本文为 being too ambitious is a clever form of self-sabotage 原/译文对照版本。

注：这篇文章是通过 AI 完成翻译的，当前我正在校对，因而部分段落您可能会看到重复的翻译、奇怪的用词等，我将在不久后做出调整。

《完美幻象的诅咒》

There is a moment, just before creation begins, when the work exists in its most perfect form in your imagination. It lives in a crystalline space between intention and execution, where every word is precisely chosen, every brushstroke deliberate, every note inevitable, but only in your mind. In this prelapsarian state, the work is flawless because it is nothing: a ghost of pure potential that haunts the creator with its impossible beauty.

总存在那样一个瞬间，恰在创作伊始之前——彼时作品在你想象中以最完美的形态存活着。它栖居于意图与执行间的澄澈之境，每个词都精挑细选，每道笔触都深思熟虑，每个音符皆浑然天成，却仅存于你脑海之中。在这太初般的状态里，作品因空无一物而完美无瑕：那是一缕纯粹可能的精魂，以不可企及的美，萦绕于创造者心头。

This is the moment we learn to love too much.

而我们，总在学会过分溺爱这个瞬间。

We become curators of imaginary museums, we craft elaborate shrines to our unrealized projects… The novel that will redefine literature. The startup that will solve human suffering. The artwork that will finally make the invisible visible.

我们成了虚渺博物馆的策展人，为未诞生的杰作修筑华丽神坛——那部将重定义文学的小说，那家能消解人类苦难的初创公司，那件终将使不可见成为可见的艺术品。

But the moment you begin to make something real, you kill the perfect version that lives in your mind.

但当你着手将幻象变为现实，便谋杀了心中那个完美版本。

Creation is not birth; it is murder. The murder of the impossible in service of the possible.

创造不是分娩；而是弑神。以弑杀不可能为祭品，供奉可能之物。

the curse of vision/被诅咒的远见者

We are perhaps the only species that suffers from our own imagination. A bird building a nest does not first conceive of the perfect nest and then suffer from the inadequacy of twigs and mud. A spider spinning a web does not pause, paralyzed by visions of geometric perfection beyond her current capabilities. But humans? We possess the strange gift of being haunted by visions of what could be, tormented by the gap between our aspirations and our abilities.

人类或是唯一被自身想象力折磨的物种。飞鸟筑巢时，不会先构想完美巢穴再为泥枝的粗陋而痛苦；蜘蛛结网时，不会因超越能力的几何幻象而僵止。但人类？我们被天赋的诅咒所困：总被可能性的幻影纠缠，因抱负与能力的鸿沟备受煎熬。

This torment has a name in cognitive science: the “taste-skill discrepancy.” Your taste (your ability to recognize quality) develops faster than your skill (your ability to produce it). This creates what Ira Glass famously called “the gap,” but I think of it as the thing that separates creators from consumers.

认知科学为这种折磨命名——“审美能力差”：你识别美的品味，总先于创造美的技艺。这便是艾拉·格拉斯所言“那道鸿沟”，而我视其为创作者与消费者的分水岭。

Watch a child draw. They create fearlessly, unselfconsciously, because they have not yet developed the curse of sophisticated taste! They draw purple trees and flying elephants with the confidence of someone who has never been told that trees aren’t purple, that elephants don’t fly. But somewhere around age eight or nine, taste arrives like a harsh critic, and suddenly the gap opens. The child can see that their drawing doesn’t match the impossible standard their developing aesthetic sense has conjured.

观察孩童作画。他们无畏无虑地创造，因尚未被精致品味的诅咒侵蚀！他们以未曾听闻“树非紫色”“象不飞翔”的笃定，画下紫树与飞象。但约八九岁时，品味如严苛的评论家骤然降临，鸿沟轰然开裂。孩子突然看清：自己的画作永远追不上审美觉醒所召唤的虚妄标准。

This is what leads most of us to stop drawing. Not because we lack talent, but because we’ve developed the ability to judge before we’ve developed the ability to execute. We become connoisseurs of our own inadequacy.

