Kolik slov spisovateli stačí?

Ilustrace: Piet Mondrian, 1930

No introduction today...

1.
Přečtěte si povídku "The Killers" (1927) Ernesta Hemingwaye, k dispozci ZDE.

2.
Vložte do komentáře k blogu své první pocity a úvahy. Pokuste se klást otázky, které nám napomohou k pochopení textu.

3.
Jaké jsou chrakteristické rysy minimalismu v literatuře?

4.
Které informace nejsou v textu uvedeny přímo, ale dají se vydedukovat?

Row, row, row your boat

Technická poznámka:
Omlouvám se za zrušení výuky 24.11, ale přišlo mi to jako lepší řešení než šířít virózu a rušit výuku další týden pro absenci studentů :)
Prosím zapracujte na dalším textu, jeho konkrétní záludnosti společně probereme příště.


Nicholas Monsarrat - Kruté moře

Český překlad tohoto válečného bestselleru samozřejmě existuje; dnešním úkolem tedy není vytvořit jeho novou verzi, ale seznámit se s typem textu, který může překladateli řádně zamotat hlavu - jedná se o text, který zasvěceně využívá odbornou terminologii.


1. Seznamte se s autorem a synopsí knihy. Mějte na paměti, že jde o text na pomezí románu a literatury faktu.
2. Pročtěte si následující úryvek a vypište si z něj námořnické a vojenské termíny (výzbroj, výstroj, vybavení lodi, povely, hodnosti...) Najděte si jejich český překlad a ověřte nejméně ve dvou zdrojích včetně kontextového užití!
3. Najděte si úryvek v textu celého románu (viz capsa), seznamte se blíže s okolnostmi a představte si celou situaci. Vizualizace vám pomůže vytvořit text, který bude mít logickou stavbu a zároveň bude srozumitelný a čtivý.
Informace o tom, jak taková korveta vypadá, najdete například ve Wikipedii, či na stránkách lodních modelářů a v diskusích. zajímavý soubor informací nabízí také server věnovaný válečným lodím.
4. Při překládání se často setkáte s oblastmi lidské činnosti, o kterých nic nevíte. Ať vás zajímají nebo ne, je vaší povinností překladatele proniknout do dané problematiky natolik, abyste dokázali text správně a srozumitelně přeložit. A tak se i v beletrii často přiučíte něco zajímavého :)
5. Posledním úkolem, jako obvykle, je souvislý překlad následujícího úryvku.


Kompletní text románu najdete jako obyčejně v CAPSE.


----------------------------------------
PART THREE 1941: Grappling
Chapter 10
page 160

Ericson bent to the voice-pipe, and cleared his throat with a growl. 'Radar!'
'Radar - bridge!' answered Sellars.
'What about this echo?'
'Still there, sir.' He gave the range and the bearing. 'That makes it about ten miles astern of the last ship of the convoy.'
'Nothing wrong with the set, is there?'
'No, sir,' said Sellars, with the brisk air of a man who, at ten minutes to eight on a cold morning, was disinclined for this sort of slur, even coming from a bad-tempered Captain. 'The set's on the top line.'
'Have you had an echo like this before?'
There was a pause below. Then: 'Not exactly, sir. It's about the size we'd get from a buoy or a small boat.'
'A trawler? A drifter?'
'Smaller than that, sir. Ship's boat, more like.'
'H'm....' Ericson looked at the radar-screen again, while Lock-hart, watching him, smiled to himself. It was clear that his bad temper was fighting a losing battle with his acknowledgement of Sellars' competence. Behind them, the rest of the bridge personnel, and Baker, who had just come up to take over the watch, were also eyeing the Captain speculatively, alert for any decision. But when it came, it was still a surprise.
'Sound "Action Stations",' said Ericson, straightening up suddenly. And to the wheel-house, in the same sharp voice: 'Full ahead! Steer ten degrees to starboard.'
Lockhart opened his mouth to speak, and then snapped it shut again. Taken by surprise, he had been about to say something phenomenally silly, like 'Do you really think it's a submarine, sir ?'
The loud, endless shrilling of the alarm-bells all over the ship, and the thud of heavy boots along the decks and up the ladder, gave the best answer of all to this foolish speculation... He stood by the battery of voice-pipes, conscious of more than the usual excitement as the various positions were reported to him, and he acknowledged the reports: the pattern and the sequence of this were yawningly familiar, it was all old stuff, they had been doing it, in fun or in earnest, for two whole years: but this time, this time it really might have some point to it. ... One by one the voices pricked his eagerness. Ferraby from aft: 'Depth-charge crews closed up!' Morell from the fo'c'sle: 'Gun's crew closed up!' Baker from amidships: 'Two-pounder gun closed up!' Chief E.R.A. Watts from far below: 'Action steaming-stations!'
Tallow from the wheel-house: 'Coxswain on the wheel, sir!' Lockhart gave a swift glance round him, and fore and aft, a final check for his own satisfaction. The bridge look-outs were at their places on the Hotchkiss guns: Leading-Signalman Wells was ready by the big signal-lamp. Grouped round the four-inch gun just below the bridge, the steel-helmeted crew stood alert, with Morell staring ahead through his binoculars and then turning back to direct the loading: far aft, Ferraby was the centre of another group of men, clearing away the safety-lashings from the depthcharges and preparing them for firing. Satisfied, Lockhart turned to the Captain, presenting the completed pattern for whatever use he chose to make of it.
'Action Stations closed up, sir!' he called out. Then he dropped back to his own charge, the asdicset: the killing instrument itself, if one were needed. ... Underneath them, as if conscious of her weight of tensed and ready men, Compass Rose began to tremble.

