第一篇：第二届全国《英语世界》翻译大赛通知及参赛原文

第二届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛启事

在成功举办首届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛之后，《英语世界》杂志社将联合南开大学、中国翻译协会社科翻译委员会、四川省翻译协会共同举办第二届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛。今后，我们拟将此项赛事办成每年一届的活动，以激发英语爱好者的翻译热情，给力英语学习，探寻翻译之星。诚愿此项赛事真正成为翻译爱好者晒秀佳译的一方天地。

一、活动内容

1、竞赛形式：本次竞赛为英汉翻译，参赛原文附后，亦可点击商务印书馆网站（http://www.teniu.cc/）。

2、参赛要求：

（1）参赛者年龄不限。（2）译文须独立完成，不接受合作译稿。请参赛者在本次竞赛截稿之日前妥善保存参赛稿件，勿在报刊、网络等任何媒体公布参赛文稿，否则将被取消参赛资格并承担由此造成的一切后果。

（3）第一次投稿有效，不接收修改后另投稿件。

（4）参赛投稿请用电脑打印（A4纸）或用稿纸（有单位名称抬头的稿纸无效）誊写清楚。打印稿统一用Word中宋体，小四号字排版。译文前加一封面，填写参赛者信息，包括姓名、出生年月日、性别、工作单位、通信地址、邮编、电话、电子邮箱。投稿正文内请勿书写参赛者个人信息，否则将视为无效投稿。

（5）截稿日期：202_年7月20日，网络投稿以投稿日为准，信件以寄出日邮戳为准。

二、投稿方式

1、网上投稿：邮箱wewecp@sina.com。请在主题栏标明“参赛译文”字样。

2、邮寄投稿：北京朝阳区朝外大街吉庆里小区9号楼E-2-1005室 《英语世界》编辑部（邮编：100020）。请在信封上标明“参赛译文”字样。

三、奖项设置：

所有投稿将由《英语世界》、南开大学和中国翻译协会社科翻译委员会共同组织专家进行评审，设一、二、三等奖及优秀奖。一、二、三等奖获奖者将颁发奖金、证书和纪念品，优秀奖获奖者将颁发证书和纪念品；《英语世界》将于202_年第10期公布竞赛评审结果，并择机举行颁奖典礼，竞赛获奖者将受邀参加颁奖典礼。

四、联系方式：

为办好本次翻译大赛，保证此项赛事的公平、公正，我们成立了竞赛组委会，负责整个竞赛活动的组织、实施和评审工作。组委会办公室设在《英语世界》编辑部。电话/传真：010-65539242。

《英语世界》杂志社

202_年5月

附：第二届英语世界杯翻译大赛原文：

His First Day as Quarry-Boy

By Hugh Miller(1802～1856)It was twenty years last February since I set out, a little before sunrise, to make my first acquaintance with a life of labor and restraint;and I have rarely had a heavier heart than on that morning.I was but a slim, loose-jointed boy at the time, fond of the pretty intangibilities of romance, and of dreaming when broad awake;and, woful change!I was now going to work at what Burns has instanced, in his ‘Twa Dogs’, as one of the most disagreeable of all employments,—to work in a quarry.Bating the passing uneasinesses occasioned by a few gloomy anticipations, the portion of my life which had already gone by had been happy beyond the common lot.I had been a wanderer among rocks and woods, a reader of curious books when I could get them, a gleaner of old traditionary stories;and now I was going to exchange all my day-dreams, and all my amusements, for the kind of life in which men toil every day that they may be enabled to eat, and eat every day that they may be enabled to toil!

