翻译大赛_省翻译大赛
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第四届“春芽杯”英语翻译大赛
汉译英
No matter what your reaction is – gloat, anguish or indifference, we have to confront a proposition: Academics are having devaluation.It depends on you to interpret the word ―devaluation‖.If it means applied sciences are pushed to the foreground and that more academically respectable research on basic theory is not appreciated, and that literature，history，philosophy, and other ancient disciplines are even snubbed, the phenomenon should cause concern;If it means that with the impact of commodity economy and the low pay to the intellectuals, scholars are not able to devote their energy to study, but to the ―self-help production projects‖, at least this is not a good omen;But if it means academic research cannot receive public concerns any longer, and that there is no longer the exciting scene that ―the whole nation rejoices for the birth of an outstanding work‖, I think it is normal, neither pleasant nor depreing.Academic research is ―a lonely cause‖ and does not have much profit to be reaped.In the past few years because of the particular political and cultural environment, it is easy to publish books, to set the world on fire and to get hollow reputation.Academics seem to become ―Vanity Fair‖ all at once, but now it is back to ―a different post‖.Students who mied the opportunity suffer from this and what they can do is only to hark back to the fortunes of their predeceors.―On the Transitional Age‖，a well-known work of Liang Qichao, involves that the transitional age is likely to produce heroes – political ones, and of course, academic ones.May 4 period can produce heroes and so does the past few years.But now it is difficult for a person even to ―set the pace for a short time‖.Heroes seem to be disappeared.Without heroes, a time cannot necearily lack high academic achievements, only ones in lack of drama.Academic revolution times seem no longer to cry and roar excitingly all the way to advance.The following should be the normal building with little poetry and more difficulties.It is undoubtedly very frustrating for a hot-blooded youth.No matter he has been in the limelight in the past few years or has not got up the stages.Despite the depreion, it is neceary to adjust one’s mentality, even scholar approaches and research methods.It is like in a new semester, primary school students have to get minds off from running wild in the past holidays.Certainly some people ―have long since known this would happen‖ and never ―run wild‖ before.But it is not a feather in their caps.I am always staying at a respectable distance from ―pure scholars‖ who do not have any utilitarianism, any vanity, any wildne or any ecstasies.Sometimes I even ―measure the stature of great men by the yardstick of small men‖, and think they put on a show of calmne because of lacking literary talent, or maybe they just scorn sour grapes out of finding fault.I admire people who both can ―run wild‖ and ―march in goose steps‖.There is a time to ―run wild‖ and a time to ―march in goose steps‖ for them.They knocked spots off one batch of person when ―running wild‖ before and will knock spots off another batch when ―marching goose steps‖ now.Reading and learning are not easy.In the great poem-monk Su Manshu’s novels, there is often an awkward situation that the hero is deprived of the choosing ability, in front of an enthusiastic, persistent, bright and courageous westernized woman and a refined, elegant, gentle and subtle, oriental woman, and finally at the edge of a cliff he has to drop everything and converts to Buddhism.This kind of theme pattern is reproduced constantly by modern writers’ pens.Simply the westernized women got the upper hand in the May 4 period, while the oriental women did in the 40s.Though the writers have given a clear answer, more often than not, the choice is forced by time.In the depth of their hearts, probably just like Su Manshu, they waver between two types of women, two kinds of living ideals, two different attitudes, or ―Poetry and Prose‖ – a term borrowed from Mao Dun.