第五届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛启事

来源:

  “《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛肇始于2010年,由商务印书馆《英语世界》杂志社主办。为推动翻译学科的进一步发展,促进中外文化交流,我们将秉承“给力英语学习,探寻翻译之星”的理念,于2014年5月继续举办第五届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛,诚邀广大翻译爱好者积极参与,比秀佳译。

  本届大赛由悉尼翻译学院独家赞助。悉尼翻译学院成立于2009年,是在澳大利亚教育部注册的一家专业翻译学院。学院相关课程由澳大利亚翻译认证管理局(NAATI)认证。该院面向海内外招生,以构建“一座跨文化的桥梁”为目标,力图培养具有国际视野和跨文化意识的涉及多语种的口笔译人才。

  大赛赞助单位

  悉尼翻译学院

  大赛合作单位

  中国翻译协会社科翻译委员会

  四川省翻译协会

  南开大学

  成都通译翻译有限公司

  上海翻译家协会

  广东省翻译协会

  湖北省翻译理论与教学研究会

  陕西省翻译协会

  江苏省翻译协会

  大赛顾问委员会

  王学东 中国翻译协会副会长、中央编译局副局长

  仲伟合 中国翻译协会副会长、广东省翻译协会会长、广东外语外贸大学校长

  许 钧 中国翻译协会常务副会长、江苏省翻译协会会长、南京大学研究生院常务副院长。

  柴明熲 上海翻译家协会副会长、上海外国语大学高级翻译学院院长

  连真然 四川省翻译协会副会长

  胡宗峰 陕西省翻译协会副会长、西北大学外国语学院副院长

  李瑞林 西安外国语大学高级翻译学院院长

  华先发 华中师范大学外语学院英语系主任

  大赛评委会

  主任

  刘士聪 南开大学外国语学院教授、博士生导师

  评委

  陈国华 北京外国语大学教授、博士生导师

  曹明伦 四川大学外国语学院教授、博士生导师

  张 文 北京第二外国语学院教授

  钱多秀 北京航空航天大学外国语学院副院长兼翻译系主任

  方华文 苏州大学外国语学院教授

  王丽丽 中共中央编译局中央文献翻译部英文处副译审、副处长

  魏庆阳 悉尼翻译学院院长

  魏令查 《英语世界》主编

  一、大赛形式

  本届大赛为英汉翻译,参赛启事以及原文发布于商务印书馆网站(http://www.cp.com.cn/ )、《英语世界》2014年第5期、《英语世界》官方博客(http://blog.sina.com.cn/theworldofenglish )以及《英语世界》微信公众平台上。

  二、参赛要求

  1. 参赛者国籍、年龄、性别、学历不限。

  2. 参赛译文须独立完成,不接受合作译稿。

  3. 参赛译文及个人信息于截稿日期前发送至电子邮箱:yysjfyds@sina.com 。

  (1)邮件主题标明“翻译大赛”;

  (2)以附件一形式发送参赛者个人信息,文件名“XXX个人信息”,内容包括:姓名、性别、出生年月日、学校或工作单位、通信地址(邮编)、电子邮箱和电话;

  (3)以附件二形式发送参赛译文,文件名“XXX参赛译文”,内文规格:黑色小四号宋体,1.5倍行距,两端对齐。

  4. 仅第一次投稿有效,不接受修改后的再投稿件。

  5. 在大赛截稿之日前,妥善保存参赛译文,勿在报刊、网络等任何媒体或以任何方式公布,违者取消参赛资格并承担由此造成的一切后果。

  三、大赛时间

  起止日期:2014年5月1日零时~2014年7月20日24时。

  奖项公布时间:2014年10月,在《英语世界》杂志、微博、博客和微信公众平台上公布大赛评审结果。

  四、奖项设置

  所有投稿将由主办单位组织专家进行评审,分设一、二、三等奖及优秀奖。一、二、三等奖获奖者将颁发奖金、奖品和证书,优秀奖获奖者将颁发证书和纪念奖。

  五、联系方式

  为办好本届翻译大赛,保证此项赛事的公平、公正,特成立大赛组委会,负责整个大赛的组织、实施和评审工作。组委会办公室设在《英语世界》编辑部,电话/传真010-65539242。

  六、特别说明

  1. 本届翻译大赛不收取任何费用。

  2. 本届翻译大赛只接受电子版投稿,不接受纸质投稿。

  3. 参赛译文一经发现抄袭或雷同,即取消涉事者参赛资格。

  《英语世界》杂志社

2014年5月

  【翻译大赛原文】

Limbo

By Rhonda Lucas

  My parents’ divorce was final. The house had been sold and the day had come to move. Thirty years of the family’s life was now crammed into the garage. The two-by-fours that ran the length of the walls were the only uniformity among the clutter of boxes, furniture, and memories. All was frozen in limbo between the life just passed and the one to come.

  The sunlight pushing its way through the window splattered against a barricade of boxes. Like a fluorescent river, it streamed down the sides and flooded the cracks of the cold, cement floor. I stood in the doorway between the house and garage and wondered if the sunlight would ever again penetrate the memories packed inside those boxes. For an instant, the cardboard boxes appeared as tombstones, monuments to those memories.

  The furnace in the corner, with its huge tubular fingers reaching out and disappearing into the wall, was unaware of the futility of trying to warm the empty house. The rhythmical whir of its effort hummed the elegy for the memories boxed in front of me. I closed the door, sat down on the step, and listened reverently. The feeling of loss transformed the bad memories into not-so-bad, the not-so-bad memories into good, and committed the good ones to my mind. Still, I felt as vacant as the house inside.

  A workbench to my right stood disgustingly empty. Not so much as a nail had been left behind. I noticed, for the first time, what a dull, lifeless green it was. Lacking the disarray of tools that used to cover it, now it seemed as out of place as a bathtub in the kitchen. In fact, as I scanned the room, the only things that did seem to belong were the cobwebs in the corners.

  A group of boxes had been set aside from the others and stacked in front of the workbench. Scrawled like graffiti on the walls of dilapidated buildings were the words “Salvation Army.” Those words caught my eyes as effectively as a flashing neon sign. They reeked of irony. “Salvation—was a bit too late for this family,” I mumbled sarcastically to myself.

  The houseful of furniture that had once been so carefully chosen to complement and blend with the color schemes of the various rooms was indiscriminately crammed together against a single wall. The uncoordinated colors combined in turmoil and lashed out in the greyness of the room.

  I suddenly became aware of the coldness of the garage, but I didn’t want to go back inside the house, so I made my way through the boxes to the couch. I cleared a space to lie down and curled up, covering myself with my jacket. I hoped my father would return soon with the truck so we could empty the garage and leave the cryptic silence of parting lives behind.

  (选自Patterns: A Short Prose Reader, by Mary Lou Conlin, published by Houghton Mifflin, 1983.)