The quarry in which I wrought lay on the southern shore of a noble inland bay, or frith rather, with a little clear stream on the one side, and a thick fir wood on the other.It had been opened in the Old Red Sandstone of the district, and was overtopped by a huge bank of diluvial clay, which rose over it in some places to the height of nearly thirty feet, and which at this time was rent and shivered其, wherever it presented an open front to the weather, by a recent frost.A heap of loose fragments, which had fallen from above, blocked up the face of the quarry and my first employment was to clear them away.The friction of the shovel soon blistered my hands, but the pain was by no means very severe, and I wrought hard and willingly, that I might see how the huge strata below, which presented so firm and unbroken a frontage, were to be torn up and removed.Picks, and wedges, and levers, were applied by my brother-workmen;and, simple and rude as I had been accustomed to regard these implements, I found I had much to learn in the way of using them.They all proved inefficient, however, and the workmen had to bore into one of the inferior strata, and employ gunpowder.The process was new to me, and I deemed it a highly amusing one: it had the merit, too, of being attended with some such degree of danger as a boating or rock excursion, and had thus an interest independent of its novelty.We had a few capital shots: the fragments flew in every direction;and an immense mass of the diluvium came toppling down, bearing with it two dead birds, that in a recent storm had crept into one of the deeper fissures, to die in the shelter.I felt a new interest in examining them.The one was a pretty cock goldfinch, with its hood of vermilion and its wings inlaid with the gold to which it owes its name, as unsoiled and smooth as if it had been preserved for a museum.The other, a somewhat rarer bird, of the woodpecker tribe, was variegated with light blue and a grayish yellow.I was engaged in admiring the poor little things, more disposed to be sentimental, perhaps, than if I had been ten years older, and thinking of the contrast between the warmth and jollity of their green summer haunts, and the cold and darkness of their last retreat, when I heard our employer bidding the workmen lay by their tools.I looked up and saw the sun sinking behind the thick fir wood beside us, and the long dark shadows of the trees stretching downward towards the shore.—Red Sandstone

（文章选自THE OXFORD BOOK OF ENGLISH PROSE, 658-660, Oxford University Press, London, first published 1925，reprinted 1958.）

Old

第二篇：英语世界翻译大赛原文

第九届“郑州大学—《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛英译汉原文

The Whoomper Factor

By Nathan Cobb

【1】As this is being written, snow is falling in the streets of Boston in what weather forecasters like to call “record amounts.” I would guess by looking out the window that we are only a few hours from that magic moment of paralysis, as in Storm Paralyzes Hub.Perhaps we are even due for an Entire Region Engulfed or a Northeast Blanketed, but I will happily settle for mere local disablement.And the more the merrier.【1】写这个的时候，波士顿的街道正下着雪，天气预报员将称其为“创纪录的量”。从窗外望去，我猜想，过不了几个小时，神奇的瘫痪时刻就要来临，就像《风暴瘫痪中心》里的一样。也许我们甚至能够见识到《吞没整个区域》或者《茫茫东北》里的场景，然而仅仅部分地区的瘫痪也能使我满足。当然越多越使人开心。

【2】Some people call them blizzards, others nor’easters.My own term is whoompers, and I freely admit looking forward to them as does a baseball fan to April.Usually I am disappointed, however;because tonight’s storm warnings too often turn into tomorrow’s light flurries.【2】有些人称它们为暴风雪，其他人称其为东北风暴。我自己则有一个叫法：呐喊者。我大方地承认道我期待着它们的到来，正如一位篮球迷盼望着四月份的来临。然而通常情况下，我会大失所望，因为今天发布了风暴警报，明天往往只飘起小雪。

【3】Well, flurries be damned.I want the real thing, complete with Volkswagens turned into drifts along Commonwealth Avenue and the MBTA’s third rail frozen like a hunk of raw meat.A storm does not even begin to qualify as a whoomper unless Logan Airport is shut down for a minimum of six hours.【3】好吧，小雪令人厌恶。我想要实实在在的东西，包括大众汽车成了联邦大道的漂浮物，波士顿市运输局的第三条轨道像一大块生肉一样被冻住了。除非洛根机场至少关闭六个小时，否则这一场风暴根本配不上称作呐喊者。

【4】The point is, whoompers teach us a lesson.Or rather several lessons.For one thing, here are all these city folks who pride themselves on their instinct for survival, and suddenly they cannot bear to venture into the streets because they are afraid of being swallowed up.Virtual prisoners in their own houses is what they are.In northern New England, the natives view nights such as this with casual indifference, but let a whoomper hit Boston and the locals are not only knee deep in snow but also in befuddlement and disarray.【4】关键是，呐喊者们给了我们一个教训。或者几个教训。一方面，所有的城里人为他们的生存本能感到自豪，霎时间，他们不能忍受街道上的风险因为害怕被吞没。他们就好像是自己房子里的囚犯。在新英格兰的北部，当地人对这样的夜晚习以为常，但是让一位呐喊者袭击波士顿，居民不仅深陷雪中而且陷入困境和混乱。

