更多读后感

　　一天，我读了《“精彩极了”和“糟糕透了”》这篇文章，文章的内容深深地打动了我的心。 

　　文章记叙的是：作者在七、八岁的时候，写了第一首诗，母亲的评价是：“精彩极了”而父亲则说：“糟糕透了”后来作者又写了好多诗、小说、戏剧、和电影剧本，每次母亲都说：“精彩极了”父亲说：“糟糕透了”。后来，作者终于明白了，不管是母亲的“精彩极了”还是父亲的“糟糕透了”都是对自己深深的爱。 

　　    生活中爱有两种形式，一中爱是慈母般的爱，他总是以亲切和蔼的语言是我们树立信心，鼓励我们不断前进；另一种爱就像作者的严父，他总是会以警告的方式，告诉我们还有不足还应提高。我们应“谨慎地把握住”这两种爱，使自己不断前进。 

　　    我也有同样感受，三年级时，我们期末考试考作文，由于三年级刚刚学写作文，写得很不好，不是忘掉标点就是写错字，不过我也算尽了我最大的努力了。回家后，母亲看了我的作文鼓励我说：“这篇文章真不错，如果没有错字，再加上标点，一定是一篇佳作。”听了母亲的话我心了甜滋滋的。“是吗”父亲说“我看看”我满怀信心的捧起我的佳作，小心翼翼的交给了父亲。父亲看后严厉的说：“不怎么样，怎么一个标点也没有？而且又很多错字，字也写得那么烂”我听后伤心极了，垂头丧气的走进了我的卧室…… 

　　    现在，我明白了：在一个人的生活中，需要爱的鼓励和赞扬，使自己鼓起前进的勇气，氧气希望的风帆，勇往直前。另外，还需要有人指出自己的不足。“精彩极了”和“糟糕透了”评价虽不无矛盾，但都是父母对自己深深的爱。

　　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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