[i]За интернет обсебсията - има ли го, няма ли го и какво да се прави[/i]
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| Това за родовете при превода е крайъгълен камък във всички курсове по теория на превода, за непреводимостта. Христоматиен пример е Лермонтовото УТЕС. Ночевала тучка золотая На груди утеса-великана; Утром в путь она умчалась рано, По лазури весело играя; * Но остался влажный след в морщине Старого утеса. Одиноко Он стоит, задумался глубоко, И тихонько плачет он в пустыне. ***** Женското непостоянство и раненият изоставенмъж. Обачееее, на български родовете други - Облак и Скала. А сега де?!?! И Пенчо Славейков го е превел, вече като за мъжкото непостоянство и ранената изоставена жена. Ами като не мога да го намеря превода?!?!?! ....  |
| Ако някой иска да научи повече за Емили Дикинсън като личност, извън поезията и - има една книга с нейни писма, "Open Me Carefully" това е израз до снаха и (жената на брат и) която тя употребява няколко пъти. Връзката със снаха и е наистина ммм...бих казал доста гореща и емоционална, нежна, и сестринска и детска...ще помъча да пусна нещо от тези писма... Между другото това е другата причина да бъде подозирана в лесбийски уклон... |
| Типично метео природно явление па го превърнахте на фърчащи пеперуди и Ален Делон... Облака не виждам как да го метна освен в среден род тип "ле бяло", нищо че е златно. Може облачност, но по-компетентен ще е Минчо Празников. Скалата може да стане някакъв рид без проблем, и без това утес не е точно скала, а вариация на отвесно набраздена урва  |
| Утеса ли е скала? Ми то и с френския така - родовете /мъжки -женски/ преди всичко най-много затрудняват начинающите. Клавиатура - un clavier Клас - une classe Двор - la cour |
| ей затова, си умрем да тръгнем по некоя пътечка, па да видя къде ша ма отведе... след мухи гледам да не тръгвам....  |
Сюзън е името на най-нежната приятелка на Емили която по-късно и става снаха. Тя и брат и Остин се запознават с нея когато Сюзи е учителка в Амхърст и първите писма показват само интересна и на брата и на сестрата към нея. Сюзън, личи си, е доста отворена, интелигентна, увлечена в духовни търсения. И тя като Емили не считa че тези духовни открития може да дойдат чрез образование Отношението им към домашните задължения е идентично (много съм се смял на едно писмо където Сюзън описва как се опитвала да си шие рокля и целия хаос който създава с конците иглите и платовете)... Братът Остин обаче се отнася малко ревниво към тази кореспонденция та в един момент даже Емили почва да и пише тайно...В писмата става ясно че между двете има една интелектуална интимност, използват се кодове, метафори на герои от книги (доста трудно се четат поради тази причина) Когато научава за годежа на брат си със Сюзън тя му пише следното Dear Austin, I am keen, but you are a good deal keener, I am something of a fox, but you are more of a hound! I guess we are very good friends tho', and I guess we both love Стига се до нещо като пререкание. Когато Сюзън обвинява Остин че се намесва в кореспонденцията и Остин и пише "As to your deprivation of `Spiritual converse' with my sister -- I Know Nothing -- I was aware that you had been in correspondence for some time, but had never had an intimation that the correspondence was at an end -- ... So you will not suspect me of having interfered with your epistolary intercourse with her." |
Ето един опит за превод, Геновева, на Лермонтов - Ночевала тучка. Ще ме простиш за небрежностите поради бързане да сколасам тая вечер  *** Пренощува сребърна мъглица на гръдта на зъбер стар и мощен. С утрото излитна като птица към лазура, в който няма - нощем. *** И остАви влага да попива в каменните бръчки, в самотата - зъберът в пустинята си дива плаче за мъглицата-мъглата. --------- --------- Може би е модернизирано, не съм потъвал в оригинала от години  Редактирано от - Кюфте на 10/11/2005 г/ 01:20:56 |
Я, секцията на младите преводачи започна творчески занятия.... ще се раздават поощрителни и разни други награди...  ..... мен ме мъчи обаче наистина въпросът как се е справил с тази задача Пенчо Славейков, защото той е доста известен с преводите си, Кюфте, да извиняваш, че те сравнявам с него, ама...какво да правиш, тук сме с никове, а може и да сме заседавали с теб в секцията ТИК.... Редактирано от - Геновева на 10/11/2005 г/ 01:19:50 |
