I repeat: Mandelbrot deals with gray swans; I deal with the Black Swan. So Mandelbrot domesticated many of my Black Swans, but not all of them, not completely. But he shows us a glimmer of hope with his method, a way to start thinking about the problems of uncertainty. You are indeed much safer if you know where the wild animals are.
* The nontechnical reader can skip from here until the end of the chapter.
* By using symmetry we could also examine the incidences below the number.
* Clearly, you do not observe 100 percent in a finite sample.
* The defense mechanism when you question their work is to say that they “do science, not philosophy” and to berate my approach of worrying about model errors. This is a common trap: people think that science is about formulating predictions (even when wrong). To me, science is about how not to be a sucker.
Chapter Seventeen
LOCKE’S MADMEN, OR BELL CURVES IN THE WRONG PLACES*
What?—Anyone can become president—Alfred Nobel’s legacy—Those medieval days
I have in my house two studies: one real, with interesting books and literary material; the other nonliterary, where I do not enjoy working, where I relegate matters prosaic and narrowly focused. In the nonliterary study is a wall full of books on statistics and the history of statistics, books I never had the fortitude to burn or throw away; though I find them largely useless outside of their academic applications (Carneades, Cicero, and Foucher know a lot more about probability than all these pseudosophisticated volumes). I cannot use them in class because I promised myself never to teach trash, even if dying of starvation. Why can’t I use them? Not one of these books deals with Extremistan. Not one. The few books that do are not by statisticians but by statistical physicists. We are teaching people methods from Mediocristan and turning them loose in Extremistan. It is like developing a medicine for plants and applying it to humans. It is no wonder that we run the biggest risk of all: we handle matters that belong to Extremistan, but treated as if they belonged to Mediocristan, as an “approximation.”
Several hundred thousand students in business schools and social science departments from Singapore to Urbana-Champaign, as well as people in the business world, continue to study “scientific” methods, all grounded in the Gaussian, all embedded in the ludic fallacy.
This chapter examines disasters stemming from the application of phony mathematics to social science. The real topic might be the dangers to our society brought about by the Swedish academy that awards the Nobel Prize.
Only Fifty Years
Let us return to the story of my business life. Look at the graph in Figure 14. In the last fifty years, the ten most extreme days in the financial markets represent half the returns. Ten days in fifty years. Meanwhile, we are mired in chitchat.
Clearly, anyone who wants more than the high number of six sigma as proof that markets are from Extremistan needs to have his head examined. Dozens of papers show the inadequacy of the Gaussian family of distributions and the scalable nature of markets. Recall that, over the years, I myself have run statistics backward and forward on 20 million pieces of data that made me despise anyone talking about markets in Gaussian terms. But people have a hard time making the leap to the consequences of this knowledge.
The strangest thing is that people in business usually agree with me when they listen to me talk or hear me make my case. But when they go to the office the next day they revert to the Gaussian tools so entrenched in their habits. Their minds are domain-dependent, so they can exercise critical thinking at a conference while not doing so in the office. Furthermore, the Gaussian tools give them numbers, which seem to be “better than nothing.” The resulting measure of future uncertainty satisfies our ingrained desire to simplify even if that means squeezing into one single number matters that are too rich to be described that way.
The Clerks’ Betrayal
I ended Chapter 1 with the stock market crash of 1987, which allowed me to aggressively pursue my Black Swan idea. Right after the crash, when I stated that those using sigmas (i.e., standard deviations) as a measure of the degree of risk and randomness were charlatans, everyone agreed with me. If the world of finance were Gaussian, an episode such as the crash (more than twenty standard deviations) would take place every several billion lifetimes of the universe (look at the height example in Chapter 15). According to the circumstances of 1987, people accepted that rare events take place and are the main source of uncertainty. They were just unwilling to give up on the Gaussian as a central measurement tool—“Hey, we have nothing else.” People want a number to anchor on. Yet the two methods are logically incompatible.
FIGURE 14
By removing the ten biggest one-day moves from the U.S. stock market over the past fifty years, we see a huge difference in returns—and yet conventional finance sees these one-day jumps as mere anomalies. (This is only one of many such tests. While it is quite convincing on a casual read, there are many more-convincing ones from a mathematical standpoint, such as the incidence of 10 sigma events.)
Unbeknownst to me, 1987 was not the first time the idea of the Gaussian was shown to be lunacy. Mandelbrot proposed the scalable to the economics establishment around 1960, and showed them how the Gaussian curve did not fit prices then. But after they got over their excitement, they realized that they would have to relearn their trade. One of the influential economists of the day, the late Paul Cootner, wrote, “Mandelbrot, like Prime Minister Churchill before him, promised us not utopia, but blood, sweat, toil, and tears. If he is right, almost all our statistical tools are obsolete [or] meaningless.” I propose two corrections to Cootner’s statement. First, I would replace almost all with all. Second, I disagree with the blood and sweat business. I find Mandelbrot’s randomness considerably easier to understand than the conventional statistics. If you come fresh to the business, do not rely on the old theoretical tools, and do not have a high expectation of certainty.