于是多数人就此搁笔。非因缺乏才华，而是我们过早获得了审判能力，却迟迟未得执行之力。我们成了自身缺陷的鉴赏家。

And this is where our minds, in their desperate attempt, devise an elegant escape. Faced with this unbearable gap, we develop what researchers call “productive avoidance” — staying busy with planning, researching, and dreaming while avoiding the vulnerable act of creating something concrete that might fail. It feels like work because it engages all our intellectual faculties. But it functions as avoidance because it protects us from the terrifying possibility of creating something imperfect. I see this in wannabe founders listening to podcasts on loop, wannabe TikTokkers watching hours of videos as “research,” and wannabe novelists who spend years developing character backstories for books they never begin.

心智便在绝境中编织优雅的逃逸术。面对难堪的鸿沟，我们发展出研究者所称的“高效拖延”——用计划、研究、幻想填满时间，逃避可能失败的脆弱创造。它调动所有智识，伪装成勤奋；实为逃避机制，庇护我们远离创造不完美物的恐惧。我见于此：梦想创业者循环播放播客，预备网红以“调研”之名刷数小时短视频，潜在小说家用数年构筑永不落笔的角色生平。

The spider doesn’t face this problem. It spins webs according to ancient genetic instructions, each one remarkably similar to the last. But human creativity requires us to navigate the treacherous territory between what we can imagine and what we can actually do. We are cursed with visions of perfection and blessed with the capacity to fail toward them.

蜘蛛无此困扰。它依循古老基因指令结网，每次皆与上次雷同。但人类创造要求我们横渡想象与能力的险峡——我们被诅咒拥有完美的幻视，亦被赐予朝圣途中不断跌倒的权能。

my favorite anecdote… “the best is the enemy of the good”/实验启示录：完美之敌

In a photography classroom at the University of Florida, Jerry Uelsmann unknowingly designed the perfect experiment for understanding excellence. He divided his students into two groups.

佛罗里达大学摄影课上，杰里·尤斯曼无意间设计了关于卓越本质的完美实验。他将学生分为两组：

The quantity group would be graded on volume: one hundred photos for an A, ninety photos for a B, eighty photos for a C, and so on.

数量组以量定级：A 为 100 张照片，B 为 90 张照片，C 为 80 张照片，依此类推。

The quality group only need to present one perfect photo.

质量组只需交出一张完美照片。

At semester’s end, all the best photos came from the quantity group.

学期结束时，所有佳作皆出自数量组。

The quantity group learned something that cannot be taught: that excellence emerges from intimacy with imperfection, that mastery is built through befriending failure, that the path to creating one perfect thing runs directly through creating many imperfect things.

数量组习得了不可言传的真理：卓然诞生于与瑕疵的亲密纠缠，精通建基于对失败的诚挚拥抱，通往完美圣殿的路必由无数不完美的砖石铺就。

Think about what those hundred attempts actually were: a hundred conversations with light. A hundred experiments in composition. A hundred opportunities to see the gap between intention and result, and to adjust. A hundred chances to discover that reality has opinions about your vision, and that those opinions are often more interesting than your original plan.

那百次尝试实为何物？是与光影的百次私语，构图的百次实验，百次目睹意图与结果的落差并校准方向，百次发现现实对你幻象的评判——而现实之见，往往比你最初的蓝图更引人入胜。

The quality group, meanwhile, spent their semester in theoretical purgatory… analyzing perfect photographs, studying ideal compositions, researching optimal techniques. They developed sophisticated knowledge about photography without developing the embodied wisdom that comes only from repeatedly pressing the shutter and living with the consequences.

质量组却困于理论的炼狱：分析完美照片，研习理想构图，钻研顶尖技法。他们积累了精深的摄影知识，却未曾获得反复按下快门并承担后果所孕育的肉身智慧。

They became experts in the map while the quantity group was exploring the territory. When the semester ended, the quality group could tell you why a photograph was excellent. The quantity group could make excellent photographs.

