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第十二届天津市高校翻译大赛启示

秉承学术传统,开创崭新局面,第十二届天津市翻译大赛拉开帷幕。译稿清新流畅,文学性强,评委阵容强大,奖品丰厚。大赛设置一等奖三名,二等奖五名,三等奖八名,另设优秀奖十二名,单位组织奖若干名,奖品丰厚。获奖者及获奖单位均会获得由三家主办单位共同颁发的荣誉证书。

欢迎天津各高校翻译爱好者踊跃参加。

报名条件:不限(各专业的本、专科、硕士生和博士生均可参加,报名费10元)

题目类型:英译汉

译稿要求

1.     独立完成

2.     A4白纸打印,题目为三号宋体,正文为小四号宋体,1.5倍行距

3.     注意在译稿上不要写名字,组织者赴密封条,匿名编号参加评审

收稿截止日期2008515日—20

交稿地点:

北辰校区外国语学院学生会办公室(西教1518室)

丁字沽校区南院外国语学院学生会办公室(6教三层中厅)

主办单位:

天津市翻译工编辑协会

南开大学研究生院

南开大学外国语学院

承办单位:天津市各高校

 

第十二届天津市高校翻译大赛原稿

IT is as though some giant’s hand were squeezing the trunks of the trees, forcing the sap up and along the branches, for the blossom seems to squirt into the air.

There have been other Mays in other years, but never has there been so much blossom.. The bees are bewildered by it. A few small bush-apples which were as austere as walking-sticks when I planted them only two months ago are now in full flower, and look like little girls just off to a carnival.

Peach, cherry, plum and apple strain into the air; all the trees in the orchard are out together, and for once , no clumsy wind has shorn or rain washed their frail, enameled , fine petals down into the lecherous hands of grass.

What flower is there as delicate as this flower that grows out of a knarled   old tree with its trunk all twisted and its bark all blistered? It is a paradox. Beauty is always a paradox.

The village postman is an amateur with a grafting knife. But by “amateur” I do not suggest that he is incompetent. I mean what the word means—that is, I wish to say: he loves. For it is more than a casual interest or a hobby that takes him out into his orchard in the very grip of winter whilst he makes his careful cut into the stump of an old tree and grafts a new clean shoot into it. And it is more than an interest in arboriculture that keeps him there for hours pottering about with a jar of white clay, which he uses to cover the graft and keep the air from the moist joint. I have watched him binding his bandages over the limb of a tree with the same care with which he would tend a child. When people say that we English are a race of amateurs, we should be proud; for what other virtue has man than his ability to love? And the object of the love does not matter: it can be a woman, a dog or a stump of an old tree. It is only the love that matters. That is all that ever matters. The rest is as irrelevant as a wind blowing over a shoreless ocean.

With the postman’s triumph of getting both pink and white blossom on a single tree, I shouldn’t be surprised to see even my gateposts or my wife’s clothes-prop burst into sudden and urgent flower.

It is not easy to describe this spring. We English do not run to lyricism. Indeed, beauty sometimes embarrasses us. We feel a little shy of it, even awkward—like Joe, the carpenter’s son, who’s been musing over my orchard gate for the last half-hour. Silently we exchanged cigarettes. Then, whilst staring at my most decrepit old tree, which stood in full flamboyant bloom, he said, half to himself: “When we were retreating to Dunkirk I often wondered what it was I was defending; and when we landed in Normandy I used to ask myself what I was fighting for.  …I suppose I was fighting for that there old tree of yours! Damn funny, ain’t it?”

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