求《精彩极了和糟糕透了》的英文版8
发布网友
发布时间：2023-10-12 10:45
共4个回答
热心网友
时间：2024-12-11 21:25
文章记叙的是：作者在七、八岁的时候，写了第一首诗，母亲的评价是：“精彩极了”而父亲则说：“糟糕透了”后来作者又写了好多诗、小说、戏剧、和电影剧本，每次母亲都说：“精彩极了”父亲说：“糟糕透了”。后来，作者终于明白了，不管是母亲的“精彩极了”还是父亲的“糟糕透了”都是对自己深深的爱。
生活中爱有两种形式，一中爱是慈母般的爱，他总是以亲切和蔼的语言是我们树立信心，鼓励我们不断前进；另一种爱就像作者的严父，他总是会以警告的方式，告诉我们还有不足还应提高。我们应“谨慎地把握住”这两种爱，使自己不断前进。
我也有同样感受，三年级时，我们期末考试考作文，由于三年级刚刚学写作文，写得很不好，不是忘掉标点就是写错字，不过我也算尽了我最大的努力了。回家后，母亲看了我的作文鼓励我说：“这篇文章真不错，如果没有错字，再加上标点，一定是一篇佳作。”听了母亲的话我心了甜滋滋的。“是吗”父亲说“我看看”我满怀信心的捧起我的佳作，小心翼翼的交给了父亲。父亲看后严厉的说：“不怎么样，怎么一个标点也没有？而且又很多错字，字也写得那么烂”我听后伤心极了，垂头丧气的走进了我的卧室……
现在，我明白了：在一个人的生活中，需要爱的鼓励和赞扬，使自己鼓起前进的勇气，氧气希望的风帆，勇往直前。另外，还需要有人指出自己的不足。“精彩极了”和“糟糕透了”评价虽不无矛盾，但都是父母对自己深深的爱。
热心网友
时间：2024-12-11 21:26
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.
热心网友
时间：2024-12-11 21:26
热心网友
时间：2024-12-11 21:27
