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Russian to Romanian - Standard rate: 0.15 USD per word / 50 USD per hour French to Romanian - Standard rate: 0.15 USD per word / 50 USD per hour
English to Romanian: 5th ProZ.com Translation Contest - Entry #2857
Source text - English All travel is now merely a means of moving a camera from place to place, all travellers are ruled by the all-powerful lens. Visitors old-fashioned enough to wish only to stand and look with their anachronistic eyes are shoved aside by the photographers, who take it for granted that while they do their ritual focusing, nothing else may move or cross their vision. Those peculiar souls without a camera must step aside for those more properly occupied, must wait while the rituals take place, and must bide their time while whole coaches stop and unleash upon the landscape the Instamatic God. And the populations of whole countries seeing themselves cannibalised, swallowed up, vacuumed into the black-ringed staring eye, wrench what they can from the cannibals. You want picture my house, my camel? You pay.
None of this would matter, perhaps, if anything worthwhile was being accomplished. If all the constant busyness and clicking produced, at its end, what had not existed before, images of beauty captured or truth told. But, sadly, this isn't so. The camera is simply graffiti made respectable.
The camera is the means by which we stamp ourselves on everything we see, under cover of recording the Wonders of the World already wonderfully
recorded by professionals and on sale at every corner bookshop and newsagent. But what use to show Aunt Maud, back home, postcards of the Tuscan landscape, since we are not in the picture to prove that we were there?
No stretch of rocks has verity unless I am within it. No monument exists
but for my wife, leaning against it. No temple is of interest without my face beside it, grinning. With my camera I appropriate everything beautiful, possess it, shrink it, domesticate it, and reproduce it on my blank sitting-room wall to prove to a selected audience of friends and family the one absolutely vital fact about these beauties: I saw them, I was there, I photographed them, and, ergo, they are.
from "Amateur Photography: the World as it isn't and our Fred" by Jill Tweedie in the Guardian
Translation - Romanian In ziua de azi, orice călătorie e doar un mijloc de a deplasa din loc în loc un aparat fotografic, orice călător e dominat de atotputernicul obiectiv. Vizitatorii atât de desueţi încât nu-şi doresc decât să stea şi să privească cu ochii lor anacronici sunt daţi la o parte de fotografi, care consideră de la sine înţeles că în timp ce ei îşi execută rituala focalizare nimic altceva n-are voie să mişte sau să le traveseze câmpul vizual. Fiinţele bizare lipsite de aparat fotografic au obligaţia să le cedeze locul celor cu ocupaţii mai adecvate, să aştepte în timp ce se desfăşoară respectivele ritualuri, şi să tragă de timp în vreme ce autobuze întregi se opresc şi-l asmut asupra peisajului pe Dumnezeul Instamatic. Şi populaţiile unor ţări întregi văzându-se mâncate de vii, înghiţite pe de-a-ntregul, supte ca în vârtejul unui aspirator în ochiul negru-inelat ce-i fixează, storc orice pot de la canibali. Tu vrea poză casa mea, cămila mea ? Tu plătit.
Nimic dintre-acestea n-ar conta poate, dacă pe parcurs s-ar fi realizat ceva ce merită. Dacă toată acestă forfotă şi clicurile constante ar fi produs, în cele din urmă, ceva ce nu existase dinainte, imagini ale frumuseţii surprinse sau ale adevărului împărtăşit. Dar oricât e de trist, nu e cazul. Aparatul fotografic nu e decât graffiti cărora li s-a conferit respectabilitate.
Aparatul fotografic este mijlocul prin care punem ştampila eului nostru pe tot ce vedem, sub masca imortalizarii Minunilor Lumii, care deja au fost minunat imortalizate de profesionişti şi se vând la fiecare librărie şi chioşc de ziare de colţ. Dar la ce bun să-i arătăm acasă lui Tanti Magda vederi ale peisajului toscan dacă noi nu suntem în cadru, ca să demonstrăm că am fost acolo?
