تويت
أنا طالبة في السنة الأولى الجامعية أود أن أتخصص أدب إنجليزي عندي عشق لروايات الأدب العالمي وأود أن أطرح بين يديكم محاولة خجولة مني في مجال الترجمة الأدبية أتمنى من الأساتذة الأفاضل تقييم نص الترجمة وغسداء النصائح لي
Night is generally my time for walking. In the summer I often leave
home early in the morning, and roam about fields and lanes all day,
or even escape for days or weeks together; but, saving in the
country, I seldom go out until after dark, though, Heaven be
thanked, I love its light and feel the cheerfulness it sheds upon the
earth, as much as any creature living.
I have fallen insensibly into this habit, both because it favours my
infirmity and because it affords me greater opportunity of speculating
on the characters and occupations of those who fill the streets. The
glare and hurry of broad noon are not adapted to idle pursuits like
mine; a glimpse of passing faces caught by the light of a street-lamp
or a shop window is often better for my purpose than their full
revelation in the daylight; and, if I must add the truth, night is kinder
in this respect than day, which too often destroys an air-built castle
at the moment of its completion, without the least ceremony or remorse.
That constant pacing to and fro, that never-ending restlessness, that
incessant tread of feet wearing the rough stones smooth and glossy--is it
not a wonder how the dwellers in narrows ways can bear to hear
it! Think of a sick man in such a place as Saint Martin's Court,
listening to the footsteps, and in the midst of pain and weariness
obliged, despite himself (as though it were a task he must perform)
to detect the child's step from the man's, the slipshod beggar from
the booted exquisite, the lounging from the busy, the dull heel
of the sauntering outcast from the quick tread of an expectant
pleasure-seeker--think of the hum and noise always being present to his
sense, and of the stream of life that will not stop, pouring on, on, on,
through all his restless dreams, as if he were condemned to lie,
dead but conscious, in a noisy churchyard, and had no hope of rest
for centuries to come.
Night is generally my time for walking. In the summer I often leave
home early in the morning, and roam about fields and lanes all day,
or even escape for days or weeks together; but, saving in the
country, I seldom go out until after dark, though, Heaven be
thanked, I love its light and feel the cheerfulness it sheds upon the
earth, as much as any creature living.
I have fallen insensibly into this habit, both because it favours my
infirmity and because it affords me greater opportunity of speculating
on the characters and occupations of those who fill the streets. The
glare and hurry of broad noon are not adapted to idle pursuits like
mine; a glimpse of passing faces caught by the light of a street-lamp
or a shop window is often better for my purpose than their full
revelation in the daylight; and, if I must add the truth, night is kinder
in this respect than day, which too often destroys an air-built castle
at the moment of its completion, without the least ceremony or remorse.
That constant pacing to and fro, that never-ending restlessness, that
incessant tread of feet wearing the rough stones smooth and glossy--is it
not a wonder how the dwellers in narrows ways can bear to hear
it! Think of a sick man in such a place as Saint Martin's Court,
listening to the footsteps, and in the midst of pain and weariness
obliged, despite himself (as though it were a task he must perform)
to detect the child's step from the man's, the slipshod beggar from
the booted exquisite, the lounging from the busy, the dull heel
of the sauntering outcast from the quick tread of an expectant
pleasure-seeker--think of the hum and noise always being present to his
sense, and of the stream of life that will not stop, pouring on, on, on,
through all his restless dreams, as if he were condemned to lie,
dead but conscious, in a noisy churchyard, and had no hope of rest
for centuries to come.
تعليق