江西省第十三届笔译决赛试题

参考译文

一、英译汉 （50分）

九岁那年我做了一个梦，梦见近邻西方，月亮升起，然后朝惯常路线向东前移，速度迅疾，约莫一刻钟后就到达了天顶。就在此刻，一小片云朵顺着一条指向大地的直线，从月亮的清辉中降临而下，停落在一处怡人的绿色物体上，距离父亲的房门口大约二十码的地方（我想，我就站在那儿），刹那间它变成了一棵美丽葱绿的树。月亮看似仍在以先前的疾速前移，很快便在东方落下。这时，太阳升起了，就在夏季惯常升起的地方。太阳发出耀眼的光芒，周遭一片静谧，这是我见过的最迷人的清晨。

我一直静静地站在门口，心情黯然，我观察到，当太阳冉冉升起时，它的热力在不断增强，那棵绿色的小树遭受了太阳的炙烤，叶子渐趋枯萎，不到正午就干瘪、死去。

尽管那时我年纪尚幼，但这一梦境却给我以启迪。

在我的童年还有一件令人难忘的事情。有一次，在去邻居家的路上，我看见一只知更鸟在巢中，等我走近时，它便飞离了；但因巢中还有几只幼鸟，它不停地飞来飞去，发出声声鸣叫，表达对幼鸟的担忧。我站着用石头掷向它，直到击中，它掉落在地，一命呜呼。起初，我为自己的战绩而欣喜，顷刻间我却惴惴不安。就为了找乐子，我杀害了无辜的生命，而那一刻它还在担心幼鸟的安危。我看着它躺在那，命已归西。这时，我想到了它百般怜爱的幼鸟，因为得不到母亲的喂养而必将死去。经过一番痛苦思索后，我爬到树上，捉住了那几只幼鸟，弄死了它们，我想这总比让其日渐憔悴，然后悲惨死去要强，对此我深信不疑，恰好印证了一句经文谚语——“恶人的仁慈亦为恶”。随后，我就到领居家玩耍去了，但是好几个小时，我脑中想到的只有自己的暴行，心中懊恼不已。

时光流逝，我的心又重获快乐，并再次陷入自我放纵，自命不凡的喜人情景仍在我的想象中浮现，直到我十八岁那年。快到十八岁时，我感觉在我的灵魂深处，上帝的审判就像熊熊烈火，检视我过往的生活，情景感人。我时常感到忧伤，期盼能从自负的行为中获得解救，但随后我的心又强烈地渴求，我陷入痛苦的纠缠之中。我时常做蠢事，而后又深感痛苦与困惑。不久后，我便下决心要彻底摒弃我的一些自负的恶习，但那些更顽固的习气却潜存于我的内心，我还不够谦卑，去找回真正的平和。

二、汉译英 （50分）

I used to think that if I could only know enough, understand enough, I could eventually be happy. I seemed to be always reading in the hope of learning something that would give me the secret of eternal bliss. And sometimes I’d find it, and I’d be happy for awhile, with a sort of incandescent glow, but then something would happen and I’d be dragged down and wouldn’t know how to cope with the horrid reality. Perhaps that’s my trouble. I’ve always lived in a little world of dreams and ideals that I, and no one else, could ever live up to. But though I know this to be true, I still keep on trying and trusting and hoping and following that glow, that illusive flicker of dream, of light, of faith. What is it? Why is it?

Should I try to write about it? About my struggle to find it, to believe it, to make it reality? Could what I’ve written ever be of any help to anyone else? Is that why I’d like to write, to help someone else? Why do I feel guilty all the time because I don’t write? I needn’t feel guilty if I don’t write for money, or for prestige. My guilt is valid only if my non-writing is a withholding of something — knowledge, inspiration, or whatever that might be useful, helpful to someone else.

I suppose, actually, in anything I write I do that. I don’t have to spell it out. I don’t have to say, “this is what happened to me,” and “this is how I was made.” I don’t need to reveal the “I”. Perhaps I’d just better forget myself, forget trying to tell about me, about my experiences, and write, write, write. Always, often, forever—about the world, the people around me.