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^^今天是饭饭哒:上天不会格外偏爱谁,要看看你能够坚持多久,追逐多久。chasing! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 速度 The Right Mindset for Success TRANSCRIPT 计时1 SARAH GREEN: Mm. I wanted to ask you a little bit about the flip side of that, about giving-- in a situation where there's negative feedback to be given. Because I think we've all been in situations at work where we've worked on something that's-- the project has come up short. It's not good enough. And I think, in those situations, there's a natural tendency to say, well, but we worked really hard on it! And then, usually the answer comes back, well, that doesn't matter. The product isn't good enough. So what's a better way to have that kind of interaction? CAROL DWECK: I think that kind of conversation can be critical. And I think the person who's giving the feedback needs to focus, as I'm saying, on [? the process ?] but not just the effort. Everyone's putting it-- or believing they're putting in-- a lot of effort to everything. How they engaged in the process, maybe as a team, what strategies they tried, how they gauged when and whether those strategies were being successful, whether they were sensitive enough to change strategies when they were starting to get the negative feedback. So how they went forward, how they corrected themselves, and why in the end it might not have worked and what they might do differently next time. One CEO I talked to recently said he rewards that value added, being able to put knowledge and skills back into the company, even when a project itself has not been successful. SARAH GREEN: Can you say a little more about That What you mean by that putting back into the company? 【字数:273】 计时2 CAROL DWECK: So what did a team or a persona learn from an effort even when it wasn't successful? Many successful people-- Einstein, Thomas Edison-- have said they've learned more from their failures than often from their successes. So many huge breakthroughs came after a number of huge failures that provided learning experiences. So you're not going to reward someone just because they failed, obviously not. But what did the journey teach them that will help them and others in the company become successful the next time? So as people are engaging in a process, in a project, they're monitoring what worked and what didn't with an eye toward the future. And the more they can feed that back into the company to make it more a communal learning experience, the more that is reward worthy. SARAH GREEN: Mm. I want to get a little further afield for a moment than the world of business and ask you-- so many of your studies and a lot of your research has focused on students and how they respond to praise in those kinds of settings. And as we were talking about, this I'm realizing that a lot of we're talking about is reprogramming and deprogramming ourselves or people we work with from ways we've been used to experiencing praise and thinking about success. How would you think our education system would be better able to produce people who were persistent, creative, innovative people, lifelong risk taking learners? How would our education system need to change in order to produce people like that? CAROL DWECK: That's a great question. We've always produced creative people, the mavericks. And I'm worried now, with all the emphasis on high stakes testing, doing well on the test, getting perfect scores, that we are subverting what we've always been good at. I think the message has to go out in the educational system, and I'm working really hard with leaders to do this, that the name of the game is a learning. 【字数:335】 计时3 We actually have a program for students that teaches them that they're in charge of their brains, that their brain is kind of like a muscle that grows stronger with use, and that every time they stretch themselves to learn something new, their brains form new connections, and they get smarter over time. We want to empower students to be motivated to grow their brains, and that's done by stretching, by being passionate about something, by learning new things, by welcoming things that are hard, by seeing a period of confusion as a period that's going to create new neurons. SARAH GREEN: Mm. CAROL DWECK: The more our classrooms are organized around stretching, and growing, and being comfortable with confusion and setbacks, the more we are going to create growth mindset students and growth mindset leaders. SARAH GREEN: It's interesting because I think that to be comfortable with confusion takes a certain amount of boldness, not just on the person who's learning, but on the teacher or the manager as well. You have to be OK with your people who you're trying to lead being confused. CAROL DWECK: Yes, and you have to be OK with yourself being confused because teachers and managers need growth mindsets not just about the students or employees, they need it for themselves. A teacher, a leader, they are learners. They're the ones that are leading us in learning and should be modeling being confused, being comfortable, being out of their comfort zone, knowing how to go get information or create teams that'll move us out of a period of confusion into clarity. So they need growth mindsets about their own skills, their own talents, their own abilities over time. 