2 . “Wanna buy a body?” That was the opening line of more than a few phone calls I got from self-employed photographers when I was a photo editor at U.S. New. Like many in the mainstream press, I wanted to separate the world of photographers into “them”, who trade in pictures of bodies or run after famous people like Princess Diana, and “us”, the serious newspeople. But after 16 years in that role, I came to wonder whether the two worlds were easily distinguishable.

Working in the reputable world of journalism, I told photographers to cover other people’s difficult life situations. I justified marching into moments of sadness, under the appearance of the reader’s right to know. I worked with professionals talking their way into situations or shooting from behind police lines. And I wasn’t alone.

In any American town, after a car crash or some other horrible incident when ordinary people are hurt or killed, you rarely see photographers pushing past rescue workers to take photos of the blood and injuries. But you are likely to see local newspaper and television photographers on the scene-and fast...

How can we justify doing this? Journalists are taught to separate, doing the job from worrying about the consequences of publishing what they record. Repeatedly, they are reminded of a news-business saying: Leave your conscience in the office. A victim may lie bleeding, unconscious, or dead. Your job is to record the image. You’re a photographer, not an emergency medical worker. You put away your feelings and document the scene.

But catastrophic events often bring out the worst in photographers and photo editors. In the first minutes and hours after a disaster occurs, photo agencies buy pictures. They rush to obtain the rights to be the only one to own these shocking images and death is usually the subject Often, an agency buys a picture from a local newspaper or an amateur photographer and puts it up for bid by major magazines. The most sought-after special pictures commend tens of thousands of dollars through bidding contests.

I worked on all those stories and many like them. When they happen, you move quickly: buying, dealing, trying to beat the agencies to the pictures.

Now, many people believe journalists are the hypocrites(伪君子) who need to be brought down, and it’s our pictures that most anger others. Readers may not believe, as we do, that there is a distinction between clear-minded ‘us" and mean-spirited “them”. In too many cases, by our choices of images as well as how we get them, we prove our readers right.

3 . Of all the journalism specialties, science writing may well be the most challenging. Science writers cover fields undergoing some of the most rapid advances in history, from stunning advances in genetics and biotechnology to exotic discoveries in astrophysics. A science writer’s week may include coverage of new discoveries about viruses, the brain, evolution, artificial intelligence, planets around other suns, and global climate change and its environmental impact, to name only a few topics.

Writing anything that’s any good is hard work, but science writers labor tinder a particular, and rather peculiar, set of constraints. Science is new — only about 400 years old, as a going concern — and prodigious, having transformed our conception of the universe and of our place in it. But precisely because its impact has been so rapid and so monumental, science has not yet been absorbed into our common consciousness. Readers come to the printed page already knowing something about crime and punishment, love and loss, triumph and tragedy — but not, necessarily, about the roles played by theory and observation in identifying a virus or tracing the curvature of intergalactic space. Hence science writers have to keep explaining things, from the significance of scientific facts to the methods by which they are adduced, while simultaneously holding the readers’ attention and moving the story along. It’s as if business reporters had to constantly explain what is meant by “turning a profit”, or sportswriters by “scoring a touchdown”.

Unsurprisingly, we science writers are often misunderstood. People tend to assume that we write computer software manuals or those buckram-bound engineering textbooks assigned to students in technical studies. Fellow authors dismiss us as translators. Editors may think us narrow. A quarter-century ago, when I was struggling to move away from writing about politics and rock music in order to concentrate on astronomy, the editor of a major magazine pressed me to do an article, called “The Bionic Man”, on artificial body parts. When I declined, he became impatient.

“Well, what do you want to write about?” he asked, throwing up his hands, like a motorist cut off in traffic.

“Astronomy,” I replied.

“You’ve already written about astronomy!”

“Yes, but I like it. It was my original interest in life.”

“Aren’t you afraid of becoming some sort of Johnny One Note?”

