Warren Buff. The best investor in the world

Dedicated to David
Warren is nine years old. It's winter outside. He plays in the snow with his younger sister Bertie.
Warren catches snowflakes. One by one at first. Then he grabs a handful of snow, begins to sculpt a ball out of it. Gradually the ball turns into a lump. Warren puts it on the ground and starts rolling it. More and more snow sticks to the lump.
The boy pushes the snowball across the lawn, it keeps growing and growing in size. After a while, Warren reaches the edge of their lawn. Stopping for a moment in doubt, he resumes movement - and now the snowball is already rolling on the neighboring land.
Warren rolls and rolls the snowball forward, looking at the vast expanse before him, still strewn with untouched snow.

Part one
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Chapter 1
Omaha • June 2003
Warren Buffett swings in his chair, long legs crossed, at a simple wooden table that belonged to his father Howard. It seems that an expensive Zegna jacket is not tailored to fit, or even bought at a sale. This is the jacket Warren wears day in and day out, no matter what the other fifteen employees at Berkshire Hathaway's headquarters are wearing. His white shirt is buttoned tightly around his neck, a collar (obviously too small) protruding from under a tie that looks like Warren has been wearing it since he was a young businessman. Apparently, this man has not measured the circumference of his neck for the past forty years.
His arms are crossed behind his head over graying strands. One of them, especially large and disheveled, runs through the entire head and, resembling a ski jump, ends just above the right ear. The shaggy right eyebrow constantly moves over the tortoise-shell spectacles, and its movement gives the face a skeptical, wise, open expression. Now he smiles, and the "wandering" eyebrow rises higher and higher. Nevertheless, the look of pale blue eyes remains focused and determined.
He sits surrounded by signs, symbols and memories of the last fifty years. On the walls of the corridor next to the office are photographs of the Nebraska Cornhuskers football team, a check for participation in one of the soap opera episodes, an offer (never accepted) to buy a hedge fund called Long-Term Capital Management, various souvenirs with the Coca-Cola logo. On the coffee table in the office is a "classic" bottle of the same Coca-Cola. Next to her is a baseball glove sealed in an acrylic case. Above the sofa hangs a certificate confirming that its owner graduated in January 1952 from Dale Carnegie's public speaking course. Just above and to the left of the bookcase is a picture of a Wells Fargo post stagecoach. Not far from it is a Pulitzer Prize diploma received in 1973 by the Sun Newspapers of Omaha, owned by Buffett's investment partnership. Books and newspapers are scattered throughout the room. Photos of his family and friends are on the chest of drawers, on the side table, and even on a pull-out shelf designed for a computer keyboard. On the wall behind Buffett is a huge portrait of his father, whose gaze meets everyone who enters the room.
And although outside the window is a beautiful late spring morning, the windows are closed with brown wooden shutters. The TV, facing Buffett's desk, is tuned to CNBC. The sound is muted, but the text line running at the bottom of the screen supplies the host
office fresh news throughout the day. Much to his delight, over the years, he has often been in the news about himself.
However, in reality, only a few people can boast that they know him well. I personally met Buffett six years ago while working as a financial analyst and valuing Berkshire Hathaway stock. Over time, our relationship became friendly, and now I have to get to know him even better. We are sitting in Warren's office because he is going to write a book. The unruly eyebrows seem to underline the words he repeats over and over again: “Alice, you will do this job much better than I can. And I am glad that you are writing this book, and not myself. A little later you will understand why he told me all this. In the meantime, we will begin our story with what is closest to the heart of this man.
“Where did you get that from, Warren? Why so much attention to money?
His eyes lose their usual concentration for a few seconds - it seems as if he is going through one file after another in his brain in search of an answer. Finally, Warren begins to tell his story: “Balzac said that behind every great fortune lies a crime committed. This is not applicable in case Berkshire...»
He rises from his chair, trying to keep the thought in check, and crosses the room in a couple of giant strides. Sitting in another chair upholstered in mustard-gold brocade, Warren leans forward, more like a teenager boasting about his first love conquest than a seventy-two-year-old financier. Buffett starts telling me how to interpret the story, who else to talk to, what to write about—essentially, he tells me how he sees the book. He shares his thoughts with me at length about human nature and the weakness of memory, and then says, "Whenever my version differs from someone else's, I ask you, Alice, to use the version that is less flattering to me."
The best lessons from interacting with Buffett can be learned simply by watching him. Here is the first lesson: humility is disarming.
In fact, in this book, I have had to use the less flattering versions too often, and when I choose them, it is not due to a lack of memory, but to human nature. One such precedent occurred in 1999 in Sun Valley.

