How&Should&One&Read&a&Book?&【翻译对照一】
应该怎样读书？
TEM8英译汉短文：原选自维吉尼亚-伍尔夫【Virginia Woolf】1926年的一篇演讲“How Should One Read a Book?”全文如下）
It is simple
enough to say that since books have classes--fiction, biography,
poetry--we should separate them and take from each what it is right
that each should give us. Yet few people ask from books what books
can give us. Most commonly we come to books with blurred and
divided minds, asking of fiction that it shall be true, of poetry
that it shall be false, of biography that it shall be flattering,
of history that it shall enforce our own prejudices. If we could
banish all such preconceptions when we read, that would be an
admirable beginning. Do not di try to become
him. Be his fellow-worker and accomplice. If you hang back, and
reserve and criticize at first, you are preventing yourself from
getting the fullest possible value from what you read. But if you
open your mind as widely as possible, the signs and hints of almost
imperceptible fineness, from the twist and turn of the first
sentences, will bring you into the presence of a human being unlike
any other. Steep yourself in this, acquaint yourself with this, and
soon you will find that your author is giving you, or attempting to
give you, something far more definite.
无庸讳言，书籍有类别之分，比如小说，传记，诗歌等等。我们应该从各种不同类别的图书中获取不同的营养。然而，事实上，只有少数人能正确对待书籍，从中吸取其所能给予的一切。我们常常带着模糊而矛盾的观点来，要求小说该真实，诗歌应该不真实，传记必须充满溢美之词，历史得强化我们固有的观念。阅读时，如果我们能摒弃这些偏见，便是一个好的开端。不要强作者所难，而应与作者融为一体，作他的同路人和随行者。倘若你未开卷便先行犹豫退缩，说三道四，你绝不可能从阅读中最大限度地获取有用价值。但是，字里行间不易察觉的精妙之处，就为你洞开了一个别人难以领略的天地。沉浸其中，仔细玩味，不久，你会发现，作者给予你的，或试图给予你的，绝非某个确定意义。
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How Should One Read a Book?
怎样读书？
Virginia Woolf弗吉尼亚?伍尔夫
&&& It is simple enough to say that since books have classes――fiction，biography，poetry――we should separate them and take from each what it is right that each should give us. Yet few people ask from books what books can give us. Most commonly we come to books with blurred and divided minds，asking of fiction that it shall be true，of poetry that it shall be false，of biography that it shall be flattering，of history that it shall enforce our own prejudices. If we could banish all such preconceptions when we read，that would be an admirable beginning. Do not dictate to your author；Try to become him. Be his fellow-worker and accomplice. If you hang back，and reserve and criticize at first，you are preventing yourself from getting the fullest possible value from what you read. But if you open your mind as widely as possible，the signs and hints of almost imperceptible fineness，from the twist and turn of the first sentences，will bring you into the presence of a human being unlike any other. Steep yourself in this，acquaint yourself with this，and soon you will find that your author is giving you，or attempting to give you，something far more definite. The thirty-two chapters of a novel―if we consider how to read a novel first――are an attempt to make something as formed and controlled as a building：but words are more impalpable than bricks；Reading is a longer and more complicated process than seeing. Perhaps the quickest way to understand the elements of what a novelist is doing is not to read，but to write；To make your own experiment with the dangers and difficulties of words. Recall，then，some event that has left a distinct impression on you―how at the corner of the street，perhaps，you passed two people talking. A tree shook；an electric light danced；the tone of the talk was comic，but also tragic；a whole vision；an entire conception，seemed contained in that moment.
