英语毕业论文-年轻的画家节选翻译.doc

四川大学本科毕业论文毕业论文论文题目 the young painters翻译指导老师 学生姓名 准考证号 2011年10月21日17年轻的画家节选翻译（英语语言文学专业）ABSTRACTNicole Krauss is a American female writer who was born in 1974 in New York city.She enrolled in Stanford University in 1992,was awarded a Marshall Scholarship in 1996 and enrolled in a Masters program at Oxford University.In 2004 ,she married the novelist Jonathan Safran Foer .I acquaint myself with Nicole Krauss by her short story the young painters published on The New Yorker .She became serious about writing at the age of 14 .Until she began her first novel in 2002 ,Nicole Krauss wrote and published mainly poetry .Her main works are The History of Love which is an international bestseller and wins numerous awards ,Man Walks Into a Room and Great House which will be published in October,2010.Here the young painters is an excerpt from Great House.I chose the young painters because I was attracted by the fascinating beginning of this short story the first time I read it on The New Yorker. After reviewing it many times I get down to translate it .The story told that she and her husband attended a dinner party at the home of German dancer where she noticed a painting .Then the dancer revealed the sad story behind the painting to the entire dinner party that a mother gave her two children sleeping pills in their tea ,carried them to the forest by car ,poured gasoline all over the car ,lit a match and at last all three were burnt to death .The writer was utterly transfixed by the story and felt that it was not told in confidence ,so she wrote a short story about it and published the story in a prominent magazine.The most interesting part is that it seems that some unknown narrator is speaking to a judge about a murder or suicide case ,which also made me confused .The story of guiltthe crime of that mother ,the guilt of a writer who uses that story in her own and the fallen judge are mixed together in the whole story.After geting through the story,I am touched by the authors emotional range and conscience.before the translation,I have collected lots of information about the background of story and the author .I have read lots of comments on the young painters and discussed the plot,the development and the frame of story with my colleagues.All help me a lot to understand this short story .In the process of translation I meet with lots of difficulties,too .you must try to guess the authors ideas and emotional clues ,you must study the cultural background of a story and the theory of translation,you must put it into practice many times and need continual improvement.The English-Chinese difference at all directions should also be taken into consideration .In a word ,there is a long way to go .Key Words: Nicole Krauss paintings difficulties 年轻的画家（译文）法官大人：在我和S结婚后的四五年，我们夫妻两应邀前往一个德国舞道家的公寓里参加晚宴。当时这个舞蹈家正居住在纽约，而我丈夫S就在舞蹈家表演独舞的剧院上班。他的公寓不大，放满了各种稀奇古怪的物品。这些物品有些是别人送的，有些是他自己在街上或趣味旅行中淘得的，而且均按照空间比例、时间先后摆放得井然有序，看起来整洁高雅。