2013第10周翻译练习.doc

2013第10周翻译练习一、英译汉（四则）：There were a boy and two little girls. They lived in a pleasant house, with a garden, and they had discreet servants, and felt themselves superior to anyone in the neighborhood.Although they lived in style, they felt always an anxiety in the house. There was never enough money. The mother had a small income, and the father had a small income, but not nearly enough for the social position which they had to keep up. The father went into town to some office. But though he had good prospects, these prospects never materialized. D.H. Lawrence The wagon went on. He did not know where they were going. None of them ever did or ever asked, because it was always somewhere, always a house of sorts waiting for them a day or two days or even three days away. Likely his father had already arranged to make a crop on another farm before heAgain he had to stop himself. He (the father) always did. There was something about his wolflike independence and even courage when the advantage was at least neutral which impressed strangers, as if they got from his latent ravening ferocity not so much a sense of dependability as a feeling that his ferocious conviction in the rightness of his own actions would be of advantage to all whose interest lay with his. William Faulkner When the short days of winter came dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the sheet the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was the color of ever changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness. When we returned to the street light from the kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangans sister came out on the doorstep to call her brother in to his tea we watched her from our shadow peer up and down the street. We waited to see whether she would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left our shadow and walked up to Managans steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure defined by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother always teased her before he obeyed and I stood by the railings looking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her body and the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to side. Araby, James Joyce The Idiot(Gobbling.) Ghaghahest. (They release him. He jerks on. A pigmy woman swings on a rope slung between the railings, counting. A form sprawled against a dustbin and muffled by its arm and hat moves, groans, grinding growling teeth, and snores again. On a step a gnome totting among a rubbishtip crouches to shoulder a sack of rags and bones. A crone standing by whit a smoky oil lamp rams the last bottle in the maw of his sack. He heaves his booty, tugs askew his peaked cap and bobbles off mutely. The crone makes back for her lair swaying her lamp. A bandy child, asquat on the doorstep with a papershuttlecock, crawls sidling after her in spurts, clutches her skirt, scrambles up. A drunken navy grips with both hands the railings of an area, lurching heavily. At a corner two night watch in shoulder capes, their hands upon their staffholsters, loom tall. A plate crashes; a woman screams; a child wails. Oaths of a man roar, mutter, cease. Figures wander, lurk, peer from warrens. In a room lit by a candle stuck in a bottleneck a slut combs out the tatts from the hair of a scrofulous child. Cissy Caffreys voice, still young, sings shrill from a lane. )Cissy CaffreyI gave it to MollyBecause she was jolly,The leg of the duckThe leg of the duck.(Private Carr and Private Compton, swaggersticks tight in their oxters, as they march unsteadily rightaboutface and burst together from their mouths a volleyed fart. Laughter of men from the lane. A hoarse virago retorts.) Ulysses，James Joyce二、汉译英：一百块洋灰砖上，闪耀着一百个白热的太阳。楼房挡住了仅有的一点风，但风也是热的。槐树上的蝉在热风中声嘶力竭地叫喊。轰隆隆，各种各样的大小车辆，在楼前的柏油路上驶来驶去，一次又一次地轧过了他的神经和躯干。强发在这没遮拦的一片白光中生活，赤着黝黑的脊背，穿着一条原本是白的，如今已经变成了灰黄色的浸透了汗水的裤衩，脚上是一双四分五裂了的塑料凉鞋。炎热使他昏涨，炎热使他麻木，炎热使他悲愤痛苦。从大城市的金山银海里挣上一点点，怎么就这么难？他背井离乡，他露宿街头，他每天干活十五六个小时，他每天只吃二斤大饼、五分钱咸菜，就着不要钱的凉水。“钱”蝉在阳光里一面燃烧着一面诱惑地叫着。他是个年轻的木匠，从山那边樱桃谷来。樱桃谷有山、有树，有小小的水库和涓涓的山涧，有荫凉，有永远轻松的风。但是这里有钱。为了赚钱，二十二岁的强发第二次到大城市来，给搬进了新楼的城市居民打家具。当他推刨子的时候，那钢刃铲削木头的声音是“一毛、一毛”当他拉锯的时候，那钢牙咬啮木头的声音是“现钱、现饯”当他清扫被太阳晒得冒了烟的白花花的刨花和锯末的时候，他恨得牙疼为什么这不是一堆白花花的钱？他去年第一次进城，带了一千块回樱桃谷。他挣了一千五，吃了五百。他吃过富强粉饺子，木犀肉与米饭，还喝过被家乡的老人称作“马尿”的啤酒。今年，他要带回去两千，他已经向他追求的姑娘彩云许下诺言、夸下海口。钱这个玩艺挣起来是有瘾的，愈多愈不嫌多，愈赚愈想赚！今年木器贵了，工钱高了，他又勒紧裤带。已经两个月了，他没吃过一次炒菜，更不要说是肉。有时候他嫌买饼耽误时间，便一次多买一点。天热，等到吃第二顿的时候，饼已经变馊，他便馊着吃下去。“又省下一块五。”他鼓舞自己，离两千的目标又近了一步。 One hundred searing suns blazed back from a hundred concrete bricks. What little breeze there was, was hot, and the high buildings stilled even that. Cicadas buzzed themselves hoarse in the scholar tree, in the slight, hot breeze. Qiang Fas nerves were pounded by the rumble of traffic back and forth over the asphalt. He worked without shelter from the sun, his swarthy back bare over sweat-darkened, once-white shorts. His plastic sandals were cracked and worn. The heat made him dizzy, numb, bitter, and indignant. Why was it so tough to make a little money out of the gold and silver seas of the big city? Far from home, he was working fifteen or sixteen hours a day. Two jin of pancakes and five fen worth of pickles were all he ate each day, and he wolfed them down with a little free water. “ Qian-money-” The cicadas seemed to be buzzing the word, tantalizing him through the burning heat of the sun. He was a young carpenter, come from Cherry Valley Village on the other side of the mountains. In Cherry Valley Village were hills and trees, trickling streams, small pools. There was shade, and a perpetual soothing breeze. But here, there was money. For money the twenty-three-year-old Qiang Fa had come back a second time to the city, to build furniture for the residents of the new highrises. Each time he pushed his plane, it went “yi mao, yi mao-ten cents, ten cents.” When he sawed, the grating of the iron teeth was “xian qian, xian qian-in cash, in cash.” The sawdust and the shaving were almost at the point of spontaneous combustion. Qiang Fa ground his teeth as he cleared them away. Why couldnt it be a pile of silver cions?Last year after his first sojourn in the city, he carried one thousand kuai back with him to Cherry Valley Village. Of the fifteen hundred he earned, he had spent five hundred on food. He had eaten dumplings made with the finest flour, meat with egg, rice. Hed drunk beer, too, whic