【5】The lesson? That there is something more powerful out there than the sacred metropolis.It is not unlike the message we can read into the debacle of the windows falling out of the John Hancock Tower;just when we think we’ve got the upper hand on the elements, we find out we are flies and someone else is holding the swatter.Whoompers keep us in our place.【5】教训？那里有比神圣的大都市更强大的东西。这与我们可以从约翰•汉考克大厦掉落下来的崩溃信息没什么不同；正当我们自认为凌驾于风雨之上时，才发现我们只是沧海一粟，另有高人将我们玩弄于股掌之间。呐喊者们将我们困在原地。

【6】They also slow us down, which is not a bad thing for urbania these days.Frankly, I’m of the opinion Logan should be closed periodically, snow or not, in tribute to the lurking suspicion that it may not be all that necessary for a man to travel at a speed of 600 miles per hour.In a little while I shall go forth into the streets and I know what I will find.People will actually be walking, and the avenues will be bereft of cars.It will be something like those marvelous photographs of Back Bay during the nineteenth century, wherein the lack of clutter and traffic makes it seem as if someone has selectively airbrushed the scene.【6】他们也使我们放慢了速度，如今对于乌尔巴尼亚来说不是一件坏事。坦率地讲，为了向潜在的怀疑致敬，即可能不是每个人都必须以每小时600英里的速度行走，我认为不管下不下雪，洛根应该定期关门。我应该去街道上走上一小会儿就能知道自己寻找什么。实际上人们将要行走，大道上没有车子。如同19世纪巴克湾那些

【7】And, of course, there will be the sound of silence tonight.It will be almost deafening.I know city people who have trouble sleeping in the country because of the lack of noise, and I suspect this is what bothers many of them about whoompers.Icy sidewalks and even fewer parking spaces we can handle, but please, God, turn up the volume.City folks tend not to believe in anything they can’t hear with their own ears.【8】It should also be noted that nights such as this are obviously quite pretty, hiding the city’s wounds beneath a clean white dressing.But it is their effect on the way people suddenly treat each other that is most fascinating, coming as it does when city dwellers are depicted as people of the same general variety as those New Yorkers who stood by when Kitty Genovese was murdered back in 1964.【9】There’s nothing like a good whoomper to get people thinking that everyone walking towards them on the sidewalk might not be a mugger, or that saying hello is not necessarily a sign of perversion.You would think that city people, more than any other, would have a strong sense of being in the same rough seas together, yet it is not until a quasi catastrophe hits that many of them stop being lone sharks.【10】But enough of this.There’s a whoomper outside tonight, and it requires my presence.

第三篇：第二届英语世界杯翻译大赛原文

His First Day as Quarry-Boy

By Hugh Miller(1802～1856)

