Andrew Ross Sorkin on the financial crisis

An interview with the Samuel Johnson Prize-shortlisted author.

This year's shortlist for the Samuel Johnson non-fiction book prize has been announced. Among the nominations is Too Big to Fail, an account of the collapse of Lehman Brothers by the New York Times journalist Andrew Ross Sorkin. Republished below is Jonathan Derbyshire's 2009 interview with the author -- and you can read Paul Mason's review of the book here.

Too Big to Fail is based on remarkable access to the main players in the financial crisis.

It's very important that the reader is able to see what these people thought and said to each other during this calamitous period. And I think that when you get in the room with them and you get to hear what they were thinking, there are moments where you'll wince and cringe and, in some cases, get immensely frustrated with them. There are very few heroes in this book.

Those involved seemed to sleepwalk towards catastrophe. Why was that?

It's a story of greed, at some level. And it's a story of hubris. It's about a grab for power. I actually think that, in the end, the dollar figure is not necessarily the motivating force. The money is almost a scorecard for everything else. When you see these people in their moments of panic, I'm sure they're thinking about their wallets, but they're also thinking about the power that they have. We talk about institutions that are too big to fail -- I think the story is as much about people who think they are too big to fail.

You argue that Dick Fuld, chief executive of Lehman Brothers, was driven much less by greed than some of the other main players.

Dick Fuld has been villainised, but in the context of this book, he's more of a tragic figure. Remember, Fuld had a billion dollars of stock in the company -- he had more skin in the game than anyone else in the world. And yet he rides it down to $65,000. What does that say? I don't know. And I wouldn't say I'm sympathetic with him per se, but the reason I suggest he's a tragic figure is that there's a big likelihood that we'd have villainised every other CEO had the government not saved them.

Fuld blamed the collapse of Lehman on short-selling. Was he right to do so?

It's very hard to blame the short-sellers for this debacle. There's no question that they exacerbated the problem but, in many ways, there were good reasons to short stocks and I don't think that was what put pressure on these companies. Look at the hedge-fund manager David Einhorn: he saw the writing on the wall earlier and better than most other people. It's the people who have an incentive to find the problem who usually find the problem.

You appear to credit the former treasury secretary Hank Paulson, and his successor, Timothy Geithner, with having foreseen the disaster.

You have all these people who see the train barrelling down the track. And yet they still don't completely get out of the way. You can give them credit for having spotted the train -- that's great. But do I think they mitigated the disaster? Well, that's a larger question. It's hard to argue that they didn't bring us to the brink. But you could also argue that they took us back from the brink. So, for me, it's a much more mixed record. You can't simply credit these people with having foreseen the disaster. You can give Paulson credit for talking about the need for a resolution authority, which he did in June 2008. Tim Geithner is someone else who seemed to be talking about this a lot. But as for actually doing something -- that's another matter.

What about the wider historical context to the crash of 2008?

Many of the seeds of the debacle were sown ten years ago, with some of the issues around monetary policy, sub-prime mortgages, deregulation, the lowering of capital requirements at banks -- all of those things contributed to this. So by the time my book begins, many of the problems are already baked in. What you're watching here is people at the moment of emergency. I originally thought the book would just cover September 2008. But once I started doing the reporting, I realised that the treasury was trying to orchestrate a deal for Lehman with Barclays as early as the spring. It made me rethink the scope and narrative arc of the book.

And politics matters, doesn't it? The repeal of the Glass-Steagall Act in 1999, for example, was crucial.

The repeal of Glass-Steagall allowed the casino to be attached to the bank. Expanding home ownership exacerbated the problem. As did the decision to keep interest rates low for long periods of time. So you have the regulators clearly not minding the store and Wall Street taking advantage of rules that aren't properly enforced.

Andrew Ross Sorkin, the author of "Too Big to Fail", is the chief mergers and acquisitions reporter for the New York Times

Daniel Trilling is the Editor of New Humanist magazine. He was formerly an Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

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Sex and the city: the novel that listens in on New York

Linda Rosenkrantz's Talk captures the conversations of a sex-obsessed city.

Especially for New Yorkers such as the ones in Linda Rosenkrantz’s novel Talk, summertime is both maddening and delicious: it’s a limbo during which no serious work is possible, because some crucial decision-maker at the top of the chain is inevitably out of town, so even the most ambitious strivers must find a way to fill their days with something other than striving. It’s a time to take stock of what has happened and speculate about the future – that comfortably abstract time that starts the day after Labor Day and is as blank as the opening page of a new notebook on the first day of school. Meanwhile, because little can be done, there is nothing to do but dissect, analyse, explain, confide, complain, chat and kibitz. Talk is a book that more than lives up to its name.

Realising that the lazy conversations that fill up the days during this liminal time might be revealing, Linda Rosenkrantz took her tape recorder to East Hampton, New York, in the summer of 1965. She spent more than a year transcribing the tapes, leaving her with 1,500 pages of text featuring 25 different speakers, which she then whittled down to 250 pages and three characters. The result is a slim novel told in conversations – though Rosenkrantz has said that it was her publisher, “wary of possible legal ramifications”, who insisted on presenting it as fiction.

