川外主办：第七届“语言桥杯”翻译大赛原文

历届韩素音翻译大奖赛竞赛原文及译文历届韩素音翻译大奖赛竞赛原文及译文英译汉部分 (3)Hidden within Technology‘s Empire, a Republic of Letters (3)隐藏于技术帝国的文学界 (3)"Why Measure Life in Heartbeats?" (8)何必以心跳定生死？ (9)美(节选) (11)The Literature of Knowledge and the Literature of Power byThomas De Quincey (16)知识文学与力量文学托马斯.昆西 (16)An Experience of Aesthetics by Robert Ginsberg (18)审美的体验罗伯特.金斯伯格 (18)A Person Who Apologizes Has the Moral Ball in His Court by Paul Johnson (21)谁给别人道歉，谁就在道义上掌握了主动保罗.约翰逊 (21)On Going Home by Joan Didion (25)回家琼.狄迪恩 (25)The Making of Ashenden (Excerpt) by Stanley Elkin (28)艾兴登其人（节选）斯坦利.埃尔金 (28)Beyond Life (34)超越生命[美] 卡贝尔著 (34)Envy by Samuel Johnson (39)论嫉妒[英]塞缪尔.约翰逊著 (39)《中国翻译》第一届“青年有奖翻译比赛”（1986）竞赛原文及参考译文（英译汉） (41)Sunday (41)星期天 (42)四川外语学院“语言桥杯”翻译大赛获奖译文选登 (44)第七届“语言桥杯”翻译大赛获奖译文选登 (44)The Woods: A Meditation (Excerpt) (46)林间心语（节选） (47)第六届“语言桥杯”翻译大赛获奖译文选登 (50)第五届“语言桥杯”翻译大赛原文及获奖译文选登 (52)第四届“语言桥杯”翻译大赛原文、参考译文及获奖译文选登 (54) When the Sun Stood Still (54)永恒夏日 (55)CASIO杯翻译竞赛原文及参考译文 (56)第三届竞赛原文及参考译文 (56)Here Is New York (excerpt) (56)这儿是纽约 (58)第四届翻译竞赛原文及参考译文 (61)Reservoir Frogs (Or Places Called Mama's) (61)水库青蛙（又题：妈妈餐馆） (62)中译英部分 (66)蜗居在巷陌的寻常幸福 (66)Simple Happiness of Dwelling in the Back Streets (66)在义与利之外 (69)Beyond Righteousness and Interests (69)读书苦乐杨绛 (72)The Bitter-Sweetness of Reading Yang Jiang (72)想起清华种种王佐良 (74)Reminiscences of Tsinghua Wang Zuoliang (74)歌德之人生启示宗白华 (76)What Goethe's Life Reveals by Zong Baihua (76)怀想那片青草地赵红波 (79)Yearning for That Piece of Green Meadow by Zhao Hongbo (79)可爱的南京 (82)Nanjing the Beloved City (82)霞冰心 (84)The Rosy Cloud byBingxin (84)黎明前的北平 (85)Predawn Peiping (85)老来乐金克木 (86)Delights in Growing Old by Jin Kemu (86)可贵的“他人意识” (89)Calling for an Awareness of Others (89)教孩子相信 (92)To Implant In Our Children‘s Young Hearts An Undying Faith In Humanity (92)心中有爱 (94)Love in Heart (94)英译汉部分Hidden within Technology’s Empire, a Republic of Le tters 隐藏于技术帝国的文学界索尔·贝娄（1）When I was a boy ―discovering literature‖, I used to think how wonderful it would be if every other person on the street were familiar with Proust and Joyce or T. E. Lawrence or Pasternak and Kafka. Later I learned how refractory to high culture the democratic masses were. Lincoln as a young frontiersman read Plutarch, Shakespeare and the Bible. But then he was Lincoln.我还是个“探索文学”的少年时，就经常在想：要是大街上人人都熟悉普鲁斯特和乔伊斯，熟悉T.E.劳伦斯，熟悉帕斯捷尔纳克和卡夫卡，该有多好啊！后来才知道，平民百姓对高雅文化有多排斥。

江西省第七届英语翻译大赛决赛I. 英译中It was a cold grey day in late November. The weather had changed overnight, when a backing wind brought a granite sky and a mizzling rain with it, and although it was now only a little after two o’clock in the afternoon the pallour of a winter evening seemed to have closed upon the hills, cloaking them in mist. It would be dark by four. The air was clammy cold, and for all the tightly closed windows it penetrated the interior of the coach. The leather seats felt damp to the hands, and there must have been a small crack in the roof, because now and again little drips of rain fell softly through, smudging the leather and leaving a dark blue stain like a splodge of ink. The wind came in gusts, at times shaking the coach as it travelled round the bend of the road, and in the exposed places on the high ground it blew with such force that the whole body of the coach trembled and swayed, rocking between the high wheels like a drunken man.The driver, muffled in a greatcoat to his ears, bent almost double in his seat, in a faint endeavour to gain shelter from his own shoulders, while the dispirited horses plodded sullenly to his command, too broken by the wind and the rain to feel the whip that now and again cracked above their heads, while it swung between the numb fingers of the driver.The wheels of the coach creaked and groaned as they sank onto the ruts on the road, and sometimes they flung up the soft spattered mud against the windows, where it mingled with the constant driving rain, and whatever view there might have been of the countryside was hopelessly obscured.The few passengers huddled together for warmth, exclaiming in unison when the coach sank into a heavier rut than usual, and one old fellow, who had kept up a constant complaint ever since he had joined the coach at Truro, rose from his seat in a fury, and, fumbling with the window sash, let the window down with a crash, bringing a shower of rain in upon himself and his fellow passengers. He thrust his head out and shouted up to the driver, cursing him in a high petulant voice for a rogue and a murderer; that they would all be dead before they reached Bodmin if he persisted in driving at breakneck speed; they had no breath left in their bodies as it was, and he for one would never travel by coach again.II. 中译英艰难的国运与雄健的国民李大钊历史的道路，不会是坦平的，有时走到艰难险阻的境界。

