Oceán v jediné kapce

Překládání povídek je často náročnější než práce na velkém románu... Zkusme si to.

Vyberte si jednu z povídek Raye Bradburyho, které jsou k dispozici v CAPSE:
1. Pater Caninus
2. The thing at the top of the stairs
3. Pieta summer

Vaším úkolem bude přeložit celou povídku. Nejprve se jako obyčejně seznamte s autorem s kontextem... ale hlavně si přečtěte všechny tři povídky a vyberte si tu, která je vám nejvíce sympatická.

So very much British: slovní hrátky a hříčky

Hra se slovy má v britské angličtině velkou tradici, počínaje cockney až po odlehčený "společenský slang" absolventů Etonu, Oxfordu a Cambridge, protkaný literárními a kulturními narážkami.
Například lord Petr Wimsey, hrdina detektivek Dorothy L. Sayersové, je typickým příkladem literárního hrdiny charakterizovaného (mimo jiné) také velmi specifickým způsobem řeči.

1. Vyhledejte si informace o autorce, hrdinovi, a synopsiníže citovaného díla.
2. Pomalu a v klidu si přečtěte úryvek (případně celou kapitolu nebo knihu) a přemýšlejte. Kdo jsou lidé, kteří spolu hovoří? V jakém prostředí? Které prvky v promluvách je odlišují nebo spojují? S čím budou při překládání potíže?
3. Pokuste se o překlad vyznačeného dialogu.
4. Ve spolupráci s dalším spolužákem či přítelem přečtěte přeložený text nahlas jako živý dialog. Vyznačte si místa, která jsou nelogická, nebo kde text vázne.
5. Upravte překlad.

DOROTHY L. SAVERS

Murder Must Advertise

CHAPTER I

Death Comes to Pym's Publicity

"And by the way," said Mr. Hankin, arresting Miss Rossiter as she rose

to go, "there is a new copy-writer coming in today."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Hankin?"

"His name is Bredon. I can't tell you much about him; Mr. Pym engaged

him himself; but you will see that he is looked after."

"Yes, Mr. Hankin."

"He will have Mr. Dean's room."

 "Yes, Mr. Hankin."

"I should think Mr. Ingleby could take him in hand and show him what

to do. You might send Mr. Ingleby along if he can spare me a moment."

"Yes, Mr. Hankin."

"That's all. And, oh, yes! Ask Mr. Smayle to let me have the Dairyfields

guard-book."

"Yes, Mr. Hankin."

Miss Rossiter tucked her note-book under her arm, closed the

glass-panelled door noiselessly after her and tripped smartly down the

corridor. Peeping through another glass-panelled door, she observed

Mr. Ingleby seated on a revolving chair with his feet on the cold radiator,

and talking with great animation to a young woman in green, perched

on the corner of the writing-table.

"Excuse me," said Miss Rossiter, with perfunctory civility, "but Mr.

Hankin says can you spare him a moment, Mr. Ingleby?"

"If it's Tomboy Toffee," replied Mr. Ingleby defensively, "it's being typed. Here! you'd better take these two bits along and

make it so. That will lend an air of verisimilitude to an otherwise—"

"It isn't Tomboy. It's a new copy-writer."

"What, already?" exclaimed the young woman. "Before those shoes were

old! Why, they only buried little Dean on Friday."

"Part of the modern system of push and go," said Mr. Ingleby. "All very

distressing in an old-fashioned, gentlemanly firm. Suppose I've got

to put this blighter through his paces. Why am I always left with the

baby?"

"Oh, rot!" said the young woman, "you've only got to warn him not to

use the directors' lav., and not to tumble down the iron staircase."

"You are the most callous woman, Miss Meteyard. Well, as long as they

don't put the fellow in with me—"

"It's all right, Mr. Ingleby. He's having Mr. Dean's room."

"Oh! What's he like?"

"Mr. Hankin said he didn't know, Mr. Pym took him on."

"Oh, gosh! friend of the management." Mr. Ingleby groaned.

"Then I think I've seen him," said Miss Meteyard. "Tow-coloured,

supercilious-looking blighter. I ran into him coming out of Pymmie's

room yesterday. Horn-rims. Cross between Ralph Lynn and Bertie

Wooster."

"Death, where is thy sting? Well, I suppose I'd better push off and

see about it."

Mr. Ingleby lowered his feet from the radiator, prised up his slow length

from the revolving chair, and prowled unhappily away.

