卡西欧翻译大赛原文english
第二届卡西欧杯日文翻译范文
年底这么忙，何苦偷人家的车十二月五日。
说起来话长，总之我的车给偷了。
早上起来一看，我那本应停在门前的“大众·科拉德”不见了，一辆白色“本田·雅阁”停在那里。
无论怎么想都只能认为是被盗，总不至于我睡觉的时间里汽车自行其是地跑去哪里了。
得得，这可糟了，我叹口气想。
毕竟两个星期前我的宝贝自行车刚刚在哈佛广场给人偷走。
用铁链绑在行道树的树干上来着，十五分钟后买完东西回来一看，自行车消失得无影无踪，惟独铁链剩下。
此前大学体育馆的贮物柜被人撬开，丢了打壁球用的运动鞋。
要是连汽车也给偷了，那可真让人吃不消了。
简直倒霉透顶。
三十分钟后一位年轻的高个子女警察到我家来了。
比我高出半个脑袋，一头金发，长得酷似劳拉·邓恩(注：美国女电影演员。
主演有《一个完美的世界》等。
)。
她的工作是填写被盗报告书。
把车号、年代型号、颜色等必要事项轻描淡写地记在专用纸上，递过一张复写件，道一声“再联系”就往回走。
一看就知这工作没多大刺激性，她本人也没表现出多少乐此不疲的样子。
若是警匪片，年轻美丽的女警官势必同克林特·依斯特伍德或梅尔·吉布森（注：美国电影演员、导演。
1956年生于纽约，1968年移居澳大利亚，1995年获奥斯卡最佳导演奖。
）搭档度过波澜万丈的人生，而现实中不可能那样。
现实是更为现实性的。
我问她“这一带经常丢车？”“哪里，没那回事，这附近很少听说丢车。
说实话，我也有点吃惊。
”她以一点也不吃惊的神情说，然后冷冰冰地道声“再见”，独自乘上警车扬长而去。
“这附近很少听说丢车”倒是真的，我提起这事，房东史蒂夫也大为惊讶：“怪了！这里不该发生那种事啊，奇怪！”往下就语塞了。
住在前面一条街的另一个史蒂夫（他是搞电影的）也大为惊奇：“这种事简直无法置信。
我在这里住了二十来年，从没听说谁家停的车给人偷走了。
这实在是惊人的事情。
”我住的地方虽说不是什么富人区，却也是像富人区那种与犯罪无缘的幽静平和的地方。
卡西欧杯翻译竞赛历年赛题及答案
第九届卡西欧杯翻译竞赛原文（英文组）来自: FLAA(《外国文艺》)Meansof Delive ryJoshua CohenSmuggl ing Afghan heroin or womenfrom Odessa wouldhave been morerepreh ensib le, but more logica l. Youknowyou’reafoolwhenwhatyou’redoingmakeseven the post office seem effici ent. Everyt hingI was packin g into thisunwiel dy, 1980s-vintag e suitca se was availa ble online. Idon’tmeanthatwhenIarrive d in Berlin I couldhave ordere dmoreLevi’s510s for next-day delive ry. I mean, I was packin g books.Not just any books— thesewere all the same book, multip le copies. “Invali d Format: An Anthol ogy of Triple Canopy, Volume 1”ispublis hed, yes, by Triple Canopy, an online magazi ne featur ing essays, fictio n, poetry and all variet y of audio/visualcultur e, dedica ted — click“About”—“toslowin g down the Intern et.”Withtheirbook, the firstin a planne d series, the editor s certai nly succee ded. They were slowin g me down too, just fine.“Invali d Format”collec ts in printthe magazi ne’sfirstfour issues and retail s, ideall y, for $25. But the 60 copies I was courie ring, in exchan ge for a couchand coffee-pressaccess in Kreuzb erg, wouldbe givenaway. For free.Untillately the printe d book change d more freque ntly, but less creati vely, than any othermedium. If you though t“TheQuotab le Ronald Reagan”wastooexpens ive in hardco ver, you couldwait a year or less for the same conten t to go soft. E-books, whichmade theirdebutin the 1990s, cut costseven more for both consum er and produc er, though as the Intern et expand ed thoserolesbecame confus ed.Self-publis hed book proper tiesbeganoutnum berin g, if not outsel ling, theirtradeequiva lents by the mid-2000s, a situat ion furthe r convol utedwhen the conglo merat es starte d“publis hing”“self-publis hed books.”Lastyear, Pengui n became the firstmajortradepressto go vanity: its Book Countr y e-imprin t will legiti mizeyour “origin al genrefictio n”forjustunder$100. Theseshifts make small, D.I.Y.collec tives like Triple Canopy appear more tradit ional than ever, if not just quixot ic — a word derive d from one of the firstnovels licens ed to a publis her.Kenned y Airpor t was no proble m, my connec tionat Charle s de Gaulle went fine. My luggag e connec ted too, arrivi ng intact at Tegel. But immedi ately afterimmigr ation, I was flagge d. A smalle r wheeli e bag held the clothi ng. As a custom s offici alrummag ed throug h my Hanes, I prepar ed for what came next: the larger case, caster s broken, handle rusted—I’mpretty sure it had alread y been Used when it was givento me for my bar mitzva h.Before the offici al couldopen the clasps and startpoking inside, I presen ted him with the docume nt the Triple Canopy editor, Alexan der Provan, had e-mailed me — the nightbefore? two nights before alread y? I’dbeenuponeofthosenights scouri ng New York City for a printe r. No one printe d anymor e. The docume nt stated, inEnglis h and German, that thesebookswere books. They were promot ional, to be givenaway at univer sitie s, galler ies, the Miss Read art-book fair at Kunst-Werke.“Allaresame?”theoffici al asked.“Allegleich,”Isaid.An olderguardcame over, prodde d a spine, said someth ingIdidn’tget. The younge r offici al laughe d, transl ated,“Hewantsto know if you read everyone.”At lunchthe next day with a musici an friend. In New York he played twicea month, ate food stamps. In collap singEuropehe’spaid2,000 eurosa nightto play aquattr ocent o church.“Whereare you handin g the booksout?”heasked.“Atanartfair.”“Whyanartfair?Whynotabookfair?”“It’sanart-bookfair.”“Asoppose d to a book-bookfair?”I told him that at book-book fairs, like the famous one in Frankf urt, they mostly gave out catalo gs.Taking trains and tramsin Berlin, I notice d: people readin g. Books, I mean, not pocket-size device s that bleepas if censor ious, on whicheven Shakes peare scanslike a spread sheet. Americ ans buy more than half of all e-bookssold intern ation ally—unless Europe ans fly regula rly to the United States for the sole purpos e ofdownlo ading readin g materi al from an Americ an I.P. addres s. As of the evenin g I stoppe d search ing the Intern et and actual ly went out to enjoyBerlin, e-booksaccoun ted for nearly 20 percen t of the salesof Americ an publis hers. In German y, howeve r, e-booksaccoun ted for only 1 percen t last year. I beganasking themultil ingua l, multi¬ethnic artist s around me why that was. It was 2 a.m., at Soho House, a privat eclubI’dcrashe d in the former Hitler¬jugend headqu arter s. One instal latio nistsaid, “Americ ans like e-booksbecaus ethey’reeasier to buy.”Aperfor mance artist said, “They’realsoeasier not to read.”Trueenough: theirpresen ce doesn’tremindyouofwhatyou’remissin g;theydon’ttake up spaceon shelve s. The next mornin g, Alexan der Provan and I lugged the booksfor distri butio n, gratis. Questi on: If booksbecome mere art object s, do e-booksbecome concep tualart? Juxtap osing psychi atric case notesby the physic ian-noveli st RivkaGalche n with a dramat icall y illust rated invest igati on into the devast ation of New Orlean s, “Invali d Format”isamongthe most artful new attemp ts to reinve nt the Web by the codex, and the codexby the Web. Its texts“scroll”: horizo ntall y, vertic ally; titlepagesevoke“screen s,”refram ing conten t that follow s not unifor mly and contin uousl y but rather as a welter of column shifts and fonts. Its closes t predec essor s mightbe mixed-mediaDada (Ducham p’sloose-leafed, shuffl eable“GreenBox”); or perhap s“ICanHasCheezb urger?,”thebest-sellin g book versio n of the pet-pictur es-with-funny-captio ns Web site ICanHa sChee zburg ; or simila r volume s fromStuffW hiteP eople Like.com and Awkwar dFami lyPho . Theselatter booksare merely the kitsch iestproduc ts of publis hing’srecent enthus iasmfor“back-engine ering.”They’repseudo liter ature, commod ities subjec t to the samerevers ing proces s that for over a centur y has paused“movies”into“stills”— into P.R. photos and dorm poster s — and notate d pop record ingsfor sheetmusic.Admitt edlyIdidn’thavemuchtimetoconsid er the implic ation s of adapti ve cultur e in Berlin. I was too busy dancin gto“IchLiebeWie Du Lügst,”aka“LovetheWayYou Lie,”byEminem, and fallin g asleep during“Bis(s) zum Ende der Nacht,”aka“TheTwilig ht Saga: Breaki ng Dawn,”justafterthe dubbed Bellacriesover herunlike ly pregna ncy, “Dasistunmögl ich!”— indeed!Transl ating medium s can seem just as unmögl ich as transl ating betwee n unrela ted langua ges: therewill be confus ions, distor tions, techni cal limita tions. The Web ande-book can influe nce the printbook only in matter s of styleand subjec t — no links, of course, just theirmetaph or. “Theghostin the machin e”can’tbeexorci sed, onlyturned around: the machin e inside the ghost.As for me, I was haunte d by my suitca se. The extraone, the empty. My last day in Kreuzb erg was spentconsid ering its fate. My wheeli e bag was packed. My laptop was stowed in my carry-on. I wanted to leavethe pleath er immens ity on the corner of Kottbu sserDamm, down by the canal,butI’ve neverbeen a waster. I brough t it back. It sits in the middle of my apartm ent, unreve rtibl e, only improv able, hollow, its lid floppe d open like the coverof a book.传送之道约书亚·科恩走私阿富汗的海洛因和贩卖来自敖德萨的妇女本应受到更多的谴责，但是也更合乎情理。
第七届“英语世界”翻译比赛英译汉原文 Great Possessions
Great PossessionsBy Aldo Leopold【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.【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.【3】Like other great landowners, I have tenants. They are negligent about rents, but very punctilious about tenures. Indeed at every daybreak from April to July they proclaim their boundaries to each other, and so acknowledge, at least by inference, their fiefdom to me.【4】This daily ceremony, contrary to what you might suppose, begins with the utmost decorum. Who originally laid down its protocols I do not know. At 3:30 a.m., with such dignity as I can muster of a July morning, I step from my cabin door, bearing in either hand my emblems of sovereignty, a coffee pot and notebook. I seat myself on a bench, facing the white wake of the morning star. I set the pot beside me. I extract a cup from my shirt front, hoping none will notice its informal mode of transport. I get out my watch, pour coffee, and lay notebook on knee. This is the cue for the proclamations to begin.【5】At 3:35 the nearest field sparrow avows, in a clear tenor chant, that he holds the jackpine copse north to the riverbank, and south to the old wagon track. One by one all the other field sparrows within earshot recite their respective holdings. There are no disputes, at least at this hour, so I just listen, hoping inwardly that their womenfolk acquiesce in this happy accord over the status quo ante.【6】Before the field sparrows have quite gone the rounds, the robin in the big elm warbles loudly his claim to the crotch where the icestorm tore off a limb, and all appurtenances pertaining thereto (meaning, in his case, all the angleworms in the not-very-spacious subjacent lawn).【7】The robin’s insistent caroling awakens the oriole, who now tells the world of orioles that the pendant branch of the elm belongs to him, together with all fiber-bearing milkweed stalks near by, all loose strings in the garden, and the exclusive right to flash like a burst of fire from one of these to another.【8】My watch says 3:50. The indigo bunting on the hill asserts title to the dead oak limb left by the 1936 drouth, and to divers near-by bugs and bushes. He does not claim, but I think he implies, the right to out-blue all bluebirds, and all spiderworts that have turned their faces to the dawn.【9】Next the wren – the one who discovered the knothole in the eave of the cabin – explodes into song. Half a dozen other wrens give voice, and now all is bedlam. Grosbeaks, thrashers, yellow warblers, bluebirds, vireos, towhees, cardinals – all are at it. My solemn list of performers, in their order and time of first song, hesitates, wavers, ceases, for my ear can no longer filter out priorities. Besides, the pot is empty and the sun is about to rise. I must inspect my domain before my title runs out.【10】We sally forth, the dog and I, at random. He has paid scant respect to all these vocal goings-on, for to him the evidence of tenantry is not song, but scent. Any illiterate bundle of feathers, he says, can make a noise in a tree. Now he is going to translate for me the olfactory poems that who-knows-what silent creatures have written in the summer night. At the end of each poem sits the author – if we can find him. What we actually find is beyond predicting: a rabbit, suddenly yearning to be elsewhere; a woodcock, fluttering his disclaimer; a cock pheasant, indignant over wetting his feathers in the grass.【11】Once in a while we turn up a coon or mink, returning late from the night’s foray. Sometimes we rout a heron from his unfinished fishing, or surprise a mother wood duck with her convoy of ducklings, headed full-steam for the shelter of the pickerelweeds. Sometimes we see deer sauntering back to the thickets, replete with alfalfa blooms, veronica, and wild lettuce. More often we see only the interweaving darkened lines that lazy hoofs have traced on the silken fabric of the dew.【12】I can feel the sun now. The bird-chorus has run out of breath. The far clank of cowbells bespeaks a herd ambling to pasture. A tractor roars warning that my neighbor is astir. The world has shrunk to those mean dimensions known to county clerks. We turn toward home, and breakfast.。
