英语世界翻译竞赛原文
第七届翻译大赛英文原文
OpticsManini NayarWhen I was seven, my friend Sol was hit by lightning and died. He was on a rooftop quietly playing marbles when this happened. Burnt to cinders, we were told by the neighbourhood gossips. He'd caught fire, we were assured, but never felt a thing. I only remember a frenzy of ambulances and long clean sirens cleaving the silence of that damp October night. Later, my father came to sit with me. This happens to one in several millions, he said, as if a knowledge of the bare statistics mitigated the horror. He was trying to help, I think. Or perhaps he believed I thought it would happen to me. Until now, Sol and I had shared everything; secrets, chocolates, friends, even a birthdate. We would marry at eighteen, we promised each other, and have six children, two cows and a heart-shaped tattoo with 'Eternally Yours' sketched on our behinds. But now Sol was somewhere else, and I was seven years old and under the covers in my bed counting spots before my eyes in the darkness.After that I cleared out my play-cupboard. Out went my collection of teddy bears and picture books. In its place was an emptiness, the oak panels reflecting their own woodshine. The space I made seemed almost holy, though mother thought my efforts a waste. An empty cupboard is no better than an empty cup, she said in an apocryphal aside. Mother always filled things up - cups, water jugs, vases, boxes, arms - as if colour and weight equalled a superior quality of life. Mother never understood that this was my dreamtime place. Here I could hide, slide the doors shut behind me, scrunch my eyes tight and breathe in another world. When I opened my eyes, the glow from the lone cupboard-bulb seemed to set the polished walls shimmering, and I could feel what Sol must have felt, dazzle and darkness. I was sharing this with him, as always. He would know, wherever he was, that I knew what he knew, saw what he had seen. But to mother I only said that I was tired of teddy bears and picture books. What she thought I couldn't tell, but she stirred the soup-pot vigorously.One in several millions, I said to myself many times, as if the key, the answer to it all, lay there. The phrase was heavy on my lips, stubbornly resistant to knowledge. Sometimes I said the words out of con- text to see if by deflection, some quirk of physics, the meaning would suddenly come to me. Thanks for the beans, mother, I said to her at lunch, you're one in millions. Mother looked at me oddly, pursed her lips and offered me more rice. At this club, when father served a clean ace to win the Retired-Wallahs Rotating Cup, I pointed out that he was one in a million. Oh, the serve was one in a million, father protested modestly. But he seemed pleased. Still, this wasn't what I was looking for, and in time the phrase slipped away from me, lost its magic urgency, became as bland as 'Pass the salt' or 'Is the bath water hot?' If Sol was one in a million, I was one among far less; a dozen, say. He was chosen. I was ordinary. He had been touched and transformed by forces I didn't understand. I was left cleaning out the cupboard. There was one way to bridge the chasm, to bring Solback to life, but I would wait to try it until the most magical of moments. I would wait until the moment was so right and shimmering that Sol would have to come back. This was my weapon that nobody knew of, not even mother, even though she had pursed her lips up at the beans. This was between Sol and me.The winter had almost guttered into spring when father was ill. One February morning, he sat in his chair, ashen as the cinders in the grate. Then, his fingers splayed out in front of him, his mouth working, he heaved and fell. It all happened suddenly, so cleanly, as if rehearsed and perfected for weeks. Again the sirens, the screech of wheels, the white coats in perpetual motion. Heart seizures weren't one in a million. But they deprived you just the same, darkness but no dazzle, and a long waiting.Now I knew there was no turning back. This was the moment. I had to do it without delay; there was no time to waste. While they carried father out, I rushed into the cupboard, scrunched my eyes tight, opened them in the shimmer and called out'Sol! Sol! Sol!' I wanted to keep my mind blank, like death must be, but father and Sol gusted in and out in confusing pictures. Leaves in a storm and I the calm axis. Here was father playing marbles on a roof. Here was Sol serving ace after ace. Here was father with two cows. Here was Sol hunched over the breakfast table. The pictures eddied and rushed. The more frantic they grew, the clearer my voice became, tolling like a bell: 'Sol! Sol! Sol!' The cupboard rang with voices, some mine, some echoes, some from what seemed another place - where Sol was, maybe. The cup- board seemed to groan and reverberate, as if shaken by lightning and thunder. Any minute now it would burst open and I would find myself in a green valley fed by limpid brooks and red with hibiscus. I would run through tall grass and wading into the waters, see Sol picking flowers. I would open my eyes and he'd be there,hibiscus-laden, laughing. Where have you been, he'd say, as if it were I who had burned, falling in ashes. I was filled to bursting with a certainty so strong it seemed a celebration almost. Sobbing, I opened my eyes. The bulb winked at the walls.I fell asleep, I think, because I awoke to a deeper darkness. It was late, much past my bedtime. Slowly I crawled out of the cupboard, my tongue furred, my feet heavy. My mind felt like lead. Then I heard my name. Mother was in her chair by the window, her body defined by a thin ray of moonlight. Your father Will be well, she said quietly, and he will be home soon. The shaft of light in which she sat so motionless was like the light that would have touched Sol if he'd been lucky; if he had been like one of us, one in a dozen, or less. This light fell in a benediction, caressing mother, slipping gently over my father in his hospital bed six streets away. I reached out and stroked my mother's arm. It was warm like bath water, her skin the texture of hibiscus.We stayed together for some time, my mother and I, invaded by small night sounds and the raspy whirr of crickets. Then I stood up and turned to return to my room.Mother looked at me quizzically. Are you all right, she asked. I told her I was fine, that I had some c!eaning up to do. Then I went to my cupboard and stacked it up again with teddy bears and picture books.Some years later we moved to Rourkela, a small mining town in the north east, near Jamshedpur. The summer I turned sixteen, I got lost in the thick woods there. They weren't that deep - about three miles at the most. All I had to do was cycle forall I was worth, and in minutes I'd be on the dirt road leading into town. But a stir in the leaves gave me pause.I dismounted and stood listening. Branches arched like claws overhead. The sky crawled on a white belly of clouds. Shadows fell in tessellated patterns of grey and black. There was a faint thrumming all around, as if the air were being strung and practised for an overture. And yet there was nothing, just a silence of moving shadows, a bulb winking at the walls. I remembered Sol, of whom I hadn't thought in years. And foolishly again I waited, not for answers but simply for an end to the terror the woods were building in me, chord by chord, like dissonant music. When the cacophony grew too much to bear, I remounted and pedalled furiously, banshees screaming past my ears, my feet assuming a clockwork of their own. The pathless ground threw up leaves and stones, swirls of dust rose and settled. The air was cool and steady as I hurled myself into the falling light.光学玛尼尼·纳雅尔谈瀛洲译在我七岁那年，我的朋友索尔被闪电击中死去了。
第十一届CASIO杯翻译竞赛英语比赛原文
