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English to Chinese: A Garden That Welcomes Strangers General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - English
A Garden That Welcomes Strangers
By Allen Lacy
I do not know what became of her, and I never learned her name. But I feel that I knew her from the garden she had so lovingly made over many decades.
The house she lived in lies two miles from mine – a simple, two-story structure with the boxy plan, steeply-pitched roof and unadorned lines that are typical of houses built in the middle of the nineteenth century near the New Jersey shore.
Her garden was equally simple. She was not a conventional gardener who did everything by the book, following the common advice to vary her plantings so there would be something in bloom from the first crocus in the spring to the last chrysanthemum in the fall. She had no respect for the rule that says that tall-growing plants belong at the rear of a perennial border, low ones in the front and middle-sized ones in the middle, with occasional exceptions for dramatic accent.
In her garden, everything was accent, everything was tall, and the evidence was plain that she loved three kinds of plant and three only: roses, clematis and lilies, intermingled promiscuously to pleasant effect but no apparent design.
She grew a dozen sorts of clematis, perhaps 50 plants in all, trained and tied so that they clambered up metal rods, each rod crowned intermittently throughout the summer by a rounded profusion of large blossoms of dark purple, rich crimson, pale lavender, light blue and gleaming white.
Her taste in roses was old-fashioned. There wasn’t a single modern hybrid tea rose or floribunda in sight. Instead, she favored the roses of other ages – the York and Lancaster rose, the cabbage rose, the damask and the rugosa rose in several varieties. She propagated her roses herself from cuttings stuck directly in the ground and protected by upended gallon jugs.
Lilies, I believe were her greatest love. Except for some Madonna lilies it is impossible to name them, since the wooden flats stood casually here and there in the flower bed, all thickly planted with dark green lily seedlings. The occasional paper tag fluttering from a seed pod with the date and record of a cross showed that she was an amateur hybridizer with some special fondness for lilies of a warm muskmelon shade or a pale lemon yellow.
She believed in sharing her garden. By her curb there was a sign: “This is my garden, and you are welcome here. Take whatever you wish with your eyes, but nothing with your hand.”
Until five years ago, her garden was always immaculately tended, the lawn kept fertilized and mowed, the flower bed free of weeds, the tall lilies carefully staked. But then something happened. I don’t know what it was, but the lawn was mowed less frequently, then not at all. Tall grass invaded the roses, the clematis, the lilies. The elm tree in her front yard sickened and died, and when a coastal gale struck, the branches that fell were never removed.
With every year, the neglect has grown worse. Wild honeysuckle and bittersweet run rampant in the garden. Sumac, ailanthus, poison ivy and other uninvited things threaten the few lilies and clematis and roses that still struggle for survival.
Last year the house itself went dead. The front door was padlocked and the windows covered with sheets of plywood. For many months there has been a for sale sign out front, replacing the sign inviting strangers to share her garden.
I drive by that house almost daily and have been tempted to load a shovel in my car trunk, stop at her curb and rescue a few lilies from the smothering thicket of weeds. The laws of trespass and the fact that her house sits across the street from a police station have given me the cowardice to resist temptation. But her garden has reminded me of mortality; gardeners and the gardens they make are fragile things, creatures of time, hostages to chance and to decay.
Last week, the for sale sign out front came down and the windows were unboarded. A crew of painters arrived and someone cut down the dead elm tree. This morning there was a moving van in the driveway unloading a swing set, a barbecue grill, a grand piano and a houseful of sensible furniture. A young family is moving into that house.
I hope that among their number is a gardener whose special fondness for old roses and clematis and lilies will see to it that all else is put aside until that flower bed is restored to something of its former self.
(选自 Patterns: A Short Prose Reader, by Mary Lou Conlin, published by Houghton Mifflin Company, 1983.)
Translation - Chinese 芳园不拒陌客
(选自 Patterns: A Short Prose Reader, by Mary Lou Conlin, published by Houghton Mifflin Company, 1983.)
