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Posts tagged ‘Self Help’

Building Things

Smart People Should Build ThingsSmart People Should Build Things – Andrew Yang

My not now so recent change in career sparked a new drive for information in me. Entering a new line of work reopened the pores of my professional curiosity, and working in an otherwise undefined, unregulated, undocumented and as yet largely unformed industry in a company that had not previously existed, even more so.

Information in the law is readily, though not freely, available. Reading into the profession is so important that young lawyers are sent to law school for two years before they start working but no such study is available for those starting out in young technology companies.

So where to look. A quick Google search for ‘starting a business’ produces 1,050,000,000 pages of information about leaving a job and starting out on your own (or joining in with someone who is doing the same). They will point you to Eric Ries’ The Lean Startup or the The Startup Owner’s Manual as being biblical texts in the world of high growth startups. Many others will try to convince you that for a monthly fee of only fifteen dollars, they will show you the keys to  unlock incomes in the thousands per week from only a few hours of effort (probably from setting up just such websites).

It may not take you long to find the works of Tim Ferris, his ouevre of ‘four hour’ books, textbooks defining the many ways in which you can do anything you want much faster than you think if you think about the effect of your actions rather than the effort of them (the ‘Pareto chop’). A treasure trove of short cuts, high tales and more than a dash of charlatanism, it made an enjoyable seed for the dream bed of my career change from the law, even if it is hard to trust a man who preaches the four hour work week and works sixteen hours a day.

Eric Ries’ works set out a methodology for developing an idea from scratch. Like most of the books in this category they preach common sense, but when common sense is the know-how of the industry, it is reassuring to see it printed up and labelled as a text book occasionally. Follow Eric Ries, don’t follow Eric Ries, it doesn’t really matter but you will probably last longer if you do as he says (and does). His core principle is a straightforward one: rapidly experiment with one eye on the rate at which you are spending money. You may ask why anyone would have to write that down but unfortunately it is.

My route into this particular genre of literature was more mundane than most being via the management pages of the FT in which Luke Johnson (a serial entrepreneur who began his career by building up the Pizza Express chain of restaurants) writes a weekly column.

His pieces are heart-felt and engaging, much like his book Start It Up which sets out no methodology but is an unabashed call to arms for anyone thinking about starting a company. Every other page of the book is a full page quotation affirming the decision of anyone thinking about starting up a business (or pretty much doing anything else).

After one column I emailed him to ask, ‘when is the right time to leave the law and set out on my own’, to which he replied ‘Seize the day, Luke’. One of the kindest, shortest and most memorable emails, I have ever received.

Another writer, who has recently published his very charming book, Smart People Should Build Things is Andrew Yang, a one time New York corporate lawyer. He lasted about as long as I did in the law before turning his attentions to startups, working in a number of different as he puts it ‘low paid’ jobs before founding his own tutoring agency and selling it in his mid-thirties at a healthy profit.

He now runs a not for profit organisation called Venture for America which specialises in placing young, budding, would-be-entrepreneurs in startup companies in deprived areas of America such as Detroit. A great idea and an excellent book – what appeals the most about Yang’s style is his honesty. Aside from the apparent immodesty of the title, he writes not as Tim Ferris superhuman who has ‘hacked life’, redefined wealth, reclaimed time and made himself into the examplar of ability in every jurisdiction of existence, but instead he writes with the wary encouragement of a person who didn’t like being a lawyer, turned down short term success and made a life for himself not dictated by others. Not a work of literature, but I will come back to, many times again.

The Editors

The Prince

Book coverThe Prince, Niccolo Machiavelli, Translated by Peter Constantine

One of my tutees – while I was pushing myself through law school – was a young Russian boy of six called Yasha.  Yasha was fiery and precocious and extraordinarily good at chess and his family named him its King.  One day, I thought, Yasha will be king of more than just a chess board ruling as he did our class room, the household and the playground in which I would beat him at football, being the only thing I could beat him at.

On the chess board he ruled with a ruthlessness I have never since met.  I would think for twenty minutes, he would think for two.  I would take his pawn, he would take my bishop.  I would take his rook, he would take my queen.  And all the time he hummed the Dance of the Knights, chanted “ho ho ho and a bottle of wum”  or giggle as he said, “come on Jamesi, I am going to eat your pieces” as though he was hardly playing at all. His was the most intimidating intelligence I have ever encountered for being both naturally occurring and shaped so sharply like a scythe.

