成员：30人 动态：3条 标签： 英语
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。
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。
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。
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。
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。
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。
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。
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……
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。
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？”
“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。
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。
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。
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
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
made the mistake of opposing Partition from India and spent the rest of
his life in unwilling atonement， opportunities snatched away， income and
“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
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
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
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
with her parents’ dwindling expectations.
housekeeper. Most of Farida’s inadequate salary went to her parents for
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
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
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
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.
hopeful notes at odds with her stricken expression. “Your father has a
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.
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。
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。
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。
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
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
made the mistake of opposing Partition from India and spent the rest of
his life in unwilling atonement， opportunities snatched away， income and
“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
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
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
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
with her parents’ dwindling expectations.
housekeeper. Most of Farida’s inadequate salary went to her parents for
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
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
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
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.
hopeful notes at odds with her stricken expression. “Your father has a
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.
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。
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。
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。
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。
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。
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……
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。
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？”
“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。
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。
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。
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。
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。
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。
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。
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。
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。
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……
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。
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？”
“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。
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。
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。
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
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
made the mistake of opposing Partition from India and spent the rest of
his life in unwilling atonement， opportunities snatched away， income and
“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
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
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
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
with her parents’ dwindling expectations.
housekeeper. Most of Farida’s inadequate salary went to her parents for
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
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
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
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.
hopeful notes at odds with her stricken expression. “Your father has a
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.
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