质量组成了地图专家，数量组却在勘探疆土。学期终结时，质量组能解析佳作何以卓越；数量组则能创造卓越。

your brain, it turns out, is an exquisite liar/大脑：精妙的谎言家

When you imagine achieving something, the same neural reward circuits fire as when you actually achieve it. This creates what neuroscientists call *”goal substitution”*—your brain begins to treat planning as accomplishing. The planning feels so satisfying because, neurologically, it is satisfying. You’re getting a real high from an imaginary achievement.

当你想象达成目标时，神经奖赏回路亮如真正成功之时。神经学家称此现象为“目标替代效应”——大脑开始将计划视作成就。计划令人沉醉，因在神经层面它确为盛宴：你正从虚妄功绩中汲取真实快感。

But here’s where it gets interesting: this neurological quirk serves us beautifully in some contexts and destroys us in others. An Olympic athlete visualizing their routine creates neural pathways that improve actual performance. They’re using imagination to enhance capability they already possess. A surgeon mentally rehearsing a complex procedure is optimizing skills they’ve already developed through years of practice.

这神经特质在某些场景造福人类，在另些场景摧毁我们。奥运选手想象动作流程时，神经通路得以强化从而提升真实表现——他们用想象优化既有能力；外科医生在心中预演复杂手术时——是在锤炼经年实践打磨的技艺。

But when imagination becomes a substitute for practice rather than an enhancement of it, the same mechanism becomes a trap. The aspiring novelist who spends months crafting the perfect outline gets the same neurological reward as the novelist who spends months actually writing. The brain can’t tell the difference between productive preparation and elaborate procrastination.

但当想象沦为实践的替身而非助力，同一机制即成牢笼。耗费数月雕琢完美大纲的准小说家，与真正写作数月的小说家获得同等神经奖赏。大脑无力分辨高效筹备与精致拖延。

the illusion of instant excellence/即时卓越的幻象

The algorithmic machinery of attention has, of course, engineered simple comparison. But it has also seemingly erased the process that makes mastery possible. A time-lapse of someone creating a masterpiece gets millions of views. A real-time video of someone struggling through their hundredth mediocre attempt disappears into algorithmic obscurity.

注意力经济的算法引擎不仅催生简单比较，更抹杀了技艺精进的必经之路。一段大师创作的延时摄影获千万点击，某人第一百次平庸尝试的实时记录却沉入算法深渊。

Instagram shows you the finished painting, never the failed color experiments. TikTok shows you the perfect performance, never the thousand imperfect rehearsals. LinkedIn shows you the promotion announcement, never the years of unglamorous skill-building that made it possible.

Instagram 展示完成画作，却隐去失败的调色实验；TikTok 呈现完美演出，却剪掉千次瑕疵排练；LinkedIn 宣告升职喜讯，却屏蔽数年黯淡的技能积累。

This creates what media theorist Neil Postman would have recognized as a “technological epistemology:” the platforms don’t just change what we see, they change what we think knowledge looks like. We begin to believe that learning should be immediately visible, that progress should be consistently upward, that struggle is evidence of inadequacy rather than necessity.

这造就了媒体理论家尼尔·波兹曼所洞见的“技术认识论”：平台不仅改变所见之物，更篡改了我们对知识形态的认知。我们开始相信学习理当立竿见影，进步必是直线上升，挣扎非是必经之路而是无能证据。

The truth is that every masterpiece exists within an invisible ecology of lesser works. The great painting emerges from hundreds of studies, sketches, and failed attempts. The brilliant book grows from years of mediocre writing. The breakthrough innovation builds on countless small improvements and partial failures. We see the oak tree, never the acorns. The symphony, never the scales. The masterpiece, never the apprenticeship.

真相是：所有杰作皆栖息于次等作品的隐形生态中。伟大画作孕生于数百张习作、草图与败笔；璀璨之书萌芽于经年的平庸书写；突破性创新站立在无数微小改进与局部失败的肩头。我们只见橡树，不见橡实；只听交响乐，不识音阶；只拜杰作，漠视徒工岁月。

Too much ambition disrupts this natural ecology; it demands that every attempt be significant, every effort be worthy of the ultimate vision. But the ecology of mastery requires something our culture has systematically devalued: the privilege of being a beginner.