Nici o salbă de stânci n-are autenticitate decât dacă sunt eu inserat în ea. Nici un monument nu există dacă nevastă-mea nu e proptită de el. Nici un templu nu prezintă interes fără obrazul meu alături, rânjind. Cu aparatul meu, îmi însuşesc orice e frumos, îl posed, îl comprim, îl domesticesc şi îl reproduc pe peretele vid al salonului meu ca să demonstrez unui auditoriu select de rude şi prieteni un fapt absolut vital legat de aceste frumuseţi: le-am văzut, am fost acolo, le-am fotografiat, şi ergo, ele există.
din Fotografie de amator: lumea aşa cum nu e ea şi Fred al nostru de Jill Tweedie, în The Guardian
French to English: 5th ProZ.com Translation Contest - Entry #2897
Source text - French Je pensais en route : Est-ce un grand mal de ne pas avoir vu Smara au soleil couchant, de ne pas m’être assis devant ces ruines, de ne pas avoir appuyé longuement mes yeux sur ses édifices, sur ses horizons ? – Peut-être pas. Je ne me sens pas d’humeur à imiter Chateaubriand sur le Forum romain.
Je ne suis pas venu ici pour cela.
Le corps : ces choses qui me préoccuperaient, ptôse des organes, les dos qui se voûte – ici peu importe.
Que peu de haltes encore j’espère – que peu de nuits ! Ces haltes, les dernières, quand il n’y en aura plus qu’une, que deux avec les chikhs, quelle valeur renouvelée elles prennent, elles prendront pour moi: le partage en cinq parts de la viande, le tirage au sort, etc., comme les dernières cerises les plus belles, au fond du compotier.
Le retour : en plus de cette joie profonde, admirable, venant de nos vies renouvelées ou plutôt hardiment poussées sur un chemin merveilleux – que je ne dirai point –, je songeais, avec quel plaisir, au bain chaud que je prendrais tout de suite – à la première minute –, au premier repas, à la première nuit. Ne plus avoir de poux, ne plus avoir si froid ou si chaud. Dormir dans un lit. Manger. Retrouver tout cela après deux mois très durs, l’acte accompli.
Marché hier soir de 5 heures et demie à 8 heures et demie à travers des vallonnements assez forts. C’est pendant cette marche que je me fis ces réflexions ; (…)
“SMARA. Carnets de route d’un fou du désert” par Michel Vieuchange Éditions Phébus, Paris, 1990. Page 218-219.
Translation - English
On the way I was thinking: was there any great harm in not having seen Smara at sundown, in not having sat in front of those ruins, in not having long rested my eyes upon her buildings, her horizons? – Perhaps not. I am not in the mood of emulating Chateaubriand at the Roman Forum.
This is not what I came here for.
The body: those things that would worry me, organs sagging, back bowing – here matter little. So few are the stopovers I still look forward to – so few nights! Those stopovers, the last ones with the sheiks, when just one is left, or two, what new worth they acquire, they’ll acquire for me: splitting the meat five ways, pulling the odds, etc., like the last, loveliest cherries at the bottom of the fruit bowl.
Coming back: on top of this deep, admirable joy stemming from our lives renewed, or rather pushed hard along an enthralling road – which I wouldn’t say – with what delight was I thinking of the hot bath I would take right away – the very first minute, of the first meal, of the first night. No more fleas, no longer being too hot or too cold. Sleeping in a bed. Eating. Recovering all that after two very harsh months, mission accomplished. Walked last night from half past five to half past eight over fairly steep dunes. It’s during that walk that I mused(...)
“SMARA. Road Notes of One Madly in Love With The Desert,” by Michel Vieuchange, Éditions Phébus, Paris, 1990. Page 218-219.
