- •Guennadi e. Miram, Valentyna V. Daineko, Lyubov a. Taranukha, Maryna V. Gryschenko, Oleksandr m. Gon
- •Acknowledgments
- •In this Lecture the reader will:
- •Various ranks of translation;
- •Introduces:
- •Integration;
- •Integration
- •Договір про нерозповсюдження ядерної зброї
- •My testament
- •Основи перекладу
- •Isbn 966-521-160-9
My testament
When I am dead, bury me
In my beloved Ukraine,
My tomb upon a grave mound high
Amid the spreading plain,
So that the fields, the boundless steppes,
The Dnieper's plunging shore
My eyes could see, my ears could hear
The mighty river roar.
When from Ukraine the Dnieper bears
Into the deep blue sea
The blood of foes... then will I leave
These hills and fertile fields -
I'll leave them all and fly away
To the abode of God,
And then I'll pray.... But till that day
I nothing know of God.
Oh bury me, then rise ye up
And break your heavy chains
And water with the tyrants' blood
The freedom you have gained.
And in the great new family,
The family of the free,
With softly spoken, kindly word
Remember also me.
Pereyaslav, December 25, 1845
Translated by John Weir Toronto, 1961
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Day dawns, then comes the twilight grey,
The limit of the live-long day; For weary people sleep seems best And all God's creatures go to rest. I, only, grieve like one accursed, Through all the hours both last and first, Sad at the crossroads, day and night, With no one there to see my plight; No one can see me, no one knows me; All men are deaf, no ears disclose me; Men stand and trade their mutual chains And barter truth for filthy gains, Committing shame against the Lord By harnessing for black reward People in yokes and sowing evil In fields commissioned by the Devil... And what will sprout? You soon will see What kind of harvest there will be! Come to your senses, ruthless ones, О stupid children, Folly's sons! And bring that peaceful paradise, Your own Ukraine, before your eyes; Then let your heart, in love sincere, Embrace her mighty ruin here! Break then your chains, in love unite, Nor seek in foreign lands the sight Of things not even found above, Still less in lands that strangers love... Then in your own house you will see
True justice, strength, and liberty!
Gain knowledge, brothers! Think and read,
And to your neighbours' gifts pay heed, -
Yet do not thus neglect your own:
For he who is forgetful shown
Of his own mother, graceless elf,
Is punished by our God Himself.
Strangers will turn from such as he
And grudge him hospitality -
Nay, his own children grow estranged;
Though one so evil may have ranged
The whole wide earth, he shall not find
A home to give him peace of mind.
Sadly I weep when I recall
The unforgotten deeds of all
Our ancestors: their toilsome deeds!
Could I forget their pangs and needs,
I, as my price, would than suppress
Half of my own life's happiness...
Such is our glory, sad and plain,
The glory of our own Ukraine!
I would advise you so to read
That you may see, in very deed,
No dream but all the wrongs of old
That burial mounds might here unfold
Before your eyes in martyred hosts,
That you might ask those grisly ghosts:
Who were the tortured ones, in fact,
And why, and when, were they so racked?...
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Then o my brothers, as a start, Come, clasp your brothers to your heart, -So let your mother smile with joy And dry her tears without annoy. Blest be your children in these lands By touch of your toil-hardened hands, And, duly washed, kissed let them be With lips that speak of liberty! Then all the shame of days of old, Forgotten, shall no more be told; Then shall our day of hope arrive, Ukrainian glory shall revive, No twilight but the dawn shall render And break forth into novel splendour.... Brother, embrace! Your hopes possess, I beg you in all eagerness!
Viunishcha, December 14, 1845 Translated by C. H. Andrusyshen & W. Kirkconnell
IT MAKES NO DIFFERENCE TO ME
It makes no difference to me, If I shall live or not in Ukraine Or whether any one shall think Of me 'mid foreign snow and rain. It makes no difference to me. In slavery I grew 'mid strangers, Unwept by any kin of mine; In slavery I now will die And vanish without any sign. I shall not leave the slightest trace Upon our glorious Ukraine, Our land, but not as ours known. No father will remind his son Or say to him, «Repeat one prayer, One prayer for him; for our Ukraine They tortured him in their foul lair.» It makes no difference to me, If that son says a prayer or not. It makes great difference to me That evil folk and wicked men Attack our Ukraine, once so free, And rob and plunder it at will. That makes great difference to me.
