It’s All How You Look at It

“No, and I don’t want to,” said Frodo. “I can’t understand you. Do you mean to say that you, and the Elves, have let him live on after all those horrible deeds? Now at any rate he is as bad as an Orc, and just an enemy. He deserves death.”
“Deserves it! I daresay he does. Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgment. For even the very wise cannot see all ends.”

— J.R.R. Tolkein, The Fellowship of the Ring

Peggy Noonan launched a cruise missile of sorts in her Wall Street Journal Declarations column this weekend, entitled “Youth Has Outlived Its Usefulness.” In an age where youth ascendant seems to be the chief aim and value of our private and public culture, this does seem rather a (minor) declaration of war. Certainly, her characterization of “young bloggers” as “hyenas” and “trash-talking rage monkey[s]” is guaranteed to get her removed from the electronic Christmas card lists of hundreds of underannuated prognosticators.

Too bad her essay is one of the more scattershot and confused efforts she has penned, for it addresses an interesting state of affairs in our polity. Confused, for she seems to bewail the absence and wish for the return of, sequentially, old men, father figures, wise men, mentors, and grown-ups. Scattershot, for she jumps from politics to business to journalism to politics at a word.

Setting aside whether her explicitly male models of good judgment and advice reflect some deeper flaw in her worldview or not—being male I (naturally) have no problem with this¹—I do have to say Ms Noonan seems to confuse several very different things. For one thing, age is no guarantee of wisdom. If there is one thing we should have learned from witnessing the maturation of an entire generation of Baby Boomers into full-fledged, self-absorbed, self-indulgent, materialistic emotional and intellectual teenagers with age spots and dentures, it is that.² For another, the common association of age and experience with wisdom and good judgment is and always has been weak at best, if not downright misleading. I know plenty of old people whose judgment I would not trust to order an ice cream cone. (And I’m not talking about dementia.)

This is particularly true among the great and good—from whose serried ranks Ms Noonan would presumably like to draw her consiglieri—because so many of them have risen to ranks of position, power, influence, and reputation on an uncommon mix of luck, skill, and patronage, if not downright nepotism. (Never underestimate the potency of the Lucky Sperm Club.) Why should we trust a man—let’s say—who made a huge success of himself running an important business line within Goldman Sachs to give us good advice on the running of the war in Afghanistan or diplomatic relations with the Chinese? Why the fuck would he know anything about that? I’d trust him to give effective advice on running an important business line within Goldman Sachs, but not much else. His capacity for wise counsel in other things is and should be, in my humble opinion, very much up for proof and debate. The size of a man’s bank account, and the number of hits of his name on Google, are no measure of his intelligence, much less an indication of the quality of his wisdom.

For another, being a father myself, I am highly skeptical that fatherhood itself—even that sadly too-infrequent form which entails sustained attention to and engagement with one’s progeny and the conscious assumption of what are commonly known as fatherly duties—is any strong recommendation for handing over the metaphorical keys to the nuclear arsenal. It is true that an important element of fatherhood as it is traditionally defined includes the father attempting to impart to his children what are known as the unpleasant facts of life. That is: that no-one in the world outside of your mother will give you unconditional love (and even she is no certainty); that most people alive couldn’t care less whether you live or die; and that naked power, selfishness, fear, aggression, and hate are deep and puissant elements of human society in any age, and that you cannot ignore them or wish them away. In this the engaged father does indeed impart some form of wisdom, if only the negative kind to counterbalance the potentially misleading love and sheltering offered by a mother.

But this is not what Ms Noonan identifies as what she wants from her father figures. She wants them waiting through the night at the side of the hospital bed, like Atticus Finch, or providing safety and security by their very presence. But, while emotionally powerful and probably universal, this view of the father is that of a child. Which adolescent among us has not discovered the feet of clay and the lifetime membership card to the Universal Guild of Imperfect Humanity in his or her father’s clothes one sad day? Who among us has not had to swallow the bitter pill that all-powerful Daddy can in fact not protect us from life or our enemies when we most need him? The bittersweet fact of a good father is that he can and will throw himself in front of a speeding car or a charging lion to protect his children, even if he cannot save them. But that is not wisdom. That is love. Let us be clear-eyed enough to distinguish the two.