Pohádka o jednom Medvědovi

Překládání dětské literatury patří k nejkrásnějším úkolům, nejen kvůli velké zodpovědnosti vůči dětskému čtenáři. Dětská knížka vyžaduje od překladatele schopnost uvolnit se z pout konvence dospělých, zapojit fantazii, objevovat jazyk a hrát si s ním stejně, jako to dělají děti.

Anglicky psaná literatura obsahuje dva nesporné klenoty tohoto žánru: Carollovu Alenku a Milnova Medvídka Pú. Obě knihy se výrazně vymykají z běžného rámce pohádky a navíc vycházejí z britských reálií, jsou to proto texty pro překladatele obtížné i lákavé.

1. Celý text originálu A. A. Milne - Winnie The Pooh je k dispozici v CAPSE. (Přihlášení stejné jako do PC v naší učebně.)

2. Seznamte se s recenzí českého překladu Hany Skoumalové ZDE. Vaším cílem není s recenzí souhlasit či nikoli - vždyť před sebou nemáte český text - ale s její pomocí si uvědomit, jaké nástrahy vás čekají a kterých chyb je třeba se vyvarovat.

3. Pokud knížku neznáte nebo jste už zapomněli, připomeňte si její česká vydání například ZDE nebo ZDE či na Wikipedii.

4. Přeložte následující úryvek (své texty jako obyčejně vkládejte do komentáře k tomuto blogu). Pohrajte si s medvědí písničkou, využijte svých zkušeností z minulého překladu (přízvuky, počet slabik).


Winnie-The-Pooh - Chapter 8

...IN WHICH CHRISTOPHER ROBIN LEADS AN EXPOTITION TO THE NORTH POLE

One fine day Pooh had stumped up to the top of the Forest to see if his friend
Christopher Robin was interested in Bears at all. At breakfast that morning (a
simple meal of marmalade spread lightly over a honeycomb or two) he had suddenly
thought of a new song. It began like this:
"Sing Ho! For the life of a Bear."
When he had got as far as this, he scratched his head, and thought to himself
"That's a very good start for a song, but what about the second line?" He tried
singing "Ho," two or three times, but it didn't seem to help. "Perhaps it would
be better," he thought, "if I sang Hi for the life of a Bear." So he sang it . .
. but it wasn't. "Very well, then," he said, "I shall sing that first line
twice, and perhaps if I sing it very quickly, I shall find myself singing the
third and fourth lines before I have time to think of them, and that will be a
Good Song. Now then:"

Sing Ho! for the life of a Bear!
Sing Ho! for the life of a Bear!
I don't much mind if it rains or snows,
'Cos I've got a lot of honey on my nice new nose!
I don't much care if it snows or thaws,
'Cos I've got a lot of honey on my nice clean paws!
Sing Ho! for a Bear!
Sing Ho! for a Pooh!
And I'll have a little something in an hour or two!

He was so pleased with this song that he sang it all the way to the top of the
Forest, "and if I go on singing it much longer," he thought, "it will be time
for the little something, and then the last line won't be true." So he turned it
into a hum instead.
Christopher Robin was sitting outside his door, putting on his Big Boots. As
soon as he saw the Big Boots, Pooh knew that an Adventure was going to happen,
and he brushed the honey off his nose with the back of his paw, and spruced
himself up as well as he could, so as to look Ready for Anything.
"Good morning, Christopher Robin," he called out.
"Hallo, Pooh Bear. I can't get this boot on."
"That's bad," said Pooh.
"Do you think you could very kindly lean against me, 'cos I keep pulling so hard
that I fall over backwards."
Pooh sat down, dug his feet into the ground, and pushed hard against Christopher
Robin's back, and Christopher Robin pushed hard against his, and pulled and
pulled at his boot until he had got it on.
"And that's that," said Pooh. "What do we do next?"
"We are all going on an Expedition," said Christopher Robin, as he got up and
brushed himself. "Thank you, Pooh."

Sing a song of sixpence

Překládání poezie a písňových textů vyžaduje od překladatele kromě dokonalé znalosti jazyka, jazykového a historického kontextu a reálií také jistý smysl pro rytmus. Záměrně nezmiňuji rým: rýmovačky typu slunce-žblunce (abychom citovali skvělý překlad Neználka) z žádného textu poezii neudělají, a naproti tomu dobrá rytmizace a cit pro slovní a větný přízvuk, se velmi často uplatní i při překládání prózy, zejména v přímé řeči.

Úkoly na dnešní hodinu:

1. SOUTĚŽ!
Připravte si tužku a papír.
Kdo dokáže za 5 minut napsat největší počet česky zpívaných písní, které jsou přeložené z angličtiny?
(Muzikál se počítá jako jeden titul.)

Prémiová otázka: Kdo byl Ivo Fišer?

2. Klikněte na název dnešního blogu - Sing a song of sixpence. Nejprve si přečtěte něco o vzniku a smyslu říkadla a pak se pokuste přeložit alespoň první čtyři řádky. Jaký přístup zvolíte? Máte tři možnosti: dětské říkadlo (rytmizované nesmysly vítány), přesný překlad významu originálu, nebo vlastní "počeštěný" děj.
AUDIO na YouTube

ANTI-INSPIRACE: Horory české populární hudby

3. Porovnejte klasický westernový text s českým překladem. Líbí, nelíbí? a hlavně, PROČ? Názory vkládejte do komentáře k tomuto blogu.

