过于雄心勃勃是一种聪明的自我破坏方式
being too ambitious is a clever form of self-sabotage
https://maalvika.substack.com/p/being-too-ambitious-is-a-clever-form
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.
在创作即将开始的那一刻，作品以最完美的形态存在于你的想象中。它存在于意图与执行之间那片晶莹剔透的空间，每个字都经过精挑细选，每一笔都经过深思熟虑，每一个音符都恰到好处，但这一切都只存在于你的脑海中。在这种堕落前的状态下，作品完美无瑕，因为它什么都不是：一个纯粹潜能的幽灵，以其不可思议的美感萦绕着创作者。
This is the moment we learn to love too much.
这是我们学会爱得太深的时刻。
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.
我们成为虚拟博物馆的策展人，为未实现的项目精心打造圣殿……一部重新定义文学的小说。一家解决人类苦难的初创公司。一件最终将无形化为可见的艺术品。
But the moment you begin to make something real, you kill the perfect version that lives in your mind.
但当你开始将某件事物变为现实时，你就扼杀了你脑海中的完美版本。
Creation is not birth; it is murder. The murder of the impossible in service of the possible.
创造并非诞生，而是谋杀。为了实现可能，谋杀不可能。
the curse of vision 视觉的诅咒
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.
我们或许是唯一一个因自身想象力而苦恼的物种。鸟儿筑巢时，不会先构思出一个完美的巢穴，然后又苦于树枝和泥土的不足。蜘蛛织网时，也不会因为超出其能力的几何完美景象而停滞不前。但人类呢？我们拥有一种奇特的天赋，会被对未来可能的憧憬所困扰，被自身抱负与能力之间的差距所折磨。
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.
这种折磨在认知科学中有个名字： 品味-技能差异。 你的品味 （你识别品质的能力） 发展得比你的技能 （你创造品质的能力） 更快 。这就造成了伊拉·格拉斯（Ira Glass）那句著名的 “差距”， 但我认为，这正是创造者和消费者之间的区别。
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.
观察一个孩子的画画。他们无所畏惧，毫无意识地创作，因为他们还没有发展出那根“高雅品味”的魔咒！他们画紫色的树和飞翔的大象，自信得就像一个从未被告知树不是紫色的、大象不会飞的人。但大约八九岁左右，品味就像一位严厉的批评家，突然之间，差距就被拉大了。孩子会发现，他们的画作不符合他们正在发展中的审美所塑造的不可能达到的标准。
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.
这就是我们大多数人放弃绘画的原因。并非因为我们缺乏天赋，而是因为我们在培养执行能力之前，就已经培养了判断能力。我们成了自身不足的鉴赏家。
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.
而这正是我们的大脑在绝望中试图设计出一种优雅的逃避方式。面对这难以承受的差距，我们发展出研究人员所说的 “有效回避” ——忙于计划、研究和梦想，同时回避创造可能失败的具体事物这一脆弱行为。这感觉像工作，因为它调动了我们所有的智力。但它之所以能起到回避的作用，是因为它保护我们免受创造出不完美之物的可怕可能性的影响。我看到一些想要成为创始人的人循环播放播客，想要成为抖音用户的人连续几个小时观看视频作为“研究”，想要成为小说家的人花费数年时间为他们从未动笔创作的书籍创作人物背景故事。
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.
蜘蛛不会面临这个问题。它根据古老的基因指令织网，每一张都极其相似。但人类的创造力要求我们在想象和实际行动之间寻找平衡。我们被诅咒着拥有完美的愿景，却又被赋予着在通往完美的道路上失败的可能。
my favorite anecdote… “the best is the enemy of the good”
我最喜欢的轶事是“最好是好的敌人”
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.
在佛罗里达大学的摄影课堂上，杰瑞·尤尔斯曼（Jerry Uelsmann）无意中设计了一个完美的实验，以了解什么是卓越。他将学生分成了两组。
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.
数量组将根据体积进行评分：A 为一百张照片，B 为九十张照片，C 为八十张照片，等等。
The quality group only need to present one perfect photo.
优质组只需提交一张完美的照片。
At semester's end, all the best photos came from the quantity group.
学期末，所有最佳照片均来自数量组。
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.
数量组学到了一些无法教授的东西：卓越源于与不完美的亲密接触，精通是通过与失败交朋友而建立的，创造一个完美事物的道路直接贯穿于创造许多不完美事物。
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.
想想那一百次尝试究竟意味着什么：一百次与光的对话。一百次构图实验。一百次机会去发现意图与结果之间的差距，并进行调整。一百次机会去发现现实对你的愿景有自己的看法，而这些看法往往比你最初的计划更有趣。
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.
与此同时，高质量组则在理论炼狱中度过了一个学期……分析完美的照片，研究理想的构图，探究最佳的技巧。他们积累了丰富的摄影知识，却没有培养出那种只有反复按下快门并承担后果才能获得的具体智慧。
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.
当数量组探索领土时，他们成为了地图专家。学期结束时，质量组可以告诉你为什么一张照片很棒。数量组可以拍出很棒的照片。
your brain, it turns out, is an exquisite liar
事实证明，你的大脑是一个精明的骗子
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.
