When I was eight or nine years old, I wrote my first poem.
当我八九岁的时候,写了生平第一首诗.
At that time my father was head of Paramount Studios. My mother was involved in various intellectual projects.
那时,父亲是派拉蒙电影制片厂的厂长,母亲从事文化事业.
My mother read the little poem and began to cry, "Buddy, you didn't really write this beautiful, beautiful poem!"
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!"
I stammered that I had. She poured out her praise. Why, this poem was nothing short of genius!
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.
I glowed. "What time will Father be home?" I asked. I could hardly wait to show him.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"Ben, a wonderful thing has happened," my mother began, "Buddy has written his first poem! And it's beautiful, absolutely amazing…"
"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……"
"If you don't mind, I'd like to decide for myself," father said.
"如果你不介意,我想自己来判断."父亲说.
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.
"I think it's lousy," he said.
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