Piers Plowman and the Cock’s Egg

I have a friend who works at the same university I do, and last fall we decided to spend our lunch hours reading Milton’s Paradise Lost. Key to this experience was that we would take turns reading the text aloud and discussing it as our lights led us. It was an enjoyable and profitable experience. So much so, in fact, that once we were finished we decided to tackle William Blake’s Milton: A Poem.

That experiment didn’t work out nearly as well. We right away decided that we needed to have a look at some secondary literature. Problem is, the secondary literature seemed to be as opaque as the Blake text itself, in some cases more so. After three wasted lunch hours, we gave up on Blake. Certain things about the poem — including its tangled syntax and occasional lack of agreement between subject, verb, and object — led us to the conclusion that Blake (poor soul) was clearly mentally ill. The only explanation we could come up with for this literary mess was that he was schizophrenic. This diagnosis was more charitable than deeming him an outright fraud. Pity we could not extend this charity to the myriad academics who have made their careers in Blake studies, including, I’m sorry to say, my countryman Northrop Frye.

So setting aside Blake, we picked up Piers Plowman by William Langland. It’s rather heavy going. Compared to Chaucer’s Middle English, Langland’s is idiosyncratic, much further away from modern English, and the story is heavily allegorical. And although one should not expect standardized spelling in medieval English, Langland’s (or his scribe’s) is all over the place.

The edition we chose (the Norton Critical Edition) also does not help. It is a parallel text, with Middle English on the left page and modern English on the right. This is good, because unlike with The Canterbury Tales, I find I need a translation to refer to as I struggle through the original. Indeed, my friend and I have taken to reading a couple of pages of the translation aloud, and then going back and reading the corresponding Middle English aloud. However, in transcribing the text, the editors have chosen not to use the “yogh” or ʒ character, which would have been pronounced somewhere between a hard g and a y. Instead, they replaced every instance of it with either a g or a y — usually the latter. What this means is that a word like “ʒift” gets transcribed as “yift” when it should clearly be “gift”. It makes parsing a difficult text unnecessarily harder.

The translation could be better. At one extreme, the translators often leave untranslated and unglossed words that require explication. At the other extreme, they often kill the metre and alliteration by providing a bad or awkward translation for a word that is perfectly intelligible in the original — they obtrusively translate where translation is unnecessary. Although, the translation is laid out in verse, it is not what one could call poetic. In addition, they sometimes provide English translations for Langland’s Latin quotations in their places in the verse, while at other times they relegate the translation to a footnote, while at still other times they provide no translation at all.

But perhaps worst of all, they sometimes provide a translation that is simply wrong. An interesting example occurs at Passus VI, ll. 284-285, where Piers describes the simplicity of his diet. Here is the translation, followed by the original Middle English (italics mine):

      “And yet I say, by my soul, I have no salt bacon
      Nor any hen’s egg, by Christ, to make ham and eggs,”

      “And yet I sey, by my soule, I have no salt bacoun
      Ne no kokeneye, bi Cryst, coloppes forto maken,”

Once you realize that kokeneye is “cockeneye” or “cock’s egg”, you immediately see that the translation makes little sense. First, by default, all chicken eggs are hen’s eggs, so there is nothing to be added by describing them as such. Second, at the risk of stating the obvious, a rooster is not a hen. Hence, a rooster’s egg is not a hen’s egg. Hence, the translation is bad in a quite literal sense.

But that is not all. Rendering “cockney” as “hen’s egg” also misses much nuance. First, let us agree on one simple fact: roosters do not lay eggs. As such, a cock’s egg is an imaginary entity, like a unicorn or pixie dust. Thus, in a sense, Piers could be understood as saying, “Not only do I not have an egg. I don’t even have an imaginary egg.” (i.e. he has less than nothing). That is conceivably the sense a reader might get if the translators had simply translated kokeneye as “cock’s egg” or “rooster’s egg”. At the very least, some of Langland’s earthy colloquialism would have been preserved.

