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读精彩极了和糟糕透了有感

来源:读后感 作者:读后感 时间:05-04 11:43
读“精彩极了”和“糟糕透了”有感_450字

  今天我读了书里的一篇课文,是美国着名作家巴德舒尔伯格的“精彩极了”和“糟糕透了”。

  这篇课文讲的是美国着名作家巴德舒尔的父母对他小时候写的一首诗的不同评价的事。母亲对他的评价是精彩极了,因为她知道巴迪还是个孩子,他需要鼓励。而父亲的评价是糟糕透了,因为他认为只有严厉才能教育好孩子。

  在生活中,我也遇过这样的问题,在三年级的期末考试,英语我考了99。5分,在一道判断题中,开始我认为是对的,我就打勾,但后来我想了一下,认为是错的,我就只在勾上加一划,当老师看的时候,他不知道我是判断对还是错,就扣了我0。5分,那时我排第一名,我高高兴兴地回家了。我回到家,急忙的告诉妈妈,并拿给她看,妈妈看后满脸喜悦,高兴地说:“你太棒了!”我听后一蹦三尺高,迫不及待的想给爸爸看,我想爸爸英语较好,他一定会表扬我的。爸爸回来了,我把试卷拿给爸爸,爸爸看后,他的神情出乎我的意料,“你太粗心了,原本可以考100分的,你把这道题抄20遍,并且记住。”爸爸火冒三丈,皱着眉纹凶狠狠的说。“我不明白,爸爸为什么这么对我难道我不是他的亲生儿子”,我以前有这么想过。

  现在,我明白了父母的我们这么严厉,是为了我们在人生道路上,不会失去平衡。

  父母的不同评价,都出自——爱,这个字比划不多,可它真正的含义是千言万语也表达不尽。让我们在这个不同的爱中平衡自己吧!使自己成为一个“不倒翁”。

河北保定定兴县定兴实验小学六年级:星座之星

《“精彩极了”和“糟糕透了”》读后感_2000字

  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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