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A review by elanna76
Fooled by Randomness: The Hidden Role of Chance in Life and in the Markets by Nassim Nicholas Taleb
informative
medium-paced
2.75
How many times can you repeat the concept that past success is not predictive of future outcomes, explain the survivor's bias, and tell an example about a wealthy professional who feels broke because he lives in a more affluent environment?
Also, why does anybody who moves to America suddenly loses every sense for complexity and stops understanding continental philosophy?
This guy went over the top, declaring that Derrida and Hegel are nonsense because, well, they are obscure to him. Him, as in: the paragon of all shrewdness and preparedness and mathematicalness and many other excellentnesses, under a thin veneer of false modesty. He went on quoting a passage from Hegel, a very difficult one, and pointing at it as in: "you see, point proven, it's not immediately understandable to me, therefore it means NOTHING (Triumphant clash of cymbals)! You see, this guy I know made a Derrida generator that mixes sentences from his books and lo and behold: it didn't make sense to me before and it doesn't after shuffling it! THEREFORE DERRIDA'S WRITING IS MEANINGLESS!" I swear to God. I would like to create a Talib generator and see what he thinks of books that re-shuffle the same chapters six times in a row...
He also has a chip on his shoulder circa the size of a carriage with horses about having to work for a living - ah, the aristocratic mediterranean past of his family! - and makes a point of being NOT AT ALL average, not at all, very refined instead thank you very much, and of enjoying the confidence of the Exceptionally Smart and/or Powerful. I can picture him wearing a cravat, sitting in a leather armchair and sipping calvados while checking the effect in the mirror, stuff like that. Still, he can't understand Derrida.
I even agreed with him on many points about randomness and Popper (that, he can understand), and there is a lot to learn from this book, but a third into it he started repeating the same three concepts all over, and his smugness stopped being fun. The narrator's voice didn't help, with that American cadence from somewhere very macho and capitalist.
I'll go back to George Eliot for a while. Or I'll re-read Derrida, sitting on my Ikea sofa with my fluffy Homer Simpson slippers, after my 9-to-5 clerical workday, sipping Barry's tea.
Also, why does anybody who moves to America suddenly loses every sense for complexity and stops understanding continental philosophy?
This guy went over the top, declaring that Derrida and Hegel are nonsense because, well, they are obscure to him. Him, as in: the paragon of all shrewdness and preparedness and mathematicalness and many other excellentnesses, under a thin veneer of false modesty. He went on quoting a passage from Hegel, a very difficult one, and pointing at it as in: "you see, point proven, it's not immediately understandable to me, therefore it means NOTHING (Triumphant clash of cymbals)! You see, this guy I know made a Derrida generator that mixes sentences from his books and lo and behold: it didn't make sense to me before and it doesn't after shuffling it! THEREFORE DERRIDA'S WRITING IS MEANINGLESS!" I swear to God. I would like to create a Talib generator and see what he thinks of books that re-shuffle the same chapters six times in a row...
He also has a chip on his shoulder circa the size of a carriage with horses about having to work for a living - ah, the aristocratic mediterranean past of his family! - and makes a point of being NOT AT ALL average, not at all, very refined instead thank you very much, and of enjoying the confidence of the Exceptionally Smart and/or Powerful. I can picture him wearing a cravat, sitting in a leather armchair and sipping calvados while checking the effect in the mirror, stuff like that. Still, he can't understand Derrida.
I even agreed with him on many points about randomness and Popper (that, he can understand), and there is a lot to learn from this book, but a third into it he started repeating the same three concepts all over, and his smugness stopped being fun. The narrator's voice didn't help, with that American cadence from somewhere very macho and capitalist.
I'll go back to George Eliot for a while. Or I'll re-read Derrida, sitting on my Ikea sofa with my fluffy Homer Simpson slippers, after my 9-to-5 clerical workday, sipping Barry's tea.