沁园春 长沙 雪

湖南风光，千里冰封，万里雪飘。望铁院内外，唯余茫茫，湘江上下，顿失滔滔。京珠未通，京广又断，万民期盼温家宝。须晴日，看春运重启，分外繁忙。

冰雪如此糟糕，害无数市民尽摔跤。惜停水停电，已嫌郁闷。的士拒载，更添烦燥。一干菜贩，只识拼命抬价高。俱往矣，数受灾深重，还看郴州。

EAGLE
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON(1809～1892)

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely hands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

我国翻译家大多喜欢以画喻译，今试喻之。翻译如同画画，有不同的题材，有不同的手法。此处笔者将画家比作译者，题材比作原文，手法比作翻译策略，画作比作译文。首先，画家选择题材受自己的倾向影响。如吴道子画人，齐白石画虾、徐悲鸿画马、关山月画梅，郑板桥画竹。同样，译者对原文的选择在很大程度上也是由其主观决定的。道学家译红楼梦必不译其淫，经学家必译其易，才子必译其缠绵，革命家必译其排满，流言家必译其宫闱秘事。不同的译者对同一文本会有不同的诠释，这种诠释是由译者的文化倾向决定的，当然译者的文化倾向也不能无限的发挥，完全脱离译本。如译者不可能把《红楼梦》译成《西游记》。

傅雷曾以画作喻，指出要神似不要形似。然而翻译中有形似也有神似，傅雷并未指出为何如此。以绘画论，手法很多，有工笔，有写意，有素描，甚至有漫画。有的翻译如工笔，精谨细腻，求其形也；有的翻译如写意，纵笔挥洒，求其神也；有的翻译如漫画，夸张变形，求其味也。绘画中的两大基本技法当属工笔与写意，翻译中的两大策略即归化和异化。

画家为何采用的手法各不相同？同样，译者的翻译策略为何不尽相同？有两个小故事，或许有些启发。其一：毕加索家里来了个小偷偷了东西跑掉了，恰巧毕加索和他的女佣都看到了小偷长什么样子，为了配合警察抓到这个小偷，毕加索和他的女佣都拿起了画笔，画出了小偷的样子，然而，令人意外的是，警察通过女佣的画像找到了那个小偷，而通过毕加索的画像找到了很多小偷。现在想来或许毕加索和她的女仆的差距就在这里：一个是写意，一个则是纯粹的模仿，不带有任何深意与内涵。毕加索集抽象主义、印象派、超现实主义与一身，其文化背景决定了他画像时采用的策略是抽象派的，不求形似的，同时他也选择了他的大致读者群，即有一定艺术欣赏能力的人，而非警察。而其女仆的主观倾向决定了她的选择是求其形似，她选择的读者是警察。其二，汉元帝时昭君出塞的故事。宫女进宫后，一般都是见不到皇帝的，而是由画工画了像，送到皇帝那里去听候挑选，叫做画图省识。有个画工名叫毛延寿，给宫女画像的时候，宫女们送点礼物给他，他就画得美一点。王昭君不愿意送礼物，所以毛延寿没有把王昭君的美貌如实地画出来。毛延寿对原文本的不忠实不也是由其主观倾向决定的吗？

有趣的是，中国画的源渊是先出现工笔，后出现写意的。工笔画即是以精谨细腻的笔法描绘景物的中国画表现方式，主要求其形似。有故事传说五代画家黄筌写花卉翎毛因工细逼真，呼之欲出，而被苍鹰视为真物而袭之。写意画主张神似，明代徐渭题画诗写到：“不求形似求生韵，根据皆吾五指裁。” 工笔与写意在似与不似的问题上争执不下，后来两者逐渐结合，如齐白石将工笔意结合起来表现，正是利用了两者之长，从而开拓出一种崭新的境界。在中国译论中，也是由佛经翻译中的直译占优势，而后有文质之争，一直争到二十一世纪，现在大多数人都公认在翻译中不可能只用纯粹的直译或意译，也朝着融和并存的方向发展。

