Being wrong schulz pdf

If madness is radical wrongness, being wrong is minor madness. Minor madness can also be an apt description of how being wrong actually feels. We will meet more than one person in this book who characterizes his or her experience of error as scarily similar to insanity. We already saw that hallucinations and dreams are widely regarded as revealing greater truths. So too with madness. Societies throughout the ages have nurtured the belief that the insane among us illuminate things as they truly are, despite their own ostensibly deranged relationship to reality.

This narrative of wrongness as rightness might have achieved its apotheosis in King Lear, a play that features a real madman Lear, after he loses it , a sane man disguised as a madman Edgar , a blind man Gloucester , and a fool the Fool.

And insanity is intellectual and moral clarity: it is only after Lear loses his daughters and his senses that he understands what he has done and can feel both loss and love.

This idea—that from error springs insight—is a hallmark of the optimistic model of wrongness. It holds even for mundane mistakes, which is why proponents of this model myself included see erring as vital to any process of invention and creation.

The example of altered states simply throws this faith into relief: make the error extreme enough, depart not a little way but all the way from agreed-upon reality, and suddenly the humdrum of human fallibility gives way to an ecstasy of understanding. In place of humiliation and falsehood, we find fulfillment and illumination. Unfortunately, as proponents of the pessimistic model of wrongness will be quick to point out, the reassuring notion that error yields insight does not always comport with experience.

Sometimes, being wrong feels like the death of insight—the moment when a great idea or a grounding belief collapses out from under us. And sometimes, too, our mistakes take too great a toll to be redeemed by easy assurances of lessons learned. Our errors expose the real nature of the universe—or they obscure it.

They lead us toward the truth, or they lead us astray. They are the opposite of reality, or its almost indistinguishable approximation—certainly as close as we mere mortals can ever hope to get.

They are abnormalities we should work to eliminate, or inevitabilities we should strive to accept. Together, these two conflicting models form the backbone of our understanding of error. Before we turn to those experiences, I want to introduce two figures who vividly embody these different models of wrongness. They are creatures of mythology, and they do not so much err as animate—and illuminate—the ways we think about error.

That root gave rise to the Latin verb errare, meaning to wander or, more rakishly, to roam. Implicitly, what we are seeking—and what we have strayed from—is the truth. One of these is the knight errant and the other is the juif errant—the wandering Jew. The latter figure, a staple of anti-Semitic propaganda, derives from a medieval Christian legend in which a Jew, encountering Jesus on the road to the crucifixion, taunts him for moving so slowly under the weight of the cross.

In response, Jesus condemns the man to roam the earth until the end of time. To err is to experience estrangement from God and alienation among men. The knight errant is also a staple of medieval legend, but otherwise he could scarcely be more different.

Where the wandering Jew is defined by his sin, the knight errant is distinguished by his virtue; he is explicitly and unfailingly on the side of good. His most famous representatives include Galahad, Gawain, and Lancelot, those most burnished of knights in shining armor. A bit further afield, they also include Don Quixote, who, as both knight errant and utter lunatic, deserves his own special place in the pantheon of wrongology. Although far from home, the knight is hardly in exile, and still less in disgrace.

Unlike the juif errant, who is commanded to wander and does so aimlessly and in misery, the knight errant is on a quest: he wanders on purpose and with purpose, as well as with pleasure. It will be clear, I hope, that I am not invoking these archetypes to endorse their obvious prejudices.

As embodied by the wandering Jew, erring is both loathsome and agonizing—a deviation from the true and the good, a public spectacle, and a private misery. This image of wrongness is disturbing, especially given the all-too-frequent fate of the non-mythological Jews: abhorred, exiled, very nearly eradicated. Yet it far more closely resembles our everyday understanding of wrongness than do the virtue and heroism of the knight errant.

If this bleak idea of error speaks to us, it is because we recognize in the wandering Jew something of our own soul when we have erred. Sometimes, being wrong really does feel like being exiled: from our community, from our God, even—and perhaps most painfully—from our own best-known self. So we should acknowledge the figure of the wandering Jew as a good description of how it can feel to be wrong. In light of that, why cleave any more closely than necessary to the most disagreeable vision of wrongness around?

We have, after all, a better alternative. In fact, the idea of erring embodied by the wandering knight is not just preferable to the one embodied by the wandering Jew. It is also, and somewhat remarkably, preferable to not erring at all. Being right might be gratifying, but in the end it is static, a mere statement. Being wrong is hard and humbling, and sometimes even dangerous, but in the end it is a journey, and a story.