他在舞台上的雍荣雅步和飘逸舞姿总是令人赏心悦目，可是当他穿着便装和褐色的居家拖鞋在公寓里活生生地走来走去时，我却完全看不出一个舞蹈家在肢体上的天赋，甚至让人觉着有些难看而别扭。于是我在他现实模样中努力寻找舞蹈家的特征，并期待着他能从这现实的包裹中迸发出来，展现出他真正的活力。尽管如此，在习惯他穿便装的样子后，我开始欣赏起他收藏的许多小玩意儿来。当我闯入别人的生活时，有时会有种兴奋和超然感，甚至觉得在短时间内改变自己的日常习惯，去按照他人的模式生活也是完全可行的。但是这种想法总是在第二天清晨醒来时就荡然无存了，然后我又回到了熟悉的一切自己那一成不变的生活中来。席间，我离开餐桌起身去洗手间，在走廊上看到舞蹈家的卧室门敞开着。放眼看去，他的卧室很空，只有一张床，一把木椅，在一个角落里还摆有一个燃着蜡烛的烛台。卧室朝南开有扇大窗户，透过窗户可以看到整个曼哈顿夜景低低地悬挂在无边的黑幕中。墙壁上除了一幅水彩画外什么都没有。水彩画是用钉子钉在墙上的，鲜艳的线条生动地勾勒出了几张脸的轮廓，看起来好像沼泽地里时不时漂浮着的一顶帽子。画的上半部脸是倒置的，好像作者为了方便作画，在作画时是将画板倒过来画的，又或者是绕着画板跪着画的。这幅画风格独特，和舞蹈家其他收藏品迥异，我看着这幅画愣了一两分钟才去的洗手间。客厅的炉火慢慢熄灭，夜也渐渐深了。最后，当我们穿上大衣准备向舞蹈家告别时，我忍不住向舞蹈家询问这幅水彩画的由来。他告诉我这是他童年最好的朋友在九岁时和他姐姐一起画的，但我猜想是他朋友的姐姐完成了画的绝大部分。再后来两姐弟把这幅画送给了舞蹈家。舞蹈家帮我披上大衣，若有所思地补充到：那幅画还有个悲伤的故事。一天下午，母亲在两个孩子的茶里悄悄地放了安眠药。男孩才九岁，女孩才十一岁，在他们睡着后，母亲把他们抱上了车，然后开到了一片森林里。那时，天逐渐变黑，母亲把整辆车都泼满了汽油，然后划燃了火柴。就这样三母子全被烧死了。舞蹈家接着说：“不知道为什么，我一直都嫉妒我朋友家，那年他们家把圣诞树留到了四月，直到树变成了棕色，松针也都掉光了。我也曾多次抱怨妈妈为什么我们家就不能像约翰家那样将圣诞树留到四月”。舞蹈家平铺直叙地讲完了这个故事，我们都沉默了。舞蹈家笑了笑，缓和了当时的紧张气氛。也许是因为我穿上了大衣，感觉公寓里变得暖烘烘的。然而，关于这两个被烧死的孩子以及他们与舞蹈家之间的友谊却令我突然感到疑惑重重，我还有很多想要追问舞蹈家的，可又害怕自己当时会害怕得晕倒。所以听完另一个宾客对这个故事凄惨结局开的玩笑后，我们就向舞蹈家致谢告别了。站在下降的电梯里，我努力使自己恢复平静。而我的丈夫S低声地哼着小曲儿，根本没有注意到我的异常。那段时间，我和丈夫S正打算要个小孩，但总是感觉生活当中有太多其他的事情要我们一起或单独先去解决。时间就这么逝去了，事情仍然没有得以解决，而且我们也没更清楚地意识到人生所经历的已不是我们原来一直努力追求的东西了。尽管在我更年轻的时候，我着实想要一个小孩的，但是到了35岁乃至40岁还是没有小孩，对此我却一点也不惊奇。法官大人，这看上去有点矛盾， 我也承认在一定程度上是这个样子的。然而，我始终有种与事实相反的想法，总认为将来会有更多的时间留给我。年复一年，镜子里的我已显苍老之态，我的身体也不如往昔，我却始终不愿承认自己生孩子的可能性会为零。那天晚上，在回家的出租车上，我仍想着那位母亲和她那两个孩子：车轮轻轻地碾过森林路面的松针，引擎慢慢地熄火，车停在了一片空地上。熟睡在后座上的两个小画家，面色苍白，指甲脏兮兮的。我禁不住大声问我的丈夫S，她为什么要那么做呢？虽然这并不是我真正想要问的问题，但在那时也只能那样问了。S简单地回答我说，那位母亲她疯了，似乎一切就是这么简单一样。在那之后不久，我写了一个故事：在德国的某片森林里，一位舞蹈家的童年伙伴在熟睡中被活活地烧死在自己母亲的车里。我并没有更改故事的任何细节，只是勾勒了其中缺省的情节。夜晚，春意盎然的气息透过窗户飘进了孩子们的屋子；花园里孩子们自己种的树木，正茁壮成长，这些景象自然而然地浮现在我的眼前。我仿佛看见了孩子们认真地唱着母亲教的儿歌，母亲如何给孩子们颂读圣经，孩子们是如何千辛万苦地收集鸟蛋然后放到自家窗台上，在暴风雨的晚上男孩是如何悄悄地爬到了姐姐的床上。后来我写的这个故事被一家有名的杂志社采用了。在故事出版前我没有打过电话给舞蹈家，也没有寄一份原稿给他。舞蹈家亲身经历了这个故事，而我利用了这个故事，并按照自己的想法对它进行了润色。从某种意义上说，这算是我自己的作品。法官大人：当我收到杂志社寄来的样稿时，我的确设想过当舞蹈家读到它时，他会做何感想。但是我并没有为此而纠结良久，相反我很快便沐浴在了作品被刊登在杂志上的自豪和喜悦中了。之后的一段时间里我也没有遇到舞蹈家，也没有想过如果见到他的话我要说些什么。而且，在故事发表后，我甚至没有再去回想过被烧死在车里的那位母亲和她的两个孩子，因为好像就是我把这个故事写了出来，盗取了这一家三口的生命一样。我继续我的创作，写了前四部小说，然后接着写第五部。第五部小说基本上是以我去年逝世的父亲为原型。这部小说若是父亲还在世，我是不可能写的。因为如果父亲读到它，一定会觉得我背叛了他。在生命即将走向终点时，他失去了自理能力，也抛弃了做人最基本的尊严，甚至在弥留之际他对这一切都保持着清醒的意识，饱含痛楚地挣扎着。小说中，我生动而详细地记录了父亲的这些耻辱。有一次，父亲大便失禁拉在了裤裆里，我不得不替他清洗。父亲却觉得这是他的奇耻大辱，一连好几天都不敢直视我的眼睛。此后父亲从未提及过此事，我想如果要提的话，也一定是央求我千万不要告诉任何人。但是我并没有如父亲所愿，替他保守这些折磨人的、不可侵犯的隐私。如果父亲可以暂时放下羞耻感，他也许可以不用那么在意自己，而是意识到每个人都会面临生老病死的困境。我没有因父亲的羞耻而打断写作，相反将此视作一个抒写父亲生平故事的一个机会，来大肆描绘了父亲的病痛和所受的折磨直至他的逝世，尤其是他作为一个父亲的失败，而且所有这些都该确确实实地归结到他自己身上。他的过错，我的恐惧，以及年幼时和他一起度过的、极富戏剧性的生活，都夸张地带着伪装穿梭于那本书的字里行间。尽管我带着不宽恕的眼光来看待父亲的罪行，但最后终究是原谅了他。书至末尾，所有的一切都源于难得的同情心，哪怕此书的结语依旧是关于无往不胜的爱和失去父亲的痛苦。在书出版前的几周甚至几个月里，一种恶心的感觉时而冲刺着我的心，使我前进的道路一片黑暗。在出版发布会上，我一再强调这部作品是虚构的，向那些怀疑作家的想象力的，认为作家的创作仅仅是靠忠实的记录而不是彻头彻尾的创造的，以及坚持把小说作为作家自传的记者和读者表达了我的失望。我拥护作家的自由去创作，去改变和修正，去展开和收拢，去寻找意义，去设计，去实践，去影响，去选择生活，去经历，周而复始，不断循环。在此引用詹姆士.亨利关于自由的“大幅增长”理论来说（他自己称之为“启示” ）：即任何人经历了一次严肃的艺术尝试都会自然而然地意识到这些。对，以父亲为原型的这部作品虽未风靡全球，那也至少是堆满书架，传遍国内大小书店。