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Мне всег­да нра­вилось ра­ботать с людь­ми, по­это­му еще в шко­ле я оп­ре­дели­ла для се­бя эту сте­зю. Это, дей­стви­тель­но, очень ин­те­рес­но по­нять внут­ренние цен­ности че­лове­ка, его стрем­ле­ния, це­ли. По­нима­ние лю­дей есть ключ к дос­ти­жению эф­фектив­ности их ра­боты. Далее…

Commencement Speech at Stanford given by Steve Jobs





Thank you. I’m ho­nored to be with you to­day for your com­mence­ment from one of the fi­nest uni­ver­si­ti­es in the world. Truth be told, I ne­ver gra­du­ated from col­le­ge and this is the clo­sest I’ve ever got­ten to a col­le­ge gra­du­ation.


To­day I want to tell you three sto­ri­es from my li­fe. That’s it. No big de­al. Just three sto­ri­es. The first sto­ry is abo­ut con­necting the dots.


I drop­ped out of Re­ed Col­le­ge af­ter the first six months but then sta­yed aro­und as a drop-in for anot­her eigh­te­en months or so be­fore I re­al­ly qu­it. So why did I drop out? It star­ted be­fore I was born. My bi­olo­gical mot­her was a young, un­wed gra­du­ate stu­dent, and she de­cided to put me up for adop­ti­on. She felt ve­ry strong­ly that I sho­uld be adop­ted by col­le­ge gra­du­ates, so eve­ryt­hing was all set for me to be adop­ted at birth by a la­wy­er and his wi­fe, ex­cept that when I pop­ped out, they de­cided at the last mi­nute that they re­al­ly wan­ted a girl. So my pa­rents, who we­re on a wa­iting list, got a call in the midd­le of the night as­king, «We’ve got an unex­pected ba­by boy. Do you want him?» They sa­id, «Of co­ur­se.» My bi­olo­gical mot­her fo­und out la­ter that my mot­her had ne­ver gra­du­ated from col­le­ge and that my fat­her had ne­ver gra­du­ated from high scho­ol. She re­fused to sign the fi­nal adop­ti­on pa­pers. She on­ly re­len­ted a few months la­ter when my pa­rents pro­mised that I wo­uld go to col­le­ge.


This was the start in my li­fe. And se­ven­te­en years la­ter, I did go to col­le­ge, but I naïve­ly cho­se a col­le­ge that was al­most as ex­pensi­ve as Stan­ford, and all of my wor­king-class pa­rents’ sa­vings we­re be­ing spent on my col­le­ge tu­ition. Af­ter six months, I co­uldn’t see the va­lue in it. I had no idea what I wan­ted to do with my li­fe, and no idea of how col­le­ge was go­ing to help me fi­gure it out, and he­re I was, spen­ding all the mo­ney my pa­rents had sa­ved the­ir en­ti­re li­fe. So I de­cided to drop out and trust that it wo­uld all work out OK. It was pret­ty sca­ry at the ti­me, but lo­oking back, it was one of the best de­cisi­ons I ever ma­de. The mi­nute I drop­ped out, I co­uld stop ta­king the re­qu­ired clas­ses that didn’t in­te­rest me and be­gin drop­ping in on the ones that lo­oked far mo­re in­te­res­ting.


It wasn’t all ro­man­tic. I didn’t ha­ve a dorm ro­om, so I slept on the flo­or in fri­ends’ ro­oms. I re­tur­ned Co­ke bott­les for the fi­ve-cent de­posits to buy fo­od with, and I wo­uld walk the se­ven mi­les ac­ross town eve­ry Sun­day night to get one go­od me­al a we­ek at the Ha­re Krish­na temp­le. I lo­ved it. And much of what I stumb­led in­to by fol­lo­wing my cu­ri­osi­ty and in­tu­ition tur­ned out to be pri­celess la­ter on. Let me gi­ve you one examp­le.