第八届CASIO翻译竞赛
Hemingway set the modern gold standard for inventive self-branding, burnishing his
image with photo ops from safaris, fishing trips and war zones. But he also posed for
labor: rabid self-promotion. For weeks beforehand, we are compelled to bombard
every friend, relative and vague acquaintance with creative e-mails and Facebook
they got off easy compared with those invited to the “Funeral Supper” of the
18th-century French bon vivant Grimod de la Reynière, held to promote his opus
led to an explosion in the number of newspapers in Paris, creating an array of
publicity options. In “Lost Illusions,” Balzac observes that it was standard practice in
photo editors that they feature him as a lepidopterist prancing about the forests in cap,
shorts and long socks. (“Some fascinating photos might be also taken of me, a burly
第二届英语世界杯翻译大赛原文
第二届英语世界杯翻译大赛原文His First Day as Quarry-BoyBy Hugh Miller (1802～1856)It was twenty years last February since I set out, a little before sunrise, to make my first acquaintance with a life of labour and restraint; and I have rarely had a heavier heart than on that morning. I was but a slim, loose-jointed boy at the time, fond of the pretty intangibilities of romance, and of dreaming when broad awake; and, woful change! I was now going to work at what Burns has instanced, in his ‘Twa Dogs’, as one of the most disagreeabl e of all employments,—to work in a quarry. Bating the passing uneasinesses occasioned by a few gloomy anticipations, the portion of my life which had already gone by had been happy beyond the common lot. I had been a wanderer among rocks and woods, a reader of curious books when I could get them, a gleaner of old traditionary stories; and now I was going to exchange all my day-dreams, and all my amusements, for the kind of life in which men toil every day that they may be enabled to eat, and eat every day that they may be enabled to toil!The quarry in which I wrought lay on the southern shore of a noble inland bay, or frith rather, with a little clear stream on the one side, and a thick fir wood on the other. It had been opened in the Old Red Sandstone of the district, and was overtopped by a huge bank of diluvial clay, which rose over it in some places to the height of nearly thirty feet, and which at this time was rent and shivered, wherever it presented an open front to the weather, by a recent frost. A heap of loose fragments, which had fallen from above, blocked up the face of the quarry and my firstemployment was to clear them away. The friction of the shovel soon blistered my hands, but the pain was by no means very severe, and I wrought hard and willingly, that I might see how the huge strata below, which presented so firm and unbroken a frontage, were to be torn up and removed. Picks, and wedges, and levers, were applied by my brother-workmen; and, simple and rude as I had been accustomed to regard these implements, I found I had much to learn in the way of using them. They all proved inefficient, however, and the workmen had to bore into one of the inferior strata, and employ gunpowder. The process was new to me, and I deemed it a highly amusing one: it had the merit, too, of being attended with some such degree of danger as a boating or rock excursion, and had thus an interest independent of its novelty. We had a few capital shots: the fragments flew in every direction; and an immense mass of the diluvium came toppling down, bearing with it two dead birds, that in a recent storm had crept into one of the deeper fissures, to die in the shelter. I felt a new interest in examining them. The one was a pretty cock goldfinch, with its hood of vermilion and its wings inlaid with the gold to which it owes its name, as unsoiled and smooth as if it had been preserved for a museum. The other, a somewhat rarer bird, of the woodpecker tribe, was variegated with light blue and a grayish yellow. I was engaged in admiring the poor little things, more disposed to be sentimental, perhaps, than if I had been ten years older, and thinking of the contrast between the warmth and jollity of their green summer haunts, and the cold and darkness of their last retreat, when I heard our employer bidding the workmen lay by their tools. I looked up and saw the sun sinking behind the thick fir wood beside us, and the long dark shadows of the trees stretchingdownward towards the shore.—Old Red Sandstone（文章选自THE OXFORD BOOK OF ENGLISH PROSE, 658-660, Oxford University Press, London, first published 1925，reprinted 1958.）。
第十届CASIO杯翻译竞赛西语原文
Desde el mirador de mi madre Clara SánchezEn el verano de 1993, con un calor insoportable, mi madre sufrióun infarto cerebral que nos cambió la vida, o por lo menos nos hizo dar un paso más en ella. Nos obligó a tratar de ver las cosas de otra manera. Yo, por ejemplo, empecéa valorar comportamientos que hasta entonces había medio despreciado, como la frivolidad. Caí en la cuenta de lo necesario que es un poco de frivolidad para sobrevivir y no dejarse arrastrar por los acontecimientos hasta lo más profundo. Pero también comenzó a fastidiarme la gente que no puede escuchar ni una frase que no se refiera al lado bueno de la existencia, que arrugan el entrecejo en cuanto oyen la palabra enfermedad, hospital, vejez, como si las contrariedades y el sufrimiento o la pena hubiese que tenerlos guardados bajo llave. La enfermedad, más que el sexo, ha sido durante mucho tiempo tabú, de conversación en voz baja, asunto de mujeres achacosas o de médicos, hasta que las series de televisión la han puesto de moda para en el fondo hablar de amoríos.Es un peñazo no poder ser débil nunca y hacer como si nada pasara. Lo malo que a uno le ocurre, también le ocurre, forma parte de su biografía. No soy de los que piensan que sólo se aprende a través del dolor, se aprende más de la alegría, de la risa y del estar bien. Es esta enseñanza la que nos empuja, hasta en los peores momentos, a buscar un espacio en nuestra mente en que continúa haciendo sol. Pero en el caso de mi familia, este hecho fue el que más nos conmocionó, quizá por su brusquedad y las secuelas que dejó.Por supuesto, a la primera que le cambió la vida fue a mi madre. Entonces tenía 62 años y ya no ha vuelto a ser la misma. La visión de esas dos imágenes, la de antes (fuerte y entera) y la de después ha sido demoledora durante bastante tiempo. Hasta que el día a día y los años han ido apaciguando la sensación de agresión y agravio ¿de quién? ¿De la vida? ¿A quién se le pide cuentas? Nos hemos ido acomodando a las circunstancias e incluso sacando lo mejor de ellas, no hay otro remedio, o aceptas las reglas del juego o te quedas fuera. Y fuera está lo desconocido, el abismo. Al principio no le apetecía salir de casa y enfrentarse al mundo, sin poder hablar. Lo bueno era que la comprensión y la memoria estaban intactas, así que nos fuimos agarrando a lo bueno. Mi madre aceptó las reglas del juego y mostró una fortaleza y una capacidad de lucha, que no nos dejaban desfallecer. Se sometía a sesiones durísimas de rehabilitación y comenzóhumildemente a intentar aprender a escribir de nuevo. Estaba agradecida a todo el mundo. Fue como si en su mente se hubiese borrado cualquier recelo hacia el prójimo, cualquier tipo de prevención. Nunca la he visto llorar por lo que le pasó, pero se le saltaban las lágrimas cuando se mencionaba a los neurólogos que la trataban o a los fisioterapeutas, sobre todo una, que un día le dijo muy seriamente: "No voy a consentir que no salgas andando de aquí", y asílo hizo, lo consiguió. Hay gente pululando anónimamente por ahí que hace cosas muy importantes por los demás. Así que gracias, Conchita, eres la mejor.Mi madre tuvo que pasar casi tres meses en el hospital, lo que supuso para todos nosotros un cursillo intensivo sobre la vida oculta o que se prefiere ignorar. Ahora me fijaba más en la gente que andaba con dificultad por la calle o que tenía algún tipo de carencia, me sentía en su mismo mundo. Creo que sabía que todo eso podría pasarme a mí, asíde sencillo. Y entonces fui consciente de lo cruel que es esta sociedad con quienes no están en plena forma. Digamos que laenfermedad de mi madre nos puso unas gafas de aumento para ver mejor lo que hay alrededor, eso sí, a un gran precio. Tras ella, el mayor sin duda lo ha pagado mi padre, que se ha hecho cargo de esta complicada situación para que a todos nos alterase lo menos posible. No es un hombre pacífico ni resignado, sino más bien rebelde e incisivo, y quizá por eso nunca se ha dejado abatir. Siempre busca recursos para estar activo y en conflicto, y no ha permitido jamás que mi madre dejase de discutir con él y decirle cuatro verdades, aunque fuese a su manera.Lo cierto es que tengo unos padres atípicos y bastante graciosos, muy discutones. Les da la vida montar el pollo durante los telediarios por algo que haya dicho fulano o mengano. Siempre ha habido tensiones políticas entre ellos. Mi padre lee EL PAÍS y Expansión y oye la SER e Intereconomía. Lleva un control férreo de los movimientos de la Bolsa. Cuando baja, está de un humor de perros. Yo, que no tengo inversiones, sé cómo va por el tono de su voz. Le gusta mucho la ropa y los complementos. Y no soporta que le llamen anciano. Lo de abuelo está absolutamente restringido a los nietos. Prefiere la definición de viejo. Dice que se dio cuenta de que era considerado viejo cuando los coches se atrevían a pasar el suyo nada más verle por detrás la nuca blanca. Y no sé cómo se las arregla para hacer un seguimiento tan exhaustivo del mundo literario. Aunque no quiera enterarme, me tiene al tanto de los logros, premios y colaboraciones de todos los colegas, para a continuación añadir, tienes que espabilar. Por eso a mis padres no les importa que escriba sobre ellos, con tal de proporcionarme material y ayudarme a salir adelante.No era fácil durante y tras lo que se podría llamar el largo verano del 93 centrarme en otra cosa. Trataba de distraerme para no hablar ni pensar en ello. Hasta que decidí que no debía olvidar, sino todo lo contrario, aprovecharlo en mi propia experiencia, no desecharlo puesto que tanto esfuerzo nos suponía a todos. Así que tiempo más tarde, cuando ya tenía la cabeza algo más fría, empecé a escribir y salió una novela, Desde el mirador (Alfaguara, 1996), que empieza así:"La tarde va quedando atrás. Un cable negro cruza el cielo azul. La ventanilla de un vagón de tren limita y recorta el campo. Sobre el cable, y por un instante, unos grandes pájaros en fila también quedan atrás. La sierra, a lo lejos, y más cerca los árboles y las fábricas se perfilan en el aire como montañas, árboles y fábricas presentes y reales.He viajado a través de este paisaje durante dos meses y desde entonces el sol se ha ido debilitando poco a poco y también la angustia inicial que me hizo dudar de que la vida fuera buena, a pesar de que es lo único que hay. Ahora me queda cierta flaqueza por aquella duda, cierta zozobra constante y la certeza de que cuando se conoce algo ya no se puede desconocer, no tan sólo olvidar, sino que es imposible volver al origen en que no se sabía aquello.He recorrido los 60 kilómetros que unen el Hospital General con Madrid, cada dos días más o menos, hasta ésta misma tarde en que le han dado el alta a mi madre. La última imagen que he retenido de ella ha sido su blusa de seda azul alejándose en el coche, regresando al mundo, mezclándose con el aire que rodea el hospital y con el que se extiende donde se le pierde de vista y mucho más allá aún. Ya es libre, menos que un pájaro porque no puede volar y menos que un pez porque no puede respirar bajo el agua, pero más que un pájaro y un pez porque piensa. Ella me ha hecho creer que nadie puede ser libre nada más que a su manera.Recuerdo sin desesperación y con pesar, como si me hubiera distraído y no hubiese hecho algo que debía, el día de finales de junio, cuando sonó el teléfono en mi casa, en las afueras de Madrid. Una voz desde un hospital me comunicó que mi madre había sufrido un derrame cerebral. Luego se confirmóque había sido infarto. Me cuesta mucho pronunciar infarto cerebral y mucho más escribirlo, es como tratar de escribir en el papel con un hierro al rojo vivo".。
