Year: 2020

The Bus Ticket Theory Of Genius

November 2019

Everyone knows that to do great work you need both natural ability and determination. But there’s a third ingredient that’s not as well understood: an obsessive interest in a particular topic.

To explain this point I need to burn my reputation with some group of people, and I’m going to choose bus ticket collectors. There are people who collect old bus tickets. Like many collectors, they have an obsessive interest in the minutiae of what they collect. They can keep track of distinctions between different types of bus tickets that would be hard for the rest of us to remember. Because we don’t care enough. What’s the point of spending so much time thinking about old bus tickets?

Which leads us to the second feature of this kind of obsession: there is no point. A bus ticket collector’s love is disinterested. They’re not doing it to impress us or to make themselves rich, but for its own sake.

When you look at the lives of people who’ve done great work, you see a consistent pattern. They often begin with a bus ticket collector’s obsessive interest in something that would have seemed pointless to most of their contemporaries. One of the most striking features of Darwin’s book about his voyage on the Beagle is the sheer depth of his interest in natural history. His curiosity seems infinite. Ditto for Ramanujan, sitting by the hour working out on his slate what happens to series.

It’s a mistake to think they were “laying the groundwork” for the discoveries they made later. There’s too much intention in that metaphor. Like bus ticket collectors, they were doing it because they liked it.

But there is a difference between Ramanujan and a bus ticket collector. Series matter, and bus tickets don’t.

If I had to put the recipe for genius into one sentence, that might be it: to have a disinterested obsession with something that matters.

Aren’t I forgetting about the other two ingredients? Less than you might think. An obsessive interest in a topic is both a proxy for ability and a substitute for determination. Unless you have sufficient mathematical aptitude, you won’t find series interesting. And when you’re obsessively interested in something, you don’t need as much determination: you don’t need to push yourself as hard when curiosity is pulling you.

An obsessive interest will even bring you luck, to the extent anything can. Chance, as Pasteur said, favors the prepared mind, and if there’s one thing an obsessed mind is, it’s prepared.

The disinterestedness of this kind of obsession is its most important feature. Not just because it’s a filter for earnestness, but because it helps you discover new ideas.

The paths that lead to new ideas tend to look unpromising. If they looked promising, other people would already have explored them. How do the people who do great work discover these paths that others overlook? The popular story is that they simply have better vision: because they’re so talented, they see paths that others miss. But if you look at the way great discoveries are made, that’s not what happens. Darwin didn’t pay closer attention to individual species than other people because he saw that this would lead to great discoveries, and they didn’t. He was just really, really interested in such things.

Darwin couldn’t turn it off. Neither could Ramanujan. They didn’t discover the hidden paths that they did because they seemed promising, but because they couldn’t help it. That’s what allowed them to follow paths that someone who was merely ambitious would have ignored.

What rational person would decide that the way to write great novels was to begin by spending several years creating an imaginary elvish language, like Tolkien, or visiting every household in southwestern Britain, like Trollope? No one, including Tolkien and Trollope.

The bus ticket theory is similar to Carlyle’s famous definition of genius as an infinite capacity for taking pains. But there are two differences. The bus ticket theory makes it clear that the source of this infinite capacity for taking pains is not infinite diligence, as Carlyle seems to have meant, but the sort of infinite interest that collectors have. It also adds an important qualification: an infinite capacity for taking pains about something that matters.

So what matters? You can never be sure. It’s precisely because no one can tell in advance which paths are promising that you can discover new ideas by working on what you’re interested in.

But there are some heuristics you can use to guess whether an obsession might be one that matters. For example, it’s more promising if you’re creating something, rather than just consuming something someone else creates. It’s more promising if something you’re interested in is difficult, especially if it’s more difficult for other people than it is for you. And the obsessions of talented people are more likely to be promising. When talented people become interested in random things, they’re not truly random.

But you can never be sure. In fact, here’s an interesting idea that’s also rather alarming if it’s true: it may be that to do great work, you also have to waste a lot of time.

In many different areas, reward is proportionate to risk. If that rule holds here, then the way to find paths that lead to truly great work is to be willing to expend a lot of effort on things that turn out to be every bit as unpromising as they seem.

