3. prosince 2019

Klasická detektivka - Agatha Christie

Agatha Christie patří ke světovým klasikům detektivního žánru, a její hrdina, Belgičan Hercule Poirot, k nejslavnějším literárním detektivům. Jeho osobnost i řeč je výrazně specifická, a překladatel-nováček by se měl dobře seznámit jak s vývojem postavy, tak s náležitostmi  překladovými.

V následující ukázce poněkud schází Poirotovy obvyklé poznámky ve francouzštině. Ty jsou pro něho natolik charakteristické, že je rozhodně nebudeme převádět ani do češtiny, ani do jiného jazyka - ochudili bychom čtenáře o efekt autorkou pečlivě cizelovaný a systematicky používaný.

Příklady Poirotova osobitého vyjadřování, charakterizovaného drobnými gramatickými odchylkami a výstřelky v jeho vzletných promluvách, najdete třeba zde: https://prekladanipvk.blogspot.com/2011/10/v-risi-nemejskeho-lva.html
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Image result for Murder in Mesopotamia suchet"


Agatha Christie
Murder in Mesopotamia

Chapter 27
Beginning of a Journey

‘Bismillahi ar rahman ar rahim. That is the Arab phrase used before starting out on a journey. Eh bien , we too start on a journey. A journey into the past. A journey into the strange places of the human soul.’

I don’t think that up till that moment I’d ever felt any of the so-called ‘glamour of the East’. Frankly, what had struck me was the mess everywhere. But suddenly, with M. Poirot’s words, a queer sort of vision seemed to grow up before my eyes. I thought of words like Samarkand and Ispahan—and of merchants with long beards—and kneeling camels—and staggering porters carrying great bales on their backs held by a rope round the forehead—and women with henna-stained hair and tattooed faces kneeling by the Tigris and washing clothes, and I heard their queer wailing chants and the far-off groaning of the water-wheel.

They were mostly things I’d seen and heard and thought nothing much of. But now, somehow they seemed different —like a piece of rusty old stuff you take into the light and suddenly see the rich colours of an old embroidery…

Then I looked round the room we were sitting in and I got a queer feeling that what M. Poirot said was true—we were all starting on a journey. We were here together now, but we were all going our different ways.

And I looked at everyone as though, in a sort of way, I were seeing them for the first time—and for the last time—which sounds stupid, but it was what I felt all the same.

Mr Mercado was twisting his fingers nervously—his queer light eyes with their dilated pupils were staring at Poirot. Mrs Mercado was looking at her husband. She had a strange watchful look like a tigress waiting to spring. Dr Leidner seemed to have shrunk in some curious fashion. This last blow had just crumpled him up. You might almost say he wasn’t in the room at all. He was somewhere far away in a place of his own. Mr Coleman was looking straight at Poirot. His mouth was slightly open and his eyes protruded. He looked almost idiotic. Mr Emmott was looking down at his feet and I couldn’t see his face properly. Mr Reiter looked bewildered. His mouth was pushed out in a pout and that made him look more like a nice clean pig than ever. Miss Reilly was looking steadily out of the window. I don’t know what she was thinking or feeling. Then I looked at Mr Carey, and somehow his face hurt me and I looked away. There we were, all of us. And somehow I felt that when M. Poirot had finished we’d all be somewhere quite different…

