Woke up this morning. Woke up into the job.
The job. It holds you. It's all around you; a constant, enclosing absorbing gel. And when you're in the job, you look out at live through that distorted lens. Sometimes, aye, you get you wee zones of relative freedom to retreat into, those lights, delicate spaces where new things, different, better things can be perceived of as possible.
Desperté esta mañana. Desperté en el trabajo.
El trabajo. Te frena. Está alrededor de ti; como una sustancia constante, cerrada y que te consume. Y cuando estás trabajando, observas la vida a través de un lente distorsionado. Algunas veces, sí... así es, consigues pequeños descansos en los puedes refugiarte en espacios diminutos y alejados en donde cosas nuevas, diferentes y mejores se pueden percibir como posibles.
Title: Filth
Author: Irvine Welsh
Genre: Crime novel
Style: Gory, vulgar, obscene, grotesque, harsh and grim
Tone: Very vulgar and not formal at all
Translation techniques: Literal translation, Transposition
It was a pleasure to burn.
It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies.
Era un placer quemar.
Era un placer especial ver cosas devoradas, ver cosas ennegrecidas y cambiadas. Empuñando la embocadura de bronce, escrimiendo la gran pitón que escupía un queroseno venenoso sobre el mundo, sintió que la sangre le golpeaba las sienes, y que las manos, como las de un sorprendente director que ejecuta las sinfonías del fuego y los incendios, revelaban los harapos y las ruinas carbonizadas de la historia. Con el simbólico casco numerado -451- sobre la estólida cabeza, y los ojos encendidos en una sola llama anaranjada ante el pensamiento de lo que vendría después, abrio la llave, y la casa dio un salto envuelta en un fuego devorador que incendió el cielo del atardecer y lo enrojeció, y doró, y ennegreció. Avanzó rodeado por una nube de luciérnagas.
Title: Fahrenheit 451
Author: Ray Bradbury
Genre: Dystopian
Style: Descriptive
Tone: Somber and hopeless
Translation techniques: Word by word, literal translation.
The hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warm shadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door into the bar, to keep out flies.
The American and the girl with him sat at a table in the shade, outside the building. It was very hot and the express from Barcelona would come in forty minutes. It stopped at this junction for two minutes and went on to Madrid.
Las colinas al otro lado del valle del Ebro eran alargadas y blancas. En esta orilla no había ni sombra ni árboles y la estación estaba entre dos vías de ferrocarril al sol. Cerca y opuesta a la estación caía la cálida sombra del edificio y una cortina de tiras, hecha de cuentas de bambú, colgaba a través de la puerta abierta en el bar, para mantener alejadas a las moscas.
El americano y la muchacha que le acompañaba estaban sentados en una mesa a la sombra, fuera del edificio. Hacía mucho calor y el expreso procedente de Barcelona llegaría en cuarenta minutos. Paraba en este cruce durante dos minutos y después continuaba hacia Madrid.
Title: Hills Like White Elephants
Author: Ernest Hemingway
Genre: Short story
Style: Cheerful and simple at first sight, very deep and quite dark in depth
Tone: Clean and simple
Translation techniques: Expantion
Al tercer día de lluvia habían matado tantos cangrejos dentro de la casa, que Pelayo tuvo que atravesar su patio anegado para tirarlos al mar, pues el niño recién nacido había pasado la noche con calenturas y se pensaba que era causa de la pestilencia. El mundo estaba triste desde el martes. El cielo y el mar eran una misma cosa de ceniza, y las arenas de la playa, que en marzo fulguraban como polvo de lumbre, se habían convertido en un caldo de lodo y mariscos podridos.
La luz era tan mansa al mediodía, que cuando Pelayo regresaba a la casa después de haber tirado los cangrejos, le costó trabajo ver qué era lo que se movía y se quejaba en el fondo del patio. Tuvo que acercarse mucho para descubrir que era un hombre viejo, que estaba tumbado boca abajo en el lodazal, y a pesar de sus grandes esfuerzos no podía levantarse, porque se lo impedían sus enormes alas.