第八届“语言桥杯”翻译大赛获奖译文选登（一等奖，山东大学外国语学院2008级研究生梁利娟）You cannot compare with friendship the passion men feel for women, even though it is born of our own choice, nor can you put them in the same category. I must admit that the flames of passion are more active, sharp and keen. But that fire is a rash one, fickle, fluctuating and variable; it is a feverish fire, subject to attacks and relapses, which only gets hold of a corner of us. The love of friends is a general universal warmth, temperate moreover and smooth, a warmth which is constant and at rest, all gentleness and evenness, having nothing sharp nor keen. What is more, sexual love is but a mad craving for something which escapes us:Like the hunter who chases the hareThrough heat and cold,Over hill and dale, yet,Once he has bagged it, he thinks nothing of it;Only while it flees away, does he pound after it.As soon as it enters the territory of friendship (where wills work together, that is) it languishes and grows faint. To enjoy it is to lose it: its end is in the body and therefore subject to satiety. Friendship on the contrary is enjoyed in proportion to our desire: since it is a matter of the mind, with our souls being purified by practising it, it can spring forth, be nourished and grow only when enjoyed. Far below such perfect friendship those fickle passi ons also once found a place in me – not to mention in La Boe¨ tie, who confesses to all too many in his verses. And so those two emotions came into me, each one aware of the other but never to be compared, the first maintaining its course in a proud and lof ty flight, scornfully watching the other racing along way down below.As for marriage, apart from being a bargain where only the entrance is free (its duration being fettered and constrained, depending on things outside our will), it is a bargain struck for other purposes; within it you soon have to unsnarl hundreds of extraneous tangled ends, which are enough to break the thread of a living passion and to trouble its course, whereas in friendship there is no traffic or commerce but with itself. In addition, women are in truth not normally capable of responding to such familiarity and mutual confidence as sustain that holy bond of friendship, nor do their souls seem firm enough to withstand the clasp of a knot so lasting and so tightly drawn. And indeed if it were not for that, if it were possible to fashion such a relationship, willing and free, in which not only the souls had this full enjoyment but in which the bodies too shared in the union –where the whole human being was involved —it is certain that the loving-friendshipwould be more full and more abundant. But there is no example yet of woman attaining to it and by the common agreement of the Ancient schools of philosophy she is excluded from it.男女之激情虽出于自择，仍不堪比友情。

孙宁，1981年生于南京。

1993年考取南京外国语学校，其间获全国中学生英语能力竞赛和中澳国际英语能力竞赛高中组特等奖。

1999年保送北京外国语大学英语系口译专业8月入外交部翻译室工作，次年9月公派赴英国留学。

孙宁在2009年3月第十一届全国人大二次会议上为发言人李肇星担任口译。

以下是他当年参加第七届“21世纪杯”全国英语演讲比赛获冠军时的演讲：globalization: challenges and opportunities for chinas younger generation 全球化：中国年轻一代所面临的机遇与挑战 good morning, ladies and gentlemen.today i’m very happy to be here to share with you some of my thoughts on the topicof globalization. and first of all, i would like to mention an event in our recenthistory.正如我们今天所看到的，不同国家的环保专家们正齐心协力在全球变暖这一问题上各抒己见；经济学家们一同寻找着对付金融危机的办法，虽然这一危机只发生在一定区域，但它还是会阻碍世界经济的发展；外交官和政治家们则聚到一起探讨打击恐怖主义的问题。

和平与繁荣已成为全世界共同奋斗的目标。

如此强大趋势的“全球化”正应证了e. m. 福斯特的那句话：“但求沟通！”decision-making, ruthless expansionists in the global market place and adevastating presence to local businesses.卡尔·马克思提醒我们，资本跨越国界，便会逃离对象国政治实体的管制，这一点已成为现实。

跨国公司一直在实行寻求最低成本、最大市场和最多收益的政策。

Great PossessionsBy Aldo Leopold【1】One hundred and twenty acres, according to the County Clerk, is the extent of my worldly domain. But the County Clerk is a sleepy fellow, who never looks at his record books before nine o’clock. What they would show at daybreak is the question here at issue.【2】Books or no books, it is a fact, patent both to my dog and myself, that at daybreak I am the sole owner of all the acres I can walk over. It is not only boundaries that disappear, but also the thought of being bounded.Expanses unknown to deed or map are known to every dawn, and solitude, supposed no longer to exist in my county, extends on every hand as far as the dew can reach.【3】Like other great landowners, I have tenants. They are negligent about rents, but very punctilious about tenures. Indeed at every daybreak from April to July they proclaim their boundaries to each other, and so acknowledge, at least by inference, their fiefdom to me.【4】This daily ceremony, contrary to what you might suppose, begins with the utmost decorum. Who originally laid down its protocols I do not know. At 3:30 a.m., with such dignity as I can muster of a July morning, I step from my cabin door, bearing in either hand my emblems of sovereignty, a coffee pot and notebook. I seat myself on a bench, facing the white wake of the morning star. I set the pot beside me. I extract a cup from my shirt front, hoping none will notice its informal mode of transport. I get out my watch, pour coffee, and lay notebook on knee. This is the cue for the proclamations to begin.【5】At 3:35 the nearest field sparrow avows, in a clear tenor chant, that he holds the jackpine copse north to the riverbank, and south to the old wagon track. One by one all the other field sparrows within earshot recite their respective holdings. There are no disputes, at least at this hour, so I just listen, hoping inwardly that their womenfolk acquiesce in this happy accord over the status quo ante.【6】Before the field sparrows have quite gone the rounds, the robin in the big elm warbles loudly his claim to the crotch where the icestorm tore off a limb, and all appurtenances pertaining thereto (meaning, in his case, all the angleworms in the not-very-spacious subjacent lawn).【7】The robin’s insistent caroling awakens the oriole, who now tells the world of orioles that the pendant branch of the elm belongs to him, together with all fiber-bearing milkweed stalks near by, all loose strings in the garden, and the exclusive right to flash like a burst of fire from one of these to another.【8】My watch says 3:50. The indigo bunting on the hill asserts title to the dead oak limb left by the 1936 drouth, and to divers near-by bugs and bushes. He does not claim, but I think he implies, the right to out-blue all bluebirds, and all spiderworts that have turned their faces to the dawn.【9】Next the wren – the one who discovered the knothole in the eave of the cabin – explodes into song. Half a dozen other wrens give voice, and now all is bedlam. Grosbeaks, thrashers, yellow warblers, bluebirds, vireos, towhees, cardinals – all are at it. My solemn list of performers, in their order and time of first song, hesitates, wavers, ceases, for my ear can no longer filter out priorities. Besides, the pot is empty and the sun is about to rise. I must inspect my domain before my title runs out.【10】We sally forth, the dog and I, at random. He has paid scant respect to all these vocal goings-on, for to him the evidence of tenantry is not song, but scent. Any illiterate bundle of feathers, he says, can make a noise in a tree. Now he is going to translate for me the olfactory poems that who-knows-what silent creatures have written in the summer night. At the end of each poem sits the author – if we can find him. What we actually find is beyond predicting: a rabbit, suddenly yearning to be elsewhere; a woodcock, fluttering his disclaimer; a cock pheasant, indignant over wetting his feathers in the grass.【11】Once in a while we turn up a coon or mink, returning late from the night’s foray. Sometimes we rout a heron from his unfinished fishing, or surprise a mother wood duck with her convoy of ducklings, headed full-steam for the shelter of the pickerelweeds. Sometimes we see deer sauntering back to the thickets, replete with alfalfa blooms, veronica, and wild lettuce. More often we see only the interweaving darkened lines that lazy hoofs have traced on the silken fabric of the dew.【12】I can feel the sun now. The bird-chorus has run out of breath. The far clank of cowbells bespeaks a herd ambling to pasture. A tractor roars warning that my neighbor is astir. The world has shrunk to those mean dimensions known to county clerks. We turn toward home, and breakfast.。