I’m not sure if this is true. On one hand, it seems surprisingly difficult to waste your time so long as you’re working hard on something interesting. So much of what you do ends up being useful. But on the other hand, the rule about the relationship between risk and reward is so powerful that it seems to hold wherever risk occurs. Newton’s case, at least, suggests that the risk/reward rule holds here. He’s famous for one particular obsession of his that turned out to be unprecedentedly fruitful: using math to describe the world. But he had two other obsessions, alchemy and theology, that seem to have been complete wastes of time. He ended up net ahead. His bet on what we now call physics paid off so well that it more than compensated for the other two. But were the other two necessary, in the sense that he had to take big risks to make such big discoveries? I don’t know.

Here’s an even more alarming idea: might one make all bad bets? It probably happens quite often. But we don’t know how often, because these people don’t become famous.

It’s not merely that the returns from following a path are hard to predict. They change dramatically over time. 1830 was a really good time to be obsessively interested in natural history. If Darwin had been born in 1709 instead of 1809, we might never have heard of him.

What can one do in the face of such uncertainty? One solution is to hedge your bets, which in this case means to follow the obviously promising paths instead of your own private obsessions. But as with any hedge, you’re decreasing reward when you decrease risk. If you forgo working on what you like in order to follow some more conventionally ambitious path, you might miss something wonderful that you’d otherwise have discovered. That too must happen all the time, perhaps even more often than the genius whose bets all fail.

The other solution is to let yourself be interested in lots of different things. You don’t decrease your upside if you switch between equally genuine interests based on which seems to be working so far. But there is a danger here too: if you work on too many different projects, you might not get deeply enough into any of them.

One interesting thing about the bus ticket theory is that it may help explain why different types of people excel at different kinds of work. Interest is much more unevenly distributed than ability. If natural ability is all you need to do great work, and natural ability is evenly distributed, you have to invent elaborate theories to explain the skewed distributions we see among those who actually do great work in various fields. But it may be that much of the skew has a simpler explanation: different people are interested in different things.

The bus ticket theory also explains why people are less likely to do great work after they have children. Here interest has to compete not just with external obstacles, but with another interest, and one that for most people is extremely powerful. It’s harder to find time for work after you have kids, but that’s the easy part. The real change is that you don’t want to.

But the most exciting implication of the bus ticket theory is that it suggests ways to encourage great work. If the recipe for genius is simply natural ability plus hard work, all we can do is hope we have a lot of ability, and work as hard as we can. But if interest is a critical ingredient in genius, we may be able, by cultivating interest, to cultivate genius.

For example, for the very ambitious, the bus ticket theory suggests that the way to do great work is to relax a little. Instead of gritting your teeth and diligently pursuing what all your peers agree is the most promising line of research, maybe you should try doing something just for fun. And if you’re stuck, that may be the vector along which to break out.

I’ve always liked Hamming’s famous double-barrelled question: what are the most important problems in your field, and why aren’t you working on one of them? It’s a great way to shake yourself up. But it may be overfitting a bit. It might be at least as useful to ask yourself: if you could take a year off to work on something that probably wouldn’t be important but would be really interesting, what would it be?

The bus ticket theory also suggests a way to avoid slowing down as you get older. Perhaps the reason people have fewer new ideas as they get older is not simply that they’re losing their edge. It may also be because once you become established, you can no longer mess about with irresponsible side projects the way you could when you were young and no one cared what you did.

The solution to that is obvious: remain irresponsible. It will be hard, though, because the apparently random projects you take up to stave off decline will read to outsiders as evidence of it. And you yourself won’t know for sure that they’re wrong. But it will at least be more fun to work on what you want.

It may even be that we can cultivate a habit of intellectual bus ticket collecting in kids. The usual plan in education is to start with a broad, shallow focus, then gradually become more specialized. But I’ve done the opposite with my kids. I know I can count on their school to handle the broad, shallow part, so I take them deep.

