The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable

Making $1 million in one year, but nothing in the preceding nine, does not bring the same pleasure as having the total evenly distributed over the same period, that is, $100,000 every year for ten years in a row. The same applies to the inverse order—making a bundle the first year, then nothing for the remaining period. Somehow, your pleasure system will be saturated rather quickly, and it will not carry forward the hedonic balance like a sum on a tax return. As a matter of fact, your happiness depends far more on the number of instances of positive feelings, what psychologists call “positive affect,” than on their intensity when they hit. In other words, good news is good news first; how good matters rather little. So to have a pleasant life you should spread these small “affects” across time as evenly as possible. Plenty of mildly good news is preferable to one single lump of great news.

Sadly, it may be even worse for you to make $10 million, then lose back nine, than to making nothing at all! True, you may end up with a million (as compared to nothing), but it may be better had you got zilch. (This assumes, of course, that you care about financial rewards.)

So from a narrowly defined accounting point of view, which I may call here “hedonic calculus,” it does not pay to shoot for one large win. Mother Nature destined us to derive enjoyment from a steady flow of pleasant small, but frequent, rewards. As I said, the rewards do not have to be large, just frequent—a little bit here, a little bit there. Consider that our major satisfaction for thousands of years came in the form of food and water (and something else more private), and that while we need these steadily, we quickly reach saturation.

The problem, of course, is that we do not live in an environment where results are delivered in a steady manner—Black Swans dominate much of human history. It is unfortunate that the right strategy for our current environment may not offer internal rewards and positive feedback.

The same property in reverse applies to our unhappiness. It is better to lump all your pain into a brief period rather than have it spread out over a longer one.

But some people find it possible to transcend the asymmetry of pains and joys, escape the hedonic deficit, set themselves outside that game—and live with hope. There is some good news, as we see next.

The Antechamber of Hope

For Yevgenia Krasnova, a person could love one book, at most a few—beyond this was a form of promiscuity. Those who talk about books as commodities are inauthentic, just as those who collect acquaintances can be superficial in their friendships. A novel you like resembles a friend. You read it and reread it, getting to know it better. Like a friend, you accept it the way it is; you do not judge it. Montaigne was asked “why” he and the writer Etienne de la Boétie were friends—the kind of question people ask you at a cocktail party as if you knew the answer, or as if there were an answer to know. It was typical of Montaigne to reply, “Parce que c’était lui, parce que c’était moi” (because it was him and because it was me). Likewise, Yevgenia claims that she likes that one book “because it is it and because I am me.” Yevgenia once even walked out on a schoolteacher because he analyzed that book and thus violated her rule. One does not sit idle listening as people wax analytical about your friends. A very stubborn schoolchild she was.

This book she has as a friend is Il deserto del tartari, by Dino Buzzati, a novel that was well known in Italy and France during her childhood, but that, strangely, nobody she knows in America had heard of. Its English title is mistranslated as The Tartar Steppe instead of The Desert of the Tartars.

Yevgenia encountered II deserto when she was thirteen, in her parents’ weekend country house in a small village two hundred kilometers outside Paris, where their Russian and French books multiplied without the constraints of the overfed Parisian apartment. She was so bored in the country that she could not even read. Then, one afternoon, she opened the book and was sucked into it.

Inebriated by Hope