&&& 书既然有小说，传记，诗歌之分，就应区别对待，从各类书中取其应该给及我们的东西。这话说来很简单。然而很少有人向书索取它能给我们的东西，我们拿起书来往往怀着模糊而又杂乱的想法，要求小说是真是的，诗歌是虚假的，传记要吹捧，史书能加强我们自己的偏见。读书时如能抛开这些先入为主之见，便是极好的开端。不要对作者指手画脚，而要尽力与作者融为一体，共同创作，共同策划。如果你不参与，不投入，而且一开始就百般挑剔，那你就无缘从书中获得最大的益处。你若敞开心扉，虚怀若谷，那么，书中精细入微的寓意和暗示便会把你从一开头就碰上的那些像是山回水转般的句子中带出来，走到一个独特的人物面前。钻进去熟悉它，你很快就会发现，作者展示给你的或想要展示给你的是一些比原先要明确得多的东西。不妨闲来谈谈如何读小说吧。一部长篇小说分成三十二章，是作者的苦心经营，想把它建构得如同一座错落有致的布局合理的大厦。可是词语比砖块更难捉摸，阅读比观看更费时、更复杂。了解作家创作的个中滋味。最有效的途径恐怕不是读而是写，通过写亲自体验一下文字工作的艰难险阻。回想一件你记忆忧新的事吧。比方说，在街道的拐弯处遇到两个人正在谈话，树影婆娑，灯光摇曳，谈话的调子喜中有悲。这一瞬间似乎包含了一种完善的意境，全面的构思。
&&& But when you attempt to reconstruct it in words，you will find that it breaks into a thousand conflicting impressions. Some must be subdued；others emphasized；in the process you will lose，probably，all grasp upon the emotion itself. Then turn from your blurred and littered pages to the opening pages of some great novelist―Defoe，Jane Austen，or Hardy. Now you will be better able to appreciate their mastery. It is not merely that we are in the presence of a different person―Defoe，Jane Austen，or Thomas Hardy―but that we are living in a different world. Here，in Robinson Crusoe，we are trudging a plain high road；one thing happens after another；the fact and the order of the fact is enough. But if the open air and adventure mean everything to Defoe they mean nothing to Jane Austen. Hers is the drawing-room，and people talking，and by the many mirrors of their talk revealing their characters. And if，when we have accustomed ourselves to the drawing-room and its reflections，we turn to Hardy，we are once more spun around. The other side of the mind is now exposed―the dark side that comes uppermost in solitude，not the light side that shows in company. Our relations are not towards people，but towards Nature and destiny. Yet different as these worlds are，each is consistent with itself. The maker of each is careful to observe the laws of his own perspective，and however great a strain they may put upon us they will never confuse us，as lesser writers so frequently do，by introducing two different kinds of reality into the same book. Thus to go from one great novelist to another―from Jane Austen to Hardy，from Peacock to Trollope，from Scott to Meredith ―is to be wrenched and uprooted；to be thrown this way and then that. To read a novel is a difficult and complex art. You must be capable not only of great finesse of perception，but of great boldness of imagination if you are going to make use of all that the novelist―the great artist―gives you.
&&& 可是当你打算用文字来重现此情此景的时候。它却化作千头万绪互相冲突的印象。有的必须淡化，有的则应加突出。在处理过程中你可能对整个意境根本把握不住了。这时，还是把你那些写得含糊杂乱的一页页书稿搁到一边，翻开某位小说大师，如笛福，简?奥斯汀或哈代的作品来从头读吧。这时候你就能更深刻地领略大师们驾驭文字的技巧了。因为我们不仅面对一个个不同的人物―笛福、简?奥斯汀或托马斯?哈代，而且置身于不同的世界。阅读《鲁宾逊漂流记》时，我们仿佛跋涉在狂野大道上，事件一个接一个，故事再加上故事情节的安排就足够了。如果说旷野和历险对笛福来说就是一切，那么对简?奥斯汀就毫无意义了。她的世界是客厅和客厅中闲聊的人们。这些人的言谈像一面面的镜子，反映出他们的性格特征。当我们熟悉了奥斯汀的客厅及其反映出来的事物以后再去读哈代的作品，又得转向另一个世界。周围茫茫荒野，头顶一片星空。此时，心灵的另一面，不要聚会结伴时显示出来的轻松愉快的一面，而是孤独时最容易萌生的忧郁阴沉的一面。和我们打交道的不是人，而是自然与命运。虽然这些世界截然不同，它们自身却浑然一体。每一个世界的创造者都小心翼翼地遵循自己观察事物的法则，不管他们的作品读起来如何费力，却不会像蹩脚的作家那样，把格格不入的两种现实塞进一部作品中，使人感到不知所云。因此读完一位伟大作家的小说再去读另一位的，比如说从简?奥斯汀到哈代，从皮科克到特罗洛普，从司各特到梅瑞狄斯，就好像被猛力扭动，连根拔起，抛来抛去。说实在的，读小说是一门困难而又复杂的艺术。要想充分享用小说作者，伟大的艺术家给予你的一切，你不仅要具备高度的感受能力，还得有大胆的想象力。
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请不要超过6个字How Should One Read a Book（我们应该怎样读书？）_天涯博客_有见识的人都在此_天涯社区
How Should One Read a Book（我们应该怎样读书？）
Most commonly we come to books with blurred and diviede minds, asking of fiction that it shall be true, of poety that it shall be false, of biography that it shall be flattering, of history that it shall enforce our prejudice. If we coule banish all these preoccupations when we read, that would be an admirable beginning. Don’t dictate to your author: try to become him. Be his fellow-workers and accomplice. If you hang back, reserve and crticize at first, your’re preventing yourself from getting the fullest possible value from what you read. But if you can open your mind as widely as possible，then signs and hints of almost imperceptable fineness，from the twist and turn of the first stenence will bring you into the presence of human being unlike any other. Steep yourself in this, acquint yourself with this, and soon you’ll find that your author is giving you, or attempting to give you something far more define.