第十二届“语言桥”杯翻译大赛比赛原文大赛原文一：The central figure in the story, the satanic Dr Mallako, lives in Mortlake, where he wreaks havoc on the lives of his respectable suburban neighbors by encouraging them to develop to the full the less respectable sides of their nature: the destructive jealousies, hatreds and ambitions, which previously they have kept hidden and unexpressed and the existence of which they have denied even to themselves. The nameless narrator of the story is a scientist, who, seeing what has become of his neighbors under the influence of Dr Mallako, tries to resist the strange urge he himself has to become one of the doctor?s clients. In an effort to shake off what he feels to be an insane and dangerous obsession with Dr Mallako, he plunges himself feverishly into “a very abstruse scientific investigation”. But it is no good. Driven underground, the urge yet remains, and the doctor appears to him in his nightmares: “Each night I would wake in a cold sweat, hearing the ghostly voice saying ?COME!?”From talking to his neighbors, the narrator realizes that the doctor?s power lies in his ability to read “secret thoughts”and to bring them out into the open, “like monsters of the deep emerging from their dark caves to bring horror to the crews of whalers”. The realization is a challenge to his hitherto optimistic view of human nature, and he begins to despair at the thought that all people, even the most conventional and respectable, have a dark side; that each and every one of them has some nasty secret about themselves that they keep hidden. Reflecting on this,he becomes “increasingly filled with a general detestation of mankind”. Dr Mallako, he realizes, is not a uniquely evil person, but simply the catalyst for the evil that lies within all of us:…in his malignant mind, in his cold destructive intellect, are concentrated in quintessential form all the baseness, all the cruelty, all the helpless rage of feeble men aspiring to be Titans…in many who are timidly respectable there lurks the hope of splendid sin, the wish to dominate and the urge to destroy. Eventually, the narrator becomes completely possessed with the desire to punish the sinful, that is, the entire human race. He thus invents and builds a device designed to boil all the water on the earth, contemplating with satisfaction as he does so the vision of the world getting hotter and drier and the unbearable thirst of mankind growing until, at last, “in a universal shriek of madness, they will perish”. After that, he reasons, “there will be no more Sin”, the planet will become dead like the moon, “and it will then be as beautiful and as innocent”.大赛原文二：When he was a child, Russell writes in his Autobiography, he was “unusually prone to a sense of sin”. When he was asked to name his favorite hymn, he chose “weary of earth and laden with my sin”. A natural consequence of his secrecy was a troubled conscience, the feeling that his secrets were perpetually liable to be discovered. When, one morning during the family?s daily prayer meeting, Lady Russell read the parable of the Prodigal Son, Bertie said to her: “I know why you did that –because I broke my jug.”When she later repeated the story with greatamusement, he felt still more humiliated (“Most of my vivid early memories are of humiliations”). She did notrealize, he wrote, “that she was responsible for a morbidness which had produced tragic results in her own children.”When Bertie was seven, some relief from the oppressive atmosphere of Pembroke Lodge came when the Russells took a house in London for a few months and Bertie and Frank began for the first time to see something of their other grandmother, Lady Stanley of Alderley, and her remarkable family. Lady Stanley was an aristocrat of a quite different stamp from Lady Russell. A few years older than Lady Russell, she had grown up in the atmosphere of robust rationalism that had prevailed in Britain before the succession of Victoria, and, Russell recalls, was “contemptuous of Victorian goody-goody priggery”.As might be expected, she took a great liking to Frank and a corresponding dislike to Bertie, whom she dismissed as “just like his father”. She had a large family of four sons and four daughters, most of them talented, all of them argumentative, and none of them shy. They terrified Bertie and enchanted Frank. Of the sons, Henry was a Muslim, Lyulph an atheist and Algernon a Roman Catholic priest. On Sunday they would all gather for lunch and engage each other in vigorous and unrestrained debate, each contradicting the other and shouting at the top of their voices. “I used to go to those luncheons in fear and trembling,”Bertie remembered, “since I never knew but what the whole pack would turn on me.”Frank, on the other hand, felt perfectly at home: “It was full of instruction,entertainment and pleasure…I heard matters freely discussed; I was allowed to speak for myself…I loved it.”Frank came to love the Stanleys as warmly as he hated the Russells, and Lady Stanley?s house at 40 Dove Street became for him a second home, a welcome break from Pembroke Lodge. Bertie remained –to all outward appearances at least –a loyal and devoted Russell. When he looked back on the two families in his old age, however, he found that his sympathies had changed: “I owe to the Russells shyness, sensitiveness, and metaphysics; to the Stanleys vigour, good health, and good spirits. On the whole, the latter seems a better inheritance than the former.”。

2023catti杯翻译原文2023 CATTI杯翻译原文愿景和使命：2023 CATTI杯翻译大赛旨在促进翻译行业的发展和提高翻译人才素质。

通过组织这一国际性的翻译大赛，我们希望为各国翻译工作者提供一个交流、学习和展示的平台，激发他们的创作力和翻译技巧，推动翻译事业的繁荣。

大赛安排：本届翻译大赛将分为初赛、决赛和颁奖环节。

初赛将在2023年1月至3月期间进行，参赛者需按照要求完成指定的翻译任务，并提交作品。

经过初赛评审，优秀者将晋级决赛。

决赛将在2023年5月举行，参赛者将现场翻译一段指定的文本，由专业评委进行评审。

最后，将在决赛结束后进行颁奖典礼，表彰各个奖项的获得者。

参赛资格：本次大赛对参赛者的资格要求如下：1.具有中文或其他外语相关专业学历，并且具备一定的翻译实践经验；2.年龄不限，国籍不限；3.需承诺独立完成翻译任务，不得抄袭或借助机器翻译工具。

