李唐
隨後至
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 鮮有奉承的看法
奧馬哈，2003年六月
在他父親豪伍德留下的樸素木桌後麵，沃倫-巴菲特在椅子上向後一靠，長長的雙腿交叉在膝上。身上價格不菲的澤格納西服，像從架子上拿下的尚未裁剪的一樣，箍在雙肩周圍。不管在伯克希爾-哈撒韋總部的其他十五個雇員穿得有多隨便，他卻整天地，天天地穿著它。他那件一猜準穿的白色襯衫在脖子下部，太小的領子凸脹在領帶兩側，看上去仍像以前他年輕時商人的模樣，好像他在過去的四十年裏從沒量過領子的尺寸。
他雙手手指相扣插在腦後一簇簇正變白的頭發裏。一塊用手指梳過，特別大而亂的的頭發像跳高滑雪一樣從頭上一躍，跳上高右耳耳丘。在玳瑁眼鏡框上邊，粗濃雜亂的右眉收緊了。好一段時間，這根眉毛給了他疑慮，會意或消遣的樣子。現在，他露出難以捉摸的微笑，借給了那任性的眉毛迷人的樣子。但是，他淡蘭色的眼睛仍然注視著，固定不動。
他的座位周圍擺放著五十年來的照片和紀念品。在他辦公室外麵的走廊裏，有內布拉斯加剝玉米佬橄欖球隊的照片，在一肥皂劇露麵給的薪水支票，出價購買一家叫長期資本管理的對衝基金的信（未被接受），和無處不在的可口可樂紀念品。在辦公室裏的咖啡桌上，有一個經典的可口可樂瓶子。一個鑄在透明樹脂的棒球手套。在沙發的上麵，掛著1952年1月他完成戴爾卡內基演講課的證書。在書架上有一個向西擺置的富國銀行公共馬車，他投資合夥人擁有的奧馬哈《太陽報》1973年獲得的一份普利策獎。書和報紙散放在房間裏，他家屬和朋友的照片在書櫃，靠牆的桌子, 和計算機桌邊的書櫥下擺得滿滿的。他父親的一幅巨大畫像掛在桌後的牆上，高過巴菲特的頭頂，麵對著每一個進入這個房間的客人。
盡管奧馬哈的晚春之晨在窗外召喚，卻被關著的褐色木質百葉窗擋在視野之外。桌子對麵電視閃亮著，頻道定在消費者新聞和商業台（CNBC）上，聲音關著，然而屏幕底部的滾動新聞一整天地給他提供著新的消息。許多年來，經常一看見提他的新聞，便給他帶來情不自禁的喜悅。
然而，實際上隻有僅僅少數幾個人熟悉他。從我最初以金融分析師的身份負責報道伯克希爾-哈撒韋股票時到現在，我認識他已經有六年了。隨著時間的流逝，我們之間的關係變成朋友般的關係，而我現在仍要進一步去了解他。我們正坐在沃倫的辦公室裏，是因為他將不寫一本書。他那雙無拘無束的雙眉強調著他重複著的話，“愛麗絲，你能比我做得更好。我高興將寫這本書是你，而不是我。” 他為什麽要那麽說是將來才會最終明了的事情。在此時，我們開始談最接近他內心世界的東西。
“沃倫，它來自什麽地方？使你如此地在乎去賺錢？”
他的目光轉向遠處了幾秒鍾，思緒在內心裏穿行著：啪，啪，啪，瀏覽著腦子裏的檔案。沃倫開始講他的故事：“巴爾紮克說過每一個巨大財富的後麵都藏著罪惡。他的觀點在伯克希爾是站不住腳的。”
為了收回思緒，他忽地彈起，離開座椅，橫著房間踱了幾大步。他坐回到深黃色的錦緞扶椅，探身過去，不像一個72歲的金融家，倒像一個炫耀第一次羅曼史十幾歲少年。如何解釋這個故事，去采訪別的什麽人，寫什麽：這本書都由我說了算。他詳細地談論了人性和記憶的脆弱，然後說，“無論何時，如果我的看法與別人看法不一致的時侯，愛麗絲，采用那個鮮有奉承的看法。”
在眾多經驗教訓中，一些最好的則是完全來自對他的觀察。第一個是：謙卑消除敵意。
最後，將不會有太多的理由去選擇鮮有奉承的看法。但是，當我選擇時，已不是記憶的脆弱，通常是人性使之所以然。其中的一件事發生在1999年的太陽穀。