我感受到了作为一名作家前所未有的自由，除了受自己的天性和视野的限制外，不用对书中的任何人、任何事承担责任。也许我没有直接地表明但却确切地暗示了作家负有更高的使命，即将艺术和宗教视作他们的天职，而不必对借用了他人的生活故事而耿耿于怀，也不必太在意这些人的感受。是的，我相信也许还会一直相信，一名作家不应该被自己作品可能带来的影响而束缚。她没有责任去确保世事的准确性和逼真程度。她不是会计，也没必要成为道德指南的荒谬和误导。在她的作品中，她不会受到法律的约束。法官大人，可是在现实生活中，她却不能忽视法律的存在。在以父亲为题材的小说出版后的数月，我外出散步，来到华盛顿广场公园附近的一个书店，我习惯性地透过玻璃窗去查看我的书是否也陈列在他们的书架上。正在那时，我看到舞蹈家站在书店的收银台边付钱。他也看见了我，然后我们四目对视。当时我恨不得立即躲开，尽管我自己也不清楚是什么令我感到如此不安。但是匆忙躲开已来不及，因为舞蹈家正挥手向我示意，我只有站在原地，等舞蹈家找回零钱后过来寒暄几句。舞蹈家穿着漂亮的羊毛外套，脖子上围了一条丝质的围巾。在太阳光的照射下，我发现他苍老了不少，虽说不是很老但也不再年轻。我问他过得好吗，他告诉我：他一个多年至交，和这些年里的许多人一样，得艾滋病死了；自己又和相处很久的男朋友分手了，上次我们碰面时他俩还没有相遇；而近来他正忙于为一支即将上演的舞蹈编排动作。尽管五六年过去了，S和我仍然是夫妻，仍然居住在原来的西岸公寓。从外界看，并没有太多改变，所以轮到我向舞蹈家述说我的近况时，我简单地说：一切都很好，自己也还在继续创作。舞蹈家点点头，笑了笑。他那真诚笑容却让我时时刻刻都感到些许的紧张和尴尬。从我遇见他的那一刻起，我就知道自己再也不能一如往昔地感到舒坦，自由，流利了。舞蹈家继续说：“我知道你一直都在创作，因为你所有的作品我都读过” 。顿时我激动不已，吃惊地问：“是吗？”。他又笑了笑，仿佛告诉我我已经躲过了危险那个年轻画家的故事将不会再被提及。我们一起走过了几个街区，直到联合广场我们才分开朝各自的方向走去。告别时，他弯下腰，轻轻地拍掉了我外衣领口上的一团绒毛，动作显得温柔而亲密。他缓缓地说：“你知道吗？我把它从墙上取下来了”。我吞吞吐吐地说：“什么？”。他回答道：“在我读了你的那部作品后，我就把那副水彩画从墙上取下来了。因为我发现自己再也不能多看它一眼”。我毫不设防地问：“真的吗？为什么要摘下它呢？” 。他接着说：“一开始我自己也弄不明白，那幅画跟着我从一个公寓搬到另一个公寓，从一座城市搬到另一座城市，一直相伴我已接近20年了。但是随后当我读懂你的作品后，一下子就清楚为什么了” 。我想知道他清楚了什么，但却不能问。舞蹈家虽然年纪大了一些，却依然还是那副慵懒和绅士的模样，缓缓地伸出手来，用二个手指头轻敲我的脸颊，然后转身离开了。在回家的路上，舞蹈家的“轻敲”起初使我感到迷惑不已，接着让我恼火。表面上，那很容易被误以为是亲昵，但是我越想越觉得那“轻敲”里含有更深层的意思，甚至是有意地羞辱我。脑海中，舞蹈家的笑容变得越来越虚伪，还怀疑他那个“轻敲”是不是耗了多年时间才编排成功的动作，而且反复练习，就为今天的相遇，向我表演。这是不是活该呢？那天晚上要是他没有勇敢地向我及宴会上所有的客人讲述那个故事，而是我自己通过其他秘密的方法发现了这个故事，如悄悄地读他的日记或信件，虽然我未必会这么做。再则如果我对他知之甚少这一切也许就会不同。又或者是他私底下告诉我，并带着忧伤来缅怀这个故事。但他没有。他用同样的笑容和欢愉的方式，就像餐后递给我们一杯格拉巴酒一样的，讲述了这个故事。我继续一个人漫步在街上，恰巧路过一个操场。已经是傍晚了，栅栏的小圈内孩子们依然欢声雀跃，玩得不亦乐乎。这么多年，我住过不同的公寓，其中一个沿街，对面就是一个操场，我注意到在傍晚到来的最后半个小时里，孩子们的玩闹声好像要尤其喧闹。我从来没有搞清楚昏暗灯光下的城市到底是变成了分贝的消音器，还是因为孩子们知道嬉玩的时间马上就要结束了而变得更加喧闹起来。那时不时传来的欢声笑语总是打断我的休息，使我从桌前起身去观看他们的嬉闹。但今天我没有停下步子去看他们。因为我的内心仍响着和舞蹈家的对话，让我几乎没有注意到这些孩子们。直到一声惨叫，一个充满剧痛和恐惧的哭声，一个满脸痛苦的孩子的哭声打断了我的思绪，这哭声似乎独独在向我求救。我马上停了下来，猛地回转身去，努力寻找一个从高处摔下而受伤的孩子的身影。但是什么也没有发现，只有孩子们从圈里跑进跑去，继续着他们的游戏，根本没有痕迹表明哭声是从哪里传出来的。我的心跳加速，肾上腺素也在全身聚集，我做好了准备，随时去营救发出惨叫声的孩子。但孩子们依然在玩耍，没有受到惊吓。我向上扫视了周围的楼房，认为声音可能是从一个开着的窗户传出来的，尽管当时是寒冬十一月，窗户都关起来以保持室内的温度。我呆呆地立在那里，紧紧抓住了操场的栅栏。我没有告诉任何人那天我听到的惨叫声，甚至连我的心理医生奇曼博士也没有说。但是那个惨叫声一直跟随着我。有时候写作时我也会突然听到那个惨叫声，然后思绪被打乱或感到慌张不已。我开始察觉那惨叫声里带有嘲笑的意味，低低的嘲笑声一开始并没有听出来。还有些时候，我在失眠或是醒来的时候也能听到那惨叫声，并且清晨起床时总觉得自己的脖子被什么东西弄伤了。一个隐藏的重量依附在了一个简单的物品上面一个茶杯，一个门把手，一面镜子起初难以察觉，可一旦察觉后任何一个动作都需要稍微更多的力量才能完成。在我处理好这些小事后，回到桌前时，我的能量已经被磨蚀得消失殆尽了。那叫声一直纠缠着我，法官大人，就这样慢慢地我也开始不相信自己了。原文出处：Nicole Krauss The Young Painters. New York: The New Yorker, 2010.四川大学本科毕业论文The Young Painters（原文）By Nicole KraussFour or five years after we got married, Your Honor, S. and I were invited to a dinner party at the home of a German dancer, who was then living in New York. At the time, S. worked at a theatre where the dancer was performing a solo piece. The apartment was small and filled with the dancers unusual possessions, things he had been given or had found on the street or during his tireless travels, all arranged with the sense of space, proportion, timing, and grace that made him such a joy to watch onstage. In fact, it