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Arc gives the Web a fresh look

INTRODUCTION   The great Galen, a prominent Greek physician in the Roman Empire, at one point suffered the loss of all his work and books. In a clear example of what we can call a virtuous Stoic response, he wrote that “the fact that, after the loss of the totality of my pharmaceutical remedies, the […]

Mark Manson is the bestselling author of Models: Attract Women Through Honesty, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck, Everything is F*cked: A Book About Hope, and co-author of the Will Smith memoir, Will. He has sold tens of millions of books in over 60 languages and has over 500,000 email subscribers. In this …

Intelligence and specialized skills are par for the course: we have to find ways to pair them with purpose, opinions and drive -for ourselves and our teams

On the inner life of molecules and electrons: or why panpsychism is highly likely to be true, even if it sounds crazy

Fifty-four years ago this month, in a push for publicity, The Sunday Times offered £5,000 to whoever could sail solo nonstop around the world the fastest. It was technically a race, but that was an afterthought, as no one had ever completed the feat. There were no qualification requirements and few rules. Nine men joined the race, one of whom had never sailed. Just one man finished, 312 days and 27,000 miles later. But it was two participants who never completed the race that generated the most news. One ended up dead, the other found himself happier than ever. Both outcomes came from decisions made at sea, but neither had anything to do with sailing. The two men, Donald Crowhurst and Bernard Moitessier, are astounding examples of how the quality of your life is shaped by whom you want to impress. Their stories are extreme, but what they dealt with was just a magnified version of what ordinary people face all the time, and likely something you’re facing right now. Donald Crowhurst was a tinkerer who came up with his own boat modifications. Convinced his innovations could propel him to win the Sunday Times race, he faced just one obstacle: he was broke, and stood no chance of financing the race himself. Crowhurst struck a deal with an English businessman who agreed to cover the cost of the race under two conditions: They would orchestrate a media frenzy, portraying Crowhurst as a sailing savant. And if Crowhurst didn’t finish, he would owe all the money back. Crowhurst left Teignmouth on October 31st, 1968, the last day participants of the race could begin their voyage. His boat, the Electron, had been so heavily modified, so weighed down with half-finished gizmos and gimmicks, that it was barely seaworthy for a short sail near home, let alone a solo trip around the globe. Crowhurst knew it. He broke down in tears in front of his wife the night before he left. Two weeks into the race, as Crowhurst had covered less than half his intended distance, the Electron sprung a leak. “This bloody boat is just falling to pieces due to lack of attention to engineering detail,” Crowhurst wrote in his diary. In the calm waters of the South Atlantic, the small leak posed little threat and could be bailed with a bucket. But continuing on to the treacherous Southern Ocean would bring certain catastrophe. So Crowhurst seemed to have two options: Continue the race and face ruin at sea, or return home and face bankruptcy and humiliation. He in fact chose a third option, which was outright fraud. By mid-November Crowhurst began loitering in the south Atlantic, drifting in circles in calm water. He then began sending fake coordinates back to England, giving the impression that he was still on track, rounding Cape Horn, on his way to circle the globe. He went virtually nowhere for months, which was the plan: By mid-summer, when enough time had passed to have plausibly circled the globe, Crowhurst hoped to quietly sail back to England, “finish” the race, and hope no one noticed that during his round-the-world voyage he never actually left the hemisphere. As Crowhurst sailed back to England he realized he did not want to appear to win the race, because if he did the media and judges would scrutinize his logs and uncover the deception, whereas no one cares about the runner-up. After receiving word on the location of other race participants, Crowhurst timed his return so that he would finish the race in third place, which seemed good enough to maintain dignity yet low enough to avoid suspicion. But then the boat that was in second place sank. And after miscalculating his return time, Crowhurst was suddenly on track to beat the sailor who had been in first place. Crowhurst was now going to cruise into England with what looked like the fastest time. He was going to win the race. The BBC had a crew prepared to meet the man who defied the odds to become the world’s greatest sailor – which, ironically, is the kind of attention a fraudster desperately wanted to avoid. On June 29th, Crowhurst wrote in his diary: I have no need to prolong the game … It has been a good game that must be ended … It is the end of my game. The truth has been revealed. It is