French to Russian: 5th ProZ.com Translation Contest - Entry #3001
Source text - French Je pensais en route : Est-ce un grand mal de ne pas avoir vu Smara au soleil couchant, de ne pas m’être assis devant ces ruines, de ne pas avoir appuyé longuement mes yeux sur ses édifices, sur ses horizons ? – Peut-être pas. Je ne me sens pas d’humeur à imiter Chateaubriand sur le Forum romain.
Je ne suis pas venu ici pour cela.
Le corps : ces choses qui me préoccuperaient, ptôse des organes, les dos qui se voûte – ici peu importe.
Que peu de haltes encore j’espère – que peu de nuits ! Ces haltes, les dernières, quand il n’y en aura plus qu’une, que deux avec les chikhs, quelle valeur renouvelée elles prennent, elles prendront pour moi: le partage en cinq parts de la viande, le tirage au sort, etc., comme les dernières cerises les plus belles, au fond du compotier.
Le retour : en plus de cette joie profonde, admirable, venant de nos vies renouvelées ou plutôt hardiment poussées sur un chemin merveilleux – que je ne dirai point –, je songeais, avec quel plaisir, au bain chaud que je prendrais tout de suite – à la première minute –, au premier repas, à la première nuit. Ne plus avoir de poux, ne plus avoir si froid ou si chaud. Dormir dans un lit. Manger. Retrouver tout cela après deux mois très durs, l’acte accompli.
Marché hier soir de 5 heures et demie à 8 heures et demie à travers des vallonnements assez forts. C’est pendant cette marche que je me fis ces réflexions ; (…)
“SMARA. Carnets de route d’un fou du désert” par Michel Vieuchange Éditions Phébus, Paris, 1990. Page 218-219.
Translation - Russian По дороге, я размышлял: так ли это плохо, что я не видел Смару на закате, не сидел перед её развалинами, не останавливал долгого взора на её зданиях, на её горизонтах? Может и нет. Я не в настроении изображать Шатобриана на Римском форуме.
Я не за этим сюда пришёл.
Тело: то, что обычно меня тревожит, увядание органов, сутулый изгиб спины – здесь неважно. Как мало ждёт меня привалов - как мало ночей! Эти последние привалы с шейхами - когда их останется лишь один или два – какую новую ценность приобретут они в моих глазах: делёж мяса на пять порций, жребьёвка и т. д. - как последние, самые восхитительные, черешни на дне вазы.
Возвращение: кроме ощущения столь глубокого, замечательного ликования, вызванного обновлением нашей жизни, или вернее, её упорным проталкиванием по чудесному пути – в чем я не признаюсь - с каким наслаждением я думал о горячей ванне, которую приму немедленно – с первой минуты, о первом обеде, о первой ночи. Жить без блох, не страдать от жары или от холода. Спать в постели. Есть. Вновь вернуться ко всему этому после двух крайне суровых месяцев, доведя дело до конца. Вчера вечером, от половины шестого до половины девятого бродил по довольно крутым барханам. Во время этой прогулки я и предавался подобным размышлениям;(…)
Romanian to English: 5th ProZ.com Translation Contest - Entry #2878
Source text - Romanian Pe vremuri (hei, hei, nu chiar pe când cu descălecarea lui Mihai la Alba-Iulia!), exista în Cluj o stradă numită Amurg (notaţi: nu „Amurgului”, Amurg). Întotdeauna mi-a plăcut acest nume de stradă; mi se părea ciudat, aparte, straniu, poetic, „punător pe gânduri”. Numele îmi plăcea, strada nu. Nici nu prea avea ce să-ţi placă. O stradă plină de absenţe. Copleşită de absenţe. Adică, de ajungeai pe-acolo, puteai fi sigur că nu vei întâlni pe nimeni (poate câte o gospodină în capot, care trecea alături, la altă gospodină îmbrăcată în capotul ei, sau, potrivit anotimpului, în combinezon; cam atât). De prin curţi te mai lătra câte un câine care ţinea să se afle în treabă. Culmea (fireşte, depinde din ce sens o luai) strada ducea înspre... amurg. Nici după ce am aflat că pe această stradă a locuit (în gazdă) nevastă-mea, pe când nu era (nevastă-mea), dar era studentă.