was strange and almost frustrating to see the dancer in street clothes and brown house slippers, moving so practically through his apartment, with little or no sign of the tremendous physical talent that lay dormant in him, and I found myself craving some break in this pragmatic faade, a leap or turn, some explosion of his true energy. All the same, once I got used to this and began examining his many little collections I had the elated, otherworldly feeling I sometimes get when entering the sphere of anothers life, when for a moment changing my banal habits and living like that seems entirely possible, a feeling that always dissolves the next morning, when I wake up to the familiar, unmovable shapes of my own life.At some point I got up from the dinner table to use the bathroom, and in the hall I passed the open door of the dancers bedroom. The room was spare, with only a bed and a wooden chair and a little altar with candles set up in one corner. There was a large window facing south, through which lower Manhattan hung suspended in the dark. The walls were blank except for one painting that was tacked up with pins, a vibrant picture out of whose many bright, high-spirited strokes several faces emerged, as if from a bog, now and then topped with a hat. The faces on the top half of the paper were upside down, as if the painter had turned the page around or circled it on his or her knees while painting, in order to reach more easily. It was a strange piece of work, unlike the style of the other things the dancer had collected, and I studied it for a minute or two before continuing on to the bathroom. The fire in the living room burned down; the night progressed. At the end, as we were putting on our coats, I surprised myself by asking the dancer who had made the painting. He told me that his best friend from childhood had done it when he was nine. My friend and his older sister, he said, though I think she did most of it. Afterward, they gave it to me. The dancer helped me on with my coat. You know, that painting has a sad story, he added a moment later, almost as an afterthought.One afternoon, the mother gave the children sleeping pills in their tea. The boy was nine and his sister was eleven. Once they were asleep, she carried them to the car and drove out to the forest. By this time, it was getting dark. She poured gasoline all over the car and lit a match. All three burned to death. Its hard to explain, the dancer said, but I was always jealous of how things were at my friends house. That year they kept their Christmas tree up until April. It turned brown and the needles were dropping off, but many times I nagged my mother about why we couldnt keep our Christmas tree up as long as they did at Jrns. In the silence that followed this story, which he told in the most straightforward manner, the dancer smiled. It may have been because I had my coat on, and the apartment was warm, but suddenly I began to feel