“Well, not really. You know, what’s out there is something like ninety-nine, then a decimal point, then twenty-eight more nines per cent of everything. Covering nearly everything doesn’t seem all that limiting. And it leads to lots of other things.”

I’ve been on the wrong side of arguments with editors more often than it is comfortable to recall, but on this occasion I turned out to have been right. Astronomy did lead to everything else. It led me into other sciences of course — among them physics, chemistry, and biology — and also, by many winding paths, to poetry, literature, history, philosophy, art, music, and into conversation with some of the smartest and most creative people in the world.

4 . There are few spectacles more unpleasant than a television presenter trying to hang on to a job. When one of the presenters of the BBC program Crimewatch resigned recently, rather than suffer the inevitable indignity of being unfinished and replaced by a younger version, he made the usual hurt noises about his masters' overemphasis on youth. People in the media listened sympathetically before he slid from view to join the ranks of television's has-beens.

The presenter's argument, that the views don't care how old you are so long as you can “do the job,” unfortunately is not backed up by the evidence. When you're on TV, viewers are always thinking about whether you're losing your hair or your figure and, lately, whether you've had cosmetic work done. This is what they're actually doing when you think they're listening to the wise things you say. Viewers actually don't understand much of what the job involves, they just see you sitting there looking the part. Like the ability to pet one's head while rubbing one's stomach, TV presenting is just one of those sills. Some of those who possess this skill can hit the big name, inevitably as they become more attached to the lifestyle this brings, however, the more likely they are to overstate the skill.

In reality, if somebody is paying you a lot of money to do a job, it's often on the tacit （心照不宣的） understanding that you may be fired suddenly-it's part of the deal. Unlike football managers, TV presenters pretend not to understand this. If they've had many years being paid silly sums to read a script from an autocue （ 自动题词机），it's difficult for them to accept that they've been the beneficiary of good fortune rather than anything else; even harder to face the fact that an editor could all too easily send them to the shopping channels.

Something similar eventually awaits all the people who are currently making fortunes that would have been unimaginable to earlier generations of presenters. One day we'll decide that their face no longer fits and they'll be dragged away complaining about the same ageist policy from which they no doubt previously profited. Show business is a brutal （残忍的） business. The one thing it reliably punishes is age, particularly among women. That's why, at the age of fifty, female TV presenters become female radio presenters and why girl bands planning to re-form need to get it done before they're forty, after which it will get too hard for everyone to suspend their collective disbelief.

5 . There's no feeling quite like walking alongside the river.

It's the last light in the valley, and the sound of rushing water drowned out all others. I walk the river's edge with my dog, Mosi, whose inability to hear over the waterfall makes him nervous. Despite his impressive size, he runs sheepishly at my feet. At first glance, we walk to fish, but actually we move at the urging of naturalists long since passed—of John Burroughs and of Loren Eiseley—and of my parents, Norman and Paula, who are still alive today but live far from this Kenya valley. Walk in the woods, their voices advise, along the banks of a river where, in the blue end of a day, you may find the rhythms that fascinate you. There, among the fish and the flowers and the forces that bind them, you might make peace with your worried mind.

I began to venture into the highlands of central Kenya in 2013 with the hope that its rivers might throw their _________ power upon me, smoothing my edges as they have, over time, polished the stones in their path. I've never been free of emotional stress, but my years of working as a photojournalist in some of Africa's most conflict-ridden environment left additional barbs in me. With time it became hard to distinguish between the conflicts that existed inside me and the ones that I witnessed through the lens. Gradually they became intertwined, and I felt an expanding sense of tension and discomfort inside me.

Fly-fishing seemed a cure of the pain of photographing people's suffering, as I'd done so often in recent years. I hadn't cast a fishing line since the age of 10 or so, when I used bait to fish the Atlantic waters that surrounded the places I lived at a child, first along the coast of New Jersey and later in Massachusetts. My mother's friend at that time taught me the basics. He was a large, athletic man who'd been in the U. S. Army Special Forces, an experience that left him with his own scars. At dusk by the river, his hand resting comfortably on the rod, he seemed at ease.

