外国语学院举办第二届“芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”竞赛 第二届“芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”竟赛规则 为繁荣我国的翻译事业,为各行各业年轻的翻译工作者、大专院校师生及广大爱好翻译的青年朋友提供更多展现才华的机会 使之脱颖而出,我们—一中南大学外国语学院和《外语与翻译》编辑部—一继2003年成功举办首届“芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”竞赛之 后,决定主办面向全国的第二届“芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”竞赛,热忱欢迎全国各地符合条件的年轻学子和青年朋友报名参赛。竞赛由 “芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”评审委员会组织实施。第二届“芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”参赛规则如下: 本届竞赛设立英译汉和汉译英两个奖项 《外语与翻译》2006年第1期刊登参赛原文 三、参赛者年龄:45岁以下(1961年7月1日以后出生) 四、《外语与翻译》第1期所登参赛券(包括复印件及网上下载)为有效参赛券 五、参赛译文必须独立完成。若有抄袭现象,一经发现,将取消参赛资格。参赛译文请用电脑打印或用稿纸(有单位名称抬头 的译文稿纸无效)誊写清楚。译文正文内请勿书写译者姓名,译文前加一封面,将填好的参赛券剪贴在此封面上(请勿贴在信封上)。 六、截止日期:请参赛者于2006年7月17日以前(以寄出日邮戳为准)将参赛译文挂号寄至:长沙市韶山南路22号中南大 学铁道校区《外语与翻译》编辑部,邮编为410075,请在信封上注明“参赛译文”字样 七、参赛者请在交寄参赛译文的同时,汇寄报名费20元:如同时参加两项竞赛请汇报名费40元。汇款地址:同上,请在汇款 单附言上“参赛报名费”字样。未汇报名费的参赛译文无效 八、本届竞赛设 三等奖和优秀奖若干名,授予一、二、三等奖获得者奖金和证书,授予优秀奖获得者证书和奖品。评 选结果将在《外语与翻译》2006年第3期(9月15日出版)上公布 九、联系地址同上,联系电话,(0731)2656892。网址:htp://ww.csu.edu.cn 附:1、参赛券 2、英译汉部分 3、汉译英部分 第二届“芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”评审委员会 二。o六年三月十七日 我校外国语学院举办第二届“芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”竞赛 參寥券(谤沿虚剪下,贴在译文加的封面上) (复印件或阙上下敢有欺)
外国语学院举办第二届“芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”竞赛 第二届“芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”竞赛规则 为繁荣我国的翻译事业，为各行各业年轻的翻译工作者、大专院校师生及广大爱好翻译的青年朋友提供更多展现才华的机会， 使之脱颖而出，我们——中南大学外国语学院和《外语与翻译》编辑部——继 2003 年成功举办首届“芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”竞赛之 后，决定主办面向全国的第二届“芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”竞赛，热忱欢迎全国各地符合条件的年轻学子和青年朋友报名参赛。竞赛由 “芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”评审委员会组织实施。第二届“芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”参赛规则如下： 一、本届竞赛设立英译汉和汉译英两个奖项。 二、《外语与翻译》2006 年第 1 期刊登参赛原文。 三、参赛者年龄：45 岁以下（1961 年 7 月 1 日以后出生）。 四、《外语与翻译》第 1 期所登参赛券（包括复印件及网上下载）为有效参赛券。 五、参赛译文必须独立完成。若有抄袭现象，一经发现，将取消参赛资格。参赛译文请用电脑打印或用稿纸（有单位名称抬头 的译文稿纸无效）誊写清楚。译文正文内请勿书写译者姓名，译文前加一封面，将填好的参赛券剪贴在此封面上（请勿贴在信封上）。 六、截止日期：请参赛者于 2006 年 7 月 17 日以前（以寄出日邮戳为准）将参赛译文挂号寄至：长沙市韶山南路 22 号中南大 学铁道校区《外语与翻译》编辑部，邮编为 410075，请在信封上注明“参赛译文”字样。 七、参赛者请在交寄参赛译文的同时，汇寄报名费 20 元；如同时参加两项竞赛请汇报名费 40 元。汇款地址：同上，请在汇款 单附言上“参赛报名费”字样。未汇报名费的参赛译文无效。 八、本届竞赛设一、二、三等奖和优秀奖若干名，授予一、二、三等奖获得者奖金和证书，授予优秀奖获得者证书和奖品。评 选结果将在《外语与翻译》2006 年第 3 期（9 月 15 日出版）上公布。 九、联系地址同上，联系电话，（0731）2656892。网址：http://www.csu.edu.cn 附：１、参赛券 ２、英译汉部分 ３、汉译英部分 第二届“芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”评审委员会 二○○六年三月十七日 我校外国语学院举办第二届“芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”竞赛 参赛券（请沿虚线剪下，贴在译文前加的封面上） （复印件或网上下载有效）
出生年月 性别 电话 工作单位 通信地址 邮政编码 第二届“芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”参赛译文 英译汉部分: The Woods: A Meditation(节选) hat brought me to the woods was grief. My mother died of cancer when I was twenty-one She was forty-eight. Hers was along harrowing death with remissions and tatters of hope and experimental treatments and long stretches of sheer suffering alleviated by morphine oblivion She was in and out of hospitals for the better part of six years. I walked the long linoleum corridors nd talked with the doctors and interns and nurses about dosages and the weather. about radiation and baseball. For every dire intention there was a correspondent distraction that enabled each person to keep going or I sat by her bedside reading aloud to her from her favorite distraction-Victorian novels. She was wild about Anthony Trollope. The vicars and lords and widows whose cordial yet machinating lives Trollope recounted seemed reasonably settled, yet being people they managed to muck things up. Both the settled aspect, the golden dust of autumnal England, the material weight of furniture and dresses and jewels, and the making a mess of things pleased my mother. She had lived, but she wanted to live more. She had wanted to visit Europe and see cathedrals and parsonages. She had wanted to breathe the ripe air of history. Now there were a hospital bed and duration and I lived with death on a daily basis, a companion of sorts, mute but tireless. When I shaved in the orning or stopped at a drive-in to get a hamburger or walked from one class at the university to another, I felt death's presence. In that sense, part of me was dying with her as I watched her valiantly struggle with her disease's mindless depredations. What did those dispiriting cancer cells know? How many nights had I sat by her bedside when she was asleep, too weary and sad to pick my-self up, and listened to the noises of the hospital, the squeak of shoes and the rolling creak of gurneys, as if they might bring me an answer? What brought me to the woods was the prospect of iving on earth with nothing between me and the earth-none of the electronic gibber- jabber. I craved directness and quiet. What brought me to the woods was an impulse to get lost, to almost literally be off the map. America was vast and a fair amount of it still looked as though not many
姓 名 出生年月 性 别 电 话 工作单位 职 业 通信地址 邮政编码 第二届“芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”参赛译文 英译汉部分： The Woods: A Meditation（节选） What brought me to the woods was grief. My mother died of cancer when I was twenty-one. She was forty-eight. Hers was along harrowing death with remissions and tatters of hope and experimental treatments and long stretches of sheer suffering alleviated by morphine oblivion. She was in and out of hospitals for the better part of six years. I walked the long linoleum corridors and talked with the doctors and interns and nurses about dosages and the weather, about radiation and baseball. For every dire intention there was a correspondent distraction that enabled each person to keep going on. I sat by her bedside reading aloud to her from her favorite distraction—Victorian novels. She was wild about Anthony Trollope. The vicars and lords and widows whose cordial yet machinating lives Trollope recounted seemed reasonably settled, yet being people they managed to muck things up. Both the settled aspect, the golden dust of autumnal England, the material weight of furniture and dresses and jewels, and the making a mess of things pleased my mother. She had lived, but she wanted to live more. She had wanted to visit Europe and see cathedrals and parsonages. She had wanted to breathe the ripe air of history. Now there were a hospital bed and duration and books. I lived with death on a daily basis, a companion of sorts, mute but tireless. When I shaved in the morning or stopped at a drive-in to get a hamburger or walked from one class at the university to another, I felt death’s presence. In that sense, part of me was dying with her as I watched her valiantly struggle with her disease’s mindless depredations. What did those dispiriting cancer