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" 456poem! 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 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