High Noon

Do not forsake me oh my darling on this our wedding day
Do not forsake me oh my darling wait wait along
I do not know what fate awaits me I only know I must be brave
And I must face the man who hates me
Or lie a coward a craven coward or lie a coward in my grave
Oh to be torn twixt love and duty spposin' I lose my fairhaired beauty
Look at that big hand move along nearing high noon
He made a vow while in state's prison vowed it would be my life or his'n
I'm not afraid at all of what will I do if you leave me
Do not forsake me oh my darling you made that promise as a bride

Do not forsake me oh my darling although you're grieving don't think of leaving
Now that I need you by my side
Wait along wait along wait along wait along


ZDROJ

Buď pořád se mnou (z filmu V pravé poledne)


Buď pořád se mnou, lásko sladká
ten slib ti nevrátím.
Až prach se zvedne po šarvátkách,
mé bude tvým.

Jak dobrý přítel pohleď se mnou
vstříc možná trpkým hodinám
Ba smiř se s pravdou nepříjemnou,
že i tvůj milý má slabou chvíli,
že dostalstrašný strach být sám.

Přestože vidím kamarády,
kterak se ke mně točí zády,
věřím, že třeba sám a sám
dál pravdu mám.

V životě asi žádná víra
samotná zámky neotvírá,
mivím, že se musím za ní prát,
prát se i s tím, co mně svírá.

Jen ty buď se mnou, lásko sladká,
tvůj úsměv je mé bázně štít.
A tak tu stojím bez pozlátka.
Až jednou zmizí co je mně cizí,
jen pro tvůj úsměv
chtěl bych žít.
Chtěl bych žít, chtěl bych žít.
Chtěl bych žít, chtěl bych žít.





4. Vyberte si jednu z níže uvedených písní k překladu. Audio najdete v CAPSE. Opet mate dve moznosti - držet se původního obsahu textu nebo ne. Rozhodnutí je na vás!

Bob Dylan - Mr. Tambourine Man
(minimum - 2 sloky + refrén)
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come followin’ you

Though I know that evenin’s empire has returned into sand
Vanished from my hand
Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping
My weariness amazes me, I’m branded on my feet
I have no one to meet
And the ancient empty street’s too dead for dreaming

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come followin’ you

Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin’ ship
My senses have been stripped, my hands can’t feel to grip
My toes too numb to step
Wait only for my boot heels to be wanderin’
I’m ready to go anywhere, I’m ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come followin’ you

Though you might hear laughin’, spinnin’, swingin’ madly across the sun
It’s not aimed at anyone, it’s just escapin’ on the run
And but for the sky there are no fences facin’
And if you hear vague traces of skippin’ reels of rhyme
To your tambourine in time, it’s just a ragged clown behind
I wouldn’t pay it any mind
It’s just a shadow you’re seein’ that he’s chasing

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come followin’ you

Then take me disappearin’ through the smoke rings of my mind
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves
The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves
Let me forget about today until tomorrow

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come followin’ you

http://www.bobdylan.com/#/songs/mr-tambourine-man


Rod Stewart - I am sailing
(celé)

I am sailing, I am sailing,
home again 'cross the sea.
I am sailing, stormy waters,
to be near you, to be free.

I am flying, I am flying,
like a bird 'cross the sky.
I am flying, passing high clouds,
to be with you, to be free.

Can you hear me, can you hear me
thro' the dark night, far away,
I am dying, forever trying,
to be with you, who can say.

Can you hear me, can you hear me,
thro' the dark night far away.
I am dying, forever trying,
to be with you, who can say.

We are sailing, we are sailing,
home again 'cross the sea.
We are sailing stormy waters,
to be near you, to be free.

Oh Lord, to be near you, to be free.
Oh Lord, to be near you, to be free,
Oh Lord.

Copyright © 1964, 1965 by Warner Bros. Inc.; renewed 1992, 1993 by Special Rider Music

Rytmus a rým

Dokonce i próza často využívá poetických zvukomalebných prvků - překladatel by měl být proto schopen rytmizaci textu rozpoznat a pokud je to možné, zachovat ji i v přeloženém textu.

Dokážete najít v textu přízvučné slabiky? Nejsnazší to bývá u písňových textů - přízvuk textu se obvykle shoduje s přízvukem hudebním.

Zkopírujte si následující text do Wordu a barevně vyznačte přízvučné slabiky.

1.
Hoj ty štědrý večere,
ty tajemný svátku,
cože komu dobrého
neseš na památku?

2.
Znám křišťálovou studánku
kde nejhlubší je les
tam roste tmavé kapradí
a vůkol rudý vřes.

3.
Byl pozdní večer, první máj,
večerní máj byl lásky čas
hrdliččin zval ku lásce hlas
kde borový zaváněl háj.

4.
Country roads, take me home
To the place I belong
West Virginia, mountain momma
Take me home, country roads

Veď mě dál cesto má
veď mě dál, vždyť i já
tam kde končíš chtěl bych dojít
Veď mě dál cesto má

5.
Oh when the saints go marching in
Oh when the saints go marching in
oh I’d want to be in that number
when the saints go marching in

Vlak z Paddingtonu

Texty Agathy Christie se vyznačují plynulostí, čtivostí, bohatou slovní zásobou a barvitým vyjadřováním. Slovní hříčky, narážky, ironie a hrátky se jmény jsou téměř pravidlem; živá, realistická přímá řeč tvoří více než polovinu textu a často slouží k výrazné charakterizaci jednotlivých postav.


1. Seznamte se krátce s autorkou - například na Wikipedii nebo na stránkách AC či Mystery. Bližší údaje o textu, kterým se budeme zabývat, najdete ZDE.
Uvědomte si, v jakém historickém a sociálním prostředí se detektivní příběh odehrává, a jaké tedy budou odpovídající stylové roviny textu.

2. Přečtěte si text určený k překladu v kontextu celé knihy (str. 80) - ke stažení na
CAPSE (Login a heslo se dozvíte v hodině). Rozhodněte, s jakými problémy se budete muset při překládání vypořádat.

