Professor
Department of English, School of Foreign Studies,
EMAIL: kepingATnju.edu.cn
Course Supporting Website: http://nlp.nju.edu.cn/TOC/TS.html; http://keping.sprinterweb.net/TOC/TS.html
Introduction to Translation Studies (ITS)
1. Main texts
(required reading)
3. Course website
(any of the following)
3. (ECTaL) Shotgun Cheatham’s Last
Night Above Ground
5. (ECTb3) Court Reverses Break-up of
Microsoft
Time: 14:00-16:00, Tuesday,
Fall Semester. Venue: A213, Xianlin Campus,
050201X11
This foundation course is intended to provide an introduction to the basic concepts, issues, and conceptual approaches in Translation Studies (TS), thereby helping to lay a broad-based foundation for further studies of translation. Major issues that concern past and present practioners and researchers in this field are identified and discussed with reference to different conceptual frameworks that have been developed in Chinese and international TS communities. Another aim of the course is to train students to adopt a more rational and rigorous approach to translation in their own practice through the exercise of translation with commentary. Students attend lectures, participate in class discussion, and as part of the course work, will also be required to sit in a final examination.
Shuttleworth, Mark, & Cowie,
Moira. (1997). Dictionary of translation
studies.
Munday, Jeremy. (2001). Introducing translation studies. Theories and applications. London: Routledge. xv+222 pp.
A Short Reading List
for Translation Studies
?????? (Translation Studies Library I,
II, …….??????. 2006- .)
???????? (????????????. 2001- .)
http://nlp.nju.edu.cn/kep/TOC/TS.html
http://keping.sprinterweb.net/TOC/TS.html
Two classroom contact hours per week. A combination of lectures and short student presentations.
Student
presentations will be focused on translation with commentary assignments which students
complete out of class on a research basis (involving both translating and
annotating) and bring into the class for discussion. Texts for the assignments
are available below. They can be also be downloaded from:
http://nlp.nju.edu.cn/kep/TOC/T.html
http://keping.sprinterweb.net/TOC/T.html.
A sample annotation translation
can be read at:
http://nlp.nju.edu.cn/kep/T-EC-AnnotatedT-Sample.htm
http://keping.sprinterweb.net/T-EC-AnnotatedT-Sample.htm
Unit 1 Course introduction / The name and nature of translation / Types of translation
Unit 2 The scope and objects of Translation Studies
Unit 3 Qualities of a good theory
Unit 4 The Philological School
Unit 5 The Hermeneutic School
Unit 6 The Linguistic School
Unit 7 The Communicative School
Unit 8 The Sociosemiotic School
Unit 9 The Skopos Theory [Optional topic]
Unit 10 The Manipulative School / The Norm Theory [Optional topic]
Unit 11 The Post-structuralist and Postcolonial Schools [Optional topic]
Assessment will be based on:
(1) class attendance and participation (responding to questions and raising good questions or suggestions, active involvement in class discussion, finding and sharing quality learning resources, etc.) (20%);
(2) presentations on in-class exercises and home translation with commentary assignments (30%);
(3) final examination (50%).
I think the essence of wisdom is emancipation, as far as possible, from the tyranny of the here and the now. We cannot help the egoism of our senses. Sight and sound and touch are bound up with our own bodies and cannot be made impersonal. Our emotions start similarly from ourselves. An infant feels hunger or discomfort, and is unaffected except by his own physical condition. Gradually with the years, his horizon widens, and, in proportion as his thoughts and feelings become less personal and less concerned with his own physical states, he achieves growing wisdom. This is of course a matter of degree. No one can view the world with complete impartiality; and if anyone could, he would hardly be able to remain alive. But it is possible to make a continual approach towards impartiality, on the one hand, by knowing things somewhat remote in time or space, and, on the other hand, by giving to such things their due weight in our feelings. It is this approach towards impartiality that constitutes growth in wisdom.
Can wisdom be taught? And, if it can, should the teaching of it be one of the aims of education? I should answer both these questions in the affirmative. I think that the disastrous results of hatred and narrow-mindedness to those who feel them can be pointed out incidentally in the course of giving knowledge. I do not think that knowledge and morals ought to be too much separated. It is true that the kind of specialized knowledge which is required for various kinds of skill has very little to do with wisdom. But it should be supplemented in education by wider surveys calculated to put it in its place in the total of human activities. Even the best technicians should also be good citizens; and when I say “citizens,” I mean citizens of the world and not of this or that sect or nation. With every increase of knowledge and skill, wisdom becomes more necessary, for every such increase augments our capacity of realizing our purposes, and therefore augments our capacity for evil, if our purposes are unwise. The world needs wisdom as it has never needed it before; and if knowledge continues to increase, the world will need wisdom in the future even more than it does now.