最常见的情况是，我们每每带着模糊而分裂的念头捧起书，要求小说必须是真实的，诗歌必须是虚构的，认为传记肯定是本赞书，历史则使个体形成一己之见。 如果在我们阅读的时候能够消除这些先见，那将是令人赞赏的开始。不要去要求作者，而要体会作者，成为他的朋友或同伴。如果在阅读一开始，你就很犹豫，带着保留和批判的态度，那将会削弱你以最大能量去汲取阅读的全部价值。但如果你能敞开心胸投入书中，也许读到的第一句话就以其迂回婉转处那不可言说的微妙感，把你带入一种不同寻常的生存感受。把自己沉浸到这种感觉中，并熟悉这种感觉，不久你会发现你的作者正在给予你，或者说正努力给予你一种东西，这种东西远超过一切定义和概念。
评论人： 评论日期： 21:36
这样的翻译尝试是很有意义的。而且翻译的比较到位，表“达”出了愿意。mm你大胆的往前走，别回头！^_^
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?建站时间:导读：HOWSHOULDONEREADABOOK?*Apaperreadataschool.Inthefirstplace,Iwanttoemphasisethenoteofinterrogationattheendofmytitle.EvenifIcouldanswerthequestionformyself,theanswerwouldapplyonlytomHOW SHOULD ONE READ A BOOK? * A paper read at a school. In the first place, I want to emphasise the note of interrogation at the end of my title. Even if I could answer the question for myself, the answer would apply only to me and not to you. The only advice, indeed, that one person can give another about reading is to take no advice, to follow your own instincts, to use your own reason, to come to your own conclusions. If this is agreed between us, then I feel at liberty to put forward a few ideas and suggestions because you will not allow them to fetter that independence which is the most important quality that a reader can possess. After all, what laws can be laid down about books? The battle of Waterloo was certainly fou but is Hamlet a better play than Lear? Nobody can say. Each must decide that question for himself. To admit authorities, however heavily furred and gowned, into our libraries and let them tell us how to read, what to read, what value to place upon what we read, is to destroy the spirit of freedom which is the breath of those sanctuaries. Everywhere else we may be bound by laws and conventions ― there we have none. But to enjoy freedom, if the platitude is pardonable, we have of course to control ourselves. We must not squander our powers, helplessly and ignorantly, squirting half the house in order to water a single rose- we must train them, exactly and powerfully, here on the very spot. This, it may be, is one of the first difficulties that faces us in a library. What is “the very spot”? There may well seem to be nothing but a conglomeration and huddle of confusion. Poems and novels, histories and memoirs, dictionaries and blue- books written in all languages by men and women of all tempers, races, and ages jostle each other on the shelf. And outside the donkey brays, the women gossip at the pump, the colts gallop across the fields. Where are we to begin? How are we to bring order into this multitudinous chaos and so get the deepest and widest pleasure from what we read? It is simple enough to say that since books have classes ― fiction, biography, poetry ― we should separate them and take from each what it is right that each should give us. Yet few people ask from books what books can give us. Most commonly we come to books with blurred and divided minds, asking of fiction that it shall be true, of poetry that it shall be false, of biography that it shall be flattering, of history that it shall enforce our own prejudices. If we could banish all such preconceptions when we read, that
1 would be an admirable beginning. Do not di try to become him. Be his fellow-worker and accomplice. If you hang back, and reserve and criticise at first, you are preventing yourself from getting the fullest possible value from what you read. But if you open your mind as widely as possible, then signs and hints of almost imperceptible fineness, from the twist and turn of the first sentences, will bring you into the presence of a human being unlike any other. Steep yourself in this, acquaint yourself with this, and soon you will find that your author is giving you, or attempting to give you, something far more definite. The thirty-two chapters of a novel ― if we consider how to read a novel first ― are an attempt to make something as formed and controlled as a building: but words are more im reading is a longer and more complicated process than seeing. Perhaps the quickest way to understand the elements of what a novelist is doing is not to read, to make your own experiment with the dangers and difficulties of words. Recall, then, some event that has left a distinct impression on you ― how at the corner of the street, perhaps, you passed two people talking. A an e the tone of the talk was comic, a whole vision, an entire conception, seemed contained in that moment. But when you attempt to reconstruct it in words, you will find that it breaks into a thousand