第十届CASIO杯翻译竞赛英语组原文及获奖译文
第十届CASIO杯翻译竞赛英语组原文Humans are animals and like all animals we leave tracks as we walk:signs of passage made in snow,sand,mud,grass,dew,earth or moss.The language of hunting has a luminous word for such mark-making:‘foil’.A creature’s‘foil’is its track.We easily forget that we are track-makers,though,because most of our journeys now occur on asphalt and concrete–and these are substances not easily impressed.Always,everywhere,people have walked,veining the earth with paths visible and invisible,symmetrical or meandering,’writes Thomas Clark in his enduring prose-poem‘In Praise of Walking’.It’s true that,once you begin to notice them,you see that the landscape is still webbed with paths and footways–shadowing the modern-day road network,or meeting it at a slant or perpendicular.Pilgrim paths, green roads,drove roads,corpse roads,trods,leys,dykes,drongs,sarns,snickets–say the names of paths out loud and at speed and they become a poem or rite–holloways,bostles,shutes,driftways,lichways,ridings,halterpaths,cartways,carneys, causeways,herepaths.Many regions still have their old ways,connecting place to place,leading over passes or round mountains,to church or chapel,river or sea.Not all of their histories are happy.In Ireland there are hundreds of miles of famine roads,built by the starving during the1840s to connect nothing with nothing in return for little,unregistered on Ordnance Survey base maps.In the Netherlands there are doodwegen and spookwegen–death roads and ghost roads–which converge on medieval cemeteries. Spain has not only a vast and operational network of cañada,or drove roads,but also thousands of miles of the Camino de Santiago,the pilgrim routes that lead to the shrine of Santiago de Compostela.For pilgrims walking the Camino,every footfall is doubled,landing at once on the actual road and also on the path of faith.In Scotland there are clachan and rathad–cairned paths and shieling paths–and in Japan the slender farm tracks that the poet Bashōfollowed in1689when writing his Narrow Road to the Far North.The American prairies were traversed in the nineteenthcentury by broad‘bison roads’,made by herds of buffalo moving several beasts abreast,and then used by early settlers as they pushed westwards across the Great Plains.Paths of long usage exist on water as well as on land.The oceans are seamed with seaways–routes whose course is determined by prevailing winds and currents–and rivers are among the oldest ways of all.During the winter months,the only route in and out of the remote valley of Zanskar in the Indian Himalayas is along the ice-path formed by a frozen river.The river passes down through steep-sided valleys of shaley rock,on whose slopes snow leopards hunt.In its deeper pools,the ice is blue and lucid.The journey down the river is called the chadar,and parties undertaking the chadar are led by experienced walkers known as‘ice-pilots’,who can tell where the dangers lie.Different paths have different characteristics,depending on geology and purpose. Certain coffin paths in Cumbria have flat‘resting stones’on the uphill side,on which the bearers could place their load,shake out tired arms and roll stiff shoulders;certain coffin paths in the west of Ireland have recessed resting stones,in the alcoves of which each mourner would place a pebble.The prehistoric trackways of the English Downs can still be traced because on their close chalky soil,hard-packed by centuries of trampling,daisies flourish.Thousands of work paths crease the moorland of the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides,so that when seen from the air the moor has the appearance of chamois leather.I think also of the zigzag flexure of mountain paths in the Scottish Highlands,the flagged and bridged packhorse routes of Yorkshire and Mid Wales,and the sunken green-sand paths of Hampshire on whose shady banks ferns emerge in spring,curled like crosiers.The way-marking of old paths is an esoteric lore of its own,involving cairns, grey wethers,sarsens,hoarstones,longstones,milestones,cromlechs and other guide-signs.On boggy areas of Dartmoor,fragments of white china clay were placed to show safe paths at twilight,like Hansel and Gretel’s pebble trail.In mountain country,boulders often indicate fording points over rivers:Utsi’s Stone in the Cairngorms,for instance,which marks where the Allt Mor burn can be crossed toreach traditional grazing grounds,and onto which has been deftly incised the petroglyph of a reindeer that,when evening sunlight plays over the rock,seems to leap to life.Paths and their markers have long worked on me like lures:drawing my sight up and on and over.The eye is enticed by a path,and the mind’s eye also.The imagination cannot help but pursue a line in the land–onwards in space,but also backwards in time to the histories of a route and its previous followers.As I walk paths I often wonder about their origins,the impulses that have led to their creation, the records they yield of customary journeys,and the secrets they keep of adventures, meetings and departures.I would guess I have walked perhaps7,000or8,000miles on footpaths so far in my life:more than most,perhaps,but not nearly so many as others.Thomas De Quincey estimated Wordsworth to have walked a total of 175,000–180,000miles:Wordsworth’s notoriously knobbly legs,‘pointedly condemned’–in De Quincey’s catty phrase–‘by all…female connoisseurs’,were magnificent shanks when it came to passage and bearing.I’ve covered thousands of foot-miles in my memory,because when–as most nights–I find myself insomniac,I send my mind out to re-walk paths I’ve followed,and in this way can sometimes pace myself into sleep.‘They give me joy as I proceed,’wrote John Clare of field paths,simply.Me too.‘My left hand hooks you round the waist,’declared Walt Whitman–companionably, erotically,coercively–in Leaves of Grass(1855),‘my right hand points to landscapes of continents,and a plain public road.’Footpaths are mundane in the best sense of that word:‘worldly’,open to all.As rights of way determined and sustained by use,they constitute a labyrinth of liberty,a slender network of common land that still threads through our aggressively privatized world of barbed wire and gates,CCTV cameras and‘No Trespassing’signs.It is one of the significant differences between land use in Britain and in America that this labyrinth should exist.Americans have long envied the British system of footpaths and the freedoms it offers,as I in turn envy the Scandinavian customary right of Allemansrätten(‘Everyman’s right’).This convention–born of a region that did not pass through centuries of feudalism,andtherefore has no inherited deference to a landowning class–allows a citizen to walk anywhere on uncultivated land provided that he or she cause no harm;to light fires;to sleep anywhere beyond the curtilage of a dwelling;to gather flowers,nuts and berries; and to swim in any watercourse(rights to which the newly enlightened access laws of Scotland increasingly approximate).Paths are the habits of a landscape.They are acts of consensual making.It’s hard to create a footpath on your own.The artist Richard Long did it once,treading a dead-straight line into desert sand by turning and turning about dozens of times.But this was a footmark not a footpath:it led nowhere except to its own end,and by walking it Long became a tiger pacing its cage or a swimmer doing lengths.With no promise of extension,his line was to a path what a snapped twig is to a tree.Paths connect.This is their first duty and their chief reason for being.They relate places in a literal sense,and by extension they relate people.Paths are consensual,too,because without common care and common practice they disappear:overgrown by vegetation,ploughed up or built over(though they may persist in the memorious substance of land law).Like sea channels that require regular dredging to stay open,paths need walking.In nineteenth-century Suffolk small sickles called‘hooks’were hung on stiles and posts at the start of certain wellused paths: those running between villages,for instance,or byways to parish churches.A walker would pick up a hook and use it to lop off branches that were starting to impede passage.The hook would then be left at the other end of the path,for a walker coming in the opposite direction.In this manner the path was collectively maintained for general use.By no means all interesting paths are old paths.In every town and city today, cutting across parks and waste ground,you’ll see unofficial paths created by walkers who have abandoned the pavements and roads to take short cuts and make asides. Town planners call these improvised routes‘desire lines’or‘desire paths’.In Detroit –where areas of the city are overgrown by vegetation,where tens of thousands of homes have been abandoned,and where few can now afford cars–walkers and cyclists have created thousands of such elective easements.第十届CASIO杯翻译竞赛英语组参考译文路[英]罗伯特·麦克法伦作侯凌玮译人是一种动物，因而和所有其他动物一样，我们行走时总会留下踪迹：雪地、沙滩、淤泥、草地、露水、土壤和苔藓上都有我们经过的痕迹。
2012Casio杯英语演讲比赛演讲稿汇编
