国家开放大学：2010—2011学年第一学期“开放本科”英语专业文学阅读与欣赏期末试题（1月）.pdf_大学文库

intellectual projects,helping to bring "culture"to the exuberant Hollywood community of the1920's. 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.She poured out her praise.Why,this poem was nothing short of genius! I glowed."What time will Father be home?"I asked.I could hardly wait to show him. I spent the best part of that afternoon preparing for his arrival.First,I wrote the poem out in my finest flourish.Then I crayoned an elaborate border around it that would do justice to its brilliant content.As seven o'clock drew near,I confidently placed it on my father's plate on the dining room table. But my father did not return at seven.Seven-fifteen came.Seven-thirty.The suspense was exquisite.I admired my father.I like to go to the studio and watch the cuts of his new pictures in his big projection room.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. But this evening when my father burst in,his mood seem even more thunderous than usual.An hour late for dinner,he could not sit down but circled the long dining room with a Scotch highball in his hand,calling down terrible oaths on his employees.I can see him now,a big Havana cigar in one hand,highball in the other,crying out against the Fates that had sentenced him to the cruel job of running a Hollywood studio. "Imagine,we would have finished the picture tonight,"my father was shouting. "Instead that moron (stupid person)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 1000 a minute while this silly little blank,who's lucky she isn't behind the counter of a five-and- ten,walks off the set！And now I have to beg her to come back on Monday！” He wheeled in his pacing,paused and glared at his plate.There was a suspenseful silence."What is this?"He was reaching for my poem. "Ben,a wonderful thing has happened,my mother began."Buddy has written his first 455

intellectual projects, helping to bring "culture" to the exuberant Hollywood community of the 1920's. 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. She poured out her praise. Why , this poem was nothing short of genius! I glowed. "What time will Father be hor,ne?" I asked. I could hardly wait to show him. I spent the best part of that afternoon preparing for his arrival. First , I wrote the poem out in my finest flourish. Then I crayoned an elaborate border around it that would do justice to its brilliant content. As seven 0' clock drew near, I confidently placed it on my father plate on the dining room table. But my father did not return at seven. Seven-fifteen came. Seven-thirty. The suspense was exquisite. I admired my father. I like to go to the studio and watch the cuts of his new pictures in his big projection room. 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. But this evening when my father burst in , his mood seem even more thunderous than usual. An hour late for dinner, he could not sit down but circled the long dining room with a Scotch highball in his hand , calling down terrible oaths on his employees. I can see him now , a big Havana cigar in one hand , highball in the other, crying out against the Fates that had sentenced him to the cruel job of running a Hollywood studio. "Imagine , we would have finished the picture tonight ," my father was shouting. "Instead that moron (stupid person) 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 $ 1000 a minute while this silly little blank , who' s lucky she isn' t behind the counter of a five-andten , walks off the set! And now I have to beg her to come back on Monday!" He wheeled in his pacing , paused and glared at his plate. There was a suspenseful silence."What is this?"He was reaching for my poem- "Ben , a wonderful thing has happened ," my mother began. "Buddy has written his first 455

poem！And it's beautiful,absolutely amaz一” "If you don't mind,I'd like to decide that for myself,"Father said. 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 remember wondering why it was taking so long.I could hear my father breathing.Then I could hear him dropping the poem back on the table.Now came the moment of decision. “I think it's lousy,”my father said.. I couldn't look up.My eyes were 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?No law says Buddy has to become a poet. They quarreled over it,and I still remember my father's self-defense:"Look,I pay my best writers 2000 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!" I couldn't stand it another second.I ran from the dining room bawling.Up in my room I threw myself on the bed and sobbed. That may have been the end of the anecdote,but not of its significance for me. Inevitably the family wounds healed.My mother began talking to my father again.My father asked me whether I would like to go to a prizefight-his favorite recreation.I even began committing poetry again,though of course I dared not expose it to my father. A few years later I took a second look at that first poem: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 over- written 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 years later that the true meaning of that painful "first poem" 456

poem! And it' s beautiful , absolutely amaz "If you don' t mind , I' d like to decide that for myself, "Father said. 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 remember wondering why it was taking so long. I could hear my father breathing. Then I could hear him dropping the poem back on the table. Now came the moment of decision. "I think it 气lousy my father said. I couldn't look up. My eyes were 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. Thes巳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? No law says Buddy has to become a poet. " They quarreled over it. and I still remember my father's self-defense: "Look. I pay my best writers $ 2000 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!" I couldn' t stand it another second. I ran from the dining room bawling. Up in my room I threw myself on the bed and sobbed. That may have been the end of the anecdote. but not of its significance for me. Inevitably the family wounds healed. My mother began talking to my father again. My father asked me whether I would like to go to a prizefight - hisfavorite recreation. I even began committing poetry again. though of course I dared not expose it to my father. A few years later I took a second look at that first poem: 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 years later that the true meaning of that painful "first poem" 456