Antifragile: Things That Gain from Disorder (5 page)

Indeed, the political discourse is lacking a concept. Politicians in their speeches, goals, and promises aim at the timid concepts of “resilience,” “solidity,” not antifragility, and in the process are stifling the mechanisms of growth and evolution. We didn’t get where we are thanks to the sissy
notion of resilience. And, what’s worse, we didn’t get where we are today thanks to policy makers—but thanks to the appetite for risks and errors of a certain class of people we need to encourage, protect, and respect.

A complex system, contrary to what people believe, does not require complicated systems and regulations and intricate policies. The simpler, the better. Complications lead to multiplicative chains of unanticipated effects. Because of opacity, an intervention leads to unforeseen consequences, followed by apologies about the “unforeseen” aspect of the consequences, then to another intervention to correct the secondary effects, leading to an explosive series of branching “unforeseen” responses, each one worse than the preceding one.

Yet simplicity has been difficult to implement in modern life because it is against the spirit of a certain brand of people who seek sophistication so they can justify their profession.

Less is more and usually more effective
. Thus I will produce a small number of tricks, directives, and interdicts—how to live in a world we don’t understand, or, rather, how to
not be afraid
to work with things we patently don’t understand, and, more principally, in what manner we should work with these. Or, even better, how to dare to look our ignorance in the face and not be ashamed of being human—be aggressively and proudly human. But that may require some structural changes.

What I propose is a road map to modify our man-made systems to let the simple—and natural—take their course.

But simplicity is not so simple to attain. Steve Jobs figured out that “you have to work hard to get your thinking clean to make it simple.” The Arabs have an expression for trenchant prose:
no skill to understand it, mastery to write it
.

Heuristics are simplified rules of thumb that make things simple and easy to implement. But their main advantage is that the user knows that they are not perfect, just expedient, and is therefore less fooled by their powers. They become dangerous when we forget that.

The journey to this idea of antifragility was, if anything, nonlinear.

I suddenly realized one day that fragility—which had been lacking a
technical definition—could be expressed as
what does not like volatility,
and that
what does not like volatility
does not like randomness, uncertainty, disorder, errors, stressors, etc. Think of anything fragile, say, objects in your living room such as the glass frame, the television set, or, even better, the china in the cupboards. If you label them “fragile,” then you necessarily want them to be left alone in peace, quiet, order, and predictability. A fragile object would not possibly benefit from an earthquake or the visit of your hyperactive nephew. Further, everything that does not like volatility does not like stressors, harm, chaos, events, disorder, “unforeseen” consequences, uncertainty, and, critically, time.

And antifragility flows—sort of—from this explicit definition of fragility. It likes volatility et al. It also likes time. And there is a powerful and helpful link to nonlinearity: everything nonlinear in response is either fragile or antifragile to a certain source of randomness.

The strangest thing is that this obvious property that
anything fragile hates volatility,
and vice versa, has been sitting completely outside the scientific and philosophical discourse. Completely. And the study of the sensitivity of things to volatility is the strange business specialty in which I spent most of my adult life, two decades—I know it is a strange specialty, I promise to explain later. My focus in that profession has been on identifying items that “love volatility” or “hate volatility”; so all I had to do was expand the ideas from the financial domain in which I had been focused to the broader notion of decision making under uncertainty across various fields, from political science to medicine to dinner plans.
³

And in that strange profession of people who work with volatility, there were two types. First category, academics, report-writers, and commentators who study future events and write books and papers; and, second category, practitioners who, instead of studying future events, try to understand how things react to volatility (but practitioners are usually too busy practitioning to write books, articles, papers, speeches, equations, theories and get honored by Highly Constipated and Honorable Members of Academies). The difference between the two categories is central: as we saw, it is much easier to understand if
something is harmed by volatility—hence fragile—than try to forecast harmful events, such as these oversized Black Swans. But only practitioners (or people who do things) tend to spontaneously get the point.

One technical comment. We keep saying that fragility and antifragility mean potential gain or harm from exposure to
something
related to volatility. What is that something? Simply, membership in the extended disorder family.

It happens that uncertainty, disorder, and the unknown are completely equivalent in their effect: antifragile systems benefit (to some degree) from, and the fragile is penalized by, almost all of them—even if you have to find them in separate buildings of the university campuses and some philosophaster who has never taken real risks in his life, or, worse, never had a life, would inform you that “they are
clearly
not the same thing.”

Why item (ix), time? Time is functionally similar to volatility: the more time, the more events, the more disorder. Consider that if you can suffer limited harm and are antifragile to small errors, time brings the kind of errors or reverse errors that end up benefiting you. This is simply what your grandmother calls experience. The fragile breaks with time.

This makes this book my central work. I’ve had only one master idea, each time taken to its next step, the last step—this book—being more like a big jump. I am reconnected to my “practical self,” my soul of a practitioner, as this is a merger of my entire history as practitioner and “volatility specialist” combined with my intellectual and philosophical interests in randomness and uncertainty, which had previously taken separate paths.

