翻译合作信息

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简介:提供最新翻译合作信息,促进中外文学出版作品译介合作。

缘份锝天空

  白俄罗斯希望与中国加强翻译出版合作


  白俄罗斯新闻部长卡尔柳克维奇2日表示,希望在文学作品翻译出版方面与中国加强合作,将对方国家更多优秀文学作品介绍给本国民众,增进两国民众之间的相互了解。


  卡尔柳克维奇当天会见了来白俄罗斯参加媒体行活动的中国媒体代表。他告诉新华社记者,为了增进对中国及中国文化的了解,近年来白俄罗斯新闻部大力支持对中国文学作品的翻译出版工作。


  他介绍说,在白俄罗斯知名诗人兼翻译家梅特利茨基等人的努力下,白俄罗斯先后翻译出版了多本中国诗词作品集,包括《百名中国诗人作品集》《20世纪中国百名诗人作品集》、白俄罗斯星辰出版社2014年以来出版的10部中国诗词作品集,分别将不同年代中国诗人的作品翻译成白俄罗斯语出版,部分作品集以中白双语的形式出版。


  卡尔柳克维奇曾经担任星辰出版社社长,他如数家珍地向记者详细介绍了出版社近年来翻译出版的中国诗词作品集,收入包括李白、杜甫、王维等古代诗人和艾青、徐志摩等现代诗人的诗词作品。近期出版社还将翻译出版苏轼作品集。


  据他介绍,早在50多年前,中国翻译家已将白俄罗斯知名诗人唐克的诗作译成中文介绍给中国读者,让中国民众有机会了解白俄罗斯文学。


  卡尔柳克维奇表示,在两国各领域交往不断加深的情况下,希望两国文学翻译出版机构能够加强合作,增进两国间民心相通。白俄罗斯新闻部将继续为此提供大力支持。

2019-01-24 11:21:05
1284人浏览 0人评论
缘份锝天空

  《离歌》样章多语种翻译项目译者招募


  中国文化译研网(www.cctss.org)现为作品《离歌》样章寻求中译阿拉伯语、西班牙语、法语、德语、匈牙利语、土耳其语、泰语、罗马尼亚语优秀翻译。


  翻译文字量:1612字


  翻译截止日期:2018年11月12日


  翻译费用:300-500元/千字


  译者要求:


  中外双语俱佳,有文学作品翻译经验者优先;


  母语译者优先。


  注:申请时请将翻译文字及以往作品发送至xudonghao@cctss.org,邮件标题格式“作品翻译+项目名称”,联系人:徐冬皓,电话:010-82300038。


  翻译样章


  暴雨下了整整一夜,三爷惦记起东坝的那些坟茔,其下的肉身与骨殖,陪葬衣物,以及棺木,必定也在泥土下湿漉漉地悬浮着吧……他睡不着。


  挨到天亮,起来一瞧,发现门前河上的木桥给冲坍了。腐朽的木板散在河面,流连忘返地打着圈儿,最终与断绳、树枝、蓑草之类的一起,头也不回地漂走了。所幸他那条颜色发了黑的小船还在,水面儿上一上一下地晃着。


  没有人会修这座桥的。这么些年,人们从来都不用过桥,反正桥这边就只三爷一人。找他的就只站在对面,闷着嗓子用那样一种压抑的调子喊:三爷,西头的五姑奶奶过去了。三爷,栓子给电没了。三爷,江大年家的小媳妇喝农药走了。


  不论什么时辰,他即刻便穿了素衣出门去,小木桥摇晃着,河水在下面流,只照着他一个人的身影。人们要瞧见他过桥,便会互相地说:今天,三爷过桥了……这是当消息来说的,说的与听的皆明白:东坝,又有谁,上路去了……


  赶过去,那家里的大人孩子往往木呆呆的——就算平常见过多次邻里办丧,就算是上得了场面的人,临到自家,还是无措。大家都说:每到这个时候,就瞧出三爷的心硬来——他抬手抹一抹脸,几乎面无表情。


  头一件事,是替新亡人收拾身子,趁还温软着,给他穿衣戴帽收拾整齐,完了头外脚里,让他躺得端端正正;接着悬挂门幡,设堂供奉,焚香化纸;再坐下开出一条货单,着人上街采买:白布、红布、黑布,各若干;别针;笔墨;黄纸红纸;白烛;大香;纸钱若干;草绳数丈等等。


  再在亲友中物色一个识文断字的,让其主管出入:吊唁的这时陆续赶到,进门便要奉上礼金与纸钱,需由他一一录下。有些远亲,多年不通来往,但只要得了信儿,必定迢迢赶来,叩个头、化个纸。这里头,大有讲究,其严谨程度,远胜婚典。


  接着是找人搭席棚、找念经和尚、找做酒席的、找石匠刻碑、找风水先生、找吹打班子……


  这样吩咐了一大圈,家里人慢慢镇定下来,前来帮忙的邻居们也各自得了事情,场面有些像个样子了。妇女们分成几堆,或围在厨房择菜洗涮,或在院中撕剪孝布,或在堂屋里叠做纸元宝,她们这时总会热烈地怀念新死者,于此种谈论中,后者皆可获得新的生命与新的品性:性情温和、节俭克己、心灵手巧……


  而这时,三爷也才终于得了空,问过主家的意愿,他便要过河回家扎纸人纸马了——三爷打小就是靠扎纸活儿谋生的,只因见的丧葬多了,又无家室,慢慢儿的,顺带着张罗起东坝人家丧葬的大小仪式。


  “走一走……那他是挑几个地方重点走一走呢?还是来得及仔仔细细全都瞧上一遍?”


  “这个啊……也说不好,反正,家里人记住所有的门都不能关就是……”三爷含含糊糊地答了。


  丧仪里的门道多得很,总之,一切只当那新死者是个刚投胎的孩子,吃的穿的用的包括走的道儿,都要替他一样样备好……这方面的话题,平常是总有老人拐弯抹角地找三爷谈,一边那样当真地盯着他的眼睛,好像他真是阴间跟阳间的一个信使,两边的事都应当一清二楚。可三爷真不乐意跟老人们谈这些,他不愿看他们那依然活生生的脸,依然热乎乎的身板子。那一看,似乎就能够想象到,到了彼时,他眼洞凹陷、牙齿外露,须发继续生长、一夜之间花白杂乱…


  彭老人瞧出三爷的不自在,便哈地一笑换了话题。“小老弟,我倒问你,为何偏不娶妻生子?”