2012Casio杯英语演讲比赛演讲稿汇编Thesis: A Day without Internet● 初三（4）班袁清怡（Casio杯英语演讲比赛冠军）Honorable judges, dear teachers and students, it’s my great honor to stand here today, and…… oh, give me a second, I must post this on my Renren: I…… am now……on the stage of …… Casio Cup Speech Contest……so excited! Alright, remember to check it out. For that’s the charm of the internet, it makes our voice heard, keeps us located, even in situations like this.And that’s why I like this year’s topic: A Day without Internet, for the answer is simple: to me, and to lots of you guys down here enjoying the free Wifi right now, a day without internet will just be the end of the world. The internet has brought us great changes in life, and the most significant of them is that we are no longer thinking alone. Whenever we have questions, we have Google, Baidu, Wikipedia all around us. It feels so good that we almost ignored that while asking them, our creativity and our ability of independent thinking——let’s borrow one of Carlos’s lin es from yesterday’s The Little Mermaid—— while asking them, our creativity turns into foams, and spreads away.For example, this week I did a lot of research about this topic: A Day without Internet, and articles I found turned out to be almost the same, and kind of boring. So finally, I turned off my laptop and decided to explain this topic in my own way. And then a name suddenly came into my mind: Isaac Newton, how did he spend his days without internet?In the morning, perhaps, in stead of posting pictures on Facebook, he decided to visit the apple garden. When that historical apple fell on his head, he did not have Google or Wikipedia to tell him why it happened, so he did research himself and finally, discovered gravity, and lots of us students are now suffering from the subject of physics——just kidding.Anyway, without internet, people think more independently and therefore, become more creative. Yes, it is true that the internet can be for great help——especially while we are dealing with our math problems. However, with that Mr. know it all by our side, we become Mr. & Mrs. Don’t know it at all. That is a situations which all of us, especially our math teachers, never want to see.So let's just have a day without internet, try to go out and write a poem, or solve some questions, or think about what drama we are going to put on next year. Just try to create something instead of getting information from the internet, because it is our mind that is worth more listening than anything else.Thank you.● 初三（3）班张晨曦（Casio杯英语演讲比赛冠军）Ladies and gentlemen, good afternoon, isn’ t it? Such fine and wonderful thing simply reminds me of the terrible 2012 Dec. 23rd which is approaching every day and we barely have 7 months of good afternoons. Or, the movie has said so but for you, my dear, it is a lot easier to welcome your doomsday. While you are all taking the convenience of Internet for granted, a day without it might bring all of you the end of world. It seems that without this great tool of sharing and playing, our life has gone towards a stopping point.But, let’s just stop there for a moment. Before we really worry about the future that isn’t for sure to come, how about going back to the past to see what really happened for those to deal with not having Internet.So, one day I time travelled to Tang Dynasty in Ancient China where there were no Internet. Though I really had had some worry about the boredom, the experience there turned out to be gorgeous. I visited some famous structures with red and gold colors shining royally. I did some shopping, not just online shopping, but the real shopping on the streets filled with stores of all kinds, selling accessories, Chinese perfume, pretty clothes materials, and above all, delicious local foods. Well, I am much of an eater. At the end of the day, I got up the hill, sat there, with the wholesunset in the sight. Everything was showering the glorious orange sunlight. I had always been relying on movies and TV dramas online to help me picture a romance but I had not realized then that the nature itself has placed the most romantic sceneries everywhere that you look, sit, and even sleep. Just like that, I fell into dreams as the sun gradually went down and hid itself in the dark.Back I went to 21st century, only to see people still obsessed about the disappearance of Internet. And I began asking myself, was it truly that Internet makes our life convenient or that it is simply so addictive as to make us all blind about the most wonderful things that are quite independent from the silly WIFI signals. People back in the ancient time knew nothing about the Internet, but they were most certainly leading theirs lives as smoothly as we are. Internet might bring us all the things that we want but pay attention, pictures, videos, online discussions are all digital and virtual, which is interpreted by computer into nothing but zero and one. And here comes the question: DO you invest your lifelong happiness on zero and one?● 初三（5）班陈润Good afternoon.Like every one of you here, I used to be totally a fan of the internet. I could visit blogs, check messages all day. I could even sing to my computer:‖ a day without you is like a year without rain.‖And here comes the story. It was a typical summer. I got tired of the relaxing vacation. I was searching for something to fulfill the vanity of my life. Of course, the internet appeared to be the best option. But a month later, the hole in my heart wasn’t growing smaller but bigger. You know the kind of feeling after heavy exposure to screens and it was just not myself.One day, the signal was cut because of repairing at my home. Hearing the shocking news, I felt myself living in a hell with no computer, no laptop, no Ipad. I was crazy pressing F5 on my keyboard. But when I look back now, that was really ablessing in disguise. It was the absence of the internet that made me walk out of the world of cyber land.I left my home and walked outside. There was always something out there. I looked around the garden near a river just below my balcony. To my surprise, everything was beyond recognition, no matter fluttering the birds, shifting in and out the waves, crawling the snails and chirping the frogs. When darkness fell, the twinkling stars and sparkling lights on the water filled my eyes. With the noise far, far away, I found peace deeply in here.I was isolated in the nature, which was completely different from how I was isolated in the internet. A voice inside was calling me to reach for the nature. At that moment, I realized how much I had missed for the past month, but I was determined not to miss any more. A day without internet wasn’t a year without rain, but a day full of surprises. And finally I have sentence from Emerson for all of us here :Never lose an opportunity of seeing anythin g beautiful, for beauty is God’s handwriting.● 初三（6）班单晨Good afternoon，ladies and gentlemen. It’s my great honor to stand on the stage and give you my speech. Today my topic ―A day without Internet‖.Suppose you are a white-collar worker or a university student, and all of your work depends on the Internet, which can provide you a great deal of latest information. But have you ever thought that if the Internet suddenly disappeared, what would you do?Nowadays, because of the development of information technology, Internet is playing a most important role in society. Without the help of Internet, we will not be able to search information or communicate with others so conveniently, and our life will probably become a mess.It’s true that nobody can deny the necessity of Internet, but as many people are gradually becoming crazy over the Internet, its disadvantages are also shown to the people. For instance, micro-blog, as one of the most popular means of communication, has become a necessary part of the modern life, and many people are so addicted to micro-blogs that they just cannot live without micro-blogs. They would rather speak on the micro-blogs than take action in the real life. In another word, they are just like the fish that can’t get out of the ―net‖.Since the Internet does more harm than good to some people, why not try to live without Internet？Some people may immediately say no, but it’s an undeniable fact that before the Internet was invented, our ancestors could still live properly and peacefully. Thus, why do we modern people always focus on nothing but Internet?In fact, there are a lot of ways to spend your day without Internet, say, you can ride a bicycle to the quiet countryside, and relax yourself by sitting in the warm and peaceful sunshine; or you’d rather go to a small café to drin k a cup of coffee. At that moment, you don’t have to deal with any complicated information and the entire thing you need to do is to relax yourself and forget all about your tiredness.Of course, it was only a perfect living attitude which is hard to reach, but we should still have the thought in our mind that we should not be controlled by the Internet, by the thing which is actually invented by us. It is a beautiful but poisonous net – while we are weaving it, do not let the strings corrode our mind; It is a magnificent but unknown ocean – while we are sailing on it, do not let the hurricanes destroy our mind; It is a brilliant but dangerous firework – while we are watching it, do not let the sparks burn our mind.Internet is a useful tool but we should not be limited by this tool. My dear friends, if there is a day without Internet, stop complaining and begin to enjoy. Just go back to the innocence, and let your lifestyle shine!● 初三（6）班劳越Ladies and gentlemen, look at here and say ―cheese‖. Perfect! Thank you! I’m going to put this photo onto my micro-blog. How can I miss this meaningful moment?Oh, wait! A piece of announcement: sorry, netizens. You might need to spend a day without Internet, because there’s something wrong with the system.Dear audience, have you ever imagined a day without Internet? Some might tell me it wouldn’t be that bad. It would slow down our life and let people communicate face to face. But I want to say: much more than the advantages, we must admit the fact that the world would be in a panic.On a day without Internet, the media failed to collect news from different parts of the world. A day without news seemed dull and narrow and what if a piece of breaking news like 911 takes place?On a day without Internet, transportation was badly affected. Not having coordinated well, two aero-planes crashed into each other and caused a big tragedy.On a day without Internet, the netting system in a hospital broke down. On a day without Internet, workers in a multinational company got so bored. On a day without Internet, the WHO failed to do its surveillance work.On a day without Internet, it seemed that only my mom looked happy. Why? Because I was not being a computer cat any more. However, problems came fairly soon. Math homework was so difficult that without searching on the net, I could only stare at one problem for a whole morning. Then I went to discuss on our group work but I found it so hard to contact with 5 people at the same time without QQ. What was more, my dad couldn’t receive an important e-mail from his colleague, and my mom herself complained of not being able to go shopping online.Imagining the situations I have mentioned, can you now consider the day as a good experience? Absolutely no. As the internet has already become part of life and part of the society, we can’t be without it even for one day. It’s Internet that makes information shareable. It’s Internet that makes communication convenient. It’s Internet that makes daily life easy. It’s Internet that makes the globe s mall. Nobody can deny the importance and necessity of it. And as teenagers in the 21st century, weare supposed to make full use of the net, but of course on a limitation of not falling into the unreal world. We are supposed to live in an Internet epoch. Yeah, I mean Internet has already become the name of the epoch. Not only because of the help it gives us, but also because it’s sending us the spirit of the new age, the life style that we open up our minds to be with all human beings on the earth. Just as the theme of this year’s English Festival suggests us: netting the globe, reaching the world.Thank you!