pojďte si s námi zasoutěžit a vyzkoušet něco nového a kreativního - co třeba práci překladatele? Připravili jsme pro Vás překladatelskou soutěž - texty pro překlad jsou rozdělené do tří kategorií dle vašeho věku a úrovně, vaším úkolem bude pokusit se co nejlépe přeložit zadaný text do češtiny. Mějte na paměti nejen faktickou správnost překladu, ale nezapomínejte ani na plynulou a krásnou češtinu, která je nepostradatelnou součástí překladatelské práce. Let's do it! :)
Překlad z angličtiny do češtiny
Termín odevzdání: pátek 20. květen 2016
Forma odevzdání: soutěžní text odevzdáte ve dvou verzích:
· v papírové verzi do kabinetu jazyků vedle učebny č.3
· v elektronické verzi na email: firstname.lastname@example.org
Obě verze budou odevzdány v následujícím formátu:
- Typ písma: Times New Roman
- Velikost písma: 12
- Řádkování: dvojité!
- Neuvádět své jméno, uveďte pouze své soutěžní číslo, které vám bude přiděleno při potvrzení účasti v soutěži
(hodnocení překladu bude zahrnovat i dodržení formátových požadavků!)
Svoji účast v soutěži potvrďte u garanta soutěže (Michaela Viktorová, kabinet jazyků vedle učebny č.3) nejpozději do pátku 15. dubna, při této příležitosti obdržíte i své soutěžní číslo.
Rozsah textu na překlad: viz soutěžní texty jednotlivých kategorií.
- 1. kategorie - prima, sekunda, tercie
- 2. kategorie - kvarta, kvinta, I.B, II.B
- 3. kategorie - sexta, septima, oktáva, III.B, IV.B
Tyto pokyny a zadání jednotlivých kategorií si můžete stáhnout na stránkách školy.
NEUVÁDĚJTE SVÉ JMÉNO, PO CELOU DOBU SOUTĚŽE BUDETE VYSTUPOVAT POUZE POD SVÝM SOUTĚŽNÍM ČÍSLEM.
Po ukončení soutěže a vyhlášení výsledků se bude konat překladatelský workshop, v rámci kterého se budeme zabývat základními teoriemi překladu, technikami a hlavně nástrahami tohoto zajímavého řemesla. Také si rozebereme jednotlivé překlady soutěžních textů a některé z nich porovnáme s publikovanými překlady profesionálních překladatelů.
Soutěžní texty ke stažení:
Soutěžní text pro 1. kategorii - prima, sekunda, tercie
Přeložte celý text. Formát přeloženého textu: dvojité řádkování, typ písma: Times New Roman. Svůj překlad nepodepisujte, pouze uveďte své soutěžní číslo.
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
One morning before school, Tom's friend Huck Finn waited for him in the street. Huck didn't have a home, and he never went to school. People in the town didn't like him. But Tom liked Huck.
Huck said, "Let's have an adventure."
"What can we do on our adventure?" Tom asked.
"Let's go to the graveyard at night - at twelve o'clock!" Huck answered.
"That's a good adventure," Tom said. "Let's meet at eleven o'clock."
Then Tom went to school, but he was late. The teacher was angry. He asked, "Why are you late again?"
"I'm late because I talked to Huck Finn," Tom said.
Then the teacher was very angry. "Sit with the girls," he said to Tom.
Tom sat near the beautiful new girl. He was happy. He looked at her.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Becky," she answered.
Tom smiled and said, "My name's Tom."
The teacher was angry again. "Tom Sawyer, stop talking! Go to your place now," he said. Tom went to his place.
At twelve o'clock Tom and Becky didn't go home. They stayed in the school yard and talked. Tom said, "I love you. Do you love me?"
"Yes," Becky answered.
"Good," Tom said. "Then you're going to walk to school with me every day. Amy always walked with me."
"Amy!" Becky said angrily. "Do you love her?"
"No," Tom answered. "I love you now. Do you want to walk with me?"