  三爷沉吟着,怎么跟他说呢——唉,从年轻时跟师傅学扎纸人马开始,打他眼里看过的,什么样的没有?新媳妇头胎难产去了的、活蹦乱跳夏天戏水给拖走了的、喝醉酒落下茅坑起不来的、过大寿吃鱼给卡死的、造新房掉石灰坑里给烫没了的……哀乐相连,喜极生悲,生死之间,像紧邻的隔壁人家,一伸脚就过去了……他是越看越惊,越看越凉,凉了又温,慢慢地回转过来、领悟过来:罢了,索性——不娶妻,无得便无失;不生子,无生便无死。一个人过吧。


  “我这营生,哪个女人愿意?只能做老光棍儿呗。”三爷答。他一般总跟人这样说。他怎么好说实话呢,说出来好像就扫兴了、就得罪人家的平常日子了。


  “那你……倒是喜欢过哪个女人没有?你跟我说实话。完了我也跟你说个实话,说个我喜欢的……”彭老人要笑不笑的,谈兴正浓。


  作者简介


  鲁敏,女,1973年生于乡村,江苏东台人。1991年毕业于江苏省邮电学校通信管理专业,同年进入南京邮政局工作,先后担任过营业员、团总支书记、宣传干事、秘书。2005年调入南京市文联,现为江苏省作家协会签约作家,江苏省作家协会副主席、 南京市作家协会副主席。


  1999年开始小说创作,2007年加入中国作家协会,已出版长篇小说《此情无法投递》《百恼汇》《博情书》《戒指》等多部。中短篇小说集《纸醉》《取景器》《离歌》《伴宴》等四部。短篇小说《伴宴》获第五届鲁迅文学奖。多篇小说入选各种年度排行榜及年度选本。中篇小说《颠倒的时光》获《小说选刊》2006—2007年度读者最喜爱小说奖,中篇小说《思无邪》获2007年度茅台杯人民文学奖,获2007年第六届中国青年作家批评家论坛年度青年小说家奖。还曾获庄重文文学奖、中国作家奖、首届中国小说双年奖、《小说月报》百花奖最佳原创奖、中国2007年度青年作家奖、汉语文学女评委大奖“最佳叙事奖”、南京市政府艺术奖金奖等,并有作品译至德、日、俄文等。定居江苏南京。


  作品推荐语


  这是一篇有关死亡的叙事。在冷寂的河这边,了无牵挂的三爷扎着各种纸质的祭品,为河那边热闹却又生死无常的人生进行最后的超度。一条船,便成了穿梭于阴阳之间的道具。而彭老人终日厮守于渡口边,并最终决定独自造桥,为的也是打通横亘生死之间的路途。作者以平静、纯朴而又不乏诗意的叙述,展示了乡村社会面对死亡的特殊伦理。


  小说展现了各种不同的离去途径,有人生的偶然意外,也有因对死亡的恐惧战胜了生存恐惧的自我了断,也有叙述者所着力渲染和铺陈的三爷对尘世牵挂的了断,以及彭老人对生的眷恋以及对死亡的从容淡然。温情而又忧伤的故事在叙述者富有节制的叙述语调和简洁的摹写中徐徐展开,简约空灵,令人为之动容和沉思。


  《离歌》是一篇诗化的小说,语言如绸缎一般顺滑优雅,质地柔和,含蓄节制,细小体贴。在短短的篇幅之内,就将与人生的离别(死亡)写成了一首缓慢流动、意韵悠长的歌曲。小说延续了鲁敏一贯的创作风格——叙事质朴、沉静,依然是古老的乡村故事,传达着温情和悲悯,展示着对生活、对世界宽厚的理解。

2019-01-24 13:25:49
1388人浏览 0人评论
素面朝天

  《寂静之心》寻求优秀英译中译者


  中国文化译研网(www.cctss.org)机构会员——新浪阅读出版部现为项目《寂静之心》寻求优秀英译中译者。


  字数:15万字


  完稿时间:180天


  试译截止日期:2018年11月20日


  译者要求:


  1.中文母语译者优先或中外合作。


  2.中英文俱佳,有文学、文化翻译经验者优先。


  注:申请时请将试译样本及以往作品发送xudonghao@cctss.org,邮件标题格式“作品翻译+项目名称+国家”,联系人:徐冬皓,电话:010-82300038。


  试译样章


  ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN, AUGUST 2001


  Each day she remained unmarried, Farida Basra played At Least.


  She turned to the game as she waited for her bus on a street lined


  with high, bougainvillea-adorned stucco walls that shielded the homes of


  Islamabad’s wealthy from the envious and resentful. A woman squatted


  knees to chin beside her, scraping at the flthy pavement with her broom


  of twigs. Her skin was nearly black from long hours in the sun. Farida


  drew forward her dupatta, the flmy shawl-like scarf that covered her chest


  and shoulders. She reminded herself to be thankful.


  I may be poor, but at least I’m not a street sweeper.


  She stepped back as a family approached on a motorbike. A graybeard


  husband drove while his young wife clung to him from behind with one


  arm, cradling an infant with the other. An older child sat in front of the


  husband, a younger behind the wife. Dust boiled in their wake.


  I may still be unmarried, but at least I’m not bound to a man old enough


  to be my father.


  She nodded to a group of schoolgirls in their blue uniforms and white


  head scarves, and directed the game toward them. No matter what happens


  to you, at least your education will protect you—that was the mantra herfather had taught her. He was a professor whose own professor father had


  made the mistake of opposing Partition from India and spent the rest of


  his life in unwilling atonement, opportunities snatched away, income and


  status dwindling apace.


  “But he gave me an education, and I have given you the same,” Latif


  Basra would tell his daughters. “It is how this family will work its way


  back to its rightful place. I have done my best. Now it is up to your


  sons.” At which Farida and her sister, Alia, would study the ?oor, saving


  their rebellious responses for whispered nighttime conversations in their


  bedroom.