第十一届CASIO杯翻译竞赛原文（英语组）To evoke the London borough of Diston, we turn to the poetry of Chaos:Each thing hostileTo every other thing: at every pointHot fought cold, moist dry, soft hard, and the weightlessResisted weight.So Des lived his life in tunnels. The tunnel from flat to school, the tunnel (not the same tunnel) from school to flat. And all the warrens that took him to Grace, and brought him back again. He lived his life in tunnels … And yet for the sensitive soul, in Diston Town, there was really only one place to look. Where did the eyes go? They went up, up.School – Squeers Free, under a sky of white: the weakling headmaster, the demoralised chalkies in their rayon tracksuits, the ramshackle little gym with its tripwires and booby traps, the Lifestyle Consultants (Every Child Matters), and the Special Needs Coordinators (who dealt with all the ‘non-readers’). In addition, Squeers Free set the standard for the most police call-outs, the least GCSE passes, and the highest truancy rates. It also led the pack in suspensions, expulsions, and PRU ‘offrolls’; such an offroll – a transfer to a Pupil Referral Unit – was usually the doorway to a Youth Custody Centre and then a Young Offender Institution. Lionel, who had followed this route, always spoke of his five and a half years (on and off) in a Young Offender Institution (or Yoi, as he called it) with rueful fondness, like one recalling a rite of passage – inevitable, bittersweet. I was out for a month, he would typically reminisce. Then I was back up north. Doing me Yoi.* * *On the other hand, Squeers Free had in its staff room an exceptional Learning Mentor – a Mr Vincent Tigg.What’s going on with you, Desmond? You were always an idle little sod. Now you can’t get enough of it. Well, what next?I fancy modern languages, sir. And history. And sociology. And astronomy. And –You can’t study everything, you know.Yes I can. Renaissance boy, innit.… You want to watch that smile, lad. All right. We’ll see about you. Now off you go.And in the schoolyard? On the face of it, Des was a prime candidate for persecution. He seldom bunked off, he never slept in class, he didn’t assault the teachers or shoot up in the toilets – and he preferred the company of the gentler sex (the gentler sex, at Squeers Free, being quite rough enough). So in the normal courseof things Des would have been savagely bullied, as all the other misfits (swats, wimps, four-eyes, sweating fatties) were savagely bullied – to the brink of suicide and beyond. They called him Skiprope and Hopscotch, but Des wasn’t bullied. How to explain this? To use Uncle Ringo’s favourite expression, it was a no-brainer. Desmond Pepperdine was inviolable. He was the nephew, and ward, of Lionel Asbo.It was different on the street. Once a term, true, Lionel escorted him to Squeers Free, and escorted him back again the same day (restraining, with exaggerated difficulty, the two frothing pitbulls on their thick steel chains). But it would be foolish to suppose that each and every gangbanger and posse-artist (and every Yardie and jihadi) in the entire manor had heard tell of the great asocial. And it was different at night, because different people, different shapes, levered themselves upward after dark … Des was fleet of foot, but he was otherwise unsuited to life in Diston Town. Second or even first nature to Lionel (who was pronounced ‘uncontrollable’ at the age of eighteen months), violence was alien to Des, who always felt that violence – extreme and ubiquitous though it certainly seemed to be – came from another dimension.So, this day, he went down the tunnel and attended school. But on his way home he feinted sideways and took a detour. With hesitation, and with deafening self-consciousness, he entered the Public Library on Blimber Road. Squeers Free had a library, of course, a distant Portakabin with a few primers and ripped paperbacks scattered across its floor … But this: rank upon rank of proud-chested bookcases, like lavishly decorated generals. By what right or title could you claim any share of it? He entered the Reading Room, where the newspapers, firmly clamped to long wooden struts, were apparently available for scrutiny. No one stopped him as he approached.He had of course seen the dailies before, in the corner shop and so on, and there were Gran’s Telegraph s, but his experience of actual newsprint was confined to the Morning Lark s that Lionel left around the flat, all scrumpled up, like origami tumbleweeds (there was also the occasional Diston Gazette). Respectfully averting his eyes from the Times, the Independent, and the Guardian, Des reached for the Sun, which at least looked like a Lark, with its crimson logo and the footballer’s fiancée on the cover staggering out of a nightclub with blood running down her neck. And, sure enough, on page three (News in Briefs) there was a hefty redhead wearing knickers and a sombrero.But then all resemblances ceased. You got scandal and gossip, and more girls, but also international news, parliamentary reports, comment, analysis … Until now he had accepted the Morning Lark as an accurate reflection of reality. Indeed, he sometimes thought it was a local paper (a light-hearted adjunct to the Gazette), such was its fidelity to the customs and mores of his borough. Now, though, as he stood there with the Sun quivering in his hands, the Lark stood revealed for what it was – a daily lads’ mag, perfunctorily posing as a journal of record.The Sun, additionally to recommend it, had an agony column presided over not by the feckless Jennaveieve, but by a wise-looking old dear called Daphne, who dealt sympathetically, that day, with a number of quite serious problems and dilemmas, and suggested leaflets and helplines, and seemed genuinely …。
翻译大赛第一届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛原文及参考译文
翻译大赛第一届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛原文及参考译文第一届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛原文及参考译文2010年原文Plutoria Avenue By Stephen LeacockThe Mausoleum Club stands on the quietest corner of the best residential street in the city. It is a Grecian building of white stone. Above it are great elm-trees with birds—the most expensive kind of birds—singing in the branches. The street in the softer hours of the morning has an almost reverential quiet. Great motors move drowsily along it, with solitary chauffeurs returning at 10.30 after conveying the earlier of the millionaires to their down-town offices. The sunlight flickers through the elm-trees, illuminating expensive nursemaids wheeling valuable children in little perambulators. Some of the children are worth millions and millions. In Europe, no doubt, you may see in the Unter den Linden Avenue or the Champs Elysées a little prince or princess go past with a chattering military guard to do honour. But that is nothing. It is not half so impressive, in the real sense, as what you may observe every morning on Plutoria Avenue beside the Mausoleum Club in the quietest part of the city. Here you may see a little toddling princess in a rabbit suit who owns fifty distilleries in her own right. There, in a lacquered perambulator, sails past a little hooded head that controls from its cradle an entire New Jersey corporation. The United States attorney-general is suing her as she sits, in a vain attempt to make her dissolve herself into constituent companies. Nearby is a child of four, in a khaki suit, who represents the merger of two trunk line railways. You may meet in the flickered sunlight any number of little princes and princesses for more real than the poor survivals of Europe. Incalculable infants wave their fifty-dollar ivory rattles in an inarticulate greeting to one another. A million dollars of preferred stock laughs merrily in recognition of a majority control going past in a go-cart drawn by an imported nurse. And through it all the sunlight falls through the elm-trees, and the birds sing and the motors hum, so that the whole world as seen from the boulevard of Plutoria Avenue is the very pleasantest place imaginable. Just below Plutoria Avenue, and parallel with it, the trees die out and the brick and stone of the city begins in earnest. Even from the avenue you see the tops of the sky-scraping buildings in the big commercial streets and can hear or almost hear the roar of the elevate railway, earning dividends. And beyond that again the city sinks lower, and is choked and crowded with the tangled streets and little houses of the slums. In fact, if you were to mount to the roof of the Mausoleum Club itself on Plutoris Avenue you could almost see the slums from there. But why should you? And on the other hand, if you never went up on the roof, but only dined inside among the palm-trees, you would never know that the slums existed—which is much better.参考译文普路托利大道李科克著曹明伦译莫索利俱乐部坐落在这座城市最适宜居住的街道最安静的一隅。