Ce, naiba, puteai căuta pe strada asta!?! Ni-mic. Nimic. Nu tu prăvălii, nu tu o crâşmă, cât despre firme, pe-atunci, nici vorbă. („Pe-atunci” = în urmă cu vreo, pardon, 30-40 de ani, adică acum cam 1500 de zile; vă daţi seama? 36.000 de ore! Minute? O mulţime.) Aşadar: ce puteai căuta pe strada asta? Neamuri (nu era cazul meu), gagici (n-am văzut), frumuseţi arhitectonice (nici vorbă), umbra copacilor de pe trotuar (nu erau, nici trotuar nu prea era)... atunci, ce? Ori, în mod obligatoriu (de pildă dacă erai poştaş, miliţian sau executor judecătoresc – iarăşi nu era cazul meu), ori de-a nebun (era cazul meu). Adică, încerc să explic:
Atât de altcumva era strada asta încât de multe ori, de multe ori, m-am dus pe-acolo (şi, zău, aveam cam 1/3 din anii mei de astăzi) doar ca să păşesc dinspre levant spre amurg, sau dinspre amurg spre răsărit. Nu avea nici o importanţă.
Tudor Ionescu, „Amurgul pierdut”, published in „Tribuna” (issue 120, 1-15 September 2007)
Translation - English
Once upon a time (well, well, not quite the time of Prince Michael’s triumphant ride into Alba-Iulia!) there was a street in Cluj named Twilight (not Twilight Street, mind you, just ’Twilight ’). I always loved this street’s name; I thought it strange, uncommon, eerie, poetic, ‘thought-provoking.’ I liked the name, not the street. A street full of things absent. Overwhelmed by things absent. That is, if you happened upon it you could be sure you’d meet no one (perhaps, just a housewife in a house dress, passing by to meet another housewife in a house dress or, if the season allowed, in a long slip; that’s about it.) An odd dog would bark at you from a front yard just to keep itself busy. The funny thing is that (naturally, depending on which end you started from) the street would lead you towards…twilight. It didn’t even help learning that my wife when she wasn’t (my wife) used to live on this street (as a lodger), but then, she had been a student.
What the heck could one look for on that street !?! No-thing. Nothing. No stores, not a watering hole, as for businesses, at that time - perish the thought. (“At that time” - i.e. , beg your pardon, 30-40 years ago, that is about 1,500 days – can you imagine ? 36,000 hours ! Minutes ? A bunch.) Hence : what could one look for on that street ? Relatives (not my case), chicks (never seen one), architectural beauties (not a chance), trees’ shade over the sidewalk (no shade, and not much of a sidewalk either)…then what ? Either you were duty bound (for example, you were a mailman, a police officer or a court sheriff – again, neither was my case) or a nut (my case indeed). That is, let me try and explain:
So unlike any other was this street, that many, many times I went there (when I was, so help me, about one third my present age) just to walk from the sunrise end to twilight end, or from the twilight end to sunrise. It just didn’t matter.
