On Boredom

Buffett, Djokovic, and the discipline of doing nothing

Warren Buffett once remarked, “inactivity strikes us as intelligent behavior.” It is a remarkable statement from one of the most successful investors of all time. Charlie Munger, Buffett’s right-hand man, put it more bluntly: “People are too fidgety. They want to do something all the time. They don’t want to just sit on their asses and do nothing.”

Most of us believe that investing success requires ceaseless activity, a view reinforced by recent shows like Industry. But this fixation on constant motion is not limited to finance. Across business, the arts, education, and even the nonprofit world, the modern formula equates success with visible and continuous movement.

What Buffett calls “inactivity” might be what many of us call “boredom”: a pause in stimulation that produces discomfort because it lacks momentum. Boredom is not apathy or depression, but a distinct mental state—an unpleasant lack of stimulation that creates a craving for relief. We treat it as a problem to be solved or avoided. Yet, according to one of the most successful businessmen in history, inactivity is not a flaw—it is a discipline to be cultivated.

From a young age, I was enamored by Buffett and Munger not just as investors but as thinkers. One tangible principle that stood out and reinforced this idea of conscious inactivity was Buffett’s suggestion that investors imagine they have a lifetime limit of twenty investments. Over an average career, that works out to about one decision every two-and-a-half years. Contrast this with today’s environment, where many investors make twenty decisions before lunch.

In practice, this approach is nearly impossible to enact in conventional money management. I have seen it work only among the independently wealthy or those managing family offices. It is also uncomfortable, and often impractical, in most professional settings.

And yet, this pattern—long stretches of inactivity—especially among overachievers, appears with surprising consistency. One of my favorite examples is Daniel Day-Lewis, widely considered one of the greatest actors of all time. Over a fifty-five-year career, he has appeared in just twenty films.

Today, we treat boredom—or inactivity—as something to be avoided at all costs. Even when we “rest,” we rarely stop “doing.” We allow ourselves a holiday, but we bring a stack of books and often remain “connected” through our phones. Even our downtime has an agenda. If we go for a walk, it needs to count as exercise. If we slow down, we listen to a podcast, so that we are still “learning.”

For me, the inability to embrace boredom emerges from the discomfort it yields—both internal and external. Even if I can allow myself to be unproductive, I don’t want others to perceive me as such. But I have come to see that this discomfort, or maybe even fear, is detrimental. The great 17th-century mathematician and philosopher Blaise Pascal once wrote that all of humanity’s problems stem from our inability to sit quietly in a room. That state of non-doing is uncomfortable largely because of what it produces: our thoughts.

In 2014, a paper published in Science described an experiment in which participants were left alone in a room for fifteen minutes with nothing to do. A surprising number—particularly men—chose to administer small electric shocks to themselves rather than sit with their thoughts.

I was struck recently by a podcast in which Novak Djokovic said, “being bored is good.” He described how after a morning full of activity, his ten-year-old son announced that he was bored. Djokovic responded by telling his son that boredom was okay and that it did not need to be solved immediately with a screen or a book—it was important to learn how to sit with his thoughts. His comment was revealing. Not because it was novel, but because it was ancient.

Djokovic was echoing a truth articulated by everyone from Aristotle and the Stoics to Pascal, Montaigne, and more recently Schopenhauer, Camus, and Arendt: boredom—or inactivity—is not something to avoid, or even tolerate; rather, it is essential to human flourishing.

Like Buffett, Djokovic was pointing toward intentional non-doing as a skill to be cultivated. A state that can lead to greater creativity and awareness. If one of humanity’s enduring mandates is to “know thyself,” then periods of inactivity are not optional—they are required.

At first glance, this idea feels like an excuse for laziness. On reflection, I’ve come to see that intentional inactivity requires quite a bit of effort. It is not passivity, but what might be called disciplined stillness.

Buffett and Munger’s inactivity was not doing nothing. It was an active cultivation of clarity. By setting aside urgency and tolerating under-stimulation, they were able to see the big picture. And this broad view allowed them to make a handful of significant decisions that drove most of Berkshire Hathaway’s success—over six decades, the company’s fortunes were driven by ten major investments. One every six years. As Munger put it, “The big money is not in the buying and selling, but in the waiting.”

One of the most successful entrepreneurs I’ve known once told me that during the decade of his greatest professional success, he made only four major decisions. And all four were made during the summer months he spent on his boat—outside the office, away from employees and advisors—often while “just sitting and staring at the sky.”

Perhaps had I applied Buffett’s advice when I worked in finance, I would have been a better investor. Either way, I think it’s worth an experiment: fifteen minutes a week with no agenda, no phone, no escape. Maybe nothing happens. Or maybe clarity emerges.