lightheaded. There were many other things I would have liked to ask about the children and his friendship with them, but I was afraid I might faint, and so after another guest had made a joke about the morbid end to the night we thanked the dancer for the meal and said goodbye. As we rode down in the elevator I fought to steady myself, but S., who was humming quietly, seemed not to notice. At that time, S. and I were thinking of having a child. But there were always things that we felt we had to work out first in our own lives, together and separately, and time simply passed without bringing any resolution, or a clearer sense of how we might go about being something more than what we were already struggling to be. And though when I was younger I believed I wanted to have a child, I was not surprised to find myself at thirty-five, and then forty, without one. Maybe this seems like ambivalence, Your Honor, and I suppose in part it was, but it was something else, too, a feeling Ive always had, despite mounting evidence to the contrary, that there isthat there will always bemore time left for me. The years went by, my face changed in the mirror, my body was no longer what it had been, but I still found it difficult to believe that the possibility of having my own child could expire without my explicit agreement.In the taxi home that night, I continued to think about that mother and her children: the wheels of the car softly rolling over the pine needles on the forest floor, the engine cut in a clearing, the pale faces of those young painters asleep in the back seat, dirt under their fingernails. How could she have done it? I said aloud to S. It was not really the question I wanted to ask, but it was as close as I could get just then. She lost her mind, he said simply, as if that were the end of it.Not long afterward, I wrote a story about the dancers childhood friend who had died asleep in his mothers car in the German forest. I didnt change any of the details; I only imagined more of them. The house the children had lived in, the buoyant smell of spring evenings seeping through the windows, the trees in the garden that they had planted themselves all rose up easily before me. How the children would sing together the songs that their mother had taught them, how she read the Bible to them, how they kept their collection of birds eggs on the sill, and how the boy would climb into his sisters bed on stormy nights. The story was accepted by a prominent magazine. I didnt call the dancer before it was published, nor did I send him a copy of the story. He lived through it, and I made use of it, embellishing it as I saw fit. Viewed in a certain light, that is the kind of work I do, Your Honor. When I received a copy of the magazine, I did wonder for a moment if the dancer would see it and how it would make him feel. But I did not spend very long on the thought, basking instead in the pride of seeing my work printed in the