翻译如木匠治木。凡木匠治木必先度其用途，选其材质，视其用途选择树木。木伐之后，先去其表皮，判其纹理，而后运斧，顺其纹则易，逆其纹则难。其中，必绳使之直，刨磨上漆，使人不见斧凿之迹。翻译也是如此，首先是原文的选择，译者根据自己或发起人的需要，根据期待译文在译入语中起的作用选择原文，即所谓度其用途，选其材质。如严复选择《天演论》、《原富》、《法意》、《穆勒名学》、《群己权界说》等社会科学和启蒙著作，原因在于其引进西方的先进思想以改造当时的中国。严复曾在其所著的《救亡决论》中写道：“今设有人于此，自其有生以来，未尝出户，但能读三坟五典，八索九丘，而于门以外之情物理，一无所知。… 非明西学格致必不可。”[1]林纾则翻译了《巴黎茶花女遗事》、《雾中人》、《黑奴吁天录》、《英孝子火山报仇录·译余剩语》等大量西方文学作品。虽然林不懂外文，靠与别人合作翻译。但翻译文学作品肯定是得到了林纾本人首肯才一直坚持下来的。1901年,他谈到了自己从事译著的直接动机：”触黄种之将亡,因而愈生其悲怀耳,余与魏君同译是书,非巧于叙悲以博阅者无端之眼泪,特为奴之势逼及吾种,不能不为大众一号”。[2] 原文选定后要判断其文体特点，语言风格等等，而后把原文的风格用目的语语言表述，即所谓去其表皮，判其纹理。动笔之后，无论有意无意，译者都在自己心目中的翻译标准或准则的指引下，对原文进行重写，即所谓绳使之直。无论翻译理论怎么变，忠实的原则始终不会变，变的只是忠实的程度和方式。就像打一把桌子，无论如何也不会做成筷子。那么译者须考虑到对原文的忠实和可读性，因为没有可读性的译文是没有存在的意义的，于是译者要对译文进行润饰，使之顺畅。就像钱钟书先生所说：好的译文读起来应该不像译文。这就是所谓的刨磨上漆，使人不见斧凿之迹。

第二届“芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”竞赛规则

为繁荣我国的翻译事业，为各行各业年轻的翻译工作者、大专院校师生及广大爱好翻译的青年朋友提供更多展现才华的机会，使之脱颖而出，我们――中南大学外国语学院和《外语与翻译》编辑部――继2003年成功举办首届“芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”竞赛之后，决定主办面向全国的第二届“芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”竞赛，热忱欢迎全国各地符合条件的年轻学子和青年朋友报名参赛。竞赛由“芙蓉青年翻译奖”评审委员会组织实施。第二届“芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”参赛规则如下：

一、本届竞赛设立英译汉和汉译英两个奖项。

二、《外语与翻译》2006年第1期刊登参赛原文。

三、参赛者年龄：45岁以下（1961年7月1日以后出生）。

四、《外语与翻译》第1期所登参赛券（包括复印件及网上下载）为有效参赛券。

五、参赛译文必须独立完成，杜绝抄袭现象，一经发现，将取消参赛资格。参赛译文请用电脑打印或用稿纸（有单位名称抬头的译文稿纸无效）誉写清楚。译文正文内请勿书写译者姓名，译文前加一封面，将填好的参赛券剪贴在此封面上（请勿贴在信封上）。

六、截止日期：请参赛者于2006年7月17日以前（以寄出日邮为准）将参赛译文挂号寄至：长沙韶山南路22号中南大学铁道校区《外语与翻译》编辑部，邮编为410075，请在信封上注明“参赛译文”字样。

七、参赛者请在交寄参赛译文的同时，汇寄报名费20元；如同时参加两项竞赛请汇报名费40元。汇款地址：410075长沙韶山南路22号中南大学铁道校区《外语与翻译》编辑部，请在汇款单附言上“参赛报名费”字样。未汇报名费的参赛译文无效。