conflicting impressions. S in the process you will lose, probably, all grasp upon the emotion itself. Then turn from your blurred and littered pages to the opening pages of some great novelist ― Defoe, Jane Austen, Hardy. Now you will be better able to appreciate their mastery. It is not merely that we are in the presence of a different person ― Defoe, Jane Austen, or Thomas Hardy ― but that we are living in a different world. Here, in Robinson Crusoe, we are trudgi one thing h the fact and the order of the fact is enough. But if the open air and adventure mean everything to Defoe they mean nothing to Jane Austen. Hers is the drawing-room, and people talking, and by the many mirrors of their talk revealing their characters. And if, when we have accustomed ourselves to the drawing-room and its reflections, we turn to Hardy, we are once more spun round. The moors are round us and the stars are above our heads. The other side of the mind is now exposed ― the dark side that comes uppermost in solitude, not the light side that shows in company. Our relations are not towards people, but towards Nature and destiny. Yet different as these worlds are, each is consistent with itself. The maker of each is careful to observe the laws of his own perspective,
2 and however great a strain they may put upon us they will never confuse us, as lesser writers so frequently do, by introducing two different kinds of reality into the same book. Thus to go from one great novelist to another ― from Jane Austen to Hardy, from Peacock to Trollope, from Scott to Meredith ― is to be w to be thrown this way and then that. To read a novel is a difficult and complex art. You must be capable not only of great fineness of perception, but of great boldness of imagination if you are going to make use of all that the novelist ― the great artist ― gives you. But a glance at the heterogeneous company on the shelf will show you that writers are very seldom “great artists”; far more often a book makes no claim to be a work of art at all. These biographies and autobiographies, for example, lives of great men, of men long dead and forgotten, that stand cheek by jowl with the novels and poems, are we to refuse to read them because they are not “art”? Or shall we read them, but read them in a different way, with a different aim? Shall we read them in the first place to satisfy that curiosity which possesses us sometimes when in the evening we linger in front of a house where the lights are lit and the blinds not yet drawn, and each floor of the house shows us a different section of human life in being? Then we are consumed with curiosity about the lives of these people ― the servants gossiping, the gentlemen dining, the girl dressing for a party, the old woman at the window with her knitting. Who are they, what are they, what are their names, their occupations, their thoughts, and adventures? Biographies and memoirs answer such questions, light up inn they show us people going about their daily affairs, toiling, failing, succeeding, eating, hating, loving, until they die. And sometimes as we watch, the house fades and the iron railings vanish a we are hunting, sailing, we are among
we are taking part in great campaigns. Or if we like to stay here in England, in London, sti the house becomes small, cramped, diamond-paned, and malodorous. We see a poet, Donne, driven from such a house because the walls were so thin that when the children cried their voices cut through them. We can follow him, through the paths that lie in the pages of books, to T to Lady Bedford’s Park, a famous meeting-ground
and then turn our steps to Wilton, the great house under the downs, and hear Sidney read the A and ramble among the very marshes and see the very herons that figure in and then again travel north with that other Lady Pembroke, Anne Clifford, to her wild moors, or plunge into the city and