Emily Benson, a party girl and sometime actress, spends her weekends lying on the beach with Marsha, a working girl who has rented a house there for the season. Often they are joined by their friend Vincent, a painter who is almost as boy-crazy as they are; despite this, he and Marsha share a love that verges on the erotic but never quite manages it. All are around thirty and are single, though none really wants to be.

They pay lip-service to literary and political concerns, listing authors, musicians and political figures such as Kennedy, Castro, Mailer and Roth, but mostly their talk is about sex (they would rather sleep with Mailer than Roth and Castro than Kennedy). Sex acts and their consequences are anatomised in detail, with orgies and abortions brought up as casually as the recipe for salad dressing. Emily is infatuated with a married man named Michael Christy – they always refer to him by his first and last names. Marsha has a few casual involvements but none seems likely to take the place of Vincent, especially as he not only talks to her endlessly but sometimes, after a few glasses of wine, playfully asks to see her vagina or breasts. To the extent that the novel has a plot, it’s a love story but not about Michael Christy or any of the other men who merit recurring mentions. The three friends comprise a love triangle that even they, with their self-consciously avant-garde attitudes, don’t seem to recognise for what it is.

It takes a few pages to get used to the oddness of reading a novel in dialogue form and to stop being annoyed by the characters’ oh-so-Sixties affectations. Everything is “far out” and the word “scene” is deployed with alarming frequency – at one point, Emily memorably dismisses a menu suggestion by declaring that she doesn’t want to “get into a whole home-made pie-making scene”.

It is harder to get past the characters’ attitudes to race. An early chapter shows them being very impressed that Marsha has a “Negro” analyst (although, Marsha says in a casually appalling aside, “You don’t think of him, say, if you want to invite a Negro to a party”).

But these are unvarnished slices of chatty vérité: this was how arty thirtysomething New Yorkers in 1965 talked and thought about their lives. A television show set in 1965 might be criticised for being too on the nose if it reproduced, say, Emily’s rhapsodies about her LSD experience. “I was intimately a part of every pulsebeat of every sun that came up on everybody’s life,” she tells Vincent, and goes on to cite Salinger. These conversations actually happened. And luckily, at the moment when that alone ceases to be enough to sustain the reader’s interest, the characters begin to reveal enough about themselves to become interesting as more than a page of history.

Marsha, it turns out, is very funny and winningly down-to-earth. Emily and Vincent are much too impressed with their own promiscuity and sexual appetites; they relish listing their conquests and describing sex acts in a way that, in 2015, might seem uncool even among 14-year-olds. Marsha’s sex talk, however, is frank and hilarious. In one of her wittiest moments, she describes a liaison that left her with welts on her back and the ruse she then employed to explain them away when her mother came over from Westchester the next day to help her try on bathing suits. Indeed, the guy seems to have been worth the welts: “The time I passed out, we wound up in the shower together and it was very, very wild ecstatic lovemaking, one of the great moments of my life. Except I was worried about my hair getting wet.” Marsha has the best lines in the book. While the friends are debating whether to go to a party, she deploys her finest: “I don’t want to talk to people I don’t know. I can hardly talk to the people I do know.”

As we grow more attached to Marsha, Emily seems increasingly irritating in comparison. But I’m sure if you transcribed the dialogue of many charismatic people they would seem as tiresome and self-involved as Emily does – and we know she must be charming because of how excited Vincent and Marsha are about being around her and how much they miss her when she skips a weekend or two. Still, she’s a bit much. At one point, while discussing their sexual preferences on the beach (again), she cuts Marsha off mid-sentence, saying: “I haven’t quite finished with me.” She never does.

Marsha is also interested in herself but in her case the interest seems merited. Towards the end of the novel, we learn that she has been spending the summer writing a book. Could it be the one we are holding? In the final chapter, as the two women unpack from the summer, Marsha reports telling her therapist about “what a horrible person I emerged as on the tapes and how all the three of us talk about is sex and food and yet how I felt we were the only people who communicate in the whole world”. It may be that the book has doubled back on itself to become about its own composition or that Rosenkrantz is Marsha (she has recently admitted that “one of these three taped ‘characters’ is moi”.)

In this light, the book stands as an early entrant in a field that is now in full flower: works by women who use their lives and personae as raw material for their art, such as Chris Kraus’s influential 1997 novel, I Love Dick, and Sheila Heti’s How Should a Person Be? (2010). Stephen Koch points out in his fine introduction that Talk also paved the way for TV shows such as Girls and Broad City, in which fiction is grounded in the creators’ real-life personae.

Unlike those ongoing sagas, Talk is ­finite: autumn came and the experiment was over. Did Michael Christy ever leave his wife for Emily? Did Marsha finally let go of Vincent enough to make space for a heterosexual man in her life? A lot of plans were made that summer but we will never know whether all they amounted to was talk.

Emily Gould’s novel “Friendship” is published by Virago

Talk is out now from NYRB Classics (£8.99)

This article first appeared in the 27 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Isis and the new barbarism