―No heroes‖, ―lacking drama‖, ―marching in goose steps‖, and ―the normal building‖ are all doubtle signs of the prose time.Perhaps we have to make a ―beautiful and desolated‖ gesture, to bid farewell to ―poetry‖ and head for ―prose‖.I hope I can compose another article with the reserved title – biding farewell to ―prose‖ and heading for ―poetry‖.Even though it may be difficult to bring that good article to fruition for a short time, we might as well keep or create some poetry for the prose time, in case ―the lonely cause‖ should become too lonely and ―the prose time‖ should be over prosaic.汉译英原文
幸灾乐祸也好，呼天抢地也好，无动于衷也好，人们都不能不正视这一命题：学术正在贬值。
就看你怎么理解这“贬值”两个字。如果这指的是应用学科被推到前景，而学术性更强的基础理论研究不受重视，跟经济建设没直接联系的文史哲等古老学科甚至受到冷淡，这的确很可忧虑；如果这指的是商品经济的冲击以及知识分子待遇的低下，以致学者不能安心治学，而必须盘算如何“生产自救”，这起码也不是什么好兆头；但如果指的是学术研究不再受到公众的关注，不再有“雄文一出举国欢腾”那种激动人心的场面，那我倒觉得很正常，既不可喜，亦不可悲。
学术研究本来就是“寂寞的事业”，没多少油水好捞的。前些年由于特殊的政治环境和文化氛围，出书容易，惊世骇俗容易，滥得虚名也容易。一时间学术界似乎也成了“名利场”。如今又回到了“冷板凳”，这可就苦了那些没赶上趟的莘莘学子，只能“遥想前辈风流”了。
梁启超有篇名文《过渡时代论》，其中谈到过渡时代容易出英雄。出政治上的英雄，当然也出学术上的英雄。“五四”时代能出英雄，前几年也能出英雄，如今则连“各领风骚三五天”都不容易，英雄似乎消失了。没有英雄的时代，未必学术成就不高，只不过缺乏戏剧性罢了。
激动人心的呐喊着呼啸着前进的学术变革时代，似乎已经过去了；接下来的，该是没有多少诗意而又更加艰辛的常规建设了。对于血气方刚的青年学者来说，这无疑是十分令人沮丧的——不管是这几年出尽风头者，还是尚未登台表演者。沮丧归沮丧，适当调整一下心理状态，乃至治学态度和研究方法，还是必要的。就好像新学期开始，小学生们必须把假期里跑野了的心收回来一样。
当然，也有人“早就料到有这么一天”，从来没“跑野”过。可这没有什么可值得骄傲的。对于那些没有一点功利心、没有一点虚荣心、没有一点狂态、没有一点醉意的“纯学者”，我历来敬而远之；有时甚至不免“以小人之心度君子之腹”，以为或者缺乏才气故作镇定、或者出于矫情大骂葡萄酸也未可知。我佩服的是能“跑野”也能“操正步”；该“跑野”时“跑野”，该“操正步”时“操正步”。当年“跑野”时甩了一拨人，如今“操正步”还会甩下一拨人。读书做学问也真不容易。
一代诗僧苏曼殊的小说中，常常出现这么一种尴尬的局面：男主人公在热情、执著、聪慧、果敢的西化女性和娴静、高雅、温柔、含蓄的东方女性面前丧失选择的能力，只好悬崖撒手皈依我佛。这种主题模式在现代作家笔下不断重现，只不过“五四”时候西化女性占上风，40年代东方女性占上风而已。尽管作家给出了一个明确的答案，但这种选择更多的是时代逼出来的；内心深处很可能都像苏曼殊那样，在两种女性、两种生活理想、两种处世态度——借用茅盾的术语：诗歌与散文——之间徘徊。
“没有英雄”、“缺乏戏剧性”、“操正步”、“常规建设”，这无疑都是散文时代的标志。也许，只好做一个“美丽而苍凉”的手势，告别“诗歌”，走向“散文”。
但愿，就在不久的将来，我能把这题目倒过来再做一遍：告别“散文”，走向“诗歌”。即使那篇好文章一时难产，也不妨为这散文时代保留一点诗意，或者创造一点诗意。以免“寂寞的事业”过分寂寞，散文的时代过分“散文”。
英译汉原文
In the more obscure scientific circles which I frequent there is a legend circulating about a late distinguished scientist who, in his declining years, persisted in wearing enormous padded boots much too large for him.He had developed, it seems, what to his fellows was a wholly irrational fear of falling through the interstices of that largely empty molecular space which common men in their folly speak of as the world.A stroll acro his living-room floor had become, for him, something as dizzily horrendous as the activities of a window washer on the Empire State Building.Indeed, with equal reason he could have paed a ghostly hand through his own ribs.The quivering network of his nerves, the awe-inspiring movement of his thought had become a vague cloud of electrons interspersed with the light-year distances that obtain between us and the farther galaxies.This was the natural world which he had helped to create, and in which, at last, he had found himself a lonely and imprisoned occupant.All around him the ignorant rushed on their way over the illusion of substantial floors, leaping, though they did not see it, from particle to particle, over a bottomle aby.There was even a question as to the reality of the particles which bore them up.It did not, however, keep insubstantial newspapers from being sold, or insubstantial love from being made.Not long ago I became aware of another world perhaps equally natural and real, which man is beginning to forget.My thinking began in New England under a boat dock.The lake I speak of has been pre-empted and civilized by man.All day long in the vacation season high-speed motorboats, driven with the reckle abandon common to the young Apollos of our society, speed back and forth, carrying loads of equally attractive girls.The shores echo to the roar of powerful motors and the delighted screams of young