"The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable" - читать интересную книгу автора (Taleb Nassim Nicholas)

HISTORY AND THE TRIPLET OF OPACITY

History is opaque. You see what comes out, not the script that produces events, the generator of history. There is a fundamental incompleteness in your grasp of such events, since you do not see what’s inside the box, how the mechanisms work. What I call the generator of historical events is different from the events themselves, much as the minds of the gods cannot be read just by witnessing their deeds. You are very likely to be fooled about their intentions.

This disconnect is similar to the difference between the food you see on the table at the restaurant and the process you can observe in the kitchen. (The last time I brunched at a certain Chinese restaurant on Canal Street in downtown Manhattan, I saw a rat coming out of the kitchen.)

The human mind suffers from three ailments as it comes into contact with history, what I call the triplet of opacity. They are:

a. the illusion of understanding, or how everyone thinks he knows what is going on in a world that is more complicated (or random) than they realize;

b. the retrospective distortion, or how we can assess matters only after the fact, as if they were in a rearview mirror (history seems clearer and more organized in history books than in empirical reality); and

c. the overvaluation of factual information and the handicap of authoritative and learned people, particularly when they create categories—when they “Platonify.”

The first leg of the triplet is the pathology of thinking that the world in which we live is more understandable, more explainable, and therefore more predictable than it actually is.

I was constantly told by adults that the war, which ended up lasting close to seventeen years, was going to end in “only a matter of days.” They seemed quite confident in their forecasts of duration, as can be evidenced by the number of people who sat waiting in hotel rooms and other temporary quarters in Cyprus, Greece, France, and elsewhere for the war to finish. One uncle kept telling me how, some thirty years earlier, when the rich Palestinians fled to Lebanon, they considered it a very temporary solution (most of those still alive are still there, six decades later). Yet when I asked him if it was going to be the same with our conflict, he replied, “No, of course not. This place is different; it has always been different.” Somehow what he detected in others did not seem to apply to him.

This duration blindness in the middle-aged exile is quite a widespread disease. Later, when I decided to avoid the exile’s obsession with his roots (exiles’ roots penetrate their personalities a bit too deeply), I studied exile literature precisely to avoid the traps of a consuming and obsessive nostalgia. These exiles seemed to have become prisoners of their memory of idyllic origin—they sat together with other prisoners of the past and spoke about the old country, and ate their traditional food while some of their folk music played in the background. They continuously ran counterfactuals in their minds, generating alternative scenarios that could have happened and prevented these historical ruptures, such as “if the Shah had not named this incompetent man as prime minister, we would still be there.” It was as if the historical rupture had a specific cause, and that the catastrophe could have been averted by removing that specific cause. So I pumped every displaced person I could find for information on their behavior during exile. Almost all act in the same way.

One hears endless stories of Cuban refugees with suitcases still half packed who came to Miami in the 1960s for “a matter of a few days” after the installation of the Castro regime. And of Iranian refugees in Paris and London who fled the Islamic Republic in 1978 thinking that their absence would be a brief vacation. A few are still waiting, more than a quarter century later, for the return. Many Russians who left in 1917, such as the writer Vladimir Nabokov, settled in Berlin, perhaps to be close enough for a quick return. Nabokov himself lived all his life in temporary housing, in both indigence and luxury, ending his days at the Montreux Palace hotel on Lake Geneva.

There was, of course, some wishful thinking in all of these forecasting errors, the blindness of hope, but there was a knowledge problem as well. The dynamics of the Lebanese conflict had been patently unpredictable, yet people’s reasoning as they examined the events showed a constant: almost all those who cared seemed convinced that they understood what was going on. Every single day brought occurrences that lay completely outside their forecast, but they could not figure out that they had not forecast them. Much of what took place would have been deemed completely crazy with respect to the past. Yet it did not seem that crazy after the events. This retrospective plausibility causes a discounting of the rarity and conceivability of the event. I later saw the exact same illusion of understanding in business success and the financial markets.