当你想象实现某件事时，神经奖励回路的激活与你真正实现它时是一样的。这就产生了神经科学家所说的 “目标替代” ——你的大脑开始把计划当作完成任务。计划之所以让人感到如此满足，是因为从神经学的角度来说，它本身就令人满足。你从想象中的成就中获得了一种真正的快感。
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.
但有趣的是：这种神经学上的怪癖在某些情况下对我们大有裨益，但在其他情况下却会对我们造成毁灭性打击。奥运会运动员通过想象自己的日常训练，创造出了能够提升实际表现的神经通路。他们运用想象力来提升自身已有的能力。外科医生在脑海中演练复杂的手术，实际上是在优化他们多年实践积累的技能。
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.
但当想象力取代了实践，而不是增强了实践时，同样的机制就变成了陷阱。那些胸怀抱负的小说家，花了数月时间构思完美的提纲，和那些花了数月时间真正写作的小说家获得的神经奖励是一样的。大脑无法区分富有成效的准备和精心拖延。
the illusion of instant excellence
瞬间卓越的幻觉
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.
当然，注意力的算法机制设计了简单的比较。但它似乎也抹去了成就精通的流程。一段某人创作杰作的延时摄影视频获得了数百万的观看量。一段某人苦苦挣扎完成第一百次平庸尝试的实时视频，却消失在算法的模糊之中。
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 向你展示的是完成的画作，而不是失败的色彩实验。TikTok 向你展示的是完美的表演，而不是千百次不完美的排练。LinkedIn 向你展示的是晋升公告，而不是多年来为之付出的平淡无奇的技能积累。
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.
这创造了媒体理论家尼尔·波兹曼所称的 “技术认识论”： 平台不仅改变了我们所见，也改变了我们对知识的认知。我们开始相信学习应该立即可见，进步应该持续向上，挣扎是不足而非必要之举。
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.
事实是，每一件杰作都存在于一个由次等作品组成的隐形生态之中。伟大的画作源于数百次研究、草图和失败的尝试。才华横溢的书籍源于多年平庸的写作。突破性的创新建立在无数的小改进和局部失败之上。我们看到的是橡树，却看不到橡子。我们看到的是交响乐，却看不到音阶。我们看到的是杰作，却看不到学徒期。
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.
过高的野心会破坏这种自然生态；它要求每一次尝试都意义非凡，每一次努力都配得上最终的愿景。然而，精通的生态需要一种被我们的文化系统性地贬低的东西：作为初学者的特权。
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.
看看一个四岁小孩的手指画。他们创作不是为了在 Instagram 上获得点赞、在画廊墙上留下油彩或获得市场认可。他们创作纯粹是为了享受看着色彩交融的乐趣，享受颜料在指尖间滑落的满足感，享受创造前所未有的作品的魔力。他们拥有创作的自由，没有期望的负担。
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.
成年后学习任何东西都意味着重新获得初学者的特权。这意味着允许自己在某些方面做得不好，允许自己创造除了自己的发现和乐趣之外没有任何意义的东西。初学者的心态明白，精通源于玩耍，卓越源于实验，创造伟大事物的道路直接贯穿于创造许多根本不伟大的事物。
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.
我的母校奥林工程学院有一句座右铭，彻底改变了我对一切事物的看法： “做——学”。 这两个词蕴含着一场革命。它不是 “先学后做”， 那种暗示你必须获得行动的许可。也不是 “先想后做”， 那种暗示理论应该先于实践。而是“做_就是_学” 这个激进的理念 ！理解不仅来自你的头脑，也来自你的实践，智慧存在于意图与现实的对话中。
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.
这种理念无数次地将我从完美主义的泥沼中拯救出来。当我想学烹饪时，我没有无休止地研读菜谱；我烤过洋葱，然后发现热量的真正作用。当我想学一门语言时，我没有死记硬背语法规则；我磕磕绊绊地与母语人士交谈，他们实时纠正我的错误。当我想学习如何在 YouTube 上盈利时，我没有制定详尽的内容策略；我开始发布视频，让残酷的反馈告诉我什么才是真正能引起共鸣的。
"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-学” 让我可以在还没准备好之前就开始，早早失败，经常失败，通过实践而不是思考来发现准备方法。
the quitting point 退出点
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.
对于那些勇敢踏出第一步的人来说，事情是这样的：你会发现，开始只是第一个挑战。真正的考验在后面，在 “放弃点” ——最初的兴奋消退，工作显露出其真实本质的那个必然时刻。
[
courtesy of Tomas Svitorka, at tomassvitorka.com
图片由 Tomas Svitorka 提供，网址：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.
每个人的放弃点都不一样，但总会到来。对于作家来说，也许就在小说写到第30页左右的时候，最初的灵感枯竭，他们意识到自己完全不知道接下来会发生什么。对于创业者来说，也许就在最初的几个月之后，当市场的反应不像朋友和家人那样热烈的时候。对于艺术家来说，也许就在他们第一次客观地看待自己的作品，意识到自己的愿景与现有能力之间存在巨大差距的时候。
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.