翻译任务：本次大赛的翻译任务主要包括文学、科技、经济、法律和时事等领域。

详细的翻译要求将在初赛开始前公布，并根据不同的语种设置相应的任务。

评委团队：本届大赛将邀请一流的翻译学者和专业人士组成评委团队，他们将负责对参赛者的作品进行评审和打分。

评委团队将严格按照统一的评分标准进行评判，确保公正、客观地选出最优秀的翻译作品。

奖项设置：本次大赛将设置一、二、三等奖以及优秀奖、人气奖等附加奖项。

每个奖项将评选出数量不等的获奖者，以表彰他们在翻译任务中的出色表现。

此外，大赛还将邀请优秀的获奖者参加一系列研讨会和培训活动，提高他们的专业能力。

宣传推广：为了让更多的翻译工作者了解和参与本届大赛，我们将通过各种渠道进行宣传推广，包括但不限于媒体报道、社交媒体推广、翻译机构合作等。

我们相信，通过广泛的宣传，能够吸引更多优秀的翻译从业者积极参与，使本次大赛更加具有影响力和参与度。

总结：2023 CATTI杯翻译大赛是一项重要的国际翻译赛事，旨在提高翻译人才素质，促进翻译事业的发展。

第九届“语言桥杯”翻译大赛原文第九届“语言桥杯”翻译大赛原文John Lennon was born with a gift for music and comedy that would carry him further from his roots than he ever dreamed possible. As a young man, he was lured away from the British Isles by the seemingly boundless glamour and opportunity to be found across the Atlantic. He achieved that rare feat for a British performer of taking American music to the Americans and playing it as convincingly as any homegrown practitioner, or even more so. For several years, his group toured the country, delighting audiences in city after city with their garish suits, funny hair, and contagiously happy grins.This, of course, was not Beatle John Lennon but his namesake paternal grandfather, more commonly known as Jack, born in 1855. Lennon is an Irish surname—from O’Leannain o r O’Lonain—and Jack habitually gave his birthplace as Dublin, though there is evidence that his family had already crossed the Irish Sea to become part of Liverpool’s extensive Hibernian community some time previously. He began his working life as a clerk, but in the 1880s followed a common impulse among his compatriots and emigrated to New York. Whereas the city turned other immigrant Irishmen into laborers or police officers, Jack wound up as a member of Andrew Roberton’s Colored Operatic Kentucky Minstrels.However brief or casual his involvement, this made him part of the first transatlantic popular music industry. American minstrel troupes, in which white men blackened their faces, put on outsize collars and stripey pantaloons, and sang sentimental chor uses about the Swanee River, “coons,” and “darkies,”were hugely popular in the late nineteenth century, both as performers and creators of hit songs. When Roberton’s Colored Operatic Kentucky Minstrels toured Ireland in 1897, the Limerick Chronicle called them “the world’s acknowl edged masters of refined minstrelsy,” while the Dublin Chronicle thought them the best it had ever seen. A contemporary handbook records that the troupe was about thirty-strong, that it featured some genuinely black artistes among the cosmetic ones, and that it made a specialty of parading through the streets of every town where it was to appear.For this John Lennon, unlike the grandson he would never see, music did not bring worldwide fame but was merely an exotic interlude, most details of which were never known to his descendants. Around the turn of the century, he came off the road for good, returned to Liverpool, and resumed his old life as a clerk, this time with the Booth shipping line. With him came his daughter, Mary, only child of a first marriage that had not survived his temporary immersion in burnt-cork makeup, banjo music, and applause.When Mary left him to work in domestic service, a solitary old age seemed in prospect for Jack. His remedy was to marry his housekeeper, a young Liverpool Irishwoman with the happily coincidental name of Mary Maguire. Although twenty years his junior, and illiterate, Mary—better known as Polly—proved an ideal Victorian wife, practical, hardworking, and selfless. Their home was a tiny terrace house in Copperfield Street, Toxteth, a part of the city nicknamed “Dickens Land,” so numerous were the streets named after Dickens characters. Rather like Mr. Micawber in David Copperfield, Jack sometimes talked about returning to his former life as a minstrel and earning fortunesenough for his young wife, as he put it, to be “farting against silk.” But from here on, his music making would be confined to local pubs and his own family circle.约翰·列侬与生俱来的音乐与喜剧细胞使他取得的辉煌超出他曾经梦想的可能。

刻下今天，抗拒遗忘【1】我们知道自己是容易忘记的。

有心人能坚持写下日记，日日记录，到时回头还能翻回去，某一年某一天，字字句句都在纸上，能唤起记忆。

也有人记忆超群，过了多少年，还能细数某时某地某事，让人惊叹。

但大部分的我们呢？我曾记过一阵日记，从开始的日日记，到后来的隔日记，再到后来的不知隔多少日记，终于有一天把日记本尘封在写字台的某个抽屉角落里了。

我也曾与好友仔细回想，在何时何地哪一个场合第一次遇见，却相顾茫然。

【2】这样的无从查考，这样的相顾茫然，并不算得上如何特殊。

【3】生活的大部分形态，总是碎片化的。

一时在东，一时在西，纷繁复杂，并不是那么容易记住的。

我们记住了海潮翻腾，侧耳又听见大江大河奔涌怒吼；记住了大江大河的浪高声宏，耳边又传来远处的人声鼎沸……热点似乎一个接着一个，连时尚流行都以百倍的速度在此起彼伏，每个似乎都在沸点上翻滚。

