He was also behind the software company NeXT and was one of the early supporters of animation studio Pixar. In an internal memo to staff on Tuesday, Cook told employees that the visionary co-founder would be eager to see what the company develops next.
And it lives in us today. He challenged us to see the world not for what it was, but for what it could be. And he helped so many people, myself included, see the same potential in ourselves.
I feel so lucky that we spend our days creating wildly innovative tools that connect people, inspire them to think differently, and empower them to make their own dent in the universe, too. But most of all, I wish he could see what you do next.
Steve once said that his proudest achievements were the ones that were yet to come. He spent every day imagining a future that no one else could see and working relentlessly to bring his vision to life.
I miss him, and I will cherish him always. Email us at exclusive the-sun. Like us on Facebook at www. Jump directly to the content. Sign in. But before that, just after the court case was finalized, my father came to visit me once at our house in Menlo Park, where we had rented a detached studio.
By the time I was seven, my mother and I had moved 13 times. My father had started dropping by sometimes, about once a month, and he, my mother, and I would go roller-skating around the neighborhood. His engine shuddered into our driveway, echoing off our house and the wooden fence on the other side, thickening the air with excitement. He drove a black Porsche convertible. When he stopped, the sound turned into a whine and then was extinguished, leaving the quiet more quiet, the pinpoint sounds of birds.
I anticipated his arrival, wondering when it would happen, and thought about him afterward—but in his presence, for the hour or so we were all together, there was a strange blankness, like the air after his engine switched off. There were long pauses, the thunk and whir of roller skates on pavement.
We skated the neighborhood streets. Trees overhead made patterns of the light. Fuchsia dangled from bushes in yards, stamens below a bell of petals, like women in ball gowns with purple shoes. My father and mother had the same skates, a beige nubuck body with red laces crisscrossed over a double line of metal fasts. A few times, I felt his eyes on me; when I looked up, he looked away. He might have sewn them up. I knew he was supposed to have millions of dollars.
She said my father had a lisp. It looks like a zigzag, or a zipper. There are thousands of different blacks. I whispered it so that they would see I was reluctant to mention it. The key, I felt, was to underplay. He lives in a mansion and drives a Porsche convertible. He buys a new one every time it gets a scratch. The story had a film of unreality to it as I said it, even to my own ears. I brought it up when I felt I needed to, waited as long as I could and then let it burst forth.
One afternoon around this time my father brought over a Macintosh computer. He pulled the box out of the backseat and carried it into my room and put it on the floor. This made me doubt he was the inventor. He pulled the computer out of the box by a handle on the top and set it on the floor near the outlet on the wall. He sat on the floor in front of it with his legs crossed; I sat on my knees beside him. He looked for the On switch, found it, and the machine came alive to reveal a picture of itself in the center, smiling.
He showed me how I could draw and save my drawings on the desktop once I was finished with them, and then he left. I worried that he had not really named a computer after me, that it was a mistake. For a long time I hoped that if I played one role, my father would take the corresponding role. I would be the beloved daughter; he would be the indulgent father.
I decided that if I acted like other daughters did, he would join in the lark. If I had observed him as he was, or admitted to myself what I saw, I would have known that he would not do this, and that a game of pretend would disgust him. On those nights, we ate dinner, took a hot tub outside, and watched old movies. Jobs Trust, which as of May had a 7. Jobs died at his Palo Alto, California, home around 3pm local time on October 5, , due to complications from a relapse of his previously treated pancreatic cancer, which resulted in respiratory arrest.
He had lost consciousness the day before his passing and died with his wife, children, and sisters at his side. His sister, Mona Simpson, described his death, saying: "Steve's final words, hours earlier, were monosyllables, repeated three times. A small private funeral was held on October 7, , the details of which, out of respect for Jobs' family, have never been revealed. We pay for your stories! Do you have a story for The Sun Online news team?
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