finished. IT IS THE MERCY. Soon after he sent his last fake coordinates to his team, and shut his radio off. The Electron was found 11 days later, adrift in the Atlantic. There was no major damage, no sign of an accident – and no sign of Crowhurst. He had presumably thrown himself into the sea. Left behind were his diary and two log books: one real, one fake. Three months before Crowhurst took his life, another sailor in the Sunday Times race made an equally astonishing life decision at sea. Bernard Moitessier was an expert sailor, and five months into the race, he was on track to legitimately win. Moitessier loved sailing but despised the commercialization of his sport. Or, more accurately, he hated the sport side of sailing. He just liked sailing for sailing’s sake. The personality required to spend nine months alone at sea selects people who are fine detaching from society. Moitessier was an extreme version of that, and the idea of sailing for someone else’s pleasure – to perform for the press, the race organizers, the sailing magazines, the fans – was so detestable that midway through his voyage he’d had enough. He wrote in his diary: I really feel sick at the thought of getting back to Europe, back to the snakepit … I am really fed up with false gods, always lying in wait, spider-like, eating our liver, sucking our marrow. I charge the modern world – that’s the Monster, trampling the soul of men … returning to [England] feels like returning to nowhere. But being on his boat, Joshua, was a different story. He loved it, loved being on the water. Moitessier later recalled: There were so many beautiful days on this beautiful boat that it really made time change dimensions … I was just feeling totally alive. And that was just fantastic. As he sailed around Cape Horn – a position Crowhurst could only dream of – Moitessier began contemplating the unthinkable: Abandoning the race and sailing somewhere else. Thinking of his family and friends, he wrote: I do not know how to explain to them my need to be at peace, to continue toward the pacific. They will not understand. I know I’m right, I feel it deeply. I know exactly where I am going, even if I do not know. On March 18th, Moitessier threw a jerrycan onto the deck of a passing commercial ship, whose captain caught it on the fly. Inside was a note addressed to the Sunday Times’ editor. It read: Dear Robert, today is March 18th. I am continuing non-stop toward the Pacific Islands because I am happy at sea, and perhaps to save my soul. Moitessier shouted for the captain to take the message to the French consul. He then changed course, off the race’s path, and set sail for Tahiti. Moitessier wrote in his diary: Now it is a story between Joshua and me, between me and the sky; a story just for us, a great story that does not concern the others any more … To have the time, to have the choice, not knowing what you are heading for and just going there anyway, without a care, without asking any more questions. He anchored in Tahiti in June, where he remained for years. He built a house on the beach, grew his own food, and wrote a book about sailing. “You can’t understand how happy I am,” he wrote. In a twist of irony, Tahiti was so far out of the way and required so much backtracking that, despite dropping out of the race, Moitessier did circle the globe, and set a world record for the longest ever nonstop solo sail – more than 37,000 miles. There is no mention of that fact in his book. He didn’t seem to care. Anyone alone at sea for nine months will start to lose their mind, and there’s evidence both Crowhurst and Moitessier were in poor mental states when their decisions were made. Crowhurst’s last diary entries were incoherent ramblings about submitting your soul to the universe; Moitessier wrote about his long conversations with birds and dolphins. But their outcomes seemed to center on the fact that Crowhurst was addicted to what other people thought of his accomplishments, while Moitessier was disgusted by them. One lived for external benchmarks, the other only cared about internal measures of happiness. They are the most extreme examples you can imagine. But their stories are important because ordinary people so often struggle to find balance between external and internal measures of success. I have no idea how to find the perfect balance between internal and external benchmarks. But I know there’s a strong social pull toward external measures – chasing a path someone else set, whether you enjoy it or not. Social media makes it ten times more powerful. But I also know there’s a strong natural desire for internal measures – being independent, following your quirky habits, and doing what you want, when you want, with whom you want. That’s what people actually want. Last year I had dinner with a financial advisor who has a client that gets angry when hearing about portfolio returns or benchmarks. None of that matters to the client; All he cares about is whether he has enough money to keep traveling with his wife. That’s his sole benchmark. “Everyone else can stress out about outperforming each other,” he says. “I just like Europe.” I think Moitessier would approve.

Every shade and stripe of every possible variety of connection is about wanting, above all else, to be known; for someone else to see as much of you as possible. Shared experience is important. It’s not everything, but it’s something, because nobody wants to be explaining at forty to a hostile audience why they are the way they are, but you don’t want to punch below your weight class, either, and wind up with somebody who only loves you because they don’t know any better—because the day they do know better is the day they’ll walk out the door.

An MBA in VCs, Marketplaces, And Early-Stage Investing

When I first started managing, I expected that I’d magically have more time since I could delegate important problems to people on my team. But team support takes more time than I had anticipated, with recruiting, weekly 1:1s, debugging team issues, performance reviews — and that's before even talking about the product.

Be careful how you pay the bills

​ ​ ​ How to have ideas (and other ideas) One reason I love writing The Imperfectionist is that it gives me a chance to go deep into the ideas and practices I'm currently captiv...

The Bitcoin and crypto industry is growing rapidly. We empower the builders. List your crypto jobs, up-skill your team, and fill your crypto roles.

Trying to 'game' social media platforms like LinkedIn, Twitter and others with odd spacing, click-bait/copy-paste lists from Wikipedia etc doesn't accomplish what you think

I dropped out of college. When this happened it was a big deal—to my parents anyway. Then it was a big deal when people met me because they were constantly surprised by it. You didn’t finish college?! But for all the warnings and then surprise, there has been literally zero times where my lack of a degree has come up in the course of any business deal or project. So I am always surprised by the lengths people will go to get their degree. I read a fascinating book a couple years ago about the Varsity Blues scandal and the parents who bribed their kids into various colleges—many of which were not even that hard to get into. The parents were so convinced that college mattered that they were willing to do just about anything to make sure their kids got in…even in one case where one of the girls had millions of YouTube followers and didn’t want to go to college. Or another where the daughter wanted to be an actress and the mother was an actress, but she still tried to cheat on her daughter’s SAT’s to get into Juilliard (even though Julliard doesn’t require SATs!) It reminds me of a line from Peter Thiel who pointed out that we can get so good at trying to win that we don’t stop and ask if we’re playing the right game. Here’s something I thought mattered a lot: The New York Times Bestseller list. When my first book came out I worked very hard to sell a lot of copies so I could say I was an NYT bestseller. I missed it (for somewhat suspicious reasons) and hit the WSJ list instead. As it turns out, this had absolutely no impact on the sales of the book or my ability to have a writing career. What mattered was whether the book continued to sell well over time and whether I continued to have interesting things to say. Literally no one ever bought the book because it hit one list…and certainly no one didn’t buy it because it wasn’t on the other. But I found it quite funny in the years since that when people would introduce me for talks they would call me “a New York Times Bestselling author” because they just assumed, and it sounded like something important. So in one sense the term did matter and mean something…yet the fact they couldn’t tell or care about the difference was a reminder to me that it didn’t really matter at all. I would write more than a half dozen other books before I did become “a New York Times Bestselling author” in fact and let me tell you, nothing changed. And when I did debut on the list for my book Stillness is the Key, it was at the #1 spot. But nobody threw me a parade. My speaking fee and my royalties did not go up. The publisher sent me a cool plaque but it wasn’t that cool…my wife asked that I keep it at the office instead of the house. Still, whenever I talk to first-time authors and ask them what they hope to do with their book, hitting the list is almost always at the top of their list. I realize it’s easy for me to say that it doesn’t matter, since I have the plaque in my office, but it’s true. I wouldn’t trade my sales numbers for more weeks on the list. I wouldn’t trade having written books I’m proud of to spend more time there either. Writing a book that I’m proud of, saying what I have to say, growing as a writer in doing it, making something that reaches people, that makes a difference in their lives? That’s way more important. But this is what we do—we put way too little time and energy into the things that do matter (e.g. being a decent person) and way too much time and energy into the things we think matter…but don’t (e.g. getting into a decent college). Sometimes our kids can help us realize this (as the Varsity Blues kids often tried in vain to do). We did an email about David Letterman for DailyDad.com recently (sign up!). After becoming the longest-serving late night talk show host in the history of American television (33 seasons), the king of late night decided to walk away. He went and told his young son Harry, “I’m quitting, I’m retiring. I won’t be at work every day. My life is changing; our lives will change.” Who knows what Letterman expected his son to say, but certainly he expected more than, “Will I still be able to watch the Cartoon Network?” Letterman replied, “I think so. Let me check.” We spent our energy—our lives—slaving away, chasing things that don’t matter. Worse, we tell ourselves we’re doing it for some specific reason—for our careers, for our kids…but it’s all based on nothing! They don’t care! Not like we think they do. Why do we do this? One, I guess it’s because we don’t know, we don’t listen. We only realize the things are worthless once we get them…even though plenty of people had already returned to the cave and told us we were chasing shadows. But I think the biggest reason is actually the biggest thing we chase that doesn’t matter. We chase achievements and money and status because we’re trying to create a legacy. Because we want people to remember us, for our stuff to last. You want to talk about what really doesn’t matter? Other people’s opinions of you when you’re dead! As Marcus Aurelius writes in Meditations, “people who are excited by posthumous fame forget that people who remember them will soon die too. And those after them in turn.” And suppose all those people you want to remember you were immortal, Marcus says, “what good would it do you?” You’ll still be dead! A couple of years ago, I worked on an album that [...]