St. Petersburg Citadel Prison May, 1847
Translated by Clarence A. Manning Columbia University New York, 1944
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225
I WAS THIRTEEN
I was thirteen. I herded lambs
Beyond the village on the lea.
The magic of the sun, perhaps,
Or what was it affected me?
I felt with joy all overcome,
As though with God....
The time for lunch had long passed by,
And still among the weeds I lay
And prayed to God.... I know not why
It was so pleasant then to pray
For me, an orphan peasant boy,
Or why such bliss so filled me there?
The sky seemed bright, the village fair,
The very lambs seemed to rejoice!
The sun's rays warmed but did not sear!
But not for long the sun stayed kind,
Not long in bliss I prayed....
It turned into a ball of fire
And set the world ablaze.
As though just wakened up, I gaze:
The hamlet's drab and poor,
And God's blue heavens -even they
Are glorious no more.
I look upon the lambs I tend -
Those lambs are not my own!
I eye the hut wherein I dwell -
I do not have a home!
God gave me nothing, naught at all....
I bowed my head and wept
Such bitter tears.... And then a lass57
Who had been sorting hemp
Not far from there, down by the path,
Heard my lament and came
Across the field to comfort me;
She spoke a soothing phrase
And gendy dried my weeping eyes
And kissed my tear-wet face....
It was as though the sun had smiled,
As though all things on earth were mine,
My own.... the orchards, fields and groves!...
And, laughing merrily the while,
The master's lambs to drink we drove.
Oh, how disgusting!... Yet, when I
Recall those days, my heart is sore
That there my brief life's span the Lord
Did not grant me to live and die.
There, plowing, I'd have passed away,
With ignorance my life-long lot,
I'd not an outcast be today,
I'd not be cursing Man and God!...
Orsk Fortress, 1847
Translated by John Weir Toronto, 1961
57 Oksana Kovalenko to whom Shevchenko dedicated the Poem to Oksana, May 1847 while in prison in the St. Petersburg Citadel.
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227
SHEVCHENKO'S LAST POEM
Should we not then cease, my friend,
My poor dear neighbour, make an end
Of versifying useless rhymes?
Prepare our waggons for the time
When we that longest road must wend?
Into the other world, my friend,
To God, we'll hasten to our rest...
We have grown weary, utter-tired,
A little wisdom we've acquired,
It should suffice! To sleep is best,
Let us now go home to rest...
A home of gladness, you may know!
No, let us not depart, nor go —
It is early still,
We shall yet take walks together,
Sit, and gaze our fill,
Gaze upon the world, my fortune,
See how wide it spreads,
Wide and joyful, it is both
Bright, and of great depth!
We shall yet take walks my star,
On a hill climb high,
And take our rest together And
Your sister-stars, meanwhile, The ageless ones, will start to shine, Through the heavens glide... Let us linger then, my sister,
Thou, my holy bride,
And with lips unsullied we shall
Make our prayer to God,
And then set out quietly
On that longest road,
Over Lethe's plumbless depths,
Waters dark and swarthy,
Grant me then thy blessing, friend,
With thy holy glory.
While this and that and all such wear on,
Straight let us go, as the crow flies,
To Aesculapeus for advice,
If he can outwit old Charon
And spinning Fate... And then, as long as
The old sage would change his purpose,
We would create, reclining there,
An epic, soaring everywhere
Above the earth, hexameters
We'd twine, and up the attic stairs
Take them for mice to gnaw. Then we
Would sing prose, yet with harmony
And not haphazard.
Holy friend,
Companion to my journey's end,
Before the fire has ceased to glow,
Let us to Charon, rather, go!
Over Lethe's plumbless depths,
Waters dark and swarthy,
Let us sail, let us bear
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229
With us holy glory,
Ageless, young for evermore...
Or -friend, let it be!
