Методичка по теории перевода. Краснодарский государственный университет культуры и искусств кафедра методики и практики преподавания иностранных языков и культур Л.
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Упражнение 18. Проанализируйте и переведите предложения на русский язык. 1. I take off my hat to Miss Tonis, in her way she's the cleverest of us all. (S.P. Snow) 2. To listen to him was, as the phrase goes, as good as a play (W.S. Maugham)
10. I had two hundred jobs all told... Reckon I'm a Jack of trades and master of none. (J. Conray) 11. I am getting better by leaps and bounds. (O. Casly) 12. He is good through and through, and I have promised to marry him. (A. Christie) 13. He's a first-class engineer, just as good as they come. (J. Duncan)
22. Death is believed to be due to natural causes. There are no suspicions of foul play. 23. She was easy to dance with. As light as a feather. (W.S. Maugham) 24. Hasn't Monsieur Felix warned you — I live by my wits. (N. Coward) 25. I've got to be busy. I can't sit down and twiddle my thumbs. (F. Norris) ДОПОЛНИТЕЛЬНЫЕ ТЕКСТЫ Text 1 If There's a Will Regis Philbin and I celebrate Mother's Day on our television program, LIVE with Regis & Kathie Lee, by asking our viewers to write and tell us about a special mom. Each year we receive thousands of letters. People who would never write about themselves open their hearts about the mother they love. Here is one of those extraordinary and inspiring stories. This story is by Stacey Nasalroad. I am my mother's third child, born when she was 20. When I was delivered, nurses took me from the room before she could see me. Her doctor gently explained that my left arm was missing, below the elbow. Then he gave her some advice: "Don't treat her any differently than the other girls. Demand more." And she did! Even before my father left us, my mother had to go back to work to support our family. There were five of us girls in our Modesto, California, home and we all had to help out. Once when I was about seven, I came out of the kitchen, whining, "Mom, I can't peel potatoes. I only have one hand." Mom never looked up from sewing. "You get yourself into that kitchen and peel those potatoes," she told me. "And don't ever use that as an excuse for anything again!" Of course I could peel potatoes - with my good hand, while holding them down with my other arm. There was always a way, and Mom knew it. "If you try hard enough" she'd say, "you can do anything." In second grade, our teacher lined up my class on the playground and had each of us race across the monkey bars, swinging from one high steel rod to the next. When it was my turn, I shook my head. Some kids behind me laughed. I went home crying. That night I told Mom about it. She hugged me, and I saw her "we'll see about that" look. When she got off work the next afternoon, she took me back to school. At the deserted playground. Mom looked carefully at the bars. "Now, pull up with your right arm," she advised. She stood by as I struggled to lift myself with my right hand until I could hook the bar with my other elbow. Day after day we practiced and she praised me for every rung I reached. I'll never forget the next time my class lined up at the monkey bars. Crossing the rungs, I looked down at the kids who'd made fun of me. Now they were standing with their mouths open. It was that way with everything: instead of doing things for me, or excusing me, my mother insisted I find a way to do them myself. At times I resented her. She doesn't know what it's like, I thought. She doesn't care how hard it is. But one night, after a dance at my new junior high, I lay in bed sobbing. I could hear Mom come into my room. "What's the matter?" she asked gently "Mom," I answered, weeping, "none of the boys would dance with me because of my arm." For a long time I didn't hear anything. Then she said, "Oh, honey, someday you'll be beating those boys off with a bat. You'll see." Her voice was faint and cracking. I peeked out from my covers to see tears running down her cheeks. Then I knew how much she suffered on my behalf. She had never let me see her tears, though, because she didn't want me to feel sorry for myself. Later, I married the first guy I thought accepted me. But he turned out to be immature and irresponsible. When my daughter Jessica was born, I wanted to protect her from my unhappy marriage, and I broke free. During the five years I was a single mother, Mom was my rock. If I needed to cry, she'd hold me. If I complained about chasing a toddler around after working and going to school, she'd laugh. But if I ever started feeling sorry for myself I'd look at her and then remember, She did it with five! I remarried, and my husband Tim and I have a loving family that includes four children. Perhaps because Mom missed so much time with her own kids, she made it up with her grandchildren. Many times I watched her rock Jessica, stroking her hair. "I'm going to spoil her rotten and then give her back to her mama for some discipline," she'd tell me. 'That's my privilege now." She didn't, though. She just gave the children infinite patience and love. In 1991, Mom was found to have lung cancer and given six months to a year to live. She was still with us more than three years later. Doctors said it was a miracle; I think it was her love for her grandchildren that kept her fighting right up to the last. Mom died five days after her 53rd birthday. Even now, it hurts me to think that someone who had so much hardship in life should have suffered so at the end. But she taught me the answer to that, too. As a child, I wondered why I had to struggle so. Now I know - it's hardship that makes us the people we become. I feel Mom with me always. Sometimes, when I fear I can't handle things, I see her radiant smile again. She had the heart to face anything. And she taught me I could, too. Text 2 Who to Believe? My doctors told me I would never walk again. My mother told me I would. I