有什麼具體的故事能讓你感受到父愛和母愛的區別嗎？

12-05

"精彩極了"和"糟糕透了"

美
巴德·舒爾伯格

　　記得七八歲的時候，我寫了第一首詩。母親一念完那首詩，眼睛亮亮，興奮地嚷著：「巴迪，這是你寫的嗎？多美的詩啊！精彩極了！」她摟著我，不住地讚揚。我既靦腆又得意洋洋，點頭告訴她詩確實是我寫的。她高興得再次擁抱了我。

　　「媽媽，爸爸什麼時候回來？」我紅著臉問道。我有點迫不及待，想立刻讓父親看看我寫的詩。「他晚上七點鐘回來。」母親摸摸我的腦袋，笑著說。

　　整個下午我都懷著一種自豪感等待父親回來。我用漂亮的花體字把詩認認真真謄了一遍，還用彩色筆在它的周圍上畫了一圈花邊。將近七點鐘的時候，我悄悄走進飯廳，滿懷信心地把它平平整整地放在餐桌父親的位置上。

　　七點．七點一刻。七點半。父親還沒有回來。我實在等不及了。我敬仰我的父親。他是一家影片公司的重要人物，寫過好多劇本。他一定會比母親更加讚賞我這首精彩的詩。

　　快到八點鐘的時候，父親終於回來了。他進了飯廳，目光被餐桌上的那首詩吸引住了。我緊張極了。

　　「這是什麼？」他伸手拿起了我的詩。

　　「親愛的，發生了一件美妙的事。巴迪寫了一首詩，精彩極了……」母親上前說道。

　　「對不起，我自己會判斷的。」父親開始讀詩。

　　我把頭埋得低低的。詩只有十行，可我覺得他讀了很長的時間。

　　「我看這首詩糟糕透了。」父親把詩放回原處。

　　我的眼睛濕潤了，頭也沉重得抬不起來。

　　「親愛的，我真不懂你這是什麼意思！」母親嚷道，「這不是在你的公司里。巴迪還是個孩子，這是他寫的第一首詩。他需要鼓勵。」

　　「我不明白，」父親並不退讓，「難道世界上糟糕的詩還不夠多麼？哪條法律規定巴迪一定要成為詩人？」

　　我再也受不了了。我沖飯廳，跑進自己的房間，撲到床上痛哭起來。飯廳里，父母還在為那首詩爭吵著。

　　幾年後，當我再拿出那首詩看時，不得不承認父親是對的。那的確是一首糟糕的詩。不過母親還是一如既往地鼓勵我，因此我一直在寫作。有一次我鼓起勇氣給父親看一篇我寫的短篇小說。「寫得不怎麼樣，但還不是毫無希望。」根據父親的批語，我學著進行修改，那時我還不滿12歲。

　　現在，我已經寫了很多作品，出版、發行了一部部小說、戲劇和電影劇本。我越來越體會到我當初是多麼幸運。我有個慈詳的母親，她常常對我說：「巴迪，這是你寫的嗎？精彩極了。」我還有個嚴肅的父親，他總是皺著眉頭，說：「這個糟糕透了。」一個作家，應該說生活中的每一個人，都需要來自母親的力量，這種愛的力量是靈感和創作源泉。但是僅僅有這個是不全面的，它可能會把人引入歧途。所以還需要警告的力量來平衡，需要有人時常提醒你：「小心，注意，總結，提高。」

　　這些年來，我少年時代聽到的這兩種聲音一直交織在我的耳際：「精彩極了」，「糟糕透了」；「精彩極了」，「糟糕透了」……它們像兩股風不斷地向我吹來。我謹慎地把握住生活的小船，使它不被哪一股風颳倒。我從心底里知道，「精彩極了」也好，「糟糕透了」也好，這兩個極端的斷言有一個共同的出發點—那就是愛。在愛的鼓舞下，我努力地向前駛去。

原文：

THE WONDERFUL LOUSY POEM

By 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.

"Imagine, we would have finished the
picture tonight," my father was shouting. "Instead that blank blank
MORON, that blank blank BLANK suddenly gets it into her beautiful but 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!
Now I have to go down to her beach house tonight and beg her to come back on
Monday."

My father always paced determinedly as he
ranted against the studio greats, and now as he wheeled he paused and glared at
his plate. There was a suspenseful silence. He was reaching for my poem. I
lowered my head and stared down into my plate. I was full of anxious daydreams.
How wonderful it would be if this very first work of mine drove away the angry
clouds that now darkened my important father"s face!

"What is this?" I heard him say.

"Ben, Buddy has been waiting for you
for hours," my mother said. "A wonderful thing has happened. Buddy
has written his first poem. And it"s beautiful, absolutely amaz-"

"If you don"t mind, I"d like to decide
that for myself," Father said.