Chinese to English: 燕园石寻 General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Translation - English Tracing Rocks in Yan Garden
By Zong Pu and Translated by Lu Yi
For people who have left from Yan Garden, do they still call to mind those rocks?
Yan’s beauty at first sight is the inverted image of the tower in the placid lake, trees in grace and flowers in blossom. The rocks are never an eye catcher. However, reviewing the landscape of Yan, it may occur to you that rocks are everywhere: by the river, at the foot of the hill, alongside bridges and in the green.
The banks of the abundant waters in Yan are embellished by piled up large rocks in their natural patterns. When you enter the relic-ish West Gate and make a turn to the right, what comes into sight is a piece of lotus field where flowers blossom to the size of big bowls in summer. The lotus field is neighbored by all kinds of rocks, some couching, some relining, some standing like small hill peaks and some flat enough to rest on. The drooping willows along the banks and breeze-ruffled lotus flowers in the waters shade their layered-up greenness on the rocky banks.
Weiming Lake, the largest water of all, has a stony bank as well. At first it may look far more artificial than its former overgrown earthy bank. By taking a further look, you will see the shapes of rocks fade into the water’s edge, adding such an intriguing zest to the water. At the west part of the lake, there is a portion of land too small to be called an island. Huge rocks are stacked in to link the bank, rock by rock, like the tails of comma. On the lake’s side of the ‘island’, there stands a lifelike stone-carved fish with vivid scales. It’s been seen in and out of the water for ever. With its mouth half-open, it appears to be spitting bubbles to the water sometimes, yet other times just holding its head high. There is no knowing when its head disappeared, leaving the upturned cocked tail measure the height of the lake surface. Children growing up in Yan Garden have all once sat on the back of the stone fish, dipping their feet into the water and taking their ease to fantasise about future. When they are old enough to leave, the fish islet will remain there like a comma in their lives.
Like waterside rocks, rocks stand down the hill as well. Going westward from the fish islet, in the shade you see a swelling tiny hill, with rocks all over it. Big rocks are around the bottoms of more than a dozen of tall trees. Along the pathways there are rocks in all varieties creating special scenery. A few rocks stand upright by the bridge, forging a naturally appealing short fence. In the wavering grass stippled with wide flowers, there lie casually some big rocks, so comfy that it could be the envy of the dozing Ji Kang, one of the most footloose men in ancient China.
English to Chinese: Commentary General field: Other Detailed field: Journalism
Source text - English It is census day on Sunday and, despite sterling efforts from many interested parties, angry controversy around this quaint operation has not quite been ignited. I particularly enjoyed the attempt to muster a boycott on the grounds that the UK subsidiary of Lockheed Martin, the world's largest arms company, had been contracted (again) to conduct the thing. Because that's what you want, isn't it? To make sure arms companies stay totally focused on their core business, and don't start piddling around in more peaceable activity?
I filled in my household's form with some alacrity, not least because the part of me that will always be a 10-year-old goody-goody schoolgirl simply loves the opportunity to print in lovely, neat, black capitals. It wasn't until after it had been mailed – why not? Keep postpersons employed – that I caught up with the British Humanist Association's plea: "We urge people who do not want to give continuing or even greater importance to unshared religions in our public life to tick 'No Religion' in the census."
Actually, I had ticked "No Religion". But I still don't like the tenor of this instruction. I don't want to stand against "believers". I am still, for my secular sins, a wet multiculturalist, minded to put up with the beliefs I can't share, whenever possible, in the interests of strengthening those that I can. I'm combative and dogmatic by nature, but I don't think these are among the finest of human qualities. I used to be a combative and dogmatic atheist. But then I realised that combat and dogma might be the problem.
Combat especially, of course. It is a popular atheist assertion, the one that says religion causes war. As if humans would never fight over land, or resources, or power, or out of sheer, carnivorous, animal aggression. Humans cause war.
