When I was eight or nine years old, I wrote my first poem.
當我八九歲的時候,寫了生平第一首詩.
At that time my father was head of Paramount Studios. My mother was involved in various intellectual projects.
那時,父親是派拉蒙電影製片廠的廠長,母親從事文化事業.
My mother read the little poem and began to cry, "Buddy, you didn't really write this beautiful, beautiful poem!"
母親讀完這首小詩後喊道："巴蒂,難以置信你能寫出這麼美、這麼美的詩!"
I stammered that I had. She poured out her praise. Why, this poem was nothing short of genius!
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傑作.
I glowed. "What time will Father be home?" I asked. I could hardly wait to show him.
我臉上現出愉快的表情."爸爸什麼時候回來?"我問道,我迫不及待地想給他看看.
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.
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,然後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裡.
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.
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美的詩的.
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.
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.
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.
他走著走著轉過身停了下來,盯著他的餐盤.屋裡靜悄悄的,我的心懸了起來."這是什麼?"他伸手去拿我的詩.
"Ben, a wonderful thing has happened," my mother began, "Buddy has written his first poem! And it's beautiful, absolutely amazing..."
"本,發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……"
"If you don't mind, I'd like to decide for myself," father said.
"如果你不介意,我想自己來判斷."父親說.
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.
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麼用了這麼長的時間.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.
"I think it's lousy," he said.
"我認為寫得很糟."他說.
I couldn't look up. My eyes were getting wet.
我無法抬起頭,兩眼開始溼潤起來.
"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."
"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."
"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."
"我不明白為什麼,"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."
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.
他們為此爭吵起來,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.
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.
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,家庭的創傷已經癒合,母親又開始與父親說話了,我也繼續寫詩,但是我不敢拿給父親看.
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.
幾年以後,當我再讀我的第一首詩時,發現它的確寫得很糟糕.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,但並不是一無是處.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.
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."
但是直到多年以後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麼幸運.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."
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.
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,調節你的自滿情緒,冷靜地、現實地評價自己.
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.
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迴響-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.
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