On the third day of rain they had killed so many crabs inside the house that Pelayo had to cross his drenched courtyard and throw them into the sea, because the newborn child had a temperature all night and they thought it was due to the stench. The world had been sad since Tuesday. Sea and sky were a single ash-gray thing and the sands of the beach, which on March nights glimmered like powdered light, had become a stew of mud and rotten shellfish.
The light was so weak at noon that when Pelayo was coming back to the house after throwing away the crabs, it was hard for him to see what it was that was moving and groaning in the rear of the courtyard. He had to go very close to see that it was an old man, a very old man, lying face down in the mud, who, in spite of his tremendous efforts, couldn’t get up, impeded by his enormous wings
Title: Un señor muy viejo con alas enormes
Author: Gabriel García Márquez
Genre: Magical realism
Style: Descriptive and enjoys adding magical realism elements
Tone: Somber, informal, sometimes close to vulgar
Translation techniques:
¡Panamá es Soberana en la Zona del Canal!
La arenga hizo que la columna de jóvenes comenzara a salir del Instituto Nacional y se decidiera a cruzar la Avenida 4 de julio para entrar en la Zona del Canal. Iban a un sitio en el medio de su territorio donde las leyes de su país no valían nada. En ese lugar, gracias a un tratado a perpetuidad operaba una policía distinta, que apoyaba a jueces y tribunales con las disposiciones de los Estados Unidos. Era el 9 de enero de 1964, los relojes marcaban más allá de las tres de la tarde y el sol se ocultaba tras el cerro en su huida hacia el oeste.
Panama is sovereign in the Canal Zone!
The harangue caused that the group of youngsters exited the Instituto Nacional and walked across the Avenue 4 of July in order to enter the Canal Zone. They were headed towards a place in the middle of their country in which their laws were worthless. Because of a perpetual treaty, that place was ran by a different police force that supported judges and tribunals that were in accordance with The United States. It was January 9th of 1964, the clocks announced the time: it was a little past three o'clock and the sun had begun to settle down behind the hill – running away towards the west.
Title: 9 de Enero: La Novela
Author: Andrés Villa
Genre: Historic novel
Style: Descriptive
Tone: Popular
Translation techniques: Literal translation, Adaptation of the novel's title.
Todo el día, sentados en el patio en un banco, estaban los cuatro hijos idiotas del matrimonio Mazzini-Ferraz. Tenían la lengua entre los labios, los ojos estúpidos y volvían la cabeza con la boca abierta.
El patio era de tierra, cerrado al oeste por un cerco de ladrillos. El banco quedaba paralelo a él, a cinco metros, y allí se mantenían inmóviles, fijos los ojos en los ladrillos. Como el sol se ocultaba tras el cerco, al declinar los idiotas tenían fiesta. La luz enceguecedora llamaba su atención al principio, poco a poco sus ojos se animaban; se reían al fin estrepitosamente, congestionados por la misma hilaridad ansiosa, mirando el sol con alegría bestial, como si fuera comida.
All day long the four idiot sons of the Mazzini-Ferraz marriage sat on the bench beside the patio. Their tongues dangled out between their lips, their eyes stared vacantly, and their mouths hung open as they turned their heads.
The mud patio was closed to the west by a wall of bricks. The bench was parallel to the wall, about five feet away, and there they sat motionless with their eyes fixed on the bricks. As the sun set and began to hide itself behind the wall, the idiots rejoiced. The blinding light called their attention at first, little by little their eyes lit up; at last they laughed stupidly, congested with the same anxious hilarity, they looked at the sun with bestial joy as if it were a meal.
Title: Historias de amor, locura y muerte
Author: Horacio Quiroga
Genre: Short story, horror
Style: Quiroga's style is pessimistic and dark; death is a common theme in his stories
Tone: The tone he uses is popular and informal
Translation techniques: Cultural equivalence translation