It was twenty years last February since I set out, a little before sunrise, to make my first acquaintance with a life of labour and restraint;and I have rarely had a heavier heart than on that morning.I was but a slim, loose-jointed boy at the time, fond of the pretty intangibilities of romance, and of dreaming when broad awake;and, woful change!I was now going to work at what Burns has instanced, in his ‘Twa Dogs’, as one of the most disagreeable of all employments,—to work in a quarry.Bating the passing uneasinesses occasioned by a few gloomy anticipations, the portion of my life which had already gone by had been happy beyond the common lot.I had been a wanderer among rocks and woods, a reader of curious books when I could get them, a gleaner of old traditionary stories;and now I was going to exchange all my day-dreams, and all my amusements, for the kind of life in which men toil every day that they may be enabled to eat, and eat every day that they may be enabled to toil!The quarry in which I wrought lay on the southern shore of a noble inland bay, or frith rather, with a little clear stream on the one side, and a thick fir wood on the other.It had been opened in the Old Red Sandstone of the district, and was overtopped by a huge bank of diluvial clay, which rose over it in some places to the height of nearly thirty feet, and which at this time was rent and shivered, wherever it presented an open front to the weather, by a recent frost.A heap of loose fragments, which had fallen from above, blocked up the face of the quarry and my first employment was to clear them away.The friction of the shovel soon blistered my hands, but the pain was by no means very severe, and I wrought hard and willingly, that I might see how the huge strata below, which presented so firm and unbroken a frontage, were to be torn up and removed.Picks, and wedges, and levers, were applied by my brother-workmen;and, simple and rude as I had been accustomed to regard these implements, I found I had much to learn in the way of using them.They all proved inefficient, however, and the workmen had to bore into one of the inferior strata, and employ gunpowder.The process was new to me, and I deemed it a highly amusing one: it had the merit, too, of being attended with some such degree of danger as a boating or rock excursion, and had thus an interest independent of its novelty.We had a few capital shots: the fragments flew in every direction;and an immense mass of the diluvium came toppling down, bearing with it two dead birds, that in a recent storm had crept into one of the deeper fissures, to die in the shelter.I felt a new interest in examining them.The one was a pretty cock goldfinch, with its hood of vermilion and its wings inlaid with the gold to which it owes its name, as unsoiled and smooth as if it had been preserved for a museum.The other, a somewhat rarer bird, of the woodpecker tribe, was variegated with light blue and a grayish yellow.I was engaged in admiring the poor little things, more disposed to be sentimental, perhaps, than if I had been ten years older, and thinking of the contrast between the warmth and jollity of their green summer haunts, and the cold and darkness of their last retreat, when I heard our employer bidding the workmen lay by their tools.I looked up and saw the sun sinking behind the thick fir wood beside us, and the long dark shadows of the trees stretching downward towards the shore.—Old Red Sandstone

（文章选自THE OXFORD BOOK OF ENGLISH PROSE, 658-660, Oxford University Press, London, first published 1925，reprinted 1958.）

第四篇：英语世界翻译大赛

A Garden That Welcomes Strangers

By Allen Lacy

I do not know what became of her, and I never learned her name.But I feel that I knew her from the garden she had so lovingly made over many decades.The house she lived in lies two miles from mine – a simple, two-story structure with the boxy plan, steeply-pitched roof and unadorned lines that are typical of houses built in the middle of the nineteenth century near the New Jersey shore.Her garden was equally simple.She was not a conventional gardener who did everything by the book, following the common advice to vary her plantings so there would be something in bloom from the first crocus in the spring to the last chrysanthemum in the fall.She had no respect for the rule that says that tall-growing plants belong at the rear of a perennial border, low ones in the front and middle-sized ones in the middle, with occasional exceptions for dramatic accent.In her garden, everything was accent, everything was tall, and the evidence was plain that she loved three kinds of plant and three only: roses, clematis and lilies, intermingled promiscuously to pleasant effect but no apparent design.She grew a dozen sorts of clematis, perhaps 50 plants in all, trained and tied so that they clambered up metal rods, each rod crowned intermittently throughout the summer by a rounded profusion of large blossoms of dark purple, rich crimson, pale lavender, light blue and gleaming white.Her taste in roses was old-fashioned.There wasn’t a single modern hybrid tea rose or floribunda in sight.Instead, she favored the roses of other ages – the York and Lancaster rose, the cabbage rose, the damask and the rugosa rose in several varieties.She propagated her roses herself from cuttings stuck directly in the ground and protected by upended gallon jugs.Lilies, I believe were her greatest love.Except for some Madonna lilies it is impossible to name them, since the wooden flats stood casually here and there in the flower bed, all thickly planted with dark green lily seedlings.The occasional paper tag fluttering from a seed pod with the date and record of a cross showed that she was an amateur hybridizer with some special fondness for lilies of a warm muskmelon shade or a pale lemon yellow.She believed in sharing her garden.By her curb there was a sign: “This is my garden, and you are welcome here.Take whatever you wish with your eyes, but nothing with your hand.”

