讀點好英文:Wonderful... Lousy... 精彩極了……糟糕透了……

Wonderful... Lousy... 精彩極了……糟糕透了……

Budd Schulberg

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. Improve."

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.

精彩極了……糟糕透了……

［美］巴德·舒爾伯格

當我八九歲的時候，寫了生平第一首詩。

那時，父親是派拉蒙電影制片廠的廠長，母親從事文化事業(yè)。

母親讀完這首小詩后喊道：“巴蒂，難以置信你能寫出這么美、這么美的詩！”

我結結巴巴地說是我寫的。她大大地表揚了我一番。天啊，這首詩整個是一個天才的杰作。

我臉上現(xiàn)出愉快的表情?！鞍职质裁磿r候回來？”我問道，我迫不及待地想給他看看。

整個下午的大部分時間我都在為父親的到來做著準備。我先用最漂亮的花體字抄寫了一遍，然后用彩色筆畫了一圈兒精美的花邊兒，讓它與內容相配。當七點將近的時候，我滿懷信心地把它擺在餐桌上父親的餐盤里。

但是七點鐘父親沒有回來，我不能耐受這種心懸的感覺。我崇拜父親，他是以作家的身份開始他的電影生涯的。他會比母親更能欣賞優(yōu)美的詩的。

這天晚上，父親突然闖進家門，他的情緒比往常要暴躁得多。他比通常吃晚飯的時間晚回來一小時，他坐不下來，手拿酒杯圍著長餐桌轉圈圈，咒罵他的員工。

他走著走著轉過身停了下來，盯著他的餐盤。屋里靜悄悄的，我的心懸了起來。“這是什么？”他伸手去拿我的詩。

“本，發(fā)生了一件了不起的事，”母親開始說話了，“巴蒂寫了他的第一首詩，而且寫得很好，絕對出乎意料……”

“如果你不介意，我想自己來判斷?！备赣H說。

他讀詩時，我一直低垂著頭，盯著盤子。短短十行詩似乎用了好幾個小時，我記得當時不明白他為什么用了這么長的時間。我能聽見我父親的呼吸，接著聽見他把詩放回到桌子上，到了作出結論的時候了。

“我認為寫得很糟。”他說。

我無法抬起頭，兩眼開始濕潤起來。

“本，有時，我真不理解你，”母親說道，“他只是個小孩子。這是他平生寫的第一首詩，他需要鼓勵?！?/p>

“我不明白為什么，”父親仍堅持自己的觀點，“難道世界上這樣糟糕的詩還不夠多嗎？沒有哪條法律說巴蒂必須成為詩人不可?！?/p>

他們?yōu)榇藸幊称饋?，我再也無法忍受了，哭著跑出餐廳，到樓上我的房間，撲倒在床上抽泣起來。

這件事好像已經過去了，但是它對我的深遠意義卻沒有終結。同往常一樣，家庭的創(chuàng)傷已經愈合，母親又開始與父親說話了，我也繼續(xù)寫詩，但是我不敢拿給父親看。

幾年以后，當我再讀我的第一首詩時，發(fā)現(xiàn)它的確寫得很糟糕。過了一陣子，我鼓起勇氣給父親看一個新作品——一篇短篇小說。父親認為寫得太累贅，但并不是一無是處。我學著重新寫，而母親也開始學著批評我但又不使我有挫折感。你可以說我們都在學習。那時我快12歲了。

但是直到多年以后我才漸漸地明白了痛苦的“第一首詩”的經歷的真正意義，我才越來越明白自己曾經多么幸運。我有一位說“巴蒂，這當真是你寫的嗎？我覺得很棒”的母親，還有一位搖頭否定說“我認為寫的很糟”使我流淚的父親。一個作家——實際上我們生活中的每一個人——都需要愛的力量作為一切創(chuàng)作的動力，但是僅僅有愛的力量是不完整的，甚至是誤導的，平衡的愛應該是告訴對方“觀察、傾聽、總結、提高。”

有時你會遭遇來自同事、朋友及所熱愛的人的反對和壓力，但是最終你必須自己平衡這種反對意見：首先要滿懷信心向前走，去做該做的事情，去成為想成為的人；其次，調節(jié)你的自滿情緒，冷靜地、現(xiàn)實地評價自己。

那些兒時聽到的對立的而又相互補充的聲音，多年以來一直在我耳畔回響——精彩極了……糟糕透了……精彩極了……糟糕透了，它們好像兩股對立的風吹打在我的身上。我努力駕駛著我的航船，不讓他被任何一股風顛覆。

實戰(zhàn)提升

Practising & Exercise

導讀

巴德·舒爾伯格（Budd Schulberg），美國著名的暢銷書作家。他是好萊塢電影制片人本杰明·舒爾伯格之子。他曾在派拉蒙當編劇。他出版的作品有《碼頭風云》、《醒著的夢》、《我喜歡這個不討人喜歡的人》等。

在這篇文章中，作者巧妙地把對人生的思考融入到了感性的言辭中，顯示出作者深厚的文學底蘊和深邃的思想。在字里行間流露出真實的感受，讓我們明白到了一個亙古不變的道理：任何人都不能只活在贊揚中，適時的批評才會讓人成長。

核心單詞

crayon [?krei?n] n. 顏色粉筆；蠟筆

lousy [?lauzi] adj. 差勁的；討厭的

anecdote [??nikd?ut] n. 軼事，趣聞

associate [??s?u?ieit] v. 使聯(lián)合，使結合

navigate [?n?viɡeit] v. 駕駛；操縱；導航

capsize [k?p?saiz] v. 使傾覆；弄翻

翻譯

I spent the best part of that afternoon preparing for his arrival.

I remember wondering why it was taking so long.

But it wasn't until years later that the true meaning of that painful "first poem" experience dawned on me.