It was a queer feeling…
Poirot’s voice went quietly on. It was like a river running evenly between its banks…running to the sea…
‘From the very beginning I have felt that to understand this case one must seek not for external signs or clues, but for the truer clues of the clash of personalities and the secrets of the heart.
‘And I may say that though I have now arrived at what I believe to be the true solution of the case, I have no material proof of it . I know it is so, because it must be so, because in no other way can every single fact fit into its ordered and recognized place.
‘And that, to my mind, is the most satisfying solution there can be.’
He paused and then went on:
‘I will start my journey at the moment when I myself was brought into the case—when I had it presented to me as an accomplished happening. Now, every case, in my opinion, has a definite shape and form . The pattern of this case, to my mind, all revolved round the personality of Mrs Leidner. Until I knew exactly what kind of a woman Mrs Leidner was I should not be able to know why she was murdered and who murdered her.
‘That, then, was my starting point—the personality of Mrs Leidner.
‘There was also one other psychological point of interest—the curious state of tension described as existing amongst the members of the expedition. This was attested to by several different witnesses—some of them outsiders—and I made a note that although hardly a starting point, it should nevertheless be borne in mind during my investigations.
‘The accepted idea seemed to be that it was directly the result of Mrs Leidner’s influence on the members of the expedition, but for reasons which I will outline to you later this did not seem to me entirely acceptable.
‘To start with, as I say, I concentrated solely and entirely on the personality of Mrs Leidner. I had various means of assessing that personality. There were the reactions she produced in a number of people, all varying widely in character and temperament, and there was what I could glean by my own observation. The scope of the latter was naturally limited. But I did learn certain facts.
‘Mrs Leidner’s tastes were simple and even on the austere side. She was clearly not a luxurious woman. On the other hand, some embroidery she had been doing was of an extreme fineness and beauty. That indicated a woman of fastidious and artistic taste. From the observation of the books in her bedroom I formed a further estimate. She had brains, and I also fancied that she was, essentially, an egoist.
‘It had been suggested to me that Mrs Leidner was a woman whose main preoccupation was to attract the opposite sex—that she was, in fact, a sensual woman. This I did not believe to be the case.
‘In her bedroom I noticed the following books on a shelf: Who were the Greeks? ,Introduction to Relativity ,Life of Lady Hester Stanhope ,Back to Methuselah ,Linda Condon ,Crewe Train.
‘She had, to begin with, an interest in culture and in modern science—that is, a distinct intellectual side. Of the novels, Linda Condon , and in a lesser degree Crewe Train , seemed to show that Mrs Leidner had a sympathy and interest in the independent woman – unencumbered or entrapped by man. She was also obviously interested by the personality of Lady Hester Stanhope. Linda Condon is an exquisite study of the worship of her own beauty by a woman. Crewe Train is a study of a passionate individualist, Back to Methuselah is in sympathy with the intellectual rather than the emotional attitude to life. I felt that I was beginning to understand the dead woman.
‘I next studied the reactions of those who had formed Mrs Leidner’s immediate circle—and my picture of the dead woman grew more and more complete.
‘It was quite clear to me from the accounts of Dr Reilly and others that Mrs Leidner was one of those women who are endowed by Nature not only with beauty but with the kind of calamitous magic which sometimes accompanies beauty and can, indeed, exist independently of it. Such women usually leave a trail of violent happenings behind them. They bring disaster—sometimes on others—sometimes on themselves.
‘I was convinced that Mrs Leidner was a woman who essentially worshipped herself and who enjoyed more than anything else the sense of power . Wherever she was, she must be the centre of the universe. And everyone round her, man or woman, had got to acknowledge her sway. With some people that was easy. Nurse Leatheran, for instance, a generous-natured woman with a romantic imagination, was captured instantly and gave in ungrudging manner full appreciation. But there was a second way in which Mrs Leidner exercised her sway—the way of fear. Where conquest was too easy she indulged a more cruel side to her nature—but I wish to reiterate emphatically that it was not what you might call conscious cruelty. It was as natural and unthinking as is the conduct of a cat with a mouse. Where consciousness came in, she was essentially kind and would often go out of her way to do kind and thoughtful actions for other people.
‘Now of course the first and most important problem to solve was the problem of the anonymous letters. Who had written them and why? I asked myself: Had Mrs Leidner written them herself ?
‘To answer this problem it was necessary to go back a long way—to go back, in fact, to the date of Mrs Leidner’s first marriage. It is here we start on our journey proper. The journey of Mrs Leidner’s life.
‘First of all we must realize that the Louise Leidner of all those years ago is essentially the same Louise Leidner of the present time. ‘She was young then, of remarkable beauty—that same haunting beauty that affects a man’s spirit and senses as no mere material beauty can—and she was already essentially an egoist.
‘Such women naturally revolt from the idea of marriage. They may be attracted by men, but they prefer to belong to themselves. They are trulyLa Belle Dame sans Merci of the legend. Nevertheless Mrs Leidner did marry—and we can assume, I think, that her husband must have been a man of a certain force of character.
‘Then the revelation of his traitorous activities occurs and Mrs Leidner acts in the way she told Nurse Leidner. She gave information to the Government.
‘Now I submit that there was a psychological significance in her action. She told Nurse Leatheran that she was a very patriotic idealistic girl and that that feeling was the cause of her action. But it is a well-known fact that we all tend to deceive ourselves as to the motives for our own actions. Instinctively we select the best-sounding motive! Mrs Leidner may have believed herself that it was patriotism that inspired her action, but I believe myself that it was really the outcome of an unacknowledged desire to get rid of her husband! She disliked domination—she disliked the feeling of belonging to someone else—in fact she disliked playing second fiddle. She took a patriotic way of regaining her freedom.

‘But underneath her consciousness was a gnawing sense of guilt which was to play its part in her future destiny.

‘We now come directly to the question of the letters. Mrs Leidner was highly attractive to the male sex. On several occasions she was attracted by them—but in each case a threatening letter played its part and the affair came to nothing.

‘Who wrote those letters? Frederick Bosner or his brother William or Mrs Leidner herself ?
‘There is a perfectly good case for either theory. It seems clear to me that Mrs Leidner was one of those women who do inspire devouring devotions in men, the type of devotion which can become an obsession. I find it quite possible to believe in a Frederick Bosner to whom Louise, his wife, mattered more than anything in the world! She had betrayed him once and he dared not approach her openly, but he was determined at least that she should be his or no one’s. He preferred her death to her belonging to another man.

‘On the other hand, if Mrs Leidner had, deep down, a dislike of entering into the marriage bond, it is possible that she took this way of extricating herself from difficult positions. She was a huntress who, the prey once attained, had no further use for it! Craving drama in her life, she invented a highly satisfactory drama—a resurrected husband forbidding the banns! It satisfied her deepest instincts. It made her a romantic figure, a tragic heroine, and it enabled her not to marry again.

‘This state of affairs continued over a number of years. Every time there was any likelihood of marriage – a threatening letter arrived.

‘But now we come to a really interesting point. Dr Leidner came upon the scene—and no forbidding letter arrived! Nothing stood in the way of her becoming Mrs Leidner. Not until after her marriage did a letter arrive.
‘At once we ask ourselves—why?
‘Let us take each theory in turn.
…‘If Mrs Leidner wrote the letters herself the problem is easily explained. Mrs Leidner really wanted to marry Dr Leidner. And so she did marry him. But in that case, why did she write herself a letter afterwards? Was her craving for drama too strong to be suppressed? And why only those two letters? After that no other letter was received until a year and a half later.
‘Now take the other theory, that the letters were written by her first husband, Frederick Bosner (or his brother). Why did the threatening letter arrive after the marriage? Presumably Frederick could not have wanted her to marry Leidner. Why, then, did he not stop the marriage? He had done so successfully on former occasions. And why, having waited till the marriage had taken place , did he then resume his threats?
‘The answer, an unsatisfactory one, is that he was somehow or other unable to protest sooner. He may have been in prison or he may have been abroad.
‘There is next the attempted gas poisoning to consider. It seems extremely unlikely that it was brought about by an outside agency. The likely persons to have staged it were Dr and Mrs Leidner themselves. There seems no conceivable reason whyDr Leidner should do such a thing, so we are brought to the conclusion thatMrs Leidner planned and carried it out herself.

