by Jared Dillian
An account of the author’s experiences as a trader and, to a lesser
degree, the bipolar disorder that got him hospitalized and, ultimately,
drove him to leave the industry to become a writer of market reports.
Fresh out of the Coast Guard, wearing the wrong clothes and a graduate
of the wrong school, Dillian was a fish out of water but soon started
getting the respect of his peers with his manic trading, even as his
fits of temper and rookie mistakes continue to draw unwanted attention.
His account is both brutally honest about his own faults and mental
health, as well as a scathing depiction of trader culture. From the
mountains of wasted takeout food to the flop sweat and flatulence on the
floor, Dillian brings it all to life: the extreme meritocracy where
employees are given free rein to do nearly anything to make money, which
leads to a shallow culture where dollar amounts are the only standard
by which to measure a person’s value, and those with the most money take
the least risk.
Dillian has a way with a descriptive line and
wry wit: a chief trader is “a walking molecule of testosterone,” the
mass exodus to the Hamptons is a useless exercise in sitting through
traffic just to “hang around with the same douchebags that I saw at work
every day.” Still, to me, by far the most interesting part of the book
is Dillian’s account of his stay in a mental hospital after a mental
breakdown and attempted suicide. It is only here, taking a break from
the endless oceans of trader jargon (which, frustratingly, he never
explains), Dillian shows his true self: confused, craving something
real, becoming inspired. For most of the rest of the book, Dillian may
think he’s lampooning Wall Street, but to me, his misogynistic,
egotistical prose shows he’s part of the problem, no different from
those testosterone molecules looking down on everyone making less than
he does.
four stars
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