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[S1]
You wouldn’t think we’d have to leave
But I’d grown to the age of nine, and my sister Mary Alice was seven, and we’d yet to see a stiff. We guessed that most of them were where you couldn’t see them, at the bottom of Lake Michigan, wearing concrete overshoes.
No, we had to travel all the way down to our Grandma Dowdel’s before we ever set eyes on a corpse. Dad said Mary Alice and I were getting to the age when we could travel on our own. He said it was time we spent a week with Grandma, who was getting on in years. We hadn’t seen anything of her since we were tykes. Being Chicago people, Mother and Dad didn’t have a car. And Grandma wasn’t on the telephone.
“They’re dumping us on her is what they’re doing,” Mary Alice said darkly. She suspected that Mother and Dad would take off for a week of fishing up in Wisconsin in our absence.
I didn’t mind going because we went on the train, the Wabash Railroad’s crack Blue Bird that left Dearborn Station every morning, bound for St. Louis. Grandma lived somewhere in between, in one of those towns the railroad tracks cut in two. People stood out on their porches to see the train go through.
Mary Alice said she couldn’t stand the place. For one thing, at Grandma’s you had to go outside to the privy. It stood just across from the cobhouse, a tumbledown shed flail of stuff left there in Grandpa Dowdel’s time. A big old snaggletoothed tomcat lived in the cobhouse, and as quick as you’d come out of the privy, he’d jump at you. Mary Alice hated that.
Mary Alice said there was nothing to do and nobody to do it with, so she’d tag after me, though I was two years older and a boy. We’d stroll uptown in those first days. It was only a short block of brick buildings: the bank, the insurance agency, Moore’s Store, and The Coffee Pot Cafe, where the old saloon had stood. Prohibition was on in those days, which meant that selling liquor was against the law. So people made their own beer at home. They still had the tin roofs out over the sidewalk, and hitching rails. Most farmers came to town horse-drawn, though there were Fords, and the banker, L. J. Weidenbach, drove a Hupmobile.
[S2]
It looked like a slow place to us. But that was before they buried Shotgun Cheatham. He might have made it unnoticed all the way to the grave except for his name. The county seat newspaper didn’t want to run an obituary on anybody called Shotgun, but nobody knew any other name for him. This sparked attention from some of the bigger newspapers. One sent in a stringer to nose around The Coffee Pot Cafe for a human-interest story since it was August, a slow month for news.
The Coffee Pot was where people went to loaf, talk tall, and swap gossip. Mary Alice and I were of some interest when we dropped by because we were kin of Mrs. Dowdel’s, who never set foot in the place. She said she liked to keep herself to herself, which was uphill work in a town like that.
Mary Alice and I carried the tale home that a suspicious type had come off the train in citified clothes and a stiff straw hat. He stuck out a mile and was asking around about Shotgun Cheatham. And he was taking notes.
Grandma had already heard it on the grapevine that Shotgun was no more, though she wasn’t the first person people ran to with news. She wasn’t what you’d call a popular woman. Grandpa Dowdel had been well thought of; but he was long gone.
That was the day she was working tomatoes on the black iron range, and her kitchen was hot enough to steam the calendars off the wall. Her sleeves were turned back on her big arms. When she heard the town was apt to fill up with newspaper reporters, her jaw clenched.
Presently she said, “I’ll tell you what that reporter’s after. He wants to get the horselaugh on us because he thinks we’re nothing but a bunch of hayseeds and no-’count country people. We are, but what business is it of his?”
“Who was Shotgun Cheatham anyway?” Mary Alice asked.
“He was just an old reprobate who lived poor and died broke,” Grandma said. “Nobody went near him because he smelled like a polecat. He lived in a chicken coop, and now they’ll have to burn it down.”
To change the subject she said to me, “Here, you stir these tomatoes, and don’t let them stick. I’ve stood in this heat till I’m half-cooked myself.”
I didn’t like kitchen work. Yesterday she’d done apple butter, and that hadn’t been too bad. She made that outdoors over an open fire, and she’d put pennies in the caldron to keep it from sticking.
“Down at The Coffee Pot they say Shotgun rode with the James boys.”
“Which James boys?” Grandma asked.
“Jesse James,” I said, “and Frank.”
“They wouldn’t have had him,” she said. “Anyhow, them Jameses was Missouri people.”
“They were telling the reporter Shotgun killed a man and went to the penitentiary.”
“Several around here done that,” Grandma said, “though I don’t recall him being out of town any length of time. Who’s doing all this talking?”
“A real old, humped-over lady with buck teeth,” Mary Alice said.