believed my mother. Wilma Rudolph Let me tell you about a little girl who was born into a very poor family in a shack in the backwoods of Tennessee. She was the 20th of 22 children, prematurely born and frail. Her survival was doubtful. When she was four years old, she had double pneumonia and scarlet fever - a deadly combination that left her with a paralyzed and useless left leg. She had to wear an iron leg brace. Yet she was fortunate in having a mother who encouraged her. Well, this mother told her little girl, who was very bright, that despite the brace and leg, she could do whatever she wanted to do with her life. She told her that all she needed to do was to have faith, persistence, courage and an indomitable spirit. So at nine years of age, the little girl removed the leg brace and took the step the doctors told her she would never take normally. In four years, she developed a rhythmic stride, which was a medical wonder. Then this girl got the notion, the incredible notion, that she would like to be the world's greatest woman runner. Now, what could she mean - be a runner with a leg like that? At age 13, she entered a race. She came in last – way, way last. She entered every race in high school, and in every race she came in last. Everyone begged her to quit. However, one day, she came in next to last. And then there came a day when she won a race. From then on, Wilma Rudolph won every race that she entered. Wilma went to Tennessee State University, where she met a coach named Ed Temple. Coach Temple saw the indomitable spirit of the girl, that she was a believer and that she had great natural talent. He trained her so well that in 1960 she went to the Olympic Games in Rome. There she was pitted against the greatest woman runner of the day, a German girl named Jutta Heine. Nobody had ever beaten Jutta. But in the 100-meter dash, Wilma Rudolph won. She beat Jutta again in the 200 meters. Wilma had just earned two Olympic gold medals. Finally came the 400-meter relay. It would be Wilma against Jutta once again. The first two runners on Wilma's team made perfect hand-offs with the baton. But when the third runner handed the baton to Wilma, she was so excited she dropped it, and Wilma saw Jutta taking off down the track. It was impossible that anybody could catch this fleet and nimble girl. But Wilma did just that! Wilma Rudolph had earned her third Olympic gold medal. That day she made history as she became the first woman ever to win three gold medals in the same Olympic games. And they'd said she would never walk again... Text 3 Hungry for Your Love It is cold, so bitter cold, on this dark, winter day in 1942. But it is no different from any other day in this Nazi concentration camp. I stand shivering in my thin rags, still in disbelief that this nightmare is happening. I am just a young boy. I should be playing with friends; I should be going to school; I should be looking forward to a future, to growing up and marrying, and having a family of my own. But those dreams are for the living, and I am no longer one of them. Instead, I am almost dead, surviving from day to day, from hour to hour, ever since I was taken from my home and brought here with tens of thousands of other Jews. Will I still be alive tomorrow? Will I be taken to the gas chamber tonight? Back and forth I walk next to the barbed wire fence, trying to keep my emaciated body warm. I am hungry, but I have been hungry for longer than I want to remember. I am always hungry. Edible food seems like a dream. Each day, as more of us disappear, the happy past seems like a mere dream, and I sink deeper and deeper into despair. Suddenly, I notice a young girl walking past on the other side of the barbed wire. She stops and looks at me with sad eyes, eyes that seem to say that she understands, that she, too, cannot fathom why I am here. I want to look away, oddly ashamed for this stranger to see me like this, but I cannot tear my eyes from hers. Then she reaches into her pocket, and pulls out a red apple. A beautiful, shiny red apple. Oh, how long has it been since I have seen one! She looks cautiously to the left and to the right, and then with a smile of triumph, quickly throws the apple over the fence. I run to pick it up, holding it in my trembling, frozen fingers. In my world of death, this apple is an expression of life, of love. I glance up in time to see the girl disappearing into the distance. The next day, I cannot help myself - I am drawn at the same time to that spot near the fence. Am I crazy for hoping she will come again? Of course. But in here, I cling to any tiny scrap of hope. She has given me hope and I must hold tightly to it. And again, she comes. And again, she brings me an apple, flinging it over the fence with that same sweet smile. This time I catch it, and hold it up for her to see. Her eyes twinkle. Does she pity me? Perhaps. I do not care, though. I am just so happy to gaze at her. And for the first time in so long, I feel my heart move with emotion. For seven months, we meet like this. Sometimes we exchange a few words. Sometimes, just an apple. But she is feeding more than my belly, this angel from heaven. She is feeding my soul. And somehow, I know I am feeding hers as well. One day, I hear frightening news: we are being shipped to another camp. This could mean the end for me. And it definitely means the end for me and my friend. The next day when I greet her, my heart is breaking, and I can barely speak as I say what must be said: "Do not bring me an apple tomorrow," I tell her. "I am being sent to another camp. We will never see each other again." Turning before I lose all control, I run away from the fence. I cannot bear to look back. If I did, I know she would see me standing there, with tears streaming down my face. Months pass and the nightmare continues. But the memory of this girl sustains me through the terror, the pain, the hopelessness. Over and over in my mind, I see her face, her