But Becky was angry with Tom. She walked away and didn't answer. Tom was unhappy. He didn't go to school in the afternoon.
That night Tom went to bed at nine o'clock, but he didn't sleep. At eleven o'clock he went out his bedroom window to the yard. Huck was there. They walked to the graveyard. They stopped behind some big trees and talked quietly.
Suddenly, there was a noise. Three men came into the graveyard - the doctor, Muff Potter, and Injun Joe. Injun Joe and the doctor talked angrily. Then Injun Joe killed the doctor with a knife. Tom and Huck watched. Then they went away quickly because they were afraid.
They went to Tom's yard. Huck said, "We can't talk about this. Injun Joe can find us and kill us, too."
"That's right," Tom said. "We can't talk about it."
Tom went in his bedroom window. He went to bed, but he didn't sleep well. Tom and Huck didn't talk to their friends or Aunt Polly about that night because they were afraid of Injun Joe.
Later, some men went to Muff Potter and said, "You're a bad man. You killed the doctor."
Soutěžní text pro 2. kategorii - kvarta, kvinta, I.B, II.B
Přeložte pouze tučně zvýrazněný text. Formát přeloženého textu: dvojité řádkování, typ písma: Times New Roman. Svůj překlad nepodepisujte, pouze uveďte své soutěžní číslo.
I was at Pagan, in Burma, and from there I took the steamship to Mandalay; but two days before I got there, when the boat was tied up for the night at a riverside village, I made up my mind to go on shore. The captain told me that there was a pleasant little club where I could go and be comfortable; they were quite used to having strangers arrive like that from the ship, and the secretary was a very nice man; I might even get a game of cards. I had nothing in the world to do, so I got into one of the carts that were waiting at the landing stage and was driven to the club.
There was a man sitting outside, and as I walked up he welcomed me and asked me what kind of drink I would like. He never considered the possibility that I might not want any kind of drink at all. I chose one and sat down. He was a tall, thin man, browned by the sun. I never knew his name, but when we had been talking for a short time another man came in, who told me he was a secretary. He called my friend George.
"Have you heard from your wife yet?" he asked him.
The other's eyes brightened.
"Yes, a letter arrived today. She's having a nice time."
"Did she tell you not to worry?"
George gave a little laugh, but was I mistaken in thinking that there was in it a sound of sorrow?
"In fact she did. But that's easier said than done. Of course I know she wants a holiday, and I'm glad she's having one, but it's hard on me." He turned to me. "You see, this is the first time I've ever been separated from my wife, and I'm like a lost dog without her."
"How long have you been married?"
The secretary of the club laughed.
"Don't be a fool, George. You've been married for eight years."
After we had talked a little, George, looking at his watch, said he must go and change his clothes for dinner and left us. The secretary watched him disappear into the night with a smile that was not unkind.
"We all talk to him as much as we can, now that he's alone," he told me. "He's so terribly unhappy since his wife went home."
"It must be very pleasant for her to know that her husband loves her as much as that."
"Mabel is an unusual kind of woman."
He called the boy and ordered more drinks. These generous people did not ask you if you would have anything; they simply ordered you one. Then he settled himself in his chair, li a cigarette and told me the story of George and Mabel.
George asked her to marry him when he was on holiday in England, and she accepted him; and when he returned to Burma, it was arranged that she should join him in six months. But one difficulty came after another - Mabel's father died, the war came, George was sent to an area unsuitable for a white woman - so that in the end it was seven years before she was able to start. He made all the arrangements for the marriage, which would take place on the day of her arrival, and went down to Rangoon to meet her. On the morning on which the ship was supposed to arrive he borrowed a motor car and drove along to meet it.
Then, suddenly, without warning, he was afraid. He had not seen Mabel for seven years. He had forgotten what she was like. She was a total stranger. He felt a terrible sinking
in his stomach, and his knees began to shake. He couldn't do it. He must tell Mabel that he was very sorry, but he couldn't, he really couldn't marry her. But how could a man tell a girl a thing like that when she had been expecting to marry him for seven years and had come 6,000 miles to do it? He couldn't do that either. George was seized with a courage brought on by hopelessness. There was a boat there just about to start for Singapore; he wrote a hurried letter to Mabel and, without any luggage at all, just in the clothes he stood up in, he jumped on board.