八、本届竞赛设一、二、三等奖和优秀奖若干名，授予一、二、三等奖获得者奖金和证书，授予优秀奖获得者证书和奖品。评选结果将在《外语与翻译》2006年第3期（9月15日出版）上公布。

九、联系地址同上，联系电话，（0731）2656892。网址：http://www.csu.edu.cn

                                    第二届“芙蓉杯青年翻译奖”评审委员会

2006年1月　

参赛券（请沿虚线剪下，贴在译文前加的封面上） 

（复印件或网上下载有效）

汉译英部分：

心中有爱

任何人都逃避不了一个最简单的自然法则――死亡。死亡并不可怕，再完美的戏总有谢幕的时候。然而，一个即将谢幕的幼小的生命，却让我如此动容，让我庄严地向她致敬！

十三岁的小女孩周越家住山东省德州市乐陵，那是一个盛产金丝小枣的地方。她曾和其他快乐的孩子一样健康活泼，但是一场病夺去了一切。那病是白血病，也称血癌。由于家庭无力承担几十万元的医疗费用，也找不到同一类型的骨髓，她已经错过了最佳治疗的时机。等待她的只能是短暂的生命历程，一朵花蕾很快就会凋谢。她说服了自己的父母，决定在死后把自己的遗体捐献给社会，让医生们解剖，以寻找治疗疾病的答案。

这是2001年11月27日晚上山东齐鲁电视台播放的一条新闻，采访的记者们都哭了，我也哭了。周越平静地说：“我知道自己的病看不好了，我妈妈下岗了，只有爸爸一个人在上班，家里的积蓄只够十几天的口粮，是社会上的叔叔、阿姨、伯伯们为我献爱心，捐钱给我治病，我没有能力回报他们了。我死之后，一把火把尸体烧成骨灰太可惜了，把遗体捐献给国家吧！让医生能治好像我这样的病人。”

当时，她执意让房间里的人都出去，只留下一名女记者说悄悄话。她附在女记者的耳旁说：“阿姨，我知道自己不行了。住院八个月了，我一直没有在爸爸妈妈面前哭过，我怕他们伤心，我在别人面前装得很坚强，其实我内心很害怕，我害怕失去这个美丽的世界。今天我是第一次哭……”

她哭了，没有关掉的摄像机记录下了这一切。

她说她想在临死之前看看大海，看看海边的礁石，还有礁石下的小螃蟹。

据说，节目播出以后，电视台一夜之间接到了四百多个热线电话。大连、威海、青岛等地的人还愿意把孩子接过去，让她看一眼大海。然而，这一切都阻止不了死神的迫近。

为什么一个幼小而又脆弱的生命竟蕴藏如此巨大的精神力量，让每一个活着的健康的人向她致敬！因为她心中有爱，有别人。也许现代医学永远不可能再治好她的病了，可即使在不久之后的某一天，她平静地闭上眼睛，我们还是会记住她的美丽。

英译汉部分：

The Woods: A Meditation（节选）

What brought me to the woods was grief. My mother died of cancer when I was twenty-one. She was forty-eight. Hers was along harrowing death with remissions and tatters of hope and experimental treatments and long stretches of sheer suffering alleviated by morphine oblivion. She was in and out of hospitals for the better part of six years. I walked the long linoleum corridors and talked with the doctors and interns and nurses about dosages and the weather, about radiation and baseball. For every dire intention there was a correspondent distraction that enabled each person to keep going on.

I sat by her bedside reading aloud to her from her favorite distraction—Victorian novels. She was wild about Anthony Trollope. The vicars and lords and widows whose cordial yet machinating lives Trollope recounted seemed reasonably settled, yet being people they managed to muck things up. Both the settled aspect, the golden dust of autumnal England, the material weight of furniture and dresses and jewels, and the making a mess of things pleased my mother. She had lived, but she wanted to live more. She had wanted to visit Europe and see cathedrals and parsonages. She had wanted to breathe the ripe air of history. Now there were a hospital bed and duration and books.