过度野心摧毁此自然生态——它要求每次尝试皆意义非凡，每次努力必配得上终极愿景。但精进的生态需要一种被当代文化系统性贬抑的特权：成为初学者的殊荣。

Watch a four-year-old finger-paint. They don’t create for Instagram likes or gallery walls or market validation. They create for the pure joy of watching colors bleed into each other, for the satisfying squish of paint between fingers, for the magic of making something exist that didn’t exist before. They possess the freedom to create without the burden of expectation.

观察四岁孩童手指作画。他们不为点赞、画廊或市场认可而创造，只为纯粹喜悦：看色彩相互渗透，感受颜料在指间挤压的满足，体验无中生有的魔法。他们拥有无预期负担的创造自由。

Learning anything as an adult means reclaiming this beginner’s privilege. It means giving yourself permission to be bad at something, to create things that serve no purpose other than your own discovery and delight. The beginner’s mind understands that mastery emerges from play, that excellence grows from experimentation, that the path to creating something great runs directly through creating many things that aren’t great at all.

成人学习任何事物，即是重拾这份初学者特权。允许自己拙劣，创造除自我探索与愉悦外别无目的的物件。初学者心智深谙：精通诞生于玩耍，卓越滋长于试错，通往伟大的路径由无数微不足道之物铺就。

My alma mater, Olin College of Engineering, had a motto that rewired how I think about everything: “Do-Learn.” Those two words contain a revolution. Not “learn-then-do,” which implies you must earn permission to act. Not “think-then-execute,” which suggests theory should precede practice. But the radical idea that doing is learning! That understanding emerges from your hands as much as your head, that wisdom lives in the conversation between intention and reality.

我的母校欧林工程学院有句重塑我思维的信条：“做中学”。这两字蕴含革命——非“学而后做”（暗示行动需许可），非“思而后行”（鼓吹理论先于实践），而是“做即学”的激进理念：理解从双手与头脑并进中涌现，智慧存于意图与现实交锋的对话里。

This philosophy saved me from my own perfectionism more times than I can count. When I wanted to learn cooking, I didn’t read recipes endlessly; I burned onions and discovered how heat actually behaves. When I wanted to learn a language, I didn’t memorize grammar rules; I stumbled through conversations with native speakers who corrected my mistakes in real time. When I wanted to learn how to monetize on YouTube, I didn’t write elaborate content strategies; I started posting videos and let the brutal feedback teach me what actually resonated.

此哲学屡次将我从完美主义中救赎：学烹饪时，我不再无尽阅读食谱，而是烧焦洋葱来领悟火性；学语言时，我不再背诵语法，而是跌撞着与母语者对话并即时修正；学YouTube变现时，我不再撰写宏大策略，直接发布视频，任残酷反馈教会我何为共鸣。

“Do-Learn” gave me permission to start before I was ready, fail early, fail often, to discover through making rather than thinking my way to readiness.

“做中学”许我在未准备好时启程，早早失败，频频跌倒，在创造而非空想中抵达彼岸。

the quitting point/溃退时刻

Here’s what happens to those brave enough to actually begin: you discover that starting is only the first challenge. The real test comes later, at “the quitting point” —that inevitable moment when the initial excitement fades and the work reveals its true nature.

真正启程的勇者终将发现：开始仅是首道关卡。真正的试炼在“溃退时刻”降临——当初始激情褪去，工作显露狰狞本相时。

courtesy of Tomas Svitorka, at tomassvitorka.com

由 Tomas Svitorka 提供，tomassvitorka.com

The quitting point arrives differently for different people, but it always arrives. For writers, maybe it’s around page 30 of their novel, when the initial burst of inspiration runs out and they realize they have no idea what happens next. For entrepreneurs, maybe it’s after the first few months, when the market doesn’t respond as enthusiastically as friends and family did. For artists, it might come when they see their work objectively for the first time and realize the enormous gap between their vision and their current capability.