cells know? How many nights had I sat by her bedside when she was asleep, too weary and sad to pick my-self up, and listened to the noises of the hospital, the squeak of shoes and the rolling creak of gurneys, as if they might bring me an answer? What brought me to the woods was the prospect of living on earth with nothing between me and the earth—none of the electronic gibber- jabber. I craved directness and quiet. What brought me to the woods was an impulse to get lost, to almost literally be off the map. America was vast and a fair amount of it still looked as though not many
people lived there. I liked the prospect of thinking about land not in terms of building lots but acres. What brought me to the woods was generational. My wife and I were part of the back-to-the-land movement of the Sixties and Seventies, the little tide of people who wanted to eturn to a countryside they had never experienced. What brought me to the woods was romanticism. I wanted to feel elemental sublimity, the full force of the stars and rain and wind What brought me to the woods was pragmatism. I wanted to learn how to take care of my self. What brought me to the woods was my being an urban Jew who was ready to leave behind the vestiges of assimilated religion and culture that had been bequeathed to me. I wasn't ashamed of I craved, however, something different from the largely asphalt landscape I grew up in. What brought me to the woods was the longing to be with words in an undistracted place. Woods"and “ words” were almost identical When we look for one thread of motive we are in all likelihood deceiving ourselves We lived for over twenty-three years on forty-eight wooded acres that we purchased from an old Mainer who had bought up land in the Thirties like postage stamps and sold off a parcel every now and then when he needed some money. We lived off the grid-no conventional power, no electric lines, no light switches, faucets, or spigots, no toaster or hair dryer, no flush toilet, no furnace, and no monthly bill from Central Maine Power. Often when we told people how we lived they asked us forthrightly how we could live that way. What was with us? Frequently they assumed that we were ideologues of some sort that we were living without electricity to make a point about the dry rot of Western civilization. Perhaps we were latter day luddites or devotees of Rousseau or Thoreau. We must be of the company of the sanctimonious, those who live to judge I never blamed people for making such assumptions. Anything out of the ordinary tends to be taken personally. The fact was that we had situated our house a few hundred feet beyond what the wer company considered a reasonable distance to put in their poles. Beyond that distance, a customer had to sign a contract and pay a bunch of money up front We never had that money and so we never got power. We could have situated the house closer to the poles to begin with-there was plenty of road frontage-but that logical consideration never entered our heads. Other concerns-aesthetic, intuitive, and earthy-guided where we built our house. It was on a rise where, once upon a time, a farmhouse had sat. There was a dug well there that we wound up using Despite the rapidity with which a dooryard became the woods again, there was still something of a south-facing clearing there. We had rented our share of dark apartments and wanted all the nlight we could get. People had lived for eons without electric lights and water pressure Though we had never done it, as blithe and hardworking spirits we felt that we could too At first we said, "Next year, we'll get power. This is just temporary. "Years went by, however, and we got used to going to the outhouse, hauling buckets of water, heating with wood, bathing in a metal tub, lighting kerosene lamps. Right from the beginning we had a small gas stove that ran off propane tanks, which we cooked on when the wood-fired cook stove wasn't in use. We never considered ourselves purists. The fact is that we got to like the simplicity of it, how physical action A produced result B. Nor did we expect anyone to be particularly enthused about how we lived. Most Americans believe in progress of some type; going backwards seems perverse Though we had our material enthusiasms-hand tools, for instance, and cast-iron pots and blue jeans and ceramic vases-the way we lived took some air out of the sails of acquisitive desire. A
people lived there. I liked the prospect of thinking about land not in terms of building lots but acres. What brought me to the woods was generational. My wife and I were part of the back-to-the-land movement of the Sixties and Seventies, the little tide of people who wanted to return to a countryside they had never experienced. What brought me to the woods was romanticism. I wanted to feel elemental sublimity, the full force of the stars and rain and wind. What brought me to the woods was pragmatism. I wanted to learn how to take care of my self. What brought me to the woods was my being an urban Jew who was ready to leave behind the vestiges of assimilated religion and culture that had been bequeathed to me. I wasn’t ashamed of it. I craved, however, something different from the largely asphalt landscape I grew up in. What brought me to the woods was the longing to be with words in an undistracted place. “Woods” and “words” were almost identical. When we look for one thread of motive, we are, in all likelihood, deceiving ourselves. * * * We lived for over twenty-three years on forty-eight wooded acres that we purchased from an old Mainer who had bought up land in the Thirties like postage stamps and sold off a parcel every now and then when he needed some money. We lived off the grid—no conventional power, no electric lines, no light switches, faucets, or spigots, no toaster or hair dryer, no flush toilet, no furnace, and no monthly bill from Central Maine Power. Often when we told people how we lived, they asked us forthrightly how we could live that way. What was with us? Frequently they assumed that we were ideologues of some sort, that we were living without electricity to make a point about the dry rot of Western civilization. Perhaps we were latter day Luddites or devotees of Rousseau or Thoreau. We must be of the company of the sanctimonious, those who live to judge others. I never blamed people for making such assumptions. Anything out of the ordinary tends to be taken personally. The fact was that we had situated our house a few hundred feet beyond what the power company considered a reasonable distance to put in their poles. Beyond that distance, a customer had to sign a contract and pay a bunch of money up front. We never had that money and so we never got power. We could have situated the house closer to the poles to begin with—there was plenty of road frontage—but that logical consideration never entered our heads. Other concerns—aesthetic, intuitive, and earthy—guided where we built our house. It was on a rise where, once upon a time, a farmhouse had sat. There was a dug well there that we wound up using. Despite the rapidity with which a dooryard became the woods again, there was still something of a south-facing clearing there. We had rented our share of dark apartments and wanted all the sunlight we could get. People had lived for eons without electric lights and water pressure. Though we had never done it, as blithe and hardworking spirits we felt that we could too. At first we said, “Next year, we’ll get power. This is just temporary.” Years went by, however, and we got used to going to the outhouse, hauling buckets of water, heating with wood, bathing in a metal tub, lighting kerosene lamps. Right from the beginning we had a small gas stove that ran off propane tanks, which we cooked on when the wood-fired cook stove wasn’t in use. We never considered ourselves purists. The fact is that we got to like the simplicity of it, how physical action A produced result B. Nor did we expect anyone to be particularly enthused about how we lived. Most Americans believe in progress of some type; going backwards seems perverse. Though we had our material enthusiasms—hand tools, for instance, and cast-iron pots and blue jeans and ceramic vases—the way we lived took some air out of the sails of acquisitive desire. A
friend called us"cheerleaders for the nineteenth century. 汉译英部分: 心中有爱 任何人都逃避不了一个最简单的自然法则一一死亡。死亡并不可怕,再完美的戏总有谢 幕的时候。然而,一个即将谢幕的幼小的生命,却让我如此动容,让我庄严地向她致敬! 十三岁的小女孩周越家住山东省德州市乐陵,那是一个盛产金丝小枣的地方。她曾和其 他快乐的孩子一样健康活泼,但是一场病夺去了一切。那病是白血病,也称血癌。由于家庭 无力承担几十万元的医疗费用,也找不到同一类型的骨髓,她已经错过了最佳治疗的时机 等待她的只能是短暂的生命历程,一朵花蕾很快就会凋谢。她说服了自己的父母,决定在死 后把自己的遗体捐献给社会,让医生们解剖,以寻找治疗疾病的答案 这是2001年11月27日晚上山东齐鲁电视台播放的一条新闻,采访的记者们都哭了, 我也哭了。周越平静地说:“我知道自己的病看不好了,我妈妈下岗了,只有爸爸一个人在 上班,家里的积蓄只够十几天的口粮,是社会上的叔叔、阿姨、伯伯们为我献爱心,捐钱给 我治病,我没有能力回报他们了。我死之后,一把火把尸体烧成骨灰太可惜了,把遗体捐献 给国家吧!让医生能治好像我这样的病人。” 当时,她执意让房间里的人都出去,只留下一名女记者说悄悄话。她附在女记者的耳旁 说:“阿姨,我知道自己不行了。住院八个月了,我一直没有在爸爸妈妈面前哭过,我怕他 们伤心,我在别人面前装得很坚强,其实我内心很害怕,我害怕失去这个美丽的世界。今天 我是第一次哭…… 她哭了,没有关掉的摄像机记录下了这一切 她说她想在临死之前看看大海,看看海边的礁石,还有礁石下的小螃蟹 据说,节目播出以后,电视台一夜之间接到了四百多个热线电话。大连、威海、青岛等 地的人还愿意把孩子接过去,让她看一眼大海。然而,这一切都阻止不了死神的迫近。 为什么一个幼小而又脆弱的生命竟蕴藏如此巨大的精神力量,让每一个活着的健康的人 向她致敬!因为她心中有爱,有别人。也许现代医学永远不可能再治好她的病了,可即使在 不久之后的某一天,她平静地闭上眼睛,我们还是会记住她的美
friend called us “cheerleaders for the nineteenth century.” 汉译英部分： 心中有爱 任何人都逃避不了一个最简单的自然法则――死亡。死亡并不可怕，再完美的戏总有谢 幕的时候。然而，一个即将谢幕的幼小的生命，却让我如此动容，让我庄严地向她致敬！ 十三岁的小女孩周越家住山东省德州市乐陵，那是一个盛产金丝小枣的地方。她曾和其 他快乐的孩子一样健康活泼，但是一场病夺去了一切。那病是白血病，也称血癌。由于家庭 无力承担几十万元的医疗费用，也找不到同一类型的骨髓，她已经错过了最佳治疗的时机。 等待她的只能是短暂的生命历程，一朵花蕾很快就会凋谢。她说服了自己的父母，决定在死 后把自己的遗体捐献给社会，让医生们解剖，以寻找治疗疾病的答案。 这是 2001 年 11 月 27 日晚上山东齐鲁电视台播放的一条新闻，采访的记者们都哭了， 我也哭了。周越平静地说：“我知道自己的病看不好了，我妈妈下岗了，只有爸爸一个人在 上班，家里的积蓄只够十几天的口粮，是社会上的叔叔、阿姨、伯伯们为我献爱心，捐钱给 我治病，我没有能力回报他们了。我死之后，一把火把尸体烧成骨灰太可惜了，把遗体捐献 给国家吧！让医生能治好像我这样的病人。” 当时，她执意让房间里的人都出去，只留下一名女记者说悄悄话。她附在女记者的耳旁 说：“阿姨，我知道自己不行了。住院八个月了，我一直没有在爸爸妈妈面前哭过，我怕他 们伤心，我在别人面前装得很坚强，其实我内心很害怕，我害怕失去这个美丽的世界。今天 我是第一次哭……” 她哭了，没有关掉的摄像机记录下了这一切。 她说她想在临死之前看看大海，看看海边的礁石，还有礁石下的小螃蟹。 据说，节目播出以后，电视台一夜之间接到了四百多个热线电话。大连、威海、青岛等 地的人还愿意把孩子接过去，让她看一眼大海。然而，这一切都阻止不了死神的迫近。 为什么一个幼小而又脆弱的生命竟蕴藏如此巨大的精神力量，让每一个活着的健康的人 向她致敬！因为她心中有爱，有别人。也许现代医学永远不可能再治好她的病了，可即使在 不久之后的某一天，她平静地闭上眼睛，我们还是会记住她的美丽