可新的记忆总是一页页压过旧的，遗忘总在这样不知不觉的侧耳、挪移间发生。

【4】而更多时候，生活的形态，又是屡屡重复的。

连古人都说，“年年岁岁花相似”，相似的花，相似的叶，总是最不容易区分的。

我们记忆里，只留下似曾相识的影子。

提过的话题要再提，理过的逻辑要再理，连听过的故事，也总在天南海北再听到相似的讲述。

“仙桂年年折又生”，如果枝头还是避着风头的朝向，连挂着的果子上的疤痕都一般，谁又能分清是哪一年、哪一月种下的树呢？【5】若说世上事尽是重复，无疑太消极。

而太阳每天都是新的，又高估了普通人心里的饱满度。

我们在光与影里穿行，日久年深。

有这样一个日子，我们停下来，做一个特别的标记，把它从漫长的旅途里区别出来，想想过去，看看前程，也是对自己的一种关怀。

在意义被怀疑、被消解的时候，有这样的庄重的一刻，反观静照，在一片喧腾或琐碎里执着地找到那份属于自己的历史感，也是一种觉醒。

1Record Today, Resist Forgetting【1】Forgetfulness is prone to plague us. There are those who, with unwavering diligence, chronicle their daily affairs in diaries, every word and sentence an evocative trigger for memories of a certain day in a certain year as they flip through the pages in days to come. Others are blessed with prodigious memories, able to recount events from years ago with astonishing clarity. But what about the vast majority of us? I, for one, attempted to keep a diary, only to see my entries dwindle from daily to every other day, and then to sporadic, until I finally sealed it away in a secluded corner of my writing desk drawer. I also endeavored to recall with a friend the precise moment, location, and occasion of our first encounter, but we were both lost in a fog.【2】Such a state of forgetfulness and the ensuing fog-bound befuddlement are par for the course.【3】Life, for the most part, takes on fragmented forms. We may find ourselves here today and there tomorrow, amidst a flurry of complexity that isn’t always easy to commit to memory. Just as we begin to recall the tumultuous ocean tides, the roaring rivers rush to our ears. Once the mighty rivers’ thunderous roar seeps into our memory, the distant din of chatter resounds in our ears. The current of hot topics seems to flow incessantly, with even fashion and trends surging and receding at breakneck speed, each one clamoring for our attention. Nevertheless, new memories unfailingly turn the page on the old, while forgetting sneaks up on us unnoticed amid our shifting attention and meandering movements.【4】More often than not, life feels like a cycle of repetition, as even the anci ents recognized, remarking that “flowers are similar year in and year out.” It is those very similar flowers and leaves that prove most difficult to distinguish, leaving us with faintly familiar shadows in our memory. Topics once discussed resurface, past logical reasoning requires reevaluation, and even the tales we’ve heard before catch echoes of their likeness recounted from the far reaches of the earth. As an ancient Chinese poem states, “the immortal laurel’s branches break and renew each year.”If the branches still shy away from the wind, and their fruit bears the same scars, who then can discern the year or month that saw the planting of the tree?【5】To claim that everything in the world is mere repetition is too bleak a notion. And yet, to assert that the sun rises anew each day is to overestimate the average person's sense of fulfillment. We traverse through light and shadow for years on end. But there comes a moment when we pause and create a special mark to set apart a day from the long procession of time, a moment for us to reflect on the past and gaze toward the future as an act of self-care. In times when meaning is doubted or diminished, such a moment of solemnity allows us to turn inward and unearth our own sense of history amidst the tumult and trivialities of life, which might be deemed a form of awakening.2Embossing the Present, Resisting OblivionBy Yu JinxingTrans. by Cai Qingmei（蔡清美）【1】We recognize our tendency to forget. Those mindful among us persist in maintaining a journal, capturing moments on paper, day byday. As we revisit these pages, every word and phrase can rekindle a forgotten memory. Some among us are blessed with prodigious memory, recounting intricate details of experiences from years past with astonishing precision. But what about the majority? There was a time I maintained a diary, gradually transitioning from daily entries to every other day, until eventually, gaps of weeks appeared between entries. Eventually, the diary found a quiet corner in a drawer at my writing desk. I’ve tried to recall with friends the moment of our first encounter, only to be greeted with mutual bewilderment.【2】Such perplexity, this mutual bewilderment, is not particularly unusual.【3】The larger part of life tends to be fragmented. Moments fleet from one to another, creating a tapestry too intricate to remember easily. Our attention dances from the tumultuous tides to the echoing roar of grand rivers, from the towering waves and thundering rivers to the distant hum of human voices. One trend follows another, each seemingly at its zenith. Yet, the fresh memories continue to eclipse the old ones, and oblivion manifests subtly amidst these shifting focuses.【4】Frequently, life manifests itself in cycles of repetition. Even the ancients noted, “Every year the flowers resemble the previous ones.” Similar flowers, similar leaves, they are always the hardest to differentiate. We retain in our memories only an echo of familiarity. Topics once discussed are revisited, logic previously deduced is reconsidered, and familiar stories are heard again, told with different flavors in different locales. As the sweet osmanthus blooms each year, if the orientation of the branch remains unchanged, even the scars on the hanging fruits resemble each other. Who could then discern in which year and month the tree was planted?【5】To say that everything in the world is repetitive might be too pessimistic. Yet, to claim that each day brings a new sun might overstate our ability to appreciate the nuances of the mundane. We traverse through a world of light and shadows over time. There are days when we pause, mark a special moment, carving it out from the continuum of our journey. It’s a time to reminisce about the past and gaze into the future—a form of self-care. In times when our sense of purpose is questioned or seems to dissipate, such solemn moments of introspection allow us to seek our sense of history amidst the din and trivialities. It’s a form of awakening.。

校园英语 / 翻译研究“文体对等”视角下的翻译比赛西南科技大学外国语学院/杨丹【摘要】本文以翻译比赛的评判标准之“文体对等”作为切入点，对第七届语言桥翻译比赛的比赛文章作文体分析，指出其中的翻译难点及策略，并提出对翻译比赛的看法。

旨在强调翻译中文体对等的重要性，望广大翻译爱好者引起重视，在文体分析方面多下功夫，提高翻译质量，呈现更多的优秀译文。

【关键词】翻译比赛 文体对等 语言桥一、翻译比赛略述近年来，随着翻译学科的不断壮大，翻译受到社会各界人士越来越多的关注，翻译比赛的举办也是层出不穷，例如语言桥翻译大赛、韩素音翻译比赛等。

据报道，各项翻译比赛的参赛人数每年直线飙升，包括来自各大高校的学生、业内专业人士以及社会各界翻译爱好者。

这也说明了爱好并重视翻译的人越来越多。

从翻译标准的定义到翻译策略的选择，再到解构主义甚至对可译性提出质疑，翻译一直以来都是一个颇受争议的话题，也是一个不易解决的难题。

如今，愿意挑战这个“烫山芋”的人越来越多，这是值得高兴的一件事。

大学生从比赛中获得的或许不是高额的奖金，抑或不是一本权威的荣誉证书，但从一场比赛的精心准备中，学生自身的语言能力和见识却可以得到不小的提升。

首先，从比赛本身来说，看似仅是两种文字的互相转换，但要想呈上一份满意的答卷，除了平时的积累，还需要踏踏实实地准备。

笔者认为就动笔翻译之前的准备工作尤其不可忽视，大体上可以分为以下步骤：熟悉原文；文体分析；查阅生词和资料；再读原文，揣摩风格。

显然，笔者在此把文体分析作为了翻译准备工作的“重头戏”。

文体分析的目的是让译者对原文文风的大体方向以及对整个文本的语言特点的把握。

以语言桥翻译大赛为例，“文体对等”被规定为评分标准之一(语言桥翻译比赛征稿启事里规定的评分标准：忠实原文，语意通顺；文体对等，文笔优美；富有创新性，译文有亮点)。

“文体对等”，即根据对原文的文体分析，使译文尽量重现原文文体特点。

可见，从文体学角度来分析原文是必然的。

翻译大赛 1 第七届 “北京外国语大学－《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛英译汉一等奖译文开阔的领地文／［美）奥尔多利奥波德译／蒋怡颖按县书记员的话来说，眼前一百二十英亩的农场是我的领地。

不过，这家伙可贪睡了，不到日上三竿，是断然不会翻看他那些记录薄的。

那么拂晓时分，农场是怎样的一番景象，是个值得讨论的问题。

管他有没有记录在册呢，反正破晓时漫步走过的每一英亩土地都由我一人主宰，这一点我的爱犬也心领神会。

地域上的重重界限消失了，那种被秷楛的压抑感也随之抛诸脑后。

契据和地图上没法标明的无边光景[1]，其美妙展现在每天的黎明时分。

而那份独处的悠然，我本以为在这沙郡中已觅而不得，却不想在每一颗露珠上寻到了它的踪影。

和其他大农场主一样，我也有不少佃户。

他们不在乎租金这事，划起领地来却毫不含糊。

从四月到七月，每天拂晓时刻，他们都会向彼此宣告领地界限，同时以此表明他们对我的臣服。

这样的仪式天天有，都在极庄严的礼节中拉开帷幕，这恐怕和你所设想的大相径庭。

究竟是何方神圣立下这些规矩礼仪，我不得而知。

凌晨三点半，我从这七月的拂晓中汲取了威严，昂扬地走出小屋，一手端着咖啡壶，一手拿着笔记本，这两样象征了我对农场的主权。

望着那颗闪烁着白色光辉的启明星，我在一张长椅上坐下，咖啡壶先搁在一旁，又从衬衣前襟的口袋里取出一只杯子，但愿没人注意到，这么携带杯子确实有点随意。

我掏出手表，给自己倒了杯咖啡，接着把笔记本放在膝盖上。

一切就绪，这意味着仪式即将开始。

三点三十五分到了，离我最近的一只原野春雀用清澈的男高音吟唱起来，宣告北到河岸、南至古老马车道的这片短叶松树林，统统都归他所有。

附近的原野春雀也应声唱起歌来，一只接一只地声明着自己的领地。

歌声里没有争执，至少此时此刻没有。

我就这么聆听着，打心眼里希望在这幸福和谐中，他们的雌雀伴侣也能默许原先的领地划分。

原野春雀的吟唱声还在林中回荡，而这边大榆树上的知更鸟已开始鸣l转，歌声哦亮，他在宣告，这被冰暴[2]折断了枝丫的树权是他的地盘，当然附带着周围的一些也归他所有（对这只知更鸟而言，其实就是指树下草地里的所有蚚划，那里并不算宽敞）。