It is no disrespect to Atticus Finch to say his midnight vigil over his wounded child was the result of love, and perhaps even guilt that his principled defense of his client put his own child in mortal danger. Love and guilt are powerful things, and they can inspire wonderfully selfless behavior, but they are not wisdom. I do not want a counselor who loves me. I want one who is wise.

* * *

So let us talk then about wisdom.

It is an old saying, but true nonetheless, that the wise person is certain of little but his or her ignorance. A wise man is wise enough to know what he does not know. He believes the world is too multifarious, changeable, and miraculous a place to put much trust in feeble humanity’s ability to comprehend and control it as we would wish. Therefore, a wise man counsels caution, and encourages us to pay attention to our ignorance—what we do not and cannot know—as we make our way through life.

A wise man does not provide answers. A wise man asks questions, and encourages us to ask questions of ourselves. For this reason, Peggy Noonan’s implicit identification of the Best and Brightest as “the wise men” of the Vietnam era is flat wrong both chronologically and conceptually. JFK’s whiz kids were a bunch of brilliant, arrogant young Turks, not a collection of grizzled old veterans of the Second World War or the Korean War. And they did not have or offer any questions at all: in contrast, they had all the (in retrospect, wrong) answers. They didn’t offer wisdom. They offered an agenda.

But here’s the rub, Dear Readers. If our beloved wise men, wherever we find them, cannot or will not provide the answers, then we must come up with them ourselves. We may value their sage counsel and radical skepticism concerning the source and security of our own apparent knowledge and opinions, but we’re gonna have to make the difficult decisions ourselves. Wise men counsel caution and care; we the living cannot help but act. If we are truly listening, our wise mens’ counsel will only make those decisions and actions harder to take.

Which is not to say we should not find them, and employ them, and value their advice. But we must understand that cultivating the path of wisdom does not lead to the answers to life—if any such childish fantasies exist. It merely allows us to test and practice our courage in the face of the ineluctable Unknown.

Never forget: every wise man started out a simple fool like you or me. He learned wisdom by questioning, by learning, and by doing. There is no secret stash of wise men waiting at WalMart for us to purchase.

It is time we manned up and learned to become our own wise men.


Note: In addition to my firm belief that it is a shamelessly beautiful painting and a seminal contribution to the development of modern art, my illustration of this post with Henri Matisse’s 1914 masterpiece “Goldfish and Palette” actually does have a point larger than an impulse triggered by my recent viewing of it in New York. The painting is a fierce and violent reimagining of a small, unimportant slice of reality through the lens of artistic vision. The artist truncates, distorts, and shapes what he sees in support of his aesthetic (and hence philosophical) purpose. All of us do this, in ways large and small, every day of our lives, whether we know or acknowledge it or not. And yet Matisse’s lies, his distortions, are beautiful, and thought-provoking, in a way a (purportedly) more “honest” representation of the scene—say, a photograph—would not be. But at the same time, the artist is scrupulously honest about his presence, his explicit intermediation of reality, by drawing attention to his thumb, arm, and palette at the right of the painting.
“I am here,” he announces to us. “I am lying to you. Do you like it? Do you find it beautiful? Do you find it true?” If only the pundits, would-be philosophers, and politicians braying in our ears and eyes could be half as honest and thought-provoking about their own pitiful efforts.
¹ Exempli gratia: I am here. I am lying to you. Do you like it? Do you find it beautiful? Do you find it true?
² Being arguably on the tail end of said generation myself, I am allowed to say such things. Prove me wrong.