  Farida let the dupatta slide back to her shoulders and held her head


  higher, mentally commanding the schoolgirls to see in her what she saw


  in herself—a professional woman, heading home from her job as an interpreter in the commercial Blue Zone, her satchel stu?ed with important papers, her brain buzzing with phrases in English, German, French.


  Men, her own countrymen and even some foreigners, might disparage


  her skills and regard her work as little more than a front for prostitution.


  But those were old attitudes, fast being discarded in Pakistan’s cities, if not


  the countryside. No longer, as she told her parents nightly and to no avail,


  did a woman need a husband. Not in the year 2001, when so many things


  were possible for women.


  Te girls rounded a corner, laughter floating behind them like the


  trailing ends of their head scarves. Farida tamped down envy. Old enough


  for some independence, still too young for the pressure of marriage, the


  girls had one another. Alia had departed the household for her own marriage, one that so far had produced only daughters, leaving Farida alone


  with her parents’ dwindling expectations.


  She braced herself for another evening involving a strained conversation over indifferent food prepared by a cook who also doubled as a


  housekeeper. Most of Farida’s inadequate salary went to her parents for


  household expenses and helped maintain a toehold on the fringes of respectability, even if that proximity had yet to result in a marriage for her.


  Her father and mother were too polite to remind Farida of howquickly she had taken to the unimagined freedoms she’d found when the


  family lived in England several years earlier. She was still paying for it.


  Te fact that her work as an interpreter required constant contact with


  foreigners did not help her case. Despite her beauty, her parents had not


  been able to arrange a match with an appropriate civil servant, a teacher,


  or even a shopkeeper. According to her parents, these groups were the


  only ones who could accept her level of education along with the faint tarnish to her reputation from the time abroad. It clung to her like a cloying


  perfume, even after all these years. She had faced a dwindling procession


  of awkward second cousins and middle-aged widowers, men with strands


  of oily hair combed over shiny pates, men whose bellies strained at the


  waists of wrinkled shirts, men whose thick fngers were none too clean,


  men who nonetheless frowned at her with the same suspicion and aversion with which she viewed them.


  By now, despite her mother’s attempts to persuade her otherwise,


  Farida knew there was no man she could ever imagine herself loving.


  Even as her potential suitors drifted away—marrying other girls less


  beautiful, perhaps, but also less questionable—so did her friends, into


  arranged marriages of their own, quickly followed by the requisite production of children. Teir paths diverged, and she instead hid behind


  her work.


  Farida shouldered her way from the bus and pushed open the gate


  to the pounded-dirt courtyard. What should she expect from her parents


  tonight? Te silence, her parents retreating after dinner into the solace of


  books and music? Or more badgering?


  “Farida!” Her father burst out of the front door, arms spread wide.


  He folded her into an embrace, an intimacy he’d not permitted himself


  since she was a child.


  She extricated herself with relief and suspicion, the latter ascendant as


  she took in his appearance. “Is that a new suit?”


  He stepped back and turned in a circle, inviting her admiration for


  the summer-weight worsted, cut expertly to disguise his sagging stomach


  and spreading bum. “What do you think of your papa now?”


  “What happened to the old one?” A rusty black embarrassment, gone


  threadbare in the elbows and knees.


  He waved a dismissive hand. “Gone.” Sold, no doubt, to a rag merchant.


  Farida’s mother appeared in the doorway. She raised her arm in greeting. Wide gold bangles, newly bought, rang against one another, their


  hopeful notes at odds with her stricken expression. “Your father has a


  surprise.”


  Which was how Farida discovered that for the bride price of some


  twenty-two-carat jewelry, a knocko? designer suit, and almost certainly


  a newly fattened bank account, Latif Basra had betrothed his remaining


  daughter to the illiterate son of an Afghan strongman.


  机构介绍


  新浪阅读旗下出版部门,筹备成立于2018年3月。


  品牌产品线以小说为核心,包括本版原创以及外版引进,依托新浪、微博平台的媒体流量推广优势,旨在形成多版权开发、IP孵化、作家经纪等以内容为主导的产业链。

2019-01-24 13:30:18
1737人浏览 0人评论
素面朝天

  《寂静之心》寻求优秀英译中译者


  中国文化译研网(www.cctss.org)机构会员——新浪阅读出版部现为项目《寂静之心》寻求优秀英译中译者。


  字数:15万字


  完稿时间:180天


  试译截止日期:2018年11月20日


  译者要求:


  1.中文母语译者优先或中外合作。


  2.中英文俱佳,有文学、文化翻译经验者优先。


  注:申请时请将试译样本及以往作品发送xudonghao@cctss.org,邮件标题格式“作品翻译+项目名称+国家”,联系人:徐冬皓,电话:010-82300038。


  试译样章


  ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN, AUGUST 2001


  Each day she remained unmarried, Farida Basra played At Least.


  She turned to the game as she waited for her bus on a street lined


  with high, bougainvillea-adorned stucco walls that shielded the homes of


  Islamabad’s wealthy from the envious and resentful. A woman squatted


  knees to chin beside her, scraping at the flthy pavement with her broom


  of twigs. Her skin was nearly black from long hours in the sun. Farida


  drew forward her dupatta, the flmy shawl-like scarf that covered her chest


  and shoulders. She reminded herself to be thankful.


  I may be poor, but at least I’m not a street sweeper.


  She stepped back as a family approached on a motorbike. A graybeard


  husband drove while his young wife clung to him from behind with one


  arm, cradling an infant with the other. An older child sat in front of the


  husband, a younger behind the wife. Dust boiled in their wake.


  I may still be unmarried, but at least I’m not bound to a man old enough


  to be my father.


  She nodded to a group of schoolgirls in their blue uniforms and white


  head scarves, and directed the game toward them. No matter what happens


  to you, at least your education will protect you—that was the mantra herfather had taught her. He was a professor whose own professor father had


  made the mistake of opposing Partition from India and spent the rest of


  his life in unwilling atonement, opportunities snatched away, income and


  status dwindling apace.