【英语世界翻译赛往届赛题】-第十二届原文
英译汉原文：The Tragedy of Climate ChangeBy Jennifer Wallace【1】Tragedies on the stage take place over a limited period of time. The protagonist is presented with a dilemma.He makes a choice.Terrible consequences rapidly ensue.As soon as Macbeth kills King Duncan,he is damned–his drunken porter turns his castle into hell,and unnatural signs of turmoil,such as horses eating each other,follow that same night.So swift is the action in the Scottish play that Macbeth and his wife want to speed up time,doing the deed“quickly”,feeling the“future in the instant”or willing to“jump the life to come”.The play hurtles towards its conclusion as the prophecies of the three witches come to pass,with devastating neatness.【2】But the tragedy of environmental disaster unfolds along a much more extended timescale.The bleaching of the coral reefs,the shrinking of the Arctic polar ice,the extreme droughts and floods taking place worldwide,are symptoms and portents of decisions already taken whose full consequences have not yet been felt.【3】There is a time lag between carbon emissions and temperaturerises:the one-degree increase in the global average temperature is a result of carbon emissions released40years ago,while the levels of carbon in the atmosphere right now–about412parts per million(ppm)and rising –are enough to cause two degrees of warming by the middle of the century.【4】This trajectory is also complicated by the so-called climate-change feedback loop.Once the Earth is warmed by more than 2˚C,the capacity of plants to absorb carbon dioxide through photosynthesis will be affected and they will start to puff the gas out instead of taking it in(the carbon feedback loop),causing temperatures to rise further.【5】The tragic narrative of climate change is much lengthier than tragic plots in the theatre,and stretches the connections between cause and consequence,transgression and punishment.It resembles Prometheus, nailed to his rock in Aeschylus’s play,knowing that centuries in the future his defiance will ensure the toppling of his enemy,Zeus.He knows the secret cause of Zeus’s overthrow from prophetic signs he can detect in the here and now,but is reluctant to divulge it.So the immovable fate of Zeus and Prometheus turns out to be based upon Prometheus’s will,and upon the brinkmanship between the two.【6】Climate change is not our problem,we tell ourselves.It is for future generations to worry about.But if we view climate change as a tragic narrative that can be read and interpreted in the same way as an Aeschylean or Shakespearean play,then we might think about time,fate and individual responsibility differently.【7】Tragic plots revolve around the moment when the hero makes the wrong choice.Macbeth kills the king;Oedipus murders his father; Prometheus steals fire from the gods.Fate plays a part in determining these decisions but each man also has free will and voluntarily enters into his chosen course of action.In Aeschylus’s Oresteia,Agamemnon willingly puts his head into the“yoke of necessity”,uniting free will and destiny.Prometheus revels in his free will and capacity for defiance. These tragic narratives forge the connections between the individual and the world,between the small choices we each make and the huge, inevitable consequences they unleash.【8】According to the writer and former soldier Roy Scranton,we have to treat existence as a tragedy to which we are stoically resigned.“We can learn to see each day as the death of what came before,freeing ourselves to deal with whatever problems the present offers withoutattachment or fear,”he writes.【9】Nevertheless,there exists an alternative way to think about climate crisis.Aeschylus does not shy away from confronting the weakening power of human agency in the face of the vast inhuman forces of time,place and destiny.But still he leaves room in his dramatic vision of the world for contingency,for resistance and responsibility.Progress is dependent upon each character’s knowledge and acknowledgement of the vagaries of self-deception or engagement.【10】We are not“free”to detach ourselves,but rather remain vitally attached,through tragic witness,to those“crawling glaciers”,to those signs of the past,present and future and to our own capacity for action.汉译英原文：闻香识书（节选）文/王鸿滨【1】“书香”一词，古已有之。
《英语世界》杯英、汉原文文本
《英语世界》杯英、汉原文文本Great PossessionsBy Aldo Leopold巨大财富奥尔多·利奥波德开阔的领地〔美〕奥尔多·利奥波德【1】One hundred and twenty acres, according to the County Clerk, is the extent of my worldly domain. But the County Clerk is a sleepy fellow, who never looks at his record books before nine o’clock. What they would show at daybreak is the question here at issue.一百二十英亩，据沙县书记员所言，是我拥有的世俗疆域。
但沙县书记员总是昏昏欲睡，上午九点之前从不浏览他的记录簿。
而拂晓时分领地上展现的一切才是问题所在。
按县书记员的话来说，眼前一百二十英亩的农场是我的领地。
不过，这家伙可贪睡了，不到日上三竿，是断然不会翻看他那些记录薄的。
那么拂晓时分，农场是怎样的一番景象，是个值得讨论的问题。
【2】Books or no books, it is a fact, patent both to my dog and myself, that at daybreak I am the sole owner of all the acres I can walk over. It is not only boundaries that disappear, but also the thought of being bounded. Expanses unknown to deed or map are known to every dawn, and solitude, supposed no longer to exist in my county, extends on every hand as far as the dew can reach.记录与否无关紧要，事实上，只有我与我的狗心知肚明，黎明时分我就是我走过所有地域的唯一主人。
02翻译竞赛英译中参赛原文
附件2翻译竞赛英译中参赛原文Dorothy BushAccording to Burke’s Peerage, there is hardly a family of any American president, however humble its domestic origins, that is not related in some convoluted manner to British royalty. Of them all, however, the Bush family is unquestionably the most regal, tracing its ancestry back to crowned heads in the fourteenth century. As biographer J.H. Hatfield notes, George Herbert Walker Bush is a fourteenth cousin of Queen Elizabeth II. Securely rooted in America’s Eastern establishment, merging ancestry with affluence, this inheritance has been more a challenge than a boon to the Bushes. In three generations of elected leadership, they have consistently downplayed their pedigree and their wealth. Although heritage is no bar to achievement, American voters tend to favor those who “made it” on their own.What was this prototypical Connecticut WASP, so preppy that his nickname is “Poppy”, doing in Texas in the first place? Perhaps there was an element of escape involved —although, unlike Richard Nixon’s longing after train whistles or Bill Clinton’s transcending of a dysfunctional family, Bush’s desire was not so much to leave behind the circumstances of his childhood as to create his own new chapter. Although his father could sometimes be forbidding and his mother more than a bit blunt, Bush loved and respected both his parents and appreciated the foundation they had provided him. When his new life in Texas turned to politics, that, too, was a family tradition. His father, a model of moral rectitude, had left his lucrative Wall Street career to serve in the United States Senate. Public service is valued on both sides of the Bush family. It was a maternal Walker uncle who told a reluctant young George W. Bush that “politics [is] the only occupation worth pursuing.” America has changed a lot since John Adams felt obliged to engage in politics so that his sons and their sons might be able to follow more elevated professions. Despite its aura of scandal and the bloodlust of an intrusive media, public life is still viewed by families like the Bushes as a worthy goal.The parents of George H. W. Bush were not smug snobs or status-conscious clubwomen, but strong individuals intent on their own achievements. Although his mother, Dorothy Walker Bush, faced limitations of caste and gender, she was described by her admiring daughter-in-law Barbara as “the most competitive living human.” Her