这是数量组和质量组之间的区别：不是在开始，而是在中间，当工作不再有趣而开始成为工作时。
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.
数量型的人在这方面有优势！他们已经熟悉了不完美。他们明白，每一次尝试都只是数据，而非判断。他们已经形成了心理学家所说的 “任务导向” 而非 “自我导向”； 他们专注于改进工作，而不是维护自我形象。
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.
但追求高质量的团队却以不同的心态来应对这一刻。他们花费了大量时间制定完美的计划，却将早期的挣扎解读为出了问题！他们期望最终的工作能够验证自己的愿景，但结果却揭示了意图与能力之间的差距。
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.
我认为大多数创意项目都是在此时夭折的——并非因为缺乏人才或资源，而是因为误解了工作本身的本质。放弃的感觉像是失败，但实际上，真正的工作才刚刚开始。
It's the transition from working with imaginary materials to working with real ones, from theory to practice, from planning to building.
这是从使用虚拟材料到使用真实材料、从理论到实践、从规划到建设的转变。
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.
放弃的那一刻就是你发现你是想成为一个有伟大想法的人，还是想成为一个将某件事变成现实的人。
lower the stakes! 降低赌注！
Counterintuitively, the path to creating your best work often begins with permission to create your worst.
与直觉相反，创造最佳作品的道路往往始于允许创造最差的作品。
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.
当你降低风险时，你就进入了与现实的对话。现实对你的工作的看法往往比你自己的更有趣。现实会告诉你什么可行，什么不可行。现实会带你遇到意外的惊喜和意想不到的方向。现实是你从未意识到自己需要的合作伙伴。
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.
标准实际上是这样实现的……通过过程，而不是宣言。拍摄一百张照片的摄影师通过实践来制定标准。每天写作的作家通过重复来培养判断力。从小事做起的企业家通过经验积累智慧。
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，我写的一些东西在 Substack 上爆红了。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，感受到了那种超越自我共鸣、令人陶醉的创作快感。我由衷地感激。但几乎就在同时，一个熟悉的坑涌上心头。 现在怎么办？如果下一篇没有落地怎么办？该如何跟进一件自成体系的作品？
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合上，多年来努力争取的成功让我感到麻木。
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."
当我表达这种担忧时，一位名叫 Harsh（@harshdarji）的读者留言道： “你是一名射手，你的任务就是不断射击。千万别去想射偏。因为一旦你开始担心射偏，你就会开始怀疑自己的能力。”
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.
我不太喜欢运动，但这个比喻让我很感动。而且我完全没有意识到其中的讽刺！我在这里，为大家提供关于创造性一致性和完美主义危险的建议，却落入了我警告别人的陷阱。
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.
我从 2022 年 12 月开始在 Substack 上写作。现在已经是 2025 年中了，我刚刚实现了跻身全球科技 Substacks 前 50 名的目标。在这篇文章大获成功之前，我做了太多太多的事情。几十篇文章几乎没有引起什么波澜。几个月来，我一直坚持写作，为那些我甚至都不确定是否存在的读者写作。
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.
但成功总有办法让你忘记创造它的过程。它低声说着诱人的谎言，关于可重复性、关于公式、关于控制结果而非关注投入的可能性。它让你觉得你需要“超越”你上次的成功，而不是简单地继续最初成就成功的实践。
I need to remind myself:
我需要提醒自己：
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袋里诞生那样，从你的头脑中凭空而出。它源于你愿意从糟糕开始，稳步改进。它源于你致力于持续表现而非一鸣惊人的决心。它源于你能够将失败视为信息而非控诉。
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，那个让你对其意义感到惊讶的工作，可能比你想象的要小得多，也比你想象的要近得多。
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.
我的奥林教授们对这两个词的看法是对的。 做。学。 但直到毕业后我才完全领悟： 学无止境，实践无止境。 实践无止境，学习无止境。 工作改变了我。我改变了工作。工作又改变了我。
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.
我们依然是唯一一个被诅咒的物种，被无限憧憬着未来。但这或许是人类最美丽的意外。被我们尚无法触及的可能性所萦绕，被超越我们现有能力的梦想所驱动。诅咒与天赋其实是一回事：我们看得比我们能走得更远，梦想比我们能建造的更大，想象比我们能创造的更多。
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.
于是，我们为了追求完美的愿景而创造不完美之物。我们为可能永远无法实现的杰作撰写草稿。我们构建几乎无法想象的未来原型。我们一次次尝试，一次次尝试，一次次尝试，弥合想象与现实之间的差距。
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.
摄影教授把学生们分开，然后等待。他知道暗房会教给他们什么，显影剂会揭示什么。五十卷胶卷之后，一些学生学会了从混乱中创造美。另一些学生学会了从焦虑中构建理论。
The film didn't care about their intentions. It only responded to their willingness to press the shutter.
影片并不关心他们的意图，它只回应他们按下快门的意愿。
Your hands are already dirty. The work is waiting. Lower the stakes, and begin.
你的双手已经脏了。工作正在等着你。放下赌注，开始吧。