“Cross-eyed?” Grandma said. “That’d be Effie Wilcox. You think she’s ugly now, you should have seen her as a girl. And she’d talk you to death. Her tongue’s attached in the middle and flaps at both ends.” Grandma was over by the screen door for a breath of air.
“They said he’d notched his gun in six places,” I said, pushing my luck. “They said the notches were either for banks he’d robbed or for sheriffs he’d shot.”
“Was that Effie again? Never trust an ugly woman. She’s got a grudge against the world,” said Grandma, who was no oil painting herself. She fetched up a sigh. “I’ll tell you how Shotgun got his name. He wasn’t but about ten years old, and he wanted to go out and shoot quail with a bunch of older boys. He couldn’t hit a barn wall from the inside, and he had a sty in one eye. They were out there in a pasture without a quail in sight, but Shotgun got all excited being with the big boys. He squeezed off a round and killed a cow. Down she went. If he’d been aiming at her, she’d have died of old age eventually. The boys took the gun off him, not knowing who he’d plug next. That’s how he got the name, and it stuck to him like flypaper. Any girl in town could have outshot him, and that includes me.” Grandma jerked a thumb at herself.
She kept a twelve-gauge double-barreled Winchester Model 21 behind the wood box, but we figured it had been Grandpa Dowdel’s for shooting ducks. “And I wasn’t no Annie Oakley myself; except with squirrels.” Grandma was still at the door, fanning her apron. Then in the same voice she said, “Looks like we got company. Take them tomatoes off the fire.”
[S3]
A stranger was on the porch, and when Mary Alice and I crowded up behind Grandma to see, it was the reporter. He was sharp-faced, and he’d sweated through his hatband.
“What’s your business?” Grandma said through screen wire, which was as friendly as she got.
“Ma’am, I’m making inquiries about the late Shotgun Cheatham.” He shuffled his feet, wanting to get one of them in the door. Then he mopped up under his hat brim with a silk handkerchief. His Masonic ring had diamond chips in it.
“Who sent you to me?”
“I’m going door-to-door, ma’am. You know how you ladies love to talk. Bless your hearts, you’d all talk the hind leg off a mule.”
Mary Alice and I both stared at that. We figured Grandma might grab up her broom to swat him off the porch. We’d already seen how she could make short work of peddlers even when they weren’t lippy. And tramps didn’t seem to mark her fence post. We suspected that you didn’t get inside her house even if she knew you. But to our surprise she swept open the screen door and stepped out onto the porch. I followed. So did Mary Alice, once she was sure the snaggletoothed tom wasn’t lurking around out there, waiting to pounce.
“You a newspaper reporter?” she said. “Peoria?” It was the flashy clothes, but he looked surprised. “What they been telling you?”
“Looks like I got a good story by the tail,” he said. ‘Last of the Old Owlhoot Gunslingers Goes to a Pauper’s Grave.’ That kind of angle. Ma’am, I wonder if you could help me flesh out the story some.”
“Well, I got flesh to spare,” Grandma said mildly. “Who’s been talking to you?”
“It was mainly an elderly lady.”
“Ugly as sin, calls herself Wilcox?” Grandma said. “She’s been in the state hospital for the insane until just here lately, but as a reporter I guess you nosed that out.”
Mary Alice nudged me hard, and the reporter’s eyes widened.
“They tell you how Shotgun come by his name?”
“Opinions seem to vary, ma’am.
“Ah well, fame is fleeting,” Grandma said. “He got it in the Civil War.”
The reporter’s hand hovered over his breast pocket, where a notepad stuck out.
“Oh yes, Shotgun went right through the war with the Illinois Volunteers. Shiloh in the spring of sixty-two, and he was with U.S. Grant when Vicksburg fell. That’s where he got his name. Grant give it to him, in fact. Shotgun didn’t hold with government-issue firearms. He shot rebels with his old Remington pump-action that he’d used to kill quail back here at home.”
Now Mary Alice was yanking on my shirttail. We knew kids lie all the time, but Grandma was no kid, and she could tell some whoppers. Of course the reporter had been lied to big-time up at the cafe, but Grandma’s lies were more interesting, even historical. They made Shotgun look better while they left Effie Wilcox in the dust.
“He was always a crack shot,” she said, winding down. “Come home from the war with a line of medals bigger than his chest.”
“And yet he died penniless,” the reporter said in a thoughtful voice.
“Oh well, he’d sold off them medals and give the money to war widows and orphans.”
A change crossed the reporter’s narrow face. Shotgun had gone from kill-crazy gunslinger to war-hero marksman. Philanthropist, even. He fumbled his notepad out and was scribbling. He thought he’d hit pay dirt with Grandma. “It’s all a matter of record,” she said. “You could look it up.”
