In his reflective “Xích Lô’s Notebook” series, Lê Minh Hoan revisits the story of Vilfredo Pareto—told through the simple image of a bean garden—to illuminate a profound insight. More than a statistical rule, the 80/20 principle emerges as a way of seeing: a reminder to look beyond the noise of abundance, to recognize what truly matters, and to act with clarity and intention.
IN PARETO 'S GARDEN: THE POWER OF THE ESSENTIAL FEW |
It was a quiet summer morning in the Italian countryside. On a small plot behind his garden, a middle-aged man bent low, carefully picking young bean pods. Now and then, he paused, frowning slightly, as if he had just noticed something curious.
That man was Vilfredo Pareto—one of Italy’s most brilliant thinkers at the end of the nineteenth century. But here, he was not standing at a lectern, chalk in hand, nor debating economics in a grand hall. He was doing something utterly ordinary: tending a garden.
Yet Pareto did not garden as others do. He gardened to observe, to reflect. And on that particular morning, standing among the bean plants, he murmured to himself: “How strange… Out of a hundred plants I’ve grown, only about twenty produce nearly all the healthy, fine pods.”
It was not a passing remark. It set in motion an entirely new line of thought. He began to take notes—not only about beans, but about the distribution of income, wealth, and land ownership in Italy at the time.
He began to see a pattern—persistent, almost uncanny. Around 20 percent of people held 80 percent of the wealth. Around 20 percent of causes led to 80 percent of outcomes.
From that observation emerged a principle—uneven, universal, and enduring. Later generations would call it the Pareto Principle, more commonly known as the 80/20 rule.
From bean plants to a way of thinking
Pareto once observed: “What matters most is often found in the minority. What is most numerous is often the noisiest, yet the least effective.” He did not argue for dismissing the majority. Rather, he urged us to recognize what is essential—the driving forces, the elements that truly make a difference.
People are often busy, but not always effective. Pareto chose the opposite path: to be still, to observe, and then to act with precision.
The world, in time, proved him right.
- In business: 20 percent of products generate 80 percent of revenue.
- In education: 20 percent of what we learn shapes 80 percent of essential skills.
- In human resource management: 20 percent of key employees account for 80 percent of an organization’s value.
- In marketing: 20 percent of loyal customers generate 80 percent of profits.
- In personal life: 20 percent of focused time can get 80 percent of the work done.
Look more broadly, and the same pattern appears—in innovation, leadership, communication, agriculture, and programs such as OCOP (One Commune One Product). The principle is always there, quietly at work.
There is no shortage of scattered projects. No shortage of programs designed to look good on paper. But Pareto seems to remind us: “Do not try to do many things just to be seen. Do the right things, in the right place, to be remembered”.
In public administration: do not gather a hundred tasks—choose twenty that truly matter and can create ripple effects.
In agricultural entrepreneurship: do not create a hundred products—choose twenty that carry the soul of a homeland into the hearts of consumers.
In training and education: do not overload. Offer the right tools, the right ways of thinking, the right inspiration.
If Pareto were alive today…
Perhaps he would not deliver long theoretical lectures. He might simply walk quietly through a lotus pond, a mango orchard, or a village where fish sauce is still made by hand.
Then, with a gentle smile, he would say to his students:
“Life is like a garden of beans. It is not by planting more that you harvest better fruit. Care for the right plants, and every season will bear.”
“Twenty percent may seem small. But if it is the essence, it can elevate everything else.”
In modern life, sometimes a single familiar flavor is enough to carry us back into the quiet depths of memory. In “Xích Lô’s Notebook”, Lê Minh Hoan writes with a gentle, unadorned voice—leading readers through familiar scenes of the countryside before settling on a simple truth: development does not mean losing one’s roots. This small story invites us to pause, and to reflect more deeply on rural life, culture, and the enduring journey of preserving Vietnamese identity.
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In the ceaseless rush of the digital age, some stories can only be told in stillness—told slowly, with the full weight of the human soul. Xích Lô’s Notebook invites you to pause, if only for a moment, and listen as a land begins to speak. Here, Dong Thap is not merely a place of lotus fragrance and drifting storks, but a place where people are learning to retell their home in the language of artificial intelligence (AI). It is a quiet story. Yet within it lies a larger question: How can identity be not only preserved, but carried far—reaching hearts that have never once arrived?