Until five years ago, her garden was always immaculately tended, the lawn kept fertilized and mowed, the flower bed free of weeds, the tall lilies carefully staked.But then something happened.I don’t know what it was, but the lawn was mowed less frequently, then not at all.Tall grass invaded the roses, the clematis, the lilies.The elm tree in her front yard sickened and died, and when a coastal gale struck, the branches that fell were never removed.With every year, the neglect has grown worse.Wild honeysuckle and bittersweet run rampant in the garden.Sumac, ailanthus, poison ivy and other uninvited things threaten the few lilies and clematis and roses that still struggle for survival.Last year the house itself went dead.The front door was padlocked and the windows covered with sheets of plywood.For many months there has been a for sale sign out front, replacing the sign inviting strangers to share her garden.I drive by that house almost daily and have been tempted to load a shovel in my car trunk, stop at her curb and rescue a few lilies from the smothering thicket of weeds.The laws of trespass and the fact that her house sits across the street from a police station have given me the cowardice to resist temptation.But her garden has reminded me of mortality;gardeners and the gardens they make are fragile things, creatures of time, hostages to chance and to decay.Last week, the for sale sign out front came down and the windows were unboarded.A crew of painters arrived and someone cut down the dead elm tree.This morning there was a moving van in the driveway unloading a swing set, a barbecue grill, a grand piano and a houseful of sensible furniture.A young family is moving into that house.I hope that among their number is a gardener whose special fondness for old roses and clematis and lilies will see to it that all else is put aside until that flower bed is restored to something of its former self.(选自Patterns: A Short Prose Reader, by Mary Lou Conlin, published by Houghton Mifflin Company, 1983.)

第五篇：第五届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛比赛原文

Limbo

By Rhonda Lucas

My parents’ porce was final.The house had been sold and the day had come to move.Thirty years of the family’s life was now crammed into the garage.The two-by-fours that ran the length of the walls were the only uniformity among the clutter of boxes, furniture, and memories.All was frozen in limbo between the life just passed and the one to come.The sunlight pushing its way through the window splattered against a barricade of boxes.Like a fluorescent river, it streamed down the sides and flooded the cracks of the cold, cement floor.I stood in the doorway between the house and garage and wondered if the sunlight would ever again penetrate the memories packed inside those boxes.For an instant, the cardboard boxes appeared as tombstones, monuments to those memories.The furnace in the corner, with its huge tubular fingers reaching out and disappearing into the wall, was unaware of the futility of trying to warm the empty house.The rhythmical whir of its effort hummed the elegy for the memories boxed in front of me.I closed the door, sat down on the step, and listened reverently.The feeling of loss transformed the bad memories into not-so-bad, the not-so-bad memories into good, and committed the good ones to my mind.Still, I felt as vacant as the house inside.A workbench to my right stood disgustingly empty.Not so much as a nail had been left behind.I noticed, for the first time, what a dull, lifeless green it was.Lacking the disarray of tools that used to cover it, now it seemed as out of place as a bathtub in the kitchen.In fact, as I scanned the room, the only things that did seem to belong were the cobwebs in the corners.A group of boxes had been set aside from the others and stacked in front of the workbench.Scrawled like graffiti on the walls of dilapidated buildings were the words “Salvation Army.” Those words caught my eyes as effectively as a flashing neon sign.They reeked of irony.“Salvation-was a bit too late for this family,” I mumbled sarcastically to myself.The houseful of furniture that had once been so carefully chosen to complement and blend with the color schemes of the various rooms was indiscriminately crammed together against a single wall.The uncoordinated colors combined in turmoil and lashed out in the greyness of the room.I suddenly became aware of the coldness of the garage, but I didn’t want to go back inside the house, so I made my way through the boxes to the couch.I cleared a space to lie down and curled up, covering myself with my jacket.I hoped my father would return soon with the truck so we could empty the garage and leave the cryptic silence of parting lives behind.（选自Patterns: A Short Prose Reader, by Mary Lou Conlin, published by Houghton Mifflin, 1983.）

第五届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛通知

“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛肇始于202_年，由商务印书馆《英语世界》杂志社主办。为推动翻译学科的进一步发展，促进中外文化交流，我们将秉承“给力英语学习，探寻翻译之星”的理念，于202_年5月继续举办第五届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛，诚邀广大翻译爱好者积极参与，比秀佳译。