What then of Machiavelli?  In his short and potent treatise on the nature of leadership, the difficulty of decision making, the displeasing underbelly of political success, Machiavelli cuts too closely like a scythe to fit  comfortably in our political discourse:  ‘I judge a prince capable of standing on his own when he has enough men or money to gather an army capable of engaging in battle anyone who comes to attack him; and I judge a prince as needing the assistance of others when he is not strong enough to engage an enemy on the battlefield and is compelled to seek refuge behind his walls, which he then has to defend.”

What Machiavelli represents, aside from a lazy synonym for political chicanery, is the power of thoughtful pragmatism.  We might not like his message (“in short men must be either flattered or eliminated”) but we cannot deny the careful honesty of his ideas which makes them – at least in part – compelling.  It is a deliberately provocative book, it is a polished book, and it is a refreshing book because it runs against the grain of modern utilitarian political discourse, based around the cessation of responsibility by the individual to the state – our constant infantilisation.  It is a book written about 16th Century Italian Princes, yet it reveals to us each how we might choose to live in our own principality and to rule our own affairs (“a wise archer, for instance, will perceive that the distance of the target he intends to hit is too far off, and knowing the extent of his bow”s capacity, will aim quite a bit higher, not so that he will reach that height with his arrow, but so that he will gain his objective by aiming above it”).

It reminds me so vividly of Yasha, not simply because it is intelligent, even if it is cynical, yes, but also because I asked Yasha once why he was so good at chess and he said, “it’s easy James, all you have to do is think.”

The Editors

3. Why Read?

In my house in Freetown there is a room that the landlord calls the library. That term is over grandiose, perhaps. It is not much more than a cubicle, with a view out towards the mango tree and the guard-post at the top of the compound.

Bookshelves line one wall of the library. Their contents fascinate me, as do the other antebellum relics in the house, like the green telephone with a rotary dial that sits on a table downstairs and still sometimes produces a dial tone, though there are next to no landlines now in the city. But the bookshelves in the library are intriguing not so much for their contents, as for the condition their contents are in.

At roughly head-height are four bound volumes, containing the laws of Sierra Leone for 1960. 1960 was the year before Sierra Leone became independent from Britain. On the inside front cover of each volume a rubric is printed: “A poisonous insecticidal solution has been used in binding this book,” it states.

Whatever that half-century-old pesticide was, it was not strong enough. The covers of the law books have been excavated, run through, burrowed by some invertebrate. Probably by a termite. Meanwhile, the outsides of the covers are streaked with grey-green mould.

There’s almost too much metaphor here. It’s too apparent, a sleight of authorial hand that you couldn’t get away with in fiction. The laws have rotted. The decay of the law is almost too apt an analogy for what happened after Sierra Leone became independent, the year after the books were made.

Corruption swelled, the second post-independent prime minister stole $250 million in 1960s money in three years in office. His successor made himself president, declared a one-party state, and made off with an estimated half a billion dollars. Within a few years began disintegration, the long, slow process of state failure that, three decades later, would birth one of Africa’s most brutal civil wars.

But those metaphors are not what I seek to say, not now at least. I just want to say that I live in a place where books rot. I have always read, in childhood, in adolescence; later for three years of an English degree reading was my profession. But living in a place where the climate is physically hostile to the continued existence of literature does confer upon it extra value.

There are no bookshops in Freetown, either. That’s the other side of this bind. The city lacks many things; enough grid power to allow the concept of the ‘power cut’ to have some meaning, reliable telecoms, and, for much of its benighted population, reasonable nutrition. But, selfishly, for me the lack of bookshops in Freetown grinds particularly hard.

There are a handful of establishments that do self-identify as such, but they sell self-help volumes  – sometimes bound in plastic, so you can’t assess their proposals pre-purchase – or religious tracts, or stationery. Not fiction. Meanwhile the few stalls that pile paperbacks on street corners, near the wheelbarrows full of coconuts and the racked pirate DVDs, largely offer trash, though I did once find a battered copy of William Boyd’s ‘Brazzaville Beach.’

It’s a two-headed problem then, reading in Sierra Leone, absent supply at one end, the inevitability of book rot at the other. The rot itself is symptomatic of a wider malaise. It is difficult to overstate the unpleasantness of Sierra Leone’s climate. Before vaccinations and anti-malarial medication Freetown was affectionately known as the ‘White Man’s Grave.’