Later, upon replaying the wartime events in my memory as I formulated my ideas on the perception of random events, I developed the governing impression that our minds are wonderful explanation machines, capable of making sense out of almost anything, capable of mounting explanations for all manner of phenomena, and generally incapable of accepting the idea of unpredictability. These events were unexplainable, but intelligent people thought they were capable of providing convincing explanations for them—after the fact. Furthermore, the more intelligent the person, the better sounding the explanation. What’s more worrisome is that all these beliefs and accounts appeared to be logically coherent and devoid of inconsistencies.

So I left the place called Lebanon as a teenager, but, since a large number of my relatives and friends remained there, I kept coming back to visit, especially during the hostilities. The war was not continuous: there were periods of fighting interrupted by “permanent” solutions. I felt closer to my roots during times of trouble and experienced the urge to come back and show support to those left behind who were often demoralized by the departures—and envious of the fair-weather friends who could seek economic and personal safety only to return for vacations during these occasional lulls in the conflict. I was unable to work or read when I was outside Lebanon while people were dying, but, paradoxically, I was less concerned by the events and able to pursue my intellectual interests guilt-free when I was inside Lebanon. Interestingly, people partied quite heavily during the war and developed an even bigger taste for luxuries, making the visits quite attractive in spite of the fighting.

There were a few difficult questions. How could one have predicted that people who seemed a model of tolerance could become the purest of barbarians overnight? Why was the change so abrupt? I initially thought that perhaps the Lebanese war was truly not possible to predict, unlike other conflicts, and that the Levantines were too complicated a race to figure out. Later I slowly realized, as I started to consider all the big events in history, that their irregularity was not a local property.

The Levant has been something of a mass producer of consequential events nobody saw coming. Who predicted the rise of Christianity as a dominant religion in the Mediterranean basin, and later in the Western world? The Roman chroniclers of that period did not even take note of the new religion—historians of Christianity are baffled by the absence of contemporary mentions. Apparently, few of the big guns took the ideas of a seemingly heretical Jew seriously enough to think that he would leave traces for posterity. We only have a single contemporary reference to Jesus of Nazareth—in The Jewish Wars of Josephus—which itself may have been added later by a devout copyist. How about the competing religion that emerged seven centuries later; who forecast that a collection of horsemen would spread their empire and Islamic law from the Indian subcontinent to Spain in just a few years? Even more than the rise of Christianity, it was the spread of Islam (the third edition, so to speak) that carried full unpredictability; many historians looking at the record have been taken aback by the swiftness of the change. Georges Duby, for one, expressed his amazement about how quickly close to ten centuries of Levantine Hellenism were blotted out “with a strike of a sword.” A later holder of the same history chair at the Collège de France, Paul Veyne, aptly talked about religions spreading “like bestsellers”—a comparison that indicates unpredictability. These kinds of discontinuities in the chronology of events did not make the historian’s profession too easy: the studious examination of the past in the greatest of detail does not teach you much about the mind of History; it only gives you the illusion of understanding it.

History and societies do not crawl. They make jumps. They go from fracture to fracture, with a few vibrations in between. Yet we (and historians) like to believe in the predictable, small incremental progression.

It struck me, a belief that has never left me since, that we are just a great machine for looking backward, and that humans are great at self-delusion. Every year that goes by increases my belief in this distortion.

Events present themselves to us in a distorted way. Consider the nature of information: of the millions, maybe even trillions, of small facts that prevail before an event occurs, only a few will turn out to be relevant later to your understanding of what happened. Because your memory is limited and filtered, you will be inclined to remember those data that subsequently match the facts, unless you are like the eponymous Funes in the short story by Jorge Luis Borges, “Funes, the Memorious,” who forgets nothing and seems condemned to live with the burden of the accumulation of unprocessed information. (He does not manage to live too long.)

I had my first exposure to the retrospective distortion as follows. During my childhood I had been a voracious, if unsteady, reader, but I spent the first phase of the war in a basement, diving body and soul into all manner of books. School was closed and it was raining mortar shells. It is dreadfully boring to be in basements. My initial worries were mostly about how to fight boredom and what to read next[6]—though being forced to read for lack of other activities is not as enjoyable as reading out of one’s own volition. I wanted to be a philosopher (I still do), so I felt that I needed to make an investment by forcibly studying others’ ideas. Circumstances motivated me to study theoretical and general accounts of wars and conflicts, trying to get into the guts of History, to get into the workings of that big machine that generates events.