溃退时刻因人而异，但必会到来。于作家，或是小说写到30页灵感枯竭，惊觉不知情节如何推进时；于创业者，或是数月后市场反响远逊亲友喝彩时；于艺术家，或是首次客观审视作品，看清愿景与实力间天堑时。

This is the moment that separates the quantity group from the quality group: not at the beginning, but in the middle, when the work stops being fun and starts being work.

这正是数量组与质量组的分野时刻：不在起点，而在中途——当创作停止娱乐，开始成为苦役时。

The quantity group has an advantage here! They’ve already become intimate with imperfection. They’ve learned that each attempt is data, not judgment. They’ve developed what psychologists call “task orientation” rather than “ego orientation;” they’re focused on improving the work rather than protecting their self-image.

数量组于此占优！他们早已与瑕疵相熟，明白每次尝试皆是数据而非审判。他们发展出心理学家所称的“任务导向”而非“自我导向”：专注改进作品，而非守护自我形象。

But the quality group approaches this moment with a different psychology. Having spent so much time crafting perfect plans, they interpret early struggles as evidence that something is wrong! They expected the work to validate their vision, but instead it reveals the distance between intention and capability.

质量组却带着不同心态抵达此刻。因耗费过久雕琢完美计划，他们将早期挣扎解读为故障征兆！他们期待作品印证愿景，现实却昭示意图与能力的距离。

I think this is where most creative projects die — not from lack of talent or resources, but from misunderstanding the nature of the work itself. The quitting point feels like failure, but it’s actually where the real work begins.

多数创作计划夭折于此——非因才尽源枯，而是误解了工作的本质。溃退时刻似为失败，实乃真正工作的开端。

It’s the transition from working with imaginary materials to working with real ones, from theory to practice, from planning to building.

这是从虚渺材料转向现实素材的转捩点，从理论跨入实践的渡口，从规划迈向建造的跳板。

The quitting point is the moment you discover whether you want to be someone who had a great idea or someone who made something real.

溃退时刻让你看清：自己愿做空怀绝妙构想之人，还是亲手铸造真实之物之人。

lower the stakes!/降格以求！

Counterintuitively, the path to creating your best work often begins with permission to create your worst.

与直觉相反，创造你最好的作品的道路往往始于允许你创造你最坏的作品。

吊诡的是：创造最佳作品的路径，常始于允许自己创造最糟之物。

When you lower the stakes, you enter into a conversation with reality. Reality has opinions about your work that are often more interesting than your own. Reality shows you what works and what doesn’t. Reality introduces you to happy accidents and unexpected directions. Reality is the collaborator you didn’t know you needed.

当你降低赌注时，你就进入了与现实的对话。现实对你的作品有的看法，往往比你自己的更有趣。现实向您展示了哪些有效，哪些无效。现实向你介绍了快乐的意外和意想不到的方向。现实是你不知道自己需要的合作者。

当你降低赌注，便开启了与现实的对话。现实对你作品的评判，往往比你自认的更有趣。它展示何为有效何为徒劳，引介意外之喜与歧路幽光，是你未曾察觉的隐秘协作者。

This is how standards are actually achieved… through process, not proclamation. The photographer who takes a hundred photos develops standards through practice. The writer who writes daily develops judgment through repetition. The entrepreneur who starts small develops wisdom through experience.

这就是实际达到标准的方式……通过过程，而不是宣布。拍摄一百张照片的摄影师通过实践形成标准。每天写作的作家通过重复来培养判断力。从小处着手的企业家通过经验发展智慧。

标准正是如此炼成的——经由过程，而非宣言。拍摄百张照片的摄影师在实践中树立标准；每日书写的作家在重复中淬炼判断；从小处起步的创业者在经验里沉淀智慧。

Last week, something I wrote went viral on Substack. In a matter of days, I gained over a thousand new subscribers, watched my piece get shared across platforms, and felt that intoxicating rush of work that resonates beyond your own echo chamber. I’m deeply grateful, truly. But almost immediately, a familiar pit opened in my stomach. What now? What if the next one doesn’t land? How do you follow something that took on a life of its own?

