>>我感興趣，馬上在線咨詢Prompt: What you do in the classroom defines only a part of who you are. How do you spend your time when you are not in class?]

At my childhood home in Macau, frames of Chinese brush calligraphy and paintings were everywhere. As a kid, I did not care much about those “hanging things.” My family only talked about their value, because artists of posthumous fame created them. Since my grandparents, my parents and their friends just regarded them as decorations and even displays of wealth, I did not learn to appreciate them as art until I was fourteen.

In my Chinese primary school, Chinese calligraphy was an academic subject. I had no interest in it, because it was a messy art. I was always watching out for the ink -- if I put too much on a brush, the ink would drip, and the whole piece would be smeared. I always wondered, “Why do people still want to write with those clumsy brushes?” It took me a long time to learn how to handle that “clumsy” brush correctly. The teacher often told us, “You should be able to hold an egg in your hand while you’re holding the brush, ” yet in the first year, I learned only how to make dots, because the brush kept slipping.

Despite my initial indifference toward this fading art, I did learn how to write well, using both pen and brush. Through practicing Chinese calligraphy, I learned how to structure a Chinese word, which piqued my interest. For example, the Chinese character of “horse” actually looks like a horse. When I was in sixth grade, my teacher nominated me for an annual Chinese calligraphy competition. My family was elated, because writing well in Chinese calligraphy was a sign of being a scholar. They so desperately wanted me to win that they hired a calligraphy teacher to teach me to write the hardest form of calligraphy. In three months, I only learned how to imitate my teacher’s writing, but soon I would be taught an unexpected lesson: at the competition, I blanked out after being given a poem that I had never practiced before. I could not write a word of my own style. I lost. And I cried. I felt I disgraced my school, my family, my calligraphy teacher, and most of all, myself.

After the competition, my calligraphy teacher said to me, “You have no passion, no respect, no will in writing Chinese calligraphy. That’s why you lost. Girl, let us start over. Let me teach you what Chinese calligraphy really means.” And so I began to learn the basics. After first learning how to hold a brush properly, in a few months I was able to write a full page of words in my own style. I developed a new attitude and a passion. I began to understand that it took patience, determination and a will to write well. The harmony between each line, each word and even each stroke is crucial in a piece. The wrong placement or even the inadequate use of force will ruin a piece; this adds to my fascination. The foundation of writing a perfect piece of calligraphy is thinking and planning. Through Chinese calligraphy, I found my philosophy of life: to plan before I act. The goal I now plan to achieve is to promote and preserve calligraphy as an art, and as an approach to life.

點(diǎn)評(píng)：

這是一篇極為普通的描寫失敗的作文。作者講述了自己對(duì)中國書法經(jīng)過了不在意－>討厭－>被迫接受－>產(chǎn)生興趣－>新的激情－>濃厚興趣的思想變化過程。在這變化過程中穿插了一個(gè)失敗的小故事－在一次書法競賽中由于作者無法寫出真正屬于自己風(fēng)格的漢字導(dǎo)致他最后競賽的落榜。這個(gè)失敗看是作者人生的一個(gè)轉(zhuǎn)折，作者從這次失敗中對(duì)中國書法有了一個(gè)新的思考和看法－只有對(duì)中國書法有激情的人才能真正成為一名書法家或者做中國書法方面的研究。同時(shí)這次失敗也讓作者萌生了要弘揚(yáng)和繼承中國書法精髓的人生目標(biāo)。

作者在構(gòu)思這篇文章的時(shí)候有一個(gè)大體的思路，但是描寫卻不到位。作者花太多的筆墨在情節(jié)鋪墊上了，反而對(duì)故事的核心－失敗的結(jié)果（也是作者人生的轉(zhuǎn)折）卻草草了事，一筆帶過。雖然一篇出色的描寫失敗的作文不必浪費(fèi)太多時(shí)間去設(shè)法美化失敗的結(jié)果，但關(guān)鍵的是作者要著重描寫這次失敗帶給自己的改變，而這個(gè)改變最好能具體到實(shí)際的例子當(dāng)中而不是空談目標(biāo)和愿望。