  “But he gave me an education, and I have given you the same,” Latif


  Basra would tell his daughters. “It is how this family will work its way


  back to its rightful place. I have done my best. Now it is up to your


  sons.” At which Farida and her sister, Alia, would study the ?oor, saving


  their rebellious responses for whispered nighttime conversations in their


  bedroom.


  Farida let the dupatta slide back to her shoulders and held her head


  higher, mentally commanding the schoolgirls to see in her what she saw


  in herself—a professional woman, heading home from her job as an interpreter in the commercial Blue Zone, her satchel stu?ed with important papers, her brain buzzing with phrases in English, German, French.


  Men, her own countrymen and even some foreigners, might disparage


  her skills and regard her work as little more than a front for prostitution.


  But those were old attitudes, fast being discarded in Pakistan’s cities, if not


  the countryside. No longer, as she told her parents nightly and to no avail,


  did a woman need a husband. Not in the year 2001, when so many things


  were possible for women.


  Te girls rounded a corner, laughter floating behind them like the


  trailing ends of their head scarves. Farida tamped down envy. Old enough


  for some independence, still too young for the pressure of marriage, the


  girls had one another. Alia had departed the household for her own marriage, one that so far had produced only daughters, leaving Farida alone


  with her parents’ dwindling expectations.


  She braced herself for another evening involving a strained conversation over indifferent food prepared by a cook who also doubled as a


  housekeeper. Most of Farida’s inadequate salary went to her parents for


  household expenses and helped maintain a toehold on the fringes of respectability, even if that proximity had yet to result in a marriage for her.


  Her father and mother were too polite to remind Farida of howquickly she had taken to the unimagined freedoms she’d found when the


  family lived in England several years earlier. She was still paying for it.


  Te fact that her work as an interpreter required constant contact with


  foreigners did not help her case. Despite her beauty, her parents had not


  been able to arrange a match with an appropriate civil servant, a teacher,


  or even a shopkeeper. According to her parents, these groups were the


  only ones who could accept her level of education along with the faint tarnish to her reputation from the time abroad. It clung to her like a cloying


  perfume, even after all these years. She had faced a dwindling procession


  of awkward second cousins and middle-aged widowers, men with strands


  of oily hair combed over shiny pates, men whose bellies strained at the


  waists of wrinkled shirts, men whose thick fngers were none too clean,


  men who nonetheless frowned at her with the same suspicion and aversion with which she viewed them.


  By now, despite her mother’s attempts to persuade her otherwise,


  Farida knew there was no man she could ever imagine herself loving.


  Even as her potential suitors drifted away—marrying other girls less


  beautiful, perhaps, but also less questionable—so did her friends, into


  arranged marriages of their own, quickly followed by the requisite production of children. Teir paths diverged, and she instead hid behind


  her work.


  Farida shouldered her way from the bus and pushed open the gate


  to the pounded-dirt courtyard. What should she expect from her parents


  tonight? Te silence, her parents retreating after dinner into the solace of


  books and music? Or more badgering?


  “Farida!” Her father burst out of the front door, arms spread wide.


  He folded her into an embrace, an intimacy he’d not permitted himself


  since she was a child.


  She extricated herself with relief and suspicion, the latter ascendant as


  she took in his appearance. “Is that a new suit?”


  He stepped back and turned in a circle, inviting her admiration for


  the summer-weight worsted, cut expertly to disguise his sagging stomach


  and spreading bum. “What do you think of your papa now?”


  “What happened to the old one?” A rusty black embarrassment, gone


  threadbare in the elbows and knees.


  He waved a dismissive hand. “Gone.” Sold, no doubt, to a rag merchant.


  Farida’s mother appeared in the doorway. She raised her arm in greeting. Wide gold bangles, newly bought, rang against one another, their


  hopeful notes at odds with her stricken expression. “Your father has a


  surprise.”


  Which was how Farida discovered that for the bride price of some


  twenty-two-carat jewelry, a knocko? designer suit, and almost certainly


  a newly fattened bank account, Latif Basra had betrothed his remaining


  daughter to the illiterate son of an Afghan strongman.


  机构介绍


  新浪阅读旗下出版部门,筹备成立于2018年3月。


  品牌产品线以小说为核心,包括本版原创以及外版引进,依托新浪、微博平台的媒体流量推广优势,旨在形成多版权开发、IP孵化、作家经纪等以内容为主导的产业链。

2019-01-24 13:30:18
1737人浏览 0人评论
缘份锝天空

  《离歌》样章多语种翻译项目译者招募


  中国文化译研网(www.cctss.org)现为作品《离歌》样章寻求中译阿拉伯语、西班牙语、法语、德语、匈牙利语、土耳其语、泰语、罗马尼亚语优秀翻译。


  翻译文字量:1612字


  翻译截止日期:2018年11月12日


  翻译费用:300-500元/千字


  译者要求:


  中外双语俱佳,有文学作品翻译经验者优先;


  母语译者优先。


  注:申请时请将翻译文字及以往作品发送至xudonghao@cctss.org,邮件标题格式“作品翻译+项目名称”,联系人:徐冬皓,电话:010-82300038。


  翻译样章


  暴雨下了整整一夜,三爷惦记起东坝的那些坟茔,其下的肉身与骨殖,陪葬衣物,以及棺木,必定也在泥土下湿漉漉地悬浮着吧……他睡不着。


  挨到天亮,起来一瞧,发现门前河上的木桥给冲坍了。腐朽的木板散在河面,流连忘返地打着圈儿,最终与断绳、树枝、蓑草之类的一起,头也不回地漂走了。所幸他那条颜色发了黑的小船还在,水面儿上一上一下地晃着。


  没有人会修这座桥的。这么些年,人们从来都不用过桥,反正桥这边就只三爷一人。找他的就只站在对面,闷着嗓子用那样一种压抑的调子喊:三爷,西头的五姑奶奶过去了。三爷,栓子给电没了。三爷,江大年家的小媳妇喝农药走了。


  不论什么时辰,他即刻便穿了素衣出门去,小木桥摇晃着,河水在下面流,只照着他一个人的身影。人们要瞧见他过桥,便会互相地说:今天,三爷过桥了……这是当消息来说的,说的与听的皆明白:东坝,又有谁,上路去了……


