Factfulness: Ten Reasons We're Wrong About the World – and Why Things Are Better Than You Think

Factfulness

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Factfulness is … recognizing when a story talks about a gap,
and
remembering that this paints a picture of two separate groups, with a gap in
between. The reality is often not polarized at all. Usually the majority is right
there in the middle, where the gap is supposed to be.
To control the gap instinct, 
look for the majority.
•
Beware comparisons of averages.
If you could check the spreads you
would probably find they overlap. There is probably no gap at all.
•
Beware comparisons of extremes.
In all groups, of countries or
people, there are some at the top and some at the bottom. The
difference is sometimes extremely unfair. But even then the majority
is usually somewhere in between, right where the gap is supposed to
be.
•
The view from up here.
Remember, looking down from above distorts
the view. Everything else looks equally short, but it’s not.
OceanofPDF.com

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CHAPTER TWO
THE NEGATIVITY INSTINCT
How I was kind of born in Egypt, and what a baby in an incubator can
teach us about the world
Which statement do you agree with most?
A: The world is getting better.
B: The world is getting worse.
C: The world is getting neither better nor worse.
Getting Out of the Ditch
I remember being suddenly upside down. I remember the dark, the smell of
urine, and being unable to breathe as my mouth and nostrils filled with mud. I
remember struggling to turn myself upright but only sinking deeper into the
sticky liquid. I remember my arms, stretched out behind me, desperately
searching the grass for something to pull, then being suddenly hauled out by
the ankles. My grandma putting me in the big sink on the kitchen floor and
washing me gently, with the hot water meant for the dishes. The scent of the
soap.
These are my earliest memories and were nearly my last. They are
memories of my rescue, aged four, from the sewage ditch running in front of
my grandma’s house. It was filled to the brim with a mix of last night’s rain
and sewage slurry from the factory workers’ township. Something in it had

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caught my attention, and stepping to the ditch’s edge, I had slipped and fallen
in headfirst. My parents were not around to keep an eye on me. My mother
was in the hospital, ill with tuberculosis. My father worked ten hours a day.
During the week, I lived with my grandparents. On Saturdays my daddy
put me on the rack of his bike and we drove in large circles and figures of
eight just for fun on our way to the hospital. I would see Mommy standing on
the balcony on the third floor coughing. Daddy would explain that if we went
in we could get sick too. I would wave to her and she would wave back. I saw
her talking to me, but her voice was too weak and her words were carried
away by the wind. I remember that she always tried to smile.