上周，我写的东西在 Substack 上疯传。几天之内，我获得了一千多名新订阅者，看着我的作品在各个平台上分享，并感受到了那种令人陶醉的工作热潮，这种工作超越了你自己的回音室。我真的深深感激。但几乎立刻，我的胃里就开了一个熟悉的坑。 现在怎么办？如果下一个没有落地怎么办？你如何追随那些拥有自己生命的东西？

上周，我的某篇Substack文章病毒式传播。数日内新增千名订阅者，看着文字在平台间流转，感受作品突破回音壁的迷醉。我深怀感激，但熟悉的深渊随即在胃中开裂：下一步何在？若下篇反响平平？如何续写已自有生命的作品？

I found myself opening blank pages and closing them again, paralyzed by the very success I’d worked toward for years.

我发现自己打开空白页，又重新关闭它们，被我多年来努力争取的成功所瘫痪。

我反复打开空白文档又关闭，被经年追逐的成功本身冻僵。

When I expressed this fear, a reader named Harsh (@harshdarji) left this comment: “You are a shooter, your job is to keep shooting. Don’t even think about misses. Because as soon as you start worrying about the misses, you’ll start doubting your ability.”

当我表达这种恐惧时，一位名叫 Harsh（@harshdarji）的读者留下了这样的评论：“ 你是一名射手，你的工作是继续射击。甚至不要考虑失误。因为一旦你开始担心失误，你就会开始怀疑自己的能力。

倾诉恐惧后，读者Harsh留言道：“你是射手，职责就是持续射击。别去想未中的箭——当你开始忧虑脱靶，便会质疑射术。”

Not much of a sports gal, but the metaphor moved me. And the irony wasn’t lost on me! Here I was, dispensing advice about creative consistency and the dangers of perfectionism, yet falling into the exact trap I warn others about.

不是一个运动女孩，但这个比喻打动了我。我并没有忘记讽刺！我在这里，提供关于创意一致性和完美主义危险的建议，但却落入了我警告别人的陷阱。

我虽非运动爱好者，此喻直击心灵。而反讽昭然若揭！我正教导他人创作需持之以恒，警惕完美主义，自己却跌落警示过的陷阱。

I started writing on Substack in December 2022. It’s now mid-2025, and I’ve just reached my goal of being in the top 50 Tech Substacks in the world. There was so much doing, doing, doing before this one hit. Dozens of pieces that barely made a ripple. Months of showing up to write for an audience I wasn’t sure existed.

我于 2022 年 12 月开始在 Substack 上写作。现在是 2025 年年中，我刚刚实现了跻身全球前 50 名 Tech Substacks 的目标。在这首歌出现之前，有太多的事情要做，要做，要做。几十块几乎没有引起涟漪的碎片。几个月来，我不确定是否存在。

我于2022年12月开启Substack写作。此刻2025年中旬，刚跻身全球科技类Substack前50名。在这次爆发前，是无尽的做、做、做。数十篇未起涟漪的文章，数月为不确定存在的读者而写。

But success has a way of making you forget the very process that created it. It whispers seductive lies about repeatability, about formulas, about the possibility of controlling outcomes rather than focusing on inputs. It makes you think you need to “top” your last success instead of simply continuing the practice that made success possible in the first place.

但成功总会让你忘记创造它的过程。它低声撒着关于可重复性、关于公式、关于控制结果而不是关注输入的可能性的诱人谎言。它让你认为你需要“超越”你上一次的成功，而不是简单地继续最初使成功成为可能的做法。

但成功惯于让人遗忘孕育它的过程。它蛊惑性地低语着可复制性、公式化、掌控结果而非专注投入的可能。它诱使你思考如何“超越”上次成功，而非延续造就成功的根本实践。

I need to remind myself:

我需要提醒自己：

我需时时自省：

*Your masterpiece won’t emerge from your mind fully formed like Athena from Zeus’s head. It will emerge from your willingness to start badly and improve steadily. It will emerge from your commitment to showing up consistently rather than brilliantly. It will emerge from your ability to see failure as information rather than indictment.

