- Nov 25, 2024
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Cleverness vs Perseverance
The story below was inspired by Angela Ducksworth's speech.
In a beautiful Austrian town, Master Hans was the most respected carpenter in the region. His work was known not for extravagance, but for its quiet perfection—doors that never creaked, joints that never loosened, and homes that stood for generations. Two young men began their apprenticeship under him.
The first apprentice, Wilhelm, was undeniably brilliant. He could think quickly and had a mind like a blueprint—able to visualize complex designs instantly, calculate angles without measuring, and identify wood types by scent alone. Master Hans praised him often, calling him “a rare talent.” Wilhelm basked in the compliments. He loved being admired and gravitated toward glamorous projects—ornate furniture, decorative carvings, anything that drew attention and applause. He avoided the small, quiet tasks like sanding beams, fixing warped doors, or troubleshooting creaky joints. “Leave those to Johann,” he’d say. “I was born for bigger things.”
Johann, the second apprentice, was slower. He asked many questions, made mistakes, and often stayed late to redo his work.
Master Hans thought Johann was hopeless. He wasn’t as sharp as Wilhelm, nor as quick with his hands. While Wilhelm could carve a perfect dovetail joint in minutes, Johann would still be measuring—brow furrowed, lips pressed tight in concentration.
“He’s not cut out for this,” Hans muttered one morning, watching Johann fumble with a chisel. “Too slow. Too soft. He’ll never make a craftsman.”
But Johann heard none of it. Or perhaps he did—and chose not to let it settle. He stayed late, sweeping sawdust, studying the grain of discarded wood, tracing the curves of Wilhelm’s finished pieces with quiet patience. What he lacked in brilliance, he made up for in humility, diligence and perseverance.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
One day, a client came to Master Hans with a troubling problem: the sliding doors in his cafe had begun to stick and groan, disturbing the peaceful atmosphere. “I’ve oiled the tracks, replaced the rollers, even shaved the edges,” the client said, “but nothing works.”
Master Hans turned to his apprentices. “Go together. Find the cause. Fix it.”
Wilhelm and Johann visited the cafe. Wilhelm examined the doors, slid them once, frowned, and declared, “It’s a warped frame. Nothing we can do without rebuilding the whole wall.” He left, muttering about wasted time and better uses of his talent.
Johann stayed. He sat on the floor, opened and closed the doors dozens of times, listening. He noticed the sound changed with the weather. He examined the floorboards, the humidity in the wood, the angle of the track. After hours of quiet observation and trial, he discovered the problem: a subtle shift in the foundation had tilted the track just enough to cause friction. He adjusted the base, reinforced the frame, and added a hidden wedge to restore balance.
The next day, the client returned to Master Hans, beaming. “The doors are silent again. It’s like they float.”
Master Hans nodded. “Who solved it?”
“Johann,” the client said. “He’s remarkable—he stayed until it was perfect.”
Wilhelm overheard. He said nothing, but his face tightened.
Later, Master Hans fixed his gaze on Wilhelm and said angrily, “You think your smartness sets you apart, but smartness loses its edge without discipline. The world doesn’t need more brilliance. It needs more discipline !!”
Wilhelm was furious. That evening, he packed his tools and left the workshop. “I’ll build my own legacy !!!” he shouted.
He opened his own carpentry shop in the town square. His reputation as a prodigy drew crowds. Clients lined up for his dazzling designs—spiral staircases, carved mantels, intricate latticework. Business boomed.
But Wilhelm had no one to check his work. Without Master Hans’s quiet oversight, flaws crept in. Joints loosened. Beams warped. Doors stuck. Clients returned with complaints after complaints. Wilhelm blamed the wood, the weather, the mosquitoes—but never himself.
Within a year, the crowds thinned. His shop grew quiet. The town whispered: “Beautiful, but broken.”
Meanwhile, Johann never stopped learning, remaining diligent in his quiet work. He built homes that stood firm, gates that never groaned, and furniture that aged with grace. He never sought praise—but earned deep respect.