My writings are not stand-alone essays on specific topics, with beginnings, ends, and expiration dates; rather, they are nonoverlapping chapters from that central idea, a main corpus focused on uncertainty, randomness, probability, disorder, and what to do in a world we don’t understand, a world with unseen elements and properties, the random and the complex; that is, decision making under opacity. The corpus is called
Incerto
and is constituted (so far) of a trilogy plus philosophical and technical addenda. The rule is that the distance between a random chapter of one book, say,
Antifragile,
and another random chapter of another, say,
Fooled by Randomness,
should be similar to the one between chapters of a long book. The rule allows the corpus to cross domains (by shifting across science, philosophy, business, psychology, literature, and autobiographical segments) without lapsing into promiscuity.

So the relationship of this book to
The Black Swan
would be as follows: in spite of the chronology (and the fact that this book takes the Black Swan idea to its natural and prescriptive conclusion),
Antifragile
would be the main volume and
The Black Swan
its backup of sorts, and a theoretical one, perhaps even its junior appendix. Why? Because
The Black Swan
(and its predecessor,
Fooled by Randomness
) were written to convince us of a dire situation, and worked hard at it; this one starts from the position that one does not need convincing that (a) Black Swans dominate society and history (and people, because of ex post rationalization, think themselves capable of understanding them); (b) as a consequence, we don’t quite know what’s going on, particularly under severe nonlinearities; so we can get to practical business right away.

To accord with the practitioner’s ethos, the rule in this book is as follows: I eat my own cooking.

I have only written, in every line I have composed in my professional life, about things I have done, and the risks I have recommended that others take or avoid were risks I have been taking or avoiding myself. I will be the first to be hurt if I am wrong. When I warned about the fragility of the banking system in
The Black Swan,
I was betting on its collapse (particularly when my message went unheeded); otherwise I felt it would not have been ethical to write about it. That personal stricture applies to every domain, including medicine, technical innovation, and simple matters in life. It does not mean that one’s personal experiences
constitute a sufficient sample to derive a conclusion about an idea; it is just that one’s personal experience gives the stamp of authenticity and sincerity of opinion. Experience is devoid of the cherry-picking that we find in studies, particularly those called “observational,” ones in which the researcher finds past patterns, and, thanks to the sheer amount of data, can therefore fall into the trap of an invented narrative.

Further, in writing, I feel corrupt and unethical if I have to look up a subject in a library as part of the writing itself. This acts as a filter—it is the only filter. If the subject is not interesting enough for me to look it up
independently,
for my own curiosity or purposes, and I have not done so before, then I should not be writing about it at all, period. It does not mean that libraries (physical and virtual) are not acceptable; it means that they should not be the
source
of any idea. Students pay to write essays on topics for which they have to derive knowledge from a library as a self-enhancement exercise; a professional who is compensated to write and is taken seriously by others should use a more potent filter. Only distilled ideas, ones that sit in us for a long time, are acceptable—and those that come from reality.

It is time to revive the not well-known philosophical notion of
doxastic commitment,
a class of beliefs that go beyond talk, and to which we are committed enough to take personal risks.

Modernity has replaced ethics with legalese, and the law can be gamed with a good lawyer.

So I will expose the transfer of fragility, or rather the theft of antifragility, by people “arbitraging” the system. These people will be named by name. Poets and painters are free,
liberi poetae et pictores,
and there are severe moral imperatives that come with such freedom. First ethical rule:

Just as being nice to the arrogant is no better than being arrogant toward the nice, being accommodating toward anyone committing a nefarious action condones it.

Further, many writers and scholars speak in private, say, after half a bottle of wine, differently from the way they do in print. Their writing is certifiably fake, fake. And many of the problems of society come from
the argument “other people are doing it.” So if I call someone a dangerous ethically challenged fragilista in private after the third glass of Lebanese wine (white), I will be obligated to do so here.

Calling people and institutions fraudulent in print when they are not (yet) called so by others carries a cost, but is too small to be a deterrent. After the mathematical scientist Benoît Mandelbrot read the galleys of
The Black Swan,
a book dedicated to him, he called me and quietly said: “In what language should I say ‘good luck’ to you?” I did not need any luck, it turned out; I was antifragile to all manner of attacks: the more attacks I got from the Central Fragilista Delegation, the more my message spread as it drove people to examine my arguments. I am now ashamed of not having gone further in calling a spade a spade.

Compromising is condoning. The only modern dictum I follow is one by George Santayana:
A man is morally free when … he judges the world, and judges other men, with uncompromising sincerity
. This is not just an aim but an obligation.

Second ethical point.

I am obligated to submit myself to the scientific process simply because I require it from others, but no more than that. When I read empirical claims in medicine or other sciences, I like these claims to go through the peer-review mechanism, a fact-checking of sorts, an examination of the rigor of the approach. Logical statements, or those backed by mathematical reasoning, on the other hand, do not require such a mechanism: they can and must stand on their own legs. So I publish technical footnotes for these books in specialized and academic outlets, and nothing more (and limit them to statements that require proofs or more elaborate technical arguments). But for the sake of authenticity and to avoid careerism (the debasing of knowledge by turning it into a competitive sport), I ban myself from publishing anything outside of these footnotes.