OpticsManini NayarWhen I was seven, my friend Sol was hit by lightning and died. He was on a rooftop quietly playing marbles when this happened. Burnt to cinders, we were told by the neighbourhood gossips. He'd caught fire, we were assured, but never felt a thing. I only remember a frenzy of ambulances and long clean sirens cleaving the silence of that damp October night. Later, my father came to sit with me. This happens to one in several millions, he said, as if a knowledge of the bare statistics mitigated the horror. He was trying to help, I think. Or perhaps he believed I thought it would happen to me. Until now, Sol and I had shared everything; secrets, chocolates, friends, even a birthdate. We would marry at eighteen, we promised each other, and have six children, two cows and a heart-shaped tattoo with 'Eternally Yours' sketched on our behinds. But now Sol was somewhere else, and I was seven years old and under the covers in my bed counting spots before my eyes in the darkness.After that I cleared out my play-cupboard. Out went my collection of teddy bears and picture books. In its place was an emptiness, the oak panels reflecting their own woodshine. The space I made seemed almost holy, though mother thought my efforts a waste. An empty cupboard is no better than an empty cup, she said in an apocryphal aside. Mother always filled things up - cups, water jugs, vases, boxes, arms - as if colour and weight equalled a superior quality of life. Mother never understood that this was my dreamtime place. Here I could hide, slide the doors shut behind me, scrunch my eyes tight and breathe in another world. When I opened my eyes, the glow from the lone cupboard-bulb seemed to set the polished walls shimmering, and I could feel what Sol must have felt, dazzle and darkness. I was sharing this with him, as always. He would know, wherever he was, that I knew what he knew, saw what he had seen. But to mother I only said that I was tired of teddy bears and picture books. What she thought I couldn't tell, but she stirred the soup-pot vigorously.One in several millions, I said to myself many times, as if the key, the answer to it all, lay there. The phrase was heavy on my lips, stubbornly resistant to knowledge. Sometimes I said the words out of con- text to see if by deflection, some quirk of physics, the meaning would suddenly come to me. Thanks for the beans, mother, I said to her at lunch, you're one in millions. Mother looked at me oddly, pursed her lips and offered me more rice. At this club, when father served a clean ace to win the Retired-Wallahs Rotating Cup, I pointed out that he was one in a million. Oh, the serve was one in a million, father protested modestly. But he seemed pleased. Still, this wasn't what I was looking for, and in time the phrase slipped away from me, lost its magic urgency, became as bland as 'Pass the salt' or 'Is the bath water hot?' If Sol was one in a million, I was one among far less; a dozen, say. He was chosen. I was ordinary. He had been touched and transformed by forces I didn't understand. I was left cleaning out the cupboard. There was one way to bridge the chasm, to bring Solback to life, but I would wait to try it until the most magical of moments. I would wait until the moment was so right and shimmering that Sol would have to come back. This was my weapon that nobody knew of, not even mother, even though she had pursed her lips up at the beans. This was between Sol and me.The winter had almost guttered into spring when father was ill. One February morning, he sat in his chair, ashen as the cinders in the grate. Then, his fingers splayed out in front of him, his mouth working, he heaved and fell. It all happened suddenly, so cleanly, as if rehearsed and perfected for weeks. Again the sirens, the screech of wheels, the white coats in perpetual motion. Heart seizures weren't one in a million. But they deprived you just the same, darkness but no dazzle, and a long waiting.Now I knew there was no turning back. This was the moment. I had to do it without delay; there was no time to waste. While they carried father out, I rushed into the cupboard, scrunched my eyes tight, opened them in the shimmer and called out'Sol! Sol! Sol!' I wanted to keep my mind blank, like death must be, but father and Sol gusted in and out in confusing pictures. Leaves in a storm and I the calm axis. Here was father playing marbles on a roof. Here was Sol serving ace after ace. Here was father with two cows. Here was Sol hunched over the breakfast table. The pictures eddied and rushed. The more frantic they grew, the clearer my voice became, tolling like a bell: 'Sol! Sol! Sol!' The cupboard rang with voices, some mine, some echoes, some from what seemed another place - where Sol was, maybe. The cup- board seemed to groan and reverberate, as if shaken by lightning and thunder. Any minute now it would burst open and I would find myself in a green valley fed by limpid brooks and red with hibiscus. I would run through tall grass and wading into the waters, see Sol picking flowers. I would open my eyes and he'd be there,hibiscus-laden, laughing. Where have you been, he'd say, as if it were I who had burned, falling in ashes. I was filled to bursting with a certainty so strong it seemed a celebration almost. Sobbing, I opened my eyes. The bulb winked at the walls.I fell asleep, I think, because I awoke to a deeper darkness. It was late, much past my bedtime. Slowly I crawled out of the cupboard, my tongue furred, my feet heavy. My mind felt like lead. Then I heard my name. Mother was in her chair by the window, her body defined by a thin ray of moonlight. Your father Will be well, she said quietly, and he will be home soon. The shaft of light in which she sat so motionless was like the light that would have touched Sol if he'd been lucky; if he had been like one of us, one in a dozen, or less. This light fell in a benediction, caressing mother, slipping gently over my father in his hospital bed six streets away. I reached out and stroked my mother's arm. It was warm like bath water, her skin the texture of hibiscus.We stayed together for some time, my mother and I, invaded by small night sounds and the raspy whirr of crickets. Then I stood up and turned to return to my room.Mother looked at me quizzically. Are you all right, she asked. I told her I was fine, that I had some c!eaning up to do. Then I went to my cupboard and stacked it up again with teddy bears and picture books.Some years later we moved to Rourkela, a small mining town in the north east, near Jamshedpur. The summer I turned sixteen, I got lost in the thick woods there. They weren't that deep - about three miles at the most. All I had to do was cycle forall I was worth, and in minutes I'd be on the dirt road leading into town. But a stir in the leaves gave me pause.I dismounted and stood listening. Branches arched like claws overhead. The sky crawled on a white belly of clouds. Shadows fell in tessellated patterns of grey and black. There was a faint thrumming all around, as if the air were being strung and practised for an overture. And yet there was nothing, just a silence of moving shadows, a bulb winking at the walls. I remembered Sol, of whom I hadn't thought in years. And foolishly again I waited, not for answers but simply for an end to the terror the woods were building in me, chord by chord, like dissonant music. When the cacophony grew too much to bear, I remounted and pedalled furiously, banshees screaming past my ears, my feet assuming a clockwork of their own. The pathless ground threw up leaves and stones, swirls of dust rose and settled. The air was cool and steady as I hurled myself into the falling light.光学玛尼尼·纳雅尔谈瀛洲译在我七岁那年，我的朋友索尔被闪电击中死去了。