The story below was inspired by Angela Ducksworth's speech.
In a beautiful Austrian town, Master Hans was the most respected carpenter in the region. His work was known not for extravagance, but for its quiet perfection—doors that never creaked, joints that never loosened, and homes that stood for generations. Two young men began their apprenticeship under him.
The first apprentice, Wilhelm, was undeniably brilliant. He could think quickly and had a mind like a blueprint—able to visualize complex designs instantly, calculate angles without measuring, and identify wood types by scent alone. Master Hans praised him often, calling him “a rare talent.” Wilhelm basked in the compliments. He loved being admired and gravitated toward glamorous projects—ornate furniture, decorative carvings, anything that drew attention and applause. He avoided the small, quiet tasks like sanding beams, fixing warped doors, or troubleshooting creaky joints. “Leave those to Johann,” he’d say. “I was born for bigger things.”
Johann, the second apprentice, was slower. He asked many questions, made mistakes, and often stayed late to redo his work.
Master Hans thought Johann was hopeless. He wasn’t as sharp as Wilhelm, nor as quick with his hands. While Wilhelm could carve a perfect dovetail joint in minutes, Johann would still be measuring—brow furrowed, lips pressed tight in concentration.
“He’s not cut out for this,” Hans muttered one morning, watching Johann fumble with a chisel. “Too slow. Too soft. He’ll never make a craftsman.”
But Johann heard none of it. Or perhaps he did—and chose not to let it settle. He stayed late, sweeping sawdust, studying the grain of discarded wood, tracing the curves of Wilhelm’s finished pieces with quiet patience. What he lacked in brilliance, he made up for in humility, diligence and perseverance.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
One day, a client came to Master Hans with a troubling problem: the sliding doors in his cafe had begun to stick and groan, disturbing the peaceful atmosphere. “I’ve oiled the tracks, replaced the rollers, even shaved the edges,” the client said, “but nothing works.”
Master Hans turned to his apprentices. “Go together. Find the cause. Fix it.”
Wilhelm and Johann visited the cafe. Wilhelm examined the doors, slid them once, frowned, and declared, “It’s a warped frame. Nothing we can do without rebuilding the whole wall.” He left, muttering about wasted time and better uses of his talent.
Johann stayed. He sat on the floor, opened and closed the doors dozens of times, listening. He noticed the sound changed with the weather. He examined the floorboards, the humidity in the wood, the angle of the track. After hours of quiet observation and trial, he discovered the problem: a subtle shift in the foundation had tilted the track just enough to cause friction. He adjusted the base, reinforced the frame, and added a hidden wedge to restore balance.
The next day, the client returned to Master Hans, beaming. “The doors are silent again. It’s like they float.”
Master Hans nodded. “Who solved it?”
“Johann,” the client said. “He’s remarkable—he stayed until it was perfect.”
Wilhelm overheard. He said nothing, but his face tightened.
Later, Master Hans fixed his gaze on Wilhelm and said angrily, “You think your smartness sets you apart, but smartness loses its edge without discipline. The world doesn’t need more brilliance. It needs more discipline !!”
Wilhelm was furious. That evening, he packed his tools and left the workshop. “I’ll build my own legacy !!!” he shouted.
He opened his own carpentry shop in the town square. His reputation as a prodigy drew crowds. Clients lined up for his dazzling designs—spiral staircases, carved mantels, intricate latticework. Business boomed.
But Wilhelm had no one to check his work. Without Master Hans’s quiet oversight, flaws crept in. Joints loosened. Beams warped. Doors stuck. Clients returned with complaints after complaints. Wilhelm blamed the wood, the weather, the mosquitoes—but never himself.
Within a year, the crowds thinned. His shop grew quiet. The town whispered: “Beautiful, but broken.”
Meanwhile, Johann never stopped learning, remaining diligent in his quiet work. He built homes that stood firm, gates that never groaned, and furniture that aged with grace. He never sought praise—but earned deep respect.
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