评论
打印
Imagine, we would have finished the picture tonight, my father was shouting. "Instead that moron suddenly gets it into her beautiful 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! And now I have to beg her to come back!"
“你想，影片今晚本来可以拍完的，”父亲嚷道。“可那蠢婆娘的漂亮的空脑瓜里突然冒出个鬼念头，说是最后一场戏她演不了啦。这个傻乎乎的木头美人拍拍屁股一走了之，整个公司只得干守在那儿，每分钟公司要损失1000美元！到头来我还得求她回来!”
He wheeled in his pacing （踱步）,paused and glared at his plate. There was a suspenseful silence. "What is this?" He was reaching for my poem.
他踱着步，一转身，在自己的盘子前停下来，张大眼睛瞧着，一阵令人心悬的沉默。“这是什么玩意儿?”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 amaz —"
“本，发生了件了不起的事，”母亲开口了。“巴德写了他的第一首诗。一首好诗，绝对精……”
If you don't mind, I'd like to decide for myself, Father said.
“如果你不介意的话，我自己会判断的，”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 could hear him dropping the poem back on the table. Now came the moment of decision.
他读那首诗的时候，我一直低着头，脸对着盘子。总共才10行诗，可似乎延续了好几个小时。只听见他把诗丢回桌上。决定性的时刻到了。
I think it's lousy, he said.
“我想这诗写得糟透了，”他说。
I couldn't look up. My eyes were getting wet.
我头都抬不起来。两眼顿时模糊了。
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."
“本，有时我真没法理解你，”是母亲在说话。“他还只是个孩子。现在你可不是在你的摄影棚里。这是他破天荒写的第一首诗啊。他需要鼓励。”
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."
“我真不明白，”父亲毫不让步。“这世上歪诗还不够多吗？没有哪条法律规定巴迪非得当诗人不可。”
I couldn't stand it another second. I ran from the dining-room up to my room, 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.
我一刻也呆不下去了。我冲出餐厅，跑回自己房间，扑倒在床上抽泣着。等我哭着把我失望之极的痛苦都发泄出来以后，我听见父母还在餐桌旁为我的第一首诗争吵不休。
