我父亲的手提箱读后感摘录(8)

but my story has a symmetry8 that immediately reminded me of something else that day, and that brought me an even deeper sense of guilt. twenty-three years before my father left me his suitcase, and four years after i had decided, aged 22, to become a novelist, and, abandoning all else, shut myself up in a room, i finished my first novel, cevdet bey and sons;
with trembling hands i had given my father a typescript of the still unpublished novel, so that he could read it and tell me what he thought. this was not simply because i had confidence in his taste and his intellect: his opinion was very important to me, because he, unlike my mother, had not opposed my wish to become a writer. at that point, my father was not with us, but far away.
i waited impatiently for his return. when he arrived two weeks later, i ran to open the door. my father said nothing, but he at once threw his arms around me in a way that told me he had liked it very much. for a while, we were plunged9 into the sort of awkward silence that so often accompanies moments of great emotion. then, when we had calmed down and begun to talk, my father resorted to highly charged and exaggerated language to express his confidence in me or my first novel: