第十一届CASIO杯翻译竞赛原文(日语组)

第五届CASIO杯翻译竞赛英语组原文OpticsManini Nayar When 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 ter,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 context 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 Sol back 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.Thepictures 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 cupboard 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 cleaning 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 for all I was worth,and inminutes 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.。

第九届卡西‎欧杯翻译竞‎赛原文（英文组）来自: FLAA(《外国文艺》)Means‎of Deliv‎e ryJoshu‎a Cohen‎Smugg‎l ing Afgha‎n heroi‎n or women‎from Odess‎a would‎have been morerepre‎h ensi‎b le, but more logic‎a l. You‎know‎you’re‎a‎fool‎when‎what‎you’re‎doing‎makes‎even the post offic‎e seem effic‎i ent. Every‎t hing‎I was packi‎n g into thisunwie‎l dy, 1980s‎-vinta‎g e suitc‎a se was avail‎a ble onlin‎e. I‎don’t‎mean‎that‎when‎I‎arriv‎e d in Berli‎n I could‎have order‎e d‎more‎Levi’s‎510s for next-day deliv‎e ry. I mean, I was packi‎n g books‎.Not just any books‎— these‎were all the same book, multi‎p le copie‎s. “Inval‎i d Forma‎t: An Antho‎l ogy of Tripl‎e Canop‎y, Volum‎e 1”‎is‎publi‎s hed, yes, by Tripl‎e Canop‎y, an onlin‎e magaz‎i ne featu‎r ing essay‎s, ficti‎o n, poetr‎y and all varie‎t y of audio‎/visua‎lcultu‎r e, dedic‎a ted — click‎“About‎”‎—“to‎slowi‎n g down the Inter‎n et.”‎With‎their‎book, the first‎in a plann‎e d serie‎s, the edito‎r s certa‎i nly succe‎e ded. They were slowi‎n g me down too, just fine.“Inval‎i d Forma‎t”‎colle‎c ts in print‎the magaz‎i ne’s‎first‎four issue‎s and retai‎l s, ideal‎l y, for $25. But the 60 copie‎s I was couri‎e ring‎, in excha‎n ge for a couch‎and coffe‎e-press‎acces‎s in Kreuz‎b erg, would‎be given‎away. For free.Until‎latel‎y the print‎e d book chang‎e d more frequ‎e ntly‎, but less creat‎i vely‎, than any other‎mediu‎m. If you thoug‎h t‎“The‎Quota‎b le Ronal‎d Reaga‎n”‎was‎too‎expen‎s ive in hardc‎o ver, you could‎wait a year or less for the same conte‎n t to go soft. E-books‎, which‎made their‎debut‎in the 1990s‎, cut costs‎even more for both consu‎m er and produ‎c er, thoug‎h as the Inter‎n et expan‎d ed those‎roles‎becam‎e confu‎s ed.Self-publi‎s hed book prope‎r ties‎began‎outnu‎m beri‎n g, if not outse‎l ling‎, their‎trade‎equiv‎a lent‎s by the mid-2000s‎, a situa‎t ion furth‎e r convo‎l uted‎when the congl‎o mera‎t es start‎e d‎“publi‎s hing‎”‎“self-publi‎s hed books‎.”‎Last‎year, Pengu‎i n becam‎e the first‎major‎trade‎press‎to go vanit‎y: its Book Count‎r y e-impri‎n t will legit‎i mize‎your “origi‎n al genre‎ficti‎o n”‎for‎just‎under‎$100. These‎shift‎s make small‎, D.I.Y.colle‎c tive‎s like Tripl‎e Canop‎y appea‎r more tradi‎t iona‎l than ever, if not just quixo‎t ic — a word deriv‎e d from one of the first‎novel‎s licen‎s ed to a publi‎s her.Kenne‎d y Airpo‎r t was no probl‎e m, my conne‎c tion‎at Charl‎e s de Gaull‎e went fine. My lugga‎g e conne‎c ted too, arriv‎i ng intac‎t at Tegel‎. But immed‎i atel‎y after‎immig‎r atio‎n, I was flagg‎e d. A small‎e r wheel‎i e bag held the cloth‎i ng. As a custo‎m s offic‎i alrumma‎g ed throu‎g h my Hanes‎, I prepa‎r ed for what came next: the large‎r case, caste‎r s broke‎n, handl‎e ruste‎d—I’m‎prett‎y sure it had alrea‎d y been Used when it was given‎to me for my bar mitzv‎a h.Befor‎e the offic‎i al could‎open the clasp‎s and start‎pokin‎g insid‎e, I prese‎n ted him with the docum‎e nt the Tripl‎e Canop‎y edito‎r, Alexa‎n der Prova‎n, had e-maile‎d me — the night‎befor‎e? two night‎s befor‎e alrea‎d y? I’d‎been‎up‎one‎of‎those‎night‎s scour‎i ng New York City for a print‎e r. No one print‎e d anymo‎r e. The docum‎e nt state‎d, inEngli‎s h and Germa‎n, that these‎books‎were books‎. They were promo‎t iona‎l, to be given‎away at unive‎r siti‎e s, galle‎r ies, the Miss Read art-book fair at Kunst‎-Werke‎.“All‎are‎same?”‎the‎offic‎i al asked‎.“Alle‎gleic‎h,”‎I‎said.‎An older‎guard‎came over, prodd‎e d a spine‎, said somet‎h ing‎I‎didn’t‎get. The young‎e r offic‎i al laugh‎e d, trans‎l ated‎,“He‎wants‎to know if you read every‎one.”‎At lunch‎the next day with a music‎i an frien‎d. In New York he playe‎d twice‎a month‎, ate food stamp‎s. In colla‎p sing‎Europ‎e‎he’s‎paid‎2,000 euros‎a night‎to play aquatt‎r ocen‎t o churc‎h.“Where‎are you handi‎n g the books‎out?”‎he‎asked‎.“At‎an‎art‎fair.”‎“Why‎an‎art‎fair?‎Why‎not‎a‎book‎fair?”‎“It’s‎an‎art-book‎fair.”‎“As‎oppos‎e d to a book-book‎fair?”‎I told him that at book-book fairs‎, like the famou‎s one in Frank‎f urt, they mostl‎y gave out catal‎o gs.Takin‎g train‎s and trams‎in Berli‎n, I notic‎e d: peopl‎e readi‎n g. Books‎, I mean, not pocke‎t-size devic‎e s that bleep‎as if censo‎r ious‎, on which‎even Shake‎s pear‎e scans‎like a sprea‎d shee‎t. Ameri‎c ans buy more than half of all e-books‎sold inter‎n atio‎n ally‎—unles‎s Europ‎e ans fly regul‎a rly to the Unite‎d State‎s for the sole purpo‎s e ofdownl‎o adin‎g readi‎n g mater‎i al from an Ameri‎c an I.P. addre‎s s. As of the eveni‎n g I stopp‎e d searc‎h ing the Inter‎n et and actua‎l ly went out to enjoy‎Berli‎n, e-books‎accou‎n ted for nearl‎y 20 perce‎n t of the sales‎of Ameri‎c an publi‎s hers‎. In Germa‎n y, howev‎e r, e-books‎accou‎n ted for only 1 perce‎n t last year. I began‎askin‎g themulti‎l ingu‎a l, multi‎¬ethni‎c artis‎t s aroun‎d me why that was. It was 2 a.m., at Soho House‎, a priva‎t e‎club‎I’d‎crash‎e d in the forme‎r Hitle‎r¬jugen‎d headq‎u arte‎r s. One insta‎l lati‎o nist‎said, “Ameri‎c ans like e-books‎becau‎s e‎they’re‎easie‎r to buy.”‎A‎perfo‎r manc‎e artis‎t said, “They’re‎also‎easie‎r not to read.”‎True‎enoug‎h: their‎prese‎n ce doesn‎’t‎remin‎d‎you‎of‎what‎you’re‎missi‎n g;‎they‎don’t‎take up space‎on shelv‎e s. The next morni‎n g, Alexa‎n der Prova‎n and I lugge‎d the books‎for distr‎i buti‎o n, grati‎s. Quest‎i on: If books‎becom‎e mere art objec‎t s, do e-books‎becom‎e conce‎p tual‎art? Juxta‎p osin‎g psych‎i atri‎c case notes‎by the physi‎c ian-novel‎i st Rivka‎Galch‎e n with a drama‎t ical‎l y illus‎t rate‎d inves‎t igat‎i on into the devas‎t atio‎n of New Orlea‎n s, “Inval‎i d Forma‎t”‎is‎among‎the most artfu‎l new attem‎p ts to reinv‎e nt the Web by the codex‎, and the codex‎by the Web. Its texts‎“scrol‎l”: horiz‎o ntal‎l y, verti‎c ally‎; title‎pages‎evoke‎“scree‎n s,”‎refra‎m ing conte‎n t that follo‎w s not unifo‎r mly and conti‎n uous‎l y but rathe‎r as a welte‎r of colum‎n shift‎s and fonts‎. Its close‎s t prede‎c esso‎r s might‎be mixed‎-media‎Dada (Ducha‎m p’s‎loose‎-leafe‎d, shuff‎l eabl‎e‎“Green‎Box”); or perha‎p s‎“I‎Can‎Has‎Cheez‎b urge‎r?,”‎the‎best-selli‎n g book versi‎o n of the pet-pictu‎r es-with-funny‎-capti‎o ns Web site ICanH‎a sChe‎e zbur‎g ; or simil‎a r volum‎e s fromStuff‎W hite‎P eopl‎e Like‎.com and Awkwa‎r dFam‎i lyPh‎o . These‎latte‎r books‎are merel‎y the kitsc‎h iest‎produ‎c ts of publi‎s hing‎’s‎recen‎t enthu‎s iasm‎for“back-engin‎e erin‎g.”‎They’re‎pseud‎o lite‎r atur‎e, commo‎d itie‎s subje‎c t to the samerever‎s ing proce‎s s that for over a centu‎r y has pause‎d‎“movie‎s”‎into‎“still‎s”‎— into P.R. photo‎s and dorm poste‎r s — and notat‎e d pop recor‎d ings‎for sheet‎music‎.Admit‎t edly‎I‎didn’t‎have‎much‎time‎to‎consi‎d er the impli‎c atio‎n s of adapt‎i ve cultu‎r e in Berli‎n. I was too busy danci‎n g‎to‎“Ich‎Liebe‎Wie Du Lügst‎,”‎a‎k‎a‎“Love‎the‎Way‎You Lie,”‎by‎Emine‎m, and falli‎n g aslee‎p durin‎g‎“Bis(s) zum Ende der Nacht‎,”‎a‎k‎a‎“The‎Twili‎g ht Saga: Break‎i ng Dawn,”‎just‎after‎the dubbe‎d Bella‎cries‎over herunlik‎e ly pregn‎a ncy, “Das‎ist‎unmög‎l ich!”‎— indee‎d!Trans‎l atin‎g mediu‎m s can seem just as unmög‎l ich as trans‎l atin‎g betwe‎e n unrel‎a ted langu‎a ges: there‎will be confu‎s ions‎, disto‎r tion‎s, techn‎i cal limit‎a tion‎s. The Web ande-book can influ‎e nce the print‎book only in matte‎r s of style‎and subje‎c t — no links‎, of cours‎e, just their‎metap‎h or. “The‎ghost‎in the machi‎n e”‎can’t‎be‎exorc‎i sed, onlyturne‎d aroun‎d: the machi‎n e insid‎e the ghost‎.As for me, I was haunt‎e d by my suitc‎a se. The extra‎one, the empty‎. My last day in Kreuz‎b erg was spent‎consi‎d erin‎g its fate. My wheel‎i e bag was packe‎d. My lapto‎p was stowe‎d in my carry‎-on. I wante‎d to leave‎the pleat‎h er immen‎s ity on the corne‎r of Kottb‎u sser‎Damm, down by the canal‎,‎but‎I’ve never‎been a waste‎r. I broug‎h t it back. It sits in the middl‎e of my apart‎m ent, unrev‎e rtib‎l e, only impro‎v able‎, hollo‎w, its lid flopp‎e d open like the cover‎of a book.传送之道约书亚·科恩走私阿富汗‎的海洛因和‎贩卖来自敖‎德萨的妇女‎本应受到更‎多的谴责，但是也更合‎乎情理。

2012 年度福建省高校“卡西欧杯”日语演讲比赛预通知今年是中日两国邦交正常化40 周年，也是福建省高校复办日语专业40 周年的纪念日。

40 年来，我省各高校培养了许多日语专业的学生，为我国、我省的各行各业输送了众多的日语专业人才。

为进一步促进福建省内各高校的日语教学与研究，深化各高校间的交流，共同提高我省大学生学习日语的热情，福建师范大学外国语学院特举办“2012 年度福建省高校‘卡西欧杯'日语演讲比赛” 。

为组织好本次日语演讲比赛，保证比赛公开、公正、公平地进行，现将有关事宜通知如下：一、参赛范围及资格凡在福建省各全日制普通高等学校（含二级学院）在籍的本专科学生（不含研究生）均可报名参赛。

但以下两种情况的选手不得报名参赛：1 、曾参与“中华全国日语演讲比赛”华南赛区预赛且获得三等奖以上的选手；2 、曾在日本居住六个月以上的选手。

参加邀请赛的选手若有隐瞒履历者将取消其参赛资格。

二、报名方式1 、选手人数：每个单位选派1 名选手参赛。

邮件主题请写上报名单位，如：福建师范大学外国语学院日语系回执3 、回执截止时间：2012 年9 月2 日。

4 、收到回执后将发送正式的比赛通知及报名表。

三、比赛形式及奖项1 、比赛采取命题演讲、即席演讲、回答问题的形式进行，成绩分别占50%、40%、10%，演讲题目及评分标准由演讲大赛组委会统一制定。

2 、命题演讲题目可从以下2 个题目中任选一个。

a .中日関係①未来忙向疗疋一言b .日本V行一番壬◎尢「、乙七3 、即席演讲题目由大赛组委会提供，比赛当日由参赛选手现场抽取。

4 、奖项设置及奖励办法：本次比赛将产生一等奖1 名、二等奖2 名、三等奖3 名、优秀奖若干名。

四、比赛费用1 、本次比赛由组委会提供所有的餐饮。

2 、本次比赛不收取报名费，领队教师与参赛选手的住宿费、往返交通费由各单位自理。

五、比赛时间和地点时间：2012 年11月10 日地点：福建师范大学仓山校区外国语学院多功能报告厅六、其它2012 年11 月11 日将在同一场所召开“ 2012 福建省日语教学研讨会” ，欢迎参加。

Desde el mirador de mi madre Clara SánchezEn el verano de 1993, con un calor insoportable, mi madre sufrióun infarto cerebral que nos cambió la vida, o por lo menos nos hizo dar un paso más en ella. Nos obligó a tratar de ver las cosas de otra manera. Yo, por ejemplo, empecéa valorar comportamientos que hasta entonces había medio despreciado, como la frivolidad. Caí en la cuenta de lo necesario que es un poco de frivolidad para sobrevivir y no dejarse arrastrar por los acontecimientos hasta lo más profundo. Pero también comenzó a fastidiarme la gente que no puede escuchar ni una frase que no se refiera al lado bueno de la existencia, que arrugan el entrecejo en cuanto oyen la palabra enfermedad, hospital, vejez, como si las contrariedades y el sufrimiento o la pena hubiese que tenerlos guardados bajo llave. La enfermedad, más que el sexo, ha sido durante mucho tiempo tabú, de conversación en voz baja, asunto de mujeres achacosas o de médicos, hasta que las series de televisión la han puesto de moda para en el fondo hablar de amoríos.Es un peñazo no poder ser débil nunca y hacer como si nada pasara. Lo malo que a uno le ocurre, también le ocurre, forma parte de su biografía. No soy de los que piensan que sólo se aprende a través del dolor, se aprende más de la alegría, de la risa y del estar bien. Es esta enseñanza la que nos empuja, hasta en los peores momentos, a buscar un espacio en nuestra mente en que continúa haciendo sol. Pero en el caso de mi familia, este hecho fue el que más nos conmocionó, quizá por su brusquedad y las secuelas que dejó.Por supuesto, a la primera que le cambió la vida fue a mi madre. Entonces tenía 62 años y ya no ha vuelto a ser la misma. La visión de esas dos imágenes, la de antes (fuerte y entera) y la de después ha sido demoledora durante bastante tiempo. Hasta que el día a día y los años han ido apaciguando la sensación de agresión y agravio ¿de quién? ¿De la vida? ¿A quién se le pide cuentas? Nos hemos ido acomodando a las circunstancias e incluso sacando lo mejor de ellas, no hay otro remedio, o aceptas las reglas del juego o te quedas fuera. Y fuera está lo desconocido, el abismo. Al principio no le apetecía salir de casa y enfrentarse al mundo, sin poder hablar. Lo bueno era que la comprensión y la memoria estaban intactas, así que nos fuimos agarrando a lo bueno. Mi madre aceptó las reglas del juego y mostró una fortaleza y una capacidad de lucha, que no nos dejaban desfallecer. Se sometía a sesiones durísimas de rehabilitación y comenzóhumildemente a intentar aprender a escribir de nuevo. Estaba agradecida a todo el mundo. Fue como si en su mente se hubiese borrado cualquier recelo hacia el prójimo, cualquier tipo de prevención. Nunca la he visto llorar por lo que le pasó, pero se le saltaban las lágrimas cuando se mencionaba a los neurólogos que la trataban o a los fisioterapeutas, sobre todo una, que un día le dijo muy seriamente: "No voy a consentir que no salgas andando de aquí", y asílo hizo, lo consiguió. Hay gente pululando anónimamente por ahí que hace cosas muy importantes por los demás. Así que gracias, Conchita, eres la mejor.Mi madre tuvo que pasar casi tres meses en el hospital, lo que supuso para todos nosotros un cursillo intensivo sobre la vida oculta o que se prefiere ignorar. Ahora me fijaba más en la gente que andaba con dificultad por la calle o que tenía algún tipo de carencia, me sentía en su mismo mundo. Creo que sabía que todo eso podría pasarme a mí, asíde sencillo. Y entonces fui consciente de lo cruel que es esta sociedad con quienes no están en plena forma. Digamos que laenfermedad de mi madre nos puso unas gafas de aumento para ver mejor lo que hay alrededor, eso sí, a un gran precio. Tras ella, el mayor sin duda lo ha pagado mi padre, que se ha hecho cargo de esta complicada situación para que a todos nos alterase lo menos posible. No es un hombre pacífico ni resignado, sino más bien rebelde e incisivo, y quizá por eso nunca se ha dejado abatir. Siempre busca recursos para estar activo y en conflicto, y no ha permitido jamás que mi madre dejase de discutir con él y decirle cuatro verdades, aunque fuese a su manera.Lo cierto es que tengo unos padres atípicos y bastante graciosos, muy discutones. Les da la vida montar el pollo durante los telediarios por algo que haya dicho fulano o mengano. Siempre ha habido tensiones políticas entre ellos. Mi padre lee EL PAÍS y Expansión y oye la SER e Intereconomía. Lleva un control férreo de los movimientos de la Bolsa. Cuando baja, está de un humor de perros. Yo, que no tengo inversiones, sé cómo va por el tono de su voz. Le gusta mucho la ropa y los complementos. Y no soporta que le llamen anciano. Lo de abuelo está absolutamente restringido a los nietos. Prefiere la definición de viejo. Dice que se dio cuenta de que era considerado viejo cuando los coches se atrevían a pasar el suyo nada más verle por detrás la nuca blanca. Y no sé cómo se las arregla para hacer un seguimiento tan exhaustivo del mundo literario. Aunque no quiera enterarme, me tiene al tanto de los logros, premios y colaboraciones de todos los colegas, para a continuación añadir, tienes que espabilar. Por eso a mis padres no les importa que escriba sobre ellos, con tal de proporcionarme material y ayudarme a salir adelante.No era fácil durante y tras lo que se podría llamar el largo verano del 93 centrarme en otra cosa. Trataba de distraerme para no hablar ni pensar en ello. Hasta que decidí que no debía olvidar, sino todo lo contrario, aprovecharlo en mi propia experiencia, no desecharlo puesto que tanto esfuerzo nos suponía a todos. Así que tiempo más tarde, cuando ya tenía la cabeza algo más fría, empecé a escribir y salió una novela, Desde el mirador (Alfaguara, 1996), que empieza así:"La tarde va quedando atrás. Un cable negro cruza el cielo azul. La ventanilla de un vagón de tren limita y recorta el campo. Sobre el cable, y por un instante, unos grandes pájaros en fila también quedan atrás. La sierra, a lo lejos, y más cerca los árboles y las fábricas se perfilan en el aire como montañas, árboles y fábricas presentes y reales.He viajado a través de este paisaje durante dos meses y desde entonces el sol se ha ido debilitando poco a poco y también la angustia inicial que me hizo dudar de que la vida fuera buena, a pesar de que es lo único que hay. Ahora me queda cierta flaqueza por aquella duda, cierta zozobra constante y la certeza de que cuando se conoce algo ya no se puede desconocer, no tan sólo olvidar, sino que es imposible volver al origen en que no se sabía aquello.He recorrido los 60 kilómetros que unen el Hospital General con Madrid, cada dos días más o menos, hasta ésta misma tarde en que le han dado el alta a mi madre. La última imagen que he retenido de ella ha sido su blusa de seda azul alejándose en el coche, regresando al mundo, mezclándose con el aire que rodea el hospital y con el que se extiende donde se le pierde de vista y mucho más allá aún. Ya es libre, menos que un pájaro porque no puede volar y menos que un pez porque no puede respirar bajo el agua, pero más que un pájaro y un pez porque piensa. Ella me ha hecho creer que nadie puede ser libre nada más que a su manera.Recuerdo sin desesperación y con pesar, como si me hubiera distraído y no hubiese hecho algo que debía, el día de finales de junio, cuando sonó el teléfono en mi casa, en las afueras de Madrid. Una voz desde un hospital me comunicó que mi madre había sufrido un derrame cerebral. Luego se confirmóque había sido infarto. Me cuesta mucho pronunciar infarto cerebral y mucho más escribirlo, es como tratar de escribir en el papel con un hierro al rojo vivo".。

作家们怎样打造品牌托尼·佩罗蒂提所有作家都清楚，如今写本书并不是什么难事了。

直到出版日期临近了，我们才不得不挽挽袖子开始真正的文学工作：狂热的自我推销。

在这之前的几周里，我们被逼得用有新意的电子邮件和脸谱网消息提醒对所有亲朋好友和认识的人进行宣传。

我们装饰自己的网站，改换年轻得让人生疑的照片，没完没了的写博客，发布推特状态，上传视频宣传片，企图把包括自己的阅读、签名、评论、谈话记录，还有电视演出（至少我们可以幻想得出）在内的一切通通告诉给一个已经被淹没了的世界。

在这个作家除了开印刷厂之外什么都可能做得出来的时代，自我推销已经太平常不过了，以至于我们几乎不用想。

然而，每次我有新书要出版，我就不得不驱除这种恼人的感觉，总觉得自己吸引公众注意力的做法不大体面。

因为有文学的高要求，像伟哥促销员一样挨户兜售自己的作品的做法仍然让我觉得奇怪。

每当产生这种疑惑时，我就回顾历史以求恢复信心。

令人欣慰的是很多伟大的作家曾使用过文学卖淫—我指的是自我推销—这种手段。

最受尊崇的法国作家巴尔扎克认识到公关的必要性。

“对艺术家而言，要解决的最大的问题是怎样让自己受到人们的关注”巴尔扎克在描写19世纪早期巴黎文学生活的《幻灭》中说道。

另一位大师司汤达在他的自传《一个利己主义者的回忆录》中评论说；“没有一定程度的厚脸皮，甚至江湖手段，想要取得大的成功是不可能的。

”这些话确实应该刻在作家协会的盾徽上。

海明威为创造性的自我宣传做出了极好的表率。

他的形象因在探险旅行、垂钓旅行和战区的照片造型而显得愈加光辉。

但他也为啤酒广告摆过造型。

1951年，美国《生活》杂志以两张版面登出了海明威签名的百龄坛麦芽威士忌广告，快照画面中的海明威在他的哈瓦那寓所中看起来很阳刚。

在马修·布鲁克林和朱蒂斯·鲍曼编辑的《海明威和声誉机制》中详细地记述了海明威骄傲地出现在为泛美航空公司和派克钢笔公司做的广告中。

他极其热情地把自己的名字卖给了今天的詹妮弗·洛佩斯或勒布朗·詹姆斯。

2012Casio杯英语演讲比赛演讲稿汇编Thesis: A Day without Internet● 初三（4）班袁清怡（Casio杯英语演讲比赛冠军）Honorable judges, dear teachers and students, it’s my great honor to stand here today, and…… oh, give me a second, I must post this on my Renren: I…… am now……on the stage of …… Casio Cup Speech Contest……so excited! Alright, remember to check it out. For that’s the charm of the internet, it makes our voice heard, keeps us located, even in situations like this.And that’s why I like this year’s topic: A Day without Internet, for the answer is simple: to me, and to lots of you guys down here enjoying the free Wifi right now, a day without internet will just be the end of the world. The internet has brought us great changes in life, and the most significant of them is that we are no longer thinking alone. Whenever we have questions, we have Google, Baidu, Wikipedia all around us. It feels so good that we almost ignored that while asking them, our creativity and our ability of independent thinking——let’s borrow one of Carlos’s lin es from yesterday’s The Little Mermaid—— while asking them, our creativity turns into foams, and spreads away.For example, this week I did a lot of research about this topic: A Day without Internet, and articles I found turned out to be almost the same, and kind of boring. So finally, I turned off my laptop and decided to explain this topic in my own way. And then a name suddenly came into my mind: Isaac Newton, how did he spend his days without internet?In the morning, perhaps, in stead of posting pictures on Facebook, he decided to visit the apple garden. When that historical apple fell on his head, he did not have Google or Wikipedia to tell him why it happened, so he did research himself and finally, discovered gravity, and lots of us students are now suffering from the subject of physics——just kidding.Anyway, without internet, people think more independently and therefore, become more creative. Yes, it is true that the internet can be for great help——especially while we are dealing with our math problems. However, with that Mr. know it all by our side, we become Mr. & Mrs. Don’t know it at all. That is a situations which all of us, especially our math teachers, never want to see.So let's just have a day without internet, try to go out and write a poem, or solve some questions, or think about what drama we are going to put on next year. Just try to create something instead of getting information from the internet, because it is our mind that is worth more listening than anything else.Thank you.● 初三（3）班张晨曦（Casio杯英语演讲比赛冠军）Ladies and gentlemen, good afternoon, isn’ t it? Such fine and wonderful thing simply reminds me of the terrible 2012 Dec. 23rd which is approaching every day and we barely have 7 months of good afternoons. Or, the movie has said so but for you, my dear, it is a lot easier to welcome your doomsday. While you are all taking the convenience of Internet for granted, a day without it might bring all of you the end of world. It seems that without this great tool of sharing and playing, our life has gone towards a stopping point.But, let’s just stop there for a moment. Before we really worry about the future that isn’t for sure to come, how about going back to the past to see what really happened for those to deal with not having Internet.So, one day I time travelled to Tang Dynasty in Ancient China where there were no Internet. Though I really had had some worry about the boredom, the experience there turned out to be gorgeous. I visited some famous structures with red and gold colors shining royally. I did some shopping, not just online shopping, but the real shopping on the streets filled with stores of all kinds, selling accessories, Chinese perfume, pretty clothes materials, and above all, delicious local foods. Well, I am much of an eater. At the end of the day, I got up the hill, sat there, with the wholesunset in the sight. Everything was showering the glorious orange sunlight. I had always been relying on movies and TV dramas online to help me picture a romance but I had not realized then that the nature itself has placed the most romantic sceneries everywhere that you look, sit, and even sleep. Just like that, I fell into dreams as the sun gradually went down and hid itself in the dark.Back I went to 21st century, only to see people still obsessed about the disappearance of Internet. And I began asking myself, was it truly that Internet makes our life convenient or that it is simply so addictive as to make us all blind about the most wonderful things that are quite independent from the silly WIFI signals. People back in the ancient time knew nothing about the Internet, but they were most certainly leading theirs lives as smoothly as we are. Internet might bring us all the things that we want but pay attention, pictures, videos, online discussions are all digital and virtual, which is interpreted by computer into nothing but zero and one. And here comes the question: DO you invest your lifelong happiness on zero and one?● 初三（5）班陈润Good afternoon.Like every one of you here, I used to be totally a fan of the internet. I could visit blogs, check messages all day. I could even sing to my computer:‖ a day without you is like a year without rain.‖And here comes the story. It was a typical summer. I got tired of the relaxing vacation. I was searching for something to fulfill the vanity of my life. Of course, the internet appeared to be the best option. But a month later, the hole in my heart wasn’t growing smaller but bigger. You know the kind of feeling after heavy exposure to screens and it was just not myself.One day, the signal was cut because of repairing at my home. Hearing the shocking news, I felt myself living in a hell with no computer, no laptop, no Ipad. I was crazy pressing F5 on my keyboard. But when I look back now, that was really ablessing in disguise. It was the absence of the internet that made me walk out of the world of cyber land.I left my home and walked outside. There was always something out there. I looked around the garden near a river just below my balcony. To my surprise, everything was beyond recognition, no matter fluttering the birds, shifting in and out the waves, crawling the snails and chirping the frogs. When darkness fell, the twinkling stars and sparkling lights on the water filled my eyes. With the noise far, far away, I found peace deeply in here.I was isolated in the nature, which was completely different from how I was isolated in the internet. A voice inside was calling me to reach for the nature. At that moment, I realized how much I had missed for the past month, but I was determined not to miss any more. A day without internet wasn’t a year without rain, but a day full of surprises. And finally I have sentence from Emerson for all of us here :Never lose an opportunity of seeing anythin g beautiful, for beauty is God’s handwriting.● 初三（6）班单晨Good afternoon，ladies and gentlemen. It’s my great honor to stand on the stage and give you my speech. Today my topic ―A day without Internet‖.Suppose you are a white-collar worker or a university student, and all of your work depends on the Internet, which can provide you a great deal of latest information. But have you ever thought that if the Internet suddenly disappeared, what would you do?Nowadays, because of the development of information technology, Internet is playing a most important role in society. Without the help of Internet, we will not be able to search information or communicate with others so conveniently, and our life will probably become a mess.It’s true that nobody can deny the necessity of Internet, but as many people are gradually becoming crazy over the Internet, its disadvantages are also shown to the people. For instance, micro-blog, as one of the most popular means of communication, has become a necessary part of the modern life, and many people are so addicted to micro-blogs that they just cannot live without micro-blogs. They would rather speak on the micro-blogs than take action in the real life. In another word, they are just like the fish that can’t get out of the ―net‖.Since the Internet does more harm than good to some people, why not try to live without Internet？Some people may immediately say no, but it’s an undeniable fact that before the Internet was invented, our ancestors could still live properly and peacefully. Thus, why do we modern people always focus on nothing but Internet?In fact, there are a lot of ways to spend your day without Internet, say, you can ride a bicycle to the quiet countryside, and relax yourself by sitting in the warm and peaceful sunshine; or you’d rather go to a small café to drin k a cup of coffee. At that moment, you don’t have to deal with any complicated information and the entire thing you need to do is to relax yourself and forget all about your tiredness.Of course, it was only a perfect living attitude which is hard to reach, but we should still have the thought in our mind that we should not be controlled by the Internet, by the thing which is actually invented by us. It is a beautiful but poisonous net – while we are weaving it, do not let the strings corrode our mind; It is a magnificent but unknown ocean – while we are sailing on it, do not let the hurricanes destroy our mind; It is a brilliant but dangerous firework – while we are watching it, do not let the sparks burn our mind.Internet is a useful tool but we should not be limited by this tool. My dear friends, if there is a day without Internet, stop complaining and begin to enjoy. Just go back to the innocence, and let your lifestyle shine!● 初三（6）班劳越Ladies and gentlemen, look at here and say ―cheese‖. Perfect! Thank you! I’m going to put this photo onto my micro-blog. How can I miss this meaningful moment?Oh, wait! A piece of announcement: sorry, netizens. You might need to spend a day without Internet, because there’s something wrong with the system.Dear audience, have you ever imagined a day without Internet? Some might tell me it wouldn’t be that bad. It would slow down our life and let people communicate face to face. But I want to say: much more than the advantages, we must admit the fact that the world would be in a panic.On a day without Internet, the media failed to collect news from different parts of the world. A day without news seemed dull and narrow and what if a piece of breaking news like 911 takes place?On a day without Internet, transportation was badly affected. Not having coordinated well, two aero-planes crashed into each other and caused a big tragedy.On a day without Internet, the netting system in a hospital broke down. On a day without Internet, workers in a multinational company got so bored. On a day without Internet, the WHO failed to do its surveillance work.On a day without Internet, it seemed that only my mom looked happy. Why? Because I was not being a computer cat any more. However, problems came fairly soon. Math homework was so difficult that without searching on the net, I could only stare at one problem for a whole morning. Then I went to discuss on our group work but I found it so hard to contact with 5 people at the same time without QQ. What was more, my dad couldn’t receive an important e-mail from his colleague, and my mom herself complained of not being able to go shopping online.Imagining the situations I have mentioned, can you now consider the day as a good experience? Absolutely no. As the internet has already become part of life and part of the society, we can’t be without it even for one day. It’s Internet that makes information shareable. It’s Internet that makes communication convenient. It’s Internet that makes daily life easy. It’s Internet that makes the globe s mall. Nobody can deny the importance and necessity of it. And as teenagers in the 21st century, weare supposed to make full use of the net, but of course on a limitation of not falling into the unreal world. We are supposed to live in an Internet epoch. Yeah, I mean Internet has already become the name of the epoch. Not only because of the help it gives us, but also because it’s sending us the spirit of the new age, the life style that we open up our minds to be with all human beings on the earth. Just as the theme of this year’s English Festival suggests us: netting the globe, reaching the world.Thank you!● 初三（4）班姜镇涛Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen! It’s my great honor to stand on the stage and give you my speech. My topic will be ―A Day without Internet‖.At the beginning of my speech, please allow me to ask you some questions. Would you stay with your family or hang out with your friends in your spare time, or would you just sit on the front the computer, play games or chat with those you have never met? It is taken for granted that those high-tech communications gradually make the earth a global village, but due to Internet, people seem too lazy to get involved in hobbies and social activities.Looking around, you will notice many people desperate for Internet just like hungry souls hoping for a scrap of food. They waste hours and hours on line and when they leave their computers, they become vaguely jittery. They may be enjoying themselves on line, but they lost more important things: the joy in their normal life.Perhaps most of you have heard of the story of a broken circle. He lost a part of his body before and keeps seeking for it. Since he is not complete, he has to roll very slowly. On his way, he has made so many friends, enjoyed so many beautiful surroundings. However, when he eventually finds that piece, he begins to speed, missing all the friends and views on the way. We, just like that complete circle, manage to speed on our road, but at the same time, are losing more important things——friendship, love and freedom.It is time for us to reject this kind of way of life. The screens we yearn to possess have instead begun to possess us. We all seemed to get along pretty well in the days before the screens invaded our lives. But fixated on this convenient means of communication, we miss those close relationships between us and our friends and families. Just like if you are fortunate when you are gazing at the iPhone in your palms, you do not walk into a lamp pole. When we rushed down the road of life, we would probably get badly injured. We navigated our life rather efficiently when we slow down our steps. And only in that way, we will gain more friendship, love and freedom.Look away from this screen. Look around you, out the window, or across the room or down the street. Isn’t it something? It looks so real, and you have to believe you can touch it yourself.Thank you!● 初三（5）班李佳迅Dear teachers and fellow friends, what a great honor to have you all here and share my speech. Today I would like to talk about my schedule on a day without Internet.When I first received this topic, the first question that came into my mind was: ―How am I going to spare the boredom?‖ Living on campus, we may not see the connection between the Internet and our lives so tight, but to a large extent, we rely on the Internet to work, to study, and to entertain.For many of us, a day without Internet is like a disaster. How to catch up with the daily trends without cell phone news? How to focus on the soccer game without live show reports? How to get information without Google? And how to share your feelings without microblog? In the age of Internet, our lives are drowned in a diversity of information. If the global network ever breaks down, as if water in the oceans ever dries, everyone will be gazing at the computer screen anxiously as if fish without water.On the day without Internet, the world will fall into chaos, but it could also be a chance to take a rest.Why not walk outside to ease the pressure that the Internet has brought us? Let the clean air refresh your weary body. Let the sunbeam fix your poor eyesight. Away from the virtual space, we get a chance to approach the real world, the natural world. Just like in the movie Matrix, only when Neo swallowed the tiny red pill, had he seen how distant the real world is away from us. I choose to say hello to the nature on the day without Internet.Reading is an another choice to spare the time. Thanks to the Internet , the information we want is only a single click a way. It’s so convenient that we can simply throw away a whole library, while time for quality reading is sharply limited. Now that Baidu or Google are out of service, I choose to keep the books’ companion on the day without Internet.Above all, instead of sitting in front of the computer screen, it’s time to turn your face to people. Because the best memories ever in life is the time you spent with family and friends, not with the Internet. On the day without Internet, I choose to spend time with people.Thus, on the day without Internet, we’ve found something that has always been ignored behind our busy lives, which is actually the true essence of happiness.● 初三（3）班周臻What would the world be like without internet? Some will say that panic would be setting out all around the earth, but it would still not be the end of the world. Frankly, we can’t live without internet. There are millions of people who work by using internet. Many of the young people even seem to be addicted to the unreal world. It’s sad but true. If the internet service were off line today, they would be in trouble.Internet provides people with an extremely efficient means of communication. It seems that we can’t live without it. Also it has helped users around the world form anew, creative way of behaving and thinking. It has not only largely decreased the limit of time and distance, acknowledged our mind, but also offers countless conveniences to us.In spite of all those advantages that I have mentioned, we are talking about ―A Day W ithout Internet‖, aren’t we? Then what I’m telling you next is about besides internet, what have we got. Taken for example, yesterday’s Drama Night was really brilliant, not only the actors’ wonderful performance, but also the excellent dancing and singing gave the audience a very good impression. When the show was on, I saw many students using their electronic gadgets, logging on QQ or RenRen, expressing how exciting feelings. If we hadn’t had the internet service last night, we would still enjoy the glorious performance. There are also enormous numbers of ways for us to express our passion. Yes, passion. Internet can provide us everything except passion, love and other complicated human feelings! That is the shortage of the internet, of all those electronic gadgets.To be honest, internet can make us happy, but it can’t bring us the real happiness. The real happiness is only in the real world. Remember those young people who are crazy over online-games and leave their families, joining gangs, those bad examples? Like every coin has two sides. Internet is gradually taking something from us, like in compensation.We must remember that in the modern world, power, treasure and all those what people are pursuing their entire life, they are not everything. We are human. We have feelings. That’s what can’t be replaced. So without internet, I can’t say that life will be better, but life will go on. Thank you.。

第八届CASIO杯翻译竞赛英语组原文How Writers Build the BrandBy Tony Perrottet As every author knows,writing a book is the easy part these days.It’s when the publication date looms that we have to roll up our sleeves and tackle the real literary labor:rabid self-promotion.For weeks beforehand,we are compelled to bombard every friend,relative and vague acquaintance with creative e-mails and Facebook alerts,polish up our Web sites with suspiciously youthful author photos,and,in an orgy of blogs,tweets and YouTube trailers,attempt to inform an already inundated world of our every reading,signing,review,interview and(well,one can dream!)TV -appearance.In this era when most writers are expected to do everything but run the printing presses,self-promotion is so accepted that we hardly give it a second thought.And yet, whenever I have a new book about to come out,I have to shake the unpleasant sensation that there is something unseemly about my own clamor for attention. Peddling my work like a Viagra salesman still feels at odds with the high calling of literature.In such moments of doubt,I look to history for reassurance.It’s always comforting to be reminded that literary whoring—I mean,self-marketing—has been practiced by the greats.The most revered of French novelists recognized the need for P.R.“For artists, the great problem to solve is how to get oneself noticed,”Balzac observed in“Lost Illusions,”his classic novel about literary life in early19th-century Paris.As another master,Stendhal,remarked in his autobiography“Memoirs of an Egotist,”“Great success is not possible without a certain degree of shamelessness,and even of out-and-out charlatanism.”Those words should be on the Authors Guild coat of arms.Hemingway set the modern gold standard for inventive self-branding,burnishing his image with photo ops from safaris,fishing trips and war zones.But he also posed for beer ads.In1951,Hem endorsed Ballantine Ale in a double-page spread in Lifemagazine,complete with a shot of him looking manly in his Havana abode.As recounted in“Hemingway and the Mechanism of Fame,”edited by Matthew J. Bruccoli and Judith S.Baughman,he proudly appeared in ads for Pan Am and Parker pens,selling his name with the abandon permitted to Jennifer Lopez or LeBron James today.Other American writers were evidently inspired.In1953,John Steinbeck also began shilling for Ballantine,recommending a chilled brew after a hard day’s labor in the fields.Even Vladimir Nabokov had an eye for self-marketing,subtly suggesting to photo editors that they feature him as a lepidopterist prancing about the forests in cap, shorts and long socks.(“Some fascinating photos might be also taken of me,a burly but agile man,stalking a rarity or sweeping it into my net from a flowerhead,”he enthused.)Across the pond,the Bloomsbury set regularly posed for fashion shoots in British Vogue in the1920s.The frumpy Virginia Woolf even went on a“Pretty Woman”-style shopping expedition at French couture houses in London with the magazine’s fashion editor in1925.But the tradition of self-promotion predates the camera by millenniums.In440 B.C.or so,a first-time Greek author named Herodotus paid for his own book tour around the Aegean.His big break came during the Olympic Games,when he stood up in the temple of Zeus and declaimed his“Histories”to the wealthy,influential crowd. In the12th century,the clergyman Gerald of Wales organized his own book party in Oxford,hoping to appeal to college audiences.According to“The Oxford Book of Oxford,”edited by Jan Morris,he invited scholars to his lodgings,where he plied them with good food and ale for three days,along with long recitations of his golden prose.But they got off easy compared with those invited to the“Funeral Supper”of the18th-century French bon vivant Grimod de la Reynière,held to promote his opus “Reflections on Pleasure.”The guests’curiosity turned to horror when they found themselves locked in a candlelit hall with a catafalque for a dining table,and were served an endless meal by black-robed waiters while Grimod insulted them as an audience watched from the balcony.When the diners were finally released at7a.m., they spread word that Grimod was mad—and his book quickly went through three -printings.Such pioneering gestures pale,however,before the promotional stunts of the 19th century.In“Crescendo of the Virtuoso:Spectacle,Skill,and Self-Promotion in Paris During the Age of Revolution,”the historian Paul Metzner notes that new technology led to an explosion in the number of newspapers in Paris,creating an array of publicity options.In“Lost Illusions,”Balzac observes that it was standard practice in Paris to bribe editors and critics with cash and lavish dinners to secure review space, while the city was plastered with loud posters advertising new releases.In1887,Guy de Maupassant sent up a hot-air balloon over the Seine with the name of his latest short story,“Le Horla,”painted on its side.In1884,Maurice Barrès hired men to wear sandwich boards promoting his literary review,Les Taches d’Encre.In1932, Colette created her own line of cosmetics sold through a Paris store.(This first venture into literary name-licensing was,tragically,a flop).American authors did try to keep up.Walt Whitman notoriously wrote his own anonymous reviews,which would not be out of place today on Amazon.“An American bard at last!”he raved in1855.“Large,proud,affectionate,eating,drinking and breeding,his costume manly and free,his face sunburnt and bearded.”But nobody could quite match the creativity of the Europeans.Perhaps the most astonishing P.R.stunt—one that must inspire awe among authors today—was plotted in Paris in1927by Georges Simenon,the Belgian-born author of the Inspector Maigret novels.For100,000francs,the wildly prolific Simenon agreed to write an entire novel while suspended in a glass cage outside the Moulin Rouge nightclub for 72hours.Members of the public would be invited to choose the novel’s characters, subject matter and title,while Simenon hammered out the pages on a typewriter.A newspaper advertisement promised the result would be“a record novel:record speed, record endurance and,dare we add,record talent!”It was a marketing coup.As Pierre Assouline notes in“Simenon:A Biography,”journalists in Paris“talked of nothing else.”As it happens,Simenon never went through with the glass-cage stunt,because the newspaper financing it went bankrupt.Still,he achieved huge publicity(and got to pocket25,000francs of the advance),and the idea took on a life of its own.It wassimply too good a story for Parisians to drop.For decades,French journalists would describe the Moulin Rouge event in elaborate detail,as if they had actually attended it. (The British essayist Alain de Botton matched Simenon’s chutzpah,if not quite his glamour,a few years ago when he set up shop in Heathrow for a week and became the airport’s first“writer in residence.”But then he actually got a book out of it,along with prime placement in Heathrow’s bookshops.)What lessons can we draw from all this?Probably none,except that even the most egregious act of self-¬promotion will be forgiven in time.So writers today should take heart.We could dress like Lady Gaga and hang from a cage at a Yankees game—if any of us looked as good near-naked,that is.On second thought,maybe there’s a reason we have agents to rein in our P.R. ideas.第八届CASIO杯翻译竞赛英语组获奖译文（英语组）看作家如何打造品牌托尼·佩罗泰特[1]正如每位作家都知道的，现如今，写书本身并不是件难事，倒是临近出版之前，我们才需要打起精神、全力以赴地应对真正的文字工作，即疯狂的自我宣传。

第十一届CASIO杯翻译竞赛原文（英语组）To evoke the London borough of Diston,we turn to the poetry of Chaos:Each thing hostileTo every other thing:at every pointHot fought cold,moist dry,soft hard,and the weightlessResisted weight.So Des lived his life in tunnels.The tunnel from flat to school,the tunnel(not the same tunnel)from school to flat.And all the warrens that took him to Grace,and brought him back again.He lived his life in tunnels…And yet for the sensitive soul, in Diston Town,there was really only one place to look.Where did the eyes go?They went up,up.School–Squeers Free,under a sky of white:the weakling headmaster,the demoralised chalkies in their rayon tracksuits,the ramshackle little gym with its tripwires and booby traps,the Lifestyle Consultants(Every Child Matters),and the Special Needs Coordinators(who dealt with all the‘non-readers’).In addition, Squeers Free set the standard for the most police call-outs,the least GCSE passes,and the highest truancy rates.It also led the pack in suspensions,expulsions,and PRU ‘offrolls’;such an offroll–a transfer to a Pupil Referral Unit–was usually the doorway to a Youth Custody Centre and then a Young Offender Institution.Lionel, who had followed this route,always spoke of his five and a half years(on and off)in a Young Offender Institution(or Yoi,as he called it)with rueful fondness,like one recalling a rite of passage–inevitable,bittersweet.I was out for a month,he would typically reminisce.Then I was back up north.Doing me Yoi.On the other hand,Squeers Free had in its staff room an exceptional Learning Mentor–a Mr Vincent Tigg.What’s going on with you,Desmond?You were always an idle little sod.Now you can’t get enough of it.Well,what next?I fancy modern languages,sir.And history.And sociology.And astronomy.And–You can’t study everything,you know.Yes I can.Renaissance boy,innit.…You want to watch that smile,lad.All right.We’ll see about you.Now off you go.And in the schoolyard?On the face of it,Des was a prime candidate for persecution.He seldom bunked off,he never slept in class,he didn’t assault the teachers or shoot up in the toilets–and he preferred the company of the gentler sex (the gentler sex,at Squeers Free,being quite rough enough).So in the normal course of things Des would have been savagely bullied,as all the other misfits(swats,wimps, four-eyes,sweating fatties)were savagely bullied–to the brink of suicide and beyond. They called him Skiprope and Hopscotch,but Des wasn’t bullied.How to explain this? To use Uncle Ringo’s favourite expression,it was a no-brainer.Desmond Pepperdine was inviolable.He was the nephew,and ward,of Lionel Asbo.It was different on the street.Once a term,true,Lionel escorted him to Squeers Free,and escorted him back again the same day(restraining,with exaggerated difficulty,the two frothing pitbulls on their thick steel chains).But it would be foolish to suppose that each and every gangbanger and posse-artist(and every Yardie and jihadi)in the entire manor had heard tell of the great asocial.And it was different at night,because different people,different shapes,levered themselves upward after dark…Des was fleet of foot,but he was otherwise unsuited to life in Diston Town. Second or even first nature to Lionel(who was pronounced‘uncontrollable’at the age of eighteen months),violence was alien to Des,who always felt that violence–extreme and ubiquitous though it certainly seemed to be–came from another dimension.So,this day,he went down the tunnel and attended school.But on his way home he feinted sideways and took a detour.With hesitation,and with deafening self-consciousness,he entered the Public Library on Blimber Road.Squeers Free had a library,of course,a distant Portakabin with a few primers and ripped paperbacks scattered across its floor…But this:rank upon rank of proud-chested bookcases,likelavishly decorated generals.By what right or title could you claim any share of it?He entered the Reading Room,where the newspapers,firmly clamped to long wooden struts,were apparently available for scrutiny.No one stopped him as he approached.He had of course seen the dailies before,in the corner shop and so on,and there were Gran’s Telegraphs,but his experience of actual newsprint was confined to the Morning Larks that Lionel left around the flat,all scrumpled up,like origami tumbleweeds(there was also the occasional Diston Gazette).Respectfully averting his eyes from the Times,the Independent,and the Guardian,Des reached for the Sun, which at least looked like a Lark,with its crimson logo and the footballer’s fiancée on the cover staggering out of a nightclub with blood running down her neck.And,sure enough,on page three(News in Briefs)there was a hefty redhead wearing knickers and a sombrero.But then all resemblances ceased.You got scandal and gossip,and more girls, but also international news,parliamentary reports,comment,analysis…Until now he had accepted the Morning Lark as an accurate reflection of reality.Indeed,he sometimes thought it was a local paper(a light-hearted adjunct to the Gazette),such was its fidelity to the customs and mores of his borough.Now,though,as he stood there with the Sun quivering in his hands,the Lark stood revealed for what it was–a daily lads’mag,perfunctorily posing as a journal of record.The Sun,additionally to recommend it,had an agony column presided over not by the feckless Jennaveieve,but by a wise-looking old dear called Daphne,who dealt sympathetically,that day,with a number of quite serious problems and dilemmas,and suggested leaflets and helplines,and seemed genuinely…第十一届CASIO杯翻译竞赛获奖译文（英语组）莱昂内尔•阿斯博[英]马丁•艾米斯作徐弘译为了描绘伦敦自治市迪斯顿，我们借用混沌之诗：物物相克，同在一体而冷热相争、干湿相抗、软硬相攻、轻重相击。

PartiesHuman beings are curious creatures, and in nothing more curious than in the forms of diversion which they devise for themselves. Some of these are quite comprehensible; they give physical or mental pleasure. Bathing in the sea, for instance; or watching a play; or visiting the Zoo; or eating agreeable food at someone else’s expense, or even at one’s own; or playing some game with a ball. It is easy to understand that having one’s person surrou nded by water, in which one floats and swims, or watching human life enacted improbably by others on a stage, or seeing strange beasts in cages, or rolling elegant foods about the palate, or chasing after a ball, is pleasing. But, besides these simple pleasures, humanity has devised some so-called amusements which seem to depend for their reputations as entertainments less on pleasing sensations inflicted on the participants than on some convention which has ordained that these pursuits shall be held agreeable. It speaks well, perhaps, for the kindliness and amiability of the human race that most such pursuits are of a gregarious nature. Assembling together; dearly we love to do this. ‘Neglect not the assembling of yourselves together,’ says (I think) St. Pa ul somewhere; and it was a superfluous piece of admonition. Neglect of this will never be numbered among the many omissions of mankind. Seeing one another; meeting the others of our race; exchanging remarks; or merely observing in what particular garments they have elected to clothe themselves to-day; this is so nearly universal a custom that it has become dignified into an entertainment, and we issue to one another invitations to attend such gatherings.We issue them and we accept them, and, when the appointed date arrives, we assume such of our clothes as we believe to be suitable to the gathering, and sally forth to the party of pleasure. Often, indeed usually, it is in the evening. Therefore we clothe ourselves in such garb as men and women have agreed, in their strange symbolism, to consider appropriate to the hours after eight o’clock or so. And perhaps – who knows? – it is in the exercise of this savage and primitive conventionalism that a large part of the pleasure of an evening gathering consists. We are very primitive creatures, and the mere satisfaction of self-adornment, and of assuming for a particular set of clothes, may well tickle our sensibilities. Be that as it may, we arrive at our party dolled, so to speak, up, and find ourselves in a crowd of our fellow-creatures, all dolled up too. Now we are off. The party of pleasure had begun. We see friends and talk to them. But this we could do with greater comfort at our ownhomes or in theirs; this cannot, surely, be the promised pleasure. As a matter of fact, if you succeed in getting into a corner with a friend and talking, be sure you will be very soon torn asunder by an energetic hostess, whose motto is ‘Keep them moving’. We are introduced to new acquaintances. This may, no doubt, be very agreeable. They may be persons you are glad to know. But it is doubtful whether your acquaintanceship will prosper very much to-night. It may well be that no topics suitable for discussion will present themselves to either of you at the moment of introduction. I know someone who says that she never can think of anything to say to persons introduced to her at a party except ‘ Do you like parties?’ And that is too crude; it simply cannot be said. You must think of some more sophisticated remark. Having thought of it, you must launch it, in the peculiarly resonant pitch necessary to carry it above the clamour (for this clamour, which somewhat resembles the shrieking of a jazz band, is an essential accompaniment to a party, and part of the entertainment provided). A conversation will then ensue, and must be carried on until one or other of you either flags or break away, or until someone intervenes between you. One way and another, a very great deal gets said at a party. Let us hope that this is a good thing. It is apparent, anyhow, that the mere use of the tongue, quite apart from the words it utters, gives pleasure to many. If it gives you no pleasure, and if, further, you derive none from listening to the remarks of others, there is no need to converse. You had better then take up a position in a solitary corner (if possible on a chair, but this is a rare treat) and merely listen to the noise as to a concert, not endeavouring to form out of it sentences. As a matter of fact, if thus listened to, the noise of a party will be found a very interesting noise, containing a great variety of different sounds. If you are of those who like also to look at the clothes of others, you will, from this point of vantage, have a good view of these.。

卡西欧杯日语作文大赛郑隽
近日，“中日友好杯”中国大学生日语征文比赛结果公布。

我校日语学院同学积极参与、踊跃投稿，最终共有7名同学喜获奖项。

这是继今年6月5日日语学院学生在第十三届上海外国语大学“卡西欧杯”中国日语专业本科生•研究生演讲辩论大赛决赛中获三等奖后，日院学子在全国性日语比赛中的又一次载誉归来。

本次比赛共有365所高校、4377名学生参与，共设特等奖2名，一等奖5名，二等奖15名。

我院张一凡同学在王宇新老师的悉心指导下喜获特等奖。

张一凡同学以“我与日本的纽带”（私と日本の絆）为题，讲述了自己在日本的所见所闻，其中在出水市观鹤的经历格外打动人心。

文中写道，通过与日本野生鹤群的接触，我们对于人与自然的关系可以有更深刻的理解与认识。

同时，文中对于“鹤”这一意象的描写结合了中国的传统文化与日本的花札，抒发了作为一名语言学习者的感悟与思考，表达了对中日友好的衷心祝愿。

除此之外，由王丽华老师指导的甘雨同学和彭雨新老师指导的林风致同学分获二等奖，由路邈老师指导的李晓蕾同学、张文颖老师指导的班靖同学、渠培娥老师指导的韦晓雨和金智贤同学喜获佳作奖。

王宇新、王丽华、彭雨新三位老师获得优秀指导教师奖。

本次获奖不仅体现了日语学院在教学改革方面所坚持的守正创新、开拓进取，也体现了日语学院在学生培养方面所一贯秉持的家国情怀和人文素养。

本次比赛由中国人民对外友好协会与日中友好继承发展会共同主办，中国日语教学研究会、日本国驻华大使馆、北京日本文化中心、日中友好协会作为后援。

第十一届“杭州师范大学-《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛英译汉原文Confronting Modern Lifestyles（Excerpt）By Tim Jackson and Carmen Smith【1】Few people would disagree that modern society has changed dramatically in the course of only a few decades. These changes can be characterized in a variety of different ways. We can point, for example, to the growth in disposable incomes, to a massive expansion in the availability of consumer goods and services, to higher levels of personal mobility, increases in leisure expenditure and a reduction in the time spent in routine domestic tasks.【2】We might highlight the gains in technological efficiency provided by an increasingly sophisticated knowledge base. Or the rising resource “footprint”of modern consumption patterns. Or the intensification of trade. Or the decline in traditional rural industries. Or the translocation of manufacturing towards the developing world. Or the emergence of the “knowledge”economy.【3】We should certainly point out that these changes have been accompanied, and sometimes facilitated, by changes in the underlying institutional structures: the deregulation (or reregulation) of key industries, the liberalization of markets, theeasing of international trade restrictions, the rise in consumer debt and the commoditization of previously noncommercial areas of our lives.【4】We could also identify some of the social effects that accompanied these changes: a faster pace of life; rising social expectations; increasing divorce rates; rising levels of violent crime; smaller household sizes; the emergence of a “cult of celebrity”; the escalating “message density”of modern living; increasing disparities (in income and time) between the rich and the poor, the emergence of “postmaterialist”values; a loss of trust in the conventional institutions of church, family, and state; and a more secular society.【5】It is clear, even from this cursory overview, that no simple overriding “good”or “bad”trend emerges from this complexity. Rather, modernity is characterized by a variety of trends that often seem to be set (in part at least) in opposition to each other. The identification of a set of “postmaterialist”values in modern society appears at odds with the increased proliferation of consumer goods. People appear to express less concern for material things, and yet have more of them in their lives.【6】The abundance offered by the liberalization of trade is offset by the environmental damage from transporting these goods across distances to reach our supermarket shelves. The liberalization of the electricity market has increasedthe efficiency of generation, reduced the cost of electricity to consumers and at the same time made it more difficult to identify and exploit the opportunities forend-use energy efficiency.【7】To take another example, the emergence of the knowledge economy has increased the availability and the value of information. Simultaneously, it has intensified the complexity of ordinary decision-making in people’s lives. As Nobel laureate Hebert Simon has pointed out, information itself consumes scarce resources. “What information consumes is rather obvious: it consumes the attention of its recipients. Hence a wealth of information creates a poverty of attention, and a need to allocate that attention efficiently among the overabundance of information sources that might consume it”. This consuming effect of information makes the concept of “informed choice”at once more important and at the same time more difficult to achieve in modern society.【8】These examples all serve to illustrate that modern lifestyles are both complex and haunted by paradox. This is certainly one of the reasons why policy makers have tended to shy away from the whole question of consumer behavior and lifestyle change. It is clear nonetheless that coming to grips with consumption patterns, understanding the dynamics of lifestyle and influencing people’s attitudes and behaviors are all essential if the kinds of deep environmental targets demanded by sustainable development are to be achieved.。

第十二届CASIO杯翻译竞赛英语组原文【作者简介】W·H·奥登（1907—1973），英国著名诗人、评论家（由于出生于英国，后来成为美国公民，所以也有人将其列为美国作家），二十世纪最伟大的作家之一。

奥登的作品数量巨大，主题多样，技巧高超，身后亦备受推崇，其独特风格对后辈作家影响深远。

【内容提要】作为二十世纪最受推崇，且在诗艺上最为严肃的诗人之一，奥登以一种微妙的心态创作了大量评论类的文字，《染匠之手》（The Dyer’s Hand）是唯一一本奥登以书的架构自己收辑而成的散文集。

本文选自全书序章“阅读”篇章的第一段落，奥登用隐约相连的警句隽语描摹阅读的方方面面，轻盈、清澈、亲切，完全体现奥登无往不利的文思和炉火纯青的文字功夫。

2014年首次译入中文的《奥登诗选》轰动书坛，之后奥登的散文集也将相继面世，无论是想要从诗句之外窥探奥登文学艺术的资深读者，还是想要在最好的英文上打磨手艺的译事新人，都可以从这篇文章开始。

Reading(excerpt)W.H.AudenA book is a mirror:if an ass peers into it,you can’t expect an apostle to look out.C.G.LICHTENBERGOne only reads well that which one reads with some quite personal purpose.It may be to acquire some power.It can be out of hatred for the author.PAUL VALÉRY The interests of a writer and the interests of his readers are never the same and if, on occasion,they happen to coincide,this is a lucky accident.In relation to a writer,most readers believe in the Double Standard:they may be unfaithful to him as often as they like but he must never,never be unfaithful to them.To read is to translate,for no two persons’experiences are the same.A bad reader is like a bad translator:he interprets literally when he ought to paraphrase and paraphrases when he ought to interpret literally.In learning to read well,scholarship, valuable as it is,is less important than instinct;some great scholars have been poor translators.We often derive much profit from reading a book in a different way from that which its author intended but only(once childhood is over)if we know that we are doing so.As readers,most of us,to some degree,are like those urchins who pencil mustaches on the faces of girls in advertisements.One sign that a book has literary value is that it can be read in a number of different ways.Vice versa,the proof that pornography has no literary value is that,if one attempts to read it in any other way than as a sexual stimulus,to read it,say,as a psychological case history of the author’s sexual fantasies,one is bored to tears.need help fromothers in defining them.Whether it be a matter of taste in food or taste in literature, the adolescent looks for a mentor in whose authority he can believe.He eats or reads what his mentor recommends and,inevitably,there are occasions when he has to deceive himself a little;he has to pretend that he enjoys olives or War and Peace a little more than he actually does.Between the ages of twenty and forty we are engaged in the process of discovering who we are,which involves learning the difference between accidental limitations which it is our duty to outgrow and the necessary limitations of our nature beyond which we cannot trespass with impunity. Few of us can learn this without making mistakes,without trying to become a little more of a universal man than we are permitted to be.It is during this period that a writer can most easily be led astray by another writer or by some ideology.When someone between twenty and forty says,apropos of a work of art,“I know what I like,”he is really saying“I have no taste of my own but accept the taste of my cultural milieu,”because,between twenty and forty,the surest sign that a man has a genuine taste of his own is that he is uncertain of it.After forty,if we have not lost our authentic selves altogether,pleasure can again become what it was when we were children,the proper guide to what we should read.Though the pleasure which works of art give us must not be confused with other pleasures that we enjoy,it is related to all of them simply by being our pleasure and not someone else’s.All the judgments,aesthetic or moral,that we pass,however objective we try to make them,are in part a rationalization and in part a corrective discipline of our subjective wishes.So long as a man writes poetry or fiction,his dream of Eden is his own business,but the moment he starts writing literary criticism, honesty demands that he describe it to his readers,so that they may be in the position to judge his judgments.第十二届CASIO杯翻译竞赛英语组获奖译文论读书(节选)[英]W.H.奥登作孟思佳译书是一面镜子：如果一头蠢驴朝里瞧,就别指望会映出圣徒的面貌。

第十六届“上译”杯翻译竞赛英语组原文由上海翻译家协会和上海译文出版社共同承办，以推进我国翻译事业的繁荣发展、发现和培养翻译新人为宗旨的翻译竞赛成功举办十五届后，已成为翻译界知名赛事。

十五年来，翻译竞赛先后冠名为“CASIO”杯及“沪江”杯，为保持竞赛稳定性，自本届起，赛事更名为“上译”杯翻译竞赛。

本届“上译”杯翻译竞赛特设两个语种——英语和法语。

具体参赛规则如下：一、本届竞赛为英语、法语翻译竞赛。

二、参赛者年龄：45周岁以下（1974年1月1日后出生）。

三、原文将刊登于2019年第3期（2019年6月出版）的《外国文艺》杂志、上海译文出版社网站、上海翻译家协会网站，以及相关微博、微信公众号。

四、本届翻译竞赛评选委员会由各大高校、出版社的专家学者组成。

五、本届比赛采用网络参赛方式。

英语组选手请将译作发送到engflaa@，法语组请发送到tcflaa@。

请于邮件标题中写明：“上译”杯翻译竞赛+姓名。

注意附件中须包括两个WORD格式文件：译文和个人信息（标题采用三号黑体，正文五号宋体）。

译文中请不要添加任何与译者个人身份信息相关的文字或符号，否则译文无效；个人信息中请写明姓名、性别、出生年月日、工作学习单位及家庭住址、联系电话、E-MAIL地址等。

六、参赛译文必须独立完成，合译、抄袭或请他人校订过的译文均属无效。

七、决赛截稿日期为2019年8月10日。

八、为鼓励更多的翻译爱好者参与比赛，提高翻译水平，两个语种各设一等奖1名（证书及价值6000元的奖金和奖品），二等奖2名（证书及价值3000元的奖金和奖品），三等奖3名（证书及价值2000元的奖金和奖品），优胜奖20名（证书及价值300元的奖品），此外还设优秀组织奖1名（价值5000元的奖金和奖品）。

各奖项在没有合格译文的情况下将作相应空缺。

获奖证书及奖品务必及时领取，两年内未领者视为自动放弃。

九、《外国文艺》将于2019年第6期（2019年12月出版）公布评选结果并刊登优秀译文，竞赛结果将同时在上海译文出版社、上海翻译家协会官方网站、微信、微博等公众平台上公布。

第十届CASIO杯翻译竞赛英语组原文Humans are animals and like all animals we leave tracks as we walk:signs of passage made in snow,sand,mud,grass,dew,earth or moss.The language of hunting has a luminous word for such mark-making:‘foil’.A creature’s‘foil’is its track.We easily forget that we are track-makers,though,because most of our journeys now occur on asphalt and concrete–and these are substances not easily impressed.Always,everywhere,people have walked,veining the earth with paths visible and invisible,symmetrical or meandering,’writes Thomas Clark in his enduring prose-poem‘In Praise of Walking’.It’s true that,once you begin to notice them,you see that the landscape is still webbed with paths and footways–shadowing the modern-day road network,or meeting it at a slant or perpendicular.Pilgrim paths, green roads,drove roads,corpse roads,trods,leys,dykes,drongs,sarns,snickets–say the names of paths out loud and at speed and they become a poem or rite–holloways,bostles,shutes,driftways,lichways,ridings,halterpaths,cartways,carneys, causeways,herepaths.Many regions still have their old ways,connecting place to place,leading over passes or round mountains,to church or chapel,river or sea.Not all of their histories are happy.In Ireland there are hundreds of miles of famine roads,built by the starving during the1840s to connect nothing with nothing in return for little,unregistered on Ordnance Survey base maps.In the Netherlands there are doodwegen and spookwegen–death roads and ghost roads–which converge on medieval cemeteries. Spain has not only a vast and operational network of cañada,or drove roads,but also thousands of miles of the Camino de Santiago,the pilgrim routes that lead to the shrine of Santiago de Compostela.For pilgrims walking the Camino,every footfall is doubled,landing at once on the actual road and also on the path of faith.In Scotland there are clachan and rathad–cairned paths and shieling paths–and in Japan the slender farm tracks that the poet Bashōfollowed in1689when writing his Narrow Road to the Far North.The American prairies were traversed in the nineteenthcentury by broad‘bison roads’,made by herds of buffalo moving several beasts abreast,and then used by early settlers as they pushed westwards across the Great Plains.Paths of long usage exist on water as well as on land.The oceans are seamed with seaways–routes whose course is determined by prevailing winds and currents–and rivers are among the oldest ways of all.During the winter months,the only route in and out of the remote valley of Zanskar in the Indian Himalayas is along the ice-path formed by a frozen river.The river passes down through steep-sided valleys of shaley rock,on whose slopes snow leopards hunt.In its deeper pools,the ice is blue and lucid.The journey down the river is called the chadar,and parties undertaking the chadar are led by experienced walkers known as‘ice-pilots’,who can tell where the dangers lie.Different paths have different characteristics,depending on geology and purpose. Certain coffin paths in Cumbria have flat‘resting stones’on the uphill side,on which the bearers could place their load,shake out tired arms and roll stiff shoulders;certain coffin paths in the west of Ireland have recessed resting stones,in the alcoves of which each mourner would place a pebble.The prehistoric trackways of the English Downs can still be traced because on their close chalky soil,hard-packed by centuries of trampling,daisies flourish.Thousands of work paths crease the moorland of the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides,so that when seen from the air the moor has the appearance of chamois leather.I think also of the zigzag flexure of mountain paths in the Scottish Highlands,the flagged and bridged packhorse routes of Yorkshire and Mid Wales,and the sunken green-sand paths of Hampshire on whose shady banks ferns emerge in spring,curled like crosiers.The way-marking of old paths is an esoteric lore of its own,involving cairns, grey wethers,sarsens,hoarstones,longstones,milestones,cromlechs and other guide-signs.On boggy areas of Dartmoor,fragments of white china clay were placed to show safe paths at twilight,like Hansel and Gretel’s pebble trail.In mountain country,boulders often indicate fording points over rivers:Utsi’s Stone in the Cairngorms,for instance,which marks where the Allt Mor burn can be crossed toreach traditional grazing grounds,and onto which has been deftly incised the petroglyph of a reindeer that,when evening sunlight plays over the rock,seems to leap to life.Paths and their markers have long worked on me like lures:drawing my sight up and on and over.The eye is enticed by a path,and the mind’s eye also.The imagination cannot help but pursue a line in the land–onwards in space,but also backwards in time to the histories of a route and its previous followers.As I walk paths I often wonder about their origins,the impulses that have led to their creation, the records they yield of customary journeys,and the secrets they keep of adventures, meetings and departures.I would guess I have walked perhaps7,000or8,000miles on footpaths so far in my life:more than most,perhaps,but not nearly so many as others.Thomas De Quincey estimated Wordsworth to have walked a total of 175,000–180,000miles:Wordsworth’s notoriously knobbly legs,‘pointedly condemned’–in De Quincey’s catty phrase–‘by all…female connoisseurs’,were magnificent shanks when it came to passage and bearing.I’ve covered thousands of foot-miles in my memory,because when–as most nights–I find myself insomniac,I send my mind out to re-walk paths I’ve followed,and in this way can sometimes pace myself into sleep.‘They give me joy as I proceed,’wrote John Clare of field paths,simply.Me too.‘My left hand hooks you round the waist,’declared Walt Whitman–companionably, erotically,coercively–in Leaves of Grass(1855),‘my right hand points to landscapes of continents,and a plain public road.’Footpaths are mundane in the best sense of that word:‘worldly’,open to all.As rights of way determined and sustained by use,they constitute a labyrinth of liberty,a slender network of common land that still threads through our aggressively privatized world of barbed wire and gates,CCTV cameras and‘No Trespassing’signs.It is one of the significant differences between land use in Britain and in America that this labyrinth should exist.Americans have long envied the British system of footpaths and the freedoms it offers,as I in turn envy the Scandinavian customary right of Allemansrätten(‘Everyman’s right’).This convention–born of a region that did not pass through centuries of feudalism,andtherefore has no inherited deference to a landowning class–allows a citizen to walk anywhere on uncultivated land provided that he or she cause no harm;to light fires;to sleep anywhere beyond the curtilage of a dwelling;to gather flowers,nuts and berries; and to swim in any watercourse(rights to which the newly enlightened access laws of Scotland increasingly approximate).Paths are the habits of a landscape.They are acts of consensual making.It’s hard to create a footpath on your own.The artist Richard Long did it once,treading a dead-straight line into desert sand by turning and turning about dozens of times.But this was a footmark not a footpath:it led nowhere except to its own end,and by walking it Long became a tiger pacing its cage or a swimmer doing lengths.With no promise of extension,his line was to a path what a snapped twig is to a tree.Paths connect.This is their first duty and their chief reason for being.They relate places in a literal sense,and by extension they relate people.Paths are consensual,too,because without common care and common practice they disappear:overgrown by vegetation,ploughed up or built over(though they may persist in the memorious substance of land law).Like sea channels that require regular dredging to stay open,paths need walking.In nineteenth-century Suffolk small sickles called‘hooks’were hung on stiles and posts at the start of certain wellused paths: those running between villages,for instance,or byways to parish churches.A walker would pick up a hook and use it to lop off branches that were starting to impede passage.The hook would then be left at the other end of the path,for a walker coming in the opposite direction.In this manner the path was collectively maintained for general use.By no means all interesting paths are old paths.In every town and city today, cutting across parks and waste ground,you’ll see unofficial paths created by walkers who have abandoned the pavements and roads to take short cuts and make asides. Town planners call these improvised routes‘desire lines’or‘desire paths’.In Detroit –where areas of the city are overgrown by vegetation,where tens of thousands of homes have been abandoned,and where few can now afford cars–walkers and cyclists have created thousands of such elective easements.第十届CASIO杯翻译竞赛英语组参考译文路[英]罗伯特·麦克法伦作侯凌玮译人是一种动物，因而和所有其他动物一样，我们行走时总会留下踪迹：雪地、沙滩、淤泥、草地、露水、土壤和苔藓上都有我们经过的痕迹。