© 2010 The Epicurean Dealmaker. All rights reserved.

Four Fragments in Search of an Argument

From the unpublished archives:
1.

Jimmy Dugan: "Shit, Dottie, if you want to go back to Oregon and make a hundred babies, great. I'm in no position to tell anyone how to live. But sneaking out like this, quitting, you'll regret it for the rest of your life. Baseball is what gets inside you. It's what lights you up, you can't deny that."
Dottie Hinson: "It just got too hard."
Jimmy Dugan: "It's supposed to be hard. If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it. The hard ... is what makes it great."

— A League of Their Own

2.

"You think him honest;—don’t you?" asked Lady Carbury. Mr Booker smiled and hesitated. "Of course, I mean honest as men can be in such very large transactions."

"Perhaps that is the best way of putting it," said Mr Booker.

"If a thing can be made great and beneficent, a boon to humanity, simply by creating a belief in it, does not a man become a benefactor to his race by creating that belief?"

"At the expense of veracity?" suggested Mr Booker.

"At the expense of anything?" rejoined Lady Carbury with energy. "One cannot measure such men by the ordinary rule."

"You would do evil to produce good?" asked Mr Booker.

"I do not call it doing evil. You have to destroy a thousand living creatures every time you drink a glass of water, but you do not think of that when you are athirst. You cannot send a ship to sea without endangering lives. You do send ships to sea though men perish yearly. You tell me this man may perhaps ruin hundreds, but then again he may create a new world in which millions will be rich and happy."

"You are an excellent casuist, Lady Carbury."

"I am an enthusiastic lover of beneficent audacity," said Lady Carbury, picking her words slowly, and showing herself to be quite satisfied with herself as she picked them.

— Anthony Trollope, The Way We Live Now

3.

In short, if you believe this, how can you also believe that? The answer is that the realms of belief supposedly existing in a condition of opposition and conflict are, at least to some extent, discrete. What you believe in one arena of human endeavor may have no spillover into what you believe, and do, in another.

Thus, for example, you may have assented to an argument that calls into question the solidity of facts, but when you’re not doing meta-theory, you will experience facts as solidly as the most committed and polemical of empiricists. In doing so you will not be inconsistent or self-contradictory because the question of a belief in facts arises only in the special precincts of philosophical deliberation. In everyday life, we neither believe nor disbelieve in facts as a a general category; we just encounter particular ones in perfectly ordinary ways; and any challenge to one or more of them will also be perfectly ordinary, a matter of evidentiary adequacy or the force of counter examples or some other humdrum, non-philosophical measure of dis-confirmation. The conclusions we may have come to in the context of fancy epistemological debates (a context few will ever inhabit) will have no necessary force when we step into, and are asked to operate in, other contexts.

— Stanley Fish, here

4.

There are those who style themselves intellectuals—a notably large portion of whom, in my personal experience, happen to be economists—who are deeply suspicious of anecdotal data in general and anecdotes about finance, economics, and the behavior of market participants in particular. This has always struck me as revealing both a superficially shallow skepticism about the primary sense and experience data of others—which, after all, is the most reliable data each of us individually possesses—and a similarly unwarranted credulity about its opposite, broad and impersonal third party datasets.

Perhaps I am being overly harsh, and the division I perceive is simply one between insiders like me who do [investment banking] for a living and outsiders without germane experiences of their own to call upon. In any event, the disjunction has explained to my total satisfaction most economists' thorough misunderstanding of and inability to explain my business without making complete asses of themselves.

Oh, and by the way, while quality has certainly improved since I started in investment banking 20 years ago, it remains true, for example, that the banker who wishes to remain employed will always check the accuracy of third party data against original sources before he incorporates it into his own work product. So much for the reliability of external datasets when real money—as opposed to, let's say, a research grant—is on the line. Oh snap.

— TED, unpublished remarks

* * *

It may be a little late, but I always find Spring cleaning—physical and intellectual—to be therapeutic. Don't you?