When they get interested in something, however random, I encourage them to go preposterously, bus ticket collectorly, deep. I don’t do this because of the bus ticket theory. I do it because I want them to feel the joy of learning, and they’re never going to feel that about something I’m making them learn. It has to be something they’re interested in. I’m just following the path of least resistance; depth is a byproduct. But if in trying to show them the joy of learning I also end up training them to go deep, so much the better.

Will it have any effect? I have no idea. But that uncertainty may be the most interesting point of all. There is so much more to learn about how to do great work. As old as human civilization feels, it’s really still very young if we haven’t nailed something so basic. It’s exciting to think there are still discoveries to make about discovery. If that’s the sort of thing you’re interested in.

Continue reading…

From Paul Graham, here.

Stepping Stones for the week

v . . . every effort makes an impression and leaves its mark.

v  Our job is to try! Hashem will make it succeed!

v . . . everything we are commanded to do is within our power to achieve.

v  Appreciate the Blessings Hashem has given you and Commit yourself to make the most of them.

It’s Worth Trying (Yom Kippur)

By Harav Shlomo Aschkenasy

The Beis Yisrael, zy”a, is known for his cryptic sayings, which were incisive and penetrating. His intention, like that of the Kotzker chassidim of whom he was reminiscent, was to make a point that would strike home and leave an indelible impression on the heart, mind and soul of the hearer. Most of his statements were timeless messages that can inject life and spirit into us all.

Lately I heard about a bachur who was about to leave Eretz Yisrael and met the Beis Yisrael at the Kosel. The Beis Yisrael queried him, “Do you know what Hashem’s biggest miracle is?” And the answer: “It’s the fact that He doesn’t laugh (Ehr lacht nisht)!” And without further ado the Beis Yisrael said good-bye, leaving the bachur dumbstruck, trying to figure out the Rebbe’s intention.

The bachur hurried back to Yeshivas Sfas Emes, where he found the Pnei Menachem, zy”a, who was then Rosh Hayeshivah. On hearing the Beis Yisrael’s words the Rosh Yeshivah smiled and said sympathetically, “I too heard those words from the Rebbe and was unable to fathom his intention, but I gathered up the courage to ask him.

“This was his explanation. When someone promises to do something and doesn’t do it, he will usually come up with excuses — once, twice and three times, and people still trust that he will fulfill his promise. After a few more times, though, people lose faith and will just laugh at him if he makes a promise.

“With the Ribbono shel Olam it’s not like that. We commit ourselves so many times to improve. We often say we’re going to change. We’ve begged, Selach lanu (Pardon us), and Hashiveinu (Bring us back) in an endless number of tefillos, yet we stay in our rut and continue with our wrongdoings. Hashem, however, doesn’t laugh at us. He doesn’t scoff. He patiently waits and encourages us to keep trying. He still hopes and has faith that someday we will make it happen!”

Hashem doesn’t laugh, but we do! We ridicule others and even laugh at ourselves. We don’t believe we can do it, but He does. He values our efforts even if we don’t see results. The effort itself is valuable for two reasons. First, because every effort makes an impression and leaves its mark. As Rav Chaim Shmulevitz, zt”l, so wisely noted when recounting the incident that led Rabbi Akiva to do teshuvah, Chazal say that he saw drops of water falling on a stone and remarked, “If those drops can chip away the stone and gouge out a hole in them, the waters of Torah can do the same for me and return me to its teachings.”

What was the wisdom of Rabbi Akiva that this incident highlights? Rav Chaim said that Rabbi Akiva recognized that the problem most people have is taking the first step toward changing. One step seems inconsequential and worthless. Rabbi Akiva realized that if the first step has no effect, there will not be a second step because a second step would then be like starting all over again – and so on ad infinitum. The stone does not remain the same after one drop of water falls on it; otherwise a second drop would be just like the first and the stone would never be affected. It would always remain at the same stage it was when the first drop fell.

It must be, concluded Rabbi Akiva, that the first drop leaves its mark, although it’s not discernible. So it is with teshuvah: one small step in the direction of repentance is a giant step towards sheleimus.

Regardless of its effect, Hashem values the effort itself. As Kotzk interpreted the famous Chazal, “Yagata velo matzasa…”: If you toiled and did not find fruit – “al taamin” – don’t believe it. You know why? Because the toil itself is priceless and of infinite value.