Who really wants to stay home and be right when you can don your armor, spring up on your steed and go forth to explore the world? True, you might get lost along the way, get stranded in a swamp, have a scare at the edge of a cliff; thieves might steal your gold, brigands might imprison you in a cave, sorcerers might turn you into a toad—but what of that? To fuck up is to find adventure: it is in that spirit that this book is written. Our Senses A lady once asked me if I believed in ghosts and apparitions.

I answered with truth and simplicity, No, madam, I have seen far too many myself. The existence of such a route was an open question, but its potential economic significance was beyond dispute. Because virtually all commercial goods were transported by water at the time, faster transit between Europe and Asia would fuel a surge in global trade. By the time the expedition set sail, explorers and fortune seekers had been looking for the route for more than years. This was a place Ross had never been.

Although he had joined the navy at the age of nine, his northernmost service prior to had been in Sweden; the rest had been in the English Channel, the West Indies, and the Mediterranean. It might seem odd to select a man with no regional experience to captain such a pivotal expedition, but as it happened, John Barrow, the subsecretary of the British Admiralty who sponsored the voyage, had little choice. Given wide latitude by Barrow to conduct the expedition as he saw fit, Ross determined to explore those sounds to see if any of them gave out onto the hoped for Northwest Passage.

In July, after three months at sea, he and his crew reached Baffin Bay—something of a triumph itself, since Barrow, for one, had openly doubted its existence. After concluding that Smith Sound and Jones Sound were impassable, they turned their attention to Lancaster, which Ross had considered the most promising of the three.

Shortly thereafter, the fog lifted completely and, Ross wrote in his account of the voyage: I distinctly saw the land, round the bottom of the bay, forming a chain of mountains connected with those which extended along the north and south sides. This land appeared to be at the distance of eight leagues [about 27 miles]; and Mr. Lewis, the master, and James Haig, leading man, being sent for, they took its bearings, which were inserted in the log….

Instead of opening westward onto a waterway out of Baffin Bay and onward to the Pacific, it ended in land—a vast expanse of ice and high peaks. Disappointed, but having fulfilled the terms of his naval mandate, the commander returned to England. But something odd had happened. When he got home, he made this fact known to John Barrow. A cloud of mistrust and derision began to gather around Ross, even though, by most measures, he had achieved the extraordinary.

Chief among his accomplishments was navigating a British ship through the treacherous waters of the eastern Arctic and returning it safely home. But in the face of the fervor over the Northwest Passage, none of that carried much weight. Less than a year after the expedition returned, Barrow sent Parry back to Lancaster Sound for a second look. This time, Parry did see the Croker range—and then he sailed right through it.

The mountains were a mirage. John Ross had fallen victim to one of the stranger and more fascinating optical phenomena on earth. Anyone who has been in a car on a hot day is familiar with the mirage in which a pool of water seems to cover the highway in the distance but disappears as you approach. This is called an inferior mirage, or sometimes a desert mirage, since the same phenomenon causes nonexistent oases to appear to travelers in hot, sandy lands.

This type of mirage is known as a superior or arctic mirage. But superior mirages show us things that do exist. The mountains that Ross saw were real. They were two hundred miles west of him, on a distant island in the Canadian Arctic. But by bending light rays from beyond the horizon up toward us, superior mirages lift objects into our field of vision that are usually obscured by the curvature of the earth.

Such mirages begin with a temperature inversion. Normally, air temperatures are warmest near the surface of the earth and start dropping as you go up. Think about how much colder it is on top of a mountain than in the valley below. But in a temperature inversion, this arrangement reverses.

A cold layer of air close to the earth—say, directly above the polar land or sea—meets a higher, warmer layer of air created by atypical atmospheric conditions. This inverted situation dramatically increases the degree to which light can bend. In the Arctic or Antarctic, where surface air temperatures are extremely cold, light sometimes bends so much that the photons that eventually strike any available human retinas can be reflected from objects up to several hundred miles away.

The result is, in essence, another kind of false fire—a trick of the light that leads unwary travelers astray. The illusory Croker Mountains, as drawn by John Ross in his travel journal.

Ross was by no means the first or last seafarer to be fooled by an Arctic mirage. Likewise, historians speculate that the Vikings ventured to North America where they landed sometime around AD after spotting a superior mirage of the mountains of Baffin Island from the coast of Greenland. As these examples suggest, superior mirages are particularly likely to consist of mountains and other large land masses.