Even the local slave trade, which for an uncomfortable period co-existed with a colony for freed slaves established in the late eighteenth century, did not really work financially until the local management was Africanised. The European slavers kept dying.

Enough of history. In Freetown the humidity approaches the absolute. I have heard that a temperature below 19 Celsius has never been recorded. The sea breeze penetrates about as far inland as a neap tide. Bizarrely, heroically someone – probably the Chinese – gifted the thuggish armed wing of the police arctic camouflage uniforms. The police wear these blue and white pyjamas without irony.

In these conditions rot is inevitable and unassailable, unless you are one of the lucky few that has air conditioning and can run it all day. In a city dependant on pricey diesel generators, 24 hour cooling is a considerable extravagance.

Everything rots. Mildew colonises clothes left in wardrobes. I returned from a trip to find the mordantly expensive Panama hat I had purchased only half in jest in London was acquiring a greenish tinge. And books, well, given long enough they will end up like the rotten laws in the library in my house.

Of course, there’s a fairly obvious solution to this problem set. The Kindle would seem to solve both the supply side of the reading problem in Freetown, and sidestep the issue of decaying pages. I have one too, a birthday gift from last year. I just don’t like it. Now is not the time to thrash out the hackneyed trope of the book as artefact. Nor does my disgust at the fact the fact that I couldn’t order Larry McMurtry’s western epic ‘Lonesome Dove’ on my UK-specification Kindle justify my subsequent neglect of it.

But, alongside irrational dislike, it is worth pointing out that with Sierra Leone’s medieval telecoms it is impossible to download books on the hop on a Kindle, as one can in Europe or America. Furthermore, electronics are not immune to this country’s climate either.

At last inspection my Kindle was alive. But once, not long after I arrived in Sierra Leone, I sat by night outside a hotel in the town of Makeni in the scorching centre of the country, my laptop cracked open on my knees. Moths and flying things flocked to the screen-light. Some days later other, smaller, at-a-different-stage-of-the-life-cycle things were hatching under the keyboard. They were scrambling out of the cracks between the QWERTYUIOP.

In this environment of scarcity, books become twinned with another, apparently incongruous set of objects; Land Rover parts. The two categories have little in common in the wider world, but in Freetown both are, to a greater or lesser extent, essential but unobtainable. I have written at length before about the travails of car ownership in Sierra Leone. Now is not the place to go into it again. It is suffice to say that you need Land Rover parts in Freetown like you (or at least I) need books, you can’t get either, and so both are things that you have to bring in.

For me, book shopping is one of the best things about shore leave, about not being in Sierra Leone. In London hitting up Skoob, the subterranean second-hand emporium in the bowels of the Brunswick Centre by Russell Square, or raiding Slightly Foxed on the Gloucester Road in South Kensington, is a pleasure every bit as keen as the company of western women who don’t work for NGOs, or the feel of fabrics that have never hosted mildew next to the skin.

Buying Land Rover parts is less fun. These days it’s largely done over the Internet. The prices are lower (but still ruinous) and, as with the acquisition of pornography, online shopping removes the need to have a face-to-face encounter with a store owner who may well be situated somewhere on the autistic spectrum. But once, purchased, Land Rover parts, like books, need carriage to Sierra Leone.

When I returned to Freetown after Christmas my luggage contained the following: Anthony Powell’s ‘At Lady Molly’s,’ two front suspension shock absorbers, James Mellow’s Hemingway biography ‘A Life Without Consequences’, an air conditioning front evaporator unit, Flaubert’s Madame Bovary in Oxford World Classic’s paperback, a front driver’s door lock assembly, AS Byatt’s ‘Possession,’ a fuel filter, Bruce Chatwin’s ‘In Patagonia,’ an air filter, Siegfried Sassoon’s ‘Memoirs of an Infantry Officer,’ an oil filter, and Barbara Kingsolver’s ‘The Poisonwood Bible.’

There were also some more books. The key difference, I suppose, is that one day I plan to sell my car.

Simon Akam is Reuters’ correspondent in Sierra Leone. His website is and he has also written these which we think are excellent:  The Long and Winding Road (on Land Rover parts in Africa) and Stars of the Stalls (on second hand book shopping).