sâmbătă, 29 mai 2010

Behavioural finance in the 60s

Leisure reading in between exams.
We are all at a wonderful party, and by the rules of the game we know that at some point in time the Black Horsemen will burst through the great terrace doors to cut down the revelers; those who leave early may be saved, but the music and wines are so seductive that we do not want to leave, but we ask, what time is it? what time is it? Only none of the clocks have any hands.
[...] Which brings us back to what The Money Game is about - image and reality and identity and anxiety and money, in that order. If you don't know who you are, this is an expensive place to find out, the book says. (!) That had to do with people who want to lose, people who want to play out life scripts in the marketplace, old tapes in their heads.
From the preface to The Money Game by Adam Smith (only a pseudonym), 1967.

Later edit. Another delightful little passage:
But if you have your money managed for you, then you are not really interested, or at least the Game element - with that propensity to be paid for - does not attract you. I have known a lot of investors who came to the market to make money, and they told themselves that what they wanted was the money: security, a trip around the world, a new sloop, a country estate, an art collection, a Caribbean house for cold winters. And they succeeded. So they sat on the dock of the Caribbean home, chatting with their art dealers and gazing fondly at the new sloop, and after a while it was a bit flat. Something was missing. If you are a successful Game player, it can be a fascinating, consuming, totally absorbing experience, in fact it has to be. If it is not totally absorbing, you are not likely to be among the most successful, because you are competing with those who do find it absorbing. (!)

duminică, 23 mai 2010

Ars poetica

De cateva zile, e neobisnuit de cald, de parc-ar fi venit vara in York. Liliacul vecinilor e inflorit de cateva saptamani si nici gand sa se scuture; la fel si castanii. Avem si un soi cu flori roz, o sa-i spun Castanea sativa de Bull Lane (straduta spre care da lucarna mea). E atata liniste si verdeata, incat ma simt ca si cum as locui la marginea padurii. In plus, iata ce muzica ascult in fiecare seara:

Solistului ii place sa cante de pe horn! Dar e atat de sperios, incat deocamdata n-am reusit sa-i fac nici o poza.

E ca si cum zilele astea superbe ar fi fost anume trimise ca sa ma impace cu amintirea iernii petrecute aici. N-ar trebui sa cartesc, totusi... nu sunt pe deplin multumita. Yorkul verde si cald e prea frumos, intr-un mod prea explicit. Traind atata timp in Romania, m-am obisnuit sa descopar margaritare in noroi, sa ma extaziez in fata florilor de mucegai. Nu mi-e dor de blocurile gri, dar imi placea sa scotocesc dupa frumusetea neasteptata, ascunsa bine in cotloanele lor vechi, prafuite si impaienjenite. Frumuseti nepieptanate, neintentionate, detalii care nu-si stiau propriul farmec, tocmai prin asta puternice. Parca m-ar fi infierat Arghezi. Splendorile englezesti, etalate in mod firesc si ecologic, la indemana oricui, nu ma emotioneaza decat la suprafata. Proportiile tabloului sunt deja cele ideale, deci nu le pot imbunatati cu nimic si vor ramane in aceeasi perfectiune rece si dupa trecerea mea. Tanjesc dupa un peisaj pe care sa-l pot atinge, in vreun fel. Un efort estetic. Din cauza asta, sunt nelinistita aici si stiu ca ma voi intoarce acasa. E un pic absurd, e de baaa, baga-ti mintile in cap, dar e o explicatie.

duminică, 16 mai 2010


For years now, I've been living in the wrong sonnet.
Dupa sesiune, mi-ar placea sa merg la Stratford-upon-Avon.