【字数:283】 计时4 SARAH GREEN: And what strikes me is that this is something that, no matter what your actual talent level or ability level is, it seems applicable. If you go back to our education system, most of the national discussion focuses on the students it's not serving at the lower end, the C students who aren't getting by. But as we've been talking today, a lot about it doesn't really work for the A students either who are getting those easy A's and learning that success should come easily. CAROL DWECK: Yes. SARAH GREEN: And I could see the same thing happening in a corporation. CAROL DWECK: Yes, because what's happening is all the success and all the praise is leading-- our research shows-- is leading people to think, the people at the top of the heap, yes, I have it. I'm the person who doesn't have to work hard to be smart. I'm the person who's already smart. Students who have coasted to easy A's learn the name of the game is to do it without looking like you're straining. So yeah, I think the people at the top have fallen into bad habits. SARAH GREEN: Mm. CAROL DWECK: And this is a time of tremendous change where, like it or not, you're going to have periods of confusion. Like it or not, you're going to turn into a novice over and over again. And we need to be comfortable with struggle, not just effort, but struggle, confusion. SARAH GREEN: Well, it sounds a little bit exhausting but also very rewarding, I think. Carol, thank you again so much. I just really, really enjoyed this conversation. CAROL DWECK: I enjoyed it greatly. SARAH GREEN: That was Stanford's Carol Dweck. Her book is Mindset. 【字数:293】 The Clearest Voice: Remembering Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau Posted by Leo Carey 计时5 “We singers die two deaths: the death of the voice, then the death of the body.” I’m quoting from memory, but these words, from the documentary “Autumn Journey,” about the German baritone Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, came back to me this morning with the news that this epochal musician is gone. It’s one of those deaths that resonate through one for days after, and seem to require some act of personal commemoration. As soon as I heard, I reached down his recordings with Gerald Moore of nearly every song Schubert wrote. I was given this monumental boxed set, twenty-five CDs in all, for my twenty-first birthday, and, with the single-mindedness of someone who doesn’t yet have a job, listened my way through the whole thing. So, like countless people, I got to know German lieder through Fischer-Dieskau, and for me he simply is the voice of Schubert (and Schumann and Wolf and so on). What made Fischer-Dieskau so special? There are any number of reasons, but none really seem sufficient. It didn’t hurt that his career, running from the last days of the Second World War until the early nineteen-nineties, spanned a golden age for recorded music. Then there was the technique. Singing buffs will tell you that the extraordinary thing about him was that his voice was neither particularly beautiful in itself nor nearly as big as he managed to make it sound. The genius lay not in the basic vocal instrument but in the way he used it. Some of them even find his approach too cerebral and calculating: pay them no mind, and listen instead to the passion, unforced power, and climactic high A in this 1956 performance of Schumann’s “Ich Grolle Nicht”.
【字数:284】 自由阅读 One gets some sense of the technical side of things in “Autumn Journey,” in scenes where Fischer-Dieskau teaches apprentice signers in master classes. In one sequence (sadly not online, though the DVD is available secondhand), he keeps pressing a burly baritone to push the sound forward in his head into the sinuses. After much trying, the young singer briefly achieves the desired effect and one hears the sound come into focus. To my ears, the singer seemed pretty decent before, but the transformation is a revelation: suddenly the music becomes truly communicative and we hear an intelligence behind the notes. This intelligence seems key to Fischer-Dieskau’s art. He was renowned for the clarity of his diction and you always feel he knows exactly what text of a song is about. Indeed, he’s so attuned to the fervent emotions of German lyric poetry—all those mountains, brooks, millers, maidens, and deaths—that you almost feel he might have written the poem in a previous life. He seems to be inside each song, speaking with the voice of both the composer and poet. So powerful is this aspect of his singing that you can see the mind working even when he isn’t singing. Take a look at the first fifteen seconds of this performance, where he’s simply listening to the piano accompaniment before his first entrance. But maybe “intelligence” is too small a word to capture this aspect of Fischer-Dieskau, because it’s a trait that also comprises emotion, personality, humor, and a kind of nobility. Last fall, a young German soprano I know said something that perhaps gets closer to the specialness involved. I had put on the “Autumn Journey” documentary, and there was some footage from a Bach cantata very early in Fischer-Dieskau’s career. Before he even opened his mouth, she gasped and said, “Just the way he stands. It’s so honest.” 【字数:311】 越障 Can Science Explain Why We Tell Stories? Posted by Adam Gopnik Of all the indignities visited on the writer’s life these days, none is more undignified than the story or pitch meeting, a ritual to which every writer, from the gazillion-dollar screenwriter to the lowly essayist, will sooner or later submit. “So tell us the story,” the suits say after a few minutes of banter and schmooze, and the writer gulps and jumps in. “Well, uh, it’s sort of, like—it’s sort of a fish out of water story…“and then as one pale incident succeeds the next, the tycoons emit a slow burn of polite disbelief and boredom, ending with a forced smile and a we’ll-get-back-to-you. Sometime. Soon… And yet something interesting, even encouraging, is revealed in this ritual, all its humiliations aside. Stories, more even than stars or spectacle, are still the currency of