I will do without the glory,
Ifthey grant it me,
There on the banks of Phlegethon,
Or beside the Styx, in heaven,
As if by the broad Dnipro, there
In a grove, a grove primaeval,
A little house I'll build, and make
An orchard all around it growing,
And you'll fly to me in the shades,
There, like a beauty, I'll enthrone you;
Dnipro and Ukraina we
Shall recollect, gay villages
In woodlands, gravehills in the steppes,
And we shall sing right merrily.
February 14-15, 1861 St. Petersburg
Translated by Vera Rich London, 1961
A REFLECTION
The river empties to the sea,
But out it never flows;
The Cossack lad his fortune seeks,
But never fortune knows.
The Cossack lad has left his home,
He's left his kith and kind;
The blue sea's waters splash and foam,
Sad thoughts disturb his mind:
«Why, heedless, did you go away?
For what did you forsake
Your father old, your mother grey,
Your sweetheart, to their fate?
In foreign lands live foreign folks,
Their ways are not your way:
There will be none to share your woes
Or pass the time of day.»
Across the sea, the Cossack rests —
The choppy sea's distraught.
He thought with fortune to be blessed —
Misfortune is his lot.
In vee-formation, 'cross the waves
The cranes are off for home.
The Cossack weeps - his beaten paths
With weeds are overgrown...
St. Petersburg, 1838
Translated by John Weir Toronto
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231
MYTHOUGHTS
My thorny thoughts, my thorny thoughts,
You bring me only woe!
Why do you on the paper stand
So sadly row on row?...
Why did the winds not scatter you
Like dust across the steppes?
Why did ill-luck not cradle you
To sleep upon its breast?...
My thoughts, my melancholy thoughts,
My children, tender shoots!
I nursed you, brought you up - and now
What shall I do with you?...
Go to Ukraine, my homeless waifs!
Your way make to Ukraine
Along back roads like vagabonds,
But I'm doomed here to stay.
There you will find a heart that's true
And words of welcome kind,
There honesty, unvarnished truth
And, maybe, fame you'll find...
So welcome them, my Motherland,
Ukraine, into your home!
Accept my guileless, simple brood
And take them for your own!
St. Petersburg, 1839. Translated by John Weir
RUDYARD KIPLING IF
If you can keep your head when all
about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on
you,
If you can trust yourself when all
men doubt you,
But make allowance for their
doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by
waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in
lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to
hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor
talk too wise;
If you can dream - and not make
dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make
thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and
Disaster
And treat those two imposters just
the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth
you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap
for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your
life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with
worn-out tools;
РЕДЬЯРД КІПЛІНҐ ЯКЩО
Як вистоїш, коли всі проти тебе-Упали духом і тебе кленуть, і Як всупереч усім ти віриш в себе, А з їх невіри також візьмеш суть;
Якщо чекати зможеш ти невтомно,
Оббріханий - мовчати і пройти Під поглядом ненависті, притому Не грати цноти ані доброти;
Як зможеш мріять -в мрійництво не впасти, І думать - не творити думки культ,
Якщо Тріумф, зарівно як Нещастя, Сприймеш як дим і вітер на віку;
Якщо стерпиш, як з правди твого слова
Пройдисвіт ставить пастку на простих,
Якщо впаде все, чим ти жив, і знову Зумієш все почати - і звести;
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234
your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch and
toss,
And lose, and start again at your
beginnings
And never breathe a word about
your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: «Hold on!»
If you can talk with crowds and
keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the
common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends
can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none
too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
Якщо ти зможеш в пориві одному
Поставить все на карту - і програть,
А потім - все спочатку, і нікому Про втрати й слова навіть не сказать;
Якщо ти змусиш Серце, Нерви, Жили
Служити ще, коли уже в тобі Усе згоріло, вигасло - лишилась Одна лиш Воля - встоять в боротьбі;
Як зможеш гідно річ вести з юрбою
І з Королем не втратиш простоти,
Якщо усі рахуються з тобою -На відстані, яку відміриш ти;
Якщо ущерть наповниш біг хвилини
Снагою дум, енергією дій, Тоді весь світ тобі належить, сину, І більше: ти - Людина, сину мій.