"Oh, well, it makes a little excitement," said Miss Meteyard.

"Oh, don't you think we've had rather too much of that lately? By the

way, could I have your subscription for the wreath? You told me to remind

you."

"Yes, rather. What is it? A bob? Here's half-a-crown, and you'd better

take the sweep-money out of it as well."

Science or Fiction?

I překladatel krásné literatury musí mít jisté odborné znalosti z oblastí, kterých se děj dotýká - přinejmenším takové, aby svévolně nekomolil sdělení autora a nevytvářel překladatelské perličky.
Typickým příkladem jsou některá díla z oblasti science fiction, zejména "technologického proudu" osmdesátých a devadesátých let dvacátého století. Za všechny připomeňme trojici králů sci-fi: Clark, Asimov, Bradbury. Vždyť A.C.Clark byl vzděláním matematik a fyzik, a mezi jeho "scifistické" vynálezy patří například satelitní navigační síť (tj. základ dnešního telekomunikčního systému), solární plachta nebo iontový pohon meziplanetárních sond.

Dokážete rozluštit kvalifikovaně přeložit následující úryvek z Pohlovy série o Heechee?

F.Pohl, Beyond the Blue Event Horizon

"I'm sorry, Henrietta, dear. If you want me to learn some astrophysics I will."

            "Damn right you will!" Pause. "It's terribly important, Tom!" Pause. And then: "We go back to the Big Bang. Are you listening, Tom?"

            "Of course I am, dear," said the program in its humblest and most endearing way.

            "All right! It goes back to how the universe got started, and we know that pretty well-with one little hazy transition point that's a little obscure. Call it Point X."

            "Are you going to tell me what `Point X' is, dear?"

            "Shut up, Tom! Listen! Before Point X, essentially the whole universe was packed into a tiny glob, no more than a matter of kilometers through, super-dense, super hot, so squeezed it had no structure. Then it exploded. It began to expand-up to Point X, and that part is pretty clear. Do you follow me so far, Tom?"

            "Yes, dear. That's basically simple cosmology, isn't it?"

            Pause. "Just pay attention," Henrietta's voice said at last. "Then, after Point X, it continued to expand. As it expanded, little bits of `matter' began to condense out of it. First came nuclear particles, hadrons and pious, electrons and protons, neutrons and quarks. Then `real' matter. Real hydrogen atoms, then even helium atoms. The exploding volume of gas began to slow. Turbulence broke it into immense clouds. Gravity pulled the clouds into clumps. As they shrank the heat of contraction set nuclear reactions going. They glowed. The first stars were born. The rest," she finished, "is what we can see going on now."

            The program picked up its cue. "I see that, Henrietta, yes. How long are we talking about, now?"

            "Ah, good question," she said, in a voice not at all complimentary. "From the beginning of the Big Bang to Point X, three seconds. From Point X to right now, about eighteen billion years. And there we have it."

str. 93

Piráti

...aneb ještě k překládání řeči vázané.

1. Znáte tyto texty?
Přečtěte si oba úryvky, jeden si vyberte, zavřete oči... a pokuste se napřed v duchu a pak na papíře vytvořit VIZUALIZACI (ilustraci, grafické znázornění) obsahu zvoleného textu.

Hubená noc přisedla si s otráveným vínem

Bledá holka přikryla tmu černým baldachýnem

Divá jízda na Parnasu

holka z oka loví řasu

Ještě chvíli slyším basu

purpurovým stínem

Cesta je bič

Je zlá

jak pouliční dáma

Má v ruce štítky

v pase staniol

a z očí chtíč jí plá

když háže do neznáma

dvě křehké snítky

rudých gladiol

2. Jak se propracovat k významu textu? Nejen emotivní, kontextové, kulturní a historické pozadí může být překladatelským oříškem. Občas stačí, když autor sáhne do těch jazykových rejstříků, které běžně nepoužíváme. Skvělým příkladem je kniha Michaela Crichtona The Great Train Robbery, vydaná v českém překladu pod názvem Čtyři klíče.

Odhalíte význam vyznačených slov?

"He comes on duty at lock-up each night, at seven sharp," Miss Miriam said.

"And what manner of fellow is he?"

"He's a ream escop," she replied, meaning a real policeman. "He's forty or so; square-rigged, fat. But I'll wager he doesn't sleep on the job, and he's no lushington."

"Is he armed?"

"He is," she said, nodding.

"Where's he lurk, then?" Agar said.