© 2010 The Epicurean Dealmaker. All rights reserved.

Flight of the Puss Moth

Kilimanjaro is a snow covered mountain 19,710 feet high, and is said to be the highest mountain in Africa. Its western summit is called the Masai "Ngàje Ngài," the House of God. Close to the western summit there is the dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. No one has explained what the leopard was seeking at that altitude.

— Ernest Hemingway, "The Snows of Kilimanjaro"

Well, it's official. You know you have achieved blogging irrelevance when Alltop drops you from its econoblog pages.

Not that I'm complaining, mind you. For those of you who haven't noticed, my non-self-referential, non-self-indulgent blogging output at this location has plummeted precipitously over the past several months. There are several reasons for this, most of which I will not bore you with. Suffice it to say the primary obstacle to my regular engagement with these pages has been a change in my vocational responsibilities. These new duties allow me neither the time nor the energy to 1) think cogently about issues and topics which might be of interest to my audience or 2) write them down in a form and with a polish which I would not be ashamed of. Neither of these is easy or quick, at least for me. Hence the silence.

This silence will continue for the forseeable future. I cannot anticipate a change in my circumstances which might allow me to return to regular blogging. Nor can I rule one out. We'll just have to see, and, if it happens, find out whether whatever I may or may not choose to write in the future is something my past readers will find interesting.

Before I leave, I do wish to express deep appreciation for the many individuals who have spent valuable time out of their limited lives reading and responding to my work here, and engaging in argument and discussion with me through this strange electronic medium. Their names and contributions are too numerous and lengthy to list in this brief farewell, but you can find most of them scattered throughout these pages. I have learned a lot from many, many people over the past several years, and I have enjoyed their virtual company. Perhaps we will meet in another life over a cigar and a vintage Port, and laugh about everything and nothing at all.

But now, Compton and the plane are here, and the mountain is waiting. It's time to go.

See ya.

© 2010 The Epicurean Dealmaker. All rights reserved.

Semi-Charmed Kind of Life

I believe in the sand beneath my toes
The beach gives a feeling, an earthy feeling
I believe in the faith that grows
And the four right chords can make me cry
When I'm with you I feel like I could die
And that would be all right
All right

— Third Eye Blind, "Semi-Charmed Life"

In the course of my professional peregrinations, O Dearly Beloved, I travel a lot. A lot.

Trust me.

Do not mistake me: this is not a complaint. I like to travel, even though I am many decades past the point when traveling cross country or across an ocean excites the childlike wonder and excitement I still see in my junior colleagues. I do not begrudge them their excitement. For one thing, it softens the blow of carrying my bags. And paying for the taxi from the airport to the hotel or meeting.

Yes, I am a bastard. Deal with it.

* * *

Anyway, there is nothing like hurtling in an aluminum tube at 35,000 feet over the fly-over states at 650 miles per hour to make an introspective soul contemplate his or her mortality. After all, even though air travel is statistically the safest method of travel available to Earthlings at this point in history—compared, for example, to crossing the street under foot power in Midtown Manhattan during rush hour—when things go bad six miles above the surface of the Earth, most leading scientific authorities agree that you are, basically, fucked. Plane crashes are rare, but, sadly, so is survivability. You may have a very low probability of being in a plane crash during your lifetime, but if you are, you have a very high probability of getting distinctly and irrevocably dead. It could ruin your entire day.

Similar thoughts of mortality passed through my brain on a recent trans-con flight. These were triggered less by the background fatalism limned above than by the awareness that my brother-in-law was going under the knife while I was in the air, and I had no guarantee that he would not be dead by the time I landed. At first blush, this was a distressing thought, as I truly like and admire my brother-in-law (one of many), and I was concerned not only for him but for his wife and two daughters.

