李唐
随后至
Chapter One The Less Flattering Version
Omaha, June 2003
Warren Buffett rocks back in his chair, long legs crossed at the knee behind his father Howard’s plain wooden desk. His expensive Zegna suit jacket bunches around his shoulders like an untailored version bought off the rack. The jacket stays on all day, every day, no matter how casually the other fifteen employees at Berkshire Hathaway headquarters are dressed. His predictable white shirt sits low on the neck, its undersize collar bulging away from his tie, looking left over from his days as a young businessman, as if he had forgotten to check his neck size for the last forty years.
His hands lace behind his head through strands of whitening hair. One particularly large and messy finger-combed chunk takes off over his skull like a ski jump, lofting upward at the knoll of his right ear. His shaggy right eyebrow wanders toward it above the tortoiseshell glasses. At various times this eyebrow gives him a skeptical, knowing, or beguiling look. Right now he wears a subtle smile, which lends the wayward eyebrow a captivating air. Nonetheless, his pale-blue eyes are focused and intent.
He sits surrounded by icons and mementos of fifty years. In the hallways outside his office, Nebraska Cornhuskers football photographs, his paycheck from an appearance on a soap opera, the offer letter (never accepted) to buy a hedge fund called Long-Term Capital Management, and Coca-Cola memorabilia everywhere. On the coffee table inside the office, a classic Coca-Cola bottle. A baseball glove encased in Lucite. Over the sofa, a certificate that he completed Dale Carnegie’s public-speaking course in January 1952. The Wells Fargo stagecoach, westbound atop a bookcase. A Pulitzer Prize, won in 1973 by the Sun Newspapers of Omaha, which his investment partnership owned. Scattered about the room are books and newspapers. Photographs of his family and friends cover the credenza and a side table, and sit under the hutch beside his desk in place of a computer. A large portrait of his father hangs above Buffett’s head on the wall behind his desk. It faces every visitor who enters the room.
Although a late-spring Omaha morning beckons outside the windows, the brown wooden shutters are closed to block the view. The television beaming toward his desk is tuned to CNBC. The sound is muted, but the crawl at the bottom of the screen feeds him news all day long. Over the years, to his pleasure, the news has often been about him.
Only a few people, however, actually know him well. I have been acquainted with him for six years, originally as a financial analyst covering Berkshire Hathaway stock. Over time our relationship has turned friendly, and now I will get to know him better still. We are sitting in Warren’s office because he is not going to write a book. The unruly eyebrows punctuate his words as he says repeatedly, “You’ll do a better job than I would, Alice. I’m glad you’re writing this book, not me.” Why he would say that is something that will eventually become clear. In the meantime, we start with the matter closest to his heart.
“Where did it come from, Warren? Caring so much about making money?”
His eyes go distant for a few seconds, thoughts traveling inward: flip flip flip through the mental files. Warren begins to tell his story: “Balzac said that behind every great fortune lies a crime. [1] That’s not true at Berkshire.”
He leaps out of his chair to bring home the thought, crossing the room in a couple of strides. Landing on a mustardy-gold brocade armchair, he leans forward, more like a teenager bragging about his first romance than a seventy-two-year-old financier. How to interpret the story, who else to interview, what to write: The book is up to me. He talks at length about human nature and memory’s frailty, then says, “Whenever my version is different from somebody else’s, Alice, use the less flattering version.”
Among the many lessons, some of the best come simply from observing him. Here is the first: Humility disarms.
In the end, there won’t be too many reasons to choose the less flattering version–but when I do, human nature, not memory’s frailty, is usually why. One of those occasions happened at Sun Valley in 1999.