magazine. I didnt run into the dancer for some time after that, nor did I think about what I would say if I did. Furthermore, after the story was published I stopped thinking about the mother and her children who had burned to death in a car, as if by writing about them I had made them disappear.I continued to write. I wrote my fourth novel, and then a fifth, which was largely based on my father, who had died the year before. It was a novel that I could not have written while he was alive. Had he been able to read it, I have little doubt that he would have felt betrayed. Toward the end of his life, he lost control of his body and was abandoned by his dignity, something he remained painfully aware of until his final days. In the novel, I chronicled these humiliations in vivid detail, even the time he defecated in his pants and I had to clean him, an incident he found so shameful that for many days afterward he was unable to look me in the eye, and which, it goes without saying, he would have pleaded with me, if he could have brought himself to speak of it, never to mention to anyone. But I did not stop at these torturous, intimate scenes, scenes that, could my father momentarily suspend his sense of shame, he might have acknowledged as reflecting less on him than on the universal plight of growing old and facing ones deathI did not stop there, but instead took his illness and his suffering, with all its pungent detail, and finally even his death, as an opportunity to write about his life and, more specifically, about his failings, as both a person and a father, failings whose precise and abundant detail could be ascribed to him alone. I paraded his faults and my misgivings, the high drama of my young life with him, thinly disguised (mostly by exaggeration) across the pages of that book. I gave unforgiving descriptions of his crimes as I saw them, and then I forgave him. And yet, even if, in the end, it was all done for the sake of hard-won compassion, even if the final notes of the book were of triumphant love and grief at the loss of him, in the weeks and months leading up to its publication a sickening feeling sometimes took hold of me and dumped its blackness before moving on. In the publicity interviews I gave, I emphasized that the book was fiction and professed my frustration with journalists and readers alike who insist on reading novels as the autobiographies of their authors, as if there were no such thing as the writers imagination, as if the writers work lay only in dutiful chronicling and not in fierce invention. I championed the writers freedomto create, to alter and amend, to collapse and expand, to ascribe meaning, to design, to perform, to affect, to choose a life, to experiment, and on and onand quoted Henry James on the “immense increase” of that freedom, a “revelation,” as he calls it, that anyone who has made a serious artistic attempt cannot help but become conscious of. Yes, with the novel based