Surprisingly, the book that influenced me was not written by someone in the thinking business but by a journalist: William Shirer’s Berlin Diary: The Journal of a Foreign Correspondent, 1934-1941. Shirer was a radio correspondent, famous for his book The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. It occurred to me that the Journal offered an unusual perspective. I had already read (or read about) the works of Hegel, Marx, Toynbee, Aron, and Fichte on the philosophy of history and its properties and thought that I had a vague idea of the notions of dialectics, to the extent that there was something to understand in these theories. I did not grasp much, except that history had some logic and that things developed through contradiction (or opposites) in a way that elevated mankind into higher forms of society—that kind of thing. This sounded awfully similar to the theorizing around me about the war in Lebanon. To this day I surprise people who put the ludicrous question to me about what books “shaped my thinking” by telling them that this book taught me (albeit inadvertently) the most about philosophy and theoretical history—and, we will see, about science as well, since I learned the difference between forward and backward processes.

How? Simply, the diary purported to describe the events as they were taking place, not after. I was in a basement with history audibly unfolding above me (the sound of mortar shells kept me up all night). I was a teenager attending the funerals of classmates. I was experiencing a nontheoretical unfolding of History and I was reading about someone apparently experiencing history as it went along. I made efforts to mentally produce a movielike representation of the future and realized it was not so obvious. I realized that if I were to start writing about the events later they would seem more … historical. There was a difference between the before and the after.

The journal was purportedly written without Shirer knowing what was going to happen next, when the information available to him was not corrupted by the subsequent outcomes. Some comments here and there were quite illuminating, particularly those concerning the French belief that Hitler was a transitory phenomenon, which explained their lack of preparation and subsequent rapid capitulation. At no time was the extent of the ultimate devastation deemed possible.

While we have a highly unstable memory, a diary provides indelible facts recorded more or less immediately; it thus allows the fixation of an unrevised perception and enables us to later study events in their own context. Again, it is the purported method of description of the event, not its execution, that was important. In fact, it is likely that Shirer and his editors did some cheating, since the book was published in 1941 and publishers, I am told, are in the business of delivering texts to the general public instead of providing faithful depictions of the authors’ mind-sets stripped of retrospective distortions. (By “cheating,” I mean removing at the time of publication elements that did not turn out to be relevant to what happened, thus enhancing those that may interest the public. Indeed the editing process can be severely distorting, particularly when the author is assigned what is called a “good editor.”) Still, encountering Shirer’s book provided me with an intuition about the workings of history. One would suppose that people living through the beginning of WWII had an inkling that something momentous was taking place. Not at all.[7]

Shirer’s diary turned out to be a training program in the dynamics of uncertainty. I wanted to be a philosopher, not knowing at the time what most professional philosophers did for a living. The idea led me to adventure (rather to the adventurous practice of uncertainty) and also to mathematical and scientific pursuits instead.

I will introduce the third element of the triplet, the curse of learning, as follows. I closely watched my grandfather, who was minister of defense, and later minister of the interior and deputy prime minister in the early days of the war, before the fading of his political role. In spite of his position he did not seem to know what was going to happen any more than did his driver, Mikhail. But unlike my grandfather, Mikhail used to repeat “God knows” as his main commentary on events, transferring the task of understanding higher up.

I noticed that very intelligent and informed persons were at no advantage over cabdrivers in their predictions, but there was a crucial difference. Cabdrivers did not believe that they understood as much as learned people—really, they were not the experts and they knew it. Nobody knew anything, but elite thinkers thought that they knew more than the rest because they were elite thinkers, and if you’re a member of the elite, you automatically know more than the nonelite.

It is not just knowledge but information that can be of dubious value. It came to my notice that almost everybody was acquainted with current events in their smallest details. The overlap between newspapers was so large that you would get less and less information the more you read. Yet everyone was so eager to become familiar with every fact that they read every freshly printed document and listened to every radio station as if the great answer was going to be revealed to them in the next bulletin. People became encyclopedias of who had met with whom and which politician said what to which other politician (and with what tone of voice: “Was he more friendly than usual?”). Yet to no avail.