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A Manifesto, of Sorts

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Editor’s Note: Before you snap on your party hat and 2016 glasses… we hope you’ll partake in our traditional reflection. We start with a note from The Daily Reckoning’s co-founder, Addison Wiggin. He kicks off a three day series to get us ready to reckon in the new year. Read on for a manifesto, of sorts…

Adios 2015, Hola 2016…

Human relationships… and passion. Those are the subjects that propel us forward.

Our beat is money — but a lot of what we write about isn’t directly related to money. It’s about people.



“You can’t write about investing every day or your readers will go crazy.”

“You can’t write about economics every day or you’ll go crazy,” explained our writing partner, friend and mentor Bill Bonner last week. “You can’t write about investing every day or your readers will go crazy. You have to write about something that is richer, fuller and actually more important.”

And so we re-enter the fray with a story… one you may already be familiar with. If not, it helps explain a little about who we are… and what we do.

“Tell us a little about Bill Bonner,” a reporter for The Daily Bell once asked me.

“Umn…” I began. “Here’s an anecdote I’ve used to roast Bill at awards ceremonies that illustrates his laissez-faire approach to business and life.”

I’m going to share it with you on this fine Halloween for a very good reason… it will improve your outlook on life… and make you richer, happier, healthier and more successful.

No small order, mind you. But a proven fact all the same.

In 1999, I was working at the Cato Institute in Washington, D.C., when I’d heard Bill needed a writing assistant in Paris. I’d known Bill for nearly a decade at that point, but was still wending my way toward a professional career I could live with.

From my desk in Washington, I wrote to Bill offering my services. “Bill, would you like me to come to Paris and write for you?” I asked.

“Yep,” was the three letter email I received in response.

For some background, I’d just gotten married. My wife and I had had our first child only three months before. But I quit my job, boarded a plane and moved them to Paris. It was a rather momentous occasion in our young lives.

When we arrived in Paris, I went to the address given to me. It was an old apartment on the Boulevard Saint Germain, where I found, behind a stack of newspaper clippings and dog-eared books laying open with notes in the margins, Bill, typing away on an old laptop.

Mr. Bonner looked up and said: “Addison! What are you doing here?”

He’d forgotten I was coming. Forgotten I’d moved my family to Paris just to work with him.

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