Between assignments I began to drive around. The slow-flowing river drifts through protected forests, where a network of paths, used by humans, elephants and lions, cuts through thick vegetation. I came to realize that the river had given me more than I'd asked—I regained the peace inside me, and it seemed that I'd gone back to my childhood when sand sharks and puffer fish made my heart beat with curiosity.

7 . Darius (runner)

I’ve always been sporty, but I was best at football and athletics. When I was 14, I had a trial for a professional football club, but eventually I chose to go down the athletics route instead. My biggest moment came when I got to compete for my country in the youth team and got a medal. It didn’t result in much media attention, though. I’d been hoping some sponsorship would come out of it, because the training doesn’t come cheap. I train at home all winter and then go away for three weeks before the season starts. You’ve got to be really disciplined, though. If friends ask me to go out the night before training, I have to say no. I wish I didn’t, but dedication pays in this sport. The main goal for me is to get to the next Olympics—that would be fantastic.

Gabriel (surfer)

The surfing community is small, so you get to meet the same guys wherever you compete. Professional surfers are very serious and often the best waves are at dawn, so if you’re really going to get anywhere, you have to cut out late-night parties altogether. I don’t mind that so much, but I do love having a lie-in, and I usually have to give that up too. But it’s worth it because without that kind of dedication I might not have won the National Championships last year. And, of course, the sacrifices are worth it in the long run because winning that championship meant I got picked to present a surfing series on TV. I guess I’m a bit of a star now.

Dieter (yacht (帆船) racer)

With five people on a boat together, you have a good laugh. We’re very traditional and we always celebrate a win in great style. If it has been said that we act a bit childishly when we’re out, but we don’t actively go looking for media coverage. Sometimes the reporters actually seem more concerned about where you go out celebrating and what you get up to there than about where you came in the race. I’m away for eight months of the year, so if it is great to get back, go out with my mates from other walks of life and do the things they do. I’m known within the world of sailing, but fortunately I can count the number of times I’ve been recognised in the street on the fingers of one hand, I’d hate to become a star.

Tomas (tennis player)

It’s always a great thing to walk on court and feel that the crowd’s behind you. At the last competition, though, it all got a bit crazy with people crowding around. Despite that, I have to admit that I do still get excited if spotted by fans when I’m out shopping or something. It has its downside though. Tennis players have to travel quite a lot, and in the end that’s why my last girlfriend and I split up, I guess. That was hard, but you’ve got to make sacrifices in any sport; you’ve got to be serious and professional. Actually, it doesn’t really bother me too much. I’m satisfied to concentrate on my game now and catch up on the other things in life once I retired, because, after all, that comes pretty early in this sport.

9 . Jobs at Apple

Amaze Yourself, Amaze the World

A job at Apple is unlike any other you've had. You'll be challenged. You'll be inspired. And you'll be proud. Because whatever your job is here, you^’ll be part of something big.

Every detail matters.

Every piece of packaging. Every swipe of the finger. Every "How can I help you?” Everything. And it doesn^’t matter just some of the time. It matters all of the time. That's how we do things at Apple. The result is some of the best-loved products in the world.

Simplicity isn't simple.

Ask anyone here. It's hard work. It means forever asking, “Why is it this way?” and “How can it be better?” It means rethinking every customer experience until the clutter has fallen away — until all that remains is what's essential, useful and beautiful. That might be a new product feature that delights even die-hard fans. It might be a customer support call, or even a display in an Apple store, arranged and lit exactly so.

Creativity from every comer.

When you imagine the creative process at Apple, at first you may not picture someone in HR. Or operations. Or finance. But we expect creative thinking and solutions from everyone here, no matter what their responsibilities are. Innovation takes many forms, and our people seem to find new ones every day.