- So Miss Marple had duly been fetched by Lucy and installed by the fire...
- Really, your grandfather did? In the classical style, aren't they? Very handsome. How delightful...
- Miss Marple launched full steam ahead...
- ...the boys rather wet and dirty as a result of an enthusiastic search for clues.
- Very naughty about it, he was.


3. Pusťte se do překládání :) Nešetřete prací se slovníky!!

4. Prémiová otázka: co může v kontextu této detektivky znamenat zkratka A.C.? (Nápověda: najděte v knize místo, kde je použita, pomocí vyhledavače - Ctrl+F.)

ŘEŠENÍ

Dodatek pro zajímavost...

_____________________________________

TEXT K PŘEKLADU

So Miss Marple had duly been fetched by Lucy and installed by the fire and she was now smiling up at Alfred as he handed her sandwiches with the approval she always showed towards a good-looking man.
"Thank you so much... May I ask...? Oh, egg and sardine, yes, that will be very nice. I'm afraid I'm always rather greedy over my tea. As one gets on, you know... And, of course, at night only a very light meal... I have to be careful."
She turned to her hostess once more. "What a beautiful house you have. And so many beautiful things in it. Those bronzes, now, they remind me of some my father bought - at the Paris Exhibition. Really, your grandfather did? In the classical style, aren't they? Very handsome. How delightful for you having your brothers with you? So often families are scattered - India, though I suppose that is all done with now - and Africa - the west coast, such a bad climate."
"Two of my brothers live in London."
"That is very nice for you."
"But my brother Cedric is a painter and lives in Ibiza, one of the Balearic Islands."
"Painters are so fond of islands, are they not?" said Miss Marple. "Chopin - that was Majorca, was it not? But he was a musician. It is Gauguin I am thinking of. A sad life - misspent, one feels. I myself never really care for paintings of native women - and although I know he is very much admired - I have never cared for that lurid mustard colour. One really feels quite bilious looking at his pictures."
She eyed Cedric with a slightly disapproving air.
"Tell us about Lucy as a child, Miss Marple," said Cedric.
She smiled up at him delightedly. "Lucy was always so clever," she said. "Yes, you were, dear - now don't interrupt. Quite remarkable at arithmetic. Why, I remember when the butcher overcharged me for topside of beef..."
Miss Marple launched full steam ahead into reminiscences of Lucy's childhood and from there to experiences of her own in village life.
The stream of reminiscence was interrupted by the entry of Bryan and the boys rather wet and dirty as a result of an enthusiastic search for clues. Tea was brought in and with it came Dr. Quimper who raised his eyebrows slightly as he looked round after acknowledging his introduction to the old lady.
"Hope your father's not under the weather, Emma?"
"Oh, no - that is, he was just a little tired this afternoon -"
"Avoiding visitors, I expect," said Miss Marple with a roguish smile. "How well I remember my own dear father. 'Got a lot of old pussies coming?' he would say to my mother. 'Send my tea into the study.' Very naughty about it, he was."
"Please don't think -" began Emma, but Cedric cut in. "It's always tea in the study when his dear sons come down. Psychologically to be expected, eh, Doctor?"

Mluv s nimi!

Překádání rozhovorů je příjemná práce. Stránky rychle přibývají, a překladatel má dojem, jako by si s postavami sám povídal. Překládat přímou řeč znamená "znát" každou postavu - vědět, ke které společenské vrstvě dotyčný patří, jaká stylová rovina jazyka je pro něho typická, zda si dává záležet na smyslu každého svého slova či s oblibou používá metamorfované idiomy, narážky a ironii... Při překladu je proto nejdůležitější dobře znát celé dílo a umět si každou postavu představit jako živého člověka.
Zkuste si přeložené věty říct nahlas, či ve dvojici přečíst celý dialog. Pokud se vám některá část textu obtížně vyslovuje nebo pokud rozhovor v některých místech ztrácí logiku a bezprostřednost, bude něco špatně :)


Jinak mluví bystrá, důstojná starší dáma z anglického venkova, jinak indický plukovník. Pokuste se specifika jejich řeči obsažená v originále převést do češtiny (pouze tučně vyznačené úseky přímé řeči). Nejprve zavřete oči a představte si konkrétni postavu v konkrétním prostředí - asi jako byste se dívali na film s českým dabingem a anglickými titulky!


TEXT 1
'Deucedly sorry and all that, chaps, but time is of the essence.' Wyatt-Turner, a big, redfaced,
heavily moustached colonel, tapped his cane against a. wall-map of Germany,
pointing to a spot just north of the Austrian border and a little west of Garmisch-
Partenkirchen. 'Our man was brought down here at 2 a.m. this morning but SHAEF, in
their all-knowing wisdom, didn't let us know until 10 a.m. Damned idiots! Damned idiots
for not letting us know until so late and double-damned idiots for ignoring our advice in
the first place. Gad, will they never learn to listen to us?' He shook his head in anger,
tapped the map again.

Alistair MacLean: Where Eagles Dare
prostředí: velitelství britských výsadkových jednotek, 1944

--------------------------------------------

TEXT 2
Hercule Poirot smiled.
‘It is clear, therefore, that you do not understand the A B C of the position. There are unpleasantnesses!
Yes, there are a lot of unpleasantnesses. To begin with, there is suspicion .’
‘Suspicion?’
It was Miss Johnson who spoke. Mr Poirot looked at her thoughtfully. I had an idea that he regarded
her with approval. He looked as though he were thinking: ‘Here is a sensible, intelligent person!’
‘Yes, mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘Suspicion! Let us not make the bones about it.You are all under
suspicion here in this house. The cook, the house-boy, the scullion, the pot-boy—yes, and all the
members of the expedition too.’
Mrs Mercado started up, her face working.
‘How dare you? How dare you say such a thing? This is odious—unbearable! Dr Leidner—you can’t sit
here and let this man—let this man—’
Dr Leidner said wearily: ‘Please try and be calm, Marie.’

Agatha Christie: Murder in Mesopotamia
Poirot's first meeting with a group of decent archeologists whose colleague was murdered

--------------------------------------------

TEXT 3
A grassy slope cascaded downward onto an expansive lowlands where clusters of sugar maples dotted quadrangles bordered by brick dormitories and footpaths. Scholarly looking individuals with stacks of books hustled in and out of buildings. As if to accentuate the collegiate atmosphere, two longhaired hippies hurled a Frisbee back and forth while enjoying Mahler’s Fourth Symphony blaring from a dorm window.
“These are our residential dorms,” Kohler explained as he accelerated his wheelchair down the path toward the buildings. “We have over three thousand physicists here. CERN single-handedly employs more than half of the world’s particle physicists - the brightest minds on earth-Germans, Japanese, Italians, Dutch, you name it. Our physicists represent over five hundred universities and sixty nationalities.”
Langdon was amazed. “How do they all communicate?”
“English, of course. The universal language of science.”

Dan Brown: Angels and Demons
Langdon being taken to the Swiss particle physics scientific centre CERN

--------------------------------------------

TEXT 4
"A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!" cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge's nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach.
"Bah!" said Scrooge. "Humbug!"
He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of Scrooge's, that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again.
"Christmas a humbug, uncle!" said Scrooge's nephew. "You don't mean that, I am sure?"
"I do," said Scrooge. "Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You're poor enough."
"Come, then," returned the nephew gaily. "What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You're rich enough."
Scrooge, having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said, "Bah!" again; and followed it up with "Humbug!"
"Don't be cross, uncle!" said the nephew.
"What else can I be," returned the uncle, "when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas! Out upon merry Christmas! What's Christmas-time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, and not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books, and having every item in 'em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? If I could work my will," said Scrooge indignantly, "every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!"
"Uncle!" pleaded the nephew.
"Nephew!" returned the uncle sternly, "keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine."

Charles Dickens: A Christmas Carol
read more about the heroes HERE

A Simple Beginning

After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in
there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts
of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and
stone. Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick,
man-crushing pythons. Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the
place. It could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle Vernon's car
and crushed it into a trash can -- but at the moment it didn't look in
the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep.
Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the
glistening brown coils.
"Make it move," he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped on the
glass, but the snake didn't budge.
"Do it again," Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon rapped the glass smartly
with his knuckles, but the snake just snoozed on.
"This is boring," Dudley moaned. He shuffled away.
Harry moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake. He
wouldn't have been surprised if it had died of boredom itself -- no
company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass trying
to disturb it all day long. It was worse than having a cupboard as a
bedroom, where the only visitor was Aunt Petunia hammering on the door
to wake you up; at least he got to visit the rest of the house.
The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised
its head until its eyes were on a level with Harry's.
It winked.
Harry stared. Then he looked quickly around to see if anyone was
watching. They weren't. He looked back at the snake and winked, too.
The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then raised
its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Harry a look that said quite plainly:
"I get that all the time.
"I know," Harry murmured through the glass, though he wasn't sure the
snake could hear him. "It must be really annoying."
The snake nodded vigorously.
"Where do you come from, anyway?" Harry asked.
The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the glass. Harry
peered at it.
Boa Constrictor, Brazil.
"Was it nice there?"
The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again and Harry read on:
This specimen was bred in the zoo. "Oh, I see -- so you've never been to
Brazil?"
As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Harry made both of
them jump.
"DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU
WON'T BELIEVE
WHAT IT'S DOING!"
Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could.
"Out of the way, you," he said, punching Harry in the ribs. Caught by
surprise, Harry fell hard on the concrete floor. What came next happened
so fast no one saw how it happened -- one second, Piers and Dudley were
leaning right up close to the glass, the next, they had leapt back with
howls of horror.
Harry sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor's tank
had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering
out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house screamed and
started running for the exits.
As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry could have sworn a low,
hissing voice said, "Brazil, here I come.... Thanksss, amigo."
The keeper of the reptile house was in shock.
"But the glass," he kept saying, "where did the glass go?"
The zoo director himself made Aunt Petunia a cup of strong, sweet tea
while he apologized over and over again. Piers and Dudley could only
gibber. As far as Harry had seen, the snake hadn't done anything except
snap playfully at their heels as it passed, but by the time they were
all back in Uncle Vernon's car, Dudley was telling them how it had
nearly bitten off his leg, while Piers was swearing it had tried to
squeeze him to death. But worst of all, for Harry at least, was Piers
calming down enough to say, "Harry was talking to it, weren't you,
Harry?"
Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the house before
starting on Harry. He was so angry he could hardly speak. He managed to
say, "Go -- cupboard -- stay -- no meals," before he collapsed into a
chair, and Aunt Petunia had to run and get him a large brandy.
Harry lay in his dark cupboard much later, wishing he had a watch. He
didn't know what time it was and he couldn't be sure the Dursleys were
asleep yet. Until they were, he couldn't risk sneaking to the kitchen
for some food.

VIDEO online :)

Ring volný

Vaším dnešním úkolem je vybrat si z nabídnutých knih tu, která vás zaujme, seznámit se s ní a pak zvolit úryvek textu k překladu.
Pracujte ve dvojicích (nebo individuálně, dle vlastní volby).
Využijte internet - najděte si informace o autorovi, kritiky zvolené knihy atd.
Do komentáře k tomuto blogu uveďte, kterou knihu jste si zvolili, a který úryvek, a to v podobě normovaných bibliografických údajů.



Do 18. května odevzdejte hotový překlad v rozsahu minimálně jedné normostrany (30 řádek, 60 znaků na řádku) VYTIŠTĚNÝ, spolu s kopií originálního textu.