"Right at the door. Sits up at the top of the steps by the door, and does not move at all. He has a small paper bag at his side, which I think is his supper." Miss Miriam could not be sure of that, because she dared not remain watching the station office too late in the day for fear of arousing suspicion.

"Crikey," Agar said in disgust. "Sits right by the door? He's coopered that ken."

"I wonder why they put on a night guard," Pierce said.

"Maybe they knew we were giving it the yack," Agar said, for they had kept the office under

surveillance, off and on, for a period of months, and someone might have noticed.

Pierce sighed.

"No gammon now," Agar said.

"There's always a gammon," Pierce said.

"It's coopered for sure," Agar said.

"Not coopered," Pierce said, "just a little more difficult is all."

"How you going to knock it over, then?" Agar said.

"At the dinner hour," he said.

Vložte do komentáře k blogu webové adresy slovníků nebo dalších míst, kde jste vhodný překlad našli!

Poesie jsou slova, je spletí hlásek...

Citát z Cyrana de Bergerac nás uvádí do nového tématu.

Překládání poesie? To je přece strašně těžké!
Inu, je a není... V čem je překlad poetického textu obtížnější a v čem jednodušší než překlad prózy?
1. Napište svůj názor do komentáře k tomuto blogu. Nezapomeňte se podepsat :)

2. Označte přízvučné slabiky v těchto úryvcích básní:
Hoj ty štědrý večere,
ty tajemný svátku,
cože komu dobrého
neseš na památku?

Pod tou skálou, kde proud řeky syčí,
tam kde ční červený kamení

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


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

Povolným krokem on zločince doprovází…

Pod tou skálou, kde proud řeky syčí,
tam kde ční červený kamení


From this valley they say you are going
We will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile
For they say you are taking the sunshine
That has brightened our pathways awhile

Výběr písní k překladu do češtiny

1.      Finale z muzikálu Hair  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fhNrqc6yvTU

2.      Abba – Chiquitita  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4QqMKe3rwY

3.      Barbara Striessand – Memory (z muzikálu the Cats) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=78Ruh0ewBVo

 

Docela obyčejná detektivka

Docela obyčejný, jednoduchý text pro obyčejné lidi, současná angličtina... a také poctivá autorská práce se stylem, s popisem a atmosférou. Co víc si může překladatel přát? :) 

1. Najděte si základní údaje o autorovi a synopsi knihy. Kdo je žena, která na úvodním obrázku tohoto blogu Dicka Francise doprovází?

2. Přečtěte si CELÝ přiložený úryvek, pracujte s vizualizací - nejprve si celou situaci představte, vžijte se do pocitů hlavního hrdiny (ich-forma je důležitý vyjadřovací prvek).

3. Začněte přemýšlet, jakými prostředky navozuje autor atmosféru napětí, akce.

4. Přeložte tučně vyznačenou část textu.

http://www.enotes.com/edge-dick-francis-salem/edge-0080523725
http://www.equichannel.cz/jaroslava-moserova-nejlepsi-konska-prekladatelka 
http://www.guardian.co.uk/news/2006/apr/14/guardianobituaries.mainsection

Dick Francis: The Edge

Chapter Eighteen

With a feeling of complete unreality I set off past the end of the train and along the single railway track in the direction of Toronto.

With one arm I clasped the four flares to my chest, in the other hand I carried George's bright-beamed torch, to show me the way.

Half a mile. How long was half a mile?

Hurry, George's assistant had said. Of all unnecessary instructions...

I half walked, half ran along the centre of the track, trying to step on the flat wood of the ties, the sleepers, because the stones in between were rough and speed-inhibiting.

Bears... my God.

It was cold. It had stopped snowing, but some snow was lying... not enough to give me problems. I hadn't thought to put on a coat. It didn't matter, movement would keep me warm. Urgency and fierce anxiety would keep me warm.

I began to feel it wasn't totally impossible. After all, it must have been done often in the old days. Standard procedure still, one might say. The flares had been there, ready. All the same, it was fairly eerie running through the night with snow-dusted rocky tree-dotted hillsides climbing away on each side and the two rails shining silver into the distance in front.

I didn't see the danger in time, and it didn't growl; it wasn't a bear, it had two legs and it was human. He must have been hiding behind rocks or trees in the shadow thrown by my torch. I saw his movement in the very edge of my peripheral vision after I'd passed him. I sensed an upswept arm, a weapon, a blow coming.