On July 17, , while sailing between Greenland and Iceland, Bartlett suddenly spotted the coast of the latter country, looming so large that he could easily make out many familiar landmarks. Like John Ross, Bartlett estimated the apparent distance of the coast at twenty-five or thirty miles away.

But he knew its actual distance was more than ten times that, since his ship was positioned roughly miles from the Icelandic coast. That he could see land at all is astonishing—akin to seeing the Washington Monument from Ohio.

Thanks to those advances in technology, including information technology, Bartlett was able to override his own judgment. His resources may have been better, but his senses were equally, spectacularly deceived.

Of the very long list of reasons we can get things wrong, the most elementary of them all is that our senses fail us. Although these failures sometimes have grave consequences just ask Captain Ross , we usually think of sensory mistakes as relatively trivial.

And yet, in many respects, failures of perception capture the essential nature of error. The rest of us do this, too, albeit mostly without realizing it. When we discover that we have been wrong, we say that we were under an illusion, and when we no longer believe in something, we say that we are disillusioned. More generally, analogies to vision are ubiquitous in the way we think about knowledge and error. People who possess the truth are perceptive, insightful, observant, illuminated, enlightened, and visionary; by contrast, the ignorant are in the dark.

When we comprehend something, we say I see. And we say, too, that the scales have fallen from our eyes; that once we were blind, but now we see. This link between seeing and knowing is not just metaphorical. For the most part, we accept as true anything that we see with our own eyes, or register with any of our other senses. We take it on faith that blue is blue, that hot is hot, that we are seeing a palm tree sway in the breeze because there is a breeze blowing and a palm tree growing.

Heat, palm trees, blueness, breeziness: we take these to be attributes of the world that our senses simply and passively absorb. Moreover, they are capable of doing so under entirely normal circumstances, not just under exceptional ones like those John Ross experienced.

For the purpose of this thought experiment, imagine that you step outside not in Chicago or Houston, but in someplace truly dark: the Himalayas, say, or Patagonia, or the north rim of the Grand Canyon. If you look up in such a place, you will observe that the sky above you is vast and vaulted, its darkness pulled taut from horizon to horizon and perforated by innumerable stars. Stand there even longer and it will dawn on you that your own position in this spectacle is curiously central.

The apex of the heavens is directly above you. And the land you are standing on—land that unlike the firmament is quite flat, and unlike the stars is quite stationary—stretches out in all directions from a midpoint that is you. It is also, of course, an illusion: almost everything we see and feel out there on our imaginary Patagonian porch is misleading. The sky is neither vaulted nor revolving around us, the land is neither flat nor stationary, and, sad to say, we ourselves are not the center of the cosmos.

Not only are these things wrong, they are canonically wrong. They are to the intellect what the Titanic is to the ego: a permanent puncture wound, a reminder of the sheer scope at which we can err.

What is strange, and not a little disconcerting, is that we can commit such fundamental mistakes by doing nothing more than stepping outside and looking up. No byzantine theorizing was necessary to arrive at the notion that the stars move and we do not. We simply saw the former, and felt the latter. The fallibility of perception was a thorn in the side of early philosophers, because most of them took the senses to be the main source of our knowledge about the world.

One early and clever solution to this problem was to deny that there was a problem. That was the fix favored by Protagoras, the leader of a group of philosophers known as the Sophists, who held forth in ancient Greece around the fifth century BC. You might imagine that this conviction would lead to a kind of absolute realism: the world is precisely as we perceive it. But that only works if we all perceive the world exactly the same way.

To borrow an example from Plato whose extensive rebuttal of the Sophists is the chief reason we know what they believed : if a breeze is blowing and I think it is balmy and you think it is chilly, then what temperature is it really?

And if my senses happen to contradict yours—well, then our realities must differ. In matters of perception, Protagoras argued, everyone was always right. Protagoras deserves recognition for being the first philosopher in Western history to explicitly address the problem of error, if only by denying its existence.

For most of us, though, his position on perception is intrinsically unsatisfying much as relativism more generally can seem frustratingly flaccid in the face of certain hard truths about the world.

Plato, for one, thought it was nonsense. He noted that even a breeze must have its own internal essence, quite apart from whoever it blows on, and essentially advised Protagoras to get a thermometer.