26. listopadu 2019

Songs

1. Znáte nějaké české verze původně anglických písní? Uveďte příklady v komentáři k blogu!

2. A jak se přeložené dílko proměňuje? Porovnejte:

Red river
Červená řeka

Three Ravens - A. Scholl
Three Ravens - Djazia
Three Ravens - vocal
Válka růží

L'important C'est la rose
Podívej, kvete růže

Všimněte si, jak se proměnilo i hudební provedení.

Další inspirace z oblasti téměř zlidovělé české popové klasiky zde - Ivo Fišer


I díla českých písničkářů jasně dokazují, že dobrý a vtipný text je silnou stránkou naší hudební scény.
Zuzana Navarová - Marie
Karel Kryl - Karavana mraků
Karel Plíhal - Nosorožec

Michal Tučný, Rattlesnake Annie - Long Black Limousine

My čekali jaro
... a zatím přišel mráz
Oh, dem golden slippers - parodie (info - WIKI)

Dobrodružství s bohem Panem
Greensleeves



3. Naším úkolem bude OTEXTOVAT píseň s původně anglickým textem. Nejsme nijak vázáni obsahem originálu, rozhoduje jedině forma, zpívatelnost - slovní a hudební přízvuky se musí překrývat. Zvolte si styl - a držte se ho, ať už to bude drama, lyrika nebo ostrá parodie.

Vyberte si jednu z níže uvedených tří skladeb a napište nový český text. Jediným kritériem je jeho ZPÍVATELNOST - měl by tedy respektovat rozložení přízvuků a délek v hudbě dle původní verze.

Country Roads-  John Denver
There is a ship - Peter, Paul and Mary
Seasons in the Sun  - Terry Jackson


12. listopadu 2019

Brel



Jsme dva má lásko
a milování směje se a zpívá
ale když den odeznívá
v kanafasu utrpení
je člověk zase sám.
Je nás deset, abychom bránili
živé před mrtvými
ale když člověka svým popelem přibili
ke kůlu výčitek
člověk je zase sám.
Je nás sto kteří tančíme
na plese dobrých kamarádů
ale při posledním lampiónu
při prvním smutku
je člověk zase sám.
Je nás tisíc proti tisíci
a věříme že jsme z těch silnějších
ale za pár hloupých hodin
kdy je z nás dva tisíce zabitých
je člověk zase sám.
Je nás sto tisíc a smějeme se sto tisícům
který nám stojí tváří v tvář
ale ani dva miliony smíchů
nezabrání aby v zrcadle a tichu
nebyl člověk zase sám.
Je nás tisíc a sedáme si
na samý vrchol štěstěny
ale když odvaha nás opouští
a za luny se všechno rozpouští
člověk je zase sám.
Je nás sto které sláva pozvala
aniž měla důvody
ale když umírají náhody
když píseň končí
je člověk zase sám.
Je nás deset a chceme
v posteli moci spát
ale když vidí její vojska
sama sebe v tichu pohřbívat
je člověk zase sám.
Jsme dva abychom zestárli
v boji s časem hlava nehlava
ale tváří v tvář když přichází
a směje se ta smrtka bělavá
je každý zase sám.

11. listopadu 2019

Shakespeare!


Jak překládat poezii?  A překládat ji vůbec? Má přednost forma či obsah? Dají se na překlad poesie aplikovat pravidla, o kterých jsme mluvili?


1. Projděte si komentáře k tomuto vstupu. Jaké typy básnické tvorby se objevují? Mají něco společného?

Dokážete se během 2 minut naučit 4 libovolné řádky zpaměti? Jak postupujete?


2. Stáhněte si z capsy soubor s různými verzemi překladu Shakespearova sonetu.
Shakespeare_Sonet66_13prekladu.doc

Která verze se vám nejvíc líbí? Proč? Napište svůj názor do komentáře k tomuto blogu. Uvažujete nad formou a obsahem nebo více nasloucháte svým pocitům?

Sonet 66 English
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4MWBW_c7Fsw

Sonet 66 Hilský
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SJw5BQba7zQ

Interview s Martinem Hilskym

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3. Přečtěte si pomalu a klidně následující sonet. Vnímejte rytmus a zvukomalbu textu, při druhém čtení se teprve víc soustřeďte na obsah.

Sonnet XXV
Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.

Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread
But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.

The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:

Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove nor be removed.



Pokuste se přeložit jedno ze tří čtyřverší + poslání.
Rozmyslete si, jak budete postupovat.
audio
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originál
https://www.opensourceshakespeare.org/views/sonnets/sonnets.php

české překlady Shakespeara
Jan Vladislav-pdf
http://lukaflek.wz.cz/poems/ws_sonet29.htm
http://www.v-art.cz/taxus_bohemica/eh/bergrova.htm
http://www.shakespearovy-sonety.cz/a29/
Hilsky sonet 12 youtube
http://sonety.blog.cz/0803/william-shakespeare-sonnet-12-64-73-94-107-128-sest-sonetu-v-mem-prekladu


https://ucbcluj.org/current-issue/vol-21-spring-2012/2842-2/
http://mikechasar.blogspot.cz/2011/02/gi-jane-dh-lawrence.html

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https://lyricstranslate.com/en/sonnet-66-soneto-66.html

Soneto 66
Harto de todo esto, muerte pido y paz:
de ver cómo es el mérito mendigo nato
y ver alzada en palmas la vil nulidad
y la más pura fe sufrir perjurio ingrato

y la dorada honra con deshonra dada
y el virginal pudor brutalmente arrollado
y cabal derechura a tuerto estropeada
y por cojera el brío juvenil quebrado

y el arte amordazado por la autoridad
y el genio obedeciendo a un docto mequetrefe
y llamada simpleza la simple verdad
y un buen cautivo sometido a un triste jefe;

harto de todo esto; de esto huiría; sólo
que, al morir, a mi amor aquí lo dejo solo.