● 初三（4）班姜镇涛Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen! It’s my great honor to stand on the stage and give you my speech. My topic will be ―A Day without Internet‖.At the beginning of my speech, please allow me to ask you some questions. Would you stay with your family or hang out with your friends in your spare time, or would you just sit on the front the computer, play games or chat with those you have never met? It is taken for granted that those high-tech communications gradually make the earth a global village, but due to Internet, people seem too lazy to get involved in hobbies and social activities.Looking around, you will notice many people desperate for Internet just like hungry souls hoping for a scrap of food. They waste hours and hours on line and when they leave their computers, they become vaguely jittery. They may be enjoying themselves on line, but they lost more important things: the joy in their normal life.Perhaps most of you have heard of the story of a broken circle. He lost a part of his body before and keeps seeking for it. Since he is not complete, he has to roll very slowly. On his way, he has made so many friends, enjoyed so many beautiful surroundings. However, when he eventually finds that piece, he begins to speed, missing all the friends and views on the way. We, just like that complete circle, manage to speed on our road, but at the same time, are losing more important things——friendship, love and freedom.It is time for us to reject this kind of way of life. The screens we yearn to possess have instead begun to possess us. We all seemed to get along pretty well in the days before the screens invaded our lives. But fixated on this convenient means of communication, we miss those close relationships between us and our friends and families. Just like if you are fortunate when you are gazing at the iPhone in your palms, you do not walk into a lamp pole. When we rushed down the road of life, we would probably get badly injured. We navigated our life rather efficiently when we slow down our steps. And only in that way, we will gain more friendship, love and freedom.Look away from this screen. Look around you, out the window, or across the room or down the street. Isn’t it something? It looks so real, and you have to believe you can touch it yourself.Thank you!● 初三（5）班李佳迅Dear teachers and fellow friends, what a great honor to have you all here and share my speech. Today I would like to talk about my schedule on a day without Internet.When I first received this topic, the first question that came into my mind was: ―How am I going to spare the boredom?‖ Living on campus, we may not see the connection between the Internet and our lives so tight, but to a large extent, we rely on the Internet to work, to study, and to entertain.For many of us, a day without Internet is like a disaster. How to catch up with the daily trends without cell phone news? How to focus on the soccer game without live show reports? How to get information without Google? And how to share your feelings without microblog? In the age of Internet, our lives are drowned in a diversity of information. If the global network ever breaks down, as if water in the oceans ever dries, everyone will be gazing at the computer screen anxiously as if fish without water.On the day without Internet, the world will fall into chaos, but it could also be a chance to take a rest.Why not walk outside to ease the pressure that the Internet has brought us? Let the clean air refresh your weary body. Let the sunbeam fix your poor eyesight. Away from the virtual space, we get a chance to approach the real world, the natural world. Just like in the movie Matrix, only when Neo swallowed the tiny red pill, had he seen how distant the real world is away from us. I choose to say hello to the nature on the day without Internet.Reading is an another choice to spare the time. Thanks to the Internet , the information we want is only a single click a way. It’s so convenient that we can simply throw away a whole library, while time for quality reading is sharply limited. Now that Baidu or Google are out of service, I choose to keep the books’ companion on the day without Internet.Above all, instead of sitting in front of the computer screen, it’s time to turn your face to people. Because the best memories ever in life is the time you spent with family and friends, not with the Internet. On the day without Internet, I choose to spend time with people.Thus, on the day without Internet, we’ve found something that has always been ignored behind our busy lives, which is actually the true essence of happiness.● 初三（3）班周臻What would the world be like without internet? Some will say that panic would be setting out all around the earth, but it would still not be the end of the world. Frankly, we can’t live without internet. There are millions of people who work by using internet. Many of the young people even seem to be addicted to the unreal world. It’s sad but true. If the internet service were off line today, they would be in trouble.Internet provides people with an extremely efficient means of communication. It seems that we can’t live without it. Also it has helped users around the world form anew, creative way of behaving and thinking. It has not only largely decreased the limit of time and distance, acknowledged our mind, but also offers countless conveniences to us.In spite of all those advantages that I have mentioned, we are talking about ―A Day W ithout Internet‖, aren’t we? Then what I’m telling you next is about besides internet, what have we got. Taken for example, yesterday’s Drama Night was really brilliant, not only the actors’ wonderful performance, but also the excellent dancing and singing gave the audience a very good impression. When the show was on, I saw many students using their electronic gadgets, logging on QQ or RenRen, expressing how exciting feelings. If we hadn’t had the internet service last night, we would still enjoy the glorious performance. There are also enormous numbers of ways for us to express our passion. Yes, passion. Internet can provide us everything except passion, love and other complicated human feelings! That is the shortage of the internet, of all those electronic gadgets.To be honest, internet can make us happy, but it can’t bring us the real happiness. The real happiness is only in the real world. Remember those young people who are crazy over online-games and leave their families, joining gangs, those bad examples? Like every coin has two sides. Internet is gradually taking something from us, like in compensation.We must remember that in the modern world, power, treasure and all those what people are pursuing their entire life, they are not everything. We are human. We have feelings. That’s what can’t be replaced. So without internet, I can’t say that life will be better, but life will go on. Thank you.。
第九届CASIO杯翻译竞赛英语组原文
Means of DeliveryJoshua CohenSmuggling Afghan heroin or women from Odessa would have been more reprehensible, but more logical. You know you’re a fool when what you’re doing makes even the post office seem efficient. Everything I was packing into this unwieldy, 1980s-vintage suitcase was available online. I don’t mean that when I arrived in Berlin I could have ordered more Levi’s 510s for next-day delivery. I mean, I was packing books.Not just any books — these were all the same book, multiple copies. “Invalid Format: An Anthology of Triple Canopy, Volume 1” is published, yes, by Triple Canopy, an online magazine featuring essays, fiction, poetry and all variety of audio/visual culture, dedicated — click “About” — “to slowing down the Internet.” With their book, the first in a planned series, the editors certainly succeeded. They were slowing me down too, just fine.“Invalid Format” collects in print the magazine’s first four issues and retails, ideally, for $25. But the 60 copies I was couriering, in exchange for a couch and coffee-press access in Kreuzberg, would be given away. For free.Until lately the printed book changed more frequently, but less creatively, than any other medium. If you thought “The Quotable Ronald Reagan” was too expensive in hardcover, you could wait a year or less for the same content to go soft. E-books, which made their debut in the 1990s, cut costs even more for both consumer and producer, though as the Internet expanded those roles became confused. Self-published book properties began outnumbering, if not outselling, their trade equivalents by the mid-2000s, a situation further convoluted when the conglomerates started “publishing” “self-published books.” Last year, Penguin became the first major trade press to go vanity: its Book Country e-imprint will legitimize your “original genre fiction” for just under $100. These shifts make small, D.I.Y. collectives like Triple Canopy appear more traditional than ever, if not just quixotic — a word derived from one of the first novels licensed to a publisher.Kennedy Airport was no problem, my connection at Charles de Gaulle went fine. My luggage connected too, arriving intact at Tegel. But immediately after immigration, I was flagged. A smaller wheelie bag held the clothing. As a customs official rummaged through my Hanes, I prepared for what came next: the larger case, casters broken, handle rusted — I’m pretty sure it had already been Used when it was given to me for my bar mitzvah.Before the official could open the clasps and start poking inside, I presented him with the document the Triple Canopy editor, Alexander Provan, had e-mailed me — the night before? two nights before already? I’d been up one of those nights scouringNew York City for a printer. No one printed anymore. The document stated, in English and German, that these books were books. They were promotional, to be given away at universities, galleries, the Miss Read art-book fair at Kunst-Werke.“All are same?” the official asked.“Alle gleich,” I said.An older guard came over, prodded a spine, said something I didn’t get. The younger official laughed, translated, “He wants to know if you read every one.”At lunch the next day with a musician friend. In New York he played twice a month, ate food stamps. In collapsing Europe he’s paid 2,000 euros a night to play a quattrocento church.“Where are you handing the books out?” he asked.“At an art fair.”“Why an art fair? Why not a book fair?”“It’s an art-book fair.”“As opposed to a book-book fair?”I told him that at book-book fairs, like the famous one in Frankfurt, they mostly gave out catalogs.Taking trains and trams in Berlin, I noticed: people reading. Books, I mean, not pocket-size devices that bleep as if censorious, on which even Shakespeare scans like a spreadsheet. Americans buy more than half of all e-books sold internationally — unless Europeans fly regularly to the United States for the sole purpose of downloading reading material from an American I.P. address. As of the evening I stopped searching the Internet and actually went out to enjoy Berlin, e-books accounted for nearly 20 percent of the sales of American publishers. In Germany, however, e-books accounted for only 1 percent last year. I began asking the multilingual, multiethnic artists around me why that was. It was 2 a.m., at Soho House, a private club I’d crashed in the former Hitlerjugend headquarters. One installationist said, “Americans like e-books because they’re easier to buy.” A performance artist said, “They’re also easier not to read.” True enough: their presence doesn’t remind you of what you’re missing; they don’t take up space on shelves. The next morning, Alexander Provan and I lugged the books for distribution, gratis. Question: If books become mere art objects, do e-books become conceptual art?Juxtaposing psychiatric case notes by the physician-novelist Rivka Galchen with a dramatically illustrated investigation into the devastation of New Orleans, “Invalid Format” is among the most artful new attempts to reinvent the Web by the codex, and the codex by the Web. Its texts “scroll”: horizontally, vertically; title pages evoke “screens,” reframing content that follows not uniformly and continuously but rather as a welter of column shifts and fonts. Its closest predecessors might be mixed-media Dada (Duchamp’s loose-leafed, shuffleable “Green Box”); or perhaps “I Can HasCheezburger?,” the best-selling book version of the pet-pictures-with-funny-captions Web site ; or similar volumes from and . These latter books are merely the kitschiest products of publishing’s recent enthusiasm for “back-engineering.” They’re pseudoliterature, commodities subject to the same reversing process that for over a century has paused “movies” into “stills” — into P.R. photos and dorm posters — and notated pop recordings for sheet music.Admittedly I didn’t have much time to consider the implications of adaptive culture in Berlin. I was too busy dancing to “Ich Liebe Wie Du Lügst,” a k a “Love the Way You Lie,” by Eminem, and falling asleep during “Bis(s) zum Ende der Nacht,” a k a “The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn,” just after the dubbed Bella cries over her unlikely pregnancy, “Das ist unmöglich!” — indeed!Translating mediums can seem just as unmöglich as translating between unrelated languages: there will be confusions, distortions, technical limitations. The Web ande-book can influence the print book only in matters of style and subject — no links, of course, just their metaphor. “The ghost in the machine” can’t be exorcised, only turned around: the machine inside the ghost.As for me, I was haunted by my suitcase. The extra one, the empty. My last day in Kreuzberg was spent considering its fate. My wheelie bag was packed. My laptop was stowed in my carry-on. I wanted to leave the pleather immensity on the corner of Kottbusser Damm, down by the canal, but I’ve never been a waster. I brought it back.It sits in the middle of my apartment, unrevertible, only improvable, hollow, its lid flopped open like the cover of a book.。