ancestors, who were originally devout Catholics, arrived on the rugged coast of Maine in the seventeenth century. Moving to the more congenial colony of Maryland, they eventually settled in Missouri and intermingled with families of other denominations. One prominent Walker married a Presbyterian. Over time most of the family accepted the Episcopal ian faith that would be so firmly espoused by Dorothy. The family’s wealth originated in a dry-goods business in St. Louis. Longing to locate at the heart of commerce, Dorothy’s grandfather, George Herbert Walker, put its profits into an investment-banking firm in New York, which eventually became one of the nation’s largest private banks, Brown Brothers Harriman. An avid sportsman, he donated golf’s Walker Cup.The Bushes were equally enterprising and mobile, intertwined, as biographer Herbert Parmet wr ites, with “some of the great landholding families of New York and New England.” George H. W.Bush’s genial grandfather, Samuel, made his fortune not in Manhattan but as an industrialist in Columbus, Ohio. His son Prescott Bush, born in 1895, was sent east to school, to Phillips Academy in Andover, Massachusetts, and later to Yale, initiating a family tradition. Settling first in Milton, Massachusetts, Prescott made his own fortune as a Wall Street banker. The words used most often to characterize him a re “imposing,” “stern,” and “commanding.” He grew to six feet, four inches, with a full head of black hair. Parmet describes him as “austere, regal, dignified, and imperious” —a classic authority figure. He loved children, however, and would have five, although most of the day-to-day childrearing was always in the hands of his wife, Dorothy, whom he would marry in 1921 at the Church of Saint Ann in Kennebunkport, Maine.Had she been born a generation or two later, Dorothy Walker might have had a dazzling career of her own. She was the fire to her husband’s ice —outgoing, amusing, outspoken, and adventuresome, yet very much a lady. A proper marriage for her was the preoccupation of Dorothy’s protective parents, who still lived in St. Louis. After atte nding private schools, she was sent east for “finishing” at Miss Porter’s School in Farmington, Connecticut, in preparation for her presentation to society. Called “Dottie,” she particularly excelled in athletics. In 1918 she was runner-up in the girls’ national tennis tournament. She was so gifted an athlete that even at the age of thirty-nine, a mother of five, she took a set from a lady who had lost in the national tennis finals to the legendary Alice Marble.They were a handsome couple, Dorothy and Prescott Bush, although she was the more cheerful and sociable. Their first son, named for his father, was born after the frantic hospital ride in 1922. Two years later, their second son was horn, and named George Herbert Walker Bush, representing both f amilies. His grandfather Walker called him “Little Pop,” which became “Poppy.” There would be two more boys, and a welcome girl, Nancy. As Prescott’s investment house prospered, merged, and moved to Manhattan, the family relocated to a larger, comfortably unostentatious home in Greenwich, Connecticut.选自：Faith of Our Mothers 作者：Harold Gullan。
第十届翻译竞赛原文文档
江苏科技大学第十届翻译大赛英译汉竞赛原文Bob Dylan, Bill Murray and Henry Kissinger: Whenhonorees don’t want their prizeOn Sunday night, the ever-elusive Bill Murray is expected to take the stage at the Kennedy Center and accept the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor, an award he actively avoided receiving. Last week he told The Washington Post’s Geoff Edgers, “I really thought if I don’t answer the phone for awhile, maybe they’ll just move on to someone else.”They didn’t. They called and called, and then had other people call, and eventually, Murray gave in.This month, the same tactic was used by the Swedish Academy, who is responsible for awarding the Nobel prizes. Bob Dylan won the prize for Literature. The Academy called his manager. The press called his representatives. Dylan has yet to say a word. “One can say that it is impolite and arrogant. He is who he is,” one of the Academy members told the Swedish newspaper Dagens Nyheter this week.When the prize is bestowed on Dec. 10, it appears there’s a good chance Dylan won’t show up. So will he still get to become the first musician to receive the Nobel for literature?If the Academy follows the precedent set by the many award-giving institutions that have been snubbed throughout history, the answer is yes. In the world of prestigious prizes, the honor is yours whether you like it or not. Pick any well-known award, and there’s a good chance its chosen winners haven’t all deigned to make themselves available for the ceremony. For some, the snub is a statement. When Marlon Brando won an Academy Award for “The Godfather,” he boycotted the ceremony and sent a Native American actress named Sacheen Littlefeather in his place. She took the stage, waved away the award and told the audience that Brando couldn’t accept the award because of the treatment of American Indians by the film industry.Others seem to have little interest in the theatrics that usually surround award acceptance. Katharine Hepburn won four Oscars, but never showed up to claim them. “As for me, prizes are nothing,” she once said. “My prize is my work.” Woody Allenwon’t show up to the Oscars, either. His biographer Eric Lax told NPR that’s b ecause Allen, like his character in “Annie Hall,” quotes Sigmund Freud: “I would never want to belong to any club that would have someone like me for a member.”Some famous snubbers give no reasoning. Maggie Smith has been nominated for nine Emmys, and has won four times. She’s never showed up. When this year’s Emmy host Jimmy Kimmel announced another Smith win this year, he said, “Maggie, if you want this, it will be in the lost and found.” The 81-year-old Smith responded via a PBS Twitter account: “If Mr.Kimmel could please direct me to the lost and found office I will try and be on the next flight.”The world of Nobel prizes is far less star-studded than that of entertainment awards, but it’s hardly free of cold shoulders. The most notable came in 1973, when the Peace Prize was awarded to Vietnamese politician Le Duc Tho and then-U.S. Secretary of State Henry Kissinger, who negotiated a cease-fire agreement meant to bring about an end to the Vietnam War. But the conflict was two years away from ending. Awarding Tho and Kissinger the prize was so controversial, two members of the Nobel selection committee resigned in protest. Vietnam’s Tho refused it outright. Kissinger didn’t show at the ceremony, and tried to return the medal.But not once in the Nobe l committee’s 115-year history has it allowed a prize to be revoked or returned. Once it’s awarded, it’s awarded for life. In the case of Dylan, this history hasn’t stopped naysayers from calling for a do-over. While Dylan has showed up to accept awards in the past —including the Presidential Medal of Freedom — now, he seems to have no interest. Why give a prize to someone who doesn’t want it?His fans see his indifference as a charming characteristic of his mysterious persona. His critics hold it up as just another reason why a man so prominent shouldn’t have been chosen in the first place.“Bob Dylan now has a chance to do something truly great for literature: reject the Nobel Prize for Literature,” poet Amy King exp ressed to PEN America, a writers association. “He can take a stand and declare that fame and ease of consumption should not play a role in determining merit when it comes to focusing the public eye on one writer’s books.” Dylan certainly could try to reject the prize. But first, he’d have to acknowledge that he won it. （779字）汉译英竞赛原文请你把脚步放轻些一个人要赢得人们的尊敬，绝不是靠权威、靠装潢、靠强迫就能得到的。
03翻译竞赛中译英参赛原文
附件3翻译竞赛中译英参赛原文一、向美好的旧日时光道歉美好的旧日时光，渐行渐远。
在我的稿纸上，它们是代表怅惘的省略的句点；在我的书架上，它们是那本装帧精美，却蒙了尘灰的诗集；在我的抽屉里，它们是那张每个人都在微笑的合影；在我的梦里，它们是我梦中喊出的一个个名字；在我的口袋里，它们是一句句最贴心的劝语忠言……现在，我坐在深秋的藤椅里，它们就是纷纷坠落的叶子。
我尽可能接住那些叶子，不想让时光把它们摔疼了。
这是我向它们道歉的唯一方式。
向纷纷远去的友人道歉，我不知道一封信应该怎样开头，怎样结尾。
更不知道，字里行间，应该迈着怎样的步子。
向得而复失的一颗颗心道歉。
我没有珍惜你们，唯有期盼，上天眷顾我，让那一颗颗真诚的心，失而复得。