Re­ed Col­le­ge at that ti­me of­fe­red per­haps the best cal­ligrap­hy ins­truc­ti­on in the co­unt­ry. Thro­ug­ho­ut the cam­pus eve­ry pos­ter, eve­ry la­bel on eve­ry dra­wer was be­auti­ful­ly hand-cal­ligrap­hed. Be­ca­use I had drop­ped out and didn’t ha­ve to ta­ke the nor­mal clas­ses, I de­cided to ta­ke a cal­ligrap­hy class to le­arn how to do this. I le­ar­ned abo­ut se­rif and sans-se­rif ty­pefa­ces, abo­ut va­ry­ing the amo­unt of spa­ce bet­we­en dif­fe­rent let­ter com­bi­nati­ons, abo­ut what ma­kes gre­at ty­pog­raphy gre­at. It was be­auti­ful, his­to­rical, ar­tisti­cal­ly subt­le in a way that sci­en­ce can’t cap­tu­re, and I fo­und it fas­ci­nating.


No­ne of this had even a ho­pe of any prac­ti­cal app­li­cati­on in my li­fe. But ten years la­ter when we we­re de­sig­ning the first Ma­cin­tosh com­pu­ter, it all ca­me back to me, and we de­sig­ned it all in­to the Mac. It was the first com­pu­ter with be­auti­ful ty­pog­raphy. If I had ne­ver drop­ped in on that sing­le co­ur­se in col­le­ge, the Mac wo­uld ha­ve ne­ver had mul­tiple ty­pefa­ces or pro­por­ti­onal­ly spa­ced fonts, and sin­ce Win­dows just co­pi­ed the Mac, it’s li­kely that no per­so­nal com­pu­ter wo­uld ha­ve them.


If I had ne­ver drop­ped out, I wo­uld ha­ve ne­ver drop­ped in on that cal­ligrap­hy class and per­so­nals com­pu­ters might not ha­ve the won­derful ty­pog­raphy that they do.


Of co­ur­se it was im­possib­le to con­nect the dots lo­oking for­ward when I was in col­le­ge, but it was ve­ry, ve­ry cle­ar lo­oking back­wards 10 years la­ter. Aga­in, you can’t con­nect the dots lo­oking for­ward. You can on­ly con­nect them lo­oking back­wards, so you ha­ve to trust that the dots will so­mehow con­nect in your fu­ture. You ha­ve to trust in so­met­hing--your gut, des­ti­ny, li­fe, kar­ma, wha­tever--be­ca­use be­li­eving that the dots will con­nect down the ro­ad will gi­ve you the con­fi­den­ce to fol­low your he­art, even when it le­ads you off the well-worn path, and that will ma­ke all the dif­fe­ren­ce.


My se­cond sto­ry is abo­ut lo­ve and loss. I was luc­ky. I fo­und what I lo­ved to do ear­ly in li­fe. Woz and I star­ted App­le in my pa­rents’ ga­rage when I was twen­ty. We wor­ked hard and in ten years, App­le had grown from just the two of us in a ga­rage in­to a $2 bil­li­on com­pa­ny with over 4,000 emp­lo­yees. We’d just re­le­ased our fi­nest cre­ation, the Ma­cin­tosh, a year ear­li­er, and I’d just tur­ned thir­ty, and then I got fi­red. How can you get fi­red from a com­pa­ny you star­ted? Well, as App­le grew, we hi­red so­me­one who I tho­ught was ve­ry ta­len­ted to run the com­pa­ny with me, and for the first year or so, things went well. But then our vi­si­ons of the fu­ture be­gan to di­ver­ge, and even­tu­al­ly we had a fal­ling out. When we did, our bo­ard of di­rec­tors si­ded with him, and so at thir­ty, I was out, and ve­ry pub­licly out. What had be­en the fo­cus of my en­ti­re adult li­fe was go­ne, and it was de­vas­ta­ting. I re­al­ly didn’t know what to do for a few months. I felt that I had let the pre­vi­ous ge­nera­ti­on of ent­rep­re­ne­urs down, that I had drop­ped the ba­ton as it was be­ing pas­sed to me. I met with Da­vid Pac­kard and Bob No­yce and tri­ed to apo­logi­ze for scre­wing up so bad­ly. I was a ve­ry pub­lic fa­ilu­re and I even tho­ught abo­ut run­ning away from the Val­ley. But so­met­hing slow­ly be­gan to dawn on me. I still lo­ved what I did. The turn of events at App­le had not chan­ged that one bit. I’d be­en re­jec­ted but I was still in lo­ve. And so I de­cided to start over.