But then I remembered that he was a good man, who had built a good, honest life, with a wife who loved him (and whom he loved) and two delightful daughters who have turned out to be crackerjack specimens of humanity. I would not wish an end to his life under any circumstance, but, if he were to die, what better legacy could he leave? What better life could he have lived?

None.

And that is the answer, Boys and Girls.

* * *

On the ground or in the air, we are all hurtling at high speed toward our own deaths. When they will come, and in what form, we cannot know. Neither can many of us be sure what, if anything, might lie on the other side of that dark divide.

But we do know, and can control, what we do on this side.

Being a relatively smart guy, with a couple of talents more developed than the average bear, I had always hoped and dreamed as a youngster that I could leave a legacy to humanity. That I could do something, or contribute something, so that my life would have mattered. As I have gotten older and wiser, I've realized I probably don't have the firepower, or the intellect, or the drive to really "make a difference" in the world. That the legacy I leave behind, such as it is, is probably going to be limited to the relationships, and the example, I leave behind with my family, my friends, and the other fellow travelers I cross paths with on this small blue planet. And I am okay with that.

I am thankful that I have a wife and children who love me, against all good judgment and public opinion. I am glad I have two dogs who consider me to be a demigod, against all available evidence to the contrary. I am glad to have useful employ, in a profession which many despise but which I still find a daily challenge and delight. I could leave all of them tomorrow, if I had to, with the knowledge that they reflect a credit on me and my life which I probably don't deserve.

But let me tell you something else. I am goddamn glad that we humans have invented scotch, and cigars, and rock and roll music¹ to ease the passage. Give me some of each, and I will dance right up to that fucking Reaper and shake his awful hand.

And he will look at me worriedly and exclaim, "Wait. You're an investment banker?"

Note: My brother-in-law yet lives. Thankfully, he is very hard to kill. I aspire to such resilience.
¹ I have very eclectic taste in music. It's all over the map, from obscure stuff that very few people have ever heard of to mainstream Top 40 shit everyone has heard of. Music snobs would say I have no discrimination. I say most music snobs have no soul. Fuck 'em all, root and branch.

© 2010 The Epicurean Dealmaker. All rights reserved.

Editorial Note

No good deed goes unpunished.

— Anonymous

My recent exercise in flag-waving seems to have generated some confusion in a few quarters. If I interpret his telegraphic tweets aright¹—always a risky business, under the best of circumstances—reader "CorneliusZH" seems to have interpreted my post as an attack on the banking industry qua industry, and that I implied that all its denizens, from lowest recent recruit to highest panjandrum, should be tarred with the brush of anticompetitive, plutocratic misbehavior.

This was not my intent at all.² Let me be clear: as CorneliusZH wrote, many of the people who work in the investment banking industry are indeed Horatio Alger stories themselves. (For what it is worth, so am I.) Careful readers will recall that I alluded to the current CEO of Goldman Sachs, Lloyd Blankfein, as an admirable exemplar of that very thing.³ I have known very few, if any, colleagues or competitors over the years who have achieved success at (or even entry into) investment banking based on nepotism or anything other, really, than a rare combination of high native intelligence, relentless hard work, and grand ambition. There have been a few people I know who got a start based upon who Daddy was, but they quickly got winnowed out if they couldn't deliver the goods like their peers. (Most of those were hired with the implicit understanding that Daddy would hand out fee business to the investment bank which hired Junior, anyway. Unless they proved themselves otherwise, such quid pro quos were always viewed as temporary investments in human capital only.)⁴

There was also nothing in my post which should lead a cautious reader to assume I advocate the dissolution of investment banks, the imposition of punitive taxes on finance industry compensation, or the passage of badly written, excessively repressive legislation on the industry itself. Number one, that just isn't in my piece. And number two, have you read anything I've written in these pages over the past few years? Shit, man, carve out a couple days, pour yourself a few beers, and read it. You will quickly find such impressions to be badly mistaken.