向那些正在远去的老手艺道歉，我没能看过一场真正的皮影戏，没能找一个老木匠做一个碗柜，没能找老裁缝做一个袍子，没能找一个“剃头担子”剃一次头……向美好的旧日时光道歉，因为我甚至没有时间怀念，连梦都被挤占了。
琐碎这样一个词仿佛让我看到这样一个老人，在异国他乡某个城市的下午，凝视着广场上淡然行走的白鸽，前生往事的一点一滴慢慢涌上心来：委屈、甜蜜、心酸、光荣……所有的所有在眼前就是一些琐碎的忧郁，却又透着香气。
其实生活中有很多让人愉悦的东西，它们就是那些散落在角落里的不起眼的碎片，那些暗香，需要唤醒，需要传递。
就像两个人的幸福，可以很小，小到只是静静地坐在一起感受对方的气息；小到跟在他的身后踩着他的脚印一步步走下去；小到用她准备画图的硬币去猜正反面；小到一起坐在路边猜下一个走这条路的会是男的还是女的……幸福的滋味，就像做饭一样，有咸，有甜，有苦，有辣，口味多多，只有自己体味得到。
但人性中也往往有这样的弱点：回忆是一个很奇怪的筛子，它留下的总是自己的好和别人的坏。
所以免不了心浮气躁，以至于总想从镜子里看到自己十年后的模样。
现在，十年后的自己又开始怀想十年前的模样了，因为在鬓角，看见了零星的雪。
第五届 英语世界杯 翻译比赛 译文
Limbo等待By Rhonda Lucas朗达‧卢卡斯My parents’ divorce was final. The house had been sold and the day had come to move. Thirty years of the family’s life was now crammed into the garage. The two-by-fours that ran the length of the walls were the only uniformity among the clutter of boxes, furniture, and memories. All was frozen in limbo between the life just passed and the one to come. 父母最终还是离了婚，房子卖了出去，搬家的日子到了。
一个家30年生活的种种现在被塞进了车库。
车库里堆满了各色盒子、家具和回忆，杂乱不堪，从一端延伸到另一端的2英寸厚4英寸宽的木板是唯一整齐有序的。
一切的一切似乎都在焦急地等待着告别过去，迎接未来。
The sunlight pushing its way through the window splattered against a barricade of boxes. Like a fluorescent river, it streamed down the sides and flooded the cracks of the cold, cement floor. I stood in the doorway between the house and garage and wondered if the sunlight would ever again penetrate the memories packed inside those boxes. For an instant, the cardboard boxes appeared as tombstones, monuments to those memories.阳光奋力透过窗户，洒在堆成墙的硬纸板盒子上，像一条荧光河，顺着墙边流，流进冰冷水泥地上的裂缝里。
第五届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛比赛原文
第五届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛比赛原文LimboBy Rhonda LucasM y parents’ divorce was final. The house had been sold and the day had come to move. Thirty years of the family’s life was now crammed into the garage. The two-by-fours that ran the length of the walls were the only uniformity among the clutter of boxes, furniture, and memories. All was frozen in limbo between the life just passed and the one to come.The sunlight pushing its way through the window splattered against a barricade of boxes. Like a fluorescent river, it streamed down the sides and flooded the cracks of the cold, cement floor.I stood in the doorway between the house and garage and wondered if the sunlight would ever again penetrate the memories packed inside those boxes. For an instant, the cardboard boxes appeared as tombstones, monuments to those memories.The furnace in the corner, with its huge tubular fingers reaching out and disappearing into the wall, was unaware of the futility of trying to warm the empty house. The rhythmical whir of its effort hummed the elegy for the memories boxed in front of me. I closed the door, sat down on the step, and listened reverently. The feeling of loss transformed the bad memories into not-so-bad, the not-so-bad memories into good, and committed the good ones to my mind. Still, I felt as vacant as the house inside.A workbench to my right stood disgustingly empty. Not so much as a nail had been left behind. I noticed, for the first time, what a dull, lifeless green it was. Lacking the disarray of tools thatused to cover it, now it seemed as out of place as a bathtub in the kitchen. In fact, as I scanned the room, the only things that did seem to belong were the cobwebs in the corners.A group of boxes had been set aside from the others and stacked in front of the workbench. Scrawled like graffiti on the wa lls of dilapidated buildings were the words “Salvation Army.” Those words caught my eyes as effectively as a flashing neon sign. They reeked of irony. “Salvation - was a bit too late for this family,” I mumbled sarcastically to mysel f.The houseful of furniture that had once been so carefully chosen to complement and blend with the color schemes of the various rooms was indiscriminately crammed together against a single wall. The uncoordinated colors combined in turmoil and lashed out in the greyness of the room.I suddenly became aware of the coldness of the garage, but I didn’t want to go back inside the house, so I made my way through the boxes to the couch. I cleared a space to lie down and curled up, covering myself with my jacket. I hoped my father would return soon with the truck so we could empty the garage and leave the cryptic silence of parting lives behind.（选自Patterns: A Short Prose Reader, by Mary Lou Conlin, published by Houghton Mifflin, 1983.）。
第四届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛比赛原文
The Alternate LifeThe alternate life is the consequence of the communications revolution of the last 30 years or so. There is another, highly competitive educational system, opposed in almost every essential way to traditional schooling, that operates on the child and youth from the age of 2. It takes up as much of his time as the school does, and it works on him with far greater effectiveness.That system is the linked structure of which television is the heart and which numbers among its constituents film, radio, comic books, pop music, sports—and the life styles (including the drug culture, permissive sex, and systematized antisocial conduct) which this structure either automatically or deliberately produces.This alternative life is a life; it is not a diversion, a hobby, an amusement. It offers its own disciplines, its own curriculum, its own ethical and cultural values, its own style and language. It works on children and youths every day, year after year, teaching them, forming them, conditioning them. And it is profoundly opposed to traditional education. There is no way of reconciling the values of literature or science with the values of the TV commercial. There is no way of reconciling the vision offered by Shakespeare or Newton with the vision of life offered by the “Gong Show”. Two systems of thought and feeling stand opposed to each other.This has never before been the case. The idea of education was never before opposed by a competitor. It was taken for granted because no alternative appeared on the horizon. But today there is a complete alternative life to which children submit themselves. This alternative life offers them heroes, slogans, images, forms of conduct, and content of a sort—and all run counter to the message given in the classroom.For the first time in history, the child is required to be a citizen of two cultures: the tradition and the alternate life. Is it any wonder that such a division of loyalties should result in the chaos we observe? In a deep sense, all our children (and, to a degree, our teachers, our parents, and ourselves) are schizophrenics. On the one hand is the reality-system expounded in a book, the idea, the cultural past; on the other hand is the far more vivid and comprehensible reality-system expounded by television, the rock star, the religion of instantaneous sensation, gratification and consumption.Good teachers, when you question them inexorably, almost always finally admit that their difficulties stem from the competition of the alternate life. And this competition they are not trained to meet. The alternate life has one special psychological effect that handicaps the teacher—any teacher, whether of writing or any other basic subject. That effect is a decline in the faculty of attention, and therefore a decline in the capacity to learn—not the innate capacity, but the capacity as it is conditioned by the media.This conception of the alternate life is probably debatable, and it certainly will not be accepted by everyone. Its claim to the interest of others, if not their agreement, lies in the fact that it goes beyond the present educational system and tries to locate the ultimate source of our troubles in the changes now agitating our entire Western culture.（节选自The Short Prose Reader (second edition) by Gilbert H. Muller and Harvey S. Wiener, McGraw-Hill Book Company, 1982。
一英语翻译竞赛文章
One small step back to where we started注：“One small step back to where we started”是首届《参考消息》读者译文大赛文章要求参赛者翻译的文章。
本人水平有限，不敢参加啦。
不过看到这样一篇有一定挑战性的文章，不禁手痒，于是在这里献上自己的译文版本，与翻译爱好者们交流切磋。
“一千个人心中有一千个哈姆雷特。
”同样，一千个翻译就会有一千种译文。
欢迎翻译爱好者们不吝指正。