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https://lyricstranslate.com/en/sonnet-66-shakespeare-sonett-66.html

Shakespeare: Sonett 66

Satt hab ich all dies, verlang im Tod den Frieden,
Seh ich, dass das Verdienst ein Bettler bleibt,
Dass nacktem Nichts das Festagskleid beschieden,
Dass Meineid reinste Treu ins Unglück treibt,
Dass Schande sich mit Ehrengold umhängt,
Dass Geilheit alles, was noch rein ist, schändet,
Dass Unrecht die Gerechtigkeit verdrängt,
Dass Stärke, durch Gewalt gelähmt, verkrüppelt,
Dass Macht dem Wissen fest die Zunge bindet,
Dass Dummheit kritisch Können überwacht,
Dass man die lautre Wahrheit lachhaft findet,
Dass Gut als Sklave dient der bösen Macht.
Satt hab' ich all dies, möcht' weg von alldem sein,
Doch wär' ich tot, ließ' ich mein Lieb allein.

https://shine.unibas.ch/Sonette1.htm#66
https://lyricstranslate.com/en/sonnet-66-sonett-66.html#songtranslation

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Sonett 66

Des Todes Ruh' ersehn' ich lebensmüd,
Seh' ich Verdienst als Bettler auf der Welt,
Und leeres Nichts zu höchstem Prunk erblüht,
Und reinste Treue, die im Meineid fällt,
Und goldne Ehre, die die Schande schmückt,
Und Mädchenunschuld roh dahingeschlachtet,
Und Kraft durch schwache Leitung unterdrückt,
Und echte Hoheit ungerecht verachtet,
Und Kunst geknebelt durch die Übermacht,
Und Unsinn herrschend auf der Weisheit Thron,
Und Einfalt als Einfältigkeit verlacht,
Und Knecht das Gute in des Bösen Fron,
Ja lebensmüd entging' ich gern der Pein,
Ließ den Geliebten nicht mein Tod allein.

Übersetzt von Max Josef Wolff

https://lyricstranslate.com/en/sonnet-66-sonett-66.html-0#songtranslation

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Sonett 66

Ich hab es satt. Wär ich ein toter Mann.
Wenn Würde schon zur Bettelei geborn
Und Nichtigkeit sich ausstaffieren kann
Und jegliches Vertrauen ist verlorn
Und Rang und Name Fähigkeit entbehrt
Und Fraun vergebens sich der Männer wehren
Und wenn der Könner Gnadenbrot verzehrt
Und Duldende nicht aufbegehren
Und Kunst gegängelt von der Obrigkeit
Und Akademiker erklärn den Sinn
Und simples Zeug tritt man gelehrsam breit
Und Gut und Böse biegt sich jeder hin
Ich hab es satt. Ich möchte wegsein, bloß:
Noch liebe ich. Und das läßt mich nicht los.

Deutsche Fassung von
Karl Werner Plath
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Сонет 66

Измучась всем, я умереть хочу.
Тоска смотреть, как мается бедняк,
И как шутя живется богачу,
И доверять, и попадать впросак,

И наблюдать, как наглость лезет в свет,
И честь девичья катится ко дну,
И знать, что ходу совершенствам нет,
И видеть мощь у немощи в плену,

И вспоминать, что мысли заткнут рот,
И разум сносит глупости хулу,
И прямодушье простотой слывет,
И доброта прислуживает злу.

Измучась всем, не стал бы жить и дня,
Да другу будет трудно без меня.


Pasternak, Boris Leonidovic

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Sonnet 66: Translation to modern English
Exhausted with the following things I cry out for releasing death: for example, seeing a deserving person who has been born into poverty; and an undeserving one dressed in the finest clothes; and someone who shows trustworthiness wretchedly betrayed; and public honour shamefully bestowed on the unfit; and unblemished goodness forced into bad ways; and genuine perfection unjustly disgraced; and conviction crippled by corruption; and skill suppressed by those with the power to do it; and stupidity restraining the advance of knowledge; and simple truth being dismissed as simplistic; and good taking orders from evil. Exhausted with all these things I want to escape, except that by dying I would be abandoning my love.

29. října 2019

Teenagerská literatura

Stephen Chbosky - The Perks of Being a Wallflower


May 8, 1992
Dear friend,
It's strange how things can change back as suddenly as they changed originally. When one thing happens and suddenly, things are back to normal.

On Monday, Brad came back to school.

He looked very different. It wasn't that he was bruised or anything. His face actually looked fine. But before, Brad was always this guy who walked down the hallway with a bounce. I can't really describe it any other way. It's just that some people walk with their heads to the ground for some reason. They don't like to look other people in the eye. Brad was never like that.
But now he is. Especially when it comes to Patrick. I saw them talking quiet in the hallway. I was too far away to hear what they said, but I could tell that Brad was ignoring Patrick. And when Patrick started to get upset, Brad just closed his locker and walked away. It wasn't that strange because Brad and Patrick never talked in school since Brad wanted things to be secret. The strange part was that Patrick would walk up to Brad in the first place. So, I guessed that they didn't meet on the golf courses anymore. Or talk on the phone even.

Later that afternoon, I was having a cigarette outside by myself, and I saw Patrick alone, also having a cigarette. I wasn't close enough to really see him, but I didn't want to interfere with his personal time, so I didn't walk up to him. But Patrick was crying. He was crying pretty hard. After that, whenever I saw him around anywhere, he didn't look like he was there. He looked like he was someplace else. And I think I knew that because that's how people used to say I was. Maybe they still do. I'm not sure.

On Thursday, something really terrible happened.

