更多讀后感

　　一天，我讀了《“精彩極了”和“糟糕透了”》這篇文章，文章的內(nèi)容深深地打動(dòng)了我的心。 

　　文章記敘的是：作者在七、八歲的時(shí)候，寫了第一首詩，母親的評(píng)價(jià)是：“精彩極了”而父親則說：“糟糕透了”后來作者又寫了好多詩、小說、戲劇、和電影劇本，每次母親都說：“精彩極了”父親說：“糟糕透了”。后來，作者終于明白了，不管是母親的“精彩極了”還是父親的“糟糕透了”都是對(duì)自己深深的愛。 

　　    生活中愛有兩種形式，一中愛是慈母般的愛，他總是以親切和藹的語言是我們樹立信心，鼓勵(lì)我們不斷前進(jìn)；另一種愛就像作者的嚴(yán)父，他總是會(huì)以警告的方式，告訴我們還有不足還應(yīng)提高。我們應(yīng)“謹(jǐn)慎地把握住”這兩種愛，使自己不斷前進(jìn)。 

　　    我也有同樣感受，三年級(jí)時(shí)，我們期末考試考作文，由于三年級(jí)剛剛學(xué)寫作文，寫得很不好，不是忘掉標(biāo)點(diǎn)就是寫錯(cuò)字，不過我也算盡了我最大的努力了。回家后，母親看了我的作文鼓勵(lì)我說：“這篇文章真不錯(cuò)，如果沒有錯(cuò)字，再加上標(biāo)點(diǎn)，一定是一篇佳作。”聽了母親的話我心了甜滋滋的。“是嗎”父親說“我看看”我滿懷信心的捧起我的佳作，小心翼翼的交給了父親。父親看后嚴(yán)厲的說：“不怎么樣，怎么一個(gè)標(biāo)點(diǎn)也沒有？而且又很多錯(cuò)字，字也寫得那么爛”我聽后傷心極了，垂頭喪氣的走進(jìn)了我的臥室…… 

　　    現(xiàn)在，我明白了：在一個(gè)人的生活中，需要愛的鼓勵(lì)和贊揚(yáng)，使自己鼓起前進(jìn)的勇氣，氧氣希望的風(fēng)帆，勇往直前。另外，還需要有人指出自己的不足。“精彩極了”和“糟糕透了”評(píng)價(jià)雖不無矛盾，但都是父母對(duì)自己深深的愛。

　　The Wonderful Lousy Poems

　　Budd Schulberg　

　　　When I was eight or nine years old, I wrote my first poem.

　　   At that time my father was a Hollywood tycoon, head of Paramount Studios. My mother was a founder and prime mover in various intellectual projects, helping to bring "culture" to the exuberant Hollywood community, of the 1920s.

　　    My mother read the little poem and began to cry. "Buddy, you didn't really write this beautiful, beautiful poem!" Shyly, proud-bursting, I stammered that I had. My mother poured out her welcome praise. Why, this poem was nothing short of genius. She had no idea that I had such talent for writing. I must write more poems, keep on writing, perhaps someday even publish them.

　　    I glowed. "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 flourish. Then I used colored crayons to draw an elaborate border around it that would do justice to its brilliant content. Then I waited. As 7 o'clock drew near, I confidently placed it right on my father's plate on the dining-room table.

　　    But my father did not return at 7. I rearranged the poem so it would appear at a slightly more advantageous angle on his plate. Seven-fifteen. Seven-thirty. The suspense was exquisite. 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.

　　    This evening it was almost 8 o'clock when my father burst in, and his mood seemed thunderous. He was an hour late for dinner, but he could not sit down. He circled the long dining-room table with a Scotch highball in his hand, calling down terrible oaths on his glamorous employees. I can see him now, a big Havana cigar in one hand, the rapidly disappearing highball in the other, crying out against the sad fates that had sentenced him to the cruel job of running a teeming Hollywood studio.

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