Langland’s Piers is trying to convey a notion of scarcity. For him, food beyond the very basic is hard to come by. It is worth noticing that there is a related figure of speech still used today to convey the notion of scarcity: we sometimes describe a thing as being “scarce as hen’s teeth.” Just as roosters don’t lay eggs, neither do hens have teeth. In both cases, to describe something as a cock’s egg or a hen’s tooth is to describe a nothingness. By contrast, to use the term “hen’s egg”, as the Piers Plowman translators do, is to refer to something that is extremely common, thus undermining what I take to be the author’s intention.

Interestingly, Langland’s is the earliest citation for “cockney” in the Oxford English Dictionary. It is a word with an interesting history. Its primary use was to refer to an egg that was small and misshapen. This may have been the way Langland intended the word, if you wish not to accept my more figurative glossing of a cock’s egg as a fictional entity used to describe a nothingness.

However, shortly after Langland’s time, “cockney” came to refer to an overly coddled child, and, by extension, to a “milksop”. It could also refer to someone with overly refined and delicate tastes. This is the sense intended by Robert Burton in The Anatomy of Melancholy (1628), when he writes of people who are “overprecise, Cockney-like, and curious in their observation of meats.”

By 1520 “cockney” was being used to refer to town-dwellers, presumably because they were perceived as being soft and effeminate. I posit that there is another reason that the term came to be applied to townies: in The Passions of the Minde in Generall (1604), Thomas Wright remarks that “Sundry of our rurall gentlemen are as well acquainted with the civill dealing, conversing, and practise of citties, as many Kockneis with the manuring of lands, and affayres of the countrey.” In other words, it wasn’t just that townsfolk were effeminate; they were also ignorant — ignorant of agriculture, husbandry, and rural pursuits. They were the kind of people that wouldn’t know the difference between a rooster and a hen, or whether his eggs came from the one or the other.

My theory here is supported by a couple of lines from “The Reeve's Tale” in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, written just a decade or two after Langland wrote Piers Plowman:

      “Whan this iape is told another day
      I sal ben halden a daf a Cokenay”

As daft or clueless as a Cockney.

Funny enough, the Norton Critical Edition translators of Piers Plowman were not the first to trip over this word. In a footnote, the editor of an 18th-century edition of Chaucer’s Poetical Works (Edinburgh, 1782) glosses Chaucer’s use of “cokenay” in the above passage as follows: “That this is a term of contempt, borrowed originally from the kitchen, is very probable. A cook, in the base Latinity, was called coquinator and coquinarius, from either of which cokenay might easily be derived.” He then cites our very passage from Piers Plowman and says that “it seems to signify a cook”. This explanation obviously makes no sense whatsoever as applied to the Piers passage. He then goes on to suggest that it might also have something to do with Cockaigne, the mythical land of idleness and luxury. Again, rather a stretch — although one might see a plausible path leading from Cockaigne to an idle and pampered Londoner.

In short, “cockney” is a word with a very rich web of overlapping significations. I’m not completely sure what Langland’s precise intention was in using it, though I’ve given you my theory. But what I do know is that he didn’t intend it to mean “hen’s egg”.

Taking "Horse Race" Way Too Literally

Today is Brexit referendum day. Not being British, I really have no pony in this race, so this post will not be a screed taking up one side or another. Anyway, in truth, looking down disinterestedly from my Canadian Olympus, I cannot figure out which side I would hypothetically support. There are serious pros and cons to either leaving or remaining, and many of these pros and cons are so uncertain as to make any vote a real gamble — for either side.

In fact, it seems that this referendum is such a gamble that the media, both here and in Britain, have been jettisoning polls and have begun replacing them with bookmakers’ odds. The Spectator has been offering predictions on the referendum’s outcome based on “implied bookies’ odds”. Meanwhile, a business reporter on CBC radio the other day was heard to claim that bookmakers’ odds are perhaps more accurate than polling data because they capture “people putting their money where their mouth [sic.] is.” If this seems a bit outlandish, consider this: The Bank of England is apparently using bookmakers’ “implied betting odds” on Brexit to assess how much the referendum uncertainty has hurt the pound.