I was sitting alone in the cafeteria, eating salisbury steak, when I saw Patrick walk up to Brad, who was sitting with his football buddies, and I saw Brad ignore him like he did at the locker. And I saw Patrick get really upset, but Brad still ignored him. Then, I saw Patrick say something, and he looked pretty angry as he turned to walk away. Brad sat still for a second, then he turned around. And then I heard it. It was just loud enough for a few tables to hear. The thing that Brad yelled at Patrick.
"Faggot!"
Brad's football buddies start laughing. A few tables got quiet as Patrick turned around. He was mad as hell. I'm not kidding. He stormed up to Brad's table and said,
"What did you call me?"
God, he was mad. I'd never seen Patrick like that before. Brad sat quiet for a second, but his buddies kept egging him on by pushing his shoulders. Brad looked up at Patrick and said
softer and meaner than the last time, "I called you a faggot."
Brad's buddies started laughing even harder. That is, until Patrick threw the first punch. It's kind of eerie when a whole room gets quiet at once, and then the real noise starts. The fight was hard. A lot harder than the one I had with Sean last year. There was no clean punching or things you see in movies. They just wrestled and hit. And whoever was the most aggressive or the most angry got in the most hits. In this case, it was pretty even until Brad's buddies got involved, and it became five on one.
That's when I got involved. I just couldn't watch them hurt Patrick even if things weren't clear just yet. I think anyone who knew me might have been frightened or confused. Except maybe my brother. He taught me what to do in these situations. I don't really want to go into detail except to say that by the end of it, Brad and two of his buddies stopped fighting and just stared at me. His other two friends were lying on the ground. One was clutching the knee I bashed in with one of those metal cafeteria chairs. The other one was holding his face. I kind of swiped at his eyes, but not too bad. I didn't want to be too bad.

I looked down at the ground, and I saw Patrick. His face was pretty messed up, and he was crying hard. I helped him to his feet, and then I looked at Brad. I don't think we'd ever really exchanged two words before, but I guess this was the time to start. All I said was,
"If you ever do this again, I'll tell everyone. And if that doesn't work, I'll blind you."

I pointed at his friend who was holding his face, and I knew Brad heard me and knew that I meant it. He didn't say anything back, though, because the security guards of our school came to bring all of us out of the cafeteria. They took us first to the nurse, and then to Mr. Small. Patrick started the fight, so he was suspended for a week. Brad's buddies got three days each for ganging up on Patrick after they broke up the original fight. Brad wasn't suspended at all because it was self-defense. I didn't get suspended either because I was just helping to defend a friend when it was five on one.

Brad and I got a month's detention, starting that day.

In detention, Mr. Harris didn't set up any rules. He just let us read or do homework or talk. It really isn't much of a punishment unless you like the television programs right after school or are very concerned with your permanent record. I wonder if it's all a lie. A permanent record, I mean.
On that first day of detention, Brad came to sit next to me. He looked very sad. I think it all kind of hit him after he stopped feeling numb from the fight.
"Charlie?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. Thanks for stopping them."
"You're welcome."
And that was it.

14. října 2019

Stylové roviny



1. Projděte si opravné texty - překlad Melvilla. Vyhledejte výrazy, které do textu stylově nezapadají.

2. Ve skupinách (3-4) sepište co nejvíce výrazů více či méně synonymních ke slovům PES a VIDĚT. Soustřeďte se na vnímání jejich stylové platnosti - kam je vhodné který výraz zařadit? Která postava ho může použít a v jakém kontextu?

Nápověda:
výrazy archaické x neologismy
pejorativa x diminutiva
emočně negativní x pozitivní
slang a argot x odborná terminologie...




Série synonym najdete například zde:
http://prekladanipvk.blogspot.cz/2016/02/synonymie-stylove-roviny.html
http://prekladanipvk.blogspot.cz/2014/10/stylove-roviny.html

7. října 2019

Říkejte mi Ishmael...


Výsledek obrázku pro moby dick
CHAPTER 1. Loomings.

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago--never mind how long precisely--having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the  circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off--then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.



CHAPTER 24. The Advocate.

As Queequeg and I are now fairly embarked in this business of whaling;
and as this business of whaling has somehow come to be regarded among
landsmen as a rather unpoetical and disreputable pursuit; therefore, I
am all anxiety to convince ye, ye landsmen, of the injustice hereby done
to us hunters of whales.

In the first place, it may be deemed almost superfluous to establish
the fact, that among people at large, the business of whaling is not
accounted on a level with what are called the liberal professions. If a
stranger were introduced into any miscellaneous metropolitan society,
it would but slightly advance the general opinion of his merits, were
he presented to the company as a harpooneer, say; and if in emulation
of the naval officers he should append the initials S.W.F. (Sperm
Whale Fishery) to his visiting card, such a procedure would be deemed
pre-eminently presuming and ridiculous.

Doubtless one leading reason why the world declines honouring us
whalemen, is this: they think that, at best, our vocation amounts to a
butchering sort of business; and that when actively engaged therein, we
are surrounded by all manner of defilements. Butchers we are, that is
true. But butchers, also, and butchers of the bloodiest badge have been
all Martial Commanders whom the world invariably delights to honour. And
as for the matter of the alleged uncleanliness of our business, ye shall
soon be initiated into certain facts hitherto pretty generally unknown,
and which, upon the whole, will triumphantly plant the sperm whale-ship
at least among the cleanliest things of this tidy earth. But even
granting the charge in question to be true; what disordered slippery
decks of a whale-ship are comparable to the unspeakable carrion of those
battle-fields from which so many soldiers return to drink in all ladies'
plaudits? And if the idea of peril so much enhances the popular conceit
of the soldier's profession; let me assure ye that many a veteran
who has freely marched up to a battery, would quickly recoil at the
apparition of the sperm whale's vast tail, fanning into eddies the air
over his head. For what are the comprehensible terrors of man compared
with the interlinked terrors and wonders of God!