你的杰作不会像雅典娜从宙斯的脑海中完全形成一样从你的脑海中浮现出来。它将源于你愿意以糟糕的方式开始并稳步进步。它将源于你对始终如一而不是出色表现的承诺。它将源于您将失败视为信息而不是起诉的能力。*

你的杰作不会如雅典娜自宙斯头颅般完整降世。它将从你甘愿拙劣启程并稳步改进中诞生，从你承诺持续而非惊艳地现身中涌现，从你将失败视为信息而非罪状的眼界中破茧。

*The work that will matter most to you, the work that will surprise you with its significance, is probably much smaller than you imagine and much closer than you think.

对你来说最重要的工作，它的重要性会让你感到惊讶的工作，可能比你想象的要小得多，也比你想象的要近得多。*

对你至关重要的作品，其意义常令你惊异的作品，或许远比你想象的更微小，也比你认定的更近在咫尺。

My Olin professors were right about those two words. Do. Learn. But what I didn’t fully internalize until after graduation: the learning never stops requiring the doing. The doing never stops requiring learning. The work changes me. I change the work. The work changes me again.

我的奥林教授对这两个词的看法是正确的。 做。 但直到毕业后我才完全内化： 学习永远不会停止需要去做。 做事永远不会停止，需要学习。 工作改变了我。我改变了工作。这部作品再次改变了我。

我的欧林教授们说对了那两个字：做。学。但直至毕业后我才彻悟：学习永不停止对实践的渴求，实践永不停止对学习的需要。作品改变我，我改变作品，作品复又改变我。

We are still the only species cursed with visions of what could be. But perhaps that’s humanity’s most beautiful accident. To be haunted by possibilities we cannot yet reach, to be driven by dreams that exceed our current grasp. The curse and the gift are the same thing: we see further than we can walk, dream bigger than we can build, imagine more than we can create.

我们仍然是唯一一个被诅咒的物种，预示着可能发生的事情。但也许这是人类最美丽的意外。被我们尚未达到的可能性所困扰，被超出我们目前掌握的梦想所驱使。诅咒和礼物是一回事：我们看得比我们走得更远，梦想比我们所能建造的更远，想象的比我们创造的更多。

我们仍是唯一被可能性幻象诅咒的物种。但这许是人类最美丽的意外——被尚未触及的可能萦绕，被超越掌握之境的梦想驱策。诅咒与天赋本是一体：我们眺望比足迹更远的风景，梦想比建造更宏的蓝图，想象比创造更多的奇观。

And so we make imperfect things in service of perfect visions. We write rough drafts toward masterpieces we may never achieve. We build prototypes of futures we can barely envision. We close the gap between imagination and reality one flawed attempt at a time.

因此，我们制造不完美的东西来服务于完美的愿景。我们为可能永远无法实现的杰作写草稿。我们构建了我们几乎无法想象的未来原型。我们一次一次地缩小想象与现实之间的差距，一次有缺陷的尝试。

于是我们为完美愿景制造瑕疵品，为或许永难抵达的杰作写下粗粝草稿，为难以构想的未来建造原型机。我们以一次次缺陷重重的尝试，弥合想象与现实的天堑。

The photography professor divided his class and waited. He knew what the darkroom would teach them, what the developing chemicals would reveal. Fifty rolls of film later, some students had learned to make beauty from mess. Others had learned to make theories from anxiety.

摄影教授分班等待。他知道暗室会教给他们什么，正在显现的化学物质会揭示什么。五十卷胶卷后，一些学生学会了从混乱中创造美。其他人则学会了从焦虑中提出理论。

摄影教授划分班级后静待。他知晓暗房将授予的课程，显影液将昭示的神谕。五十卷胶卷冲洗完毕，有人学会从混乱中打捞美，有人学会将焦虑锻造成理论。

The film didn’t care about their intentions. It only responded to their willingness to press the shutter.

这部电影并不关心他们的意图。它只是回应了他们按下快门的意愿。

胶片从不理会他们的意图，只回应他们按下快门的勇气。

Your hands are already dirty. The work is waiting. Lower the stakes, and begin.

你的手已经脏了。工作正在等待。降低赌注，然后开始。

你的双手早已沾染尘泥。作品正在等候。降格以求，然后启程。