I lived with death on a daily basis, a companion of sorts, mute but tireless. When I shaved in the morning or stopped at a drive-in to get a hamburger or walked from one class at the university to another, I felt death’s presence. In that sense, part of me was dying with her as I watched her valiantly struggle with her disease’s mindless depredations. What did those dispiriting cancer cells know? How many nights had I sat by her bedside when she was asleep, too weary and sad to pick my-self up, and listened to the noises of the hospital, the squeak of shoes and the rolling creak of gurneys, as if they might bring me an answer? What brought me to the woods was the prospect of living on earth with nothing between me and the earth—none of the electronic gibber- jabber. I craved directness and quiet. What brought me to the woods was an impulse to get lost, to almost literally be off the map. America was vast and a fair amount of it still looked as though not many people lived there. I liked the prospect of thinking about land not in terms of building lots but acres. What brought me to the woods was generational. My wife and I were part of the back-to-the-land movement of the Sixties and Seventies, the little tide of people who wanted to return to a countryside they had never experienced. What brought me to the woods was romanticism. I wanted to feel elemental sublimity, the full force of the stars and rain and wind. What brought me to the woods was pragmatism. I wanted to learn how to take care of my self. What brought me to the woods was my being an urban Jew who was ready to leave behind the vestiges of assimilated religion and culture that had been bequeathed to me. I wasn’t ashamed of it. I craved, however, something different from the largely asphalt landscape I grew up in. What brought me to the woods was the longing to be with words in an undistracted place. “Woods” and “words” were almost identical.

When we look for one thread of motive, we are, in all likelihood, deceiving ourselves.

                       *    *    *

We lived for over twenty-three years on forty-eight wooded acres that we purchased from an old Mainer who had bought up land in the Thirties like postage stamps and sold off a parcel every now and then when he needed some money. We lived off the grid—no conventional power, no electric lines, no light switches, faucets, or spigots, no toaster or hair dryer, no flush toilet, no furnace, and no monthly bill from Central Maine Power. Often when we told people how we lived, they asked us forthrightly how we could live that way. What was with us? Frequently they assumed that we were ideologues of some sort, that we were living without electricity to make a point about the dry rot of Western civilization. Perhaps we were latter day Luddites or devotees of Rousseau or Thoreau. We must be of the company of the sanctimonious, those who live to judge others.

I never blamed people for making such assumptions. Anything out of the ordinary tends to be taken personally. The fact was that we had situated our house a few hundred feet beyond what the power company considered a reasonable distance to put in their poles. Beyond that distance, a customer had to sign a contract and pay a bunch of money up front. We never had that money and so we never got power. We could have situated the house closer to the poles to begin with—there was plenty of road frontage—but that logical consideration never entered our heads. Other concerns—aesthetic, intuitive, and earthy—guided where we built our house. It was on a rise where, once upon a time, a farmhouse had sat. There was a dug well there that we wound up using. Despite the rapidity with which a dooryard became the woods again, there was still something of a south-facing clearing there. We had rented our share of dark apartments and wanted all the sunlight we could get. People had lived for eons without electric lights and water pressure. Though we had never done it, as blithe and hardworking spirits we felt that we could too.

At first we said, “Next year, we’ll get power. This is just temporary.” Years went by, however, and we got used to going to the outhouse, hauling buckets of water, heating with wood, bathing in a metal tub, lighting kerosene lamps. Right from the beginning we had a small gas stove that ran off propane tanks, which we cooked on when the wood-fired cook stove wasn’t in use. We never considered ourselves purists. The fact is that we got to like the simplicity of it, how physical action A produced result B. Nor did we expect anyone to be particularly enthused about how we lived. Most Americans believe in progress of some type; going backwards seems perverse. Though we had our material enthusiasms—hand tools, for instance, and cast-iron pots and blue jeans and ceramic vases—the way we lived took some air out of the sails of acquisitive desire. A friend called us “cheerleaders for the nineteenth century.”