Mostly, humanism sounds like religion without God, a kind of collective, earnest, well-meaning narcissism. People are welcome to it, if it floats their boat, though the proselytising does demand response, of course. The call to reason forgets that any atheist worth his salt understands that God does exist, but only in the minds of some of those humans who are not entirely and absolutely governed by reason. Which, I would say, is all of us. Few humans live their entire lives in reasonable refusal of all thoughts and deeds that are bad for them, or for others. People often turn to God as a means of helping them to find the discipline to avoid such behaviour. Humanists appear to believe that the opposite is the case. It's dogma – irreligious mumbo-jumbo really – and should not be confused with secularism.
For the fact is that there are plenty of reasons to be relaxed about the attractions of plain secularism, as opposed to humanism. A study, from Northwestern University and the University of Arizona, analysed census data from 85 countries, some of it stretching back a century, and presented it this week at the American Physical Society meeting in Dallas.
In nine countries, Australia, Austria, Canada, the Czech Republic, Finland, Ireland, the Netherlands, New Zealand and Switzerland, the analysis found that there has been a steady rise in the number of people claiming no religious affiliation. Religious belief, in all these countries, is fading slowly away, and organised protest against it does not appear to be the reason for this. Richard Wiener, who led the research, says: "put simply, it shows that social groups have a kind of 'gravity' that drags in more people the bigger they are". The tide of history is running against the religious. Conspiring to help that powerful tide risks provoking the entrenchment called fundamentalism.
Translation - Chinese 全国人口普查于周日开展，尽管不少当事人横加煽风点火，这次事有蹊跷的活动尚未引发激烈唇枪舌剑。全球军火商第一巨头洛克希德∙马丁英国分部再次受聘执行普查任务，有人竭力鼓动抵制未果，本人尤觉此事妙不可言。你们都想什么呐?难道让军火商们一门心思卖军火，不要管老百姓的闲事才好？
English to Chinese: Body Packaging General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - English 1
Body Packaging #1: Shears & Secrets
West Hollywood 2011
Dede Storm cracked a Gioconda smile on her delicately featured face which faded just as rapidly as it had erupted. Her deep-set sapphire eyes lit up like the headlights of a brand new Ferrari as she wielded her favorite pair of shiny gold scissors on her male client’s full head of hair with a carefully orchestrated fury. She motioned to a framed movie poster of Sweeney Todd which hung on the wall by the side of her door. Dede’s self-assured, whiskey voice transported its listener to another world. “Just a reminder to my clients of what might come their way if they forget to pay my bill.”
The strikingly handsome man in her stylist’s chair could have easily been one of the numerous A-list celebrities for whom she created iconic looks. His larger-than-life lion’s eyes analyzed her every movement as he spoke. “I hear you’re the best.”
Dede had sensed from the moment that she had met her newest client that he was seeking far more than a winning haircut. “It depends on what you’re talking about.” She glanced down at the intricately carved gold ring on his right hand. Dede was very jaded by her former career as a high ranking guard at the Louvre, but this masculine piece of wearable artwork truly impressed her. “Nice bauble you got there.”
He brushed her shapely leg with his right hand while his eyes traced the outline of Dede’s heart-shaped face. “It was my great grandfather’s. It’s one of a kind.” If it had been any other time or place, he would have pursued this woman heavily for a very different set of needs. “They say that people spill just as many secrets to their hairstylists as they do to their shrinks.”
Was he looking for her to do a job for him? Or was he just another hack hoping to suck up some dirt for a media outlet? Dede’s notoriously short fuse was already torched and burning bright. She placed her shears within an inch of his long muscular neck. “They say a lot of things. So, why don’t you tell me what you’re really doing here.”
He reached over to swipe the scissors out of her hands, but Dede had already shot herself out of his reach. He had underestimated her. Still, Dede knew that he was a cut above the rest. “I need your help. But I’m not gonna be able to talk much with you slitting my throat.”
“No worries. I have some cover-up stick in my cabinet.” She sounded as if she wasn’t kidding. “Look, honey, if you know anything at all about me, you know never to ask me for other clients’ secrets.”
“I don’t fucking want theirs. I’ve got more than enough of my own.” Despite the fact that she was holding a blade to his neck, he grinned defiantly as his brilliant kelly green eyes twinkled. She would never hurt him if she valued her own life.
