'Liar's Poker' Author Sees Upside To Market Crash
'Liar's Poker' Author Sees Upside To Market Crash
When Michael Lewis looks back on the Wall Street he wrote about in his 1989 best-seller, Liar's Poker, the street looks positively quaint. At the time, it was shocking that an investment bank CEO made $3 million a year.
His newest book, Panic: The Story of Modern Financial Insanity, is a collection of essays and articles written during the past two decades. As Lewis tells NPR's Renee Montagne, it begins with the crash of October 1987.
"It seemed to be the first of a new breed of financial panic, and it was panic without any seeming economic consequence," Lewis says. Since then, "the financial market seemed to be able to convulse in the most extraordinary ways without most people ever really feeling very much. And the lessons people seemed to learn ... was that, well, markets do these crazy things, but in the end they don't really matter."
A New Kind Of Crash
The current crash is different — very different. Lewis says he didn't appreciate its distinctions until he began doing research four or five months ago. "The size of the problem is massive," Lewis notes. "Not only did trillions — trillions — of dollars get lent to people who won't be able to repay them, but Wall Street at the same time created a market in side bets about whether these people would be able to repay their loans. And that market in side bets is tens of trillions of dollars."
Where did those dollars go? Most "went to building a lot of houses that we can't afford," Lewis says, pointing to McMansions and other "unproductive assets."
But substantial money also went to "people who took the other side of the bet, and a lot of those people are lying low because they're not going to be so popular," Lewis says. "The biggest sum of money ever made by a single person in the history of Wall Street was made last year by a hedge fund manager named John Paulson, who made almost $4 billion for himself because he took the other side of the bets. ... Big money has been made, but by very few."
The cycle of soaring profits and crashes that began in 1987 is unlikely to continue, Lewis contends.
Diminished Interest In Risk Likely
"There will still be people who will take big risks and earn big returns in the financial markets, but they won't be working at places called banks," Lewis says. "They may be working at hedge funds or in private equity, but that will be a much smaller operation and, in general, the appetite for risk will be dramatically reduced. I don't think, going forward, you will see people working at a place called Goldman Sachs taking home $70 million or $80 million at the end of each year, which they have done in the past."
Such earnings are unwarranted, Lewis says. "One of the madnesses of the last 25 years ... has been the rewards we've bestowed on financiers," he says. "The people who have actually been allocating the capital on Wall Street have done a rather bad job of it. ... The idea that these are essentially the highest-paying corporate jobs in America, by far, seems to me insane."
The 'Distorting Effect' Of High Earnings
Those rewards have had "a really distorting effect" on society, Lewis says, creating a new norm for personal financial rewards for CEOs of all stripes. "That's going to be gone."
Disproportionate earning has another negative effect, luring young people who could contribute to society in other ways, Lewis says. "It distracts lots of young, passionate people from doing the things they probably should be doing."
A few months ago, Lewis visited Princeton University, his alma mater, "to find out what the kids who were going to be investment bankers were now going to do with their lives." He says he was "so frustrated with how unimaginative young people had become in choosing their path in life that I thought that someone should establish a kind of 'Scared Straight' program for Ivy League students." He'd require them to spend a week with a hedge fund manager in Greenwich, Conn., "just to see how miserable" they'd be after 20 years.
The plunging market has changed many of their plans, Lewis says. "The kids ... who thought they were going to be financiers are having to rethink the premise, and that's a very good thing."
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The Story of Modern Financial Insanity
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Panic: The Story of Modern Financial Insanity
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Inside Wall Street's Black Hole
The striking thing about the seemingly endless collapse of the subprime-mortgage market is how egalitarian it has been. It's nearly impossible to draw a demographic line between the victims and the perps. Millions of ordinary people ignorant of high finance have lost billions of dollars, but so have the biggest names on Wall Street, and both groups made exactly the same bet: that real estate values would never fall. Stan O'Neal, the former CEO of Merrill Lynch, was fired for the same reason the lower-middle-class family in the suburban wasteland between Los Angeles and San Diego may have lost its surprisingly nice home. Both underestimated the likelihood of an unlikely event: a financial panic. In retrospect, the small army of Wall Street traders who lost tens of billions of dollars in subprime-mortgage investments looks as naïve and foolish as the man on the street. But there's another way of viewing this crisis. The man on the street, for the first time, acted on the same foolish principles that have guided the behavior of sophisticated Wall Street traders for the past few decades.