第十四届“沪江”杯翻译竞赛英语组原文Jane Austen:Galloping girl(excerpt)Freya Johnson Jane Austen wrote fast and died young.Her life on paper may have spanned three decades,but all six of her celebrated novels made their public appearance between1811and1817.The phrase“tell-tale compression”,self-consciously applied by the narrator towards the end of Northanger Abbey(1817),captures something of Austen’s authorial career,too.Indeed,in her case it is appropriate that the word “career”can mean a short gallop at full speed,as well as the potentially slower progress of an individual’s working life.Novelists are more usually seen as long-distance runners than as sprinters,and Austen’s mature fiction has been cherished for the gradual emergence into consciousness of its heroines’thoughts and feelings.Yet speedy progress—described in Emma(1815)as the“felicities of rapid motion”—remained central to this writer’s craft from start to finish.Two hundred years ago,on St Swithun’s Day in1817,Austen,near death, dictated an odd poem about horse racing to her sister Cassandra.From her sick bed in Winchester,she imagined how the festivities outside her window had come into being. The poem opens like this:When Winchester races first took their beginningIt is said the good people forgot their old SaintNot applying at all for the leave of Saint SwithinAnd that William of Wykeham’s approval was faint.The races however were fixed and determinedThe company came and the Weather was charmingThe Lords and the Ladies were satine’d and erminedAnd nobody saw any future alarming.Austen died three days later,on18th July1817.Imagining,in her last known literary composition,the origins of a horse race and the fatal allure of the“charming”, she was also excavating the origins of her writing life.That her Winchester poemconcerns how the dead are mostly(even in the saintliest of cases)forgotten has perhaps also to do with her sense of a future abruptly foreclosed,and of authorial work left undone.Not only undone,but largely overlooked:Northanger Abbey and Persuasion appeared together in four volumes,posthumously,at the very end of1817, in a print run of1,750copies;three years later,282remained unsold.Austen,depicted by her immediate family as a covert,dutiful,and domestically-minded writer,has since her death been serially repackaged by critics and imitators as a conservative and a radical,a prude and a saucepot,pro-and anti-colonial,a feminist and a downright bitch.Perhaps this fluidity and adaptability spring from her reluctance to be pigeonholed.After all,Henry Tilney in Northanger Abbey warns that“from politics,it was an easy step to silence.”But facing down such overt discouragement,many critics from the1970s to the present have discerned in Austen a writer who was far from apolitical.During Austen’s time of apprenticeship,radical novelists typically presented their heroes and heroines as the victims of a rotten system.Conservative writers of fiction tended,by contrast,to treat their protagonists as sinners in need of correction and redemption.The late Marilyn Butler was the most forceful proponent of the line that Austen belonged in the second camp,and to insist that her brand of conservatism, Anglican and Tory,would have been understood as such by early-19th-century readers.Read in this light,her heroines contrive to endorse the status quo through their commitment to duty and self-sacrifice.Writing as a Christian moralist,Austen,it is often claimed,duly presents a view of society that conforms to religious principles and respects tradition.An opposing school of Austen criticism has sought to present her as sympathetic to radical politics,seeing her novels as an attempt to challenge or at least to revise the established order,especially patriarchy.Several decades ago,Edward Said drew attention to the simultaneous presence of and silence about empire and slavery in Mansfield Park,a line of enquiry that has most recently been pursued(with different conclusions)in Helena Kelly’s Jane Austen:The Secret Radical,published last year. Austen is undoubtedly concerned with the precarious economic position of womenand therefore,more broadly,with power and inequality.Her fiction could not possess the shape or emphasis that it does without the glaring injustice of18th and 19th-century inheritance laws.Time and again,she foregrounds the ignorance of women denied a formal education,the psychological and emotional fragility of mothers,daughters,sisters,wives and widows,the exploited poverty and dependency of spinsters,and the boredom of aimless,well-to-do ladies.Critics of Austen too often forget that she was primarily a writer and defender of fiction,not a polemicist.To say this does not mean we have to bleach her work of historical purchase,topicality,or partisanship.But it does entail acknowledging that her commitment was to everything that novels might be and do,rather than to any political cause.In her beguiling ability to convey sympathy,meaning,information and suggestion through the faulty,shifting perspectives of her characters,we come to know,and learn how to judge,a little of the world we are in.That does not mean we arrive at an understanding of everything about human behaviour,or of what motivates itRecognising the necessarily incomplete business of such disclosure may, however,be good cause for something other than grief and vexation.Austen’s fictions set out to mislead us,and none more so than Emma,a novel full of tricks and impositions.Card games and wordplay crop up throughout this book,which is in a broader sense about what it means to toy with other people.Mischievous little clues, at the level of individual words,open up wider moral vistas and show Austen playing with her readers,too.As she wrote to Cassandra in1813,echoing Walter Scott,“I do not write for such dull Elves/As have not a great deal of Ingenuity themselves.”We dull elves need to remain on the lookout.Almost a century ago,Virginia Woolf described the double bind of anyone trying to get to grips with Austen:“First…of all great writers she is the most difficult to catch in the act of greatness; second…there are25elderly gentlemen living in the neighbourhood of London who resent any slight upon her genius as if it were an insult offered to the chastity of their aunts.”By March1817,Austen’s complexion changed for the worse.As she wrote to herniece,shades of“black and white and every wrong colour”had passed across her face. One of the many strange things about Austen’s rapid and fatal illness is that it shares so many traits with what happens to characters in her childhood stories.Her abbreviated career possesses a freakish circularity,in which Austen’s literary beginnings appear to forebode how she herself would end.The brief,hysterically brilliant teenage works are littered with sick and dying women,and with girls whose faces are—according to those who surround them—the wrong colour,either too white or too red.The dashing teenage works are brutally funny studies in ugliness,violence, sickness and death,including suicide and murder.Pace and timing are necessarily different in the longer works of fiction,as is the sense of national and personal history. For all the hard-won patience of her final completed novel,as readers of Austen we should perhaps,in this bicentenary year,take more seriously than we are encouraged to do the last words of Sophia to Laura in“Love and Friendship”(1790):“Run mad as often as you chuse;but do not faint—.”第十四届“沪江”杯翻译竞赛英语组获奖译文弗雷亚·约翰斯顿作宋怡秋译简·奥斯丁写得快，去世也早。

Chaque homme est seul et tous se fichent de tous et nos douleurs sont une île déserte. Ce n’est pas une raison pour ne pas se consoler, ce soir, dans les bruits finissants de la rue, se consoler, ce soir, avec des mots. Oh, le pauvre perdu qui, devant sa table, se console avec des mots, devant sa table et le téléphone décroché, car il a peur du dehors, et le soir, si le téléphone est décroché, il se sent tout roi et défendu contre les méchants du dehors, si vite méchants, méchants pour rien.Quel étrange petit bonheur, triste et boitillant mais doux comme un péchéou une boisson clandestine, quel bonheur tout de même d’écrire en ce moment, seul dans mon royaume et loin des salauds. Qui sont les salauds ? Ce n’est pas moi qui vous le dirai. Je ne veux pas d’h istoires avec les gens du dehors. Je ne veux pas qu’on vienne troubler ma fausse paix et m’empêcher d’écrire quelques pages par dizaines ou centaines selon que ce cœur de moi qui est mon destin décidera. J’ai résolu notamment de dire à tous les peintres qu’ils ont du génie, sans Ça ils vous mordent. Et, d’une manière générale, je dis à chacun que chacun est charmant. Telles sont mes mœurs diurnes. Mais dans mes nuits et mes aubes je n’en pense pas moins.Somptueuse, toi, ma plume d’or, va sur la feuille, va au hasard tandis que j’ai quelque jeunesse encore, va ton lent cheminement irrégulier, hésitant comme en rêve, cheminement gauche mais commandé. Va, je t’aime, ma seule consolation, va sur les pages où tristement je me complais et dont le strabisme morosement me délecte. Oui, les mots, ma patrie, les mots, Ça console et Ça venge. Mais ils ne me rendront pas ma mère. Si remplis de sanguin passé battant aux tempes et tout odorant qu’ils puissent être, les mots que j’écris ne me rendront pas ma mère morte. Su jet interdit dans la nuit. Arrière, image de ma mère vivante lorsque je la vis pour la dernière fois en France, arrière, maternel fantÔme.Soudain, devant ma table de travail, parce que tout y est en ordre et que j’ai du café chaud et une cigarette à peine commencée et que j’ai un briquet qui fonctionne et que ma plume marche bien et que je suis près du feu et de ma chatte, j’ai un moment de bonheur si grand qu’il m’émeut. J’ai pitié de moi, de cette enfantine capacité d’immense joie qui ne présage rien de bon. Que j’ai pitié de me voir si content à cause d’une plume qui marche bien, pitié de ce pauvre bougre de cœur qui veut s’arrêter de souffrir et s’accrocher à quelque raison d’aimer pour vivre. Je suis, pour quelques minutes, dans une petite oasis bourgeoise que je savoure. Mais un malheur est dessous, permanent, inoubliable. Oui, je savoure d’être, pour quelques minutes, un bourgeois, comme eux. On aime être ce qu’on n’est pas.Il n’y a pas plus artiste qu’une vraie bourgeoise qui écume devant un poème ou entre en transe, une mousse aux lèvres, à la vue d’un Cézanne et prophétise en son petit jargon, chipé Çà et là et même pas compris, et elle parle de masses et de volumes et elle dit que ce rouge est si sensuel. Et ta sœur, est-ce qu’elle est sensuelle ? Je ne sais plus où j’en suis. Faisons donc en marge un petit dessin appeleur d’idées, un dessin réconfort, un petit dessin neurasthénique, un dessin lent, où l’on met des décisions, des projets, un petit dessin, île étrange et pays de l’ame, triste oasis des réflexions qui en suivent les courbes, un petit dessin à peine fou, soigné, enfantin, sage et filial. Chut, ne la réveillez pas, filles de Jérusalem ne la réveillez pas pendant qu’elle dort.Qui dort ? demande ma plume. Qui dort, sinon ma mère éternellement, qui dort, sinon ma mère qui est ma douleur ? Ne la réveillez pas, filles de Jérusalem, ma douleur qui est enfouie au cimetière d’une ville dont je ne dois pas prononcer le nom, car ce nom est synonyme de ma mère enfouie dans de la terre. Va, plume, redeviens cursive et non hésitante, et sois raisonnable, redeviens ouvrière de clarté, trempe-toi dans la volonté et ne fais pas d’aussi longues virgules, cette inspiration n’est pas bonne. Ame, Ô ma plume, sois vaillante et travailleuse, quitte le pays obscur, cesse d’être folle, presque folle et guidée, guindée morbidement. Et toi, mon seul ami, toi que je regarde dans la glace, réprime les sanglots secs et, puisque tu veux oser le faire, parle de ta mère morte avec un faux cœur de bronze, parle calmement, feins d’être calme, qui sait, ce n’est peut-être qu’une habitude à prendre ? Raconte ta mère à leur calme manière, sifflote un peu pour croire que tout ne va pas si mal que ?a, et surtout souris, n’oublie pas de sourire. Souris pour escroquer ton désespoir, souris pour continuer de vivre, souris dans ta glace et devant les gens, et même devant cette page. Souris avec ton deuil plus haletant qu’une peur. Souris pour croire que rien n’importe, souris pour te forcer à feindre de vivre, souris sous l’épée s uspendue de la mort de ta mère, souris toute ta vie à en crever et jusqu’à ce que tu en crèves de ce permanent sourire.——Extrait du Livre de ma mère d’Albert Cohen法文部份我的母亲人人孤独，相互轻视，我们的痛苦是座荒岛。