Художественного и технического перевода «Живое слово»,
Приуроченного 220-летию со дня рождения Владимира Ивановича Даля
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| Номинация | |
| Язык текста оригинала | |
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Отправляя заявку на конкурс, я даю согласие на обработку указанных персональных данных.
«_____» __________ 20__ г. __________________ /___________________ /
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Приложение 2
Номинация «Лучший художественный перевод с английского языка на русский»
Текст 1
Bernard Maclaverty
Grace Notes
The first time she saw the Chinese composer Huang Xiao Gang was at a composition workshop in the University. Because the public were to be admitted, it was not in the Music Department but in the lecture theatre overlooking the main quad. Through the window Catherine could see the green of the clipped lawn and the laburnum and cherry trees in full blossom and the cloisters beyond. She thought it would make anybody Chinese feel at home. It was a warm sunny day. The Prof came in with several other men and walked to the rostrum. Huang Xiao Gang was in the middle of the group. The first thing that struck Catherine was his height. She had expected someone small but this man was over six foot – thin and wiry – in his early fifties, although he looked boyish. His hair was black, turning to grey, and short – so short it could not be described as a haircut – more that his head had been shaved some time ago and the hair was growing back. The Prof introduced him to the audience of about thirty. He told them that Huang Xiao Gang had only yesterday flown in from Toronto, where he now lived, so he was still suffering from jet lag. He had been born in a remote province of northern China and the only music he had heard before reaching manhood was ritualistic – funeral music, wedding music. It was only very much later he heard Western music. The University Music Department was more than privileged to have such a man address them. Left alone on the platform Huang Xiao Gang looked shyly down at his feet and began. He was a beautiful man with an open, immediately likeable face and smile. His English was extremely good. One pronunciation threw her. Peach. She thought he was referring to the fruit but he said it several times and she realised by the context what it was. For him peach and pitch were homophones. He began by, not dismissing the conservatoire approach, but by putting it in its place. A three- or four-year old child with an innocent ear could produce things every bit as interesting as a Music Professor. There were smiles and nudges and glances at the Prof to see if he’d taken offence. Huang Xiao Gang talked about pre-hearing andinner hearing and later about categories of sound like peach and rhythm – random or otherwise. He invited about ten students, including Catherine, on to the platform to do some vocal improvisation. They sat in a half-circle around him, five boys and five girls. He talked about the invisible disciplines of Taoism – the interaction of the two cosmic forces, the yin and the yang – the feminine and the masculine. Do you compose the music or does the music compose you? Where are the notes between the notes? Graces, grace notes or, as the French would have it, agréments. Are you a conduit for the music? Are you the nib or the ink source? He asked the students on the platform to breathe quietly, then to increase the noise of the expiration of each breath. It was astonishing the way the audience were on the edge if their seats listening to the expulsion of breath by ten people as if it was a new sound. Huang Xiao Gang said, ‘It is like a class for future mothers.’ Then he interfered with the expelling of the breath, chopping it up into gasps with his hand. He conducted with his hands, diminuendo and crescendo. His gestures were functional but at the same time delicate. Beautiful. The slightest movement of his head to keep time. He asked the students if they could draw the sounds they had heard, put a shape to them. Catherine suggested that if she was to represent the chopping-breath sound it was, ‘Out there. The rhythm of the cloisters.’ Huang Xiao Gang nodded. He then talked about pre-hearing, asked the students to think about the shape of what they were going to improvise. Each contribution was to have a head, a body and a tail. Silence could be any part of the sound. There were four stages – first they had to, in silence, think about what sound or sounds they were going to make. Then they had to perform it. Having performed it they had to register and remember it. Lastly they had to do it again. He asked Catherine to do this. She thought, then she gasped. A sigh, belted out sharply. Huang Xiao Gang said he was strangely moved by it, said, ‘Ah what a sigh is there.’ Called her Lady Macbeth. Catherine knew what he meant. Yet it was perilously close to being laughable. The courage to risk being thought pretentious. But when he said it – it was with a smile and he got away with it. Later Catherine began improvising with Huang Xiao Gang, alternating ‘breath sentences’. Silence was part of hers and there was a mix up. They both waited. And everyone waited. Two chess players, both polite and patient thinking it’s the other’s move. The silence went on and on and on. For a long time. Then he turned to Catherine and they both smiled, realizing their mistake. It was like when she’d pressed the piano keys as a child and no sound had come. Then they did it again, this time correctly, and she was amazed at how complete a thing it was. A series of sounds, formed, swished, swift – the way a series of brush strokes made a Chinese ideogram. ‘A composer does not grub around changing this note and trying that note instead. A composer hears the thing in his or her head and writes it down.’