There was barely a hundredth of a second for instinctive . evasion. All I did as I ran was to lean forward a fraction so that the smash came across my shoulders, not on my head.

It felt as if I had cracked apart, but I hadn't. Feet, hands, muscles were all working. I staggered forward, dropped the flares and the torch, went down on one knee, knew another bang was travelling. Thought before action... I didn't have time. I turned towards him, not away. Turned inside and under the swinging arm, rising, butting upwards with my head to find the aggressive chin, jerking my knee fiercely to contact between the braced legs, punching with clenched fist and the force of fury into the Adam's apple in his throat. One of the many useful things I'd learned on my travels was how to fight dirty, and never had I needed the knowledge more.

He grunted and wheezed with triple unexpected pain and dropped to his knees on the ground, and I wrenched the long piece of wood from his slackening hand and hit his own head with it, hoping I was doing it hard enough to knock him out, not hard enough to kill him. He fell quietly face down in the snow between the rails, and I rolled him over with my foot, and in the deflected beam of the torch which lay unbroken a few paces away, saw the gaunt features of the man called Johnson.

He had got, I reckoned, a lot more than he was used to, and I felt intense satisfaction which was no doubt reprehensible but couldn't be helped.

I bent down, lifted one of his wrists and hauled him unceremoniously over the rail and into the shadows away from the track. He was heavy. Also the damage he'd done me, when it came to lugging unconscious persons about, was all too obvious. He might not have broken my back, which was what it had sounded like, but there were some badly squashed muscle fibres somewhere that weren't in first-class working order and were sending stabbing messages of protest besides.

I picked up the torch and looked for the flares, filled with an increased feeling of urgency, of time running out. I found three of the flares, couldn't see the fourth, decided not to waste time, thought the bears would have to lump it.

Must be lightheaded, I thought. Got to get moving. I hadn't come anything like half a mile away from the train. I swung the beam back the way I'd come, but the train was out of sight round a corner that I hadn't noticed taking. For a desperate moment I couldn't remember which direction I'd come from: too utterly stupid if I ran the wrong way.

Think, for God's sake.

I swung the torch both ways along the track. Trees, rocks, silver parallel rails, all exactly similar.

Which way? Think.

I walked one way and it felt wrong. I turned and went back. That was right. It felt right. It was the wind on my face, I thought. I'd been running before into the wind.

The rails, the ties seemed to stretch to infinity. I was going uphill also, I thought. Another bend to the right lay ahead.

How long did half a mile take? I stole a glance at my watch, rolling my wrist round which hurt somewhere high up, but with remote pain, not daunting. Couldn't believe the figures. Ten minutes only... or twelve... since I'd set off.

A mile in ten minutes was ordinarily easy... but not a mile of sleepers and stones.

Johnson had been waiting for me, I thought. Not for me personally, but for whomever would come running from the train with the flares.

Which meant he knew the radio wouldn't work.

I began actively to worry about George being missing.

Perhaps Johnson had fixed the hot box, to begin with.

Johnson had meant the trains to crash with himself safely away to the rear. Johnson was darned well not going to succeed.

With renewed purpose, with perhaps at last a feeling that all this was really happening and that I could indeed stop the Canadian, I pressed on along the track.

George's voice floated into my head, telling me about the row between Johnson and Filmer. Filmer told Johnson not to do something, Johnson said, 'I'll do what I frigging like.' Filmer could have told him not to try any more sabotage tricks on the train, realizing that trouble was anyway mounting up for him, trouble from which he might not be able to extricate himself if anything disastrous happened.

Johnson, once started, couldn't be stopped. 'Easier to start a train running downhill than to stop it, eh?' Johnson with a chip on his shoulder from way back; the ex-railwayman, the violent frightener.

I had to have gone well over half a mile, I thought. Half a mile hadn't sounded far enough: the train itself was a quarter mile long. I stopped and looked at my watch. The Canadian would come in a very few minutes. There was another curve just ahead. I mustn't leave it too late.

I ran faster, round the curve There was another curve in a further hundred yards, but it would have to do. I put the torch down beside the track, rubbed the end of one of the flares sharply against one of the rails, and begged it, implored it, to ignite.

It lit with a huge red rush for which I was not prepared. Nearly dropped it. Rammed the spike into the wood of one of the ties.

The flare burned in a brilliant fiery scarlet that would have been visible for a mile, if only the track had been straight.