But, though the world scouts at us whale hunters, yet does it
unwittingly pay us the profoundest homage; yea, an all-abounding
adoration! for almost all the tapers, lamps, and candles that burn round
the globe, burn, as before so many shrines, to our glory!

But look at this matter in other lights; weigh it in all sorts of
scales; see what we whalemen are, and have been.

Why did the Dutch in De Witt's time have admirals of their whaling
fleets? Why did Louis XVI. of France, at his own personal expense, fit
out whaling ships from Dunkirk, and politely invite to that town some
score or two of families from our own island of Nantucket? Why did
Britain between the years 1750 and 1788 pay to her whalemen in bounties
upwards of L1,000,000? And lastly, how comes it that we whalemen of
America now outnumber all the rest of the banded whalemen in the world;
sail a navy of upwards of seven hundred vessels; manned by eighteen
thousand men; yearly consuming 4,000,000 of dollars; the ships worth,
at the time of sailing, $20,000,000! and every year importing into our
harbors a well reaped harvest of $7,000,000. How comes all this, if
there be not something puissant in whaling?

23. září 2019

Drama v prostých slovech - E. A. Poe

Líbila se vám povídka? Běhá vám mráz po zádech? Zkusíme stejné pocity navodit českým překladem.
1. Zamyslete se nad charakterem originálního textu. Kterými prvky autor zesiluje napětí?
2. Zkuste přeložit následující věty a vložte svůj překlad do komentáře k tomuto blogu. Porovnejte vzájemně své verze.

Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a _roquelaire_ closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.

I must not only punish, but punish with impunity.  A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser.  It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.

3. V textu jsou dvě tučné vyznačené části; přeložte je a vložte do komentáře k tomuto blogu. Deadline: pondělí 10:00

_________________________

The Cask of Amontillado
Edgar Allan Poe

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge.  You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat.  _At length_ I would be avenged; this was a point definitely settled--but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved, precluded the idea of risk.  I must not only punish, but punish with impunity.  A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser.  It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.
It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will.  I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile _now_ was at the thought of his immolation.
He had a weak point--this Fortunato--although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared.  He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine.  Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity--to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian _millionaires_.  In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack--but in the matter of old wines he was sincere.  In this respect I did not differ from him materially: I was skillful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend.  He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much.  The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells.  I was so pleased to see him, that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.
I said to him--"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met.  How remarkably well you are looking to-day!  But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."
"How?" said he.  "Amontillado?  A pipe?  Impossible!  And in the middle of the carnival!"
"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain."
"Amontillado!"
"I have my doubts."
"Amontillado!"
"And I must satisfy them."
"Amontillado!"
"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi.  If any one has a critical turn, it is he.  He will tell me--"
"Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry."
"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your
own."
"Come, let us go."
"Whither?"
"To your vaults."
"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature.  I perceive you have an engagement.  Luchesi--"
"I have no engagement;--come."
"My friend, no.  It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted.  The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre."
"Let us go, nevertheless.  The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon.  And as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado."
Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a _roquelaire_ closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.
There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time.  I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.
I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults.  I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.
The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.
"The pipe," said he.
"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls."
He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication.
"Nitre?" he asked, at length.
"Nitre," I replied.  "How long have you had that cough?"
"Ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!"
My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.
"It is nothing," he said, at last.
"Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious.  You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was.  You are a man to be missed.  For me it is no matter.  We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible.  Besides, there is Luchesi--"
"Enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough."
"True--true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily--but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps."
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.
"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine.
He raised it to his lips with a leer.  He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.
"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us."
"And I to your long life."
He again took my arm, and we proceeded.
"These vaults," he said, "are extensive."
"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family."
"I forget your arms."
"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel."
"And the motto?"
"Nemo me impune lacessit_."
"Good!" he said.
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled.  My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc.  We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of catacombs.  I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.
"The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases.  It hangs like moss upon the vaults.  We are below the river's bed.  The drops of moisture trickle among the bones.  Come, we will go back ere it is too late.  Your cough--"
"It is nothing," he said; "let us go on.  But first, another draught of the Medoc."
I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave.  He emptied it at a breath.  His eyes flashed with a fierce light.  He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand.
I looked at him in surprise.  He repeated the movement--a grotesque one.
"You do not comprehend?" he said.
"Not I," I replied.
"Then you are not of the brotherhood."
"How?"
"You are not of the masons."
"Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes."
"You?  Impossible!  A mason?"
"A mason," I replied.
"A sign," he said, "a sign."
"It is this," I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my _roquelaire_.
"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces.  "But let us proceed to the Amontillado."
"Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and again offering him my arm.  He leaned upon it heavily.  We continued our route in search of the Amontillado.  We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.
At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious.  Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris.  Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth side the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size.  Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet in width three, in height six or seven.  It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.
It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depth of the recess.  Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.
"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado.  As for Luchesi--"
"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels.  In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered.  A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite.  In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally.  From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock.  Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it.  He was too much astounded to resist.  Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.
"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre.  Indeed, it is _very_ damp.  Once more let me _implore_ you to return.  No?  Then I must positively leave you.  But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power."
"The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.
"True," I replied; "the Amontillado."
As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which
I have before spoken.  Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar.  With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess.  It was _not_ the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence.  I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain.  The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier.  The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast.  I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.
A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back.  For a brief moment I hesitated--I trembled.  Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me.  I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied.  I reapproached the wall; I replied to the yells of him who clamoured.  I re-echoed--I aided--I surpassed them in volume and in strength.  I did this, and the clamourer grew still.
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close.  I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier.  I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in.  I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position.  But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head.  It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato.  The voice said—
"Ha! ha! ha!--he! he! he!--a very good joke indeed--an excellent jest. We shall have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo--he! he!he!--over our wine--he! he! he!"
"The Amontillado!" I said.
"He! he! he!--he! he! he!--yes, the Amontillado.  But is it not getting late?  Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest?  Let us be gone."
"Yes," I said, "let us be gone."
"_For the love of God, Montresor!_"
"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply.  I grew impatient.
I called aloud--
"Fortunato!"
No answer.  I called again--
"Fortunato--"
No answer still.  I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within.  There came forth in reply only a jingling of the bells.  My heart grew sick on account of the dampness of the catacombs.
I hastened to make an end of my labour.  I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up.  Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones.  For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them.  _In pace requiescat!_



29. dubna 2019

Moderní literatura

Na závěr semestru si pojďme vyzkoušet jednu celkem reálnou situaci.