| Сега ще пусна някои редове от писмата на Емили до Сюзън... *** Thursday noon. Were it not for the weather Susie -- my little, unwelcome face would come peering in today -- I should steal a kiss from the sister -- the darling Rover returned -- Thank the wintry wind my dear one -- that spares such daring intrusion! Dear Susie -- happy Susie -- I rejoice in all your Joy -- sustained by that dear sister you will never again be lonely. Dont forget all the little friends who have tried so hard to be sisters, when indeed you were alone! *** Thursday evening I wept a tear here, Susie -- on purpose for you -- because this "sweet silver moon" smiles in on me and Vinnie, and then it goes so far before it gets to you -- and then you never told me if there was any moon in Baltimore -- and how do I know Susie -- that you see her sweet face at all? She looks like a fairy tonight, sailing around the sky in a little silver gondola with stars for gondoliers. I asked her to let me ride a little while ago -- and told her I would get out when she got as far as Baltimore, but she only smiled to herself and went sailing on. Longfellow's "golden Legend" has come to town I hear -- and may be seen in state on Mr. Adams' bookshelves. It always makes me think of "Pegasus in the pound --" when I find a gracious author sitting side by side with "Murray" and "Wells" and "Walker" in that renowned store -- and like him I half expect to hear they have "flown" some morning and in their native ether revel all the day -- but for our sakes dear Susie, who please ourselves with the fancy that we are the only poets -- and every one else is prose, let us hope they will yet be willing to share our humble world and feed upon such aliment as we consent to do! *** Susie, did you think that I would never write you when you were gone away -- what made you? I am sure you know my promise far too well for that -- and had I never said so -- I should be constrained to write -- for what shall separate us from any whom we love -- not "hight nor depth["] ... *** Will you let me come dear Susie - looking just as I do, my dress soiled and worn, my grand old apron, and my hair. Oh Susie, time would fail me to enumerate my appearance, yet I love you just as dearly as if I was e'er so fine, so you wont care, will you? I am so glad dear Susie -- that our hearts are always clean, and always neat and lovely, so not to be ashamed. I have been hard at work this morning, and I ought to be working now -- but I cannot deny myself the luxury of a minute or two with you. The dishes may wait dear Susie -- and the uncleared table stand, them I have always with me, but you, I have "not always," why Susie, Christ hath saints manie -- and I have few, but thee -- the angels shant have Susie -- no -- no no! *** Vinnie and I have been talking about growing old, today. Vinnie thinks twenty must be a fearful position for one to occupy -- I tell her I dont care if I am young or not, had as lief be thirty, and you, as most anything else. Vinnie expresses her sympathy at my "sere and yellow leaf" and resumes her work, dear Susie, tell me how you feel -- ar'nt there days in one's life when to be old dont seem a thing so sad -- I do feel gray and grim, this morning, and I feel it would be a comfort to have a piping voice, and a broken back, and scare little children. Oh my darling one, how long you wander from me, how weary I grow of waiting and looking, and calling for you; sometimes I shut my eyes, and shut my heart towards you, and try hard to forget you because you grieve me so, but you'll never go away, Oh you never will -- say, Susie, promise me again, and I will smile faintly -- and take up my little cross again of sad -- sad separation. How vain it seems to write, when one knows how to feel -- how much more near and dear to sit beside you, talk with you, hear the tones of your voice -- so hard to "deny thyself, and take up thy cross, and follow me --" give me strength, Susie, write me of hope and love, and of hearts that endured, and great was their reward of "Our Father who art in Heaven." I must leave you now -- "one little hour of Heaven," thank who did give it me, and will he also grant me one longer and more when it shall please his love -- bring Susie home, ie! Love always, and ever, and true! Emily-- Wednesday morn It's a sorrowful morning Susie -- the wind blows and it rains; "into each life some rain must fall," and I hardly know which falls fastest, the rain without, or within -- Oh Susie, I would nestle close to your warm heart, and never hear the wind blow, or the storm beat, again. Is there any room there for me, or shall I wander away all homeless and alone? Thank you for loving me, darling, and will you "love me more if ever you come home" ! it is enough, dear Susie, I know I shall be satisfied. But what can I do towards you? The precious billet, Susie, I am wearing the paper out, reading it over and o'er, but the dear thoughts cant wear out if they try, Thanks to Our Father, Susie! Vinnie and I talked of you all last evening long, and went to sleep mourning for you, and pretty soon I waked up saying "Precious treasure, thou art mine," and there you were all right, my Susie, and I hardly dared to sleep lest some one steal you away. Never mind the letter, Susie; you have so much to do; just write me every week one line, and let it be, "Emily," I love you," and I will be satisfied! Your own Emily Monday morning - Will you be kind to me, Susie? I am naughty and cross, this morning, and nobody loves me here; nor would you love me, if you shoould see me frown, and hear how loud the door bangs whenever