Chapter 2

Idaho • July 1999

Warren Buffett got out of his car, retrieved a suitcase from the trunk, and walked through the gate onto the airfield, where a shiny white Gulfstream IV jet, more like a short-haul airliner (in 1999, the largest private jet in the world) was already waiting for him and his family.).
One of the pilots took the suitcase from him to put in the luggage compartment. Every new pilot who just started flying with Buffett was usually shocked that he went without a driver, pulled himself out of the car and carried his luggage. Buffett climbed the ladder, greeted the stewardess (noticing that he was seeing her for the first time), and headed to the seat near the window, which he usually never looked at during the flight. He was in high spirits - Warren Buffett had been looking forward to this trip for several weeks.
His son Peter, daughter-in-law Jennifer, daughter Susan and her boyfriend, and two grandchildren were already seated in café-au-lait leather chairs scattered throughout the fourteen-meter cabin. They turned the chairs so that it was more comfortable to sit. The stewardess brought drinks pre-selected in accordance with the tastes of all family members. on the couch not far from the chairs lay a pile of magazines: Vanity Fair, New Yorker, Fortune, Yachting, Robb Report, Atlantic Monthly, Economist, Vogue and Yoga Journal. Buffett himself was served a stack of fresh newspapers by a well-trained stewardess, along with a bag of potato chips and Cherry Coke, the color of which almost matched the shade of his sweater. He thanked the girl, chatted with her for a couple of minutes to relieve the stress of her first flight with the boss, and then asked her to tell the co-pilot that the passengers were ready for takeoff. Then he delved into the newspapers and did not raise his head even when the plane took off to a twelve-kilometer height. For the next two hours, the six young people chatted, watched movies, and made phone calls. The stewardess spread out the tablecloths, placed vases of orchids on the dining tables made from old bird's-eye maple, and returned to the kitchen to prepare dinner. Buffett was still reading, hiding from everyone behind the newspapers, as if he were alone in his office.
Passengers sat inside a real $30 million flying palace, which was considered a "share". It belonged to eight owners, each of whom, if necessary, could use it. The pilots in the cockpit, the staff preparing the plane for takeoff, the stewardess serving lunch—they all worked for Netjets, owned by Warren Buffett's Berkshire Hathaway.
Sometime later, the Gulfstream IV crossed the Snake River Plain and approached the Southooze mountain range, a vast mass of dark granite heated by the summer sun. The plane glided in clear skies towards the Wood River Valley, descended to a height of two and a half kilometers. Despite the turbulence that began, Buffett calmly continued reading, not paying attention to the fact that his family was dangling from side to side in their chairs. Through the portholes, sunlit hilltops appeared, a little lower - rows of pines that covered the slopes of the ridges and valleys. The passengers smiled impatiently. Illuminated by the midday sun, the plane began to descend, and its growing shadow covered the old mining town of Hailey.
A few seconds later, the landing gear touched the airfield at Friedman Memorial Airport. By the time the Buffett family descended the ramp, the airport gate was already two SUVs drove in, driven by employees of the Hertz company. The drivers were dressed in branded shirts in gold and black. However, instead of the usual Hertz badge, they featured the Allen & Co logo.
The kids jumped in anticipation as tennis rackets and a red-and-white golf bag were loaded into the