He was ready to wire in a new story: “Civil War Hero Handpicked by U. S. Grant Called to the Great Campground in the Sky.” Something like that. “And he never married?”
“Never did,” Grandma said. “He broke Effie Wilcox’s heart. She’s bitter still, as you see.”
“And now he goes to a pauper’s grave with none to mark his passing,” the reporter said, which may have been a sample of his writing style.
“They tell you that?” Grandma said. “They’re pulling your leg, sonny. You drop by The Coffee Pot and tell them you heard that Shotgun’s being buried from my house with full honors. He’ll spend his last night above ground in my front room, and you’re invited.”
The reporter backed down the porch stairs, staggering under all this new material. “Much obliged, ma’am,” he said.
“Happy to help,” Grandma said.
[S4]
Mary Alice had turned loose of my shirttail. What little we knew about grown-ups didn’t seem to cover Grandma. She turned on us. “Now I’ve got to change my shoes and walk all the way up to the lumberyard in this heat,” she said, as if she hadn’t brought it all on herself. Up at the lumberyard they’d be knocking together Shotgun Cheatham’s coffin and sending the bill to the county, and Grandma had to tell them to bring that coffin to her house, with Shotgun in it.
By nightfall a green pine coffin stood on two sawhorses in the bay window of the front room, and people milled in the yard. They couldn’t see Shotgun from there because the coffin lid blocked the view. Besides, a heavy gauze hung from the open lid and down over the front of the coffin to veil him. Shotgun hadn’t been exactly fresh when they discovered his b~dy. Grandma had flung open every window, but there was a peculiar smell in the room. I’d only had one look at him when they’d carried in the coffin, and that was enough. I’ll tell you just two things about him. He didn’t have his teeth in, and he was wearing bib overalls.
The people in the yard still couldn’t believe Grandma was holding open house. This didn’t stop the reporter who was haunting the parlor, looking for more flesh to add to his story. And it didn’t stop Mrs. L. J. Weidenbach, the banker’s wife, who came leading her father, an ancient codger half her size in full Civil War Union blue.
“We are here to pay our respects at this sad time,” Mrs. Weidenbach said when Grandma let them in. “When I told Daddy that Shotgun had been decorated by U. S. Grant and wounded three times at Bull Run, it brought it all back to him, and we had to come.” Her old daddy wore a forage cap and a decoration from the Grand Army of the Republic, and he seemed to have no idea where he was. She led him up to the coffin, where they admired the flowers. Grandma had planted a pitcher of glads from her garden at either end of the pine box. In each pitcher she’d stuck an American flag.
A few more people willing to brave Grandma came and went, but finally we were down to the reporter, who’d settled into the best chair, still nosing for news. Then who appeared at the front door but Mrs. Effie Wilcox, in a hat.
“Mrs. Dowdel, I’ve come to set with you overnight and see our brave old soldier through his Last Watch.”
In those days people sat up with a corpse through the final night before burial. I’d have bet money Grandma wouldn’t let Mrs. Wilcox in for a quick look, let alone overnight. But of course Grandma was putting on the best show possible to pull wool over the reporter 5 eyes. Little though she seemed to think of townspeople, she thought less of strangers. Grandma waved Mrs. Wilcox inside, and in she came, her eyes all over the place. She made for the coffin, stared at the blank white gauze, and said, “Don’t he look natural?”
Then she drew up a chair next to the reporter. He flinched because he had it on good authority that she’d just been let out of an insane asylum. “Warm, ain’t it?” she said straight at him, but looking everywhere.
The crowd outside finally dispersed. Mary Alice and I hung at the edge of the room, too curious to be anywhere else.
“If you’re here for the long haul,” Grandma said to the reporter, “how about a beer?” He looked encouraged, and Grandma left him to Mrs. Wilcox, which was meant as a punishment. She came back with three of her home brews, cellar-cool. She brewed beer to drink herself; but these three bottles were to see the reporter through the night. She wouldn’t have expected her worst enemy, Effie Wilcox, to drink alcohol in front of a man.
In normal circumstances the family recalls stories about the departed to pass the long night hours. But these circumstances weren’t normal, and quite a bit had already been recalled about Shotgun Cheatham anyway.
[S5]
Only a single lamp burned, and as midnight drew on, the glads drooped in their pitchers. I was wedged in a corner, beginning to doze, and Mary Alice was sound asleep on a throw rug. After the second beer the reporter lolled, visions of Shotgun’s Civil War glories no doubt dancing in his head. You could hear the tick of the kitchen clock. Grandma’s chin would drop, then jerk back. Mrs. Wilcox had been humming “Rock of Ages,” but tapered off after “let me hide myself in thee.”
