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第十五届“沪江”杯翻译竞赛
2018.06.05
分享到:
主办:
上海市文学艺术界联合会
上海世纪出版(集团)有限公司
承办:
上海翻译家协会
上海译文出版社《外国文艺》杂志
协办:
沪江教育科技(上海)股份有限公司
     
  由上海翻译家协会和上海译文出版社共同承办,以推进我国翻译事业的繁荣发展,发现和培养翻译新人为宗旨的翻译竞赛成功举办十四届后,已成为翻译界知名赛事。本届“沪江”杯翻译竞赛特设两个语种——英语和日语。具体参赛规则如下:
  一、本届竞赛为英语、日语翻译竞赛。
  二、参赛者年龄:45周岁以下
  三、原文将刊登于2018年第3期(2018年6月出版)的《外国文艺》杂志、上海译文出版社网站www.yiwen.com.cn、上海翻译家协会网站www.sta.org.cn、沪江网www.hujiang.com,以及相关微博、微信公众号。
  四、本届翻译竞赛评选委员会由各大高校、出版社的专家学者组成。
  五、本届比赛采用网络参赛方式。英语组选手请将译作发送到[email protected]日语组请发送到[email protected]。请于邮件标题中写明:“沪江”杯翻译竞赛+姓名。注意附件中须包括两个WORD格式文件:译文和个人信息(标题采用三号黑体,正文五号宋体)。译文中请不要添加任何与译者个人身份信息相关的文字或符号,否则译文无效;个人信息中请写明姓名、性别、出生年月日、工作学习单位及家庭住址、联系电话、E-MAIL地址等。
  六、参赛译文必须独立完成,合译、抄袭或请他人校订过的译文均属无效。
  七、决赛截稿日期为2018年8月10日。
  八、为鼓励更多的翻译爱好者参与比赛,提高翻译水平,所有参赛者均可获得100元沪江网校学习卡。另外,两个语种各设一等奖1名(证书及价值6000元的奖金和奖品),二等奖2名(证书及价值3000元的奖金和奖品),三等奖3名(证书及价值2000元的奖金和奖品),优胜奖20名(证书及价值300元的奖品),此外还设优秀组织奖1名(价值5000元的奖金和奖品)。各奖项在没有合格译文的情况下将作相应空缺。获奖证书及奖品务必及时领取,两年内未领者视为自动放弃。
  九、《外国文艺》将于2018年第6期(2018年12月出版)公布评选结果并刊登优秀译文,竞赛结果将同时在上海译文出版社、上海翻译家协会和沪江官方网站、微信、微博等公众平台上公布。
  十、本届翻译竞赛正式启动前,还将举办翻译热身赛,请关注沪江微信公众平台(微信号:hujiang4u),届时回复“翻译竞赛”参与。
  十一、以上条款的解释权归上海译文出版社所有。
 
  英语组评委(按姓氏笔画):
  冯庆华  上海外国语大学副校长、教授、博导  上海翻译家协会理事 
  吴  洪  上海译文出版社副总编  上海翻译家协会副会长
  张春柏  华东师范大学外语学院教授、博导  上海翻译家协会常务理事
  黄源深  上海对外经贸大学教授、博导 上海翻译家协会会员
  翟象俊  复旦大学外文学院教授  上海翻译家协会会员
 
  日语组评委(按姓氏笔画):
  邹  波  复旦大学外文学院日文系主任  上海翻译家协会会员
  沈维藩  上海译文出版社编审  上海翻译家协会理事
  林少华  中国海洋大学外国语学院日语系教授  兰州大学兼职教授  中国日本文学研究会副会长  
  青岛市作家协会副主席
  韩小龙  东华大学外语学院教授、硕士生导师  上海翻译家协会会员 
  谭晶华 上海外国语大学教授、博导  中国翻译协会副会长  上海翻译家协会会长
 

  竞赛原文(英译)
 

Life-writing

  Zadie Smith


For a long time I’ve wanted to keep a diary. I tried throughout adolescence but always gave it up. I dreamed of being very frank, like Joe Orton, whose diaries I admired; I found them in the library when I was about fourteen. I read them half as literary interest and half as pornography, thrilled to follow Joe around the many corners of the city in which I had only walked but he had managed to have illicit sex. I thought: If you’re going to write a diary, it should be like this, it should be utterly free, honest. But I found I couldn’t write about sexual desires (too shy, too dishonest), nor could I describe any sexual activity – I wasn’t getting any – and so the diary devolved into a banal account of fake crushes and imagined romance and I was soon disgusted with it and put it aside. A bit later I tried again, this time concentrating only on school, like a Judy Blume character, detailing playground incidents and friendship drama, but I was never able to block from my mind a possible audience, and this ruined it for me: it felt like homework. I was always trying to frame things to my advantage in case so-and-so at school picked it up and showed it to everybody. The dishonesty of diary-writing – this voice you put on for supposedly no one but yourself – I found that idea so depressing. I feel that life has too much artifice in it anyway without making a pretty pattern of your own most intimate thoughts. Or maybe it’s the other way round: some people are able to write frankly, simply, of how they feel, whereas I can’t stop myself turning it into a pretty pattern.


As a young adult I read a lot of Virginia Woolf ’s diaries and again thought that I really should keep a diary. I knew enough about myself by then to know that the retelling of personal feelings in a diary was completely intolerable to me, I was too self-conscious, and too lazy for the daily workload. So I tried to copy the form and style of Woolf ’s single-volume Writer’s Diary and make entries only on days when something literary had happened to me, either something I wrote or something I read, or encounters with other writers. That diary lasted exactly one day. It covered an afternoon spent with Jeff Eugenides and took up twelve pages and half the night. Forget it! At that rate the writing of the life will take longer than the living of it. I think part of the problem was the necessity to write in the first person, a form I have, until recently, found laborious and stressful. I was not able to use it with any confidence except in short, essayistic bursts. When I was younger even the appearance of ‘I’ on the page made me feel a bit ill – that self-consciousness again – and I would always try to obscure it with ‘we ’. I notice that once I got to America this began to change, and then snowball; looking up the page right now I see more cases of ‘I’ than a stretch of Walt Whitman. But still I have some mental block when it comes to diaries and journals. The same childish questions get to me. Who is it for? What is this voice? Who am I trying to kid – myself?


I realize I don’t want any record of my days. I have the kind of brain that erases everything that passes, almost immediately, like that dustpan-and-brush dog in Disney’s Alice in Wonderland sweeping up the path as he progresses along it. I never know what I was doing on what date, or how old I was when this or that happened – and I like it that way. I feel when I am very old and my brain ‘goes’ it won’t feel so very different from the life I live now, in this miasma of non-memory, which, though it infuriates my nearest and dearest, must suit me somehow, as I can’t seem, even by acts of will, to change it. I wonder if it isn’t obliquely connected to the way I write my fiction, in which, say, a