本届大赛由悉尼翻译学院独家赞助。悉尼翻译学院成立于202_年，是在澳大利亚教育部注册的一家专业翻译学院。学院相关课程由澳大利亚翻译认证管理局（NAATI）认证。该院面向海内外招生，以构建“一座跨文化的桥梁”为目标，力图培养具有国际视野和跨文化意识的涉及多语种的口笔译人才。

大赛赞助单位

悉尼翻译学院

大赛合作单位

中国翻译协会社科翻译委员会

四川省翻译协会

南开大学

成都通译翻译有限公司

上海翻译家协会

广东省翻译协会

湖北省翻译理论与教学研究会

陕西省翻译协会

江苏省翻译协会

大赛顾问委员会

王学东（中国翻译协会副会长、中央编译局副局长）

仲伟合（中国翻译协会副会长、广东省翻译协会会长、广东外语外贸大学校长）许钧（中国翻译协会常务副会长、江苏省翻译协会会长、南京大学研究生院常务副院长）柴明熲（上海翻译家协会副会长、上海外国语大学高级翻译学院院长）连真然（四川省翻译协会副会长）

胡宗峰（陕西省翻译协会副会长、西北大学外国语学院副院长）

李瑞林（西安外国语大学高级翻译学院院长）

华先发（华中师范大学外语学院英语系主任）

大赛评委会

主任

刘士聪（南开大学外国语学院教授、博士生导师）

评委

陈国华（北京外国语大学教授、博士生导师）

曹明伦（四川大学外国语学院教授、博士生导师）

张文（北京第二外国语学院教授）

钱多秀（北京航空航天大学外国语学院副院长兼翻译系主任）

方华文（苏州大学外国语学院教授）

王丽丽（中共中央编译局中央文献翻译部英文处副译审、副处长）

魏庆阳（悉尼翻译学院院长）

魏令查（《英语世界》主编）

一、大赛形式

本届大赛为英汉翻译，参赛启事以及原文发布于商务印书馆网站

（http://.cn/）、《英语世界》202_年第5期、《英语世界》官方博客（http://blog.sina.com.cn/theworldofenglish）以及《英语世界》微信公众平台上。

二、参赛要求

1、参赛者国籍、年龄、性别、学历不限。

2、参赛译文须独立完成，不接受合作译稿。

3、参赛译文及个人信息于截稿日期前发送至电子邮箱：yysjfyds@sina.com。

（1）邮件主题标明“翻译大赛”；

（2）以附件一形式发送参赛者个人信息，文件名“XXX个人信息”，内容包括：姓名、性别、出生年月日、学校或工作单位、通信地址（邮编）、电子邮箱和电话；

（3）以附件二形式发送参赛译文，文件名“XXX参赛译文”，内文规格：黑色小四号宋体，1.5倍行距，两端对齐。

4、仅第一次投稿有效，不接受修改后的再投稿件。

5、在大赛截稿之日前，妥善保存参赛译文，勿在报刊、网络等任何媒体或以任何方式公布，违者取消参赛资格并承担由此造成的一切后果。

三、大赛时间

起止日期：202_年5月1日零时～202_年7月20日24时。

奖项公布时间：202_年10月，在《英语世界》杂志、微博、博客和微信公众平台上公布大赛评审结果。

四、奖项设置

所有投稿将由主办单位组织专家进行评审，分设一、二、三等奖及优秀奖。一、二、三等奖获奖者将颁发奖金、奖品和证书，优秀奖获奖者将颁发证书和纪念奖。

五、联系方式

为办好本届翻译大赛，保证此项赛事的公平、公正，特成立大赛组委会，负责整个大赛的组织、实施和评审工作。组委会办公室设在《英语世界》编辑部，电话/传真010-65539242。

六、特别说明

1、本届翻译大赛不收取任何费用。

2、本届翻译大赛只接受电子版投稿，不接受纸质投稿。

3、参赛译文一经发现抄袭或雷同，即取消涉事者参赛资格。