But Plato also rejected the whole notion that our senses are the original source of knowledge. Since, as I mentioned earlier, he thought our primordial souls were at one with the universe, he believed that we come to know the basic truths about the world through a form of memory.

This seems like a reasonable position, and one we are likely to share, but it raises two related and thorny questions. First, how exactly do our senses go about acquiring information about the world?

And second, how can we determine when that information is accurate and when it is not? Early philosophers regarded the first question as, essentially, a spatial-relations problem.

The world is outside us; our senses are within us. How, then, do the two come together so that we can know something? Instead, our senses must somehow bridge the gap I described in Chapter One: the rift between our own minds and everything else. One way to understand how they do this is to think of sensing as two different although not normally separable operations.

The first is sensation, in which our nervous system responds to a piece of information from our environment. The second is perception, in which we process that information and make it meaningful.

Perception, in other words, is the interpretation of sensation. Interpretation implies wiggle room—space to deviate from a literal reading, whether of a book or of the world. As that suggests, this model of perception unlike the one in which our senses just passively reflect our surroundings has no trouble accommodating the problem of error.

This model also answers the second question I asked about perception: How can we determine when it is accurate and when it is not? Unfortunately, the answer is that we cannot. Since we generally have no access to the objects of our sensory impressions other than through our senses, we have no independent means of verifying their accuracy.

In perception, as in so many things in life, departing from literalism often serves us uncommonly well—serves, even, a deeper truth. Consider a mundane visual phenomenon: when objects recede into the distance, they appear to get smaller. If we had sensation without interpretation, we would assume that those objects were actually shrinking, or perhaps that we were growing—either way, a bewildering, Alice-in-Wonderland-esque conclusion. Instead, we are able to preserve what is known as size constancy by automatically recalibrating scale in accordance with distance.

For a different example of the utility of interpretation, consider your blind spot—the literal one, I mean. The blind spot is that part of the eye where the optic nerve passes through the retina, preventing any visual processing from taking place.

But we do not, because our brain automatically corrects the problem through a process known as coherencing. These, then, are instances—just two of many—in which the interpretative processes of perception sharpen rather than distort our picture of the world.

No matter what these processes do, though, one thing remains the same: we have no idea that they are doing it. The mechanisms that form our perceptions operate almost entirely below the level of conscious awareness; ironically, we cannot sense how we sense.

And here another bit of meta-wrongness arises. Or, more precisely, we cannot feel that we could be wrong. Our obliviousness to the act of interpretation leaves us insensitive—literally—to the possibility of error.

The trick is that the square labeled A and the square labeled B are identical shades of gray. No, really. If it were, it would do nothing but measure the wavelength of light reflecting off a given object. In that case, as the psychologist Steven Pinker has pointed out, we would think that a lump of coal sitting in bright sunlight was white, and that a lump of snow inside a dark house was black.

One way we do this is through local contrast. The same phenomenon applies in reverse, so that we read Square A which is darker than the squares around it as dark, period. This interpretation is reinforced by several other interpretative processes, including the fact that we automatically adjust for cast shadows, mentally lightening whatever objects they fall on—in this case, Square B.

When I first saw it, I was so incredulous that I finally took a pair of scissors and cut the picture apart—whereupon, lo and behold, the A and B squares became indistinguishable from each other. If you must cut it apart yourself to be persuaded, the original image—and a lot of other fun stuff—is available on the website of its creator, Edward Adelson, a professor of vision science at MIT.

What makes this illusion both irksome and fascinating is that knowing how it works does not prevent it from working. No matter how many times you read the above explanation or how many copies of the image you cut to pieces , the two shades of gray will still look strikingly different to you.

This is one of the defining features of illusions: they are robust, meaning that our eyes fall for them even when our higher cognitive functions are aware that we are being deceived. A second defining feature is that they are consistent: we misperceive them every time we come across them.

Finally, they are universal: all of us misperceive them in precisely the same way. This helps explain why a scientist at one of the most respected academic institutions in the world is paid to sit around developing optical illusions. Moreover, because illusions trick all of us rather than, say, only stroke victims or only children , they help us understand how visual perception operates in a healthy, mature brain.

They are learning how it works. This point merits some emphasis: being wrong is often a side effect of a system that is functioning exactly right. Remember size constancy, our automatic ability to recalibrate scale according to distance? This is a handy trick The other 0. Illusions, then, are the misleading outcomes of normal and normally beneficial perceptual processes.