Představte si, že se snažíte stát profesionálním překladatelem a chcete získat zadání překladu od malého, kvalitního nakladatelství.
Šéfredaktor samozřejmě nebude kupovat zajíce v pytli, a tak vám nejprve zadá krátký překlad, aby si z několika zájemců o práci mohl vybrat toho nejlepšího překladatele na dlouhodobou spolupráci. Teď jde o vaši dobrou pověst!
Držíte v ruce první vydání nového amerického románu. Máte si vybrat libovolný úryvek a přeložit ho do češtiny. Překlad v délce cca 2 normostrany předložíte vytištěný do pondělního poledne - a pak už jen budete čekat na rozhodnutí šéfredaktora. Nezapomeňte také navrhnout originální název románu!

pozn.
1 normostrana = 1800 znaků
tisk - řádkování 1,5, Times New Roman 12
___________________________________________________

The Fault in Our Stars (2012)
John Green

CHAPTER ONE
Výsledek obrázku pro John Green The Fault in Our Stars (2012)Late in the winter of my seventeenth year, my mother decided I was depressed, presumably because I rarely left the house, spent quite a lot of time in bed, read the same book over and over, ate  infrequently, and devoted quite a bit of my abundant free time to thinking about death.
Whenever you read a cancer booklet or website or whatever, they always list depression among the side effects of cancer. But, in fact, depression is not a side effect of cancer. Depression is a side effect of dying. (Cancer is also a side effect of dying. Almost everything is, really.) But my mom believed I required treatment, so she took me to see my Regular Doctor Jim, who agreed that I was veritably swimming in a paralyzing and totally clinical depression, and that therefore my meds should be adjusted and also I should attend a weekly Support Group.
This Support Group featured a rotating cast of characters in various states of tumor-driven unwellness. Why did the cast rotate? A side effect of dying.
The Support Group, of course, was depressing as hell. It met every Wednesday in the basement of a stone-walled Episcopal church shaped like a cross. We all sat in a circle right in the middle of the cross, where the two boards would have met, where the heart of Jesus would have been.
I noticed this because Patrick, the Support Group Leader and only person over eighteen in the room, talked about the heart of Jesus every freaking meeting, all about how we, as young cancer survivors, were sitting right in Christ’s very sacred heart and whatever.
So here’s how it went in God’s heart: The six or seven or ten of us walked/wheeled in, grazed at a decrepit selection of cookies and lemonade, sat down in the Circle of Trust, and listened to Patrick recount for the thousandth time his depressingly miserable life story—how he had cancer in his balls and they thought he was going to die but he didn’t die and now here he is, a full-grown adult in a church basement in the 137th nicest city in America, divorced, addicted to video games, mostly friendless, eking out a meager living by exploiting his cancertastic past, slowly working his way toward a master’s degree that will not improve his career prospects, waiting, as we all do, for the
sword of Damocles to give him the relief that he escaped lo those many years ago when cancer took both of his nuts but spared what only the most generous soul would call his life.
AND YOU TOO MIGHT BE SO LUCKY!
Then we introduced ourselves: Name. Age. Diagnosis. And how we’re doing today. I’m Hazel, I’d say when they’d get to me. Sixteen. Thyroid originally but with an impressive and long-settled satellite colony in my lungs. And I’m doing okay.
Once we got around the circle, Patrick always asked if anyone wanted to share. And then began the circle jerk of support: everyone talking about fighting and battling and winning and shrinking and scanning. To be fair to Patrick, he let us talk about dying, too. But most of them weren’t dying. Most would live into adulthood, as Patrick had.
(Which meant there was quite a lot of competitiveness about it, with everybody wanting to beat not only cancer itself, but also the other people in the room. Like, I realize that this is irrational, but when they tell you that you have, say, a 20 percent chance of living five years, the math kicks in and you figure that’s one in five . . . so you look around and think, as any healthy person would: I gotta outlast four of these bastards.)

Mom pulled into the circular driveway behind the church at 4:56. I pretended to fiddle with my oxygen tank for a second just to kill time.
“Do you want me to carry it in for you?”
“No, it’s fine,” I said. The cylindrical green tank only weighed a few pounds, and I had this little steel cart to wheel it around behind me. It delivered two liters of oxygen to me each minute through a cannula, a transparent tube that split just beneath my neck, wrapped behind my ears, and then reunited in my nostrils. The contraption was necessary because my lungs sucked at being lungs.
“I love you,” she said as I got out.
“You too, Mom. See you at six.”
“Make friends!” she said through the rolled-down window as I walked away.
I didn’t want to take the elevator because taking the elevator is a Last Days kind of activity at Support Group, so I took the stairs. I grabbed a cookie and poured some lemonade into a Dixie cup and then turned around.
A boy was staring at me.
I was quite sure I’d never seen him before. Long and leanly muscular, he dwarfed the molded plastic elementary school chair he was sitting in. Mahogany hair, straight and short. He looked my age, maybe a year older, and he sat with his tailbone against the edge of the chair, his posture aggressively poor, one hand half in a pocket of dark jeans.
I looked away, suddenly conscious of my myriad insufficiencies. I was wearing old jeans, which had once been tight but now sagged in weird places, and a yellow T-shirt advertising a band I didn’t even like anymore. Also my hair: I had this pageboy haircut, and I hadn’t even bothered to, like, brush it. Furthermore, I had ridiculously fat chipmunked cheeks, a side effect of treatment. I looked like a normally proportioned person with a balloon for a head. This was not even to mention the cankle situation. And yet—I cut a glance to him, and his eyes were still on me.
It occurred to me why they call it eye contact.
I walked into the circle and sat down next to Isaac, two seats away from the boy. I glanced again. He was still watching me.
Look, let me just say it: He was hot. A nonhot boy stares at you relentlessly and it is, at best,  awkward and, at worst, a form of assault.
But a hot boy . . . well.