第一章 鲜有奉承的看法
奥马哈，2003年六月
在他父亲豪伍德留下的朴素木桌后面，沃伦-巴菲特在椅子上向后一靠，长长的双腿交叉在膝上。身上价格不菲的泽格纳西服，像从架子上拿下的尚未裁剪的一样，箍在双肩周围。不管在伯克希尔-哈撒韦总部的其他十五个雇员穿得有多随便，他却整天地，天天地穿着它。他那件一猜准穿的白色衬衫在脖子下部，太小的领子凸胀在领带两侧，看上去仍像以前他年轻时商人的模样，好像他在过去的四十年里从没量过领子的尺寸。
他双手手指相扣插在脑后一簇簇正变白的头发里。一块用手指梳过，特别大而乱的的头发像跳高滑雪一样从头上一跃，跳上高右耳耳丘。在玳瑁眼镜框上边，粗浓杂乱的右眉收紧了。好一段时间，这根眉毛给了他疑虑，会意或消遣的样子。现在，他露出难以捉摸的微笑，借给了那任性的眉毛迷人的样子。但是，他淡兰色的眼睛仍然注视着，固定不动。
他的座位周围摆放着五十年来的照片和纪念品。在他办公室外面的走廊里，有内布拉斯加剥玉米佬橄榄球队的照片，在一肥皂剧露面给的薪水支票，出价购买一家叫长期资本管理的对冲基金的信（未被接受），和无处不在的可口可乐纪念品。在办公室里的咖啡桌上，有一个经典的可口可乐瓶子。一个铸在透明树脂的棒球手套。在沙发的上面，挂着1952年1月他完成戴尔卡内基演讲课的证书。在书架上有一个向西摆置的富国银行公共马车，他投资合伙人拥有的奥马哈《太阳报》1973年获得的一份普利策奖。书和报纸散放在房间里，他家属和朋友的照片在书柜，靠墙的桌子, 和计算机桌边的书橱下摆得满满的。他父亲的一幅巨大画像挂在桌后的墙上，高过巴菲特的头顶，面对着每一个进入这个房间的客人。
尽管奥马哈的晚春之晨在窗外召唤，却被关着的褐色木质百叶窗挡在视野之外。桌子对面电视闪亮着，频道定在消费者新闻和商业台（CNBC）上，声音关着，然而屏幕底部的滚动新闻一整天地给他提供着新的消息。许多年来，经常一看见提他的新闻，便给他带来情不自禁的喜悦。
然而，实际上只有仅仅少数几个人熟悉他。从我最初以金融分析师的身份负责报道伯克希尔-哈撒韦股票时到现在，我认识他已经有六年了。随着时间的流逝，我们之间的关系变成朋友般的关系，而我现在仍要进一步去了解他。我们正坐在沃伦的办公室里，是因为他将不写一本书。他那双无拘无束的双眉强调着他重复着的话，“爱丽丝，你能比我做得更好。我高兴将写这本书是你，而不是我。” 他为什么要那么说是将来才会最终明了的事情。在此时，我们开始谈最接近他内心世界的东西。
“沃伦，它来自什么地方？使你如此地在乎去赚钱？”
他的目光转向远处了几秒钟，思绪在内心里穿行着：啪，啪，啪，浏览着脑子里的档案。沃伦开始讲他的故事：“巴尔扎克说过每一个巨大财富的后面都藏着罪恶。他的观点在伯克希尔是站不住脚的。”
为了收回思绪，他忽地弹起，离开座椅，横着房间踱了几大步。他坐回到深黄色的锦缎扶椅，探身过去，不像一个72岁的金融家，倒像一个炫耀第一次罗曼史十几岁少年。如何解释这个故事，去采访别的什么人，写什么：这本书都由我说了算。他详细地谈论了人性和记忆的脆弱，然后说，“无论何时，如果我的看法与别人看法不一致的时侯，爱丽丝，采用那个鲜有奉承的看法。”
在众多经验教训中，一些最好的则是完全来自对他的观察。第一个是：谦卑消除敌意。
最后，将不会有太多的理由去选择鲜有奉承的看法。但是，当我选择时，已不是记忆的脆弱，通常是人性使之所以然。其中的一件事发生在1999年的太阳谷。