I picked up the torch and ran on round the next bend, the red fire behind me washing all the snow with pink Round that bend there was a much longer straight I ran a good way, then stopped again and lit a second flare, jamming its point into the wood as before.

The Canadian had to be almost there. I'd lost count of the time. The Canadian would come with its bright headlights and see the flare and stop with plenty of margin in hand.

I saw pin-point lights in the distance. I hadn't known we were anywhere near habitation. Then I realized the lights were moving, coming The Canadian seemed to be advancing slowly at first. and then faster... and it wasn't stopping.. There was no screech of brakes urgently applied.

With a feeling of dreadful foreboding, I struck the third flare forcefully against the rail, almost broke it, felt it whoosh, stood waving it beside the track, beside the other flare stuck in the wood

The Canadian came straight on. I couldn't bear it, couldn't believe it. It was almost impossible to throw the flare through the window.. the window was too small, too high up, and moving at thirty-five miles an hour. I felt puny on the ground beside the huge roaring advance of the yellow bulk of the inexorable engine with its blinding lights and absence of brain.

It was there. Then or never. There were no faces looking out from the cab. I yelled in a frenzy. 'Stop', and the sound blew away futilely on the bow wave of parting air.

I threw the flare. Threw it high, threw it too soon, missed the empty black window.

The flare flew forward of it and hit the outside of the windscreen, and fell on to the part of the engine sticking out in front, and then all sight of it was gone, the whole long heavy silver train rolling past me at a constant speed, making the ground tremble, extinguishing beneath it the second flare I'd planted in its path It went on its mindless way, swept round the curve, and was gone.

I felt disintegrated and sick, failure flooding back in the pain I'd disregarded. The trains would fold into each other, would concertina, would heap into killing chaos.... In despair, I picked up the torch and began to jog the way the Canadian had gone. I would have to face what I hadn't been able to prevent, have to help even though I felt wretchedly guilty... couldn't bear the thought of the Canadian ploughing into the Lorrimores’ car.. someone would have warned the Lorrimores... oh God, oh God ... someone must have warned the Lorrimores... and everyone else. They would all be out of the train, away from the track.. Nell... Zak... everybody.

I ran round the curve. Ahead, lying beside the track, still burning, was the flare I'd thrown. Fallen off the engine. The first flare that I'd planted a hundred yards ahead before the next curve had vanished altogether, swept away by the Canadian.

There was nothing. No noise, except the sighing wind. I wondered helplessly when I would hear the crash I had no idea how far away the race train was, how far I'd run.

Growing cold and with leaden feet, I plodded past the fallen flare and along and round the next bend, and round the long curve following. I hadn't heard the screech of metal tearing into metal, though it reverberated in my head. They must have warned the Lorrimores, they must ... I shivered among the freezing mountains from far more than frost.

There were two red lights on the rails far ahead. Not bright and burning like the flares, but small and insignificant, like reflectors I wondered numbly what they were, and it wasn't until I'd gone about five more paces that I realized that they weren't reflectors, they were lights... stationary lights... and I began running faster again, hardly daring to hope, but then seeing that they were indeed the rear lights of a train... a train... it could be only one train... there had been no night-tearing crash.... The Canadian had stopped. I felt swamped with relief, near to tears, breathless. It had stopped... there was no collision ... no tragedy... it had stopped.

I ran towards the lights, seeing the bulk of the train now in the torch's beam, unreasonably afraid that the engineers would set off again and accelerate away. I ran until I was panting, until I could touch the train. I ran alongside it, sprinting now, urgent to tell them not to go on.

Když dva dělají totéž

Není snad na světě autora, který by byl překládán tak často, jako Shakespeare. A to nemluvíme jen o divadelních hrách, které přirozeně potřebují jazykovou aktualizaci!
Na této adrese najdete celý soubor překladů jediného sonetu. Projděte si je, pečlivě a beze spěchu přečtěte, a vyberte tu českou verzi, která se vám nejvíc zamlouvá. Nejde o objektivní hodnocení, ale o čistě subjektivní preferenci.
Teprve pak začněte analyzovat - přemýšlet, čím se vlastně jednotlivé verze liší, jaká řešení autoři volí a proč asi, a pokuste se případně vytvořit vlastní text.

Jméno překladatele, jehož verzi jste si vybrali, a výše zmíněné analytické úvahy vložte do komentáře k tomuto blogu. Překlad sonetu není povinný.


Soubor s opravenými překlady najdete vždycky na této adrese:  CAPSA v adresáři Hodnocení.
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