In Tehillim we read that Hashem praises the waves as they rise up, Beso galo atah teshabchem (Tehillim 89:10). The Rebbe Reb Bunim of Peshischa explained that the waves deserve to be praised for their tireless efforts. They wish to get closer to Heaven, to the Throne of Glory by rising ever higher. They’re jealous of the waters on High. They try to rise yet fall back again and again, but they never give up, driven by their craving for closeness to the Throne, and their efforts are praiseworthy. So too are ours, and we must never tire of trying because nothing is lost, every attempt is valued, and each leaves its mark.

I found a profound insight of Harav Elchanan Wassserman, Hy”d, which sheds light on the phenomenal dual value of effort. He points out that every aveirah is double-edged. First, a transgression of Hashem’s will is tantamount to heresy. When we sin we divest ourselves of Hashem’s authority, denying His kingship. Chazal equate succumbing to the dictates of the yetzer hara with bowing to an idol. The yetzer hara is called “el zar shebikirbecha, the foreign god within you.” Second, a sin damages our spiritual being. It dulls our emotions and instincts (metamtem es halev). It demolishes the G-dly image that is our essence. A crust of filth besmears its pristine state.

The efforts we make to mend our ways repair the two negative effects of sin. They express our craving to be close under Hashem’s sovereignty and that offsets the elements of heresy and idolatry. And our toil scrapes away the sheet of filth our sins created so that we can come back to our true selves and regain our spiritual essence.

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There’s another reason not to laugh away our efforts. Hashem beckons us and promises, “Pischu li pesach kechudo shel machat…, Open for Me an opening as tiny as a needle hole and I will open up for you an entrance wide enough for wagons.” Hashem opens the gate of teshuvah for those who knock. He’s there to help, willing to assist and promises to make it happen. He knows that without His help we cannot make it. “Ilmalei ozro…, Were it not for Hashem’s help we could not overcome the mighty and wily yetzer hara.” Our job is to try! Hashem will make it succeed!

One of the most inexcusable justifications is to say, “It’s too hard; it’s impossible.” Chazal say that for an insurmountable challenge the Torah gives us some leeway (see Rashi on the topic of yefas toar hara in Parashas Ki Seitzei). Harav Yechezkel Abramsky said that we can learn from this that everything we are commanded to do is within our power to achieve; we can be confident of this because if we take a step in the right direction Heavenly assistance will lead us all the way.

I find it most apropos to reiterate the thoughts of Harav Moshe Chadash, zt”l, who inspired many bachurim in his Yeshivas Ohr Elchanan as well as avreichim like me, and we all benefited merely from being in his vicinity. On Parashah Mattos he gave an enthusiastic talk, which turned out to be his valedictory address, revealing the key to his successful life in Torah dissemination.

He reminisced that close to sixty years before, when he was a young bachur of seventeen, he was brokenhearted that he hadn’t achieved as much as he had expected. He found himself a quiet corner and poured out his heart to Hashem, asking for Divine mercy to succeed. He took upon himself some serous commitments for improvement and set himself goals. He went to Meron and cried out all of Tehillim, beseeching Heavenly help. Hashem responded and we can say that the rest is history.

He went on to point out that Moshe Rabbeinu, Yirmiyahu and Yeshayahu all claimed to be unfit and unable to speak to Am Yisrael and lead them. Hashem’s response to them all was similar. “It matters not, for you are my messengers and I will be with you so that you will succeed in all your missions.”

We all might feel the same kind of impotence to overcome the yetzer and achieve heights in Torah and closeness to Hashem. But since we are not doing it on our own but only at Hashem’s behest, we are He, so to speak, for He is in us and there’s nothing that can prevent our ascent. Heaven is the limit!

All we have to do is take one step, daven and make a true commitment. Perhaps a simple A, B, C mnemonic can serve as the first rungs on the ladder. Appreciate the Blessings Hashem has given you and Commit yourself to make the most of them. Acknowledge in tefillah that He is the Source of everything and have Bitachon that He’ll help you as long as you Care for His Torah and His people and Constantly try to aggrandize them so that yisgadal veyiskaddash Shemei Rabba!