If you had to pick a moment when those principles first appeared a bit shaky, you could do worse than the 1987 stock market crash—the event that opens this anthology of financial writing done immediately before, during, and after the panics that have punctuated, often, the most recent financial era. Black Monday was the first of a breed: a crash that suggested disastrous economic and social consequences but in the end had no serious effects at all. The bursting of the Internet bubble, the Asian currency crisis, the Russian government bond default that triggered the failure of the hedge fund Long-Term Capital Management—all of these extreme events have been compressed into a fantastically short space of financial history. And all seemed, in the heat of the moment, to have the power to change the world as we know it. None of them, it turned out, was that big a deal for the U.S. economy or for ordinary citizens.
But the 1987 crash marked the beginning of something else too—a collapse brought about not by real or even perceived economic problems but by the new complexity of financial markets. A new strategy known as portfolio insurance, invented by a pair of finance professors at the University of California at Berkeley, had been taken up in a big way by supposedly savvy investors. Portfolio insurance evolved from the most influential idea on Wall Street, an options-pricing model called Black-Scholes. The model is based on the assumption that a trader can suck all the risk out of the market by taking a short position and increasing that position as the market falls, thus protecting against losses, no matter how steep. Nearly every employee stock-ownership plan uses Black-Scholes as its guiding principle. A pension-fund manager sitting on billions of U.S. equities and fearful of a crash needn't call a Wall Street broker and buy a put option—an option to sell at a set price, limiting potential losses—on the S&P 500. Managers can create put options for themselves, cheaply, by selling short the S&P as it falls, and thus, in theory, be free of all market risk.
Good theory. The glitch was discovered only after the fact: When a market is crashing and no one is willing to buy, it's impossible to sell short. If too many investors are trying to unload stocks as a market falls, they create the very disaster they are seeking to avoid. Their desire to sell drives the market lower, triggering an even greater desire to sell and, ultimately, sending the market into a bottomless free fall. That's what happened on October 19, 1987, when the sweet logic of Black-Scholes was shown to be irrelevant in the real world of crashes and panics. Even the biggest portfolio insurance firm, Leland O'Brien Rubinstein Associates (co-founded and run by the same finance professors who invented portfolio insurance), tried to sell as the market crashed and couldn't.
Oddly, this failure of financial theory didn't lead Wall Street to question Black-Scholes in general. "If you try to attack it," says one longtime trader of abstruse financial options, "you're making a case for your own unintelligence." The math was too advanced, the theorists too smart; the debate, for anyone without a degree in mathematics, was bound to end badly. But after the crash of 1987, individual traders at big Wall Street firms who sold financial disaster insurance must have smelled a rat. Across markets—in stocks, currencies, bonds—the price of insuring yourself against financial disaster rose. This rise in prices and the break with Black-Scholes reflected two new beliefs: one, that huge price jumps were more probable and likely to be more extreme than the Black-¬Scholes model assumed; and two, that you can't manufacture an option on the stock market by selling and buying the market itself, because that market will never allow it. When you most need to sell—or to buy—is exactly when everyone else is selling or buying, in effect canceling out any advantage you once might have had.
"No one believes the original assumptions anymore," says John Seo, who co-manages Fermat Capital, a $2 billion-plus hedge fund that invests in catastrophe bonds—essentially bonds with put options that are triggered by such natural catastrophes as hurricanes and earthquakes. "It's hard to believe that anyone—yes, including me—ever believed it. It's like trying to replicate a fire-insurance policy by dynamically increasing or decreasing your coverage as fire conditions wax and wane. One day, bam, your house is on fire, and you call for more coverage?"
This is interesting: The very theory underlying all insurance against financial panic falls apart in the face of an actual panic. A few smart traders may have abandoned the theory, but the market itself hasn't; in fact, its influence has mushroomed in the most fantastic ways. At the end of 2006, according to the Bank for International Settlements, there was $415 trillion in derivatives—that is, $415 trillion in securities for which there is no completely satisfactory pricing model. Added to this are trillions more in exchange-traded options, employee stock options, mortgage bonds, and God knows what else—most of which, presumably, are still priced using some version of Black-Scholes. Investors need to believe that there's a rational price for what they buy, even if it requires a leap of faith. "The model created markets," Seo says. "Markets follow models. So these markets spring up, and the people in them figure out that, at least for some of it, Black-Scholes doesn't work. For certain kinds of risk—the risk of rare, extreme events—the model is not just wrong. It's very wrong. But the only reason these markets sprang up in the first place was the supposition that Black-Scholes could price these things fairly."