第八届CASIO杯翻译竞赛英语组原文及获奖翻译
第八届CASIO杯翻译竞赛英语组原文How Writers Build the BrandBy Tony Perrottet As every author knows,writing a book is the easy part these days.It’s when the publication date looms that we have to roll up our sleeves and tackle the real literary labor:rabid self-promotion.For weeks beforehand,we are compelled to bombard every friend,relative and vague acquaintance with creative e-mails and Facebook alerts,polish up our Web sites with suspiciously youthful author photos,and,in an orgy of blogs,tweets and YouTube trailers,attempt to inform an already inundated world of our every reading,signing,review,interview and(well,one can dream!)TV -appearance.In this era when most writers are expected to do everything but run the printing presses,self-promotion is so accepted that we hardly give it a second thought.And yet, whenever I have a new book about to come out,I have to shake the unpleasant sensation that there is something unseemly about my own clamor for attention. Peddling my work like a Viagra salesman still feels at odds with the high calling of literature.In such moments of doubt,I look to history for reassurance.It’s always comforting to be reminded that literary whoring—I mean,self-marketing—has been practiced by the greats.The most revered of French novelists recognized the need for P.R.“For artists, the great problem to solve is how to get oneself noticed,”Balzac observed in“Lost Illusions,”his classic novel about literary life in early19th-century Paris.As another master,Stendhal,remarked in his autobiography“Memoirs of an Egotist,”“Great success is not possible without a certain degree of shamelessness,and even of out-and-out charlatanism.”Those words should be on the Authors Guild coat of arms.Hemingway set the modern gold standard for inventive self-branding,burnishing his image with photo ops from safaris,fishing trips and war zones.But he also posed for beer ads.In1951,Hem endorsed Ballantine Ale in a double-page spread in Lifemagazine,complete with a shot of him looking manly in his Havana abode.As recounted in“Hemingway and the Mechanism of Fame,”edited by Matthew J. Bruccoli and Judith S.Baughman,he proudly appeared in ads for Pan Am and Parker pens,selling his name with the abandon permitted to Jennifer Lopez or LeBron James today.Other American writers were evidently inspired.In1953,John Steinbeck also began shilling for Ballantine,recommending a chilled brew after a hard day’s labor in the fields.Even Vladimir Nabokov had an eye for self-marketing,subtly suggesting to photo editors that they feature him as a lepidopterist prancing about the forests in cap, shorts and long socks.(“Some fascinating photos might be also taken of me,a burly but agile man,stalking a rarity or sweeping it into my net from a flowerhead,”he enthused.)Across the pond,the Bloomsbury set regularly posed for fashion shoots in British Vogue in the1920s.The frumpy Virginia Woolf even went on a“Pretty Woman”-style shopping expedition at French couture houses in London with the magazine’s fashion editor in1925.But the tradition of self-promotion predates the camera by millenniums.In440 B.C.or so,a first-time Greek author named Herodotus paid for his own book tour around the Aegean.His big break came during the Olympic Games,when he stood up in the temple of Zeus and declaimed his“Histories”to the wealthy,influential crowd. In the12th century,the clergyman Gerald of Wales organized his own book party in Oxford,hoping to appeal to college audiences.According to“The Oxford Book of Oxford,”edited by Jan Morris,he invited scholars to his lodgings,where he plied them with good food and ale for three days,along with long recitations of his golden prose.But they got off easy compared with those invited to the“Funeral Supper”of the18th-century French bon vivant Grimod de la Reynière,held to promote his opus “Reflections on Pleasure.”The guests’curiosity turned to horror when they found themselves locked in a candlelit hall with a catafalque for a dining table,and were served an endless meal by black-robed waiters while Grimod insulted them as an audience watched from the balcony.When the diners were finally released at7a.m., they spread word that Grimod was mad—and his book quickly went through three -printings.Such pioneering gestures pale,however,before the promotional stunts of the 19th century.In“Crescendo of the Virtuoso:Spectacle,Skill,and Self-Promotion in Paris During the Age of Revolution,”the historian Paul Metzner notes that new technology led to an explosion in the number of newspapers in Paris,creating an array of publicity options.In“Lost Illusions,”Balzac observes that it was standard practice in Paris to bribe editors and critics with cash and lavish dinners to secure review space, while the city was plastered with loud posters advertising new releases.In1887,Guy de Maupassant sent up a hot-air balloon over the Seine with the name of his latest short story,“Le Horla,”painted on its side.In1884,Maurice Barrès hired men to wear sandwich boards promoting his literary review,Les Taches d’Encre.In1932, Colette created her own line of cosmetics sold through a Paris store.(This first venture into literary name-licensing was,tragically,a flop).American authors did try to keep up.Walt Whitman notoriously wrote his own anonymous reviews,which would not be out of place today on Amazon.“An American bard at last!”he raved in1855.“Large,proud,affectionate,eating,drinking and breeding,his costume manly and free,his face sunburnt and bearded.”But nobody could quite match the creativity of the Europeans.Perhaps the most astonishing P.R.stunt—one that must inspire awe among authors today—was plotted in Paris in1927by Georges Simenon,the Belgian-born author of the Inspector Maigret novels.For100,000francs,the wildly prolific Simenon agreed to write an entire novel while suspended in a glass cage outside the Moulin Rouge nightclub for 72hours.Members of the public would be invited to choose the novel’s characters, subject matter and title,while Simenon hammered out the pages on a typewriter.A newspaper advertisement promised the result would be“a record novel:record speed, record endurance and,dare we add,record talent!”It was a marketing coup.As Pierre Assouline notes in“Simenon:A Biography,”journalists in Paris“talked of nothing else.”As it happens,Simenon never went through with the glass-cage stunt,because the newspaper financing it went bankrupt.Still,he achieved huge publicity(and got to pocket25,000francs of the advance),and the idea took on a life of its own.It wassimply too good a story for Parisians to drop.For decades,French journalists would describe the Moulin Rouge event in elaborate detail,as if they had actually attended it. (The British essayist Alain de Botton matched Simenon’s chutzpah,if not quite his glamour,a few years ago when he set up shop in Heathrow for a week and became the airport’s first“writer in residence.”But then he actually got a book out of it,along with prime placement in Heathrow’s bookshops.)What lessons can we draw from all this?Probably none,except that even the most egregious act of self-¬promotion will be forgiven in time.So writers today should take heart.We could dress like Lady Gaga and hang from a cage at a Yankees game—if any of us looked as good near-naked,that is.On second thought,maybe there’s a reason we have agents to rein in our P.R. ideas.第八届CASIO杯翻译竞赛英语组获奖译文（英语组）看作家如何打造品牌托尼·佩罗泰特[1]正如每位作家都知道的，现如今，写书本身并不是件难事，倒是临近出版之前，我们才需要打起精神、全力以赴地应对真正的文字工作，即疯狂的自我宣传。
第六届卡西欧翻译大赛english
第六届卡西欧翻译大赛englishMarrying AbsurdJoan DidionTo be married in Las Vegas, Clark County, Nevada, a bride must swear that she is eighteen or has parental permission and a bride-groom that he is twenty-one or has parental permission. Someone must put up five dollars for the license. (On Sundays and holidays, fifteen dollars. The Clark County Courthouse issues marriage licenses at any time of the day or night except between noon and one in the afternoon, between eight and nine in the evening, and between four and five in the morning.) Nothing else is required. The State of Nevada, alone among these United States, demands neither a premarital blood test nor a waiting period before or after the issuance of a marriage license. Driving in across the Mojave from Los Angeles, one sees the signs way out on the desert, looming up from that moonscape of rattlesnakes and mesquite, even before the Las Vegas lights appear like a mirage on the horizon: “GE TTING MARRIED? Free License Information First Strip Exit.” Perhaps the Las Vegas wedding industry achieved its peak operational efficiency between 9:00 p.m. and midnight of August 26,1965, an otherwise unremarkable Thursday which happened to be, by Presidential order, the last day on which anyone could improve his draft status merely by getting married. One hundred and seventy-one couples were pronounced man and wife in the name of Clark County and the State of Nevada that night, sixty-seven of them by a single justice of the peace, Mr. James A. Brennan. Mr. Brennan did one wedding at the Dunes and the other sixty-six in his office, and charged each couple eight dollars. One bride lenther veilto six others. “I got it down from five to three minutes,” Mr.B rennan said later of his feat. “I could’ve married them en masse, but they’re people, not cattle. People expect more when they get married.”What people who get married in Las Vegas actually do expect—what, in the largest sense, their “expectations” are—strikes one as a curious and self—contradictory business. Las Vegas is the most extreme and allegorical of American settlements, bizarre and beautiful in its venality and in its devotion to immediate gratification, a place the tone of which is set by mobster s and call girls and ladies’ room attendants with amyl nitrite poppers in their uniform pockets. Almost everyone notes that there is no “time” in Las Vegas, no night and no day and no past and no future (no Las Vegas casino, however, has taken the obliteration of the ordinary time sense quite so far as Harold’s Club in Reno, which for a while issued, at odd