Now I recognize that opinion polling has produced some spectacularly erroneous predictions of late, including in both the last British election and the Scottish independence referendum. But despite the challenges that polling faces in the age of digital media, is it really wise to rely on bookmakers odds to set policy and predict voting intentions?

The short answer is no, for the following reasons.

First, betting is not in any way analogous to voting. A wagerer’s “vote” (i.e. wager) does not necessarily express how he personally feels about Brexit. Rather, it is an expression of his belief about how other voters – other real voters – will vote on Brexit. I may personally believe that, all things considered, leaving the EU is the best thing for Britain, while at the same time believing that I am in the minority. Hence, I may vote for Brexit while I bet my money on Remain.

Second, just as a wager is not the same thing as a vote, a wagerer is not the same thing as a Briton. Foreigners and others not eligible to vote can easily place a wager. Considering wagers as votes essentially means counting the votes of many ineligible voters, further polluting the data one gets from bookmaker’s odds. And a wagerer can place multiple bets, while a voter only gets one vote.

Third, even if each wagerer were also an eligible voter, and even if voting intentions reliably corresponded to betting intentions, the odds offered by bookmakers almost by definition will not correspond to those intentions exactly. If a bookmaker accurately and dutifully offered odds that reflected wagerers’/voters’ actual intentions, he would make no money.

For an oversimplified example, let’s say that precisely 50% intend to vote “Leave” and 50% intend to vote “Remain”. If the bookmaker constructed his book such that, if “Remain”  wins their wagerers get all the stakes of the losing “Leave” wagerers, then there is no profit for the bookmaker. He must construct his book as if there was, say, a 49% chance of either outcome, so that whatever happens he can pocket the stakes of the 2% in between. In other words, his odds will never reflect the 100% chance of the “either Leave or Remain” outcome. The house must always make its end, whatever the outcome. That’s why it’s a racket (look up “Dutch book” to see what I mean).

(The bookmakers’ odds in the Spectator article referred to above do add up to 100%, which, to be fair, is why they’re called “implied” odds. However, it is not clear how the implied odds are arrived at, nor how, say, undecided voters fit into all of this.)

Fourth, although the bookmaker must construct a Dutch book, some Dutch books are better than others. For example, if one outcome looked lopsidedly more probable than the other, too few people would be attracted to bet on the less favoured outcome — there wouldn’t be enough money in the losers’ pot to pay out the winners. The bookie would take a bath. So the bookmaker must offer some inducement, in the form of a greater payout, to induce enough people to place bets on the long shot. Insofar as this attracts some people to “vote” for the unlikely outcome who otherwise wouldn’t, it further distorts the “polling” data.

No one ever went broke betting on the ignorance of journalists. It’s rather more disturbing, however, to find that the smart money is on the ignorance of the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street.

Conflict of Interest: Case Study #3

My third and final case study in conflict of interest will be brief, since it is a relatively straightforward case of good old-fashioned nepotism. Quaint stuff, really…

Now, not every instance of what we commonly call “nepotism” is bad. For instance, if I need my driveway shoveled, and I “hire” my son to do it, there is no harm done — unless of course my son is shiftless, lazy, or not physically up to the task. But even then, the harm is to myself only. Similarly, if I am the proprietor of a family business, say a restaurant, I commit no breach of ethics in giving my daughter a job in the company. Indeed, there may be very good reasons for doing so; she may be part of my “succession plan” and will need to learn the ropes if she is to follow in my footsteps. If it turns out that she doesn’t have what it takes, lacks the “right stuff” or the “royal jelly”, again, that’s a risk I take, and one I’m entitled to take.