kind eyes, I hear her gentle words, I taste those apples. And then one day, just like that, the nightmare is over. The war has ended. Those of us who are still alive are freed. I have lost everything that was precious to me, including my family. But I still have the memory of this girl, a memory I carry in my heart and gives me the will to go on as I move to America to start a new life. Years pass. It is 1957. I am living in New York City. A friend convinces me to go on a blind date with a lady friend of his. Reluctantly, I agree. But she is nice, this woman named Roma. And like me, she is an immigrant, so we have at least that in common. "Where were you during the war?" Roma asks me gently, in that delicate way immigrants ask one another questions about those years. "I was in a concentration camp in Germany," I reply. Roma gets a far away look in her eyes, as if she is remembering something painful yet sweet. "What is it?" I ask. "I am just thinking about something from my past, Herman," Roma explains in a voice suddenly very soft. "You see, when I was a young girl, I lived near a concentration camp. There was a boy there, a prisoner, and for a long while, I used to visit him every day. I remember I used to bring him apples. I would throw the apple over the fence, and he would be so happy." Roma sighs heavily and continues. "It is hard to describe how we felt about each other - after all, we were young, and we only exchanged a few words when we could - but I can tell you, there was much love there. I assume he was killed like so many others. But I cannot bear to think that, and so I try to remember him as he was for those months we were given together." With my heart pounding so loudly I think it will explode, I look directly at Roma and ask, "And did that boy say to you one day, 'Do not bring me an apple tomorrow. I am being sent to another camp'?" "Why, yes," Roma responds, her voice trembling. "But, Herman, how on earth could you possibly know that?" I take her hands in mine and answer, "Because I was that young boy, Roma." For many moments, there is only silence. We cannot take our eyes from each other, and as the veils of time lift, we recognize the soul behind the eyes, the dear friend we once loved so much, whom we have never stopped loving, whom we have never stopped remembering. Finally, I speak: "Look, Roma, I was separated from you once, and I don't ever want to be separated from you again. Now, I am free, and I want to be together with you forever. Dear, will you marry me?" I see that same twinkle in her eye that I used to see as Roma says, "Yes, I will marry you," and we embrace, the embrace we longed to share for so many months, but barbed wire came between us. Now, nothing ever will again. Almost forty years have passed since that day when I found my Roma again. Destiny brought us together the first time during the war to show me a promise of hope, and now it had reunited us to fulfill that promise. Valentine's Day, 1996. I bring Roma to the Oprah Winfrey Show to honor her on national television. I want to tell her in front of millions of people what I feel in my heart every day: "Darling, you fed me in the concentration camp when I was hungry. And I am still hungry, for something I will never get enough of: I am only hungry for your love." Text 4 A Little Holiday Magic Christmas Eve has always been my favorite day of the year. December 24, 1969,I was on my own, living in my first apartment. With several hours to fill before joining my family at Mother's, I decided to do a little last minute shopping. On the third floor of our city's oldest and finest department store, I bought a large basket of gourmet cheeses, smoked oysters, a bottle of wine and wineglasses to take to my family. On my way down, the elevator stopped at the second floor, where everyone but an older couple and me got off - and where a tall, handsome man in a navy suit got on. We started down again; then suddenly, there was a loud thud. The elevator jerked, then stalled. We were stuck - on Christmas Eve! Luckily the elevator was equipped with a phone, and the older man called someone in maintenance, who assured us we would soon be moving again. Thirty minutes passed while we made small talk, then placed another call. We learned that the elevator needed a new part and we were in for a long wait. At that point, one by one, we - the older couple, Mr. and Mrs. Phillips; John, the handsome man in navy; and I - sat down on the floor and began sharing Christmas memories. An hour passed, then two; we found ourselves so involved in the conversation that we forgot we were trapped. As we took turns revealing bits and pieces of our pasts, we shared my basket of cheese and wine. I didn't realize it at the time, but what we were doing was creating another special Christmas memory. After five hours, the elevator finally moved. When the doors opened, the worried store manager, relieved to find us in such good spirits, handed out gift baskets of gourmet cheese. Saying our good-byes, the four of us exchanged addresses and promised to send holiday greetings to each other in the years to come. I got to my mother's for our traditional family Christmas - a bit late, but I got there. As I closed my eyes that night, I saw not visions of sugarplums, but a handsome man in a navy suit. Christmas evening I returned to my apartment loaded down with gifts. Waiting for me was a single red rose and an envelope slipped under the door. Inside the envelope was a message: I could really use some help with this cheese basket. John. At the bottom was his phone number... John and I were married the following Christmas Eve in a sunset ceremony on a Hawaiian beach. That was many years ago, and we are still exchanging Christmas greetings with Mr. and Mrs. Phillips and enjoying a basket of gourmet cheese and wine for our midnight snack every Christmas Eve. And I still wake up every Christmas Eve morning filled with excitement at the magic of the day. |