  赶过去,那家里的大人孩子往往木呆呆的——就算平常见过多次邻里办丧,就算是上得了场面的人,临到自家,还是无措。大家都说:每到这个时候,就瞧出三爷的心硬来——他抬手抹一抹脸,几乎面无表情。


  头一件事,是替新亡人收拾身子,趁还温软着,给他穿衣戴帽收拾整齐,完了头外脚里,让他躺得端端正正;接着悬挂门幡,设堂供奉,焚香化纸;再坐下开出一条货单,着人上街采买:白布、红布、黑布,各若干;别针;笔墨;黄纸红纸;白烛;大香;纸钱若干;草绳数丈等等。


  再在亲友中物色一个识文断字的,让其主管出入:吊唁的这时陆续赶到,进门便要奉上礼金与纸钱,需由他一一录下。有些远亲,多年不通来往,但只要得了信儿,必定迢迢赶来,叩个头、化个纸。这里头,大有讲究,其严谨程度,远胜婚典。


  接着是找人搭席棚、找念经和尚、找做酒席的、找石匠刻碑、找风水先生、找吹打班子……


  这样吩咐了一大圈,家里人慢慢镇定下来,前来帮忙的邻居们也各自得了事情,场面有些像个样子了。妇女们分成几堆,或围在厨房择菜洗涮,或在院中撕剪孝布,或在堂屋里叠做纸元宝,她们这时总会热烈地怀念新死者,于此种谈论中,后者皆可获得新的生命与新的品性:性情温和、节俭克己、心灵手巧……


  而这时,三爷也才终于得了空,问过主家的意愿,他便要过河回家扎纸人纸马了——三爷打小就是靠扎纸活儿谋生的,只因见的丧葬多了,又无家室,慢慢儿的,顺带着张罗起东坝人家丧葬的大小仪式。


  “走一走……那他是挑几个地方重点走一走呢?还是来得及仔仔细细全都瞧上一遍?”


  “这个啊……也说不好,反正,家里人记住所有的门都不能关就是……”三爷含含糊糊地答了。


  丧仪里的门道多得很,总之,一切只当那新死者是个刚投胎的孩子,吃的穿的用的包括走的道儿,都要替他一样样备好……这方面的话题,平常是总有老人拐弯抹角地找三爷谈,一边那样当真地盯着他的眼睛,好像他真是阴间跟阳间的一个信使,两边的事都应当一清二楚。可三爷真不乐意跟老人们谈这些,他不愿看他们那依然活生生的脸,依然热乎乎的身板子。那一看,似乎就能够想象到,到了彼时,他眼洞凹陷、牙齿外露,须发继续生长、一夜之间花白杂乱…


  彭老人瞧出三爷的不自在,便哈地一笑换了话题。“小老弟,我倒问你,为何偏不娶妻生子?”


  三爷沉吟着,怎么跟他说呢——唉,从年轻时跟师傅学扎纸人马开始,打他眼里看过的,什么样的没有?新媳妇头胎难产去了的、活蹦乱跳夏天戏水给拖走了的、喝醉酒落下茅坑起不来的、过大寿吃鱼给卡死的、造新房掉石灰坑里给烫没了的……哀乐相连,喜极生悲,生死之间,像紧邻的隔壁人家,一伸脚就过去了……他是越看越惊,越看越凉,凉了又温,慢慢地回转过来、领悟过来:罢了,索性——不娶妻,无得便无失;不生子,无生便无死。一个人过吧。


  “我这营生,哪个女人愿意?只能做老光棍儿呗。”三爷答。他一般总跟人这样说。他怎么好说实话呢,说出来好像就扫兴了、就得罪人家的平常日子了。


  “那你……倒是喜欢过哪个女人没有?你跟我说实话。完了我也跟你说个实话,说个我喜欢的……”彭老人要笑不笑的,谈兴正浓。


  作者简介


  鲁敏,女,1973年生于乡村,江苏东台人。1991年毕业于江苏省邮电学校通信管理专业,同年进入南京邮政局工作,先后担任过营业员、团总支书记、宣传干事、秘书。2005年调入南京市文联,现为江苏省作家协会签约作家,江苏省作家协会副主席、 南京市作家协会副主席。


  1999年开始小说创作,2007年加入中国作家协会,已出版长篇小说《此情无法投递》《百恼汇》《博情书》《戒指》等多部。中短篇小说集《纸醉》《取景器》《离歌》《伴宴》等四部。短篇小说《伴宴》获第五届鲁迅文学奖。多篇小说入选各种年度排行榜及年度选本。中篇小说《颠倒的时光》获《小说选刊》2006—2007年度读者最喜爱小说奖,中篇小说《思无邪》获2007年度茅台杯人民文学奖,获2007年第六届中国青年作家批评家论坛年度青年小说家奖。还曾获庄重文文学奖、中国作家奖、首届中国小说双年奖、《小说月报》百花奖最佳原创奖、中国2007年度青年作家奖、汉语文学女评委大奖“最佳叙事奖”、南京市政府艺术奖金奖等,并有作品译至德、日、俄文等。定居江苏南京。


  作品推荐语


  这是一篇有关死亡的叙事。在冷寂的河这边,了无牵挂的三爷扎着各种纸质的祭品,为河那边热闹却又生死无常的人生进行最后的超度。一条船,便成了穿梭于阴阳之间的道具。而彭老人终日厮守于渡口边,并最终决定独自造桥,为的也是打通横亘生死之间的路途。作者以平静、纯朴而又不乏诗意的叙述,展示了乡村社会面对死亡的特殊伦理。


  小说展现了各种不同的离去途径,有人生的偶然意外,也有因对死亡的恐惧战胜了生存恐惧的自我了断,也有叙述者所着力渲染和铺陈的三爷对尘世牵挂的了断,以及彭老人对生的眷恋以及对死亡的从容淡然。温情而又忧伤的故事在叙述者富有节制的叙述语调和简洁的摹写中徐徐展开,简约空灵,令人为之动容和沉思。