I didn’t see it then, but it tur­ned out that get­ting fi­red from App­le was the best thing that co­uld ha­ve ever hap­pe­ned to me. The he­avi­ness of be­ing suc­cess­ful was rep­la­ced by the ligh­tness of be­ing a be­gin­ner aga­in, less su­re abo­ut eve­ryt­hing. It fre­ed me to en­ter one of the most cre­ati­ve pe­ri­ods in my li­fe. Du­ring the next fi­ve years I star­ted a com­pa­ny na­med NeXT, anot­her com­pa­ny na­med Pi­xar and fell in lo­ve with an ama­zing wo­man who wo­uld be­come my wi­fe. Pi­xar went on to cre­ate the world’s first com­pu­ter-ani­mated fe­atu­re film, «Toy Sto­ry,» and is now the most suc­cess­ful ani­mati­on stu­dio in the world.


In a re­mar­kable turn of events, App­le bo­ught NeXT and I re­tur­ned to App­le and the tech­no­logy we de­velo­ped at NeXT is at the he­art of App­le’s cur­rent re­na­is­sance, and Lo­rene and I ha­ve a won­derful fa­mily to­get­her.


I’m pret­ty su­re no­ne of this wo­uld ha­ve hap­pe­ned if I hadn’t be­en fi­red from App­le. It was aw­ful-tas­ting me­dici­ne but I gu­ess the pa­ti­ent ne­eded it. So­meti­mes li­fe’s go­ing to hit you in the he­ad with a brick. Don’t lo­se fa­ith. I’m con­vinced that the on­ly thing that kept me go­ing was that I lo­ved what I did. You’ve got to find what you lo­ve, and that is as true for work as it is for your lo­vers. Your work is go­ing to fill a lar­ge part of your li­fe, and the on­ly way to be tru­ly sa­tis­fi­ed is to do what you be­li­eve is gre­at work, and the on­ly way to do gre­at work is to lo­ve what you do. If you ha­ven’t fo­und it yet, ke­ep lo­oking, and don’t sett­le. As with all mat­ters of the he­art, you’ll know when you find it, and li­ke any gre­at re­lati­ons­hip it just gets bet­ter and bet­ter as the years roll on. So ke­ep lo­oking. Don’t sett­le.


My third sto­ry is abo­ut de­ath. When I was 17 I re­ad a quo­te that went so­met­hing li­ke «If you li­ve each day as if it was your last, so­meday you’ll most cer­ta­in­ly be right.» It ma­de an imp­res­si­on on me, and sin­ce then, for the past 33 years, I ha­ve lo­oked in the mir­ror eve­ry mor­ning and as­ked my­self, «If to­day we­re the last day of my li­fe, wo­uld I want to do what I am abo­ut to do to­day?» And whe­never the ans­wer has be­en «no» for too ma­ny da­ys in a row, I know I ne­ed to chan­ge so­met­hing. Re­mem­be­ring that I’ll be de­ad so­on is the most im­portant thing I’ve ever en­co­un­te­red to help me ma­ke the big cho­ices in li­fe, be­ca­use al­most eve­ryt­hing--all ex­ternal ex­pecta­ti­ons, all pri­de, all fe­ar of em­barrass­ment or fa­ilu­re--the­se things just fall away in the fa­ce of de­ath, le­aving on­ly what is tru­ly im­portant. Re­mem­be­ring that you are go­ing to die is the best way I know to avo­id the trap of thin­king you ha­ve so­met­hing to lo­se. You are al­re­ady na­ked. The­re is no re­ason not to fol­low your he­art.
Abo­ut a year ago, I was di­ag­no­sed with can­cer. I had a scan at 7:30 in the mor­ning and it cle­ar­ly sho­wed a tu­mor on my panc­re­as. I didn’t even know what a panc­re­as was. The doc­tors told me this was al­most cer­ta­in­ly a ty­pe of can­cer that is in­cu­rab­le, and that I sho­uld ex­pect to li­ve no lon­ger than three to six months. My doc­tor ad­vi­sed me to go ho­me and get my af­fa­irs in or­der, which is doc­tors’ co­de for «pre­pare to die.» It me­ans to try and tell your kids eve­ryt­hing you tho­ught you’d ha­ve the next ten years to tell them, in just a few months. It me­ans to ma­ke su­re that eve­ryt­hing is but­to­ned up so that it will be as easy as pos­sible for your fa­mily. It me­ans to say your go­od­by­es.