Perhaps it could be argued that I am “denying” a better qualified person a job. But that presumes I have a duty to provide jobs for people, which seems implausible. I almost want to say that my hiring my son is a decision about consumption rather than production: I may be perfectly aware that my son is a waste of oxygen, and that looked at from the perspective of production, my decision may seem inefficient. But in our consumption decisions, an inefficient choice is not the same thing as an unethical one. As with many other purchases that seem wasteful to observers, I derive some personal gratification from this “purchase” of a job for my son, and so I do it, efficiency be damned. And a case could be made that, at the end of the day, for all his uselessness, my son is at least a known quantity. In hiring outside the family I would of necessity be turning to strangers, with all the risks that entails. I may have to hire and fire a few duds before I find the right person for the job, and some of those duds may be far worse than my son. 

The matter is different where I am a representative of a public institution, corporation, or publicly-traded company. In that context, my decision is one concerning production. My choice is open to the judgment of others. Where I am spending money that belongs to others, money that has been entrusted to me as their agent, money that is to be spent on furthering their objectives, then to spend it on my own objectives — in effect, on consumption — may or may not be inefficient, but it is certainly unethical.

Put that way, it is akin to embezzlement. If I give my useless son a job in a public institution, corporation, or publicly-traded company, I bear none of the risk for the harm his uselessness may cause. Taxpayers or shareholders foot the bill, while I receive the direct or indirect benefits of the hire. I may as well be stealing from the till.

Therefore, we are concerned with nepotism only insofar as it is practiced within organizations not owned by the practicing “nepotist”. Furthermore, though its similarity to theft would in itself make nepotism morally wrong, we are mainly concerned with nepotism as it relates to conflict of interest. Wherein does the conflict of interest in nepotism lie? Well, from the foregoing, and from the previous two case studies, it should be fairly obvious: The nepotist’s (self)interest in furthering the interests of his relations conflicts — or is likely to conflict, or at the very least is likely to be perceived to conflict — with the interest of the organization. The organization’s interest herein consists of having the right person for the job, whether that person be an employee, a contractor, or a consultant.

(To these latter we might even conceivably add volunteer, at least insofar as the importance of the volunteer’s role is sufficiently greater than the mere value of her free labour. "Importance" here should be understood in terms of the potential value added by the volunteer's labour or the potential harm caused by a volunteer's incompetence. And as the use of free labour — interns, for example — in highly skilled positions becomes ever more common, having good volunteers in an organization approaches in importance the interest of having good employees, contractors, and consultants.)

With these fairly obvious remarks out of the way, here’s the case study. 

Case Study #3: 

A researcher at my university was the recipient of a multi-million dollar research grant. It was for a large-scale project, the type that necessarily requires a certain amount of administration. Receiving and spending millions of dollars of public funds requires that there be financial accounting and reporting.  A meeting of various interested parties was held before the project started, amongst whom was a certain accounting manager — let’s call her Angelica.

A few hours after the meeting, Angelica sent an e-mail message to the researcher. After the usual pleasantries, the message quickly came to the point: Angelica’s daughter — let’s call her Laura — needed a job for the summer, and wouldn’t it be nice if the researcher hired her on the project? There was, of course, no indication of what special skills Laura might bring to the project or in what capacity she might serve. Just an expectation that she be provided with a job for the summer.

The researcher immediately forwarded the correspondence to me, seeking my advice. I advised her to be evasive for the time being, while I pursued the matter with the powers that be. I was frankly incensed that Angelica was shaking down my researchers for jobs for her kids. What made it all the more galling to me was that Angelica was precisely in a position to know better. As the person in charge of research accounting at my institution, she would be intimately familiar with our policies around hiring research personnel, and with our policy on conflict of interest. Indeed, she was partly responsible for making sure researchers were compliant with them.