  《离歌》是一篇诗化的小说,语言如绸缎一般顺滑优雅,质地柔和,含蓄节制,细小体贴。在短短的篇幅之内,就将与人生的离别(死亡)写成了一首缓慢流动、意韵悠长的歌曲。小说延续了鲁敏一贯的创作风格——叙事质朴、沉静,依然是古老的乡村故事,传达着温情和悲悯,展示着对生活、对世界宽厚的理解。

2019-01-24 13:25:49
1388人浏览 0人评论
缘份锝天空

  白俄罗斯希望与中国加强翻译出版合作


  白俄罗斯新闻部长卡尔柳克维奇2日表示,希望在文学作品翻译出版方面与中国加强合作,将对方国家更多优秀文学作品介绍给本国民众,增进两国民众之间的相互了解。


  卡尔柳克维奇当天会见了来白俄罗斯参加媒体行活动的中国媒体代表。他告诉新华社记者,为了增进对中国及中国文化的了解,近年来白俄罗斯新闻部大力支持对中国文学作品的翻译出版工作。


  他介绍说,在白俄罗斯知名诗人兼翻译家梅特利茨基等人的努力下,白俄罗斯先后翻译出版了多本中国诗词作品集,包括《百名中国诗人作品集》《20世纪中国百名诗人作品集》、白俄罗斯星辰出版社2014年以来出版的10部中国诗词作品集,分别将不同年代中国诗人的作品翻译成白俄罗斯语出版,部分作品集以中白双语的形式出版。


  卡尔柳克维奇曾经担任星辰出版社社长,他如数家珍地向记者详细介绍了出版社近年来翻译出版的中国诗词作品集,收入包括李白、杜甫、王维等古代诗人和艾青、徐志摩等现代诗人的诗词作品。近期出版社还将翻译出版苏轼作品集。


  据他介绍,早在50多年前,中国翻译家已将白俄罗斯知名诗人唐克的诗作译成中文介绍给中国读者,让中国民众有机会了解白俄罗斯文学。


  卡尔柳克维奇表示,在两国各领域交往不断加深的情况下,希望两国文学翻译出版机构能够加强合作,增进两国间民心相通。白俄罗斯新闻部将继续为此提供大力支持。

2019-01-24 11:21:05
1284人浏览 0人评论
缘份锝天空

  白俄罗斯希望与中国加强翻译出版合作


  白俄罗斯新闻部长卡尔柳克维奇2日表示,希望在文学作品翻译出版方面与中国加强合作,将对方国家更多优秀文学作品介绍给本国民众,增进两国民众之间的相互了解。


  卡尔柳克维奇当天会见了来白俄罗斯参加媒体行活动的中国媒体代表。他告诉新华社记者,为了增进对中国及中国文化的了解,近年来白俄罗斯新闻部大力支持对中国文学作品的翻译出版工作。


  他介绍说,在白俄罗斯知名诗人兼翻译家梅特利茨基等人的努力下,白俄罗斯先后翻译出版了多本中国诗词作品集,包括《百名中国诗人作品集》《20世纪中国百名诗人作品集》、白俄罗斯星辰出版社2014年以来出版的10部中国诗词作品集,分别将不同年代中国诗人的作品翻译成白俄罗斯语出版,部分作品集以中白双语的形式出版。


  卡尔柳克维奇曾经担任星辰出版社社长,他如数家珍地向记者详细介绍了出版社近年来翻译出版的中国诗词作品集,收入包括李白、杜甫、王维等古代诗人和艾青、徐志摩等现代诗人的诗词作品。近期出版社还将翻译出版苏轼作品集。


  据他介绍,早在50多年前,中国翻译家已将白俄罗斯知名诗人唐克的诗作译成中文介绍给中国读者,让中国民众有机会了解白俄罗斯文学。


  卡尔柳克维奇表示,在两国各领域交往不断加深的情况下,希望两国文学翻译出版机构能够加强合作,增进两国间民心相通。白俄罗斯新闻部将继续为此提供大力支持。

2019-01-24 11:21:05
1284人浏览 0人评论
缘份锝天空

  《离歌》样章多语种翻译项目译者招募


  中国文化译研网(www.cctss.org)现为作品《离歌》样章寻求中译阿拉伯语、西班牙语、法语、德语、匈牙利语、土耳其语、泰语、罗马尼亚语优秀翻译。


  翻译文字量:1612字


  翻译截止日期:2018年11月12日


  翻译费用:300-500元/千字


  译者要求:


  中外双语俱佳,有文学作品翻译经验者优先;


  母语译者优先。


  注:申请时请将翻译文字及以往作品发送至xudonghao@cctss.org,邮件标题格式“作品翻译+项目名称”,联系人:徐冬皓,电话:010-82300038。


  翻译样章


  暴雨下了整整一夜,三爷惦记起东坝的那些坟茔,其下的肉身与骨殖,陪葬衣物,以及棺木,必定也在泥土下湿漉漉地悬浮着吧……他睡不着。


  挨到天亮,起来一瞧,发现门前河上的木桥给冲坍了。腐朽的木板散在河面,流连忘返地打着圈儿,最终与断绳、树枝、蓑草之类的一起,头也不回地漂走了。所幸他那条颜色发了黑的小船还在,水面儿上一上一下地晃着。


  没有人会修这座桥的。这么些年,人们从来都不用过桥,反正桥这边就只三爷一人。找他的就只站在对面,闷着嗓子用那样一种压抑的调子喊:三爷,西头的五姑奶奶过去了。三爷,栓子给电没了。三爷,江大年家的小媳妇喝农药走了。


  不论什么时辰,他即刻便穿了素衣出门去,小木桥摇晃着,河水在下面流,只照着他一个人的身影。人们要瞧见他过桥,便会互相地说:今天,三爷过桥了……这是当消息来说的,说的与听的皆明白:东坝,又有谁,上路去了……


  赶过去,那家里的大人孩子往往木呆呆的——就算平常见过多次邻里办丧,就算是上得了场面的人,临到自家,还是无措。大家都说:每到这个时候,就瞧出三爷的心硬来——他抬手抹一抹脸,几乎面无表情。