Then there was the quietest sound you ever heard. Somewhere between a rustle and a whisper. It brought me around, and I saw Grandma sit forward and cock her head. I blinked to make sure I was awake, and the whole world seemed to listen. Not a leaf trembled outside. But the gauze that hung down over the open coffin moved. Twitched.
Except for Mary Alice, we all saw it. The reporter sat bolt upright, and Mrs. Wilcox made a little sound.
Then nothing.
Then the gauze rippled as if a hand had passed across it from the other side, and in one place it wrinkled into a wad as if somebody had snagged it. As if a feeble hand had reached up from the coffin depths in one last desperate attempt to live before the dirt was shoveled in.
Every hair on my head stood up.
“Naw,” Mrs. Wilcox said, strangling. She pulled back in her chair, and her hat went forward. “Naw!”
The reporter had his chair arms in a death grip. “Sweet mother of —”
But Grandma rocketed out of her chair. “Whoa, Shotgun!” she bellowed. “You’ve had your time, boy. You don’t get no more!”
She galloped out of the room faster than I could believe. The reporter was riveted, and Mrs. Wilcox was sinking fast.
Quicker than it takes to tell, Grandma was back, and already raised to her aproned shoulder was the twelve-gauge Winchester from behind the woodbox. She swung it wildly around the room, skimming Mrs. Wilcox’s hat, and took aim at the gauze that draped the yawning coffin. Then she squeezed off a round.
I thought that sound would bring the house down around us. I couldn’t hear right for a week. Grandma roared out, “Rest in peace, you old — ” Then she let fly with the other barrel.
The reporter came out of the chair and whipped completely around in a circle. Beer bottles went everywhere. The straight route to the front door was in Grandma’s line of fire, and he didn’t have the presence of mind to realize she’d already discharged both barrels. He went out a side window, headfirst, leaving his hat and his notepad behind. Which he feared more, the living dead or Grandma’s aim, he didn’t tarry to tell. Mrs. Wilcox was on her feet, hollering, “The dead is walking, and Mrs. Dowdel’s gunning for me!” She cut and ran out the door and into the night.
When the screen door snapped to behind her, silence fell. Mary Alice hadn’t moved. The first explosion had blasted her awake, but she naturally thought that Grandma had killed her, so she didn’t bother to budge.. She says the whole experience gave her nightmares for years after.
A burned-powder haze hung in the room, cutting the smell of Shotgun Cheatham. The white gauze was black rags now, and Grandma had blown the lid clear of the coffin. She’d have blown out all three windows in the bay, except they were open. As it was, she’d pitted her woodwork bad and topped the snowball bushes outside. But apart from scattered shot, she hadn’t disfigured Shotgun Cheatham any more than he already was.
Grandma stood there savoring the silence. Then she turned toward the kitchen with the twelve-gauge loose in her hand. “Time you kids was in bed,” she said as she trudged past us.
Apart from Grandma herself; I was the only one who’d seen her big old snaggletoothed tomcat streak out of the coffin and over the windowsill when she let fire. And I supposed she’d seen him climb in, which gave her ideas. It was the cat, sitting smug on Shotgun Cheatham’s breathless chest, who’d batted at the gauze the way a cat will. And he sure lit out the way he’d come when Grandma fired just over his ragged ears, as he’d probably used up eight lives already.
The cat in the coffin gave Grandma Dowdel her chance. She didn’t seem to have any time for Effie Wilcox, whose tongue flapped at both ends, but she had even less for newspaper reporters who think your business is theirs. Courtesy of the cat, she’d fired a round, so to speak, in the direction of each.
Though she didn’t gloat, she looked satisfied. It certainly fleshed out her reputation and gave people new reason to leave her in peace. The story of Shotgun Cheat-ham’s last night above ground kept The Coffee Pot Cafe fully engaged for the rest of our visit that summer. It was a story that grew in the telling in one of those little towns where there’s always time to ponder all the different kinds of truth.
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A federal appeals court reversed the breakup of Microsoft Thursday and ordered that a new judge decide the landmark case. It was a major victory for the embattled software maker.
The appeals court ruled that US District Judge Thomas Penfield Jackson improperly conducted himself in the case, leaving himself open to the appearance he was biased against Microsoft.
“We vacate the judgment on remedies, because the trial judge engaged in impermissible ex parte contacts by holding secret interviews with members of the media and made numerous offensive comments about Microsoft officials in public statements outside of the courtroom, giving rise to an appearance of partiality,” the court said.
