When I had been at the FT for about a year, a young woman who had just joined the paper invited me out for a drink. I had barely taken a first sip of acidic white wine when she declared herself terminally bored with writing mundane corporate news stories and asked if I was too. No, I replied. I found it very interesting.
在我加入英国《金融时报》约有一年的时候,一名刚刚加入这家报业公司的年轻女孩邀请我一起出去喝一杯。我几乎还没来得及啜上一口酸味白葡萄酒,她就已经宣布自己对于撰写平淡的公司资讯故事感到彻底厌倦,并询问我是否也有同感。不,我回答道,我觉得这是一件很有趣的事。
“I really envy you,” she said, fixing her big, round eyes on me. I settled back into my seat, preparing to be told what a brilliant financial journalist I was. Instead she said: “You seem so happy just bumbling along. I wish I could be like that, but I can’t – I’ve always been a compulsive overachiever.”
“我真的很羡慕你,”她一边说一边用她又大又圆的眼睛看着我。我在自己的座位上坐好,等着听她夸赞我是一名多么出色的财经记者。谁知她却说道:“你似乎对这样子混着感到很开心。我希望自己也能像你一样,但我做不到——一直以来我都要求自己取得超越常人的成就。”
As an insecure, rabidly ambitious 25-year-old, I wasn’t terribly pleased to be put in the bumbler class. Neither was I fooled by the faux-envy. Yet I now discover that she was on to a general truth that almost never gets acknowledged: bumblers make happier workers and may be worthy objects of envy.
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