Anecdotal Value (again)

How, two people emailed to ask me (you know, you can comment on the blog), am I really going to win the Nobel Prize for this?

First, let me reiterate that I'm planning to win the Nobel Prize in Economics, not Literature. I want to quantify the value of stories in an economy, or, perhaps, the economic value of stories. A story, like money, ciriculates. I started thinking of this when I was working for The New Yorker and had friends in Wall Street who said that the best jokes start on the trading floor. My first thought was, "I should be paying 1% transaction fees for this?" and then I thought, "why not?"

So the question is: are stories a Public Good, like fresh air and a nice view? Could one articulate a Problem of the Anecdote, like the Problem of the Commons? Does the Coase Theorum apply to anecdotes?

Please, my economist friends: help address this and don't be snarky....

Anecdote, Talmud, and Ethics

Anecdotes, I believe, reside in a space outside of ethics. That is, as a story (small story or integral story or whatever it is that makes anecdotes a subset of the genre story) it in and of itself has no duty to be ethical. An anecdote about something unethical is not unethical; a story about something ethical is not ethical. Anecdotes are amoral, perhaps one can say.

However, one can use anecdotes unethically and one can use anecdotes ethically. A talmudic friend of mind (or, rather, a friend who shares my love of Talmud), remarked recently that the Talmud is in essence a book of anecdotes. Indeed it is: and I would add that it is a book of anecdotes used ethically. Why? Because these anecdotes are used to parse, to understand, to make legible, to apply, to approach -- that is, to understand G-d.

Anecdotes can be used unethically when they are used to persuade. The Talmud itself is clear on this (chapter and verse, as it were, in later posts). The most unethical use of anecdote (or talmudic ethics) is in order to persuade oneself or others that what one is doing is actually ethical, even when it appears unethical. One should take great care not to keep a critical distance from the ethics one is studying, lest one think oneself above ethics.

Parachute Salesman

I met a parachute salesman during my last plane trip. This seems interesting on its face; any further elaboration would be pointless. Or rather, the idea of a parachute salesman is somehow complete without narrative embroidery. But you are probably wondering about this anyway, since I don't usually talk to people on airplanes, let alone salespeople.

But he was very handsome in a twinkly eye sort of way when he was putting his bag in the overhead bin and apologizing for leaning over me. I was reading a medieval history textbook (which who'd have thought would be a real guy magnet?) and he sat down and then left to a seat in a different row (apparently with his boss) and then came back and said "I'd rather sit next to a medieval history book than pages of specs for our new parachute line." I said "you're in the parachute line? how pessimistic." "Au contraire," he rejoined (it is apparently a French parachute company that he works for), and, as you might imagine, very little medieval literature was read until we landed.

This was nearly a week ago and I should add that he apparently listened closely to my name and my college's name and found me and has emailed hello. Despite a wedding ring.

Hm.

The Second Pig

Everybody knows the story of the three little pigs. They are sent out by their mother to live on their own and become responsible pig citizens. The first pig makes his house out of straw -- quick, cheap, and easy -- then proceeds to have fun, at least until the wolf huffs and puffs and blows it all in (or down, whatever). (I'm dispensing with all discussions of hairs on chinny chin chins too, pace purists). The second pig (and it is unclear whether this pig first sees what happens with the first pig or is just a bit more cautious) builds his house with sticks, which would seem to offer more wolf-whistle resistance, but alas no. The third pig builds his house out of bricks, which not only withstands the wolf, but offers refuge to his risk-taking brothers.

The real idiot of this story is of course the second pig. The first pig gets something: playtime and the manifest support of his two brothers when he's in need. The third pig gets something too: the twin satisfaction of being prepared and of helping his brothers in need. But the second pig gets nothing: he takes no playtime, he gets no security. He can't even help out the first pig for very long.

The lesson: people who choose half-measures not only get nothing, they also lose the opportunity to get something. I'm a third pig who appreciates first pigs. But second pigs: ugh. Losers every one.