  头一件事,是替新亡人收拾身子,趁还温软着,给他穿衣戴帽收拾整齐,完了头外脚里,让他躺得端端正正;接着悬挂门幡,设堂供奉,焚香化纸;再坐下开出一条货单,着人上街采买:白布、红布、黑布,各若干;别针;笔墨;黄纸红纸;白烛;大香;纸钱若干;草绳数丈等等。


  再在亲友中物色一个识文断字的,让其主管出入:吊唁的这时陆续赶到,进门便要奉上礼金与纸钱,需由他一一录下。有些远亲,多年不通来往,但只要得了信儿,必定迢迢赶来,叩个头、化个纸。这里头,大有讲究,其严谨程度,远胜婚典。


  接着是找人搭席棚、找念经和尚、找做酒席的、找石匠刻碑、找风水先生、找吹打班子……


  这样吩咐了一大圈,家里人慢慢镇定下来,前来帮忙的邻居们也各自得了事情,场面有些像个样子了。妇女们分成几堆,或围在厨房择菜洗涮,或在院中撕剪孝布,或在堂屋里叠做纸元宝,她们这时总会热烈地怀念新死者,于此种谈论中,后者皆可获得新的生命与新的品性:性情温和、节俭克己、心灵手巧……


  而这时,三爷也才终于得了空,问过主家的意愿,他便要过河回家扎纸人纸马了——三爷打小就是靠扎纸活儿谋生的,只因见的丧葬多了,又无家室,慢慢儿的,顺带着张罗起东坝人家丧葬的大小仪式。


  “走一走……那他是挑几个地方重点走一走呢?还是来得及仔仔细细全都瞧上一遍?”


  “这个啊……也说不好,反正,家里人记住所有的门都不能关就是……”三爷含含糊糊地答了。


  丧仪里的门道多得很,总之,一切只当那新死者是个刚投胎的孩子,吃的穿的用的包括走的道儿,都要替他一样样备好……这方面的话题,平常是总有老人拐弯抹角地找三爷谈,一边那样当真地盯着他的眼睛,好像他真是阴间跟阳间的一个信使,两边的事都应当一清二楚。可三爷真不乐意跟老人们谈这些,他不愿看他们那依然活生生的脸,依然热乎乎的身板子。那一看,似乎就能够想象到,到了彼时,他眼洞凹陷、牙齿外露,须发继续生长、一夜之间花白杂乱…


  彭老人瞧出三爷的不自在,便哈地一笑换了话题。“小老弟,我倒问你,为何偏不娶妻生子?”


  三爷沉吟着,怎么跟他说呢——唉,从年轻时跟师傅学扎纸人马开始,打他眼里看过的,什么样的没有?新媳妇头胎难产去了的、活蹦乱跳夏天戏水给拖走了的、喝醉酒落下茅坑起不来的、过大寿吃鱼给卡死的、造新房掉石灰坑里给烫没了的……哀乐相连,喜极生悲,生死之间,像紧邻的隔壁人家,一伸脚就过去了……他是越看越惊,越看越凉,凉了又温,慢慢地回转过来、领悟过来:罢了,索性——不娶妻,无得便无失;不生子,无生便无死。一个人过吧。


  “我这营生,哪个女人愿意?只能做老光棍儿呗。”三爷答。他一般总跟人这样说。他怎么好说实话呢,说出来好像就扫兴了、就得罪人家的平常日子了。


  “那你……倒是喜欢过哪个女人没有?你跟我说实话。完了我也跟你说个实话,说个我喜欢的……”彭老人要笑不笑的,谈兴正浓。


  作者简介


  鲁敏,女,1973年生于乡村,江苏东台人。1991年毕业于江苏省邮电学校通信管理专业,同年进入南京邮政局工作,先后担任过营业员、团总支书记、宣传干事、秘书。2005年调入南京市文联,现为江苏省作家协会签约作家,江苏省作家协会副主席、 南京市作家协会副主席。


  1999年开始小说创作,2007年加入中国作家协会,已出版长篇小说《此情无法投递》《百恼汇》《博情书》《戒指》等多部。中短篇小说集《纸醉》《取景器》《离歌》《伴宴》等四部。短篇小说《伴宴》获第五届鲁迅文学奖。多篇小说入选各种年度排行榜及年度选本。中篇小说《颠倒的时光》获《小说选刊》2006—2007年度读者最喜爱小说奖,中篇小说《思无邪》获2007年度茅台杯人民文学奖,获2007年第六届中国青年作家批评家论坛年度青年小说家奖。还曾获庄重文文学奖、中国作家奖、首届中国小说双年奖、《小说月报》百花奖最佳原创奖、中国2007年度青年作家奖、汉语文学女评委大奖“最佳叙事奖”、南京市政府艺术奖金奖等,并有作品译至德、日、俄文等。定居江苏南京。


  作品推荐语


  这是一篇有关死亡的叙事。在冷寂的河这边,了无牵挂的三爷扎着各种纸质的祭品,为河那边热闹却又生死无常的人生进行最后的超度。一条船,便成了穿梭于阴阳之间的道具。而彭老人终日厮守于渡口边,并最终决定独自造桥,为的也是打通横亘生死之间的路途。作者以平静、纯朴而又不乏诗意的叙述,展示了乡村社会面对死亡的特殊伦理。


  小说展现了各种不同的离去途径,有人生的偶然意外,也有因对死亡的恐惧战胜了生存恐惧的自我了断,也有叙述者所着力渲染和铺陈的三爷对尘世牵挂的了断,以及彭老人对生的眷恋以及对死亡的从容淡然。温情而又忧伤的故事在叙述者富有节制的叙述语调和简洁的摹写中徐徐展开,简约空灵,令人为之动容和沉思。


  《离歌》是一篇诗化的小说,语言如绸缎一般顺滑优雅,质地柔和,含蓄节制,细小体贴。在短短的篇幅之内,就将与人生的离别(死亡)写成了一首缓慢流动、意韵悠长的歌曲。小说延续了鲁敏一贯的创作风格——叙事质朴、沉静,依然是古老的乡村故事,传达着温情和悲悯,展示着对生活、对世界宽厚的理解。

2019-01-24 13:25:49
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素面朝天

  《寂静之心》寻求优秀英译中译者


  中国文化译研网(www.cctss.org)机构会员——新浪阅读出版部现为项目《寂静之心》寻求优秀英译中译者。


  字数:15万字


  完稿时间:180天


  试译截止日期:2018年11月20日


  译者要求:


  1.中文母语译者优先或中外合作。


  2.中英文俱佳,有文学、文化翻译经验者优先。


  注:申请时请将试译样本及以往作品发送xudonghao@cctss.org,邮件标题格式“作品翻译+项目名称+国家”,联系人:徐冬皓,电话:010-82300038。


  试译样章


  ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN, AUGUST 2001


  Each day she remained unmarried, Farida Basra played At Least.