The letter that Mabel received was something like this:
I have been suddenly called away on business and do not know when I shall be back. I think it would be much wiser if you returned to England. My plans are very uncertain.
But when he arrived at Singapore he found a telegram waiting for him.
QUITE UNDERSTAND. DON'T WORRY. LOVE. MABEL.
Fear made him think quickly.
"Good heavens, I believe she's following me," he said.
He got in touch with the shipping office at Rangoon and, sure enough, her name was on the passenger list of the ship that was now on its way to Singapore. There was not a moment to lose. He jumped on the train to Bangkok. But he was anxious; she would have no difficulty in finding out that he had gone to Bangkok and it was just as simple for her to take the train as it had been for him. Fortunately there was a French ship sailing next day for Saigon. He took it. At Saigon he would be safe; she would never imagine that he had gone there; and if she did, surely by now she would have understood.
It is five days' journey from Bangkok to Saigon and the boat is dirty, crowded and uncomfortable. He was glad to arrive, and he drove to the hotel. He signed his name in the visitors' book and a telegram was immediately handed to him. It contained only two words: LOVE, MABEL: They were enough to make him shake with fear.
"When is the next boat for Hong Kong?" he asked.
Now his escape grew serious. He sailed to Hong Kong but dared not stay there; he went to Manila, but Manila seemed to threaten him; he went on to Shanghai. Shanghai made him anxious; every time he went out of the hotel he expected to run straight into Mabel's arms - no, Shanghai did not suit him at all. The only thing was to go to Yokohama. At the Grand Hotel at Yokohama a telegram was waiting for him.
SO SORRY TO HAVE MISSED YOU AT MANILA. LOVE. MABEL.
He examined the shipping news feverishly. Where was she now? He went back to Shanghai. This time he went straight to the club and asked for a telegram. It was handed to him.
ARRRIVING SOON. LOVE. MABEL.
No, no, he was not so easy to catch as that. He had already made his plans. The Yangtse is a long river and the Yangtse was falling. He could just catch the last ship that could get him up to Chungking and then no one could travel until the following spring except in a smaller boat. A journey like that in a smaller boat was impossible for a woman alone. He went to Hankow and from Hankow to Ichang, he changed boats here and from Ichang went to Chungking. But he was not going to take any risks now: there was a place called Cheng-tu, the capital of Szechuan, and it was four hundred miles away. It could only be reached by road, and the road was full of robbers. A man would be safe there.
George collected chair-bearers and servants and set out. It was with great relief that he saw at last the walls of the lonely Chinese city. From those walls at sunset you could see the snowy mountains of Tibet.
He could rest at last: Mabel would never find him there. By chance the consul was a friend of his and he stayed with him. He enjoyed the comfort of a fine house, he enjoyed his rest after that tiring escape across Asia, and above all he enjoyed his feeling of safety. The weeks passed lazily one after the other.
One morning George and the consul were in the courtyard looking at some strange old objects that a Chinese man had brought for their examination when there was a loud knocking at the great door of the consul's house. The doorman threw it open. A chair carried by four men entered and was put down. Mabel stepped out. She was neat and calm and fresh. There was nothing in her appearance to suggest that she had just come in after two weeks on the road. George was turned to stone. He was as pale as death. She went up to him.
"Hello, George, I was so afraid I had missed you again."
"Hello, Mabel," he said in a trembling voice.
He did not know what to say. He looked this way and that: she stood between him and the doorway. She looked at him with a smile in her blue eyes.
"You haven't changed at all," she said. "Men can change so much in seven years and I was afraid you'd got fat and had lost your hair. I've been so nervous. It would have been terrible if after all these years I simply hadn't been able to make myself marry you after all."
She turned to George's host. "Are you the consul?" she asked.