I go through; and yet it is'nt anger -- I dont believe it is, for when nobody sees, I brush away big tears with the corner of my apron, and then go working on -- bitter tears, Susie -- so hot that they burn my cheeks, and almost schorch my eyeballs, but you have wept such, and you know they are less of anger then sorrow. And I do love to run fast -- and hide away from them all; here in dear Susie's bosom, I know is love and rest, and I never would go away, did not the big world call me, and beat me for not working. Little Emerald Mack is washing, I can hear the warm suds, splash. I just gave her my pocket handkerchief -- so I cannot cry any more. And Vinnie sweeps -- sweeps, upon the chamber stairs; and Mother is hurrying around with her hair in a silk pocket handkerchief, on account of dust. Oh Susie, it is dismal, sad and drear eno' -- and the sun dont shine, and the clouds look cold and gray, and the wind dont blow, but it pipes the shrillest roundelay, and the birds dont sing, but twitter -- and there's nobody to smile! Do I paint it natural -- Susie, so you think how it looks? Yet dont you care -- for it wont last so always, and we love you just as well -- and think of you, as dearly, as if it were not so. Your precious letter, Susie, it sits here now, and smiles so kindly at me, and gives me such sweet thoughts of the dear writer. When you come home, darling, I shant have your letters, shall I, but I shall have yourself, which is more -- Oh more, and better, than I can even think! I sit here with my little whip, cracking the time away, till not an hour is left of it -- then you are here! And Joy is here -- joy now and forevermore! *** I do think it's wonderful, Susie, that our hearts dont break, every day, when I think of all the whiskers, and all the gallant men, but I guess I'm made with nothing but a hard heart of stone, for it dont break any, and dear Susie, if mine is stony, your's is stone, upon stone, for you never yield any, where I seem quite beflown. Are we going to ossify always, say, Susie -- how will it be? When I see the Popes and the Polloks, and the John-Milton Browns, I think we are liable, but I dont know! I am glad there's a big future waiting for me and you. You would love to know what I read -- I hardly know what to tell you, my catalogue is so small. *** So sweet and still, and Thee, Oh Susie, what need I more, to make my heaven whole? Sweet Hour, blessed Hour, to carry me to you, and to bring you back to me, long enough to snatch one kiss, and whisper Good bye, again. sunshine stealing into my soul and making it all summer, and every thorn, a rose. And I pray that such summer's sun shine on my Absent One, and cause her bird to sing! You have been happy, Susie, and now are sad -- and the whole world seems lone; but it wont be so always, "some days must be dark and dreary"! You wont cry any more, will you, Susie, for my father will be your father, and my home will be your home, and where you go, I will go, and we will lie side by side in the kirkyard. I have parents on earth, dear Susie, but your's are in the skies, and I have an earthly fireside, but you have one above, and you have a "Father in Heaven," where I have none -- and a sister in heaven, and I know they love you dearly, and think of you every day. I know I was very naughty to write such fretful things, and I know I could have helped it, if I had tried hard enough, but I thought my heart would break, and I knew of nobody here that cared anything about it -- so I said to myself, "We will tell Susie about it." You dont know what a comfort it was, and you wont know, till the big cup of bitterness is filled brimfull, and they say, "Susie, drink it!" Then Darling, let me be there, and let me drink the half, and you will feel it all! Dear Susie, the sunshine grew so warm, and out peeped prisoned leaves, and the Robins answered Susie, and the big hills left their work, and echoed Susie, and from the smiling fields, and from the fragrant meadows came troops of fairy Susies, and asked "Is it me"? No, Little One, "Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor can the heart conceive" my Susie, whom I love. Friday morning -- They are cleaning house today, Susie, and I've made a flying retreat to my own little chamber, where with affection, and you, I will spend this my precious hour, most precious of all the hours which dot my flying days, and the one so dear, that for it I barter everything, and as soon as it is gone, I am sighing for it again. I cannot believe, dear Susie, that I have stayed without you almost a whole year long; sometimes the time seems short, and the thought of you as warm as if you had gone but yesterday, and again if years and years had trod their silent pathway, the time would seem less long. And now how soon I shall have you, shall hold you in my arms; you will forgive the tears, Susie, they are so glad to come that it is not in my heart to reprove them and send them home. I dont know why