题型：阅读理解 题类：常考题 难易度：普通
江苏省启东中学2016-2017学年高二上学期英语第二次月考试卷
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, I said that I had. My mother poured out her welcome praise. Why, this poem was nothing short of genius!
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 handwriting. Then I used colored pens to draw a border around it. Then I confidently placed it right on my father's plate on the dining table. But my father did not return at 7, Seven-fifteen, Seven-thirty. My father had begun his motion-picture career as a writer. He would be able to appreciate my poem even more than my mother.
It was almost 8 o'clock when my father burst in. He was an hour late, but he could not sit down. I can see him now, a big Havana cigar in one hand, the rapidly disappearing drink in the other, calling down bitter words on his employees.
Suddenly, he paused and glared at his plate. There was a silence. He was reaching for my poem. I lowered my head and stared down into my plate.
"What is this?" I heard him say.
"Ben, a wonderful thing has happened," my mother said. "Buddy has written his first poem. And it's beautiful, absolutely amazing".
"If you don't mind, I'd like to decide that for myself," Father said.
I kept my face lowered to my plate. 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. Now was the moment of decision.
"I think it's bad," my father 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 need encouragement."
"I don't know why," my father held his ground. "Isn't there enough bad 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, threw myself on the bed and cried.
That may have been the end of the anecdote(轶事) — but not of its significance for me.
A few years later I took a second look at that first poem, and unwillingly I had to agree with my father's tough judgment. It was a pretty bad 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 disapprove of me without ruining 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 to have had a mother who said, "Buddy, it's wonderful!" and a father who shook his head no and drove me to tears with his, "I think it's bad." In fact all of us in life need that mother force, the loving force from which all creation flows; and yet the mother force alone is incomplete, even misleading, finally damaging, without the father force to caution, "Watch. Listen. Review. Improve." Between the two poles of affirmation (肯定) and doubt, both in the name of love, I try to follow my true course.
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