“Although we find no evidence of actual bias, we hold that the actions of the trial judge seriously tainted the proceedings before the District Court and called into question the integrity of the judicial process,” the court added.
The ruling was unanimous, by a 7-0 vote.
Jackson ruled Microsoft had engaged in anti-competitive practices by packaging its Windows operating system with its Internet Explorer Web browser. He concluded the company was an illegal monopoly and ordered the software giant broken into two as a penalty.
By vacating the ruling, the appeals court sent the case back to the lower court but ordered that a different judge handle the decision on how to punish Microsoft.
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The Call of Love
Commentary: August 22, 2005 is an unusual day for Li Sijian, who works at Nanjing South City Sub-branch, China Agricultural Bank Nanjing Branch for on that day she unexpectedly heard from a stranger.
Actual sound: (Li Sijian) “The letter was from Shaanxi province. I figured I had neither relatives nor friends there, so I opened it right at my office.”
Commentary: It was a girl who wrote to Li Sijian. She didn’t know Li Sijian and even addressed her as “Uncle Li”. Li felt uneasy about such a weird letter, but after she finished reading, her eyes moistened.
Commentary: In autumn, 1996, the sub-branch where she worked for organized its staff to donate clothing to poor children. Li, then 33, was the mother of a ten-year-old boy. Maybe because she herself was a mother, Li showed extra solicitude for the donation special sympathy for children from impoverished families. She put a slip of paper into the pocket of a cotton-padded jacket. (Change to female voice-over) “My child, when you put on this jacket and see this note, we know each other then. How old are you? Which grade are you in? Where do you live? What family members do you have? How is your life like? What are your parents? My child, if you can’t go to school because of poverty, do you need help? If so, write to me…”
Actual sound: (Yang Jun, Li Sijiun’s husband) “What? She did another romantic thing, I thought.”
Commentary: Being a romantic woman by nature, Li didn’t do it on impulse. She said that she did it after careful consideration.
Actual sound: (Li Sijian) “It occurred to me when I wrote the note that since it was so hard for people in the old revolutionary base areas afford clothes it would be much harder very hard for them to receive education. By sparing just several hundred uan a year I could part of the help fostering a child. Meanwhile, it might be beneficial to my son’s growth by comparing him a city boy with a child from a backward area.” (Dong Zhongyong’s colleague) “Only she can do it. In our daily contact with her we feel she is always happy to help others.”
Commentary: But one year passed and then two years, the note in the cotton-padded jacket just like a little stone thrown into the sea received no responses.
Actual sound: (Li Sijian) “I was afraid that the note couldn’t reach the child.What if it was sorted out thrown away in the process of donation? Whatever will happen to the note, I put it into the jacket anyway. In case it is replied, isn’t it fate that brings us together?”
Commentary: Another several years went by in a flash. The couple’s expectation of a letter appealing for help was gradually turned into the concern for the wellbeing of the new owner of the jacket What kind of child was he/she? Could he/she go to school?
Actual sound: (Li Sijian) “With the economic pressure of my son’s education increasing and my work becoming busier, I gradually forgot the that incident gradually slipped my mind. But every year when the names of students who are admitted to college and the names of students in need of help appear in newspapers, I will think of it.”
Commentary: Nine years passed and Li’s son entered college. However, the long awaited letter had not come yet. Li came to believe that probably the note was lost. On the morning of August 22, when her colleague put a registered letter from Shaanxi into her hands, she never related it to the note nine years ago. (Girl’s voice, reading letter) Honorable Uncle Li, How do you do! How are you these years? How is your work getting on? Do you still remember a jacket you donated in the winter of 1996 and the note in its pocket? I am the girl you contributed to. My name is Wang Cui and I am 19 this year. I live in a poor mountainous area in Zhen’an County, Shaanxi province. My 45 years old parents are peasants. My grandma who is over seventy , and in poor health, has to be supported by my parents have to support her. When we received the clothes donated by you, I was ten years old and in grade four. At that time my father earned barely enough to sustain the family, so my parents decided not to write for help for the moment. I kept that note all along. This year I was am admitted to college but my parents cannot afford my tuition. I really cannot bear seeing my parents run around here and there to borrow money for me. But I am most reluctant to give up my schooling because to a child from the mountainous area education is the only way out. Uncle Li, I don’t know if you can receive this letter. Nine years have passed, I don’t know if you have transferred moved to another city. Whether you can help me again or not, my family will be deeply grateful and remember your timely help forever.
Actual sound: (Li Sijian) “The letter read ‘Do you still remember the slip of paper in the cotton-padded jacket you donated nine years ago?’ Ah! The child wrote to me! My first reaction was that she needed help right now.”
