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Файл:Basic literary translation. Учебное пособие-1
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8) the stars spilled over the sky;
9) vivid stars;
10) smashed acres of fruit;
11) the steamy earth;
12) a blur of sunlight was crawling across his hair;
13) moo-ed like a cow;
14) the heat-haze;
15) bullet-headed;
16) his face was blocked out in white and red;
17) insect-like figures;
18) e was white under the freckles;
19) the fetch ;
20) the snake-thing;
21) black caps of maintenance;
22) there were no words, and no movements but the tearing of teeth and claws;
23) the crowd was as silent as death;
24) ;
25) the sticks fell and the mouth of new circle crunched and screamed;
From “The Coral Island”, by R.M. Ballantyne
26) my heart glowed ardently;
27) he and I and Peterkin afterwards became the best and stanchest friends that
ever tossed together on the stormy waves;
28) the glassy waves;
29) the pure, white, dazzling shores;
30) a rag of sail;
31) for five days the tempest raged in all its fury;
32) left us at the mercy of the wind and waves;
33) my heart sank within me;
34) the tail of the island;
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35) clouds of spray;
36) the darkness of sorrow and desolation;
37) a cold chill at our hearts;
38) a burning desire;
39) our long confinement to the gloom of our prison;
40) a short sailor-like reply;
41) save twice to recruit our failing energies with a mouthful of food and a draught
of water;
42)
wept so much of late, poor fello;
43)
44) a monstrous economy of time;
45) the still bosom of the ocean;
46) a morsel of food;
47) the sky assumed that lurid aspect which portends a thunder-storm;
48) a growl of thunder;
49) rain cut across the land in sheets;
50) lightning played like forked serpents.
2. Make up your own tropes according to description.
- the rising sun;
- the setting sun;
- the full moon;
- the new moon;
- a royal ball;
- a sea;
- a violent storm;
- a lake;
- a snow-cap mountain;
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- a book;
the chairs scraping back from the tables,
someone experimenting with a yellowtoothed piano, if you stood outside the
dining-room window and listened. Matches
being struck, the first dishes bubbling in the
suds and tinkling on the wall racks,
somewhere, faintly, a phonograph playing.
And then as the evening changed the hour,
at house after house on the twilight streets,
under the immense oaks and elms, on shady
porches, people would begin to appear, like
those figures who tell good or bad weather
in rain-or-shine clocks.
Uncle Bert, perhaps Grandfather, then
Father, and some of the cousins; the men all
coming out first into the syrupy evening,
voices
-
- a flowering field/meadow;
- an aquarium;
- boiling water;
- an old house;
- snow.
3. Compare two original texts and their translations. Find stylistic devices and
explain means of their translation. Assess the quality of translation. Give your own
variants in cases you have criticized.
Extract 1
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behind in the cooling-warm kitchen to set
their universe aright. Then the first male
voices under the porch brim, the feet up, the
boys fringed on the worn steps or wooden
rails where sometime during the evening
something, a boy or a geranium pot, would
fall off.
At last, like ghosts hovering
momentarily behind the door screen,
Grandma, Great-grandma, and Mother
would appear, and the men would shift,
move, and offer seats. The women carried
varieties of fans with them, folded
newspapers, bamboo whisks, or perfumed
kerchiefs, to start the air moving about their
faces as they talked.
What they talked of all evening long,
important to anyone what the adults talked
about; it was only important that the sounds
came and went over the delicate ferns that
bordered the porch on three sides; it was
only important that the darkness filled the
town like black water being poured over the
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houses, and that the cigars glowed and that
the conversations went on, and on. The
female gossip moved out, disturbing the
first mosquitoes so they danced in frenzies
on the air. The male voices invaded the old
house timbers; if you closed your eyes and
put your head down against the floor boards
like a distant, political earthquake, constant,
unceasing, rising or falling a pitch.
Douglas sprawled back on the dry
porch planks, completely contented and
reassured by these voices, which would
speak on through eternity, flow in a stream
of murmurings over his body, over his
closed eyelids, into his drowsy ears, for all
time. The rocking chairs sounded like
crickets, the crickets sounded like rocking
chairs, and the moss-covered rain barrel by
the dining-room window produced another
generation of mosquitoes to provide a topic
of conversation through endless summers
ahead.