Americans with uncounted horsepower surging under their hands.In truth, as I sat there under the boat dock, I had some desire to swim or to canoe in the older ways of the great forest which once lay about this region.Either notion would have been folly.I would have been gaily chopped to ribbons by teen-age youngsters whose eyes were always immutably fixed on the far horizons of space, or upon the dials which indicated the speed of their paing.There was another world, I was to discover, along the lake shallows and under the boat dock, where the motors could not come.As I sat there one sunny morning when the water was peculiarly translucent, I saw a dark shadow moving swiftly over the bottom.It was the first sign of life I had seen in this lake, whose shores seemed to yield little but washed-in beer cans.By and by the gliding shadow ceased to scurry from stone to stone over the bottom.Unexpectedly, it headed almost directly for me.A furry nose with gray whiskers broke the surface.Below the whiskers green water foliage trailed out in an inverted V as long as his body.A muskrat still lived in the lake.He was bringing in his breakfast.I sat very still in the strips of sunlight under the pier.To my surprise the muskrat came almost to my feet with his little breakfast of greens.He was young, and it rapidly became obvious to me that he was laboring under an illusion of his own, and that he thought animals and men were still living in the Garden of Eden.He gave me a friendly glance from time to time as he nibbled his greens.Once, even, he went out into the lake again and returned to my feet with more greens.He had not, it seemed, heard very much about men.I shuddered.Only the evening before I had heard a man describe with triumphant enthusiasm how he had killed a rat in the garden because the creature had dared to nibble his petunias.He had even showed me the murder weapon, a sharp-edged brick.On this pleasant shore a war existed and would go on until nothing remained but man.Yet this creature with the gray, appealing face wanted very little: a strip of shore to coast up and down, sunlight and moonlight, some weeds from the deep water.He was an edge-of-the-world dweller, caught between a vanishing forest and a deep lake preempted by unpredictable machines full of chopping blades.He eyed me nearsightedly, a green leaf poised in his mouth.Plainly he had come with some poorly instructed memory about the lion and the lamb.―You had better run away now,‖ I said softly, making no movement in the shafts of light.―You are in the wrong universe and must not make this mistake again.I am really a very terrible and cunning beast.I can throw stones.‖ With this I dropped a little pebble at his feet.He looked at me half blindly, with eyes much better adjusted to the wavering shadows of his lake bottom than to sight in the open air.He made almost as if to take the pebble up into his forepaws.Then a thought seemed to cro his mind—a thought perhaps telepathically received, as Freud once hinted, in the dark world below and before man, a whisper of ancient disaster heard in the depths of a burrow.Perhaps after all this was not Eden.His nose twitched carefully;he edged toward the water.As he vanished in an oncoming wave, there went with him a natural world, distinct from the world of girls and motorboats, distinct from the world of the profeor holding to reality by some great snowshoe effort in his study.My muskrat’s shore-line universe was edged with the dark wall of hills on one side and the waspish drone of motors farther out, but it was a world of sunlight he had taken down into the water weeds.It hovered there, waiting for my disappearance.I walked away, obscurely pleased that darkne had not gained on life by any act of mine.In so many worlds, I thought, how natural is ―natural‖—and is there anything we can call a natural world at all?
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