3 control our merriment at the sight of Gabriel Harvey in his black velvet suit arguing about poetry with Spenser. Nothing is more fascinating than to grope and stumble in the alternate darkness and splendour of Elizabethan London. But there is no staying there. The Temples and the Swifts, the Harleys and the St. J hour upon hour can be spent disentangling their quarrels and decipher and when we tire of them we can stroll on, past a lady in black wearing diamonds, to Samuel Johnson and Goldsmith and G or cross the channel, if we like, and meet Voltaire and Diderot, Madame du D and so back to England and Twickenham ― how certain places repeat themselves and certain names! ― where Lady Bedford had her Park once and Pope lived later, to Walpole’s home at Strawberry Hill. But Walpole introduces us to such a swarm of new acquaintances, there are so many houses to visit and bells to ring that we may well hesitate for a moment, on the Miss Berrys’ doorstep, for example, when behold, up comes T he is the friend of the woman whom W so that merely by going from friend to friend, from garden to garden, from house to house, we have passed from one end of English literature to another and wake to find ourselves here again in the present, if we can so differentiate this moment from all that have gone before. This, then, is one of the ways in which we can read the we can make them light up the many we can watch the famous dead in their familiar habits and fancy sometimes that we are very close and can surprise their secrets, and sometimes we may pull out a play or a poem that they have written and see whether it reads differently in the presence of the author. But this again rouses other questions. How far, we must ask ourselves, is a book influenced by its writer’s life ― how far is it safe to let the man interpret the writer? How far shall we resist or give way to the sympathies and antipathies that the man himself rouses in us ― so sensitive are words, so receptive of the character of the author? These are questions that press upon us when we read lives and letters, and we must answer them for ourselves, for nothing can be more fatal than to be guided by the preferences of others in a matter so personal. But also we can read such books with another aim, not to throw light on literature, not to become familiar with famous people, but to refresh and exercise our own creative powers. Is there not an open window on the right hand of the bookcase? How delightful to stop reading and look out! How stimulating the scene is, in its unconsciousness, its irrelevance, its perpetual movement ― the colts galloping round the field, the woman filling her pail at
4 the well, the donkey throwing back his head and emitting his long, acrid moan. The greater part of any library is nothing but the record of such fleeting moments in the lives of men, women, and donkeys. Every literature, as it grows old, has its rubbish-heap, its record of vanished moments and forgotten lives told in faltering and feeble accents that have perished. But if you give yourself up to the delight of rubbish-reading you will be surprised, indeed you will be overcome, by the relics of human life that have been cast out to moulder. It may be one letter ― but what a vision it gives! It may be a few sentences ― but what vistas they suggest! Sometimes a whole story will come together with such beautiful humour and pathos and completeness that it seems as if a great novelist had been at work, yet it is only an old actor, Tate Wilkinson, remembering the strange story of Captain J it is only a young subaltern serving under Arthur Wellesley and falling in love with a pretty girl at L it is only Maria Allen letting fall her sewing in the empty drawing-room and sighing how she wishes she had taken Dr. Burney’s good advice and had never eloped with her Rishy. None o it is negli yet how absorbing it is now and again to go through the rubbish-heaps and find rings and scissors and broken noses buried in the huge past and try to piece them together while the colt gallops round the field, the woman fills her pail at the well, and the donkey brays. But we tire of rubbish-reading in the long run. We tire of searching for what is needed to complete the half-truth which is all that the Wilkinsons, the Bunburys, and the Maria Allens are able to offer us. They had not the artist’s power of maste they could not tell the whole truth even a they have disfigured the story that might have been so shapely. Facts are all that they can offer us, and facts are a very inferior form of fiction. Thus the desire grows upon us to have done with half-statement to cease from searching out the minute shades of human character, to enjoy the greater abstractness, the purer truth of fiction. Thus we create the mood, intense and generalised, unaware of detail, but stressed by some regular, recurrent beat, whose natural
and that is the time to read poetry . . . when we are almost able to write it.
Western wind, when wilt thou blow? The small rain down can rain. Christ, if my love were in my arms, And I in my bed again!
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