Sitting on the summer-night porch
was so good, so easy and so reassuring that
it could never be done away with. These
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were rituals that were right and lasting; the
lighting of pipes, the pale hands that moved
knitting needles in the dimness, the eating
of foil-wrapped, chilled Eskimo Pies, the
coming and going of all the people. For at
some time or other during the evening,
everyone visited here; the neighbors down
the way, the people across the street; Miss
Fern and Miss Roberta humming by in their
electric runabout, giving Tom or Douglas a
ride around the block and then coming up to
sit down and fan away the fever in their
cheeks; or Mr. Jonas, the junkman, having
left his horse and wagon hidden in the alley,
and ripe to bursting with words, would
come up the steps looking as fresh as if his
talk had never been said before, and
somehow it never had. And last of all, the
children, who had been off squinting their
way through a last hide-and-seek or kickthe-can, panting, glowing, would sickle
quietly back like boomerangs along the
soundless lawn, to sink beneath the talking
talking talking of the porch voices which
would weigh and gentle them down...
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Oh, the luxury of lying in the fern
night and the grass night and the night of
susurrant, slumbrous voices weaving the
dark together. The grownups had forgotten
he was there, so still, so quiet Douglas lay,
noting the plans they were making for his
and their own futures. And the voices
chanted, drifted, in moonlit clouds of
cigarette smoke while the moths, like late
apple blossoms come alive, tapped faintly
about the far street lights, and the voices
Extract 2
Original text
<>
From “Dandelion Wine” by R. Bradbury
Перевод Э. Кабалевской
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Из романа «Мастер и Маргарита» М. Булгакова
Translation 1
Gods, my gods! How sad the earth is at eventide! How mysterious are the mists over
the swamps. Anyone who has wandered in these mists, who has suffered a great deal
before death, or flown above the earth, bearing a burden beyond his strength knows this.
Someone who is exhausted knows this. And without regret he forsakes the mists of the
earth, its swamps and rivers, and sinks into the arms of death with a light heart, knowing
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that death alone...
Even the magical black horses had tired and were carrying their riders slowly, and
the inevitable night was beginning to catch up with them. Sensing the night at his back,
even the irrepressible Behemoth had fallen silent and was flying along, serious and silent,
his claws dug into his saddle, his tail fluffed out behind him.
Night began covering the forests and meadows with its black kerchief. The night
ignited sad little lights somewhere far below, alien lights that were no longer of any
interest or use either to Margarita or the Master. Night overtook the cavalcade, spreading
over them from above and scattering white specks of stars here and there in the saddened
sky.
Night was thickening, flying alongside the riders, grabbing at their cloaks and
pulling them off, unmasking all illusions. And whenever Margarita, buffeted by the cool
breeze, opened her eyes, she saw the changes that were taking place in the appearances of
all who were flying to their destination. And when the crimson full moon rose up to meet
them from behind the edge of the forest, all illusions vanished and the magical, mutable
clothing fell into the swamp and drowned in the mist Korovyov-Fagot, the self-tided
interpreter for the mysterious consultant who never required any interpretation, was hardly
recognizable now in the figure who was flying beside Woland, to the right of the Masters
beloved. In place of the fellow who had left Sparrow Hills in a torn circus outfit under the
name of Korovyov-Fagot, there now galloped, his gold reins clinking softly, a dark-violet
knight with an extremely somber face that never smiled. He flew along beside Woland
with his chin on hischest, not looking at the moon and taking no interest in the earth
below, but, rather, completely immersed in his own thoughts.
Why is he so changed? Margarita softly asked Woland to the whistling of the
wind.
That knight once made a joke that fell flat, replied Woland, turning his quietly
smoldering eye toward Margarita. While conversing about darkness and light he made up
a pun that was not entirely satisfactory. And after that, he was forced to work a bit longer
and harder at making his jokes than he imagined. But tonight is the kind of night when
accounts are settled. The knight has paid his bill and closed his account!
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