Now was the moment of decision. I kept my
face lowered to my plate. It could not have taken very long to read that poem.
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. I could not bear to look up for the verdict. But in a moment I was to
hear it.

"I think it"s lousy," my father
said.

I couldn"t look up. I was ashamed of my
eyes 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
needs encouragement."

"I don"t know why," my father
held his ground. "Isn"t there enough lousy poetry in the world already? I
don"t know any law that says Buddy has to become a poet."

I forget what my mother said. I wasn"t
hearing so well because it is hard to hear clearly when your head is making its
own sounds of crying. On my left, she was saying soothing things to me and
critical things of my father. But I clearly remember his self-defense:
"Look, I pay my best writers $2,000 a week. All afternoon I"ve been
tearing apart their stuff. I only pay Buddy 50 cents a week. And you"re trying
to tell me I don"t have a right to tear apart his stuff if I think it"s
lousy!"

That expressive vernacular adjective hit me
over the heart like a hard fist. I couldn"t stand it another second. I ran from
the dining room bawling. I staggered up to my room and 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.

That may have been the end of the anecdote
— but not of its significance for me.

A few years later I took a second look at
that first poem, and reluctantly I had to agree with my father"s harsh
judgment. It was a pretty lousy poem. After a while, I worked up the courage to
show him something new, a primitive short story written in what I fancied to be
the dark Russian manner. My father thought it was overwritten but not hopeless.
I was learning to rewrite. And my mother was learning that she could criticize
me without crushing me. You might say we were all learning. I was going on 12.

But it wasn"t until I was at work on my
first novel, a dozen years later, that the true meaning of that painful
"first poem" experience dawned on me. I had written a first chapter,
but I didn"t think it was good enough. I wanted to do it over. My editor, a
wise hand who had counseled O"Neill and Sinclair Lewis and William Faulkner,
told me not to worry, to keep on going, the first chapter was fine. Keep
writing, just let it flow, it"s wonderful, he encouraged me. Only when it was
all finished and I was in a triumphant glow of achievement did he take me down
a peg. "That chapter may be a little weak at that. If I were you, I"d look
at it again." Now, on the crest of having written a novel, I could absorb
a sharp critical blow.

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, did you really write this — I think
it"s wonderful!" and a father who shook his head no and drove me to tears
with his, "I think it"s lousy." A writer, in fact all of us in life, needs
that mother force, the loving force from which all creation flows; and yet the
mother force alone is incomplete, even misleading, finally destructive, without
the father force to caution, "Watch. Listen. Review. Improve."

Those conflicting but complementary voices
of my childhood echo down through the years — wonderful, lousy, wonderful,
lousy — like two powerful, opposing winds buffeting me. I try to navigate my
little craft so as not to capsize before either. Between the two poles of
affirmation and doubt, both in the name of love, I try to follow my true
course.

鏈接：Sarasota Herald-Tribune

懶得去水印了

你很難很難想像我有多懶，我可以在冬天穿著睡衣在沒暖氣的家瑟瑟發抖，懶得換衣服。
可以在夏天的客廳蒸著自然桑拿，我妹叫我進房間吹空調也不去，懶得挪窩。
也可以坐在客廳一下午最後因為懶得按電視的開關鍵放棄看李榮浩。
我懶到回復能回一個字絕不兩個字……
種種。

所以在春節過後父母上班的寒假，每個起床後看到自己的水杯我都是絕望的，我的複雜心路在那些個早上（也許是中午）起床後一遍遍的重播:

想喝水。
杯子里剩的隔夜的水，不想喝。
倒掉倒開水的話，又會很燙半天喝不到。
算了，還不如不喝了。

……

奇怪的還在於，我寧可下樓買可樂我也懶得倒掉水杯的水，拿起水瓶，向水杯倒上熱水。

一直到我要離開家上學時時，我媽隨口說了一句震撼到我的話:「每天我上班前都給你往水杯倒了半杯熱水的，等你醒來涼了你再加熱水就可以直接喝了。」

她是隨口說道，我也沒接話，我腦子裡閃過的是每次看完水杯後眼神掠過冰箱，光亮的冰箱門上反射著的我的絕望的眼神。

我想著每個清晨那被倒掉的水，我第一次覺得母愛在我心中具像化，那就是我媽給我水杯倒水的動作，那就是每天早上我水杯里的半杯涼白開。

我媽不知道我的這段心路，也沒有其他人知道，如果今天我不寫下來。

我感覺我爹媽給的愛根本沒什麼區別。
都是一個德性。
希望，你優秀有事業。
給錢，管的少。
說的話也大同小異。

即沒有什麼父愛如山也沒有什麼母愛如水。
就是「人生就是這樣的，你自己看著辦，錢和房子給你，你也別煩我們」。

不知道是不是都這樣，但我家裡是這樣吧
大一寒假，爺爺被查出肺癌，
爸爸選擇了瞞著我，讓我又安心上了一年學
媽媽選擇偷偷告訴我，讓我在爺爺最後的日子可以好好陪陪他
面對生活的暴風雨，
爸爸總是習慣了讓我躲在他的羽翼下
媽媽總是怕我將來不夠自立
但是我知道，這一切都基於一個愛，