"If you are the consul, you can marry us. I'm ready to marry him as soon as I've had a bath."
And she did.
Soutěžní text pro 3. kategorii - sexta, septima, oktáva, III.B, IV.B
Přeložte pouze tučně zvýrazněný text. Formát přeloženého textu: dvojité řádkování, typ písma: Times New Roman. Svůj překlad nepodepisujte, pouze uveďte své soutěžní číslo.
by Woody Allen
Twenty years in the homicide division of the N.Y.P.D. and, brother, you've seen everything. Like when some Wall Street broker juliennes his little petit four over who gets to work the channel changer, or this lovesick rabbi decides to end it all by salting his beard with anthrax and inhaling. That's why when someone reported a dead body on Riverside Drive at Eighty-third with no bullet holes, no stab wounds, and no signs of struggle I didn't freak to some film-noir conclusion but put it down to one of the thousand natural shocks the Bard claims the flesh is heir to but don't ask me which one.
When another stiff turned up in SoHo two days later, though, also without the least trace of foul play, and a third likewise in Central Park, I got out the Dexedrine and told the immortal beloved I'd be working late for a while.
"It's amazing," my partner Mike Sweeney said as he strung the usual yellow bunting around the crime scene. Mike is a bear of a man who could easily pass for a bear, and has in fact been contacted by zoos to fill in when the real bear was ill. "The tabloids are saying it's a serial killer. Naturally, the serial killers are claiming bias and that they're always the first ones accused when three or more victims are killed the same way. They'd like the number raised to six."
"I'll level with you, Mike, I've never seen anything like this one-and you know I'm the guy who collared the Astrology Killer." The Astrology Killer was a vicious maniac who liked to sneak up and bash people's heads in while they were yodelling. He was tough to nab because there was so much sympathy for him.
I told Mike to call me if he came up with any sexy clues and I beat it down to the morgue to ask Sam Dogstatter, our coroner, about poison. Sam and I go way back to when he was a young coroner starting out and used to perform autopsies at weddings and sweet sixteens, for cigarette money.
"At first I thought it might be a tiny dart," Sam said. "I tried to check out everybody in New York City who owned a blow gun, but the task was insurmountable. No one realizes half the town's got one of those six-foot Jívaro jobs and most citizens have carrying permits."
I brought up the possibility of the Amanita mushroom, which can kill without leaving any trace, but Lou shot it down. "There was only one health-food store that sold really deadly mushrooms, but it stopped years ago when it turned out they weren't organically grown."
I thanked Sam and put in a call to Lou Watson, who was excited because he'd gotten a very good set of fingerprints at the crime scene, which he instantly traded to another precinct for a rare set of Enrico Caruso's that were quite valuable. Lou said the lab had come up with a hair. They had also come up with a bald spot. The hair unfortunately matched an eight-year-old kid's and the bald spot was traced to a row of nine men in the front row of a girlie show, who all had airtight alibis.
Down at headquarters, I chatted with Ben Rogers, my mentor and the man who solved the Yuppie Restaurant Murder Case, where the victims were shot and then lightly dusted with lime and fresh mint. Ben had waited till the killer ran out of fresh mint and was forced to use chopped walnuts, which were traceable by their serial numbers.
"Tell me about the victims," I said. "Did they have any enemies?"
"Sure, they had enemies," Ben said, "but their enemies were all at Mar-A-Lago, in Palm Beach. There was a big Enemies Convention and practically every enemy on the East Coast attended."
I had just left Ben to grab a sandwich when I got word that a hot-off-the-griddle stiff had turned up in a Dumpster on East Seventy-second Street. This time the pristine corpse was Ricky Weems, a young actor who specialized in sensitive rebels and was the star of the TV medical soap opera "When a Mole Darkens." Only this time a homeless lady caught the action. Wanda Bushkin, who'd once slept every night in a carton on the Lower East Side, had recently moved to a carton on Park Avenue. At first, she worried that she wouldn't get board approval, but when her net worth was shown to be above four dollars and thirty cents she was accepted at the more desirable box.