Tudor Ionescu, “Twilight Lost.” Published in „Tribuna” (issue 120, 1-15 September 2007)
Romanian to English: 6th ProZ.com Translation Contest - Entry #3833
Source text - Romanian În după-amiaza acelei zile pariziene văzusem, la Centrul Pompidou, o mare expoziţie André Breton, pretext, de fapt, pentru o desfăşurare de imagerie suprarealistă cum rareori poţi vedea într-un singur loc. Mă însoţiseră prietenii la care locuiam, un cuplu tânăr, mixt în mai multe sensuri, căci reunea două rase, două religii şi două arte, dar mai ales două fizionomii extrem de contrastante. Ei îi priveam faţa reflectată în sticla vreunui Delvaux şi părea chiar de acolo, înconjurată natural de femei goale şi blonde aşteptând (pe cine?) într-o gară pustie. Era aidoma lor, cu excepţia părului tăiat violent la ceafă. Şi, fireşte, a hainelor, între care faimoasa cămaşă bărbătească, neagră, în care o văzusem de cele mai multe ori în săptămâna cât stătusem cu ei. Cum îşi găsise românca asta sibiancă algerianul cu care locuia, habar n-am. Legătura mea fusese, fireşte, ea, prin intermediul unei prietene comune, tot muziciană. El era un berber mândru de originea lui, marcată prin tichia de catifea cu ape vişinii şi cu fund de atlaz albastru de care cred că nu se despărţea niciodată. Astfel, era, ca şi ea, haios, nepăsător, cam leneş... Imposibil de spus din ce trăia. Căci mă-ndoiesc că din actorie, cum (nici măcar nu) pretindea: nu cred că Othello – singurul rol în care-l vedeam cât de cât – se juca prea des în acele zile la Paris... Din toată expoziţia mi-a rămas în minte doar o singură pictură. Cred că sunt ţicnit: uneori iubesc câte un tablou atât de tare, încât literalmente îmi vine să dau spargere la muzeu şi să plec cu el. Era „Le soir qui tombe” al lui Magritte: o fereastră spartă, cioburi lungi aşezate sub ea în picioare şi soarele de amurg răsfrânt în ele sub unghiuri diferite...
Translation - English In the afternoon of that Paris day I went to the Centre Pompidou to see a large André Breton exhibition that was actually, I believe, an excuse to deploy a vast surrealist imagery rarely seen in one place. I was accompanied by friends I was staying with, a young couple, heterogeneous in more than one sense, for it combined two races, two faiths and two arts, but what’s more, two extremely contrasting countenances. Hers was the face I was watching reflected by the glass over some Delvaux, and she seemed to belong right there, organically surrounded by blond and naked women waiting (for whom?) in a deserted railroad station.
She looked just like them except for her hair violently shorn at the nape. And, naturally, her clothes, which included the proverbial man’s black shirt I’ve seen her most often in throughout the week of my stay. How on earth has a Romanian lass from Sibiu found this Algerian she was living with, I haven’t the faintest. My connection was, of course, with her, via a mutual woman friend, a musician as well. He was a Berber, proud of his ancestry, as betokened by the velvet skullcap with dark-cherry shimmers and blue sateen top, which, as far as I know, never left his head. Otherwise, he was like her fun, carefree, somewhat indolent…Impossible to tell how he made his living. I doubt it was by acting, as he (hasn’t even) pretended: it was unlikely that the only part I could vaguely see him in – Othello – was staged in Paris often those days…
In the entire exhibition, just one painting lingered in my memory. I think I am cracked: sometimes I love a painting so much that I feel literally like breaking into the museum and carrying it off. It was Magritte’s “Le soir qui tombe,” “Evening Falls:” a broken window, long shards disposed upright underneath, refracting the twilight sun under various angles…
From “Evening Falls,” a short story by Mircea Cărtărescu .“Why Do We Love Women,” Humanitas Publishing House, 200
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Years of experience: 33. Registered at ProZ.com: Nov 2001.
English to Russian (State of NJ, Office of Court Interpreters) English to Romanian (State of NJ, Office of Court Interpeters) English to Romanian (US State Department) English to Russian (US State Department)
As a simultaneous interpreter for the US Department of State with almost 10 years of experience worked on a wide range of topics: law enforcement, politics, environment, journalism, education.
$150-$200 per thousand words or
$35h with 1h minimum
Interpreting:$200-$600 per day
Keywords: simultaneous interpreter, court interpreter
engineering, government, law enforcement, poetry
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