I made some inquiries and found out that this was not the first time Angelica had pulled this stunt. Indeed, Laura had been making the rounds all over the university as an employee in one capacity or another, thanks to her mother’s influence. I brought the matter to the attention of various higher-ups, but nothing was done about it. So I brought it to the attention of the office of the Vice President, and again nothing was done. All agreed that what Angelica was doing was wrong, but Angelica had been around for a long time, and nobody seemed inclined to rock the boat. Indeed, my impression was that there was some annoyance directed towards me for bringing up a problem that they would rather pretend didn’t exist.

In any case, I had pursued the matter as far as I was able to without doing harm to my own interests. The particular researcher in question did not hire Laura. That is because a few weeks later she was employed by a different researcher of mine, after having been likewise shaken down by Angelica.

(Incidentally, it was then that I had a first-hand opportunity to observe Laura at work. As I suspected from what I knew of her mother, Laura had little that I could discern in the way of skill or intelligence.)

I cannot resist noting that Angelica is of Italian heritage, a culture for which nepotism is the rule rather than the exception. (What we call “corruption” might in Italy be rather accurately referred to as “the economy”). If this sounds bigoted, I can only say in my defense that I am half Italian myself. I have had enough opportunity to observe the culture’s workings to feel justified in pointing out this predilection. It is also why I never have and never will vote for an Italian candidate for public office. They simply can’t help themselves. Indeed, if you try to explain the wrongness of nepotism to an Italian, he will only stare at you uncomprehendingly. For him, to not hire a relative is to be in grave dereliction of duty.

Gambling with 23andMe

Up until recently, I was interested in signing up for 23andMe and getting a genetic analysis done. My main reason for wanting to do so is that I was interested in finding out about my heritage, information about how much of me is Celtic or Scandinavian, Italian/Spanish or Arabic or Jewish or Neanderthal or God-knows-what — the more surprising the better. However, I have begun to rethink things. 23andMe would not just provide information on ethnicity. It would also give me quite detailed information on my personal genetic profile of a quite specific and medical nature. This is information I am not so keen on getting.

I am even less keen after reading an insightful and personal newspaper opinion piece. The author narrated her experience with 23andMe. Like me, she was curious. She admitted she knew there were risks (more on that later), but her curiosity got the better of her and she sent away for the kit. She found out various interesting things about herself, such as the fact that she is 2.7% Neanderthal. However, she also found out that she carried two copies of a gene that gave her a 51 to 68% chance of developing Alzheimer’s before age 85. The latter is the kind of knowledge I’d rather do without, for a few reasons.

First, in the absence of a cure for diseases such as Alzheimer’s, knowledge is less likely to be power and more likely to be a source of worry and neurosis. I have to ask myself seriously whether I am prepared for the personal consequences of such knowledge. I suspect not.

Second, those consequences extend beyond myself and may not be entirely personal. As the author of the piece notes, the Alzheimer’s knowledge put her in the dilemma of having to decide whether or not to tell her parents; after all, each of them must possess at least one copy each of the gene.

Obviously, there are many people who do not share my misgivings (or have not reflected on them enough) and are signing up for 23andMe’s service. Judging from the copy on their website, 23andMe’s testing is touted as being able to tell me about:

•    Inherited Conditions
•    Drug Response
•    Genetic Risk Factors
•    Traits (“Explore your genetic traits for everything from lactose intolerance to male pattern baldness”).

Notably absent from this list is precisely the sort of information I was mainly interested in: ethnicity and genetic heritage. It presumably offers some of that too (e.g. Neanderthal genes), but their website and television commercials make clear that they are aiming primarily at end-users concerned with their health and medical profiles.

Despite the troubling information she received about her Alzheimer’s susceptibility, the above-mentioned author says that she is still glad she signed up for 23andMe. With respect, I’m not sure she should be glad. To its credit, 23andMe’s Canadian website is quite forthcoming about a risk of their service that for me is a deal breaker: Under current Canadian law, there are no legal grounds for believing that the privacy of your test results is safe from life insurers. As the website states: “Currently there are no protections for Canadians against discrimination based on their genetics - life insurance companies and employers may request an individual's genetic information or may ask whether an individual has had a genetic test. Currently, there is Canadian legislation under review (Bill S-201) to protect genetic information. 23andMe fully supports Bill S-201 and will continue to advocate for legislation and other actions that can protect Canadians from discrimination in insurance and employment decisions on the basis of genetic information.” Until such protections are in place, the author had better hope that her life insurer has not read her column.

