今天，第三十六屆韓素音國際翻譯大賽獲獎名單公布了,，很遺憾名落孫山,，再度陪跑。

今年是我第二次參賽,，去年指導的學生得了韓素音英譯漢優(yōu)秀獎,，自己沒有任何斬獲；今年又一次顆粒無收,。說實話,，心里多少是有些遺憾和不甘的。

但我并不氣餒,，打算明年再來,。韓素音大賽參賽選手的年齡上限是45歲，我想,，如果在接下來的十幾年里不間斷地參賽,，總該會有獲獎的機會吧~

官方公布了參考譯文。鏈接如下：

http://service./hsy/user/detail?cid=kuimed787&vid=rty34m960

感興趣的朋友可以去找來看看,。

怎么說呢,？對于官方參考譯文，有些難以置評,，英譯漢參考譯文中至少有多處硬傷,。比如下面這個例子：

一句話中，“頭頂上”這個詞就出現(xiàn)了兩次,。

畢竟是官方給出的參考譯文,，我也不好多說什么。

一個從我們學校畢業(yè),、目前正在讀博的學生，想跟我要一下我的參賽譯文,。我起初不太好意思給她,，因為畢竟沒有獲獎，沒能入得了評委們的法眼,。不過,，最后想了想還是給她了。

我也順便在公眾號上發(fā)出來,，雖然存在諸多瑕疵,，有很多地方可以改進和優(yōu)化,；且當做是一種警醒吧~

附上韓素音大賽英譯漢原文和我的參賽譯文。為方便閱讀,，采取了英中對照的模式,。

The Solace of Open Spaces  

Winter lasts six months here. Prevailing winds spill snowdrifts to the east, and new storms from the northwest replenish them. This white bulk is sometimes dizzying, even nauseating, to look at. At twenty, thirty, and forty degrees below zero, not only does your car not work, but neither do your mind and body. The landscape hardens into a dungeon of space. During the winter, while I was riding to find a new calf, my jeans froze to the saddle, and in the silence that such cold creates I felt like the first person on earth, or the last.

Most characteristic of the state’s landscape is what a developer euphemistically describes as “indigenous growth right up to your front door”—a reference to waterless stands of salt sage, snakes, jack rabbits, deerflies, red dust, a brief respite of wildflowers, dry washes, and no trees. In the Great Plains the vistas look like music, like Kyries of grass, but Wyoming seems to be the doing of a mad architect—tumbled and twisted, ribboned with faded, deathbed colors, thrust up and pulled down as if the place had been startled out of a deep sleep and thrown into a pure light.

I came here four years ago. I had not planned to stay, but I couldn’t make myself leave. John, the sheepman, put me to work immediately. It was spring, and shearing time. For fourteen days of fourteen hours each, we moved thousands of sheep through sorting corrals to be sheared, branded, and deloused. I suspect that my original motive for coming here was to “l(fā)ose myself” in new and unpopulated territory. Instead of producing the numbness I thought I wanted, life on the sheep ranch woke me up. The vitality of the people I was working with flushed out what had become a hallucinatory rawness inside me. I threw away my clothes and bought new ones; I cut my hair. The arid country was a clean slate. Its absolute indifference steadied me.

Sagebrush covers 58,000 square miles of Wyoming. The biggest city has a population of fifty thousand, and there are only five settlements that could be called cities in the whole state. The rest are towns, scattered across the expanse with as much as sixty miles between them, their populations two thousand, fifty, or ten. They are fugitive-looking, perched on a barren, windblown bench, or tagged onto a river or a railroad, or laid out straight in a farming valley with implement stores and a block-long Mormon church. In the eastern part of the state, which slides down into the Great Plains, the new mining settlements are boomtowns, trailer cities, metal knots on flat land.

Despite the desolate look, there’s a coziness to living in this state. There are so few people (only 470,000) that ranchers who buy and sell cattle know one another statewide; the kids who choose to go to college usually go to the state’s one university, in Laramie; hired hands work their way around Wyoming in a lifetime of hirings and firings. And despite the physical separation, people stay in touch, often driving two or three hours to another ranch for dinner.

Seventy-five years ago, when travel was by buckboard or horseback, cowboys who were temporarily out of work rode the grub line—drifting from ranch to ranch, mending fences or milking cows, and receiving in exchange a bed and meals. Gossip and messages traveled this slow circuit with them, creating an intimacy between ranchers who were three and four weeks’ ride apart. One old-time couple I know, whose turn-of-the-century homestead was used by an outlaw gang as a relay station for stolen horses, recall that if you were traveling, desperado or not, any lighted ranch house was a welcome sign. Even now, for someone who lives in a remote spot, arriving at a ranch or coming to town for supplies is cause for celebration. To emerge from isolation can be disorienting. Everything looks bright, new, vivid. After I had been herding sheep for only three days, the sound of the camp tender’s pickup flustered me. Longing for human company, I felt a foolish grin take over my face; yet I had to resist an urgent temptation to run and hide.

Things happen suddenly in Wyoming, the change of seasons and weather; for people, the violent swings in and out of isolation. But good-naturedness is concomitant with severity. Friendliness is a tradition. Strangers passing on the road wave hello. A common sight is two pickups stopped side by side far out on a range, on a dirt track winding through the sage. The drivers will share a cigarette, uncap their thermos bottles, and pass a battered cup, steaming with coffee, between windows. These meetings summon up the details of several generations, because, in Wyoming, private histories are largely public knowledge.