高三英语培优·名著阅读之心灵鸡汤精选 Act 3（答案在最后）
沈大高速
香蕉汁的做法班级：____________学号：____________姓名：____________
心灵鸡汤精选Act 3
对称式话题归类 | 润唇膏保质期阅读难度 | 词数 |
父女亲情 | 五星 | 997 经营状况 |
| | |
【文章梗概】我小时候，爸爸总在打字机上写小说。后来我们大吵一架，冷战四年。是彼此的思念让我们最后原谅和解。爸爸过世后，我发现了他写给妈妈的情书，这刷新了我对爸爸的认知---他不是只有严肃的样子，也有温柔多情的一面。这封信也重新点燃了我对写作的热爱。人生如戏，这就是我和爸爸的故事---第一幕，是误解；第二幕，是争执；第三幕，是爱。
We cannot destroy kindred: Our chains stretch a little sometimes, but they never break.
~Marie de Rabutin-Chantal, Marqui de Sévigné
种南瓜Most of my childhood memories of my father include watching him as he sat at his desk, typing away on his typewriter for hours almost every night. He dreamed of publishing a novel. He worked tirelessly on it for years. It was a rious, unntimental novel, much like my father, who was a rious, unntimental man. Or so I thought.
Despite being fearful of my father, I could not help but be fascinated by his never-ending typing. Dad ud his index fingers to type, and he typed very loudly. Peck, peck, peck emanated constantly from his corner of the family room.
Although I was a generally obedient child, I morphed into a teenage hellion. While I was busy rebelling against my overly protective parents, my father continued working on his novel. Between heated arguments, he and I ignored each other. Looking back, I believe this was how it had to be for us. During this time, I fell in love with the written word, but never shared this new passion with Dad. His peck, peck, peck was just background noi to me during tho teenage years.
When I was twenty-two years old, my father and I had a monumental argument that led to
my dramatic departure from his hou. I refud to return for another four years. And during tho four long years, I did not utter a single word to him.
While I was on this lf-impod sabbatical from my father, my career progresd nicely. My life appeared to be pleasant and stable. And yet, I often dreamed about my father, feeling melancholy and empty when I awoke. Eventually, my mother shared with me that he frequently cried in his sleep, fretting about my abnce. Given that he was an outwardly unemotional man, I did not know how to react except with disbelief. I wanted to return to him, but he and I were worlds apart, at least in my mind. It emed like we could not coexist peacefully.
Still, I was completely torn. Throughout my twenties, I did some extensive soul-arching. Finally, I had a stunning breakthrough: My father and I were actually the same! Both of us were strong-willed and proud and, most importantly, we misd each other dearly. I realized it wasn’t his job to be the person I wanted him to be. It was my job to love and accept the person he was. The epiphanies led to a miraculous and long-awaited recon
ciliation with Dad that shocked everyone. Our silent war was finally over after four emotionally excruciating years.
He never asked me why I drastically changed my attitude toward him. He just took me back into his open arms without asking for even a 运动小游戏mblance of an explanation — just what one would expect a loving and forgiving father to do. To be honest, at the time, I didn’t know if he had forgiven me or I had forgiven him. But looking back, I realize that we had forgiven each other.
During the golden years of his life, we had a wonderful time together. Eventually, he started to talk to me about his novel. Peck, peck, peck became a newly comforting sound to my ears. But I still never talked to him about my love for writing. Mostly, I felt I had to “forget” about writing to pursue a more practical career. Or perhaps I feared I would never be as talented a writer as he was. After all, the last thing I wanted to do was to disappoint my father.
As I grew clor to Dad, I thought I knew everything there was to know about him. Little di
d I know about the surpri he would leave me.
When I was thirty-two, he pasd away right before Father’s Day. After the funeral, I was organizing his belongings when I found a very old manuscript that I did not recognize. As I began to read it, I realized that it was an extremely romantic account about my mother, a love letter so to speak, written by my father! I was in shock as I read his beautiful words. Was the hopeless, ntimental romantic who wrote this letter actually my frequently stern, rious father? I could not believe it, and neither did anyone el.
My mother had little recollection of this letter, which led me to suspect that I was the first person to read it. It was as if my father had let me in on his life’s cret so that we could continue our relationship even after he had left. I misd him even more.
One of the biggest ironies of my life is that I understood my father better in death than I did when he was alive. The way I e it now, this love story between Dad and me happened exactly the way it was meant to. For most of my life, I didn’t really understand him, and when I was ready to truly know and appreciate him, he was gone. But in his abs
ence, Dad left me a hidden treasure in the form of a romantic account, a love letter, about my mother so that I could discover the man that he was underneath.
Perhaps I was meant to find his letter later in life so that he could inspire me to write again. Dad pasd away before realizing his dream of completing his novel. However, I know in my heart that he is sitting right next to me, finishing his novel as I type the very words. I can hear the peck, peck, peck — the sound of my father, the cret hopeless romantic.浦东新区公租房