Jack London

Dobrodružná literatura musí mít především spád. Správný autor tohoto žánru se nezdržuje dlouhými popisy a jde přímo k věci. To ovšem neznamená, že by jeho text byl méně bohatý! Jen využívá např. k charakteristice postav jiných literárních prostředků.

Jack London byl mistrem dobrodružné literatury; jeho texty jsou dramatické, dynamické, úsporné a přitom barvité.
Máte před sebou ukázku z knihy "Smoke Bellew", která dvakrát vyšla česky (Mezi zlatokopy: Praha, Albatros 1974, přel. Milan Rejl; Praha, Svoboda 1988, přel. Milan Rejl a Vladimír Svoboda); dokonce byla zdramatizována jako rozhlasová hra pro děti ("Ten kouř kolem tebe" - napsal Viktorín Šulc). Literární rozcestník ji uvádí jako "povídkový cyklus o znuděném intelektuálovi, který najde sám sebe mezi zlatokopy na Aljašce" (ref)

Plný text je volně k dispozici díky projektu Guttenberg.

1. Nejprve si přečtěte/prolistujte začátek románu; proč se hlavní hrdina vydal na Aljašku? Nemyslete na překládání, čtěte rychle, bavte se a hledejte dobrodružství :)
2. Soustředěně si několikrát pročtete následující odstavec. Co se z něho o Kitovi dozvíte? Jakých prostředků London používá k tomu, aby měl text rychlý spád?
==============================================================
On his way back to the beach, Kit turned the phrase over and over. It
rankled to be called tenderfoot by a slender chit of a woman.
Going into a corner among the heaps of freight, his mind still filled
with the vision of the Indian with the redoubtable pack, Kit essayed
to learn his own strength. He picked out a sack of flour which he knew
weighed an even hundred pounds. He stepped astride it, reached down,
and strove to get it on his shoulder. His first conclusion was that one
hundred pounds were real heavy. His next was that his back was weak. His
third was an oath, and it occurred at the end of five futile minutes,
when he collapsed on top of the burden with which he was wrestling. He
mopped his forehead, and across a heap of grub-sacks saw John Bellew
gazing at him, wintry amusement in his eyes.
==============================================================
Vložte své názory do komentáře k tomuto blogu.


3. Přeložte následující úryvek (nejprve si ho najděte v kontextu):

==============================================================
"What other men can do, we can do," Kit told Robbie, though down in his
heart he wondered whether or not he was bluffing.

"And I am twenty-seven years old and a man," he privately assured
himself many times in the days that followed. There was need for it. At
the end of a week, though he had succeeded in moving his eight hundred
pounds forward a mile a day, he had lost fifteen pounds of his own
weight. His face was lean and haggard. All resilience had gone out
of his body and mind. He no longer walked, but plodded. And on the
back-trips, travelling light, his feet dragged almost as much as when he
was loaded.

He had become a work animal. He fell asleep over his food, and his sleep
was heavy and beastly, save when he was aroused, screaming with agony,
by the cramps in his legs. Every part of him ached. He tramped on raw
blisters; yet even this was easier than the fearful bruising his feet
received on the water-rounded rocks of the Dyea Flats, across which the
trail led for two miles. These two miles represented thirty-eight miles
of travelling. He washed his face once a day. His nails, torn and broken
and afflicted with hangnails, were never cleaned. His shoulders and
chest, galled by the pack-straps, made him think, and for the first time
with understanding, of the horses he had seen on city streets.

Hudba a text

Překládání písňových textů nabízí překladateli bohaté tvůrčí možnosti a zároveň přináší omezení, jaká próza nezná. Mnohé české překlady světových hitů patří ke špičce v oboru; za všechny jmenujme alespoň textaře Ivo Fišera (Šíleně smutná princezna; Divotvorný hrnec; Kladivo, Růže z texasu, Červená řeka, Slavíci z Madridu a mnoho dalších).
Textaře nesvazuje tolik obsah textu jako jeho forma - musí respektovat délku a přízvučnost slabik, aby text zapadl do hudebního frázování.

1. Zapátrejte v paměti a napište do komentáře k blogu názvy původně anglický textovaných písní, které se dočkaly úspěšného českého překladu.
2. Přečtěte si níže uvedený text, stáhněte si ho nebo kousek opište a označte přízvučné slabiky. Pomůže vám, když si budete text číst polohlasně.
3. Poslechněte si nahrávku. Znáte ji? Porovnejte své označené přízvuky s těžkými a lehkými dobami hudebními. Audio ke stazeni ZDE.
4. Napište k písni český text. Původním obsahem nejste nijak vázáni - pouze hudební formou; výsledný text by měl být příjemně zpívatelný.



Lemon Tree (Harry Belafonte, Peter, Paul and Mary)

1. When I was just a lad of ten, my father said to me,
"Come here and take a lesson from the lovely lemon tree."
"Don't put your faith in love, my boy", my father said to me,
"I fear you'll find that love is like the lovely lemon tree."

CH: Lemon tree very pretty and the lemon flower is sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat.
Lemon tree very pretty and the lemon flower is sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat.


2. One day beneath the lemon tree, my love and I did lie
A girl so sweet that when she smiled the stars rose in the sky.
We passed that summer lost in love beneath the lemon tree
The music of her laughter hid my father's words from me:

CH: Lemon tree very pretty and the lemon flower is sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat.
Lemon tree very pretty and the lemon flower is sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat.


3. One day she left without a word. She took away the sun.
And in the dark she left behind, I knew what she had done.
She'd left me for another, it's a common tale but true.
A sadder man but wiser now I sing these words to you:

CH: Lemon tree very pretty and the lemon flower is sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat.
Lemon tree very pretty and the lemon flower is sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat.

