《“精彩极了”和“糟糕透了”》读后感 一天，我读了《“精彩极了”和“糟糕透了”》这篇文章，文章的内容深深地打动了我的心。 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。 The Wonderful Lousy Poems Budd Schulberg When I was eight or nine years old, I wrote my first poem. At that time my father was a Hollywood tycoon, head of Paramount Studios. My mother was a founder and prime mover in various intellectual projects, helping to bring "culture" to the exuberant Hollywood community, of the 1920s. 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 had. My mother poured out her welcome praise. Why, this poem was nothing short of genius. She had no idea that I had such talent for writing. I must write more poems, keep on writing, perhaps someday even publish them. 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. I 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 that would do justice to its brilliant content. 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. I rearranged the poem so it would appear at a slightly more advantageous angle on his plate. Seven-fifteen. Seven-thirty. The suspense was exquisite. 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 it was almost 8 o'clock when my father burst in, and his mood seemed thunderous. He was an hour late for dinner, but he could not sit down. He circled the long dining-room table with a Scotch highball in his hand, calling down terrible oaths on his glamorous employees. I can see him now, a big Havana cigar in one hand, the rapidly disappearing highball in the other, crying out against the sad fates that had sentenced him to the cruel job of running a teeming Hollywood studio. "Imagine, we would have finished the picture tonight," my father was shouting. "Instead that blank blank MORON, that blank blank BLANK suddenly gets it into her beautiful but 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! Now I have to go down to her beach house tonight and beg her to come back on Monday." My father always paced determinedly as he ranted against the studio greats, and now as he wheeled he paused and glared at his plate. There was a suspenseful silence. He was reaching for my poem. I lowered my head and stared down into my plate. I was full of anxious daydreams. How wonderful it would be if this very first work of mine drove away the angry clouds that now darkened my important father's face! "What is this?" I heard him say. "Ben, Buddy has been waiting for you for hours," my mother said. "A wonderful thing has happened. Buddy has written his first poem. And it's beautiful, absolutely amaz-" "If you don't mind, I'd like to decide that for myself," Father said. Now was the moment of decision. I kept my face lowered to my plate. It could not have taken very long to read that poem. It was only 10 lines long. But it seemed to take hours. I remember wondering why it was taking so long. I could hear him dropping the poem back on the table again. I could not bear to look up for the verdict. But in a moment I was to hear it. "I think it's lousy," my father said. I couldn't look up. I was ashamed of my eyes 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? I don't know any law that says Buddy has to become a poet." I forget what my mother said. I wasn't hearing so well because it is hard to hear clearly when your head is making its own sounds of crying. On my left, she was saying soothing things to me and critical things of my father. But I clearly remember his self-defense: "Look, I pay my best writers $2,000 a week. All afternoon I've been tearing apart their stuff. I only pay Buddy 50 cents a week. And you're trying to tell me I don't have a right to tear apart his stuff if I think it's lousy!" That expressive vernacular adjective hit me over the heart like a hard fist. I couldn't stand it another second. I ran from the dining room bawling. I staggered up to my room and 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 that 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 primitive short story written in what I fancied to be the dark Russian manner. 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. But it wasn't until I was at work on my first novel, a dozen years later, that the true meaning of that painful "first poem" experience dawned on me. I had written a first chapter, but I didn't think it was good enough. I wanted to do it over. My editor, a wise hand who had counseled O'Neill and Sinclair Lewis and William Faulkner, told me not to worry, to keep on going, the first chapter was fine. Keep writing, just let it flow, it's wonderful, he encouraged me. Only when it was all finished and I was in a triumphant glow of achievement did he take me down a peg. "That chapter may be a little weak at that. If I were you, I'd look at it again." Now, on the crest of having written a novel, I could absorb a sharp critical blow. As I worked my way into other books and plays and films, it became clearer and clearer to me how fortunate I had been to have 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 his, "I think it's lousy." A writer, in fact all 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, without the father force to caution, "Watch. Listen. Review. Improves." Those conflicting but complementary voices of my childhood echo down through the years — wonderful, lousy, wonderful, lousy — like two powerful, opposing winds buffeting me. I try to navigate my little craft so as not to capsize before either. Between the two poles of affirmation and doubt, both in the name of love, I try to follow my true course 本文来源：https://www.wddqw.com/doc/69165a3a2cc58bd63086bd7a.html