Other auditory illusions are even more common. Those of us fortunate enough to have all our limbs sometimes experience a similar if sillier feeling known as—no joke—the phantom hat. In this illusion, we continue to feel the presence of a tightly worn accessory, bandage, or article of clothing for some time after it has been removed.

Unless you are a vision scientist or an amputee or Captain John Ross, they have pretty much the status of parlor tricks. Occasionally, though, the quirks of our perceptual system leave us vulnerable to more serious errors.

Take, for instance, a phenomenon known as inattentional blindness. At some point during the video, a gorilla more precisely, a person in a gorilla costume wanders into the middle of the group of players, stands around for a bit, beats its chest a few times, and then wanders off again. Perhaps this bears repeating: one-third to one-half of people instructed to pay close attention to a video fail to see a gorilla beating its chest in the middle of it. This is inattentional blindness in action.

It turns out that when we ask people to look for something specific, they develop a startling inability to see things in general. But be warned: having read this paragraph, you will not fail to see the gorilla. However, close to half your friends can still be duped. Like other automatic perceptual processes, inattentional blindness is generally quite useful.

But when this process works against us, the consequences can be grave. In , Eastern Airlines Flight was preparing to land in Miami when a light on the control panel failed to illuminate.

The flight crashed in the Everglades, killing a hundred people. Analysis of the cockpit voice recorder showed that none of the crew noticed the impending crisis until just seconds before the crash. Similarly, inattentional blindness is thought to be a culprit in many car accidents, especially those involving pedestrians and cyclists—who, no matter how visible they make themselves, are less likely to be anticipated by drivers, and thus less likely to be seen.

This deliberate exploitation of systemic perceptual glitches has a long and occasionally disreputable history, especially within religion and politics. One early account of the use of illusions for such purposes comes from David Brewster, a Scottish polymath and the author of the Letters on Natural Magic. This is not a truth limited to ancient times. In the mid-nineteenth century, France was experiencing difficulty in Algeria. Today Robert-Houdin is recognized as the father of modern magic, an honor that comes complete with a kind of figurative primogeniture.

In , an aspiring young magician named Ehrich Weiss, seeking to pay homage to his hero, changed his name to Houdini. Napoleon sent Robert-Houdin to Algeria with instructions to out-holy the holy men, and so he did.

Wielding the full panoply of contemporary illusions—plucking cannon balls from hats, catching bullets between his teeth, causing perfectly incarnate chieftains to vanish without a trace—the magician convinced his audience that the more powerful gods were on the side of the empire, and that the French, accordingly, were not to be trifled with. They can make us dangerous unto ourselves and others, as in the crash of Eastern Airlines Flight They can be disruptive, whether slightly as when we realize that our eyes are misprocessing an image of a checkerboard or massively as when we discover that the sun does not revolve around the earth.

They can be consequential as when an imaginary mountain chain scuttles your career or trivial as when a puddle on the road evanesces as you approach. And they can be pleasurable, as when we gape at optical illusions or flock to magic shows.

But another and more important reason is this: illusions teach us how to think about error. Emotionally, illusions are a gateway drug to humility. If we have trouble acknowledging our own errors and forgiving those of others, at least we can begin by contemplating the kind of mistakes to which we all succumb.

Illusions make this possible, but they also make it palatable. In other words, illusions are not just universally experienced. They are universally loved. This attraction to illusions upends our conventional relationship to wrongness. We are usually happiest when we think that we understand and have mastery over our environment.

Yet with illusions such as mirages, we take pleasure in the ability of the world to outfox us, to remind us that its bag of tricks is not yet empty. We usually like to be right. We usually dislike the experience of being stuck between two conflicting theories. Finally, we usually do not care to dwell on our mistakes after they happen, even if it would behoove us to do so.

Yet illusions command our attention and inspire us to try to understand them—and to understand, too, the workings and failings of our own minds. What makes illusions different is that, for the most part, we enter into them by consent. We might not know exactly how we are going to err, but we know that the error is coming, and we say yes to the experience anyway.

In a sense, much the same thing could be said of life in general. With illusions, we look forward to this encounter, since whatever minor price we pay in pride is handily outweighed by curiosity at first and by pleasure afterward. The same will not always be true as we venture past these simple perceptual failures to more complex and consequential mistakes.

But nor is the willing embrace of error always beyond us. The neurologist, Georg Goldenberg, began by asking Hannah to describe his own face.