  She turned to the game as she waited for her bus on a street lined


  with high, bougainvillea-adorned stucco walls that shielded the homes of


  Islamabad’s wealthy from the envious and resentful. A woman squatted


  knees to chin beside her, scraping at the flthy pavement with her broom


  of twigs. Her skin was nearly black from long hours in the sun. Farida


  drew forward her dupatta, the flmy shawl-like scarf that covered her chest


  and shoulders. She reminded herself to be thankful.


  I may be poor, but at least I’m not a street sweeper.


  She stepped back as a family approached on a motorbike. A graybeard


  husband drove while his young wife clung to him from behind with one


  arm, cradling an infant with the other. An older child sat in front of the


  husband, a younger behind the wife. Dust boiled in their wake.


  I may still be unmarried, but at least I’m not bound to a man old enough


  to be my father.


  She nodded to a group of schoolgirls in their blue uniforms and white


  head scarves, and directed the game toward them. No matter what happens


  to you, at least your education will protect you—that was the mantra herfather had taught her. He was a professor whose own professor father had


  made the mistake of opposing Partition from India and spent the rest of


  his life in unwilling atonement, opportunities snatched away, income and


  status dwindling apace.


  “But he gave me an education, and I have given you the same,” Latif


  Basra would tell his daughters. “It is how this family will work its way


  back to its rightful place. I have done my best. Now it is up to your


  sons.” At which Farida and her sister, Alia, would study the ?oor, saving


  their rebellious responses for whispered nighttime conversations in their


  bedroom.


  Farida let the dupatta slide back to her shoulders and held her head


  higher, mentally commanding the schoolgirls to see in her what she saw


  in herself—a professional woman, heading home from her job as an interpreter in the commercial Blue Zone, her satchel stu?ed with important papers, her brain buzzing with phrases in English, German, French.


  Men, her own countrymen and even some foreigners, might disparage


  her skills and regard her work as little more than a front for prostitution.


  But those were old attitudes, fast being discarded in Pakistan’s cities, if not


  the countryside. No longer, as she told her parents nightly and to no avail,


  did a woman need a husband. Not in the year 2001, when so many things


  were possible for women.


  Te girls rounded a corner, laughter floating behind them like the


  trailing ends of their head scarves. Farida tamped down envy. Old enough


  for some independence, still too young for the pressure of marriage, the


  girls had one another. Alia had departed the household for her own marriage, one that so far had produced only daughters, leaving Farida alone


  with her parents’ dwindling expectations.


  She braced herself for another evening involving a strained conversation over indifferent food prepared by a cook who also doubled as a


  housekeeper. Most of Farida’s inadequate salary went to her parents for


  household expenses and helped maintain a toehold on the fringes of respectability, even if that proximity had yet to result in a marriage for her.


  Her father and mother were too polite to remind Farida of howquickly she had taken to the unimagined freedoms she’d found when the


  family lived in England several years earlier. She was still paying for it.


  Te fact that her work as an interpreter required constant contact with


  foreigners did not help her case. Despite her beauty, her parents had not


  been able to arrange a match with an appropriate civil servant, a teacher,


  or even a shopkeeper. According to her parents, these groups were the


  only ones who could accept her level of education along with the faint tarnish to her reputation from the time abroad. It clung to her like a cloying


  perfume, even after all these years. She had faced a dwindling procession


  of awkward second cousins and middle-aged widowers, men with strands


  of oily hair combed over shiny pates, men whose bellies strained at the


  waists of wrinkled shirts, men whose thick fngers were none too clean,


  men who nonetheless frowned at her with the same suspicion and aversion with which she viewed them.


  By now, despite her mother’s attempts to persuade her otherwise,


  Farida knew there was no man she could ever imagine herself loving.


  Even as her potential suitors drifted away—marrying other girls less


  beautiful, perhaps, but also less questionable—so did her friends, into


  arranged marriages of their own, quickly followed by the requisite production of children. Teir paths diverged, and she instead hid behind


  her work.


  Farida shouldered her way from the bus and pushed open the gate


  to the pounded-dirt courtyard. What should she expect from her parents


  tonight? Te silence, her parents retreating after dinner into the solace of


  books and music? Or more badgering?


  “Farida!” Her father burst out of the front door, arms spread wide.


  He folded her into an embrace, an intimacy he’d not permitted himself


  since she was a child.


  She extricated herself with relief and suspicion, the latter ascendant as


  she took in his appearance. “Is that a new suit?”


  He stepped back and turned in a circle, inviting her admiration for


  the summer-weight worsted, cut expertly to disguise his sagging stomach


  and spreading bum. “What do you think of your papa now?”


  “What happened to the old one?” A rusty black embarrassment, gone


  threadbare in the elbows and knees.


  He waved a dismissive hand. “Gone.” Sold, no doubt, to a rag merchant.


  Farida’s mother appeared in the doorway. She raised her arm in greeting. Wide gold bangles, newly bought, rang against one another, their


  hopeful notes at odds with her stricken expression. “Your father has a


  surprise.”


  Which was how Farida discovered that for the bride price of some


  twenty-two-carat jewelry, a knocko? designer suit, and almost certainly


  a newly fattened bank account, Latif Basra had betrothed his remaining


  daughter to the illiterate son of an Afghan strongman.


  机构介绍


  新浪阅读旗下出版部门,筹备成立于2018年3月。


  品牌产品线以小说为核心,包括本版原创以及外版引进,依托新浪、微博平台的媒体流量推广优势,旨在形成多版权开发、IP孵化、作家经纪等以内容为主导的产业链。

2019-01-24 13:30:18
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