Insurance: Bargain or Bet?

23andMe says it is actively involved in getting the laws here changed so that their customers are not at the mercy of nosy insurers. This brings up a question: Should insurers have the right to see such information? My gut reaction is to say “no”, mainly on the basis of the private nature of the information. But that just sidesteps the issue, by bringing up another question: “Should such information be considered private in this case?”

There is a sense in which the insurers have a point. Consider any other kind of bargain or sale. There is a popular view out there that the old common law’s position on sales was caveat emptor. However, the caveat emptor rule has always been more myth than reality. For instance, vendors are liable for defects in their goods for which they are aware and for which the buyer does not have the opportunity to inspect for herself (if she has had the opportunity to inspect and has simply overlooked the defect, that’s another thing). And with certain important purchases such as a house, I have a positive duty to disclose important known defects even if the purchaser has had the opportunity of inspecting the house.

 By that principle, it seems that in the case of a purchase of life insurance, if I am holding information acquired from 23andMe that says in effect that I am “damaged goods”, and I do not disclose that information to the insurer, the insurance policy ought to be void. If the information is too “private” to disclose, then perhaps I ought not to have purchased insurance in the first place. Ultimately, I am not forced to purchase life insurance. Insofar as I choose to, should I not be subject to the same legal and ethical requirements as any other voluntary bargain?

So far, it’s not looking good for 23andMe and their customers. However, I’m tempted to approach this from another angle. Since the “appeal to privacy” seems to be shaky, perhaps we could instead question whether or not it’s appropriate to characterize the purchase of life insurance as a straightforward bargain or sale. There are elements of the “product” being “sold” here that make it more akin to a bet or gambling contract.

When I take out a life insurance policy, both the insurer and I are placing bets on the timing of a certain event, namely my death. I am betting that this event will occur before a certain time t. What I am staking on the bet are the premiums I pay for the insurance. My prospective payoff would be what the insurers must pay out if I die before t. At first glance, it seems strange that I would place a bet in hopes of an early death, but in reality the bet is a hedge — it offsets any losses suffered by my estate in the event of that unwanted event happening.

On the insurer’s side, the bet is that I will die after t. His stake is the agreed amount he will have to pay out if I die before t. His payoff is the accumulated (and invested) fund of premiums I have paid up until t. Ideally, t will be defined such that the accumulated premium payments are greater than the ultimate payout the insurer would have to make at that point, the difference representing profit. (Alternatively, it could be an all-or-nothing bet: if after t passes I am still alive, the insurer pays nothing.)

Put this way, insurance sounds very much like a wager. The impression is strengthened by looking at the payoff structure of the transaction. An ideal voluntary bargain displays what is called Pareto improvement, which is a fancy way of saying that the deal makes at least one party better off without making anyone worse off. I pay you $5 and you pour me a beer; I value the beer more than $5 at that moment, and you value the $5 more than the beer. The trade makes each of us better off, since we each acquire something of greater value to us.

Is the insurance wager – or indeed, any wager – Pareto improving? Arguably, no. Most wagers are zero-sum. There must be someone who wins and someone who loses, and if it is a pure zero-sum transaction, one party’s winnings will exactly correspond to the other party’s losses. If I bet you $10 that it will rain tomorrow, and tomorrow it rains, I gain $10 and you lose the same amount. In the case of life insurance, if I die before t, I “win” and the insurer loses. If I die after t, the insurer wins and I lose. Regardless of which outcome happens, we will not both be better off, at least not financially. One of us wins and the other loses.