it is -- but there's something in your name, now you are taken from me, which fills my heart so full, and my eye, too. It is not that the mention grieves me, no, Susie, but I think of each "sunnyside" where we have sat together, and lest there be no more, I guess is what makes the tears come. Mattie was here last evening, and we sat on the front door stone, and talked about life and love, and whispered our childish fancies about such blissful things -- the evening was gone so soon, and I walked home with Mattie beneath the silent moon, and wished for you, and Heaven. You did not come, Darling, but a bit of Heaven did, or so it seemed to us, as we walked side by side and wondered of that great blessedness which may be our's sometime, is granted now, to some. This union, my dear Susie, by which two lives are one, this sweet and strange adoption wherein we can but look, and are not yet admitted, how it can fill the heart, and make it gang wildly beating, how it will take us one day, and make us all it's own, and we shall not run away from it, but lie still and be happy! How dull our lives must seem to the bride, and the plighted maiden, whose days are fed with gold, and who gather pearls every evening; but to the wife, Susie, sometimes the wife forgotten, our lives perhaps seem dearer than all others in the world; you have seen flowers at morning, satisfied with the dew, and those same sweet flowers at noon with their heads bowed in anguish before the mighty sun; think you these thirsty blossoms will now need naught but -- dew? No, they will cry for sunlight, and pine for the burning noon, tho' it scorches them, scathes them; they have got through with peace -- they know that the man of noon, is mightier than the morning and their life is henceforth to him. Oh, Susie, it is dangerous, and it is all too dear, these simple trusting spirits, and the spirits mightier, which we cannot resist! It does so rend me, Susie, the thought of it when it comes, that I tremble lest at sometime I, too, am yielded up. Susie, you will forgive me my amatory strain -- it has been a very long one, and if this saucy page did not here bind and fetter me, I might have had no end. |
| Малко съм се поувлякал в обема но тук има истински ценители, та... Сега по темата: Ако си направите труда да ги попрочетете нема начина да не възкликнете: "Какви обсесии са имали хората още преди Интернета!" |
| Геновева и други близки до webtransa пускам ви отново леко ревизирания превод на Лермонтов. Дано го харесате, без да е блестящ, правен е за час, по повода от форума *** Пренощува сребърна мъглица въз гръдта на зъбер древен, мощен. С утрото си тръгна - златна птица, към лазура, в който няма нощем. *** Но остана влага да попива в каменните бръчки, в самотата. Зъберът в пустинята си дива плаче за мъглицата-мъглата. --------- --------- Може би е модернизирано, не съм потъвал в оригинала от години Редактирано от - Кюфте на 10/11/2005 г/ 01:20:56 Редактирано от - Кюфте на 10/11/2005 г/ 03:08:16 |
Бравос! Чудесно, и съдържанието предадено, и образите хванати, но не бих го разнищвала тоз превод, в секцията ТИК, аз бях по Т-то, не бях по К-то...  *____________ * ТИК - Теория, История и Критика на превода, аз и там се уредих покрай WebTrans тематиката... , четиридесет години вече ме храни, пущината....  |
Кюфте, Невероятен превод, бе, аз с руския съм като с английския, но българският барем ми е добър. Ето това е!  Търся Пенчо Славейков, ама то за него у нас барем 20 студии, нали съм му фен. Ако мога да намеря този негов превод ще бъда много горда. Комба, няма друг форум, предполагам, който толкова да е обърнал поглед към Емили Дикинсън. Ще се опитам всичко да изчета за нея, което си пуснал, с моя ученически английски език. Да не се видим в някой друг литературен форум, както дадох пример с тоя, дето преписал анализа на превода на Верленовата "Есенна песен" почти мот-а-мот от нашия форум. Много съм доволна, че това се случи в тема, открита от мен, гордост си ми е, да си призная. |
| Ааа, мерси обаче аз по други български форуми не ходя...и без туй тук бая време ми отива. А литературните - те са предполагам за професионали повече, аз любител, аматйор по френцки. Читател, не писател...нито баре и преводач...  |
Да направим тема за преводи. Мешана скара! Които са ни харесали, които не са, и за наши собствени. Само да внимаваме да не обидим евентуални реални преводачи, които може би участват във форума, без да се афишират  |
Да направим тема, съгласна, но кой ще превежда с мен от френски? Maison Rouge го няма, отишъл в литературен клуб, освен да помоля Клио. Но сме повече преводачи на проза - за да превеждаш поезия, трябва сам да си поет. Мога да участвам с преводите на "Илиада" - 12 на брой - само два от старогръцки. Ще преписвам, разбира се от предговорите на пълното издание на "Илиада" - превод на проф. Александър Милев и Блага Димитрова - в хекзаметър! Първият - вие си знаете - на Григор Пърличев - с такъв превод, че за който и лобут да му се пада.  |