_______________________________________________________

SPOILER - česká folková verze, textově velmi kvalitní; doporučuji neklikat, dokud nemáte vlastní představu a nápad :)

The Britons in India

Relativně krátký čas, který Rudyard Kipling strávil v koloniální Indii, ovlivnil celou jeho tvorbu. Jako by mu tamější svět příkrých kontrastů jednou pro vždy otevřel jiný pohled na život. Kromě notoricky známé Knihy džunglí najdeme v jeho díle mnoho povídek, krátkých postřehů, ilustrující střet dvou civilizací na indickém území. Patří mezi ně i povídka Wee Willie Winkie.

Úkoly:
1. Stáhněte si celou povídku z capsy a přečtěte si ji. Ve slovníku hledejte jen v nejvyšší nouzi a jen ta slova, která se vyskytují opakovaně a brání vám v pochopení děje.
2. Přeložte následující krátký úryvek a svůj překlad vložte do komentáře k blogu (podepsaný).

If Wee Willie Winkie took an interest in any one, the fortunate man was envied alike by the mess and the rank and file. And in their envy lay no suspicion of self−interest. “The Colonel's son” was idolized on his own merits entirely.

3. Přečtěte si první ukázku určenou k překladu (rozhovor, viz níže) a odhadněte, které překladatelské problémy bude třeba řešit. Své náměty vložte do komentáře k blogu.
4. Pusťte se do překládání první ukázky :)

TERMÍNY:
Úkol 1, 2, 3 uploadovat do neděle 14.3.2010
Úkol 4 uploadovat do čtvrtka 18.3.2010 do 13 hodin.

Celá povídka ke stažení

Ukázka 1
“I saw you,” said Wee Willie Winkie, calmly. “But ve groom didn't see. I said, 'Hut jao.'“
“Oh, you had that much sense, you young Rip,” groaned poor Coppy, half amused and half angry. “And how many people may you have told about it?”
“Only me myself. You didn't tell when I twied to wide ve buffalo ven my pony was lame; and I fought you wouldn't like.”
“Winkie,” said Coppy, enthusiastically, shaking the small hand, “you're the best of good fellows. Look here, you can't understand all these things. One of these days—hang it, how can I make you see it!—I'm going to marry Miss Allardyce, and then she'll be Mrs. Coppy, as you say. If your young mind is so scandalized at the
idea of kissing big girls, go and tell your father.”
“What will happen?” said Wee Willie Winkie, who firmly believed that his father was omnipotent.
“I shall get into trouble.” said Coppy, playing his trump card with an appealing look at the holder of the ace.
“Ven I won't,” said Wee Willie Winkie, briefly. “But my faver says it's un−man−ly to be always kissing, and I didn't fink you'd do vat, Coppy.”

Ukázka 2
Another man joined the conference, crying:—“O foolish men! What this babe says is true. He is the heart's heart of those white troops. For the sake of peace let them go both, for if he be taken, the regiment will break loose and gut the valley. Our villages are in the valley, and we shall not escape. That regiment are devils. They broke Khoda Yar's breast−bone with kicks when he tried to take the rifles; and if we touch this child they will fire and rape and plunder for a month, till nothing remains. Better to send a man back to take the message and get a reward. I say that this child is their God, and that they will spare none of us, nor our women, if we harm him.”
It was Din Mahommed, the dismissed groom of the Colonel, who made the diversion, and an angry and heated discussion followed. Wee Willie Winkie, standing over Miss Allardyce, waited the upshot. Surely his “wegiment,” his own “wegiment,” would not desert him if they knew of his extremity.

Dick Francis - živá angličtina

Čtrnáctého února 2010 zemřel na Kajmanských ostrovech britský spisovatel Dick Francis, tvůrce žánru dostihového detektivního románu a legenda dostihového sportu v Británii.
Jeho detektivky se od počátku setkávaly v české republice s velkým ohlasem; vycházely až na výjimky 60.let v nakladatelství Olympia. Francisovou dvorní překladatelkou a přítelkyní byla doktorka Jaroslava Moserová.
Francisův styl je čtivý, živý a aktivní, aniž by to ubíralo na kvalitě a pestrosti jeho angličtiny. Popisné části zůstávají nápaditě barvité, a přímé promluvy vypovídají hodně o jednotlivých postavách.

1. Vyhledejte na internetu informace o Francisovi a jeho díle; pokuste se najít zejména recenze, české i anglické, a názory čtenářů. Alespoň jeden zajímavý odkaz na čtenářské ohlasy zkopírujte do komentáře k tomuto blogu.

2. V capse najdete text románu "The Edge". Zalistujte, seznamte se rámcově s textem, případně přečtěte celou detektivku :)

3. Přeložte dva úryvky z úvodu knihy, které jsou v následujícím textu tučně zvýrazněny. Soustřeďte se na maximální zachování atmosféry, snažte se využívat české sytaktické prvky a nezasahovat přitom do originální větné struktury víc, než je nutno. V přímé řeči respektujte stylové zařazení. Hotový překlad vložte do komentáře k tomuto blogu (nezapomeňte se podepsat).

Tip: překládejte do poznámkového bloku a pravidelně zálohujte.