I li­ved with that di­ag­no­sis all day. La­ter that eve­ning I had a bi­op­sy whe­re they stuck an en­dosco­pe down my thro­at, thro­ugh my sto­mach in­to my in­testi­nes, put a ne­ed­le in­to my panc­re­as and got a few cells from the tu­mor. I was se­dated but my wi­fe, who was the­re, told me that when they vi­ewed the cells un­der a mic­rosco­pe, the doc­tor star­ted cry­ing, be­ca­use it tur­ned out to be a ve­ry ra­re form of panc­re­atic can­cer that is cu­rab­le with sur­ge­ry. I had the sur­ge­ry and, thank­ful­ly, I am fi­ne now.


This was the clo­sest I’ve be­en to fa­cing de­ath, and I ho­pe it’s the clo­sest I get for a few mo­re de­cades. Ha­ving li­ved thro­ugh it, I can now say this to you with a bit mo­re cer­ta­in­ty than when de­ath was a use­ful but pu­rely in­tellec­tu­al con­cept. No one wants to die, even pe­op­le who want to go to He­aven don’t want to die to get the­re, and yet, de­ath is the des­ti­nati­on we all sha­re. No one has ever es­ca­ped it. And that is as it sho­uld be, be­ca­use de­ath is ve­ry li­kely the sing­le best in­venti­on of li­fe. It’s li­fe’s chan­ge agent; it cle­ars out the old to ma­ke way for the new. right now, the new is you. But so­meday, not too long from now, you will gra­du­al­ly be­come the old and be cle­ared away. Sor­ry to be so dra­matic, but it’s qui­te true. Your ti­me is li­mited, so don’t was­te it li­ving so­me­one el­se’s li­fe. Don’t be trap­ped by dog­ma, which is li­ving with the re­sults of ot­her pe­op­le’s thin­king. Don’t let the no­ise of ot­hers’ opi­ni­ons drown out your own in­ner vo­ice, he­art and in­tu­ition. They so­mehow al­re­ady know what you tru­ly want to be­come. Eve­ryt­hing el­se is se­con­da­ry.


When I was young, the­re was an ama­zing pub­li­cati­on cal­led The Who­le Earth Ca­talo­gue, which was one of the bib­les of my ge­nera­ti­on. It was cre­ated by a fel­low na­med Stu­art Brand not far from he­re in Men­lo Park, and he bro­ught it to li­fe with his po­etic to­uch. This was in the la­te Six­ti­es, be­fore per­so­nal com­pu­ters and desk­top pub­li­shing, so it was all ma­de with ty­pew­ri­ters, scis­sors, and Po­laro­id ca­meras. it was sort of li­ke Go­og­le in pa­per­back form thir­ty-fi­ve years be­fore Go­og­le ca­me along. I was ide­alis­tic, overf­lo­wing with ne­at to­ols and gre­at no­ti­ons. Stu­art and his te­am put out se­veral is­su­es of the The Who­le Earth Ca­talo­gue, and then when it had run its co­ur­se, they put out a fi­nal is­sue. It was the mid-Se­ven­ti­es and I was your age. On the back co­ver of the­ir fi­nal is­sue was a pho­tog­raph of an ear­ly mor­ning co­unt­ry ro­ad, the kind you might find your­self hitc­hhi­king on if you we­re so ad­ventu­ro­us. Be­ne­ath we­re the words, «Stay hung­ry, stay fo­olish.» It was the­ir fa­rewell mes­sa­ge as they sig­ned off. «Stay hung­ry, stay fo­olish.» And I ha­ve al­wa­ys wi­shed that for my­self, and now, as you gra­du­ate to be­gin anew, I wish that for you. Stay hung­ry, stay fo­olish.


Thank you all, ve­ry much.