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Wonderful和Lousy精彩极了或糟糕透了

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当我八或九岁时,我写了我的第一首诗。
 
那时我父亲是派拉蒙电影公司的负责人。我母亲从事各种智力工程。
 
我母亲读了那首小诗,开始哭了起来:“Buddy,你真的没写出这首优美的诗!“
 
我结结巴巴地说我有。她赞不绝口。为什么,这首诗简直是天才!
 
我闪着红光,“爸爸什么时候回家?”我问。我迫不及待地想给他看。
 
那天下午,我花了大部分时间为他的到来做准备,首先,我用最优美的诗句写了这首诗。然后我画一个精致的花边,在那正义的精彩内容。七点临近时,我满怀信心地把它放在餐桌上父亲的盘子上。
 
但是我父亲七点没有回来。我简直受不了这种悬念。我钦佩我的父亲。他作为一个作家开始了他的电影生涯。他会比我母亲更欣赏我这首美妙的诗。
 
今天晚上,当我父亲突然进来时,他的心情似乎比往常更加雷鸣。晚饭晚了一个小时,他不能坐下来,手里拿着饮料围着长长的餐室桌子转了圈,大声咒骂他的员工。
 
他转过身来,停了下来,盯着他的盘子。有一个紧张的沉默。”这是什么?“他在伸手拿我的诗。
 
“本,一件奇妙的事发生了,”我母亲开始说,“Buddy写了他的第一首诗!而且很漂亮,绝对令人惊奇……”
 
“如果你不介意的话,我想自己做决定,”父亲说。
 
当他读那首诗时,我把脸一直放在盘子里,只有十行。但似乎要花好几个小时。我记得奇怪为什么花了这么长时间。我能听见父亲的呼吸声。然后我可以听到他把诗放回桌子上。现在是决定的时刻。
 
“我觉得很糟糕,”他说。
 
我不能抬头看。我的眼睛湿润了。
 
“本,有时我听不懂你说的话,”我母亲说。这只是个小男孩。这些是他写过的第一行诗。他需要鼓励。”
 
“我不知道为什么,”我父亲坚持说,“世界上难道没有足够糟糕的诗歌吗?”没有法律规定Buddy必须成为诗人。”
 
他们为此争吵。我再也受不了了。我跑出餐厅嚎啕大哭。在我的房间里,我扑倒在床上哭泣。
 
这可能是这个故事的结尾,但对我来说意义不大。家庭创伤不可避免地愈合了。我母亲又开始和我父亲说话了。我甚至开始写诗,尽管我不敢向父亲透露。
 
几年后,我又看了一遍第一首诗,那是一首相当糟糕的诗。过了一会儿,我鼓起勇气,给他看了一个新故事,一个小故事。我父亲认为它被覆盖了,但不是绝望的。我正在学习重写,而我母亲正在学习她可以批评我而不伤害我。你可以说我们都在学习。我要去了。
 
但直到几年之后,我才明白了那首痛苦的“第一首诗”的真正含义。当我越来越清楚地知道我是多么幸运的时候,我有一个母亲说:“Buddy,你真的写了这个吗?我觉得太棒了!还有一个父亲摇摇头,“我觉得很糟糕”,一个作家——事实上,我们每个人在生活中都需要爱的力量,所有的创造都是流动的。然而,力量是不完整的,甚至误导,平衡的力量警告,“手表”。听.回顾。提高。”
 
有时你会在同事、朋友、亲人身上发现这些对立的力量。但最终你必须自己平衡这些反对意见:第一,信心向前走,去做,去成为;第二,回火与顽固的自我认同,现实的自我评价。
 
我童年的那些相互矛盾却又相互补充的声音回荡在过去的岁月里…棒极了……就像两个对立的风在冲击着我。我想浏览我的手艺以免倾覆之前。


When I was eight or nine years old,I wrote my first poem.
 
    At that time my father was head of Paramount Studios. My mother was involved in various intellectual projects.
 
    My mother read the little poem and began to cry,  "Buddy,you didn't really write this beautiful,beautiful poem!”
 
    I stammered that I had. She poured out her praise. Why, this poem was nothing short of genius!
 
    I glowed.“What time will Father be home?" I asked. I could hardly wait to show him.
 
    I spent the best part of that afternoon preparing for his arrival.First, I wrote the poem out in my finest flourish. Then I crayoned an elaborate border around it that would do justice to its brilliant content. As seven o'clock drew near,  I confidently placed it on my father's plate on the dining-room table.
 
    But my father did not return at seven. I could hardly stand the suspense. I admired my father. He had begun his motion-picture career as a writer. He would be able to appreciate this wonderful poem of mine even more than my mother.
 
    This evening when my father burst in,his mood seemed even more thunderous than usual. An hour late for dinner, he could not sit down but circled the long dining room table with a drink in his hand,calling down terrible oaths on his employees.
 
    He wheeled in his pacing, paused and glared at his plate.There was a suspenseful silence. "What is this?”He was reaching for my poem.
 
    "Ben,a wonderful thing has happened,”my mother began,"Buddy has written his first poem! And it's beautiful,absolutely amazing..."
 
    "If you don't mind,I'd like to decide for myself,”father said.
 
    I kept my face lowered to my plate as he read that poem.It was only ten lines. But it seemed to take hours. I remember wondering why it was taking so long. I could hear my father breathing. Then I could hear him dropping the poem back on the table. Now came the moment of decision.
 
    "I think it's lousy,”he said.
 
    I couldn't look up. My eyes were getting wet.
 
      "Ben,sometimes I don't understand you,”my mother said. "This is just a little boy. These are the first lines of poetry he's ever written. He needs encouragement."
 
    "I don't know why,”My father held his ground,"Isn't there enough lousy poetry in the world already? No law says Buddy has to become a poet."
 
    They quarreled over it. I couldn't stand it anther second. I ran from the dining room bawling. Up in my room I threw myself on the bed and sobbed.
 
      That may have been the end of the anecdote,but not of   its significance for me. Inevitably the family wounds healed. My mother began talking to my father again. I even began writing poetry again,though I dared not expose it to my father.
 
    A few years later I took a second look at that first poem;it was a pretty lousy poem. After a while,I worked up the courage, to show him something new, a short story. My father thought it was overwritten but not hopeless. I was learning to rewrite.And my mother was learning that she could criticize me without crushing me. You might say we were all learning. I was going on.
 
    But it wasn't until years later that the true meaning of that painful "first poem”experience dawned on me. As it became clearer and clearer to me how fortunate I had been.I had a mother who said,"Buddy, did you really write this? I think it's wonderful!”and a father who shook his head no and drove me to tears with "I think it's lousy,”A writer- in fact every one of us in life-needs that loving force from which all creation flows. Yet alone that force is incomplete, even misleading, balance of the  force that cautions,  "Watch. Listen. Review. lmprove."
 
    Sometimes you find these opposing forces in associates,friends, loved ones. But finally you must balance these opposites within yourself:first, the confidence to go forward,to do,to become;second,the tempering of self-approval with hardheaded,realistic self-appraisal.
 
    Those conflicting but complementary voices of my childhood echo down through the years-wonderful...lousy... wonderful...lousy-like two opposing winds battering me. I try to navigate my craft so as not to capsize before either.

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