The following is the full transcript of the commencement speech “Don’t Eat Fortune’s Cookie” delivered by Michael Lewis in his 2012 Commencement Speech to Princeton held on June 3, 2012
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Michael Lewis – Author
Thank you. President Tilghman. Trustees and Friends. Parents of the Class of 2012 wherever they put you. Members of the Class of 2012. Why don’t you give yourself a round of applause?
So the next time you look around a church and see everyone dressed in black it’ll be awkward to do that. But enjoy the moment. Enjoy the moment.
So thirty years ago I sat where you sat. I must have listened to some older person share his life experiences. I don’t remember a word of it. I couldn’t even tell you who spoke, and you won’t be able to either. What I do remember, vividly, is graduation. I’m told you’re meant to be excited, perhaps even little relieved, that you’re getting out of here, and maybe all of you are. I was not. I was totally outraged. Here I’d gone and given them four of the best years of my life and this is how they rewarded by throwing me out.
At that moment I was sure really of only one thing: I was of no possible economic value to the outside world. I’d majored in art history, for a start. Even then majoring in art history was regarded as an act of insanity. I was almost certainly less well prepared than you are for the marketplace. Yet somehow I have wound up rich and famous. Sort of. I’m going to explain, briefly, how that happened. Because I want you to understand just how mysterious careers can be, before you go out and have one yourself.
So I graduated from Princeton without having published a word of anything, anywhere. I didn’t write for the Prince, or for anyone else. But at Princeton, studying art history, I felt really the first twinge of literary ambition. It happened while I was working on my senior thesis. My adviser was a truly gifted man – a professor named William Childs. The thesis I wrote for him tried to explain how the Italian sculptor Donatello used Greek and Roman sources – that’s actually totally beside the point, but I’ve always wanted to tell someone that.
God knows what Professor Childs thought of it, but he helped me to become engrossed. Actually more than engrossed: Totally obsessed. When I handed it in I knew what I wanted to do for the rest of my life: I wanted to write senior theses. Or, to put it differently: to write books.
Then I went to my thesis defense. It was just a few yards from here, over at McCormick Hall. I listened and waited for Professor Childs to tell me how well written it was. He didn’t. And so after about 45 minutes I finally said, “So. What did you think of the writing?”
“Put it this way” he said. “Never try to make a living at it.”
And I didn’t — not really. I did what everyone does who has no idea what to do with themselves when they get out college. I went to graduate school. I wrote at nights, without much effect, mainly because I hadn’t the first clue what I should write about. One night I was invited to a dinner, where I sat next to the wife of a big shot at a giant Wall Street investment bank, called Salomon Brothers. She more or less forced her husband to give me a job. I knew next to nothing about Salomon Brothers. But Salomon Brothers happened to be where Wall Street was being reinvented — into the Wall Street we have come to know and love today.
When I got there I was assigned, almost arbitrarily, to the very best job in the place to observe the growing madness: they turned me into the house derivatives expert. A year and a half later Salomon Brothers was handing me a check for hundreds of thousands of dollars to give advice about derivatives to professional investors.
Now I had something to write about: Salomon Brothers. Wall Street had become so unhinged that it was paying recent Princeton graduates who knew nothing about money small fortunes to pretend they were experts about money. I’d stumbled into my next senior thesis.
At that point I called up my father. And I told him I was going to quit this job that promised me millions of dollars to write a book for an advance of 40 grand. There was this long pause on the other end of the line. “You might just want to think about that,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
“You could stay at Salomon Brothers for 10 years, you can make your fortune, and then you could write your books,” he said.
But I didn’t need to think about it. I knew what intellectual passion felt like, because I’d felt it here, at Princeton — and I wanted to feel it again. I was 26 years old. Had I waited until I was 36, I would never have done it. I would have forgotten the feeling. And it would have felt too risky.
The book I wrote was called “Liar’s Poker.” It sold a million copies. I was 28 years old. I had a career, a little fame, a small fortune and a new life narrative. All of a sudden people were telling me I was a born writer. This was absurd. Even I could see that there was another, more truer narrative, with luck as its theme. What were the odds of being seated at that dinner next to that Salomon Brothers lady? Of landing inside the best Wall Street firm to write the story of the age? Of landing in the seat with the best view of the business? Of having parents who didn’t disinherit me but instead sighed and said “do it if you must?” Of having had that sense of must kindled inside me by a professor of art history at Princeton? Of having been let into Princeton in the first place?
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