I did respond to Mr. ZH by Twitter, but I thought I would share my remarks, in slightly edited form, with you here. I think the thoughts they express are important to convey to a broader audience.

Look, if people want to misinterpret my work, that is their privilege. I cannot control how my words are read. Anyone who cares to can spend a few weeks reading my back catalogue and discover that I am neither a mindless bank booster nor a mindless bank basher. Having spent 20 years of my life in the business, I appreciate it in ways most cannot. It's funny, but the bulk of reactions I have generated over time paint me as an apologist and defender of the banks for that very reason.

Let me be clear: I think both extreme perspectives are wrong, and either lazy or disingenuous. There are not enough hours in the day nor enough money in my bank account for me to try to right the idiocy of the world by myself. Therefore, I write what I write, and biased and lazy readers be damned. If anyone agrees with 100% of what I have said, 99 times out of 100 that means they have not read it carefully. I defy easy characterization, on purpose.

And to respond directly, it pisses the hell out of me that a bunch of lazy, greedy fucks have taken over my industry and crapped all over what was always an imperfect but all-in-all pretty good—and, sometimes, even noble—thing. And they don't even seem to realize it. I am critiquing my industry from the inside, and my primary intended audience is my fellow brethren. I just wish to hell the goddamned bastards would listen. It is their stupidity, not the often mindless rage it has generated, which has screwed up my livelihood and likely will lead to bad regulation, over-legislation, and decades of stagnation.

I pity the stupid and ill-informed. In contrast, I am mad as hell at the assholes in my business who should have known better.

And, for the avoidance of doubt—as my British colleagues like to say—let it be understood that the assholes I am talking about run these businesses from positions of senior executive authority.

* * *

I am a dyed-in-the-wool capitalist and investment banker. Unlike many of my fellow citizens at the moment, I continue to believe both of these are good things, and better than the alternatives. Nevertheless, I acknowledge, apparently unlike many of my blinkered brethren, that there is a good way to run capitalism and investment banks and a bad way. I think the senior muckety-mucks in my industry have done the latter, and I would prefer that they—or someone else with half a brain and a smidgen of humility or even empathy—would realize that, and try to correct the error of their ways before the vastly more numerous fellow citizens outside the industry decide there is nothing worth preserving and burn us all to the ground.⁵

There. Is that fucking clear enough for you?

¹ And if, as he now seems to suggest, I may have misunderstood him, I apologize. But let this be a lesson to you, kiddies: never try to conduct a nuanced conversation about a complicated matter in 140-character bursts. The medium just won't support the message. To be honest, I still can't figure out what CorneliusZH was objecting to in my original post.
² Frankly, I thought it was a happy, cheerful, optimistic piece. (At least for me.) Just goes to show how you can't control how others interpret your words.
³ It should not require saying so, but I will: my admiration for Lloyd's pulling himself up to the highest levels of global finance by his own bootstraps does not extend to the damage he has done his firm and the alleged injuries he may or may not have visited upon his clients. Capisce?
⁴ One of the admittedly lesser evils which will result from the calcification of the finance industry into giant, unassailable behemoths untouchable by regulators, markets, or clients—known elsewhere as crony capitalism, which blights vast swathes of the developed and undeveloped world—is that this will change. Not only will Daddy's idiot son get hired at Goldman Sachs, he will end up running the joint.
⁵ And, given that these muckety-mucks have driven my livelihood into the ditch of public opprobrium, I would appreciate a little humility and openness on the part of all people in the industry vis-à-vis coming to a consensus on proposed solutions. The fact that it was us who cratered our own industry—never mind with how much and whose help—leads me to suggest that it is at the very least impolitic and at the most expressive of an unjustified hubris of the first rank to deny that anyone outside the industry might have any good ideas on how to fix it or even the political, social, and moral standing to propose them. Seriously, if we don't, why should anyone listen to what we have to say about the subject ever again?

© 2010 The Epicurean Dealmaker. All rights reserved.