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| 个人信息 |
| 姓 名： |
伍译员 [编号]:3109 |
性 别： |
女 |
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| 擅长专业： |
不限 |
出生年月： |
1988/5/1 |
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| 民 族： |
汉族 |
所在地区： |
浙江 宁波 |
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| 文化程度： |
本科 |
所学专业： |
英语 |
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| 毕业时间： |
2011 |
毕业学校： |
江西农大 |
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| 第一外语： |
英语 |
等级水平： |
专业八级 |
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| 口译等级： |
高级 |
工作经历： |
1 年 |
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| 翻译库信息 |
| 可翻译语种： |
英语 |
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| 目前所在地： |
浙江 宁波 |
| 可提供服务类型： |
笔译、口译、家教 |
| 每周可提供服务时间： |
不定 |
| 证书信息 |
| 证书名称： |
英语专业四级 |
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| 获证时间： |
2008/4/1 |
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| 获得分数： |
合格 |
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| 工作经历 |
| 工作时期： |
2011/3/1--2011/4/1 |
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| 公司名称： |
海曙中心小学 |
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| 公司性质： |
其它 |
| 所属行业： |
教育/培训 |
| 所在部门： |
小学英语 |
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| 职位： |
小学英语 |
| 自我评价： |
满意 |
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| 笔译案例信息 |
| 案例标题： |
Hidden Within Technology’s Empire, a Republic of Letters |
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| 原文： |
Hidden Within Technology’s Empire, a Republic of Letters
When I was a boy “discovering literature”, I used to think how wonderful it would be if every other person on the street were familiar with Proust and Joyce or T. E. Lawrence or Pasternak and Kafka. Later I learned how refractory to high culture the democratic masses were. Lincoln as a young frontiersman read Plutarch, Shakespeare and the Bible. But then he was Lincoln.
Later when I was traveling in the Midwest by car, bus and train, I regularly visited small-town libraries and found that readers in Keokuk, Iowa, or Benton Harbor, Mich., were checking out Proust and Joyce and even Svevo and Andrei Biely. D. H. Lawrence was also a favorite. And sometimes I remembered that God was willing to spare Sodom for the sake of 10 of the righteous. Not that Keokuk was anything like wicked Sodom, or that Proust’s Charlus would have been tempted to settle in Benton Harbor, Mich. I seem to have had a persistent democratic desire to find evidences of high culture in the most unlikely places.
For many decades now I have been a fiction writer, and from the first I was aware that mine was a questionable occupation. In the 1930’s an elderly neighbor in Chicago told me that he wrote fiction for the pulps. “The people on the block wonder why I don’t go to a job, and I’m seen puttering around, trimming the bushes or painting a fence instead of working in a factory. But I’m a writer. I sell to Argosy and Doc Savage,” he said with a certain gloom. “They wouldn’t call that a trade.” Probably he noticed that I was a bookish boy, likely to sympathize with him, and perhaps he was trying to warn me to avoid being unlike others. But it was too late for that.
From the first, too, I had been warned that the novel was at the point of death, that like the walled city or the crossbow, it was a thing of the past. And no one likes to be at odds with history. Oswald Spengler, one of the most widely read authors of the early 30’s, taught that our tired old civilization was very nearly finished. His advice to the young was to avoid literature and the arts and to embrace mechanization and become engineers.
In refusing to be obsolete, you challenged and defied the evolutionist historians. I had great respect for Spengler in my youth, but even then I couldn’t accept his conclusions, and (with respect and admiration) I mentally told him to get lost.
Sixty years later, in a recent issue of The Wall Street Journal, I come upon the old Spenglerian argument in a contemporary form. Terry Teachout, unlike Spengler, does not dump paralyzing mountains of historical theory upon us, but there are signs that he has weighed, sifted and pondered the evidence.
He speaks of our “atomized culture,” and his is a responsible, up-to-date and carefully considered opinion. He speaks of “art forms as technologies.” He tells us that movies will soon be “downloadable”—that is, transferable from one computer to the memory of another device—and predicts that films will soon be marketed like books. He predicts that the near-magical powers of technology are bringing us to the threshold of a new age and concludes, “Once this happens, my guess is that the independent movie will replace the novel as the principal vehicle for serious storytelling in the 21st century.”
In support of this argument, Mr. Teachout cites the ominous drop in the volume of book sales and the great increase in movie attendance: “For Americans under the age of 30, film has replaced the novel as the dominant mode of artistic expression.” To this Mr. Teachout adds that popular novelists like Tom Clancy and Stephen King “top out at around a million copies per book,” and notes, “The final episode of NBC’s ‘Cheers,’ by contrast, was seen by 42 million people.”
On majoritarian grounds, the movies win. “The power of novels to shape the national conversation has declined,” says Mr. Teachout. But I am not at all certain that in their day “Moby-Dick” or “The Scarlet Letter” had any considerable influence on “the national conversation.” In the mid-19th century it was “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” that impressed the great public. “Moby-Dick” was a small-public novel.
The literary masterpieces of the 20th century were for the most part the work of novelists who had no large public in mind. The novels of Proust and Joyce were written in a cultural twilight and were not intended to be read under the blaze and dazzle of popularity.
Mr. Teachout’s article in The Journal follows the path generally taken by observers whose aim is to discover a trend. “According to one recent study 55 percent of Americans spend less than 30 minutes reading anything at all. . . . It may even be that movies have superseded novels not because Americans have grown dumber but because the novel is an obsolete artistic technology.”
“We are not accustomed to thinking of art forms as technologies,” he says, “but that is what they are, which means they have been rendered moribund by new technical developments.”
Together with this emphasis on technics that attracts the scientific-minded young, there are other preferences discernible: It is better to do as a majority of your contemporaries are doing, better to be one of millions viewing a film than one of mere thousands reading a book. Moreover, the reader reads in solitude, whereas the viewer belongs to a great majority; he has powers of numerosity as well as the powers of mechanization. Add to this the importance of avoiding technological obsolescence and the attraction of feeling that technics will decide questions for us more dependably than the thinking of an individual, no matter how distinctive he may be.
John Cheever told me long ago that it was his readers who kept him going, people from every part of the country who had written to him. When he was at work, he was aware of these readers and correspondents in the woods beyond the lawn. “If I couldn’t picture them, I’d be sunk,” he said. And the novelist Wright Morris, urging me to get an electric typewriter, said that he seldom turned his machine off. “When I’m not writing, I listen to the electricity,” he said. “It keeps me company. We have conversations.”
I wonder how Mr. Teachout might square such idiosyncrasies with his “art forms as technologies.” Perhaps he would argue that these two writers had somehow isolated themselves from “broad-based cultural influence.” Mr. Teachout has at least one laudable purpose: He thinks that he sees a way to bring together the Great Public of the movies with the Small Public of the highbrows. He is, however, interested in millions: millions of dollars, millions of readers, millions of viewers.
The one thing “everybody” does is go to the movies, Mr. Teachout says. How right he is.
Back in the 20’s children between the ages of 8 and 12 lined up on Saturdays to buy their nickel tickets to see the crisis of last Saturday resolved. The heroine was untied in a matter of seconds just before the locomotive would have crushed her. Then came a new episode; and after that the newsreel and “Our Gang.” Finally there was a western with Tom Mix, or a Janet Gaynor picture about a young bride and her husband blissful in the attic, or Gloria Swanson and Theda Bara or Wallace Beery or Adolphe Menjou or Marie Dressler. And of course there was Charlie Chaplin in “The Gold Rush,” and from “The Gold Rush” it was only one step to the stories of Jack London.
There was no rivalry then between the viewer and the reader. Nobody supervised our reading. We were on our own. We civilized ourselves. We found or made a mental and imaginative life. Because we could read, we learned also to write. It did not confuse me to see “Treasure Island” in the movies and then read the book. There was no competition for our attention.
One of the more attractive oddities of the United States is that our minorities are so numerous, so huge. A minority of millions is not at all unusual. But there are in fact millions of literate Americans in a state of separation from others of their kind. They are, if you like, the readers of Cheever, a crowd of them too large to be hidden in the woods. Departments of literature across the country have not succeeded in alienating them from books, works old and new. My friend Keith Botsford and I felt strongly that if the woods were filled with readers gone astray, among those readers there were probably writers as well.
To learn in detail of their existence you have only to publish a magazine like The Republic of Letters. Given encouragement, unknown writers, formerly without hope, materialize. One early reader wrote that our paper, “with its contents so fresh, person-to-person,” was “real, non-synthetic, undistracting.” Noting that there were no ads, she asked, “Is it possible, can it last?” and called it “an antidote to the shrinking of the human being in every one of us.” And toward the end of her letter our correspondent added, “It behooves the elder generation to come up with reminders of who we used to be and need to be.”
This is what Keith Botsford and I had hoped that our “tabloid for literates” would be. And for two years it has been just that. We are a pair of utopian codgers who feel we have a duty to literature. I hope we are not like those humane do-gooders who, when the horse was vanishing, still donated troughs in City Hall Square for thirsty nags.
We have no way of guessing how many independent, self-initiated connoisseurs and lovers of literature have survived in remote corners of the country. The little evidence we have suggests that they are glad to find us, they are grateful. They want more than they are getting. Ingenious technology has failed to give them what they so badly need.
