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Translation, Editing/proofreading, Subtitling
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Specializes in:
Cinema, Film, TV, Drama
Philosophy
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Automotive / Cars & Trucks
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Business/Commerce (general)
Computers: Hardware
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Sample translations submitted: 1
English to Portuguese: O último dos românticos (The Last of the Romantics) General field: Art/Literary
Source text - English Despertei. A alvura dos lençóis sob a luminescência calorosa do sol da alvorada me ofuscava os olhos. Apesar da ter dormido poucas horas, me sentia rejuvenescido. Sentia-me como há muito não me sentira, com um prazer infantil pelo fato de simplesmente estar ali, acordado. O sol, por entre alguns prédios, nascia novamente, do mesmo jeito que tivera o feito desde que tenho ciência e mesmo muitas vezes antes disso. Parecia, no entanto, que naquela manhã particularmente, ele erguera-se apenas por mim, e por nenhum outro motivo. Em um sussuro, como criança, balbuciei-lhe um bom dia.
Era a primeira vez que havia atingido o ápice, a concretização do sonho mais querido por um romântico: o amor. Não um ato sexual, pornográfico e indecente: naquele leito haviam se juntado dois corpos, dois sentimentos, em uma simbiose temporária e parcial, mas única e inesquecível. Satisfeito, levantei-me, tomando cuidado ao retirar o braço que envolvia a minha doce companheira. Nu e exposto, sentei-me, expondo meu corpo de perfil aos raios matutinos.
Eu sempre havia sonhado com a minha primeira vez: a sua beleza, a sua quintessência. Eu sempre tivera essa idéia de que ali mesmo, após o ato, eu saberia se amava aquela mulher. Isto porque só então, saciados todos os motivos materiais pelos quais eu cortejaria alguém, eu saberia se de fato a amava. Só ali o sentimento, livre dos seus simbolismos e seus rituais, afloraria na sua essência, honesto e incorrupto.
Contemplei-a, enquanto os raios solares lentamente aproximavam-se de sua face, a lhe iluminar: ali ela estava, serena e tranqüila, com seus olhos cerrados e desprovida dos milhares de produtos que reforçavam seus traços. Como ela era bela, ainda mais do que quando tentava, com seus produtos, ser. Mas ali, com a face amarrotada e cansada, a boca semi-aberta, sua beleza de fato importava pouco.
Verifiquei que aquele meu pensamento poderia de fato ser comprovado. Apenas aquele sentimento, sincero e fraterno, poderia justificar eu estar ao seu lado, eu prevalecer com ela.
Observei sua face, seu lindo corpo e comecei a divagar sobre os tempos que tivéramos juntos. Comecei então a justificar minha adoração a ela, aquela que havia feito eu e ela nos juntarmos em tão abençoado leito. Ela era gentil, de olhar maroto e infantil; uma moçoila, tenra, dócil e apaixonada. Todas as suas características se encaixavam comigo como luva. Tínhamos até os mesmos gostos musicais, os mesmos hábitos, os mesmos trejeitos.
Vendo-me ali tentando descrever o meu amor, tentando exemplificá-lo, quantificá-lo, qualificá-lo, vi meu grande erro. Contemplei-a uma última vez, tentando me esforçar para que aquele sentimento se revelasse, aquele pelo qual esperei e por muito tempo utilizei para justificar minha existência. Eu não a amava. Sorrateiramente e apressadamente, vesti minhas roupas, e, ainda descalço, saí, desolado.
Translation - Portuguese I awoke. Under the luminous heat of the morning sun, the whiteness of the sheets dazzled me. Although I had slept only a few hours, I felt rejuvenated like I hadn’t felt in a long time. I had a childish joy for just being there, awake. The sun, among some buildings, rose once again, just as it had for as long as I can recall. It seemed that on that particular morning, however, it had risen only for me, and for no one else. Like a child, I whispered it a good morning.
It was the first time I had reached the apex, the realization of the dearest dream of a romantic: love. It wasn’t sexual intercourse, pornographic and indecent; on that bed, two bodies, two emotions had united, in a temporary and partial symbiosis, but unique and unforgettable. Satisfied, I slowly removed the arm from under my sweet companion and stood up. Nude and exposed, I sat, letting my body, in profile, be warmed by the morning rays.
I had always thought about how my first time would be: its beauty, its quintessence. I had always thought that, right there, after such sublime act, I would know if I loved the woman. Only then, having satiated all the material motives for courting somebody, I would know if I indeed loved her. Only there, the feeling, freed from its symbolisms and rituals, would flower in its essence, frank and incorrupt.
I contemplated her, while the sun rays slowly got close to her face: there she was, serene and tranquil, with her eyes shut, without the myriad cosmetics that reinforced her gentle traits. How beautiful she was, even more when she didn’t attempt, with her creams and lotions, to be. But there, with her creased and tired face, her mouth half open, her beauty mattered little.
Maybe I could prove that I indeed loved her and confirm that ideal I had held sacred for so long. Only that feeling, sincere and hearty, could account for my presence beside her, my continuity with her, that very moment.
I looked at her face and the curves of her body, and started to wonder about the moments we had had together. I started then to justify my adoration for her, the very same that had made us unite in that blessed cradle of love. She was gentle, with a childish but sly gaze; a lady, tender, docile and in love. All her characteristics fitted perfectly with my own. We even had the same musical taste, the same habits, the same vices.
Perceiving myself trying to describe love, attempting to exemplify it, quantify it, qualify it, I realized my enormous mistake. I regarded her a last time, trying to make that feeling reveal itself, that emotion for which I had been waiting and for so long used to validate my own existence. I didn’t love her. Silently and quickly, I dressed up and, still barefoot, left, desolated.
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Years of experience: 18. Registered at ProZ.com: Jan 2009.
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