Переклад Євгена Сверстюка
ЛІНА КОСТЕНКО
Затінок, сутінок, день золотий. Плачуть і моляться білі троянди.
Може це я, або хто, або ти ось там сидить у куточку веранди.
Може, він плаче, а може, він жде-
кроки почулись чи скрипнула хвіртка.
Може, він встане, чолом припаде,
там, на веранді, чолом до одвірка.
Де ж ви, ті люди, що в хаті жили?
Світку мій білий, яке тут роздолля!
Смуток нащадків - як танець бджоли,
танець бджоли до безсмертного поля. Може, це вже через тисячу літ
я і не я вже, розбуджена в генах,
тут на землі я шукаю хоч слід роду мого у плачах та легендах!
Голос криниці, чого ж ти замовк?
Руки шовковиць, чого ж ви заклякли? Вікна забиті, і висить замок -
LINAKOSTENKO
A shady spot, twilight, a golden day.
White roses cry and pray.
Perhaps it's me, or someone, or you
over there sitting in a corner of the
veranda.
Perhaps he's crying, or waiting -
he heard footsteps, or the wicket gate
squeaked.
Perhaps he'll get up, hang his head,
there, on the veranda, pressed to the
door.
Where are you, people, who used to
live in this house?
My wide world, what flat lands lie
here all around!
The sadness of posterity - like the
dance of a bee,
the dance of the bee to the immortal
field.
Perhaps after a thousand years -
I will not be me, but awakened in
genes,
here on the earth I will seek out the
trace
of my lineage at least in laments and
legends!
Voice of the well, why have you gone
silent?
Arms of mulberry trees, why have you
grown stiff with cold?
Windows nailed shut, and the lock
hanging -
a rusty ring above the claw of the
knob.
235
ржава сережка над кігтиком клямки.
Білий причілок оббила сльота. Хто там квилить у цій хаті ночами?
Може, живе там сама самота, соває пустку у піч рогачами. Може, це біль наш, а може, вина,
може, бальзам на занедбані душі-
спогад криниці і спогад вікна, спогад стежини і дикої груші...
Rainy weather beats the white side of
the building.
Who wails there in this house in the
nights?
Perhaps loneliness lives there alone,
stuffing the empty house in the oven
with tongs.
Perhaps this is our pain, perhaps our
guilt,
perhaps a balsam for neglected souls -
memory of a well and memory of a
window,
memory of a path and a wild pear...
Translated by Michael M. Naydan
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PREFACE 5
Lecture 1. LANGUAGE AND EXTRALINGUISTIC WORLD 7
Lecture 2. LANGUAGE SYSTEM: PARADIGMS AND SYNTAGMAS 14
Lecture 3. LANGUAGE AS A MEANS OF COMMUNICATION 21
Lecture 4. TRANSLATION DEFINITION 30
Lecture 5. BASIC TRANSLATION THEORIES 40
Lecture 6. TRANSLATION RANKING 49
Lecture 7. TRANSLATION EQUIVALENCE AND EQUIVALENTS 58
Lecture 8. TRANSLATION AND STYLE 68
Lecture 9. TRANSFORMATIONS IN TRANSLATION 78
Lecture 10. BASIC TRANSLATION DEVICES 90
Lecture 11. FACTORS INFLUENCING THE CHOICE OF
EQUIVALENTS 101
Lecture 12. TRANSLATION VARIETIES Ill
Lecture 13. LITERARY TRANSLATION 119
Lecture 14. TRANSLATION INTO ENGLISH 127
Lecture 15. INTERPRETATION: BASIC SKILLS AND TRAINING
METHODS 137
Lecture 16. MACHINE AND COMPUTER-AIDED TRANSLATION 151
Lecture 17. TRANSLATION OF OFFICIAL DOCUMENTS: TEXT
FRAMES 164
Lecture 18. TRANSLATION OF OFFICIAL DOCUMENTS:
GRAMMATICAL ASPECTS 177
APPENDIX. TEXT PATTERNS AND ADDITIONAL TRAINING
MATERIAL 190
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237
Навчальне видання
Г.Е.Мірам, В.В.Дайнеко, Л.А.Тарануха, М.В.Грищенко, О.М.Гон