Unit 10B - My Wonderful Lousy Poem
Budd Schulberg
When I was eight or nine years old, I wrote my first poem. My mother read the little poem and began to cry. "Buddy, you didn't really write this beautiful, beautiful poem!" Shyly, proud bursting, I stammered that I did. My mother 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 what I had accomplished. My mother said she hoped he would be home around 7.1 spent the best part of that afternoon preparing for his arrival. First, I wrote the poem out in my finest flourish. Then I used colored crayons to draw an elaborate border around it. Then I waited. As 7 o'clock drew near, I confidently placed it right on my father's plate on the dining-room table.
But my father did not return at 7. Seven-fifteen. Seven-thirty. I could hardly stand the suspense. I admired my father. He was head of Paramount Studios in Hollywood but 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 it was almost 8 o'clock when my father burst in. He was an hour late for dinner. His mood seemed thunderous. 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.
Imagine, we would have finished the picture tonight, my father was shouting. "Instead that moron suddenly gets it into her beautiful empty, little head that she can't play the last scene. So the whole company has to stand there at $1,000 a minute while this silly little blank walks off the set! And now I have to beg her to come back!"
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 amaz —"
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 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 was saying. "This is just a little boy. You're not in your studio now. 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."
I couldn't stand it another second. I ran from the dining-room up to my room, threw myself on the bed and sobbed. When I had cried the worst of the disappointment out of me, I could hear my parents still quarreling over my first poem at the dinner table.
That may have been the end of the anecdote—but not of its significance for me. A few years later I took a second look at the first poem, and reluctantly I had to agree with my father's harsh judgment. 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 12.
As I worked my way into other books and plays and films, 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 mother force, the loving force from which all creation flows; and yet the mother force alone is incomplete, even misleading, finally destructive. It needs the balance of the force that cautions, "Watch. Listen. Review. Improve."
Those conflicting but complementary voices of my child-hood echo down through the years — wonderful... lousy ... wonderful... lousy — like two opposing winds battering me. I try to steer my small boat so as not to turn over before either. Between the two poles of affirmation and doubt, both in the name of love, I try to follow my true course.
参考译文——我那首既妙又糟的小诗
我那首既妙又糟的小诗
巴德·舒尔伯格
我八九岁的时候，写了第一首诗。我母亲读了那首诗激动得哭了。“巴迪，这一首优美的好诗，不真是你写的吧?”我既难为情，又自豪之极，结结巴巴地说是我写的。我母亲赞不绝口。哇，这简直是首天才之作。
我满脸放光。“爸爸什么时候回家?”我问。我迫不及待地要让他读我的杰作。母亲说希望他能在7点左右回来，那天下午，我大部分时间都在为他回来作准备。我先用最漂亮的一手花体字把诗抄写出来，再用彩色蜡笔画上一圈精致的花边。接着我便开始等待。7点钟就要到了，我自信地把诗放在餐桌上父亲座位前的盘子里。
然而到了7点，我父亲并没有回来。七点一刻。七点半。心这么悬着，简直让我受不了。我敬佩父亲。他是好莱坞派拉蒙电影公司的头头，但他是以作家身份开始其影艺生涯的。他会比我母亲更能欣赏我的这首绝妙好诗。
这天晚上差不多8点了父亲才匆匆回家来。他晚饭迟到了一个小时，他的心情很糟，似乎随时都会发作。他坐不下来，只是手里拿着杯酒绕着长餐桌走动，一边恶狠狠地咒骂着他的雇员们。
“你想，影片今晚本来可以拍完的，”父亲嚷道。“可那蠢婆娘的漂亮的空脑瓜里突然冒出个鬼念头，说是最后一场戏她演不了啦。这个傻乎乎的木头美人拍拍屁股一走了之，整个公司只得干守在那儿，每分钟公司要损失1000美元！到头来我还得求她回来!”
他踱着步，一转身，在自己的盘子前停下来，张大眼睛瞧着，一阵令人心悬的沉默。“这是什么玩意儿？”他伸手去拿我的诗。
“本，发生了件了不起的事，”母亲开口了。“巴德写了他的第一首诗。一首好诗，绝对精……”
“如果你不介意的话，我自己会判断的，”父亲说。
他读那首诗的时候，我一直低着头，脸对着盘子。总共才10行诗，可似乎延续了好几个小时。只听见他把诗丢回桌上。决定性的时刻到了。
“我想这诗写得糟透了，”他说。
我头都抬不起来。两眼顿时模糊了。
“本，有时我真没法理解你，”是母亲在说话。“他还只是个孩子。现在你可不是在你的摄影棚里。这是他破天荒写的第一首诗啊。他需要鼓励。”
“我真不明白，”父亲毫不让步。“这世上歪诗还不够多吗？没有哪条法律规定巴迪非得当诗人不可。”
我一刻也呆不下去了。我冲出餐厅，跑回自己房间，扑倒在床上抽泣着。等我哭着把我失望之极的痛苦都发泄出来以后，我听见父母还在餐桌旁为我的第一首诗争吵不休。
这件生活小事也许到此为止了，可对我来说，其意义远不止于此。几年后我重读这首处女作，虽然很不情愿，但不得不同意父亲的无情判断。这的确是首很糟糕的歪诗。过了些日子，我鼓起勇气给他看了新的习作——一个短篇小说。父亲说写得过火了点，可并非一无是处。我渐渐学会修改稿子。母亲也渐渐学会对我加以批评而不致让我一蹶不振。你可以说，我们大家都学有所获。那时我就要12岁了。
当我渐渐涉足其他作品以及戏剧、电影的写作时，我越来越体会到自己是何等的幸运。我有个会说“巴迪，真是你写的？太棒了!”的母亲，还有个大摇其头、一句“我看糟透了”就说得我哭鼻子的父亲。一个作家——事实上是生活中的每一个人——需要那种母亲的力量，所有创造皆从中产生的那股爱的力量；然而，仅有母亲的力量是不完全的，甚至会使人误入歧途并最终导致毁灭。还需要另一种力量的平衡，它告诫你：“要观察、倾听、反思、提高。”
我童年时的这两种既相互冲突又相互补充的声音多年来一直在我耳边回响——妙极了……糟透了……妙极了……糟透了——就像方向相反的两股劲风，不停地在吹打着我。我努力把握住我的生活小舟，不让它被来自任何一方的风掀翻。在同样出于爱心的肯定与否定的两极之间，我努力把握住自己的正确航向。
Key Words:
genius ['dʒi:njəs]
n. 天才，天赋
elaborate [i'læbəreit]
adj. 精细的，详尽的，精心的
v. 详细地
burst [bə:st]
n. 破裂，阵，爆发
v. 爆裂，迸发
accomplished [ə'kɔmpliʃt]
adj. 娴熟的，有造诣的，完成的，有成就的，毫无疑问的
border ['bɔ:də]
n. 边界，边境，边缘
vt. 与 ... 接
appreciate [ə'pri:ʃieit]
vt. 欣赏，感激，赏识
vt. 领会，充分意
paramount ['pærəmaunt]
adj. 极为重要的，至高无上的 n. 最高统治者 Pa
flourish ['flʌriʃ]
vi. 繁荣，茂盛，活跃，手舞足蹈
disappointment [.disə'pɔintmənt]
n. 失望，令人失望的人或事
understand [.ʌndə'stænd]
vt. 理解，懂，听说，获悉，将 ... 理解为，认为<
decision [di'siʒən]
n. 决定，决策
encouragement [in'kʌridʒmənt]
n. 鼓励
silence ['sailəns]
n. 沉默，寂静
vt. 使安静，使沉默
absolutely ['æbsəlu:tli]
adv. 绝对地，完全地;独立地
scene [si:n]
n. 场，景，情景
harsh [hɑ:ʃ]
adj. 粗糙的，使人不舒服的，刺耳的，严厉的，大约的
opposing [ə'pəuziŋ]
adj. 反作用的，反向的，相反的，对立的 动词oppo
fortunate ['fɔ:tʃənit]
adj. 幸运的，侥幸的
criticize ['kritisaiz]
vt. 批评，吹毛求疵，非难
vi. 批评
destructive [di'strʌktiv]
adj. 破坏性的，有害的
reluctantly
adv. 嫌恶地；不情愿地
affirmation [.æfə:'meiʃən]
n. 肯定，断言，主张
misleading [mis'li:diŋ]
adj. 令人误解的
anecdote ['ænikdəut]
n. 轶事，奇闻
complementary [.kɔmpli'mentəri]
adj. 补充的，互补的
参考资料：
2620
被折叠的 条评论
为什么被折叠?
到【灌水乐园】发言