Commentary: Li got confirmed through the Internet that Wang Cui was indeed admitted to Northeast Agricultural University in Harbin. Li at once determined to keep the promise she made nine years ago and help this girl.
Actual sound: (Li Sijian) “After all I left a note and I made the promise myself. No matter how many years had passed I should adhere to the promise. So I dialed the telephone number given in the letter. It happened that the girl picked up the phone. Then I told her that I was from Nanjing but not uncle Li and that I was the one who left a note in that cotton-padded jacket and she could call me aunt Li. When she called me aunt Li on the phone her voice was choked with sobs.”
Commentary: Wang Cui told over the phone that she had seen the note nine years before. But her unyielding father didn’t expect her to trouble othersand write for help. Even he letter in Li’s hands was written by behind her father’s.
Actual sound: (Wang Cui) “In October, 1996 the donative clothes were distributed to my family. My mother gave me one. Having put it on. I took out a piece of paper from the pocket.
Commentary: At that time, Wang Cui was 10 years old and in grade four. She was so happy to see the note with deep love that she showed it to her parents immediately.
Actual sound: (Wang Baoshan, Wang Cui’s father) “In the society, ability is measured by money, without which means stupidity. I feel guilty of accepting help from others. At that time our family was able to go on with our living in my village, therefore I didn’t let my child write for help.”
Commentary: Wang Cui had to put this note away. Although her father to didn’t allow her to write for help, the love from a thousand miles away filled the girl with unprecedented warmth. (Girl’s voice, reading letter) Uncle Li, I always keep your note together with the jacket you donated to me at the bottom of the wardrobe. Over the nine years when I came across difficulties or setbacks I would take it out and read it again. Through reading I felt kindness and warmth I know someone from a thousand miles away is always caring about me and always encouraging me which gives me enough courage to overcome difficulties. Uncle Li, during the nine years my family was overtaken by a misfortune, which broke our poor but quiet life. The whole family suffered a lot physically and mentally, and I nearly dropped out of school. At the bitterest moment I took out your note once more. It was your note that gave me confidence and helped me get through the most difficult days.
Commentary: Wang Cui comes from Miliang Township, Zhen’an County, a poverty-stricken mountainous area. Fenghe Village, where Wang Cui’s family live, is even poorer. Wang Cui’s father is a tough man who goes out doing temporary jobs to support the family. However, unexpected things may happen any time. A disaster befell such a tenacious family in the winter of 1996, the second month after Wang Cui got the note. (Girl’s voice, reading letter) Uncle Li, the second month after I received your note, my brother got a strange disease. His head ached often and when the ache came on, he rolled about on the ground. We sent him to county hospital and he got well after several dropping bottles of saline infusion. But several months later the disease came on again. Finally when my parents had to take him to the provincial hospital, we found out that he had got cerebral hemorrhage.
Actual sound: (Wang Baoshan, Wang Cui’s father) “Had we had money, he could have been operated at Xi’an Army Hospital. But I was short of money.” (Li Gaolan, Wang Cui’s mother) “In the end we came back without curing him. My family’s financial situation was very bad.” (Girl’s voice, reading letter) When cerebral hemorrhage was diagnosed, my brother was only eight. He had to receive conservative treatment for lack of money. Even so, 4 years of conservative treatment made my father run into debts of 80000 yuan. Later it was more and more difficult for him to borrow money. My brother even couldn’t receive conservative treatment any more. Seeing my overworked father and my brother lying in the sickbed, I considered leaving school, which was strongly opposed by my father. Again I thought of your note, but my father said we shouldn’t trouble you.
Actual sound: (Wang Baoshan, Wang Cui’s father) “I thought of the note too. Aunt Li promised to finance my child’s schooling in her letter, but during my son’s treatment I thought I was able to borrow money step by step.”
Commentary: Father didn’t let Wang Cui write the letter for help at last. With no money to have operations, Wang Cui’s brother had to recuperate at home. One evening in July 2000, it drizzled suddenly. The parents who had been busy with farm work, hurried home to take shelter from the rain. Upon entering the house, the couple was horrified by what they saw.
Actual sound: (Li Gaolan, Wang Cui’s mother) “He was lying on the ground with the illness coming on. I held him in the arms and shook him, but he was dying. I almost fainted. It was raining heavily then. I said to his father, ‘We must send him to the county hospital. Poor as we are, we must cure our child. I still have my child however hard I work. As a mother I have everything as long as my child is alive.’ Finally I said to the doctor, ‘I beg you. Please use the best medicine and cure my son.’ He said, ‘I have tried my best and your son is incurable.’” (Wang Baoshan, Wang Cui’s father) “My son was a good boy. He was very smart. He missed timely medical treatment. I only blame myself for lack of money.” (Li Gaolan, Wang Cui’s mother) “Sometimes I dream of my boy. All these years I’ve lived a hard life. He died at the age of 12 and was this tall.”