One small step back to where we started 重返起点的一小步The Apollo missions were supposed to reveal the truth about the Moon. In fact, they taught us about the Earth –and ourselves阿波罗任务的本意是揭示月球的真相。
可实际上，它们要告诉我们的却是地球和我们自己。
Mark Mason马克•梅森In July 1969, soon after their return from the moon, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin were shown footage of the world’s reaction to the lunar landing. They saw the US newscaster Walter Cronkite wiping away his tears; people gathered around televisions from China to Brazil; pavements outside TV shops crammed as p eople watched in awe. Aldrin turned to Armstrong. “Neil,” he said, “we missed the whole thing”.1969 年7 月，从月球返回后不久，有人给尼尔•阿姆斯特朗和巴兹;奥尔德林放了一段录像，让他们看看全世界人们对登月的反应。
翻译竞赛英译汉参赛原文 (1)
翻译竞赛英译汉参赛原文Africa on the Silk RoadThe Dark Continent, the Birthplace of Humanity . . . Africa. All of the lands south and west of the Kingdom of Egypt have for far too long been lumped into one cultural unit by westerners, when in reality, nothing could be further from the truth. Africa is not one mysterious, impenetrable land as the legacy of the nineteenth Century European explorers suggests, it is rather an immensely varied patchwork of peoples that can be changed not only by region and country but b y nature’s way of separating people – by rivers and lakes and by mountain ranges and deserts. A river or other natural barrier may separate two groups of people who interact, but who rarely intermarry, because they perceive the people on the other side to be “different” from them.Africa played an important part in Silk Road trade from antiquity through modern times when much of the Silk Road trade was supplanted by European corporate conglomerates like the Dutch and British East India Companies who created trade monopolies to move goods around the Old World instead. But in the heyday of the Silk Road, merchants travelled to Africa to trade for rare timbers, gold, ivory, exotic animals and spices. From ports along the Mediterranean and Red Seas to those as far south asMogadishu and Kenya in the Indian Ocean, goods from all across the continent were gathered for the purposes of trade.One of Africa’s contributions to world cuisine that is still widely used today is sesame seeds. Imagine East Asian food cooked in something other than its rich sesame oil, how about the quintessential American-loved Chinese dish, General Tso’s Chicken? How ‘bout the rich, thick tahini paste enjoyed from the Levant and Middle East through South and Central Asia and the Himalayas as a flavoring for foods (hummus, halva) and stir-fries, and all of the breads topped with sesame or poppy seeds? Then think about the use of black sesame seeds from South Asian through East Asian foods and desserts. None of these cuisines would have used sesame in these ways, if it hadn’t been for the trade of sesame seeds from Africa in antiquity.Given the propensity of sesame plants to easily reseed themselves, the early African and Arab traders probably acquired seeds from native peoples who gathered wild seeds. The seeds reached Egypt, the Middle East and China by 4,000 –5,000 years ago as evidenced from archaeological investigations, tomb paintings and scrolls. Given the eager adoption of the seeds by other cultures and the small supply, the cost per pound was probably quite high and merchants likely made fortunes offthe trade.Tamarind PodsThe earliest cultivation of sesame comes from India in the Harappan period of the Indus Valley by about 3500 years ago and from then on, India began to supplant Africa as a source of the seeds in global trade. By the time of the Romans, who used the seeds along with cumin to flavor bread, the Indian and Persian Empires were the main sources of the seeds.Another ingredient still used widely today that originates in Africa is tamarind. Growing as seed pods on huge lace-leaf trees, the seeds are soaked and turned into tamarind pulp or water and used to flavor curries and chutneys in Southern and South Eastern Asia, as well as the more familiar Worcestershire and barbeque sauces in the West. Eastern Africans use Tamarind in their curries and sauces and also make a soup out of the fruits that is popular in Zimbabwe. Tamarind has been widely adopted in the New World as well as is usually blended with sugar for a sweet and sour treat wrapped in corn husk as a pulpy treat or also used as syrup to flavor sodas, sparkling waters and even ice cream.Some spices of African origin that were traded along the Silk Road have become extinct. One such example can be found in wild silphion whichwas gathered in Northern Africa and traded along the Silk Road to create one of the foundations of the wealth of Carthage and Kyrene. Cooks valued the plant because of the resin they gathered from its roots and stalk that when dried became a powder that blended the flavors of onion and garlic. It was impossible for these ancient people to cultivate, however, and a combination of overharvesting, wars and habitat loss cause the plant to become extinct by the end of the first or second centuries of the Common Era. As supplies of the resin grew harder and harder to get, it was supplanted by asafetida from Central Asia.Other spices traded along the Silk Road are used almost exclusively in African cuisines today – although their use was common until the middle of the first millennium in Europe and Asia. African pepper, Moor pepper or negro pepper is one such spice. Called kieng in the cuisines of Western Africa where it is still widely used, it has a sharp flavor that is bitter and flavorful at the same time –sort of like a combination of black pepper and nutmeg. It also adds a bit of heat to dishes for a pungent taste. Its use extends across central Africa and it is also found in Ethiopian cuisines. When smoked, as it often is in West Africa before use, this flavor deepens and becomes smoky and develops a black cardamom-like flavor. By the middle of the 16th Century, the use and trade of negro pepper in Europe, Western and Southern Asia had waned in favor of black pepper importsfrom India and chili peppers from the New World.Traditional Chinese ShipGrains of paradise, Melegueta pepper, or alligator pepper is another Silk Road Spice that has vanished from modern Asian and European food but is still used in Western and Northern Africa and is an important cash crop in some areas of Ethiopia. Native to Africa’s West Coast its use seems to have originated in or around modern Ghana and was shipped to Silk Road trade in Eastern Africa or to Mediterranean ports. Fashionable in the cuisines of early Renaissance Europe its use slowly waned until the 18th Century when it all but vanished from European markets and was supplanted by cardamom and other spices flowing out of Asia to the rest of the world.The trade of spices from Africa to the rest of the world was generally accomplished by a complex network of merchants working the ports and cities of the Silk Road. Each man had a defined, relatively bounded territory that he traded in to allow for lots of traders to make a good living moving goods and ideas around the world along local or regional. But occasionally, great explorers accomplished the movement of goods across several continents and cultures.Although not African, the Chinese Muslim explorer Zheng He deserves special mention as one of these great cultural diplomats and entrepreneurs. In the early 15th Century he led seven major sea-faring expeditions from China across Indonesia and several Indian Ocean ports to Africa. Surely, Chinese ships made regular visits to Silk Road ports from about the 12th Century on, but when Zheng came, he came leading huge armadas of ships that the world had never seen before and wouldn’t see again for several centuries. Zheng came in force, intending to display China’s greatness to the world and bring the best goods from the rest of the world back to China. Zheng came eventually to Africa where he left laden with spices for cooking and medicine, wood and ivory and hordes of animals. It may be hard for us who are now accustomed to the world coming on command to their desktops to imagine what a miracle it must have been for the citizens of Nanjing to see the parade of animals from Zheng’s cultural Ark. But try we must to imagine the wonder brought by the parade of giraffes, zebra and ostriches marching down Chinese streets so long ago –because then we can begin to imagine the importance of the Silk Road in shaping the world.。
