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This evening when my father burst in, his mood seemed even more thunderous than usual.
可是那天晚上父亲冲进门来时，似乎比往常还要愤怒。
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.
晚饭已经迟了一个钟头，然而他还是不肯坐下吃饭，却拿着已被冰块威士忌苏打，兀自绕长长的餐桌打转，大声谩骂他的下属人员。
He wheeled in his pacing, paused and glared at his plate.
他转过身来，停步了，眼睛瞪着他的盘子。
There was a suspenseful silence. “What is this? ” He was reaching for my poem.
我急切的等他开口。“这是什么？”说着他就伸手去拿我那一首诗。
I kept my face lowered to my plate as he read that poem.
他读着诗，我低着头望着面前的桌子。
It was only ten lines. But it seemed to take hours.
那首诗一共只有十行，但父亲好像读了好几个钟头还没有读完。
I remember wondering why it was taking so long. I could hear my father breathing.
记得我当时不怎么明白他怎么要读那么久。我听到父亲的呼吸。
Then I could hear him dropping the poem back on the table. Now came the moment of decision.
随后听见他把诗扔回餐桌。评判的时刻到了。
“I think it's lousy, ” he said.
“我觉得糟透了”我的父亲说。
I couldn't look up. My eyes were getting wet.
我眼泪盈眶，抬不起头来。
“Ben, sometimes I don't understand you,”my mother was saying.
“伯恩，有时候我对你真是不理解”母亲说，
“This is just a little boy.
“他只是一个孩子。
These are the first lines of poetry he's ever written.
他头一次写诗，
He needs encouragement.”
需要的是鼓励。
“I don't know why. ”My father held his ground.
“为什么要鼓励他？”父亲坚持己见，
“Isn't there enough lousy poetry in the world already?
“世界上蹩脚的诗有的是。
No law says Buddy has to become a poet.”
又没有法律强迫帕迪一定要做个诗人。”
They quarreled over it.
他们吵起来了。