這篇文章內(nèi)容編排不合理，事例普通而不具太大說服力，形象刻畫不鮮明，所以總的來說不能算是一篇好的文章。

譯文：

［提示：你在課堂上的表現(xiàn)只能刻畫出你部分的性格特征。而在課堂之外，你又是如何度過的呢？］

在澳門我童年故鄉(xiāng)的家里，到處都擺設(shè)著一些中國毛筆書法作品和中國油畫。當(dāng)時(shí)的我只是個(gè)孩子，根本就不會(huì)在意這些掛在墻壁上的玩意兒。而我的家人只告訴我它們是很值錢的，因?yàn)檫@些都是著名的藝術(shù)家們死后所留下來的。從我的祖輩開始，我的父母和他們的朋友們就只是把這些書法作品和油畫當(dāng)作是裝飾甚至是財(cái)富向別人展示。而我是直到14歲才學(xué)會(huì)了把它們當(dāng)成藝術(shù)品來欣賞。

小學(xué)時(shí)，中國書法是我們要修讀的一門課程。當(dāng)時(shí)我對(duì)它一點(diǎn)興趣都沒有，因?yàn)樵谖业难壑兴淦淞恐徊贿^是一門零亂的藝術(shù)。而且我得時(shí)刻防備那些墨水--如果我的毛筆蘸了過多的墨水，墨水就會(huì)往下滴，那么整張紙都會(huì)被染黑。于是我經(jīng)常在想，為什么這么麻煩的毛筆還會(huì)有人想用它們來寫字。我花了很長的時(shí)間才學(xué)會(huì)了如何正確地使用這支麻煩的毛筆。而老師就經(jīng)常告訴我們，“你們?cè)谖展P的時(shí)候同時(shí)手上應(yīng)該可以握住一只雞蛋?！钡窃诘谝荒?，我只學(xué)會(huì)了在紙上打點(diǎn)，因?yàn)槊P總是從我的手上滑下來。

盡管剛開始我對(duì)這日漸衰退的藝術(shù)滿不在意，但我還是學(xué)會(huì)了怎樣用鋼筆和毛筆把字給寫好。通過不斷的書法練習(xí)，我學(xué)會(huì)了如何去構(gòu)造一個(gè)漢字，這也激發(fā)了我對(duì)中國書法的學(xué)習(xí)興趣。正如“馬”字的外形就像一匹馬。我讀六年級(jí)的時(shí)候，老師就曾推薦我參加年度的中國書法比賽。我家里人都為此感到特別高興，因?yàn)楹玫臅ㄊ菍W(xué)者的標(biāo)志。他們是如此地期盼我能贏得比賽，還專門請(qǐng)了書法老師來教我練高難度的書法。此后的三個(gè)月，我只學(xué)著如何去模仿老師的書法，但很快我就得到教訓(xùn)了：在比賽中，我抽到的題目是一首我從來都沒有練習(xí)過的詩歌，當(dāng)時(shí)我的腦子一片空白。最后我寫不出一個(gè)有我自己獨(dú)特風(fēng)格的字。我輸了，我哭了。 我覺得自己辜負(fù)了學(xué)校、家人還有書法老師，更重要的是，我辜負(fù)了我自己。

比賽過后，書法老師對(duì)我說：“你對(duì)書法沒有激情，沒有敬意，也沒有足夠的決心去學(xué)好書法。這就是你輸?shù)脑?。孩子，讓我們重新開始。讓我告訴你書法的真正含義?！庇谑俏揖蛷淖罨镜膶W(xué)起。在學(xué)會(huì)了如何正確握筆之后的幾個(gè)月里，我就能寫上滿滿一頁的有著自己風(fēng)格的毛筆字了。對(duì)于書法我有了一種新的態(tài)度和新的激情。我開始明白到要學(xué)好書法是需要耐心，決心和意志的。行之間、字之間甚至筆畫之間的布置對(duì)于整個(gè)布局來說都是至關(guān)重要的。錯(cuò)誤的編排或者甚至是用力的不均衡都會(huì)毀掉整個(gè)作品。這點(diǎn)讓我對(duì)書法更加著迷了。一份好的書法作品的前提是你要思考和計(jì)劃。通過學(xué)習(xí)書法，我找到了人生的真締：先計(jì)劃，再行動(dòng)?，F(xiàn)在我計(jì)劃要實(shí)現(xiàn)的目標(biāo)是要將中國書法作為一門藝術(shù)和一種生活方式予以弘揚(yáng)和繼承。

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