Black-Scholes didn't work; trillions of dollars' worth of securities may have been priced without regard to the possibility of crashes and panics. But until very recently, no one has bitched and moaned about this problem too loudly. Lay folk might harbor private misgivings about the clergy, but as lay folk, they are reluctant to express them. Now, however, as the subprime market unravels, a revolt against the church seems to be taking shape.
One of the revolt's leaders is Nassim Nicholas Taleb, the best-selling author of The Black Swan and Fooled by Randomness and a former trader of currency options for a big French bank. Taleb can precisely date the origin of his own personal gripe with Black-Scholes: September 22, 1985. On that day, central bankers from Japan, France, Germany, Britain, and the United States announced their intention to torpedo the U.S. dollar—to reduce its value in relation to the other countries' currencies. Every day, Taleb received a list of his trading positions from his firm, and a matrix telling him how much money he stood to make or lose, given various currency fluctuations. That September 22, when the central bankers announced their plan to lower the dollar's value, he made money but didn't know it. "I didn't know what my position was," he says, "because the movement was outside the matrix they'd given me." The French bank's risk-analysis program assumed that a currency crash of this magnitude would occur once in several million years and therefore wasn't worth considering.
Taleb made a killing that day, but it wasn't thanks to a grand plan and it wasn't happy money. "People in dark suits started coming from Paris," he says. "They said that the only way I could have made that much was to have taken far too much risk." But he hadn't. They had simply failed to account for the true nature of risk in financial markets. "Then I started looking at the history of markets," he says. "And I saw that these sorts of things happened all the time." Taleb became obsessed with the way prices in the options market, based on the famous Black-Scholes model, underestimated the risk of extreme and rare events. He set up trading to profit from events by buying up disaster insurance that would, according to Black-Scholes, be considered overpriced. When October 19, 1987, arrived, he was prepared. "Ninety-seven percent of all the returns I ever made as a trader, I made on that day," he says.
In the past two years, Taleb has coauthored a pair of papers that have appeared in the sort of academic journals that originally published the Black-Scholes model. He and his coauthor attack the model head-on in its own language (math), and as much as call for a retraction of the Nobel Prize awarded to Myron Scholes and Robert Merton for their work in creating the model. "This is what I'm saying to Merton and Scholes," Taleb says. "You guys are just parasites. You're not bringing anything useful to the market. You are lecturing birds on how to fly. You're watching them fly. And then you're taking credit for it."
He's saying more than that, actually. He's saying that the academics, in lecturing the birds, have made flying more difficult. Like John Seo—like a lot of traders who understand both the math of Black-Scholes and the reality of the marketplace—Taleb believes that the model has a pernicious effect: By leading investors to think they understand complicated financial risk when they actually do not, and by mispricing that risk, Black-¬Scholes encourages them to take more chances than they rationally should. In a post–Black-Scholes world, these companies, more than anyone else, would be compelled to reduce their exposure to financial catastrophe and to raise the prices at which they sell financial insurance to others. Indeed, if no one has made too much of a stink about mispriced risk until now, it may be because the chief victims have been the big Wall Street firms that typically wind up owning that risk. "The main reason there isn't a fundamental public outcry about Black-Scholes," says Seo, "is that the main losers from its mispricing are broker-dealers." The crashes happened, yet only Wall Street traders—rather than living and breathing human beings with whom the world could empathize—suffered.
The collapse of the subprime-mortgage bond market is different from the general run of modern financial panics in this respect: It involves millions of blissfully oblivious people who have never heard of the Black-Scholes options-pricing models. Nevertheless, it was Black-Scholes that gave them—and the rest of the financial system—the excuse to risk the roof over their head. They were followed by the mortgage brokers who lent them money and the banks that funded the brokers. Black-Scholes is no longer just a model; it's a climate of opinion about financial risk. It wasn't only big Wall Street firms but a lot of small real estate speculators—otherwise known as homeowners—who, in effect, sold put options too cheaply against the risk of extreme, rare events. That many of these people literally live inside the investment that they've speculated on sharpens the pain but fails to drive home the point. Financial panics have become almost commonplace; events that are meant to occur once in a millennium now seem to occur every few years. Could this be because the financial system was built on an idea that badly underestimates the risk of catastrophes—and so conspires with human nature to create them?
But I get ahead of myself, and the story this anthology seeks to tell. Let's go back and begin at the beginning.
Excerpted from Panic: The Story of Modern Financial Insanity by Michael Lewis. Copyright © 2008. Excerpted by permission of W.W. Norton & Company. All rights reserved.