Commentary: After her brother’s premature death, her parents almost broke down. They lay in bed all day refusing to eat or drink. They had hatred in the heart. They hated themselves for being too poor to save their child. Wang Cui, then 14, was a middle school student. She love her brother. Facing her brother’s premature death, her heart broke. However, unlike her parents, she didn’t shut herself up in the house without doing anything. Instead, she asked neighbors to help her with brother’s funeral.
Actual sound: (Zhang Shedi, Wang Cui’s neighbor) “After her brother passed away, her parents were hit so hard that they collapsed, while she remained conscious to arrange the funeral. She often helped to cook for the neighbors. It was beyond our imagination because she was so young, middle school student then. From this small thing I believed she is an unusual girl.” (Wang Cui) “My parents lay in bed broken down. I must brace up. In fact I was very upset in my innermost heart. My brother and I were on very good terms. I had no choice. Only by toughening up could I sustain this family. I had no choice.”
Commentary: After the funeral, the parents gradually recovered from the pain of losing the son. After all they had to move on. Father began to go out doing temporary jobs again. He worked harder than before because he had two goals in mind: one was to pay off debts as soon as possible; the other was to earn more money to support his daughter’s education. Luckily, Wang Cui didn’t let her father down. One year later, she was admitted to a provincial key senior high school for her outstanding scores. But Wang Cui’s aim was higher than that. She wanted to go to college in order to liberate her parents who had worked hard all their lives.
Actual sound: (Wang Cui) “For other children, going to college is probably for their own future. As to me, there are two reasons. Firstly, my family is so poor and my parents work so hard. I want to change my family’s financial situation, live up to my parents’ expectations and prove myself to be a valuable person. Secondly, it is for my future because it is very difficult for me to make some achievements in this mountainous area, where I can’t display my talents. Only by going to college can I realize my dreams.” (Zhang Shedi, Wang Cui’s neighbor) “It can be said college education will change her life and the conditions of her family for I think the only way out in this place is to receive education.”
Commentary: This year Wang Cui took college entrance examinations and got 576 marks. She was admitted to a provincial key university of Heilongjiang province.
Actual sound: (Li Gaolan, Wang Cui’s mother) “Going to college is indeed my daughter’s dream. As parents, we also want her to go to college.”
Commentary: Wang Cui’s admission to college was a great joy not only to the family but also to the whole village. But her parents had no time to share their daughter’s happiness. They went everywhere to raise money for her tuition. Soon a month passed and the enrolment day of college was drawing nearer and nearer, but they had not made up the money for tuition. Her parents started to worry.
Actual sound: (Li Gaolan, Wang Cui’s mother) “The enrolment fee was 5000 yuan, so I went everywhere to borrow money. Every day I ran from one relative to another. But even if I borrow enough money this year, how about next year? We can’t pay back 4 years’ tuition. We felt anxious.” (Wang Baoshan, Wang Cui’s father) “To send Wang Cui to college I borrowed (a large sum of money) in order to send Wang Cui to college.”
Commentary: Wang Cui had the impression her father and mother shed tears twice: the first time was for her brother’s death; the second was for her tuition. Having no way out, once more Wang Cui thought of the note at the bottom of the wardrobe. (Girl’s voice, reading letter) Uncle Li, my brother’s death was a great blow to my family, but meanwhile it made me know that I had to change the backward mountainous area so that the tragedy wouldn’t happen to other mountainous families again. That’s why I am eager to study and to go to college. because only in this way can I change it. I sincerely hope that this letter will be delivered to you and that you can help me. You are not helping me alone but all the people in this mountainous area.
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(Page updated: July, 2010; August, 2012;
September, 2014; June, 2015; September, 2016; September, 2018; September, 2020;
September, 2021)
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http://nlp.nju.edu.cn/kep/TOC/T.html
http://keping.sprinterweb.net/TOC/T.html
http://nlp.nju.edu.cn/kep/T-EC-AnnotatedT-Sample.htm
http://keping.sprinterweb.net/T-EC-AnnotatedT-Sample.htm
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Shuttleworth, Mark, & Cowie,
Moira. (1997). Dictionary of Translation
Studies.
Munday, Jeremy. (2001). Introducing Translation Studies: Theories and Applications. London: Routledge. xv+222 pp.
A Short Reading List
for Translation Studies
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II, …….??????. 2006- .)
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http://nlp.nju.edu.cn/kep/TOC/TS.html
http://keping.sprinterweb.net/TOC/TS.html
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