life, or commercial entertainment, and look likely to last longer than the euro. There’s no escaping stories, or the pressures to tell them. And so the pathetic story-pitcher turns to pop science—to Jonathan Gottschall’s new book, “The Storytelling Animal,” for instance— for some scientific, or at least speculative, ideas about what makes stories work and why we like them. Gottschall’s encouraging thesis is that human beings are natural storytellers—that they can’t help telling stories, and that they turn things that aren’t really stories into stories because they like narratives so much. Everything—faith, science, love—needs a story for people to find it plausible. No story, no sale. O.K. Anyone in dissent? But this claim, itself hardly momentous, then opens onto something sadly like a forced march of the platitudes: We all like stories. When we don’t have a story we make one up—that’s why the juxtapositions of film editing work. People usually like stories to have “morals” at the end. Religions are so successful because they tell moralish stories, though, to be sure, some of their stories are nice and some are not nice at all. Different people like different kinds of morals in their stories. Hitler loved the heroic stories of Wagner, for instance. That was too bad. (“The musical stories that Hitler most loved did not make him a better person,” Gottschall writes.) On the other hand, Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote an influential story about the evils of slavery. That was good. People say that fiction is dead. Well, “when did authors sell more books to a more devoted public than John Grisham, Dan Brown, Tom Clancy, Nora Roberts, Stephen King or Steig Larsson?” Gottschall asks. Writers exist who have tried to alter or revise the “universal grammar in world fiction”—Proust and Joyce, for instance, but “aside from English professors, no one much wants to read them.” (Oh, yes? Ask any publisher whether they would rather have the Proust and Joyce backlists or those of the Nora Roberts and Tom Clancy of Proust’s and Joyce’s day. Really good stories, like really good wines, really do drink well for a longer time.) The interesting questions about stories, which have, as they say, excited the interests of readers for millennia, are not about what makes a taste for them “universal,” but what makes the good ones so different from the dull ones, and whether the good ones really make us better people, or just make us people who happen to have heard a good story. This is a case, as with women’s fashion, where the subtle, “surface” differences are actually the whole of the subject. Questions about those small differences seem not to have occurred to Gottschall. There is not a single reference in Gottschall’s book to such students of the mechanics of storytelling as William Empson, Samuel Johnson, Lionel Trilling, Virginia Woolf, Edmund Wilson, or Randall Jarrell, all of whom brooded long and hard upon stories and their subjects. Wilson, for instance, who despised “college professors” and their tastes, tackled the problem of the “boring” modern story at great and lucid length, ending with the intriguing conclusion that each age has its own acceptable boredoms, with Joyce’s boredoms being no greater than Sir Walter Scott’s. It is one thing to think that psychology may solve problems that baffle philosophy or criticism; it well may. But to think that the invocation of empirical studies on a subject frees one from the job of finding out what the great instinctive psychologists have said about that subject before you got to it is just misguided. Do entertaining stories make us more ethical? “The only way to find out is to do the science,” Gottschall says, reasonably enough, and then announces that “the constant firing of our neurons in response to fictional stimuli strengthens and refines the neural pathways that lead to skillful navigation of life’s problems” and that the studies show that therefore people who read a lot of novels have better social and empathetic abilities, are more skillful navigators, than those who don’t. He insists that storytelling is adaptive, on strictly Darwinian terms, but surely this would only have meaning if he could show that there were human-like groups who failed to compete because they didn’t trade tales—or even that tribes who told lots of stories did better than tribes that didn’t. Are societies, like that of Europe now, which has mostly rejected religious storytellers, less prosperous and peaceful than ones, like Europe back when, that didn’t? Would a human-like society that had lots of food and sex but no stories die out? When has this happened? (It’s true that there are those who think that the “symbolic” revolution among our sort of people doomed the Neanderthals, but this is, to put it mildly, a very speculative story, more “Star Trek” than “Mr. Wizard.”) And if these claims seem almost too large to argue, the more central claim—that stories increase our empathy, and “make societies work better by encouraging us to behave ethically”—seems too absurd even to argue with. Surely if there were any truth in the notion that reading fiction greatly increased our capacity for empathy then college English departments, which have by far the densest concentration of fiction readers in human history, would be legendary for their absence of back-stabbing, competitive ill-will, factional rage, and egocentric self-promoters; they’d be the one place where disputes are most often quickly and amiably resolved by mutual empathetic engagement. It is rare to see a thesis actually falsified as it is being articulated. 【字数:1073】 越障太多,文章内容不能删减,否则影响完整性。分两次阅读,下周见。各位辛苦,祝好~~ |
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