intervals in the day and night, mimeographed “bulletins” carrying news from the world outside); neither is there any logical sense of where one is. One is standing on a highway in the middle of a vast hostile desert looking at an eighty-foot sign which blinks “STARDUST” or “CAESAR’S PALACE.” Yes, but what does that explain? This geographical implausibility reinforces the sense that what happens there has no connection with “real” life; Nevada cities like Reno and Carson are ranch towns, Western towns, places behind which there is some historical imperative. But Las Vegas seems to exist only in the eye of the beholder. All of which makes it an extraordinarily stimulating and interesting place, but an odd one in which to want to wear a candlelight satin Priscilla of Boston wedding dress with Chantilly lace insets,tapered sleeves and a detachable modified train.And yet the Las Vegas wedding business seems to appeal to precisely that impulse. “Sincere and Dignified Since 1954,” one wedding chape l advertises. There are nineteen such wedding chapels in Las Vegas, intensely competitive, each offering better, faster, and, by implication, more sincere services than the next: Our Photos Best Anywhere, Your Wedding on APhonograph Record, Candlelight with Your Ceremony, Honeymoon Accommodations, Free Transportation from Your Motel to Courthouse to Chapel and Return to Motel, Religious or Civil Ceremonies, Dressing Rooms, Flowers, Rings, Announcements, Witnesses Available, and Ample Parking. All of these services, like most others in Las Vegas (sauna baths, payroll-check cashing, chinchilla coats for sale or rent) are offered twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, presumably on the premise that marriage, like craps, is a game to be played when the table seems hot.But what strikes one most about the Strip chapels, with their wishing wells and stained-glass paper windows and their artificial bouvardia, is that so much of their business is by no means a matter of simple convenience, of late-night liaisons between show girls and baby Crosbys. Of course there is some of that. (One night about eleven o’clock in Las Vegas I watched a bride in an orange minidress and masses of flame-colored hair stumble from a Strip chapel on the arm of her bridegroom, who looked the part of the expendable nephew in movies like Miami Syndicate. “I gotta get the kids,” the bride whimpered. “I gotta pick up the sitter, I gotta get to the midn ight show.” “What you gotta get,” the bridegroom said, opening the door of a Cadillac Cou pe de Ville and watching her crumple on the seat, “issober.”) But Las Vegas seems to offer something other than “convenience”; it is merchandising “niceness,” the fa csimile of proper ritual, to children who do not know how else to find it, how to make the arrangements, how to do it “right.” All day and evening long on the Strip, one sees actual wedding parties, waiting under the harsh lights at a crosswalk, standing uneasily in the parking lot of the Frontier while the photographer hired by The Little Chur ch of the West (“Wedding Place of the Stars”) certifies the occasion, takes the picture: the bride in a veil and white satin pumps, the bridegroomusually in a white dinner jacket, and even an attendant or two, a sister or a best friend in hot-pink peau de soie, a flirtation veil, a carnation nosegay. “When I Fall in love It Will Be Forever,” the organist plays, and then a few bars of Lohengrin. The mother cries; the stepfather, awkward in his role, invites the chapel hostess to join them for a drink at the Sands. The hostess declines with a professional smile; she has already transferred her interest to the group waiting outside. One bride out, another in, and again t he sign goes up on the chapel door: “One moment please—Wedding.”I sat next to one such wedding party in a Strip restaurant the last time I was in Las Vegas. The marriage had just taken place; the bride still wore her dress, the mother her corsage. A bored waiter poured out a few swallows of pink champagne (“on the house”) for everyone but the b ride, who was too young to be served. “You’ll need something with more kick than that,” the bride’s father said with heavy jocularity to his new son-in-law; the ritual jokes about the wedding night had a certain Panglossian character, since the bride was clearly several months pregnant. Another round of pink champagne, this time not onthe house, and the bride began to cry. “It was just as nice,” she sobbed, “as I hoped and dreamed it would be.”。
【英语世界翻译赛往届赛题】-第一届原文及参考翻译
原文：Plutoria AvenueBy 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 at10.30after 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,ina 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 far 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 elevated 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 Plutoria 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 thatthe slums existed–which is much better.Arcadian Adventures with the Idle Rich,1914(From John Gross(ed.),The New Oxford Book of English Prose. Oxford:Oxford University Press,1998.pp.670~671)参考翻译：普路托利大道文/〔加拿大〕李科克译/曹明伦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。
：科技节之翻译大赛初赛原文（汉译英）
：科技节之翻译大赛初赛原文（汉译英）说烟花爆竹禁与限徐怀谦今年春节，很多人享受了大鸣大放烟花爆竹之快，也有很多人饱尝了烟花爆竹狂轰滥炸之苦。
于是，关于燃放烟花爆竹禁与限的争论又热闹了一阵。
主放派说燃放烟花爆竹是传统习俗，时间、历史本身就已经赋予了这一习俗以存在的足够正当性。
禁放派反驳说：现实的未必是合理的，合理的未必是已经存在的。
时间本身并不具有筛选习俗、法规、意识形态的能力。
有人依然喜欢燃放烟花爆竹，但绝不意味着该习俗仍有延续的绝对合理性：把农业社会的旧习俗带到后工业、人口密集的当下世界，其合理性本身就是可疑的。
我个人取中间道路——限放派。
限制什么？限制爆竹的威力，限制燃放的时间、地点。
有些爆竹快成炸弹了，央视配楼大火、沈阳宾馆大火都是大当量的烟花惹的祸。
只要管住源头——生产厂家，那么火灾啊，炸死炸伤人啊什么的，这些担心都是多余的。
至于燃放的时间和地点，更要严格控制。
午夜两三点钟大家都熟睡的时候，或者午休的时候，您来一通大鸣大放，合适吗？知道对门有心脏病，您偏要在人家窗根儿下燃放，合适吗？至于有些人拿燃放烟花爆竹来炫富或宣泄什么情绪，那是他的自由。
他只要在合理的时间、地点进行燃放，当量不过于扰民，就让他炫吧、宣泄吧。
我知道，很多人由原来的限放派转向禁放派，是出于一种无奈——燃放者对自由的滥用让他们无可选择。
不少燃放烟花爆竹的人在解禁之后，已经把燃放的自由释放到邪恶的程度，这就是我所形容的狂轰滥炸。
亚里士多德说过：“人人都应对他人负责，任何人都不得随心所欲，因为凡是允许绝对自由的地方，就会对人人固有的邪恶无所约束。
”所以，西方人的价值理念固然崇尚自由，但同时认为，社会自由必须是有限制的，随人意愿而行的自由只能扩大到其行动不致伤害他人或者不致有损于公众本身福利为止。
可是目前某些国人理解的自由就是随心所欲，就是任性而为，其实，这不叫自由，而叫放纵。
你的放纵，就是对别人自由的干涉，这显然不符合人们对自由的基本定义——自由就是在不妨碍别人利益的前提下做任何事的权利——你损害到别人的利益了，那就不是自由了。
第十二届CASIO杯(现“上译杯”)翻译竞赛英语组原文及获奖译文
第十二届CASIO杯翻译竞赛英语组原文【作者简介】W·H·奥登（1907—1973），英国著名诗人、评论家（由于出生于英国，后来成为美国公民，所以也有人将其列为美国作家），二十世纪最伟大的作家之一。
奥登的作品数量巨大，主题多样，技巧高超，身后亦备受推崇，其独特风格对后辈作家影响深远。
【内容提要】作为二十世纪最受推崇，且在诗艺上最为严肃的诗人之一，奥登以一种微妙的心态创作了大量评论类的文字，《染匠之手》（The Dyer’s Hand）是唯一一本奥登以书的架构自己收辑而成的散文集。
本文选自全书序章“阅读”篇章的第一段落，奥登用隐约相连的警句隽语描摹阅读的方方面面，轻盈、清澈、亲切，完全体现奥登无往不利的文思和炉火纯青的文字功夫。
2014年首次译入中文的《奥登诗选》轰动书坛，之后奥登的散文集也将相继面世，无论是想要从诗句之外窥探奥登文学艺术的资深读者，还是想要在最好的英文上打磨手艺的译事新人，都可以从这篇文章开始。
Reading(excerpt)W.H.AudenA book is a mirror:if an ass peers into it,you can’t expect an apostle to look out.C.G.LICHTENBERGOne only reads well that which one reads with some quite personal purpose.It may be to acquire some power.It can be out of hatred for the author.PAUL VALÉRY The interests of a writer and the interests of his readers are never the same and if, on occasion,they happen to coincide,this is a lucky accident.In relation to a writer,most readers believe in the Double Standard:they may be unfaithful to him as often as they like but he must never,never be unfaithful to them.To read is to translate,for no two persons’experiences are the same.A bad reader is like a bad translator:he interprets literally when he ought to paraphrase and paraphrases when he ought to interpret literally.In learning to read well,scholarship, valuable as it is,is less important than instinct;some great scholars have been poor translators.We often derive much profit from reading a book in a different way from that which its author intended but only(once childhood is over)if we know that we are doing so.As readers,most of us,to some degree,are like those urchins who pencil mustaches on the faces of girls in advertisements.One sign that a book has literary value is that it can be read in a number of different ways.Vice versa,the proof that pornography has no literary value is that,if one attempts to read it in any other way than as a sexual stimulus,to read it,say,as a psychological case history of the author’s sexual fantasies,one is bored to tears.need help fromothers in defining them.Whether it be a matter of taste in food or taste in literature, the adolescent looks for a mentor in whose authority he can believe.He eats or reads what his mentor recommends and,inevitably,there are occasions when he has to deceive himself a little;he has to pretend that he enjoys olives or War and Peace a little more than he actually does.Between the ages of twenty and forty we are engaged in the process of discovering who we are,which involves learning the difference between accidental limitations which it is our duty to outgrow and the necessary limitations of our nature beyond which we cannot trespass with impunity. Few of us can learn this without making mistakes,without trying to become a little more of a universal man than we are permitted to be.It is during this period that a writer can most easily be led astray by another writer or by some ideology.When someone between twenty and forty says,apropos of a work of art,“I know what I like,”he is really saying“I have no taste of my own but accept the taste of my cultural milieu,”because,between twenty and forty,the surest sign that a man has a genuine taste of his own is that he is uncertain of it.After forty,if we have not lost our authentic selves altogether,pleasure can again become what it was when we were children,the proper guide to what we should read.Though the pleasure which works of art give us must not be confused with other pleasures that we enjoy,it is related to all of them simply by being our pleasure and not someone else’s.All the judgments,aesthetic or moral,that we pass,however objective we try to make them,are in part a rationalization and in part a corrective discipline of our subjective wishes.So long as a man writes poetry or fiction,his dream of Eden is his own business,but the moment he starts writing literary criticism, honesty demands that he describe it to his readers,so that they may be in the position to judge his judgments.第十二届CASIO杯翻译竞赛英语组获奖译文论读书(节选)[英]W.H.奥登作孟思佳译书是一面镜子：如果一头蠢驴朝里瞧,就别指望会映出圣徒的面貌。
第八届卡西欧翻译比赛原文及翻译
习在线投稿：/custom/add.html2011年第八届CASIO杯翻译竞赛英译汉原文解读与译文赏析【原文标题】How Writers Build the BrandTony Perrott et【标题解读】当今的社会是一个商业的社会，商业社会以盈利为目的，但如何获取利益，还得借助于名声。
汉语有“名利”一词，所谓“名利”，先有“名”后有“利”，或者借“名”获“利”。
商业社会的本质就是借“名”获“利”。
这种本质已经深入人心，几乎成为人后天形成的一种本能。
网络的发展更是加剧了这种借“名”获“利”的商业社会本质，默默无闻者要想获取利益，必须先有“名”，SisterLotus如此，SisterPhoenix也不例外。
曾经闻名却销声匿迹的人也会如此，一炒即火。
如今是一个网络社会，为所有人博取名声提供了平台。
这个平台既可以扬善，也可以扬恶。
管他是“善”还是“恶”，只要能出名即可。
难怪当今社会有：这门，那门，门门有道；此丑，那丑，丑丑博名。
既有“名”，“利”岂有不来之理？平民如此，文人也不例外。
在平民眼里，作者可谓高雅人士，但实际上，所谓高雅人士，其实与平民并无多大区别，都不过是些以“名”获“利”之徒。
作家以名获利自古有之，而非当今社会独有，可见以名获利已经成为一种作家后天养成性的本能。
那么作家这种高雅之士又是如何以“名”获“利”的呢？其实非常简单，用当今网络社会的术语就是“炒作”。
【汉语译文】作家如何打造品牌托尼.佩罗蒂提/文颜林海译析【翻译津要】原文标题How writers build the brand中H ow是手段，build the brand是目的；build的本义是从“无”到“有”的人为过程，brand一词是赤裸裸的商业词汇，即“品牌”，意为“著名产品的牌子”（《汉语辞海》）。
第七届卡西欧翻译大赛
forgiveness for ruining his childhood. By then he was nearing the end of his second year
at Oxford and his head was full of maths and girlfriends, physics and drinking, and at first
wife, to abandon the cake-and-chutney stall and enter her child for such a gaudy event.
She must have known that he was bound to win, just as she later claimed always to have
whose dark suits and brown tweeds seemed a cut too large, especially around the neck.
He provided for his miniature family well and, in the fashion of the time, loved his son
sternly and with little physical contact. Though he never embraced Michael, and rarely
laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder, he supplied all the right kinds of present!