Bushkin couldn't sleep on the night in question, and caught sight of a man who drove up in a red Hummer, tossed a body, and sped away. At first, she didn't want to get involved because she had once identified a criminal who then broke off his engagement to her. This time, she described the suspect to our sketch artist, Howard Inchcape, but Inchcape, in a fit of temperament, refused to do the picture unless the suspect would come in and sit for it.
I was trying to reason with Inchcape when my mind suddenly twigged on B. J. Sygmnd, the psychic. Sygmnd was a poor Austrian who'd lost all the vowels in his name in a boating accident. In 1993, I had used Sygmnd to find a cat burglar, whom he rather miraculously picked out from almost a hundred strays. I watched now while he poked around at the victim's belongings and then went into some kind of trance. His eyeballs widened and he started to speak but the voice that came from him was that of Toshiro Mifune. He said the man I was looking for employed Novocain and worked with drills on molars and bicuspids, and he might even be able to pinpoint the profession but he needed a Ouija board.
A quick computer check corroborated that all the victims were patients of the same D.D.S., and I knew I'd hit pay dirt. Anesthetizing myself with four fingers of Johnnie Walker, I used a Swiss Army knife to pry out the silver amalgam in lower seven, and the next morning sat openmouthed while Dr. Paul W. Pinchuck worked on my cavity.
"This won't take long," he said. "Although if you have a little time I should also do the tooth next to it. I'm surprised it hasn't given you any trouble. You're not missing anything outside today, anyhow. Can you believe this weather? April set a record for rainfall. It's this global-warming thing. Because too many people use air-conditioners. I don't need one. Where we live you sleep with the window open even in the hottest weather. I have a good metabolism that way. My wife, too. Both our bodies adjust well. Because we're very careful about what we eat. No marbleized meat, not too much dairy-plus I exercise. I prefer the treadmill. Miriam likes the StairMaster. And we very much enjoy swimming. We have a house out in Sagaponack. Miriam and I usually begin taking the weekends, the start of April, out in the Hamptons. We love Sagaponack. There's people if you want to socialize but you can also keep to yourself. I'm not a big social person. We like to read, mostly, and she does origami. We used to have a place in Tappan. There's a few different ways to go but I usually take I-95. It's a half hour. We prefer the beach, though. We just put in a new roof. I couldn't believe the estimate. My God, those contractors get you every which way. Look, it's like anything else-you get what you pay for. I tell my kids there are no bargains in this life. There's no free lunch. We have three boys. Seth will be bar-mitzvahed in June."
I began to feel myself gasping for air as Pinchuck's drill cut through my enamel and I fought the onset of Cheyne-Stokes breathing. I sensed my vital signs were ebbing, and I knew I was in trouble when my life began to pass before my eyes and my father was being played by Dame Edna.
Four days later I awoke in the intensive-care unit at Columbia-Presbyterian.
"Thank God you're made of iron," Mike Sweeney said, leaning over my bed.
"What happened?" I queried.
"You were very lucky," Mike said. "Just as you lost consciousness, a Mrs. Fay Noseworthy burst into Pinchuck's office with a dental emergency. She was an F.W.I.: Flossing While Intoxicated. Apparently it caused her temporary crowns to slip out and she swallowed them. When you hit the floor at Pinchuck's, she began screaming. Pinchuck panicked and made a run for it. Fortunately, our SWAT team got there just in time."
"Pinchuck ran? But he seemed just like any regular dentist. He worked on my teeth and chatted."
"Right now, you get some rest," Mike said, flashing his Mona Lisa smile, which Sotheby's had claimed was a forgery. "I'll explain it all when you're up on your feet."
In case you're wondering where this little homicide tale goes, keep watching the back pages for news out of Albany, where the legislature will be taking up the bill that will lead to Pinchuck's Law, which makes it a felony for any dentist to endanger the life of a patient by relentless conversation or by saying anything other than "Open wide" or "Please rinse" without a prior court order. ♦