8. dubna 2019

Dubliners - proud myšlenek

https://genius.com/James-joyce-the-sisters-annotated
Přečtete si nejprve celou povídku. Čím čtenáře zaujme autorský styl?


Opakování gramatiky - souslednost časová.
Přeložte následující věty:


  1. Přišlo mi podivné, že tu není.
  2. Věřil jsem, že si to přečte.
  3. Řekl mi, že už to viděl dřív.
  4. I was told they would save us.
  5. He believed he was a hero.
  6. She admitted she had married John.
____________________________

Ukázka církevních responsorií při mši:

(Znamení svatého Kříže.)
Kněz: Ve jménu  Otce i Syna i Ducha Svatého. Amen.
Kněz: Vstoupím k oltáři Božímu.
Ministrant: Před Boha, jenž jest původcem radosti mé od mladostí mojí.

K. Smilujž se nad vámi všemohoucí Bůh a odpustě hříchy vaše, uveď vás do života věčného.
M. Amen.
K. Prominutí, rozhřešení a odpuštění hříchů našich nechť udělí nám všemohoucí a milosrdný Hospodin.
M. Amen.
K. Bože, obrať se k nám a oživ nás.
M. A lid tvůj radovati se bude v tobě.
K. Zjev nám, Pane, milosrdenství své.
M. A spasení své nám uděl.
K. Pane, vyslyš modlitbu mou.
M. A volání mé nechť k tobě přijde.
K. Pán s vámi.
M. I s duchem tvým.

http://www.krasaliturgie.cz/mse-svata/casti-mse-sv-a-jejich-vyznam/mesni-rad.html

____________________________

James Joyce
The Dubliners
The Sisters

The next morning after breakfast I went down to look at the little house
in Great Britain Street. It was an unassuming shop, registered under
the vague name of _Drapery_. The drapery consisted mainly of children's
bootees and umbrellas; and on ordinary days a notice used to hang in the
window, saying: _Umbrellas Re-covered_. No notice was visible now for
the shutters were up. A crape bouquet was tied to the door-knocker with
ribbon. Two poor women and a telegram boy were reading the card pinned
on the crape. I also approached and read:

July 1st, 1895 The Rev. James Flynn (formerly of S. Catherine's Church,
Meath Street), aged sixty-five years. _R. I. P._

The reading of the card persuaded me that he was dead and I was
disturbed to find myself at check. Had he not been dead I would have
gone into the little dark room behind the shop to find him sitting in
his arm-chair by the fire, nearly smothered in his great-coat. Perhaps
my aunt would have given me a packet of High Toast for him and this
present would have roused him from his stupefied doze. It was always I
who emptied the packet into his black snuff-box for his hands trembled
too much to allow him to do this without spilling half the snuff about
the floor. Even as he raised his large trembling hand to his nose little
clouds of smoke dribbled through his fingers over the front of his coat.
It may have been these constant showers of snuff which gave his ancient
priestly garments their green faded look for the red handkerchief,
blackened, as it always was, with the snuff-stains of a week, with which
he tried to brush away the fallen grains, was quite inefficacious.

I wished to go in and look at him but I had not the courage to knock. I
walked away slowly along the sunny side of the street, reading all
the theatrical advertisements in the shopwindows as I went. I found it
strange that neither I nor the day seemed in a mourning mood and I felt
even annoyed at discovering in myself a sensation of freedom as if I had
been freed from something by his death. I wondered at this for, as my
uncle had said the night before, he had taught me a great deal. He had
studied in the Irish college in Rome and he had taught me to pronounce
Latin properly. He had told me stories about the catacombs and about
Napoleon Bonaparte, and he had explained to me the meaning of the
different ceremonies of the Mass and of the different vestments worn
by the priest. Sometimes he had amused himself by putting difficult
questions to me, asking me what one should do in certain circumstances
or whether such and such sins were mortal or venial or only
imperfections. His questions showed me how complex and mysterious were
certain institutions of the Church which I had always regarded as
the simplest acts. The duties of the priest towards the Eucharist and
towards the secrecy of the confessional seemed so grave to me that I
wondered how anybody had ever found in himself the courage to undertake
them; and I was not surprised when he told me that the fathers of the
Church had written books as thick as the _Post Office Directory_ and
as closely printed as the law notices in the newspaper, elucidating all
these intricate questions. Often when I thought of this I could make
no answer or only a very foolish and halting one upon which he used
to smile and nod his head twice or thrice. Sometimes he used to put me
through the responses of the Mass which he had made me learn by heart;
and, as I pattered, he used to smile pensively and nod his head, now and
then pushing huge pinches of snuff up each nostril alternately. When he
smiled he used to uncover his big discoloured teeth and let his tongue
lie upon his lower lip--a habit which had made me feel uneasy in the
beginning of our acquaintance before I knew him well.

As I walked along in the sun I remembered old Cotter's words and tried
to remember what had happened afterwards in the dream. I remembered
that I had noticed long velvet curtains and a swinging lamp of antique
fashion. I felt that I had been very far away, in some land where the
customs were strange--in Persia, I thought.... But I could not remember
the end of the dream.


https://genius.com/James-joyce-the-sisters-annotated