Dick Francis - The Edge

Chapter One

I was following Derry Welfram at a prudent fifty paces when he stumbled, fell face down on the wet tarmac and lay still. I stopped, watching, as nearer hands stretched to help him up, and saw the doubt, the apprehension, the shock flower in the opening mouths of the faces around him. The word that formed in consequence in my own brain was violent, of four letters and unexpressed.
Derry Welfram lay face down, unmoving, while the fourteen runners for the three-thirty race at York stalked closely past him, the damp jockeys looking down and back with muted curiosity, minds on the business ahead, bodies shivering in the cold near-drizzle of early October. The man was drunk. One could read their minds. Midafternoon falling-down drunks were hardly unknown on racecourses. It was a miserable, uncomfortable afternoon. Good luck to him, the drunk.
I retreated a few unobtrusive steps and went on watching. Some of the group who had been nearest to Welfram when he fell were edging away, looking at the departing horses, wanting to leave, to see the race. A few shuffled from foot to foot, caught between a wish to desert and shame at doing so, and one, more civic-minded, scuttled off for help.
I drifted over to the open door of the paddock bar, from where several customers looked out on the scene. Inside, the place was full of dryish people watching life on closed-circuit television, life at second hand.
One of the group in the doorway said to me, 'What's the matter with him?'
'I've no idea.' I shrugged. 'Drunk, I dare say.'
I stood there quietly, part of the scenery, not pushing through into the bar but standing just outside the door under the eaves of the overhanging roof, trying not to let the occasional drips from above fall down my neck.
The civic-minded man came back at a run, followed by a heavy man in a St. John's Ambulance uniform. People had by now half-turned Welfram and loosened his tie; but seemed to step back gladly at the approach of officialdom. The St. John's man rolled Welfram fully on to his back and spoke decisively into a walkie-talkie. Then he bent Welfram's head backwards and tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
I couldn't think of any circumstance which would have persuaded me to put my mouth on Welfram's. Perhaps it was easier between absolute strangers. Not even to save his life, I thought, though I'd have preferred him alive.
Another man arrived in a hurry, a thin raincoated man I knew by sight to be the racecourse doctor. He tapped the ambulance man on the shoulder, telling him to discontinue, and himself laid first his fingers against Welfram's neck, then his stethoscope against the chest inside the opened shirt. After a long listening pause, perhaps as much as half a minute, he straightened and spoke to the ambulance man, meanwhile stuffing the stethoscope into his raincoat pocket. Then he departed, again at a hurry, because the race was about to begin and the racecourse doctor, during each running, had to be out on the course to succour the jockeys.
The ambulance man held a further conversation with his walkie-talkie but tried no more to blow air into unresponsive lungs, and presently some colleagues of his arrived with a stretcher and covering blanket, and loaded up and carried away, decently hidden, the silver hair, the bulging navy-blue suit and the stilled heart of a heartless man.
The group that had stood near him broke up with relief, two or three of them heading straight for the bar.
The man who had earlier asked me, asked the newcomers the same question. 'What's the matter with him?'
'He's dead,' one of them said briefly and unnecessarily. 'God, I need a drink.' He pushed his way into the bar, with the doorway spectators, me among them, following him inside to listen. 'He just fell down and died.' He shook his head, 'Strewth, it makes you think.' He tried to catch the barman's eye. 'You could hear his breath rattling... then it just stopped... he was dead before the St. John's man got there... Barman, a double gin... make it a treble...'
'Was there any blood?' I asked.
'Blood?' He half looked in my direction, 'Course not. You don't get blood with heart attacks... Barman, a gin and tonic... not much tonic... get a shunt on, will you?’
'Who was he?' someone said.
'Search me. Just some poor mug.'
On the television the race began, and everyone, including myself, swivelled round to watch, though I couldn't have said afterwards what had won. With Derry Welfram dead my immediate job was going to be much more difficult, if not temporarily impossible. The three-thirty in those terms was irrelevant.
I left the bar in the general break-up after the race and wandered about inconclusively for a bit, looking for other things that were not as they should be and, as on many days, not seeing any. I particularly looked for anyone who might be looking for Derry Welfram, hanging around for that purpose outside the ambulance-room door, but no one arrived to enquire. An announcement came over the loud-speakers presently asking for anyone who had accompanied a Mr D. Welfram to the races to report to the clerk of the course's office, so I hung about outside there for a while also, but no one accepted the invitation.
Welfram the corpse left the racecourse in an ambulance en route to the morgue and after a while I drove away from York in my unremarkable Audi, and punctually at five o'clock telephoned on my car phone to John Millington, my immediate boss, as required.
'What do you mean, he's dead?' he demanded. 'He can't be.'
'His heart stopped,' I said.
'Did someone kill him?'
Neither of us would have been surprised if someone had, but I said, 'No, there wasn't any sign of it. I'd been following him for ages. I didn't see anyone bump into him, or anything like that. And there was apparently no blood. Nothing suspicious. He just died.'
'Shit.' His angry tone made it sound as if it were probably my fault. John Millington, retired policeman (Chief Inspector), currently Deputy Head of the Jockey Club Security Service, had never seemed to come to terms with my covert and indeterminate appointment to his department, even though in the three years I'd been working for him we'd seen a good few villains run off the racecourse.
'The boy's a blasted amateur,' he'd protested when I was presented to him as a fact, not a suggestion. 'The whole thing's ridiculous.'
He no longer said it was ridiculous but we had never become close friends.
'Did anyone make waves? Come asking for him?' he demanded.
'No, no one.'
'Are you sure?' He cast doubt as always on my ability.
'Yes, positive.' I told him of my vigils outside the various doors.
'Who did he meet, then? Before he snuffed it?'
'I don't think he met anybody, unless it was very early in the day, before I spotted him. He wasn't searching for anyone, anyway. He made a couple of bets on the Tote, drank a couple of beers, looked at the horses and watched the races. He wasn't busy today.'
Millington let loose the four-letter word I'd stifled. 'And we're back where we started,' he said furiously.
'Mm,' I agreed.
'Call me Monday morning,' Millington said, and I said, 'Right,' and put the phone down. Tonight was Saturday. Sunday was my regular day off, and Monday too, except in times of trouble. I could see my Monday vanishing fast.