In reality, insurance contracts seem to be hybrid in nature, having characteristics of both bargains and bets, but more of the latter. They are like bargains in the sense that both parties – at least subjectively – get some value out of the contract: the insurer makes a profit, at least statistically. The insured person, meanwhile, gets peace of mind. So it seems that once one expands the notion of payoffs beyond mere dollars and cents, this is not a purely zero-sum transaction. Of course, this is rather trivial, since it is much the same with any kind of wager: financially, there will be a winner and a loser, but both parties get to experience the pleasant titillation that comes from betting. People who gamble enjoy gambling (for the most part). That must be factored into the payoff structure of the bet. However, depending on the bet, it is questionable whether the pleasure comes at too high a price. In short, the bettor might still be acting quite irrationally. Problem gamblers get a momentary thrill from gambling, but the thrill seems outweighed by the loss of home, family and credit. Except for very small bets, or perhaps in rare examples of Kipling-esque “great-souled” gamblers, I would argue that most wagering is irrational.

Returning to life insurance, it is worth noting that the insured person’s peace of mind is only gained because (i) he lacks information about a future event, and (ii) he is risk-averse, perhaps to an irrational extent. If he had information, and the information was that he was not at risk of premature death, he would not agree to the insurance bargain, because he would stand to gain nothing and his money could be spent elsewhere with more utility. On the other hand, if the information was that his death was going to be premature, he would purchase much more insurance than he otherwise would. As things stand, he is likely either over- or under-purchasing insurance.

As for risk-aversion, if the insured had a realistic attitude towards risk, he would only sign a contract on terms that the insurer would refuse, because insurers base their contract terms on the proposition that, taken in aggregate, they will receive more money than they will eventually have to pay out. In other words, they profit by the fact that people are willing to pay more for insurance than the actual risk says they rationally should. Their main source of profit is essentially the irrationality of those they insure. In a sense, an insurance company constructs a Dutch book. They know what the odds are of a certain kind of event’s happening. They know that people tend to overestimate those odds, and they take advantage of this weakness by offering terms that ensure that they win in the long run, even if they lose in the odd individual case.

(When I refer to “irrationality” here, I don’t mean that it’s outright irrational to purchase life insurance. After all, odds are just odds, and the improbable in this case happens just often enough that one may find it worthwhile to hedge against it, at least in terms of the concomitant peace of mind one gets from it. My risk-aversion may be irrational, but it is also a basic psychological fact that I must take into account. It’s a fact that makes the wager worthwhile to me. But from a strictly financial point of view, my money would be better spent or invested elsewhere.)

If I have succeeded in characterizing life insurance as a gambling wager rather than a straightforward bargain of sale, then the conversation around the duty of disclosure can be seen in a different light.

First, it’s worthwhile noting that, with a few exceptions, the common law will not enforce gambling contracts (though it so happens that insurance is one of those exceptions).

Second, as we saw, in a bargain the seller has a legal and moral duty to disclose any defects in his goods that he is aware of and that the purchaser has not the opportunity of inspecting for herself. This duty does not typically apply to gambling wagers. I may take advantage of knowledge I exclusively hold and place a bet without disclosing that I have such knowledge. This is considered fair dealing in wagering, but not in contracts. Gambling is ipso facto taking a risk; a contract is not. In gambling we are supposed to hold our cards close; in contracts, we are expected to lay them out on the table if they affect the other party.

If life insurance is essentially a wager, then I should be entitled to keep whatever I find out from 23andMe to myself, not just on grounds of a supposed right to privacy, but because the insurer simply has no claim on it.  An insurer constructs a wager based on the statistical probability of an event’s happening, and precisely because it’s based on statistical probability, they can offer that bet to all comers. In each wager they accept a degree of risk, but taking all their policies together, their venture is relatively low-risk, assuming they’ve constructed their wagers properly. In demanding full disclosure of information, it seems insurers want to make their particular brand of gambling risk-free. The law might say they have a right to full disclosure of what they deem pertinent information, but morally they are being rather poor sports.