天津翻译大赛原文_翻译大赛原文
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2018年“外教社杯”天津市高校翻译大赛英译汉、汉译英初赛原文
请将下列文字译为汉语：
When I was sixteen I worked selling hot dogs at a stand in the Fourteenth Street subway station in New York City, one level above the trains and one below the street, where the crowds continually flowed back and forth.On my break I came out from behind the counter and paed the time with two old black men who ran a shoeshine stand in a dark corner of the corridor.It was a poor location,half hidden by columns and they didn't have much busine.I would sit with my back against the wall while they stood or moved around their ancient elevated stand, talking to each other or to me, but always staring into the distance as they did so.As the weeks went by I realized that they never looked at anything in their immediate vicinity--not at me or their stand or anybody who might come within ten or fifteen feet.They did not look at approaching customers once they were inside the perimeter.Save for the instant it took to discern the color of the shoes, they did not even look at what they were doing while they worked, but rubbedin polish, brushed, and buffed by feel while looking over their shoulders, into the distance, as if awaiting the arrival of an important person.Of course there wasn't all that much distance in the underground station, but their behavior was so focused and consistent they seemed somehow to transcend the physical.A powerful mood was created, and I came almost to believe that these men could see through walls, through girders, and around corners to whatever hyperspace it was where whoever it was they were waiting and watching for would finally emerge.Their scattered talk was hip, elliptical, and hinted at mysteries beyond my white boy's ken, but it was the staring off, the long, steady staring off, that had me hypnotized.I left for a better job, with handshakes from both of them, without understanding what I had seen.Perhaps ten years later, after playing jazz with black musicians in various Harlem clubs, hanging out uptown with a few young artists and intellectuals, I began to learn from them something of the extraordinarily varied and complex riffs and rituals embraced by different people to help themselves get through life in the ghetto.Fantasy of all kinds--from playful to dangerous--was in the very air of Harlem.It was the spice of uptown life.Only then did I understand the two shoeshine men.They were trapped in a demeaning situation in a dark corner in an underground corridor in a filthy subway system.Their continuous staring off was a kind of statement, a kind of dance.Our bodies are here, went the statement, but our souls are receiving nourishment from distant sources only we can see.They were powerful magic dancers, sorcerers almost, and thirty-five years later I can still feel the preure of their spell.The light bulb may appear over your head, is what I'm saying, but it may be a while before it actually goes on.Early in my attempts to learn jazz piano, I used to listen to recordings of a fine player named Red Garland, whose music I admired.I couldn't quite figure out what he was doing with his left hand, however;the chords eluded me.I went uptown to an obscure club where he was playing with his trio, caught him on his break, and simply asked him.“Sixths,” he said cheerfully.And then he went away.I didn't know what to make of it.The basic jazz chord is the seventh, which comes in
various configurations, but it is what it is.I was a self-taught pianist, pretty shaky on theory and harmony, and when he said sixths I kept trying
to fit the information into what I already knew, and it didn't fit.But it stuck in my mind--a tantalizing mystery.A couple of years later, when I began playing with a ba player, I discovered more or le by accident that if the ba played the root and I played a sixth based on the fifth note of the scale, a very interesting chord involving both instruments emerged.Ordinarily, I suppose I would have skipped over the matter and not paid much attention, but I remembered Garland's remark and so I stopped and spent a week or two working out the voicings, and greatly strengthened my foundations as a player.I had remembered what I hadn't understood, you might say, until my life caught up with the information and the light bulb went on.……
Education doesn't end until life ends, because you never know when you're going to understand something you hadn't understood before.For me, the magic dance of the shoeshine men was the kind of experience in which understanding came with a kind of click, a resolving kind of click.The same with the experience at the piano.Indeed, in our intellectual lives, our creative lives, it is perhaps those problems that will never resolve that rightly claim the lion's share of our energies.The physical body exists in a constant state of tension as it maintains homeostasis, and so too does the active mind embrace the tension of never being certain, never being absolutely sure, never being done, as it engages the world.That is our special fate, our inexpreibly valuable condition.请将下列文字译为英语：
回忆鲁迅先生
鲁迅先生的笑声是明朗的，是从心里的欢喜。若有人说了什么可笑的话，鲁迅先生笑的连烟卷都拿不住了，常常是笑的咳嗽起来。
鲁迅先生走路很轻捷，尤其他人记得清楚的，是他刚抓起帽子来往头上一扣，同时左腿就伸出去了，仿佛不顾一切地走去。
鲁迅先生不大注意人的衣裳，他说：“谁穿什么衣裳我看不见得……”
鲁迅先生生的病，刚好了一点，他坐在躺椅上，抽着烟，那天我穿着新奇的大红的上衣，很宽的袖子。
鲁迅先生说：“这天气闷热起来，这就是梅雨天。”他把他装在象牙烟嘴上的香烟，又
用手装得紧一点，往下又说了别的。
许先生忙着家务，跑来跑去，也没有对我的衣裳加以鉴赏。于是我说：“周先生，我的衣裳漂亮不漂亮？”
鲁迅先生从上往下看了一眼：“不大漂亮。”
过了一会又接着说：“你的裙子配的颜色不对，并不是红上衣不好看，各种颜色都是好看的，红上衣要配红裙子，不然就是黑裙子，咖啡色的就不行了；这两种颜色放在一起很浑浊……你没看到外国人在街上走的吗？绝没有下边穿一件绿裙子，上边穿一件紫上衣，也没有穿一件红裙子而后穿一件白上衣的……”
鲁迅先生就在躺椅上看着我：“你这裙子是咖啡色的，还带格子，颜色浑浊得很，所以把红色衣裳也弄得不漂亮了。”
“……人瘦不要穿黑衣裳，人胖不要穿白衣裳；脚长的女人一定要穿黑鞋子，脚短就一定要穿白鞋子；方格子的衣裳胖人不能穿，但比横格子的还好；横格子的胖人穿上，就把胖子更往两边裂着，更横宽了，胖子要穿竖条子的，竖的把人显得长，横的把人显的宽……”
那天鲁迅先生很有兴致，把我一双短统靴子也略略批评一下，说我的短靴是军人穿的，因为靴子的前后都有一条线织的拉手，这拉手据鲁迅先生说是放在裤子下边的……
我说：“周先生，为什么那靴子我穿了多久了而不告诉我，怎么现在才想起来呢？现在我不是不穿了吗？我穿的这不是另外的鞋吗？”
“你不穿我才说的，你穿的时候，我一说你该不穿了。”
那天下午要赴一个筵会去，我要许先生给我找一点布条或绸条束一束头发。许先生拿了来米色的绿色的还有桃红色的。经我和许先生共同选定的是米色的。为着取美，把那桃红色的，许先生举起来放在我的头发上，并且许先生很开心地说着：
“好看吧！多漂亮！”
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