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| 译文： |
隐匿于技术王国中的文学界
当我还是个探索文学的小青年时，曾有过这样的想法：要是街上每个人都熟知马塞尔.普鲁斯特、詹姆斯.乔伊斯或者T.E.劳伦斯、帕斯捷尔纳克和卡夫卡那该有所美好。可之后我才意识到要是广大民众都能驾驭高雅文化是不现实的。林肯曾阅读了普鲁塔克和莎士比亚的作品还有《圣经》，虽然出身于拓荒者但之后成了林肯总统。
长大后，我会经常开车或坐公车或乘火车去中西部旅游，并定期走访些小镇的图书馆，还发现在基奥卡克、爱荷华和密歇根州的本顿港，读者们正查找有关普鲁斯特、乔伊斯甚至斯韦沃和安德烈.别雷的资料。D.H.劳伦斯也是其中的一大热门。有时我会想：上帝也愿意为了哪怕10个义人而放弃毁灭充满罪恶的所多玛城。更何况基奥卡克和密歇根州的本顿港不是什么罪恶之城，哪怕那儿是普鲁斯特书中的查琉斯男爵的居住地，也算不上罪孽深重之地。我似乎一直都坚持不懈地求证高雅文化可以出现在庸俗之地。
几十年后的现在，我已是一名小说家。一开始发现人们对我的职业充满疑惑。在20世纪30年代，芝加哥的一位老邻居告诉我，他为低级黄色书刊写虚构小说。他犹豫地说：“这街区的人们对我不解，为什么我不去找份正经工作，不去工厂上班而是闲荡着修树枝、刷栏栅什么的。可我是个作家呀。我可是承诺过要为阿尔戈斯和夺宝奇兵公司写稿的。”“他们从不把我所从事的当作一门行业。”大概他觉得我是个爱读书的人，而且可能会同情安慰他，或许他在提醒我还是随波逐流的好。可是为时晚矣。
从一开始，有人就警告我说，小说的发展已寿终正寝，就像禁城和弓弩一样只属于历史了。况且没人愿意和历史过不去。奥斯瓦尔德.斯宾格勒是30年代早期知名度最大的作家之一，其作品被广泛阅读。他说我们古老的文明快消失殆尽了。他建议年轻人不要搞文学搞艺术，而要学机械学知识，成为工程师。
为了不被淘汰，你得向进化论历史学家挑战并蔑视他们。在我年轻时，我十分佩服斯宾格勒，即使我不接受他的理论而且默默祷告让他活在自己的世界中，离我们远远的。
60年代后，就华尔街日报问题，我突然发现，特里.迪奇奥特将斯宾格勒的观点套用于当代形势中。他不像斯宾格勒那样将大堆无用的历史理论强加于我们，他会掂量着并筛选这些理论，还会自我反思。
当谈起“支离了的文化”时，他会说他的观点是可信赖的、与时俱进的、考虑周到的。他还会说起“科技化的艺术表现形式”。还会告诉我们，用不了多久，我们可以下载电影，也就是说可以从一台电脑传输到另一种记忆设备中，同时也预示着电影会像书一样迅速市场化。他还预言，那近乎神奇的技术力量会带领我们走向一个新时代的起征点，并下结论说“一旦这成为现实，在21世纪独立电影将取代小说成为许多故事叙述的最主要媒介。”
为了支持他的观点，迪奇奥特还引用了书刊销售量下降而电影院入座率持续上升的现象：“对于30岁以下的美国人来说，电影一替代了小说成为主导的艺术表现形式了。”迪奇奥特还引用了像汤姆.克兰西和斯蒂芬.金这些著名小说家的话：“一部小说平均有一百万抄本，而美国广播公司播出的《情系酒吧》的大结局已有4200万的观众了。”
在大多数人群中，电影获胜了。迪奇奥特说：“小说引领国民日常交谈主题的趋势已经减弱。”可我也十分怀疑，难道在他们那个年代《白鲸记》或《红字》就能深深影响“国民的日常交谈”么。在19世纪中叶，《汤姆叔叔的小屋》倒是引起了不少公众的关注，而《白鲸记》只是小众作品。
20世纪时，小说家们创作文学作品通常不会考虑公众读者的因素。普鲁斯特和乔伊斯的小说写于文化的黄昏时期，而且当时并不期待会有多么庞大的阅读群体。
迪奇奥特在华尔街日报中的文章基本遵循观察家们一般采取的路径，那些观察家们旨在发现当前的某一种趋势。“根据当前一项研究表明，55%的美国人在阅读上，不管阅读什么，花的时间少于30分钟。这可能说明，电影已经替代了小说阅读，其原因并非美国人变得麻木而是小说已成为一种过时的艺术技巧了。”