Anyone Can Become President
And now a brief history of the “Nobel” Prize in economics, which was established by the Bank of Sweden in honor of Alfred Nobel, who may be, according to his family who wants the prize abolished, now rolling in his grave with disgust. An activist family member calls the prize a public relations coup by economists aiming to put their field on a higher footing than it deserves. True, the prize has gone to some valuable thinkers, such as the empirical psychologist Daniel Kahneman and the thinking economist Friedrich Hayek. But the committee has gotten into the habit of handing out Nobel Prizes to those who “bring rigor” to the process with pseudoscience and phony mathematics. After the stock market crash, they rewarded two theoreticians, Harry Markowitz and William Sharpe, who built beautifully Platonic models on a Gaussian base, contributing to what is called Modern Portfolio Theory. Simply, if you remove their Gaussian assumptions and treat prices as scalable, you are left with hot air. The Nobel Committee could have tested the Sharpe and Markowitz models—they work like quack remedies sold on the Internet—but nobody in Stockholm seems to have thought of it. Nor did the committee come to us practitioners to ask us our opinions; instead it relied on an academic vetting process that, in some disciplines, can be corrupt all the way to the marrow. After that award I made a prediction: “In a world in which these two get the Nobel, anything can happen. Anyone can become president.”
So the Bank of Sweden and the Nobel Academy are largely responsible for giving credence to the use of the Gaussian Modern Portfolio Theory as institutions have found it a great cover-your-behind approach. Software vendors have sold “Nobel crowned” methods for millions of dollars. How could you go wrong using it? Oddly enough, everyone in the business world initially knew that the idea was a fraud, but people get used to such methods. Alan Greenspan, the chairman of the Federal Reserve bank, supposedly blurted out, “I’d rather have the opinion of a trader than a mathematician.” Meanwhile, the Modern Portfolio Theory started spreading. I will repeat the following until I am hoarse: it is co
ntagion that determines the fate of a theory in social science, not its validity.
I only realized later that Gaussian-trained finance professors were taking over business schools, and therefore MBA programs, and producing close to a hundred thousand students a year in the United States alone, all brainwashed by a phony portfolio theory. No empirical observation could halt the epidemic. It seemed better to teach students a theory based on the Gaussian than to teach them no theory at all. It looked more “scientific” than giving them what Robert C. Merton (the son of the sociologist Robert K. Merton we discussed earlier) called the “anecdote.” Merton wrote that before portfolio theory, finance was “a collection of anecdotes, rules of thumb, and manipulation of accounting data.” Portfolio theory allowed “the subsequent evolution from this conceptual potpourri to a rigorous economic theory.” For a sense of the degree of intellectual seriousness involved, and to compare neoclassical economics to a more honest science, consider this statement from the nineteenth-century father of modern medicine, Claude Bernard: “Facts for now, but with scientific aspirations for later.” You should send economists to medical school.
So the Gaussian* pervaded our business and scientific cultures, and terms such as sigma, variance, standard deviation, correlation, R square, and the eponymous Sharpe ratio, all directly linked to it, pervaded the lingo. If you read a mutual fund prospectus, or a description of a hedge fund’s exposure, odds are that it will supply you, among other information, with some quantitative summary claiming to measure “risk.” That measure will be based on one of the above buzzwords derived from the bell curve and its kin. Today, for instance, pension funds’ investment policy and choice of funds are vetted by “consultants” who rely on portfolio theory. If there is a problem, they can claim that they relied on standard scientific method.
More Horror
Things got a lot worse in 1997. The Swedish academy gave another round of Gaussian-based Nobel Prizes to Myron Scholes and Robert C. Merton, who had improved on an old mathematical formula and made it compatible with the existing grand Gaussian general financial equilibrium theories—hence acceptable to the economics establishment. The formula was now “useable.” It had a list of long forgotten “precursors,” among whom was the mathematician and gambler Ed Thorp, who had authored the bestselling Beat the Dealer, about how to get ahead in blackjack, but somehow people believe that Scholes and Merton invented it, when in fact they just made it acceptable. The formula was my bread and butter. Traders, bottom-up people, know its wrinkles better than academics by dint of spending their nights worrying about their risks, except that few of them could express their ideas in technical terms, so I felt I was representing them. Scholes and Merton made the formula dependent on the Gaussian, but their “precursors” subjected it to no such restriction.*
The postcrash years were entertaining for me, intellectually. I attended conferences in finance and mathematics of uncertainty; not once did I find a speaker, Nobel or no Nobel, who understood what he was talking about when it came to probability, so I could freak them out with my questions. They did “deep work in mathematics,” but when you asked them where they got their probabilities, their explanations made it clear that they had fallen for the ludic fallacy—there was a strange cohabitation of technical skills and absence of understanding that you find in idiot savants. Not once did I get an intelligent answer or one that was not ad hominem. Since I was questioning their entire business, it was understandable that I drew all manner of insults: “obsessive,” “commercial,” “philosophical,” “essayist,” “idle man of leisure,” “repetitive,” “practitioner” (this is an insult in academia), “academic” (this is an insult in business). Being on the receiving end of angry insults is not that bad; you can get quickly used to it and focus on what is not said. Pit traders are trained to handle angry rants. If you work in the chaotic pits, someone in a particularly bad mood from losing money might start cursing at you until he injures his vocal cords, then forget about it and, an hour later, invite you to his Christmas party. So you become numb to insults, particularly if you teach yourself to imagine that the person uttering them is a variant of a noisy ape with little personal control. Just keep your composure, smile, focus on analyzing the speaker not the message, and you’ll win the argument. An ad hominem attack against an intellectual, not against an idea, is highly flattering. It indicates that the person does not have anything intelligent to say about your message.