It was an odd question, but Hannah complied. Goldenberg next asked Hannah about an object in front of her. And where exactly was the book located, the doctor asked her. He was holding it up in his left hand, Hannah replied, at just about eye level.

Hannah was blind. All that was bad enough. To be blind without realizing our blindness is, figuratively, the situation of all of us when we are in error. As a literal predicament, however, it is all but impossible to fathom. It is weird enough to see a mountain when there is no mountain, as Captain John Ross did.

But it is really weird to see a mountain when you cannot see. And yet, this blind-to-our-own-blindness condition exists. Like denial of blindness, denial of paralysis typically although not exclusively occurs in stroke victims. One illustrious and illustrative victim of this strange syndrome, the late Supreme Court Justice William Douglas, claimed that he had no physical problems and cheerfully invited a reporter covering his stroke to join him for a hike.

But blindness and paralysis are not normally among them. But sore throats and bum knees are pretty much only about our bodies. Moreover, these abilities bear on the most basic kind of selfhood there is—not the complex, striated, narrative identity we build up over time, but the one we have from birth: the unspoken but profoundly central sense that we are this kind of being, with this kind of relationship to the world.

In a sense, then, people with anosognosia are as wrong as it is possible to be. Other errors might be more sweeping in their consequences or more emotionally devastating: being wrong about your family history, say, or committing wholeheartedly to a theology, ideology, or person you later wholeheartedly reject. But no other error requires us to concede quite so much ground to the sheer possibility of being wrong.

If mistakes arise from the gap between our inner picture of the world and the world as it really is, anosognosia shows us that this gap never fully closes, even when we can least fathom its existence. There seems to be no room for doubt, no plausible way I could be wrong. What anosognosia shows us, then, is that wrongness knows no limits—that there is no form of knowledge, however central or unassailable it may seem, that cannot, under certain circumstances, fail us.

This fallibility of knowledge is gravely disappointing, because we really, really love to know things. One of my nieces, who is not yet eighteen months old, recently uttered her first sentence.

From the time we learn to talk until death finally silences us, we all toss around claims to knowledge with profligate enthusiasm. We know, or think we know, innumerable things, and we enjoy the feeling of mastery and confidence our knowledge gives us. Unfortunately, as we just saw, this knowledge is always at risk of failing. For several millennia, philosophers have tried to identify criteria by which some of those beliefs could be elevated into the loftier category of knowledge: things we can reasonably claim to know beyond a shadow of a doubt.

For these thinkers, knowledge is belief with a bunch of backup: belief that is not only justified and true, but also necessarily true, impossible to disprove, arrived at in a certain fashion, and so forth. For my purposes, there are two important things to be learned from these debates. The second is that even if you happen to be a professional philosopher, it is very difficult to figure out what, if anything, you can rightly claim to know.

There is something that gives a click inside of us, a bell that strikes twelve, when the hands of our mental clock have swept the dial and meet over the meridian hour. The feeling of knowing something is incredibly convincing and inordinately satisfying, but it is not a very good way to gauge the accuracy of our knowledge.

On December 7, , a thirteen-year-old boy named Ulric Neisser was listening to the radio when he learned that the Japanese had just attacked Pearl Harbor. The experience made a huge impression on the child.

Think about your own memories of a different national tragedy—the terrorist attacks of September 11, If you are American, I will bet my bank account that you know what you were doing that day: how you learned the news, where you were at the time, how you felt, who you talked to, what you thought about what had happened. Neisser certainly was. By then, as fate would have it, the thirteen-year-old baseball fan had become a psychology professor at Emory University, and, in , he published a groundbreaking study on memory failures like the one he had experienced.

Psychologists speculated that these memories stemmed from unique evolutionary imperatives and were formed through different neurological processes than we use to recall everyday life.

Kennedy , no one had ever put their accuracy to the test. National tragedy is good to memory researchers. Great book, Being Wrong: Adventures in the Margin of Error pdf is enough to raise the goose bumps alone. Your Rating:. Your Comment:.

Read Online Download. Brown by P. Add a review Your Rating: Your Comment:. Dynamics of the Norwegian Margin. Raffles Being the Adventures of an Amateur Crackswoman. Margins of Error in Accounting. Murder at the Margin. Advances in large margin classifiers. Love in the Wrong Dimension. Wrong Place Wrong Time.

The Question of Being. The Wrong Side of Dead. The Ease of Being.