外交部80后“总理翻译”孙宁的学习心得My English Journey——第七届“21世纪-爱立信杯”全国英语演讲比赛冠军孙宁孙宁：1981年生于古城南京。

1993年考取南京外国语学校，其间获全国中学生英语能力竞赛和中澳国际英语能力竞赛高中组特等奖。

1999年保送进入北京外国语大学英语系，其间获“21世纪-爱立信杯”第七届全国英语演讲比赛冠军并出版译著三本。

2003年8月入外交部翻译室，2004年9月公派赴英留学。

Colin Powell说过，没有美国就没有今天的他，自然也就没有那本风靡一时的My American Journey。

不是因为英语的缘故，今天的我不会是这样，也就不会有这篇文章。

Powell 说过，自己是a student of history。

我也以自己是a student of English而自豪，是为题记。

A Bumpy Start开始接触英语是在小学五年级。

那时每学完一课，老师会在黑板上写下生词的中文，然后找人上去写英文，完了再带大家读一遍。

为了不当“出头鸟”，每到英语课，一向很皮的我总是变得很乖。

可这一天终究躲不过，虽然手心写了“阿姆布热拉”之类，可在黑板前吭哧了半天也没把umbrella拼对。

小学升初中英语考了96，但周围清一色的满分让我抬不起头来。

好在英语要折成20分满分——加上我语文不错——才勉强进了外语学校。

外语学校集中了全市的优等生。

我的同桌就很厉害——告诉我他有英文名了，叫Superman。

但第一节课过后，他终究没能保住自己的名字。

老师给我们取名：我叫Peter，他叫Paul——日后有人调侃：“XX催你还钱，没钱就找孙宁借”，打成语一个：rob Peter to pay Paul。

这堂课让我再次感到自己不是学语言的料。

同班一个女孩的名字（Laura）我舌头怎么也绕不过来；课代表名字（Margaret）的拼写是到初三时才记住的。

Getting on My Way孺子不可教，但老师却有教无类。

第四届语言桥杯翻译大赛参考译文第一篇：第四届语言桥杯翻译大赛参考译文第四届“语言桥”杯翻译大赛原文、参考译文、译文点评及特等奖译文一、第四届“语言桥”杯翻译大赛原文：When the Sun Stood StillRemember how time used to stretch forever? We are well into summer now here in the city.An early morning alarm gets my daughter, Morgan, up for summer school.My son, Patrick, has gone off with his uncle, and my husband and I have to go to our jobs and try to find a way to cram a vacation in somewhere.Summer wasn’t always like this.When I was growing up in a small California town called Lagunitas, a perfect stillness awaited us when we stepped out of school in June.We had no summer classes, no camps, no relatives to visit.The calendar was a blank.Every day the hills of Lagunitas pressed in and the light pressed down.It was as if the planet had come lazily to a stop so we could all hear the buzzing of the dragonflies above the creek—and the beating of our own hearts.June was far away, September a distant blur.Without school to tell us who we were—fifth-graders or sixth-graders, good students or good-offs—we were free just to be ourselves, to build forts, to moon around the neighborhood with a head full of fantastical schemes.There was time for everything.Minutes were as big as plums, hours the size of watermelons.You could spend a quarter of an hour watching the dust motes in the shaft of sunlight from the doorway and wondering if anybody else could see them.I d on’t really miss those long, slow days.What I miss is summertime, the illusion that the sun is standing still and the future is keeping its distance.Onsummer afternoons, nobody got any older.Kids didn’t have to worry about becoming adults, and adults didn’t have to worry about running out of adulthood.You could lie on your back watching clouds scud across the sky, and maybe later walk down to the store for a Popsicle.You could lose your watch and not miss it for days.These busy kids I’m raising today don’t know what summertime is.They are on city time.“My life is going too fast,” Patrick once grumbled as he got into bed.“This whole day went by just like that.I didn’t have enough fun.”He’s a city child, a child whose fun is packed into short, hurried weekends.Even in summer his hours grow shorter and begin to run together, faster and faster.It won’t be long before an hour—once an eternity—is for him, too, a walk to the grocery store, three phone calls, half a movie.Maybe that’s why we still need long school vacations—to anchor kids to the earth, keep them from rocketing too fast out of childhood.If they have enough time on their hands, they might be among the lucky ones who carry their summertime with them into adulthood.二、参考译文：夏日好时光可还记得以往时间像是永无止境地拉长了的？ADAIR LARA撰思果译夏天真正来到了我们居住的城市。

“文体对等”视角下的翻译比赛作者：杨丹来源：《校园英语·上旬》2017年第04期【摘要】本文以翻译比赛的评判标准之“文体对等”作为切入点，对第七届语言桥翻译比赛的比赛文章作文体分析，指出其中的翻译难点及策略，并提出对翻译比赛的看法。

旨在强调翻译中文体对等的重要性，望广大翻译爱好者引起重视，在文体分析方面多下功夫，提高翻译质量，呈现更多的优秀译文。

【关键词】翻译比赛文体对等语言桥一、翻译比赛略述近年来，随着翻译学科的不断壮大，翻译受到社会各界人士越来越多的关注，翻译比赛的举办也是层出不穷，例如语言桥翻译大赛、韩素音翻译比赛等。

据报道，各项翻译比赛的参赛人数每年直线飙升，包括来自各大高校的学生、业内专业人士以及社会各界翻译爱好者。

这也说明了爱好并重视翻译的人越来越多。

从翻译标准的定义到翻译策略的选择，再到解构主义甚至对可译性提出质疑，翻译一直以来都是一个颇受争议的话题，也是一个不易解决的难题。

如今，愿意挑战这个“烫山芋”的人越来越多，这是值得高兴的一件事。

大学生从比赛中获得的或许不是高额的奖金，抑或不是一本权威的荣誉证书，但从一场比赛的精心准备中，学生自身的语言能力和见识却可以得到不小的提升。

首先，从比赛本身来说，看似仅是两种文字的互相转换，但要想呈上一份满意的答卷，除了平时的积累，还需要踏踏实实地准备。

笔者认为就动笔翻译之前的准备工作尤其不可忽视，大体上可以分为以下步骤：熟悉原文；文体分析；查阅生词和资料；再读原文，揣摩风格。

显然，笔者在此把文体分析作为了翻译准备工作的“重头戏”。

文体分析的目的是让译者对原文文风的大体方向以及对整个文本的语言特点的把握。

以语言桥翻译大赛为例，“文体对等”被规定为评分标准之一（语言桥翻译比赛征稿启事里规定的评分标准：忠实原文，语意通顺；文体对等，文笔优美；富有创新性，译文有亮点）。