“I’ve been collecting these theories of why writers write because so many writers have written about it.”

The most productive programmers are orders of magnitude more productive than average programmers. But salaries usually fall within a fairly small range in any company. Even across the entire profession, salaries don't vary that much. If some programmers are 10x more productive than others, why aren't they paid 10x as much? Joel Spolsky gave a

Are you a writer? Do you like learning about the creative process, either for your own projects, or just cause you think it’s interesting? This post is about to make your day. As I’m su…

Don't set goals. Passion is bullshit. Mediocre skills are valuable. These are just a few of the unexpected truths you'll discover in Scott Adams' new book. Here are 10 more takeaways.

How often should you succeed at a task, to maximize learning? I review research suggesting the answer is close to 85%.

Reviewing The Generalist's first 12 months.

Thomas McCrae was a young 19th Century doctor still unsure of his skills. One day he diagnosed a patient with a common, insignificant stomach ailment. McCrae’s medical school professor watched the diagnosis and interrupted with every student’s nightmare: In fact, the patient had a rare and serious disease. McCrae had never heard of it. The diagnosis required immediate surgery. After opening the patient up, the professor realized that McCrae’s initial diagnosis was correct. The patient was fine. McCrae later wrote that he actually felt fortunate for having never heard of the rare disease. It allowed his mind settle on the most likely diagnosis, rather than be burdened by searching for rare diseases, like his more-educated professor. He wrote: “The moral of this is not that ignorance is an advantage. But some of us are too much attracted by the thought of rare things and forget the law of averages in diagnosis.” A truth that applies to almost every field is that it’s possible to try too hard, and when doing so you can get worse results than those who knew less, cared less, and put in less effort than you did. It’s not intuitive, so it can drive you crazy. And it’s hard to pinpoint when it occurs – maybe McCrae’s professor was being appropriately cautious? But there are mistakes that only an expert can make. Errors – often catastrophic – that novices aren’t smart enough to make because they lack the information and experience needed to try to exploit an opportunity that doesn’t exist. Two big ones: Being an expert from an era that no longer exists Investor Dean Williams once said, “Expertise is great, but it has a bad side effect. It tends to create an inability to accept new ideas.” Henry Ford banned his factory workers from documenting new ideas that didn’t work, because he feared it would create a list of things people refused to try again even when new technologies improved their chances of success. What was impossible in one era might later not only be doable, but the key to success. Ford wrote in his biography: I am not particularly anxious for the men to remember what someone else has tried to do in the past, for then we might quickly accumulate far too many things that could not be done … Hardly a week passes without some improvement being made somewhere in machine or process, and sometimes this is made in defiance of what is called “the best shop practice.” Marc Andreessen explained how this has worked in tech: “All of the ideas that people had in the 1990s were basically all correct. They were just early.” The infrastructure necessary to make most tech businesses work didn’t exist in the 1990s. But it does exist today. So almost every business plan that was mocked for being a ridiculous idea that failed is now, 20 years later, a viable industry. Pets.com was ridiculed – how could that ever work? – but Chewy is now worth more than $10 billion. Experiencing what didn’t work in 1995 may have left you incapable of realizing what could work in 2015. The experts of one era were disadvantaged over the new crop of thinkers who weren’t burdened with old wisdom. The same thing happens in investing. Michael Batnick has made the point that having experienced a big event doesn’t necessarily make you better prepared for the next big event. Interest rates have mostly fallen for 40 years, so few bond investors – even grizzled veterans – have lived through a sustained rise in interest rates. But, he