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Текст 2
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AS THE ANCIENT cogwheel train clawed its way up the dizzying incline, Edmond Kirsch surveyed the jagged mountaintop above him. In the distance, built into the face of a sheer cliff, the massive stone monastery seemed to hang in space, as if magically fused to the vertical precipice. This timeless sanctuary in Catalonia, Spain, had endured the relentless pull of gravity for more than four centuries, never slipping from its original purpose: to insulate its occupants from the modern world. Ironically, they will now be the first to learn the truth, Kirsch thought, wondering how they would react. Historically, the most dangerous men on earth were men of God … especially when their gods became threatened. And I am about to hurl a flaming spear into a hornets’ nest. When the train reached the mountaintop, Kirsch saw a solitary figure waiting for him on the platform. The wizened skeleton of a man was draped in the traditional Catholic purple cassock and white rochet, with a zucchetto on his head. Kirsch recognized his host’s rawboned features from photos and felt an unexpected surge of adrenaline. Valdespino is greeting me personally. Bishop Antonio Valdespino was a formidable figure in Spain—not only a trusted friend and counselor to the king himself, but one of the country’s most vocal and influential advocates for the preservation of conservative Catholic values and traditional political standards. “Edmond Kirsch, I assume?” the bishop intoned as Kirsch exited the train. “Guilty as charged,” Kirsch said, smiling as he reached out to shake his host’s bony hand. “Bishop Valdespino, I want to thank you for arranging this meeting.” “I appreciate your requesting it.” The bishop’s voice was stronger than Kirsch expected—clear and penetrating, like a bell. “It is not often we are consulted by men of science, especially one of your prominence. This way, please.” As Valdespino guided Kirsch across the platform, the cold mountain air whipped at the bishop’s cassock. “I must confess,” Valdespino said, “you look different than I imagined. I was expecting a scientist, but you’re quite …” He eyed his guest’s sleek Kiton K50 suit and Barker ostrich shoes with a hint of disdain. “‘Hip,’ I believe, is the word?” Kirsch smiled politely. The word “hip” went out of style decades ago. “In reading your list of accomplishments,” the bishop said, “I am still not entirely sure what it is you do.” “I specialize in game theory and computer modeling.” “So you make the computer games that the children play?” Kirsch sensed the bishop was feigning ignorance in an attempt to be quaint. More accurately, Kirsch knew, Valdespino was a frighteningly well-informed student of technology and often warned others of its dangers. “No, sir, actually game theory is a field of mathematics that studies patterns in order to make predictions about the future.” “Ah yes. I believe I read that you predicted a European monetary crisis some years ago? When nobody listened, you saved the day by inventing a computer program that pulled the EU back from the dead. What was your famous quote? ‘At thirty-three years old, I am the same age as Christ when He performed His resurrection.’” Kirsch cringed. “A poor analogy, Your Grace. I was young.” “Young?” The bishop chuckled. “And how old are you now … perhaps forty?” “Just.” The old man smiled as the strong wind continued to billow his robe. “Well, the meek were supposed to inherit the earth, but instead it has gone to the young—the technically inclined, those who stare into video screens rather than into their own souls. I must admit, I never imagined I would have reason to meet the young man leading the charge. They call you a prophet, you know.” “Not a very good one in your case, Your Grace,” Kirsch replied. “When I asked if I might meet you and your colleagues privately, I calculated only a twenty percent chance you would accept.” “And as I told my colleagues, the devout can always benefit from listening to nonbelievers. It is in hearing the voice of the devil that we can better appreciate the voice of God.” The old man smiled. “I am joking, of course. Please forgive my aging sense of humor. My filters fail me from time to time.” With that, Bishop Valdespino motioned ahead. “The others are waiting. This way, please.” Kirsch eyed their destination, a colossal citadel of gray stone perched on the edge of a sheer cliff that plunged thousands of feet down into a lush tapestry of wooded foothills. Unnerved by the height, Kirsch averted his eyes from the chasm and followed the bishop along the uneven cliffside path, turning his thoughts to the meeting ahead.
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