英语世界翻译大赛原文
英语世界翻译大赛原文第一篇：英语世界翻译大赛原文第九届“郑州大学—《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛英译汉原文The Whoomper FactorBy Nathan Cobb【1】As this is being written, snow is falling in the streets of Boston in what weather forecasters like to call “record amounts.”I would guess by looking out the window that we are only a few hours from that magic moment of paralysis, as in Storm Paralyzes Hub.Perhaps we are even due for an Entire Region Engulfed or a Northeast Blanketed, but I will happily settle for mere local disablement.And the more the merrier.【1】写这个的时候，波士顿的街道正下着雪，天气预报员将称其为“创纪录的量”。
从窗外望去，我猜想，过不了几个小时，神奇的瘫痪时刻就要来临，就像《风暴瘫痪中心》里的一样。
也许我们甚至能够见识到《吞没整个区域》或者《茫茫东北》里的场景，然而仅仅部分地区的瘫痪也能使我满足。
当然越多越使人开心。
【2】Some people call them blizzards, others nor’easters.My own term is whoompers, and I freely admit looking forward to them as does a baseball fan to ually I am disappointed, however;because tonight’s storm warnings too often turn into tomorrow’s light flurries.【2】有些人称它们为暴风雪，其他人称其为东北风暴。
【英语世界翻译赛往届赛题】-第三届原文及参考翻译
原文：At Turtle BayBy E.B.WhiteMosquitoes have arrived with the warm nights,and our bedchamber is their theater under the stars.I have been up and down all night, swinging at them with a face towel dampened at one end to give it authority.This morning I suffer from the lightheadedness that comes from no sleep–a sort of drunkenness,very good for writing because all sense of responsibility for what the words say is gone.Yesterday evening my wife showed up with a few yards of netting,and together we knelt and covered the fireplace with an illusion veil.It looks like a bride.(One of our many theories is that mosquitoes come down chimneys.)I bought a couple of adjustable screens at the hardware store on Third Avenue and they are in place in the windows;but the window sashes in this building are so old and irregular that any mosquito except one suffering from elephantiasis has no difficulty walking into the room through the space between sash and screen.(And then there is the even larger opening between upper sash and lower sash when the lower sash is raised to receive the screen–a space that hardly ever occurs to an apartment dweller but must occur to all mosquitoes.)I also bought a very old air-conditioning machine for twenty-five dollars,a great bargain,and I like this machine.It has almost no effect on the atmosphere of the room,merely chipping the edge off the heat,and it makes a loud grinding noise reminiscent of the subway,so that I can snap off the lights,close my eyes, holding the damp towel at the ready,and imagine,with the first stab,that I am riding in the underground and being pricked by pins wielded by angry girls.Another theory of mine about the Turtle Bay mosquito is that he is swept into one’s bedroom through the air conditioner,riding the cool indraft as an eagle rides a warm updraft.It is a feeble theory,but a man has to entertain theories if he is to while away the hours of sleeplessness.I wanted to buy some old-fashioned bug spray,and went to the store for that purpose,but when I asked the clerk for a Flit gun and some Flit,he gave me a queer look,as though wondering where I had been keeping myself all these years.“We got something a lot stronger than that,”he said,producing a can of stuff that contained chlordane and several other unmentionable chemicals.I told him I couldn't use it because I was hypersensitive to chlordane.“Gets me right in the liver,”I said,throwing a wild glance at him.The mornings are the pleasantest times in the apartment,exhaustion having set in,the sated mosquitoes at rest on ceiling and walls,sleeping it off,the room a swirl of tortured bedclothes and abandoned garments,the vines in their full leafiness filtering the hard light of day,the air conditioner silent at last,like the mosquitoes.From Third Avenue comesthe sound of the mad builders–American cicadas,out in the noonday sun. In the garden the sparrow chants–a desultory second courtship,a subdued passion,in keeping with the great heat,love in summertime, relaxed and languorous.I shall miss this apartment when it is gone;we are quitting it come fall,to turn ourselves out to pasture.Every so often I make an attempt to simplify my life,burning my books behind me, selling the occasional chair,discarding the accumulated miscellany.I have noticed,though,that these purifications of mine–to which my wife submits with cautious grace–have usually led to even greater complexity in the long pull,and I have no doubt this one will,too,for I don’t trust myself in a situation of this sort and suspect that my first act as an old horse will be to set to work improving the pasture.I may even join a pasture-improvement society.The last time I tried to purify myself by fire, I managed to acquire a zoo in the process and am still supporting it and carrying heavy pails of water to the animals,a task that is sometimes beyond my strength.（选自An E.B.White Reader,pp.198-200,New York Harper& Row,1966）参考译文：居在龟湾文/〔美〕E.B.怀特译/曹明伦蚊虫随夜暖而至，我们的卧室成了它们的星空剧场。
第十一届“英语世界杯”翻译大赛英译汉原文
第十一届“杭州师范大学-《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛英译汉原文Confronting Modern Lifestyles（Excerpt）By Tim Jackson and Carmen Smith【1】Few people would disagree that modern society has changed dramatically in the course of only a few decades. These changes can be characterized in a variety of different ways. We can point, for example, to the growth in disposable incomes, to a massive expansion in the availability of consumer goods and services, to higher levels of personal mobility, increases in leisure expenditure and a reduction in the time spent in routine domestic tasks.【2】We might highlight the gains in technological efficiency provided by an increasingly sophisticated knowledge base. Or the rising resource “footprint”of modern consumption patterns. Or the intensification of trade. Or the decline in traditional rural industries. Or the translocation of manufacturing towards the developing world. Or the emergence of the “knowledge”economy.【3】We should certainly point out that these changes have been accompanied, and sometimes facilitated, by changes in the underlying institutional structures: the deregulation (or reregulation) of key industries, the liberalization of markets, theeasing of international trade restrictions, the rise in consumer debt and the commoditization of previously noncommercial areas of our lives.【4】We could also identify some of the social effects that accompanied these changes: a faster pace of life; rising social expectations; increasing divorce rates; rising levels of violent crime; smaller household sizes; the emergence of a “cult of celebrity”; the escalating “message density”of modern living; increasing disparities (in income and time) between the rich and the poor, the emergence of “postmaterialist”values; a loss of trust in the conventional institutions of church, family, and state; and a more secular society.【5】It is clear, even from this cursory overview, that no simple overriding “good”or “bad”trend emerges from this complexity. Rather, modernity is characterized by a variety of trends that often seem to be set (in part at least) in opposition to each other. The identification of a set of “postmaterialist”values in modern society appears at odds with the increased proliferation of consumer goods. People appear to express less concern for material things, and yet have more of them in their lives.【6】The abundance offered by the liberalization of trade is offset by the environmental damage from transporting these goods across distances to reach our supermarket shelves. The liberalization of the electricity market has increasedthe efficiency of generation, reduced the cost of electricity to consumers and at the same time made it more difficult to identify and exploit the opportunities forend-use energy efficiency.