writes: So what? Will the current rate hike look like the last one, or the one before that? Will different asset classes behave similarly, the same, or the exact opposite? On the one hand, people that have been investing through the events of 1987, 2000 and 2008 have experienced a lot of different markets. On the other hand, isn’t it possible that this experience can lead to overconfidence? Failing to admit you’re wrong? Anchoring to previous outcomes? Of course. It happens all the time. The feeling of power you get from hard-fought experience is stronger than the urge to change your mind, even when it’s necessary. Career incentives can push complexity in a field where simplicity leads to the best outcomes. Jason Zweig of the Wall Street Journal says there are three ways to earn money as a writer: Lie to people who want to be lied to, and you’ll get rich. Tell the truth to those who want the truth, and you’ll make a living. Tell the truth to those who want to be lied to, and you’ll go broke. Some variation of this applies to many fields, especially service industries where someone pays for an expert’s opinion. There can be a difference between knowing what’s right and making a living delivering what you know to be right. This may be most common in investing, law, and medicine, when “do nothing” is the best answer, but “do something” is the career incentive. Sometimes it’s amoral, but it can be an innocent form of “cover your ass.” Mostly, though, I think an advisor just feels useless if they tell a client, “we don’t need to do anything here.” In the quest to be helpful they add complexity even when none is needed, or when it might backfire. Years ago Jon Stewart interviewed Jim Cramer. When pressed on CNBC content that ranged from contradictory to inane, Cramer said, “Look, we’ve got 17 hours of live TV a day to do.” Stewart responded, “Maybe you can cut down on that.” He’s right. But if you’re in the TV business, you can’t. Most of this I think is truly innocent. Experts believe their complexity adds value because reality is too painful to bear, especially in a competitive career with stress and long hours. A doctor once told me the biggest thing they don’t teach in medical school is the difference between medicine and being a doctor – medicine is a biological science, while being a doctor is often a social skill of managing expectations, understanding the insurance system, communicating effectively, and so on. The gap between the two, which applies to many fields beyond medicine, can lead to mistakes only experts can make, or only an expert can advise. “Half of the 15,000 mutual funds in the US are run by portfolio managers who do not invest a single dollar of their own money in their products,” the FT writes. Doctors have their own version, as one article highlights: Almost all medical professionals have seen what we call “futile care” being performed on people. That’s when doctors bring the cutting edge of technology to bear on a grievously ill person near the end of life. The patient will get cut open, perforated with tubes, hooked up to machines, and assaulted with drugs. All of this occurs in the Intensive Care Unit at a cost of tens of thousands of dollars a day. What it buys is misery we would not inflict on a terrorist. I cannot count the number of times fellow physicians have told me, in words that vary only slightly, “Promise me if you find me like this that you’ll kill me.” They mean it. Some medical personnel wear medallions stamped “NO CODE” to tell physicians not to perform CPR on them. I have even seen it as a tattoo. The trouble is that even doctors who hate to administer futile care must find a way to address the wishes of patients and families. Imagine, once again, the emergency room with those grieving, possibly hysterical, family members. They do not know the doctor. Establishing trust and confidence under such circumstances is a very delicate thing. People are prepared to think the doctor is acting out of base motives, trying to save time, or money, or effort, especially if the doctor is advising against further treatment. It’s a huge problem that affects many fields, and I don’t know a good solution. But it’s good to acknowledge: There is one set of skills that comes from being an expert, and another that comes from being a novice, unburdened by the weight of experience or incentives. The former is obvious, the latter too easy to ignore.