他说：“我们还并不习惯将艺术表现形式认为是技术，但事实如此，新技术的发展会使它们消失殆尽。”
他所说的和对技术的强调吸引着具有科学头脑的年轻人们，这种偏好太明显了：最好从事大多数同龄人都在做的事，最好成为上百万观影者中的一份子而不是那几千个读者之一。更何况，读书人往往沉浸于孤独的享受之中，而观影者却与大众一同享受；他们有大多数人所享有的权利，即机械化社会中的权利。再者，摒弃旧技术的重要性日益突出，技术已取代个人的思考来决定我们面临着什么问题，哪怕再优秀杰出的人也不及技术的可信度。这种意识已经存在于大多数人之中。
很久之前，约翰.契弗告诉我，他坚持写作是因为那些从四面八方写信给他的读者们。当他写作时，总会想到那些读者和穿梭于树林中的通讯员。他说：“我脑中要是无法浮现这些情景，那我就彻底没救了。”小说家赖特.莫里斯力劝我去弄台电动打字机，因为他很少自动断电，他说：“当我不写作时，就坐着静静听那电流声，我们一直相伴着对方，因为有共同语言。”
我十分好奇，迪奇奥特是怎样将作家的气质和他的“科技化的艺术表现形式”融合在一起的。大概他认为那两位作家从某种程度上说都独立于“基础广泛的文化影响”。至少迪奇奥特有一个值得称道的目标：他理解并有办法将大众观影者和小众高文化修养的人融合在一起。然而他对“百万”这个数字也不排斥，像上百万美元、上百万读者、上百万观众。
迪奇奥特说每个人只要做一件事——走进电影院——就够了。他说的太有道理了。
回想起20年代，8到12岁的孩子们矢志不渝地在每周六都会排队去买下周六上演的惊险片的入场卷。镜头中被缚的女英雄就在汽车快要碾过她的那一霎那松开绳子成功逃脱。这之后出现新闻短片和《小顽童》，最后是一个由汤姆.米克斯或珍妮.盖诺出演的西式电影画面：一个年轻的新娘和她的丈夫幸福地在阁楼中，也有可能是葛洛丽亚.斯旺森、蒂达.巴拉、华莱士.比里、阿道夫.门吉欧或玛丽.杜丝勒。当然还有在《淘金记》中出演的查理.卓别林，而且《淘金记》是了解杰克.伦敦的第一步。（而且《淘金记》还是杰克.伦敦的淘金之旅的一个缩影。）
再者，观影者和读者之间并不对立。没有人来监督我们是否阅读，这要靠自觉。人类之所以变得文明、还能发现并创造精神上和想象中的生活，那是因为我们会阅读，还会书写。当我看完《金银岛》的电影后再去读原著，并不觉得糊涂，是表达方式不同罢了。
在美国，有一个吸引人的怪事：少数派是那么的庞大。一个只有几百万的少数群体是很正常的事。但事实上，几百万具有高文化水平的美国人分布在国内的各个地方。要是你愿意把契弗的忠实读者都集中起来，他们比一个森林都要庞大。国内的文学系都不能使他们放弃那些作品，无论新旧。我的朋友基思.博茨福德和我强烈认为如果那森林里充满了误入歧途的读者，其中很有可能存在许多作家。为了了解这些人的生活细节，决定出版《知识界》：让那些不知名的作者有一个展示自己的平台，摆脱之前毫无希望、物质化的单调生活。早期一个读者说，我们我们的文章“内容新鲜，真人真事，不虚构不狂乱。”还加注说里面不含任何广告，她问我们：“这怎么可能？没有广告能办下去吗？”并称“它是一副解毒剂，可以使我们每个人的人性得到提炼。”我们的通讯记者在她的来信结尾处写道：“有资历的老一辈有必要时常提醒我们不要忘记文学。”
这正是当初基思.博茨福德和我所希望的“文人小报”的样子。两年后，如愿以偿。我们这两个乌托邦式的老家伙认为面对文学需深怀敬意。我希望我们不像那些仁慈的空想社会改良家，当马早已消失于街上，他们还为市政厅广场捐赠供马饮水的水槽，我们希望在文学还未终结之前，能唤起大家对其的敬意。
我们无法猜测那些在国内各个角落的独立自主的文学鉴赏家和文学热爱者过的怎样，但我们从仅能获得的信息中了解到，他们为联系上我们而感到很高兴很欣慰。他们不满足于现有的状况，而且目前的精湛技术仍无法达到他们所希冀的文化社会局面。
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