not today Phoenician-speaking and Times Square in New