【7】To take another example, the emergence of the knowledge economy has increased the availability and the value of information. Simultaneously, it has intensified the complexity of ordinary decision-making in people’s lives. As Nobel laureate Hebert Simon has pointed out, information itself consumes scarce resources. “What information consumes is rather obvious: it consumes the attention of its recipients. Hence a wealth of information creates a poverty of attention, and a need to allocate that attention efficiently among the overabundance of information sources that might consume it”. This consuming effect of information makes the concept of “informed choice”at once more important and at the same time more difficult to achieve in modern society.【8】These examples all serve to illustrate that modern lifestyles are both complex and haunted by paradox. This is certainly one of the reasons why policy makers have tended to shy away from the whole question of consumer behavior and lifestyle change. It is clear nonetheless that coming to grips with consumption patterns, understanding the dynamics of lifestyle and influencing people’s attitudes and behaviors are all essential if the kinds of deep environmental targets demanded by sustainable development are to be achieved.。
英语翻译比赛原文
In recent years, Chinese campuses are surrounded by a special phenomenon, "certificatefever".Thegrowing tendency among college students to get all kinds of certificates has now evolved into a craze.
有人说，取得这些证书只能说明你只是通过了相关的理论考试，但是依旧没有实践操作能力。而且学习的都是不同方向的浅层知识，只学到了皮毛而已，专业基础并不扎实。我的观点是考证不能一味求数量，也要看质量。除了要关注证书与自己专业或就业方向的关系外，也要分辨证书的含金量。一些证书只是地方性质的，无法全国通用。还有的证书收费多并且通过率高，也需要谨慎分辨。
所以我想说，考证能带给我们最大的收获就是知识和技能，而只有当我们全身心去自学而不是怀有“侥幸心理”的时候，考证的好处能够展现。不少大学生证书虽然考得多，但对专业知识的掌握以及对综合能力的培养不够重视，舍本逐末很不划算。因此我们应当根据自己的专业和以后准备的发展方向来确定自己要考的证，有的证是必须考的。我们要转变考证观பைடு நூலகம்，把“考证”和自己的专业和职业规划结合起来考虑。我们要时刻保持清醒的认识，不能随波追流，人云亦云。我们要择需而考，只有这样，才能最大化地发挥考证的价值和所学知识的作用。
第5届英语世界翻译大赛参赛译文
老宅朗达·卢卡斯我父母离了婚。
我们卖掉了房子，而且很快要搬走。
三十年家庭生活积累的一切现在都塞进了车库。
纸箱和家具横七竖八地堆放着，就如同散乱的回忆。
这一片狼藉中唯一整齐的莫过于两米见宽，四米长的墙壁了。
这一切都定格在逝去的往昔与行将到来的未来之间。
阳光透过窗户，泻在挡住它的纸箱上，如同一弘波光粼粼的河水，顺着河岸缓缓流淌，溢过冰冷水泥地板上的缝隙。
我站在车库与房子之间的门廊里，琢磨着,阳光是否能够再次唤醒尘封在这些纸箱里的回忆。
刹那间，这些纸箱仿佛变成了那些美好回忆的墓碑与纪念碑。
角落里壁炉的烟囱，像伸出的巨大手指，消失在墙壁里。
它不知道无法再温暖这座空空的房子了。
它炉膛里均匀燃烧的呼呼火苗声，像唱响的哀歌，埋葬了我身前纸箱里珍藏回忆。
我带上门，坐到台阶上，虔诚地听着这样的声音。
恍然失落间，昔日那些不愉快的往事反倒不那么糟糕，不那么糟糕的往事又变成了美好的回忆，这些美好的回忆就铭刻在我脑海里。
但是，我心里仍旧空荡荡的，就像身后空荡荡的房子。
我的右手边是一个工作台，上面什么也没有了，就连一个钉子也没有了。
这么多年来，我第一次注意到它上面涂的绿色是多么沉闷，毫无生气。
以前, 工作台上面整齐地摆满了工具。
如今，没有了这些工具，它就像一个浴缸放在厨房里，放错了地方。
事实上，当我扫视房间时，觉得唯一属于这个房间当属墙角的蜘蛛网了。
工作台前面堆放着一排纸箱，与其他纸箱并排放在一起。
破烂不堪的房子墙上胡乱涂写着“救世军”几个字，如同闪耀的霓虹灯招牌一般直逼我眼，颇有讽刺意味。
我自嘲地嘀咕道，“对这个家而言，拯救来晚了些！”这一满屋子曾经精挑细选来的家具，摆放在不同颜色的房间，与之相映成辉。
现在却杂乱拥挤地摆放在一堵墙边，家具杂七杂八的颜色混在一起，毫不匹配。
房间也似乎因此更加灰暗。
突然间，我感到车库里有点儿冷，但又不想回屋。
于是，我七弯八拐，绕过那些纸箱，走到沙发旁，腾出一块地方，躺了下来，蜷起身子，盖上我的夹克。
第六届英语世界杯翻译大赛译文
我不知道她都经历过什么，我也不曾知晓她的名字。
但是我知道我是因为她的花园才认识她的，她已经悉心经营了数十年的花园。
她住的居房子离我家两英里远，是一个简单的、两层的四四方方的小楼，陡峭的屋顶和未装饰的边缘，典型的十九世纪中期新泽西海岸附近的建筑风格。
她的花园也是同样的简单。
她不像其他园丁一样一切都按照书上写的、听着别人的建议来把照看不同的花朵，来让第一朵番红花在春天绽放知道最后一朵菊花在秋天凋落。
她从不在意种植植物的规则，本该把高个的植物种在多年生植物的后面，矮个的植物种在前面，中等个的种在中间，她只是偶尔注意一下不得不注意的重点。
在她的花园里，一切都有着自己的样子，一切都很高，并且可以明显看出来她喜欢三种植物，而且只喜欢三种：玫瑰、铁线莲、百合。
她们交错地种在一起，看起来十分漂亮，但是明显不是经过刻意设计的。
她种了好多种铁线莲，大概一共有50株，整理有序缠绕到一起，一起绕着金属柱子往上爬。
整个夏天，柱子被不停地带上各种颜色的插满鲜花的皇冠，暗紫色，深红色，淡粉色，浅蓝色和亮白色。
她欣赏玫瑰的品味似乎停留在了过去，园子里没有一株杂交香水月季，也没有一株丰花月季。
她喜欢的是其它年代的玫瑰，像约克和兰开斯特玫瑰，洋蔷薇，大马士革蔷薇，和其它不同品种的玫瑰。
她自己给玫瑰授粉，直接剪掉土里面部分的刺，还盖上罐子来保护她们。
百合花，我相信这是她最喜欢的。
一些木板随意地这一块那一块地插在花坛上，每一块都密集地种上了深绿色的百合花苗，于是除了一些圣母百合，别的我都叫不上她们的名字。
偶尔看到的种荚上的一张飘动的标签，记录着日期和杂家的品种，这都告诉我她是一个外行的杂交园丁，对于暖甜瓜色调和淡淡的柠檬黄有着情有独钟的喜爱。
她相信应该和陌生人分享自己的花园。
在她花园的路边有一块牌子，上面写着：“这是我的花园，欢迎来到这里。
尽情欣赏这里的一切，但是请留住美丽。
”直到五年前，她都悉心照顾花园，草坪不断地施肥、被修剪的整整齐齐，花坛里没有一点杂草，高个的百合都精细地绑在木桩上。
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A Garden That Welcomes StrangersBy Allen LacyI do not know what became of her, and I never learned her name. But I feel that I knew her from the garden she had so lovingly made over many decades.我并不知道她的近况，以前也不曾得知她的名字。
然而我却觉得我从她几十年倾心照料的花园里了解了她。
The house she lived in lies two miles from mine – a simple, two-story structure with the boxy plan,steeply-pitched roof and unadorned lines that are typical of houses built in the middle of the nineteenth century near the New Jersey shore.她住在一所离我家两英里远的房子里——典型的十九世纪中页新泽西海边建筑：简单的双层结构，布局方正，房檐弯曲，线条古朴。
Her garden was equally simple. She was not a conventional gardener who did everything by the book, following the common advice to vary her plantings so there would be something in bloom from the first crocus in the spring to the last chrysanthemum in the fall. She had no respect for the rule that says that tall-growing plants belong at the rear of a perennial border, low ones in the front and middle-sized ones in the middle, with occasional exceptions for dramatic accent.她的花园也同样简单。
她并不像传统的花园主那样万事随书，她只遵循一些常见的建议来增加她的植物，因此从春天的第一朵番红花到秋天的最后一朵菊花，她的花园总是有绽放的花朵。
高者置于长青植物之后，矮者置于之前，而中等高度的置于中间，其中偶尔穿插一些例外来形戏剧化的特色，这样的规则她从不遵循。
In her garden, everything was accent, everything was tall, and the evidence was plain that she loved three kinds of plant and three only: roses, clematis and lilies, intermingled promiscuously to pleasant effect but no apparent design.在她的花园里，处处都是特色，植物都很高，很明显她只钟爱三种植物：玫瑰，铁线莲和百合，并没有特意设计，只是随意地混合生长的它们产生了一种令人愉悦的效果。
She grew a dozen sorts of clematis, perhaps 50 plants in all, trained and tied so that they clambered up metal rods, each rod crowned intermittently throughout the summer by a rounded profusion of large blossoms of dark purple, rich crimson, pale lavender, light blue and gleaming white.她种了十几种铁线莲,也许总共有50株植物,通过整枝和捆绑它们就会爬上金属杆, 在整个夏天，每个金属杆都会陆续被一圈缤纷而丰富的的深紫色,深红色,淡紫色,浅蓝色和明亮的白色的大花朵加冕Her taste in roses was old-fashioned. There wasn't a single modern hybrid tea rose or floribunda in sight. Instead, she favored the roses of other ages –the York and Lancaster rose, the cabbage rose,the damask and the rugosa rose in several varieties. She propagated her roses herself from cuttings stu rugosa rose ck directly in the ground and protected by upended gallon jugs.她欣赏玫瑰的口味是老式的。
没有一株现代杂种香水玫瑰或丰花玫瑰。
相反,她喜欢其他时代的玫瑰——约克玫瑰和兰开斯特玫瑰,洋玫瑰，大马士革玫瑰等几个品种。
她自己繁殖她的玫瑰，通过将玫瑰直接扦插在地上并用倒立的加仑壶来保护。
Lilies, I believe were her greatest love. Except for some Madonna lilies it is impossible to name them, since the wooden flats stood casually here and there in the flower bed, all thickly planted with dark green lily seedlings. The occasional paper tag fluttering from a seed pod with the date and record of a cross showed that she was an amateur hybridizer with some special fondness for lilies of a warm muskmelon shade or a pale lemon yellow.百合,我相信是她的最爱。
除了一些白百合花其他的都不可能叫出它们的名字,因为木制的花盆随意地立在花坛上,所有的花盆里都密密地种植着深绿色的百合幼苗。
偶尔的从种荚中飘出的写着日期的纸标签和杂交的记录显示,她是一个特别喜欢温暖的渐变香瓜色或淡柠檬黄色百合花的业余杂交者。
She believed in sharing her garden. By her curb there was a sign: “This is my garden, and you are welcome here. Take whatever you wish with your eyes, but nothing with your hand.”她乐于分享自己的花园。
在她花园的路边有一块牌子，上面写着：“这是我的花园，欢迎来这里参观。
你可以把这里的美景尽收眼底，但不要随手拿走这里的东西。
”Until five years ago, her garden was always immaculately tended, the lawn kept fertilized and mowed, the flower bed free of weeds, the tall lilies carefully staked. But then something happened. I don't know what it was, but the lawn was mowed less frequently, then not at all. Tall grass invaded the roses, the clematis, the lilies. The elm tree in her front yard sickened and died, and when a coastal gale struck, the branches that fell were never removed.直到五年前，她的花园还总是被悉心地照料着。
草坪肥沃平坦，花坛鲜有杂草，高高的百合花也被小心翼翼地系在桩上。
但是，相继发生了一些事情。
我不知道具体是什么事情，但是修剪草坪的次数渐渐得少了，随后就干脆不修剪了。
高高的杂草侵犯了玫瑰花、铁线莲和百合花的生长区域。
她前庭院的榆树渐渐枯萎凋亡，当海风来袭，吹下来的树枝也再也没被移走。
With every year, the neglect has grown worse. Wild honeysuckle and bittersweet run rampant in the garden. Sumac, ailanthus, poison ivy and other uninvited things threaten the few lilies and clematis and roses that still struggle for survival.每过一年，这种坐视不管就愈发严重。
野生的忍冬花和蜀羊泉肆意地在花园里疯长。
漆树、臭椿、毒漆藤和一些其它的不速之客威胁着所剩无几的几株苟延残喘的玫瑰花、铁线莲和百合花。
Last year the house itself went dead. The front door was padlocked and the windows covered with sheets of plywood. For many months there has been a for sale sign out front, replacing the sign inviting strangers to share her garden.去年，这所房子本身也“死”去了。
前门被锁上，窗户也被几张胶合板覆盖。
几个月来，低价出售的牌子一直挂在前面，替换掉了之前邀请陌生人分享她的花园的牌子。