Wonderful... Lousy... 精彩极了……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.

精彩极了……糟糕透了……

［美］巴德·舒尔伯格

当我八九岁的时候，写了生平第一首诗。

那时，父亲是派拉蒙电影制片厂的厂长，母亲从事文化事业。

母亲读完这首小诗后喊道：“巴蒂，难以置信你能写出这么美、这么美的诗！”

我结结巴巴地说是我写的。她大大地表扬了我一番。天啊，这首诗整个是一个天才的杰作。

我脸上现出愉快的表情。“爸爸什么时候回来？”我问道，我迫不及待地想给他看看。

整个下午的大部分时间我都在为父亲的到来做着准备。我先用最漂亮的花体字抄写了一遍，然后用彩色笔画了一圈儿精美的花边儿，让它与内容相配。当七点将近的时候，我满怀信心地把它摆在餐桌上父亲的餐盘里。

但是七点钟父亲没有回来，我不能耐受这种心悬的感觉。我崇拜父亲，他是以作家的身份开始他的电影生涯的。他会比母亲更能欣赏优美的诗的。

这天晚上，父亲突然闯进家门，他的情绪比往常要暴躁得多。他比通常吃晚饭的时间晚回来一小时，他坐不下来，手拿酒杯围着长餐桌转圈圈，咒骂他的员工。

他走着走着转过身停了下来，盯着他的餐盘。屋里静悄悄的，我的心悬了起来。“这是什么？”他伸手去拿我的诗。

“本，发生了一件了不起的事，”母亲开始说话了，“巴蒂写了他的第一首诗，而且写得很好，绝对出乎意料……”

“如果你不介意，我想自己来判断。”父亲说。

他读诗时，我一直低垂着头，盯着盘子。短短十行诗似乎用了好几个小时，我记得当时不明白他为什么用了这么长的时间。我能听见我父亲的呼吸，接着听见他把诗放回到桌子上，到了作出结论的时候了。

“我认为写得很糟。”他说。

我无法抬起头，两眼开始湿润起来。

“本，有时，我真不理解你，”母亲说道，“他只是个小孩子。这是他平生写的第一首诗，他需要鼓励。”

“我不明白为什么，”父亲仍坚持自己的观点，“难道世界上这样糟糕的诗还不够多吗？没有哪条法律说巴蒂必须成为诗人不可。”

他们为此争吵起来，我再也无法忍受了，哭着跑出餐厅，到楼上我的房间，扑倒在床上抽泣起来。

这件事好像已经过去了，但是它对我的深远意义却没有终结。同往常一样，家庭的创伤已经愈合，母亲又开始与父亲说话了，我也继续写诗，但是我不敢拿给父亲看。

几年以后，当我再读我的第一首诗时，发现它的确写得很糟糕。过了一阵子，我鼓起勇气给父亲看一个新作品——一篇短篇小说。父亲认为写得太累赘，但并不是一无是处。我学着重新写，而母亲也开始学着批评我但又不使我有挫折感。你可以说我们都在学习。那时我快12岁了。

但是直到多年以后我才渐渐地明白了痛苦的“第一首诗”的经历的真正意义，我才越来越明白自己曾经多么幸运。我有一位说“巴蒂，这当真是你写的吗？我觉得很棒”的母亲，还有一位摇头否定说“我认为写的很糟”使我流泪的父亲。一个作家——实际上我们生活中的每一个人——都需要爱的力量作为一切创作的动力，但是仅仅有爱的力量是不完整的，甚至是误导的，平衡的爱应该是告诉对方“观察、倾听、总结、提高。”

有时你会遭遇来自同事、朋友及所热爱的人的反对和压力，但是最终你必须自己平衡这种反对意见：首先要满怀信心向前走，去做该做的事情，去成为想成为的人；其次，调节你的自满情绪，冷静地、现实地评价自己。

那些儿时听到的对立的而又相互补充的声音，多年以来一直在我耳畔回响——精彩极了……糟糕透了……精彩极了……糟糕透了，它们好像两股对立的风吹打在我的身上。我努力驾驶着我的航船，不让他被任何一股风颠覆。

实战提升

Practising & Exercise

导读

巴德·舒尔伯格（Budd Schulberg），美国著名的畅销书作家。他是好莱坞电影制片人本杰明·舒尔伯格之子。他曾在派拉蒙当编剧。他出版的作品有《码头风云》、《醒着的梦》、《我喜欢这个不讨人喜欢的人》等。

在这篇文章中，作者巧妙地把对人生的思考融入到了感性的言辞中，显示出作者深厚的文学底蕴和深邃的思想。在字里行间流露出真实的感受，让我们明白到了一个亘古不变的道理：任何人都不能只活在赞扬中，适时的批评才会让人成长。

核心单词

crayon [ˈkreiən] n. 颜色粉笔；蜡笔

lousy [ˈlauzi] adj. 差劲的；讨厌的

anecdote [ˈænikdəut] n. 轶事，趣闻

associate [əˈsəuʃieit] v. 使联合，使结合

navigate [ˈnæviɡeit] v. 驾驶；操纵；导航

capsize [kæpˈsaiz] v. 使倾覆；弄翻

翻译

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.