Dede returned her scissors back into their sheath on her side table. “Okay. I’m listening.” She put on a pair of her signature black cat-eye glasses as she focused intently on the man seated in her stylist’s chair.
“About fucking time - Delilah.” This one had really done his digging. Virtually no one still alive knew her by that name. “So, here’s the gig. Something’s going down in the community that could easily rival the biggest studio blockbuster.”
Community. He was obviously talking about Hollywood’s inner circle. He must have used an assumed name for his appointment. He certainly wasn’t an A-list actor or a player with any of the major studios. Dede had broken into Hollywood by working on hair and makeup for several top films. No, this guy wasn’t working with any of the studios. Who the hell was he?
“I work for Sidney Martel. At least I did before he was murdered last night.” He watched Dede’s face drop as he let her in on the shocking news.
“Sidney’s dead?” Dede’s body went completely numb as she saw Sidney’s face in her mind’s eye. He had been one of her first hair clients. They started working together years ago in another capacity when Sidney was a D-list writer barely eking out a living. He had clawed his way up to become one of the most powerful producers in Hollywood. But how could she not know that Sidney was dead? “How come it isn’t on the news?”
“I guess you’re not the only one who’s good at keeping secrets. Eh, Dee?” His facial expression revealed no emotion.
What was this goon really there for? She knew too much. That was it. He wasn’t working for Sidney. He was probably the guy who killed him. She thought about her escape route as she watched her client reach inside his suit pocket. He was reaching for a gun.
“Sidney told me if anything ever happened to him to give you this.” She knew everyone in Sidney’s group from his three ex-wives to the guy who shined his shoes just off of Santa Monica Boulevard. Why hadn’t she met this guy if he was legit?
Dede instinctively spun him around in her swiveling chrome and black leather stylist’s chair like he was a top. She hadn’t made it this far to be taken out by this hood. “Not so fast, big man.”
“He said you could be a little bit nuts.” The man bolted up from the chair and pressed a powder blue envelope into Dede’s hand. She recognized Sidney’s handwriting. She wanted to apologize, but Dede couldn’t talk. What had her dear friend gotten himself caught up in?
Dede turned to face the man in her chair when suddenly she heard a gun go off. She knew that he was there to kill her. Dede looked down at her black smock. It was covered with blood. She ran as fast as she could with the knowledge that the next bullet was coming straight for her.
Chinese to English: 以文会友，四海一家 General field: Other Detailed field: Real Estate
Source text - Chinese 以文会友•四海一家
Translation - English A Cosmopolitan Place That Welcomes Friends by Culture
To the south-east of Beijing, and within the Second Ring, there stands King-talent Hotel, previously the Sunset Temple.
Located at the key spot of Chongwen District, where cultural heritage is represented by the Temple of Heaven, it is invested with a millennium of culture and expectations of establishing the new cultural landmark of Chongwen and even Beijing.
The time-honoured temple, with a still alive 100-year-old Chinese scholar tree, has been renovated to display a more pleasant landscape and cultural character.
Modern services for business and entertainment are introduced into the traditional accommodation for cultural assemblies.
A place of meditation, sensation, and relaxation, it collects literati and talents from all around.
They will gather together in the capital and mount the platform to intonate, unleashing unreservedly their lofty passions.
Master's degree - University of Durham, the United Kingdom
Years of experience: 17. Registered at ProZ.com: Oct 2015. Became a member: Aug 2020.
English to Chinese (CATTI Level 2) English to Chinese (Shanghai Interpretation Intermediate Level) Chinese to English (CATTI Level 2) Chinese to English (Shanghai Interpretation Intermediate Level) English to Chinese (Chartered Institute of Linguists)
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Master of Arts in Translation Studies, University of Durham UK
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Qualifications of translation and interpretation
Work experience in government, advertising, consulting and real estate marketing
Publications of approx. 15 translated books
Translation worthy of 2.5 million words
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Winner in three translation competitions