“文体对等”，即根据对原文的文体分析，使译文尽量重现原文文体特点。

可见，从文体学角度来分析原文是必然的。

Passage IOnce upon a time, there was an island where all the feelings; lived: happiness, sadness, knowledge, and all of the others including Love. One day, it was announced to the feelings that the island wound sink, so all repaired their boats and left. Love wanted to persevere until the last possible moment. When the island was almost sinking, Love decided to ask for help. Richness was passing by love in a grand boat. Love said “Richness, can you take me with you?” Richness answered, “No, I can’t, there is a lot of gold and silver in my boat. There is no place here for you.” Love decided to ask Vanity who was also passing by in a beautiful vessel. “Vanity, please help me!”“ I c an’t help you, Love, you are all wet and might damage my boat,” Vanity an swered. Sadness was close by so love asked for help,” Sadness, let me go with you.” “Oh, Love, I am so sad that I need to be by myself! ”HappinessPassed by Love,too.But she wasso happy thatshe did not even hear when love called her! Suddenly, there was a voice, “come Love,I will take you.” It was an elder, Love left so blessed and overjoyed that she even forgot to ask the eIder his name, when they arrived at dry land, the elder went his own way. Love realized how much she owed the elder and asked Knowledge; “Who helped me?”“It was tim e, dear.” Knowledge answered. Time? But why didTime help me?“Knowledge smiled with deep wisdom and answered, “because only time is capable of understanding how great love is.”译文：（一）很久以前，快乐，悲伤，知识还有爱情，都住在一个小岛上，有一天，他们被告知，小岛快要沉没了，于是所有的情感都修理他们各自的小船，然后离开了：爱想坚持到最后一刻，当小岛几乎要完全沉没时，爱决定寻求帮助，财富刚好经过爱的身边，他乘坐在一艘豪华轮船上，爱说道：“财富，你能带我一起走吗？“财富回答：“不，我不能，我船上的金银财宝太多了，没有空余的地方。

第六届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛原文A Garden That Welcomes StrangersBy Allen LacyI do not know what became of her, and I never learned her name. But I feel that I knew her from the garden she had so lovingly made over many decades.The house she lived in lies two miles from mine – a simple, two-story structure with the boxy plan, steeply-pitched roof and unadorned lines that are typical of houses built in the middle of the nineteenth century near the New Jersey shore.Her garden was equally simple. She was not a conventional gardener who did everything by the book, following the common advice to vary her plantings so there would be something in bloom from the first crocus in the spring to the last chrysanthemum in the fall. She had no respect for the rule that says that tall-growing plants belong at the rear of a perennial border, low ones in the front and middle-sized ones in the middle, with occasional exceptions for dramatic accent.In her garden, everything was accent, everything was tall, and the evidence was plain that she loved three kinds of plant and three only: roses, clematis and lilies, intermingled promiscuously to pleasant effect but no apparent design.She grew a dozen sorts of clematis, perhaps 50 plants in all, trained and tied so that they clambered up metal rods, each rod crowned intermittently throughout the summer by a rounded profusion of large blossoms of dark purple, rich crimson, pale lavender, light blue and gleaming white.Her taste in roses was old-fashioned. There wasn’t a single modern hy brid tea rose or floribunda in sight. Instead, she favored the roses of other ages – the York and Lancaster rose, the cabbage rose, the damask and the rugosa rose in several varieties. She propagated her roses herself from cuttings stuck directly in the ground and protected by upended gallon jugs.Lilies, I believe were her greatest love. Except for some Madonna lilies it is impossible to name them, since the wooden flats stood casually here and there in the flower bed, all thickly planted with dark green lily seedlings. The occasional paper tag fluttering from a seed pod with the date and record of a cross showed that she was an amateur hybridizer with some special fondness for lilies of a warm muskmelon shade or a pale lemon yellow.She believed in sharing her garden. By her curb there was a sign: “This is my garden, and you are welcome here. Take whatever you wish with your eyes, but nothing with your hand.”Until five years ago, her garden was always immaculately tended, the lawn kept fertilized and mowed, the flower bed free of weeds, the tall lilies carefully staked. But then something happened. I don’t know what it was, but the lawn was mowed less frequently, then not at all. Tall grass invaded the roses, the clematis, the lilies. The elm tree in her front yard sickened and died, and when a coastal gale struck, the branches that fell were never removed.With every year, the neglect has grown worse. Wild honeysuckle and bittersweet runrampant in the garden. Sumac, ailanthus, poison ivy and other uninvited things threaten the few lilies and clematis and roses that still struggle for survival.Last year the house itself went dead. The front door was padlocked and the windows covered with sheets of plywood. For many months there has been a for sale sign out front, replacing the sign inviting strangers to share her garden.I drive by that house almost daily and have been tempted to load a shovel in my car trunk, stop at her curb and rescue a few lilies from the smothering thicket of weeds. The laws of trespass and the fact that her house sits across the street from a police station have given me the cowardice to resist temptation. But her garden has reminded me of mortality; gardeners and the gardens they make are fragile things, creatures of time, hostages to chance and to decay.Last week, the for sale sign out front came down and the windows were unboarded. A crew of painters arrived and someone cut down the dead elm tree. This morning there was a moving van in the driveway unloading a swing set, a barbecue grill, a grand piano and a houseful of sensible furniture. A young family is moving into that house.I hope that among their number is a gardener whose special fondness for old roses and clematis and lilies will see to it that all else is put aside until that flower bed is restored to something of its former self.(选自Patterns: A Short Prose Reader, by Mary Lou Conlin, published by Houghton Mifflin Company, 1983.)。

“语言桥”杯翻译大赛简介四川外国语大学翻译学院翻译协会(Translation Association, Sichuan International Studies University, 简称：SISU.TA)，成立于2003年，是西南地区颇具影响力的面向全国高校在校学生及翻译爱好者的群众性学术组织。

在2003-2011年间，翻译协会隶属于四川外国语大学研究生部。

自2011年9月起，正式划分至四川外国语大学翻译学院。

协会的主要工作即承办一年一度的全国性翻译大赛——“语言桥”杯翻译大赛。

“语言桥”杯翻译大赛是西南地区唯一的全国性翻译大赛。

至今，翻译协会已成功举办了十一届“语言桥”杯翻译大赛，积累了丰富的经验，树立了良好的形象，吸引了大量优秀翻译人才的积极参与，相关媒体对此也进行了详细报道。

每一届都在上一届的基础上取得更大的突破性进展，翻译大赛在其影响范围、参赛的高校及参赛选手的数量等各方面都呈现不断上升的趋势。

例如，第十届“语言桥”杯翻译大赛共收到143所高校的1257份稿件，其中包括北京大学、复旦大学、中国人民大学、北京师范大学、北京外国语大学、对外经济贸易大学、北京第二外国语学院、北京语言大学、外交学院、南开大学、上海外国语大学、南京大学、武汉大学、中山大学、厦门大学、广东外语外贸大学、暨南大学等，特别值得一提的是，本次大赛还收到了数份海外学子及国外汉语爱好者的稿件，包括加拿大、韩国、澳大利亚、新西兰等。

这说明了，本次大赛的影响力不断扩大，质量越办越高。

大赛的特邀评委也是英语翻译行业的带头人。

大赛的评委包括以重庆市翻译学会会长廖七一教授为首的众多优秀教授。

该翻译大赛受到社会各界的普遍关注，《重庆日报》、腾讯大渝网、华龙网、川外电视台等多家媒体对其进行了报道。

2007年，新浪网上也对第五届“语言桥”杯翻译大赛进行了相关报道。

权威的《中国翻译》杂志编辑也有意向将该比赛编入《中国翻译年鉴》。

在学校、众多老师和语言桥翻译有限公司的共同帮助下，我们协会通过11年的不懈努力，不断扩大“语言桥”杯翻译大赛的知名度和影响力，不断提高了“语言桥”杯翻译大赛的质量和水准。