The psychologist Philip Tetlock (the expert buster in Chapter 10), after listening to one of my talks, reported that he was struck by the presence of an acute state of cognitive dissonance in the audience. But how people resolve this cognitive tension, as it strikes at the core of everything they have been taught and at the methods they practice, and realize that they will continue to practice, can vary a lot. It was symptomatic that almost all people who attacked my thinking attacked a deformed version of it, like “it is all random and unpredictable” rather than “it is largely random,” or got mixed up by showing me how the bell curve works in some physical domains. Some even had to change my biography. At a panel in Lugano, Myron Scholes once got in to a state of rage, and went after a transformed version of my ideas. I could see pain in his face. Once, in Paris, a prominent member of the mathematical establishment, who invested part of his life on some minute sub-sub-property of the Gaussian, blew a fuse—right when I showed empirical evidence of the role of Black Swans in markets. He turned red with anger, had difficulty breathing, and started hurling insults at me for having desecrated the institution, lacking pudeur (modesty); he shouted “I am a member of the Academy of Science!” to give more strength to his insults. (The French translation of my book was out of stock the next day.) My best episode was when Steve Ross, an economist perceived to be an intellectual far superior to Scholes and Merton, and deemed a formidable debater, gave a rebuttal to my ideas by signaling small errors or approximations in my presentation, such as “Markowitz was not the first to …” thus certifying that he had no answer to my main point. Others who had invested much of their lives in these ideas resorted to vandalism on the Web. Economists often invoke a strange argument by Milton Friedman that states that models do not have to have realistic assumptions to be acceptable—giving them license to produce severely defective mathematical representations of reality. The problem of course is that these Gaussianizations do not have realistic assumptions and do not produce reliable results. They are neither realistic nor predictive. Also note a mental bias I encounter on the occasion: people mistake an event with a small probability, say, one in twenty years for a periodically occurring one. They think that they are safe if they are only exposed to it for ten years.
I had trouble getting the message about the difference between Mediocristan and Extremistan through—many arguments presented to me were about how society has done well with the bell curve—just look at credit bureaus, etc.
The only comment I found unacceptable was, “You are right; we need you to remind us of the weakness of these methods, but you cannot throw the baby out with the bath water,” meaning that I needed to accept their reductive Gaussian distribution while also accepting that large deviations could occur—they didn’t realize the incompatibility of the two approaches. It was as if one could be half dead. Not one of these users of portfolio theory in twenty years of debates, explained how they could accept the Gaussian framework as well as large deviations. Not one.
Confirmation
Along the way I saw enough of the confirmation error to make Karl Popper stand up with rage. People would find data in which there were no jumps or extreme events, and show me a “proof” that one could use the Gaussian. This was exactly like my example of the “proof” that O. J. Simpson is not a killer in Chapter 5. The entire statistical business confused absence of proof with proof of absence. Furthermore, people did not understand the elementary asymmetry involved: you need one single observation to reject the Gaussian, but millions of observations will not fully confi
rm the validity of its application. Why? Because the Gaussian bell curve disallows large deviations, but tools of Extremistan, the alternative, do not disallow long quiet stretches.
I did not know that Mandelbrot’s work mattered outside aesthetics and geometry. Unlike him, I was not ostracized: I got a lot of approval from practitioners and decision makers, though not from their research staffs.
But suddenly I got the most unexpected vindication.
IT WAS JUST A BLACK SWAN
Robert Merton, Jr., and Myron Scholes were founding partners in the large speculative trading firm called Long-Term Capital Management, or LTCM, which I mentioned in Chapter 4. It was a collection of people with top-notch résumés, from the highest ranks of academia. They were considered geniuses. The ideas of portfolio theory inspired their risk management of possible outcomes—thanks to their sophisticated “calculations.” They managed to enlarge the ludic fallacy to industrial proportions.
The Black Swan Page 36