我和父親特別像，是那種非常不善於表達情感的人，他平時十分嚴肅，只有喝醉到一定程度才會給我打電話說什麼我愛你之類的話，我印象中十八年來只有兩次。而我則根本不知道該怎麼回應。所以看瘋狂原始人時候，向來叛逆的女兒抱住死裡逃生的grug說「I love you,too」時候，我眼淚差一點掉下來。父愛給我的感覺就是內斂多一些，也不如母愛那樣細膩，但是會在某些細節比較突出。一些特殊的日子，或者我要參加比賽的事情，我爸記得會更清楚。但是去大學報到的時候，我從老家太原飛去北京和我爸碰頭，他只帶了一個箱子，什麼都是在北京現買的，由於我們都不夠細心，一個多月了我連褥子都沒有…orz
至於母愛，我只想說一件事，也許沒那麼強的代表性，但是很想寫這個。
回老家之前，媽媽陪我去超市買一些路上要帶的東西。走到乾果區的時候，她拿了一包開心果。我不喜歡吃那麼鹹的零食，讓她放回去，但是媽媽當時特別溫柔地看著我說，希望我姑娘在大學的四年，一直都開開心心的。我媽媽的眼神和語氣，當時真的讓我心頭一動。
哦對了，十一媽媽送我回北京，光被褥就帶了一個大箱子…看著一大堆行李好捉急…

我也來說一說。
父愛體現：
在外工作一年多了，辭職回家，你懂的。。家裡面不希望在外面的兒子辭職回來的，還是希望能在外面一直打拚得好。
回家的時候，父母親自去車站接的我。後來我爸說，兒子在外打拚不容易，回來做父母得必須要去接，這是做父母應該做的。感動的一塌糊塗。。

冬天，我打電話回去，我說我想辭職，媽媽讓我仔細想想，盡量穩定點，爸爸說想就去做吧，趁我和你媽媽還年輕…

母愛是渾然天成，出於原始，不需要任何條件！母愛是化學反應，生物本能！
父愛則是文明發展的結果，是社會意識和習俗的約束下產生的，並非生物本能，父愛與當事人文化層次，思想水平有極大的關係。
也就是說，不論是原始森林還是現在文明，母愛都存在，化學激素會激發母親去執行保護撫育後代的程序。。而父愛則必須在文明社會在「輿論壓力，思想壓力，精神追求，文化驅使」的逼迫下才會產生和執行！
因此母愛是無條件的～即使劍拔弩張，母愛依然存在！
父愛是有條件，更多的是一種交換。比如你要討得父親的喜歡，讓他感到有面子，讓他覺得付出是值得的等等，父愛的深度與父親的思想文化水平有極大的關係！！！
因此越原始，母愛越突出，缺乏文明引導的父愛質量差～越底層，社會歌頌母愛明顯越主流
越文明，父愛越突出，理性有效的父愛逐步比母愛更具有效性！思想培育和物質干預成為父愛的核心影響力
郎才女貌，不無道理！！

母親在我12歲的時候去世，有一天不舒服，在家裡吐了一地，父親就一臉的厭惡，讓我自己把嘔吐物打掃了，但母親大概是會心疼你的吧

母愛是「獎學金啊？那就不用給生活費了吧」

我媽給我介紹的暑期工我從來沒見過工資

找到實習工作後，「你自己掙錢養活自己就行了」

我媽對我的願望就是，這破孩子，能讓自己活著就行了

日常是「發胖不是你的強項嗎？」「其實你看久了也沒這麼丑」「那個雞蛋你不許碰啊，自己砸個鴨蛋吧」

有了囡囡之後，連蛋都只配吃普通鴨蛋（囡囡吃的是托關係買來的土雞蛋）

父愛是工作的第一年，難得能休息回家，晚上到家7點多，我爸五點下班就在離家最近的車站等我，怕我走回去凍著

然後，直到現在，他還常常問我缺錢嗎？不夠可以找他要（他自己每個月零花錢也才200，從沒見過自己工資卡）

我爸眼裡我就是小公舉啊，還是沒斷奶型的啊

半夜膽囊炎扛著我就去醫院啊，凌晨三點陪我掛完點滴第二天還要去上班