If your plan, your idea or your art doesn’t involve any significant hurdles in moving forward, it’s probably not worth that much. If it were easy, everyone would do it. The tactic is to…

An MBA in VCs, Marketplaces, And Early-Stage Investing

Earlier today, June Huh, a 39-year-old Princeton professor, was awarded the 2022 Fields Medal, one of the highest possible honors in mathematics, for his breakthrough work on geometric combinatorics. As described in a recent profile of Huh, published in Quanta Magazine (and sent to me by several alert readers), Huh's path to academic mathematics was

My Terminal Emulator

Will Smith writes in his biography that: Becoming famous is amazing. Being famous is a mixed bag. Losing fame is miserable. The amount of fame almost doesn’t matter. It’s the trajectory that people cling to. Same with money. I think for a lot of people the process of becoming wealthier feels better than having wealth. If it’s wealth we were after, most of us would feel great, because most of us are unfathomably wealthier than we were a generation or two ago. Or ten years ago. Or five years ago. Or two years ago! What feels great is being on an upward path. That’s when dopamine takes over. That’s when you can extrapolate it and assume it goes on forever, and compare yourself to where you were before, and feel like nothing can stop you. When that path declines – even if it happens when you have a level of wealth you couldn’t fathom a few years ago – the whole sensation shatters. U.S. household net worth is $80 trillion higher today than it was ten years ago, which is astounding. But it’s about $700 billion lower than it was three months ago, which is honestly nothing. Yet one of those figures creates ten times the headlines, ten times the attention, ten times the emotions, ten times the introspection. It has nothing to do with the level of wealth and everything to do with the trajectory. The problem is that an occasional downward path is inevitable in investing. Outside of fraud, it’s completely unavoidable. The reason markets can go up a lot in the long run is because they make you pay the cost of admission of going down a lot in the short run. When people are addicted to the act of becoming wealthier – the numbers going up more than just the numbers being big – and the numbers going down is an integral part of how investing works, of course you’ll find some shattered souls. Some broken egos. Some terrible decisions being made. Same in business. Same in careers. When most people hear this they respond with the classic line, “It’s the journey, not the destination, that matters!” OK, most of the time that’s good advice. But here I think it’s backwards. An addiction to the process of making money is a version of never having enough and never being satiated. It’s a game that can’t be won but offers the illusion of a finish line right around the corner. Maybe that’s OK for some people – if you truly enjoy the game, that’s great. But I think that’s maybe two percent of investors, including professionals. My sense is a lot of people suffer naively through the game expecting it to end, and they’re frustrated when it never does. Or they think they like the game, but what they actually like is numbers going up, which is maybe half the game. An indifference to the process – the path of the journey – and a focus on the outcome and goal is probably the best most people can do with money. Or maybe an acceptance of the process, knowing it’ll be a constant chain of surprise, volatility, setback, and disappointment, but if you can stick around long enough the odds of eventual growth and success are in your favor. That’s very different from enjoying the process, which can quickly turn into an addiction to needing more. Money buys happiness in the same way drugs bring pleasure: Incredible if done right, dangerous if used to mask a weakness, and disastrous when no amount is ever enough.

Only dead fish go with the flow. A nice reminder to swim your own path in life and be true to yourself.