第十一届CASIO杯翻译竞赛英语组原文及获奖译文
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 course of 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,likelavishly 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 Telegraphs,but his experience of actual newsprint was confined to the Morning Larks 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…第十一届CASIO杯翻译竞赛获奖译文（英语组）莱昂内尔•阿斯博[英]马丁•艾米斯作徐弘译为了描绘伦敦自治市迪斯顿，我们借用混沌之诗：物物相克，同在一体而冷热相争、干湿相抗、软硬相攻、轻重相击。
第五届CASIO翻译大赛法语组参考译文专家点评
Chaque homme est seul et tous se fichent de tous et nos douleurs sont une île déserte. Ce n’est pas une raison pour ne pas se consoler, ce soir, dans les bruits finissants de la rue, se consoler, ce soir, avec des mots. Oh, le pauvre perdu qui, devant sa table, se console avec des mots, devant sa table et le téléphone décroché, car il a peur du dehors, et le soir, si le téléphone est décroché, il se sent tout roi et défendu contre les méchants du dehors, si vite méchants, méchants pour rien.Quel étrange petit bonheur, triste et boitillant mais doux comme un péchéou une boisson clandestine, quel bonheur tout de même d’écrire en ce moment, seul dans mon royaume et loin des salauds. Qui sont les salauds ? Ce n’est pas moi qui vous le dirai. Je ne veux pas d’h istoires avec les gens du dehors. Je ne veux pas qu’on vienne troubler ma fausse paix et m’empêcher d’écrire quelques pages par dizaines ou centaines selon que ce cœur de moi qui est mon destin décidera. J’ai résolu notamment de dire à tous les peintres qu’ils ont du génie, sans Ça ils vous mordent. Et, d’une manière générale, je dis à chacun que chacun est charmant. Telles sont mes mœurs diurnes. Mais dans mes nuits et mes aubes je n’en pense pas moins.Somptueuse, toi, ma plume d’or, va sur la feuille, va au hasard tandis que j’ai quelque jeunesse encore, va ton lent cheminement irrégulier, hésitant comme en rêve, cheminement gauche mais commandé. Va, je t’aime, ma seule consolation, va sur les pages où tristement je me complais et dont le strabisme morosement me délecte. Oui, les mots, ma patrie, les mots, Ça console et Ça venge. Mais ils ne me rendront pas ma mère. Si remplis de sanguin passé battant aux tempes et tout odorant qu’ils puissent être, les mots que j’écris ne me rendront pas ma mère morte. Su jet interdit dans la nuit. Arrière, image de ma mère vivante lorsque je la vis pour la dernière fois en France, arrière, maternel fantÔme.Soudain, devant ma table de travail, parce que tout y est en ordre et que j’ai du café chaud et une cigarette à peine commencée et que j’ai un briquet qui fonctionne et que ma plume marche bien et que je suis près du feu et de ma chatte, j’ai un moment de bonheur si grand qu’il m’émeut. J’ai pitié de moi, de cette enfantine capacité d’immense joie qui ne présage rien de bon. Que j’ai pitié de me voir si content à cause d’une plume qui marche bien, pitié de ce pauvre bougre de cœur qui veut s’arrêter de souffrir et s’accrocher à quelque raison d’aimer pour vivre. Je suis, pour quelques minutes, dans une petite oasis bourgeoise que je savoure. Mais un malheur est dessous, permanent, inoubliable. Oui, je savoure d’être, pour quelques minutes, un bourgeois, comme eux. On aime être ce qu’on n’est pas.Il n’y a pas plus artiste qu’une vraie bourgeoise qui écume devant un poème ou entre en transe, une mousse aux lèvres, à la vue d’un Cézanne et prophétise en son petit jargon, chipé Çà et là et même pas compris, et elle parle de masses et de volumes et elle dit que ce rouge est si sensuel. Et ta sœur, est-ce qu’elle est sensuelle ? Je ne sais plus où j’en suis. Faisons donc en marge un petit dessin appeleur d’idées, un dessin réconfort, un petit dessin neurasthénique, un dessin lent, où l’on met des décisions, des projets, un petit dessin, île étrange et pays de l’ame, triste oasis des réflexions qui en suivent les courbes, un petit dessin à peine fou, soigné, enfantin, sage et filial. Chut, ne la réveillez pas, filles de Jérusalem ne la réveillez pas pendant qu’elle dort.Qui dort ? demande ma plume. Qui dort, sinon ma mère éternellement, qui dort, sinon ma mère qui est ma douleur ? Ne la réveillez pas, filles de Jérusalem, ma douleur qui est enfouie au cimetière d’une ville dont je ne dois pas prononcer le nom, car ce nom est synonyme de ma mère enfouie dans de la terre. Va, plume, redeviens cursive et non hésitante, et sois raisonnable, redeviens ouvrière de clarté, trempe-toi dans la volonté et ne fais pas d’aussi longues virgules, cette inspiration n’est pas bonne. Ame, Ô ma plume, sois vaillante et travailleuse, quitte le pays obscur, cesse d’être folle, presque folle et guidée, guindée morbidement. Et toi, mon seul ami, toi que je regarde dans la glace, réprime les sanglots secs et, puisque tu veux oser le faire, parle de ta mère morte avec un faux cœur de bronze, parle calmement, feins d’être calme, qui sait, ce n’est peut-être qu’une habitude à prendre ? Raconte ta mère à leur calme manière, sifflote un peu pour croire que tout ne va pas si mal que ?a, et surtout souris, n’oublie pas de sourire. Souris pour escroquer ton désespoir, souris pour continuer de vivre, souris dans ta glace et devant les gens, et même devant cette page. Souris avec ton deuil plus haletant qu’une peur. Souris pour croire que rien n’importe, souris pour te forcer à feindre de vivre, souris sous l’épée s uspendue de la mort de ta mère, souris toute ta vie à en crever et jusqu’à ce que tu en crèves de ce permanent sourire.——Extrait du Livre de ma mère d’Albert Cohen法文部份我的母亲人人孤独，相互轻视，我们的痛苦是座荒岛。
第六届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛原文
第六届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛原文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.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.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.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.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.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 stuck directly in the ground and protected by upended gallon jugs.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.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.”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.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.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 signinviting strangers to share her garden.I drive by that house almost daily and have been tempted to load a shovel in my car trunk, stop at her curb and rescue a few lilies from the smothering thicket of weeds. The laws of trespass and the fact that her house sits across the street from a police station have given me the cowardice to resist temptation. But her garden has reminded me of mortality; gardeners and the gardens they make are fragile things, creatures of time, hostages to chance and to decay.Last week, the for sale sign out front came down and the windows were unboarded. A crew of painters arrived and someone cut down the dead elm tree. This morning there was a moving van in the driveway unloading a swing set, a barbecue grill, a grand piano and a houseful of sensible furniture. A young family is moving into that house.I hope that among their number is a gardener whose special fondness for old roses and clematis and lilies will see to it that all else is put aside until that flower bed is restored to something of its former self.(选自 Patterns: A Short Prose Reader, by Mary Lou Conlin, published by Houghton Mifflin Company, 1983.)。
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2009年度第六届CASIO翻译大赛英文Marrying AbsurdJoan DidionTo be married in Las Vegas, Clark County, Nevada, a bride must swear that she is eighteen or has parental permission and a bride-groom that he is twenty-one or has parental permission. Someone must put up five dollars for the license. (On Sundays and holidays, fifteen dollars. The Clark County Courthouse issues marriage licenses at any time of the day or night except between noon and one in the afternoon, between eight and nine in the evening, and between four and five in the morning.) Nothing else is required. The State of Nevada, alone among these United States, demands neither a premarital blood test nor a waiting period before or after the issuance of a marriage license. Driving in across the Mojave from Los Angeles, one sees the signs way out on the desert, looming up from that moonscape of rattlesnakes and mesquite, even before the Las Vegas lights appear like a mirage on the horizon: “GETTING MARRIED? Free License Information First Strip Exit.” Pe rhaps the Las Vegas wedding industry achieved its peak operational efficiency between 9:00 p.m. and midnight of August 26,1965, an otherwise unremarkable Thursday which happened to be, by Presidential order, the last day on which anyone could improve his draft status merely by getting married. One hundred and seventy-one couples were pronounced man and wife in the name of Clark County and the State of Nevada that night, sixty-seven of them by a single justice of the peace, Mr. James A. Brennan. Mr. Brennan did one wedding at the Dunes and the other sixty-six in his office, and charged each couple eight dollars. One bride lent her veilto six others. “I got it down from five to three minutes,” Mr. Brennan saidlater of his feat. “I could’ve married them en masse, but they’re people, not cattle. People expect more when they get married.”What people who get married in Las Vegas actually do expect—what, in the largest sense, their “expectations” are—strikes one as a curious and self—contradictory business. Las Vegas is the most extreme and allegorical of American settlements, bizarre and beautiful in its venality and in its devotion to immediate gratification, a place the tone of which is set by mobsters and call girls and ladies’ room attendants with amyl nitri te poppers in their uniform pockets. Almost everyone notes that there is no “time” in Las Vegas, no night and no day and no past and no future (no Las Vegas casino, however, has taken the obliteration of the ordinary time sense quite so far as Harold’s Clu b in Reno, which for a while issued, at odd intervals in the day and night, mimeographed “bulletins” carrying news from the world outside); neither is there any logical sense of where one is. One is standing on a highway in the middle of a vast hostile desert looking at an eighty-foot sign which blinks “STARDUST” or “CAESAR’S PALACE.” Yes, but what does that explain? This geographical implausibility reinforces the sense that what happens there has no connection with “real” life; Nevada cities like Reno and Carson are ranch towns, Western towns, places behind which there is some historical imperative. But Las Vegas seems to exist only in the eye of the beholder. All of which makes it an extraordinarily stimulating and interesting place, but an odd one in which to want to wear a candlelight satin Priscilla of Boston wedding dress with Chantilly lace insets, tapered sleeves and a detachable modified train.And yet the Las Vegas wedding business seems to appeal to precisely that impulse. “Sincere and Dignified Since 1954,” one wedding chapel advertises. There are nineteen such wedding chapels in Las Vegas, intenselycompetitive, each offering better, faster, and, by implication, more sincere services than the next: Our Photos Best Anywhere, Your Wedding on A Phonograph Record, Candlelight with Your Ceremony, Honeymoon Accommodations, Free Transportation from Your Motel to Courthouse to Chapel and Return to Motel, Religious or Civil Ceremonies, Dressing Rooms, Flowers, Rings, Announcements, Witnesses Available, and Ample Parking. All of these services, like most others in Las Vegas (sauna baths, payroll-check cashing, chinchilla coats for sale or rent) are offered twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, presumably on the premise that marriage, like craps, is a game to be played when the table seems hot.But what strikes one most about the Strip chapels, with their wishing wells and stained-glass paper windows and their artificial bouvardia, is that so much of their business is by no means a matter of simple convenience, of late-night liaisons between show girls and baby Crosbys. Of course there is some of that. (One night about eleven o’clock in Las Vegas I watched a bride in an orange minidress and masses of flame-colored hair stumble from a Strip chapel on the arm of her bridegroom, who looked the part of the expendable nephew in movies like Miami Syndicate. “I gotta get the kids,” the bride whimpered. “I gotta pick up the sitter, I gotta get to the midnight show.” “What you gotta get,” the bridegroom said, openin g the door of a Cadillac Coupe de Ville and watching her crumple on the seat, “is sober.”) But Las Vegas seems to offer something other than “convenience”; it is merchandising “niceness,” the facsimile of proper ritual, to children who do not know how else to find it, how to make the arrangements, how to do it “right.” All day and evening long on the Strip, one sees actual wedding parties, waiting under the harsh lights at a crosswalk, standing uneasily in the parking lot of the Frontier while the photographer hired by The LittleChurch of the West (“Wedding Place of the Stars”) certifies the occasion, takes the picture: the bride in a veil and white satin pumps, the bridegroom usually in a white dinner jacket, and even an attendant or two, a sister or a best friend in hot-pink peau de soie, a flirtation veil, a carnation nosegay. “When I Fall in love It Will Be Forever,” the organist plays, and then a few bars of Lohengrin. The mother cries; the stepfather, awkward in his role, invites the chapel hostess to join them for a drink at the Sands. The hostess declines with a professional smile; she has already transferred her interest to the group waiting outside. One bride out, another in, and again the sign goes up on the chapel door: “One moment please—Wedding.”I sat next to one such wedding party in a Strip restaurant the last time I was in Las Vegas. The marriage had just taken place; the bride still wore her dress, the mother her corsage. A bored waiter poured out a few swallows of pink champagne (“on the house”) for everyone but the bride, who was too young to be served. “You’ll need something with more kick than that,” the bride’s father said with heavy jocularity to his new son-in-law; the ritual jokes about the wedding night had a certain Panglossian character, since the bride was clearly several months pregnant. Another round of pink champagne, this time not on the house, and the bride began to cry. “It was just as nice,” she sobbed, “as I hoped and dreamed it would be.”。