журнал Сверхновая Fantasy and Science Fiction
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Мастерская перевода фантастики работает на факультете журналистики МГУ под руководством Ларисы Михайловой.

Задача мастерской - готовить молодых переводчиков, способных полнокровно передать своеобразие и смысл оригинала, рассказов и повестей фантастов разных стран, пишущих сегодня. Лучшие работы студентов регулярно публикуются в "Сверхновой".

В этом разделе мы будем помещать отрывки из планируемых к публикации произведений для пробного перевода (естественно, не с помощью всяческих электронных переводчиков :) Наиболее удачные варианты послужат, мы надеемся, основой будущего сотрудничества. В материалах для перевода недостатка пока не наблюдается...

Лучшие работы студентов:

Кейт Вильхельм "Цветам давая имена" в переводе Ольги Фединой

Бонита Кейл "Прибежище Энни" в переводе Марины Митько

Уэйн Уайтмен "Возвращение электрозоидов" в переводе Андрея Липатцева

Пол де Филиппо "Краткий курс искусствоведения" в переводе Юлии Смиренской

Кристин Раш "Город Ангелов" в переводе Марии Дубовской

Кэролин Ив Гилмэн "Свеча в бутылке" в переводе Дарьи Кутузовой

Отрывок для пробного перевода:

Благодарим всех приславших пробный перевод первого отрывка из романа де Линта. Некоторые варианты выполнены на хорошем уровне, мы обязательно свяжемся с авторами таких переводов. Всем спасибо. А теперь - новый отрывок.


Eithnie returned to her cabin and carefully shut the door behind her. She leaned against its thick wooden panels for a long moment before she slowly made her way to a chair and lowered herself into it. She spent the rest of the after­noon in a daze, staring out the window, waiting for the quiet, pastoral scene to reawaken with her own private showing of Fantasia. But the fields remained unchanged. No trees danced at the edge of the forest on spindly twig legs; no fox faces watched her from the shadows; no masked woman sat with a leather-bound book upon her lap, folds of brocade waterfalling from her shoulders, across her breasts, her thighs, and pooling at her feet. The tap-tap-tapping sound was only in her mind. Memory. Eventually it faded, leaked out of her mind the way the light left the sky, chasing shadows across the field as it fled. One of the cats scratched at the door and Eithnie lunged to her feet, looking wildly around the cabin for the broom or the poker or anything she could use as a weapon until she realized what the sound was. Opening the door, her old orange torn Tizzy regarded her from the porch, then stepped daintily inside, giving her leg a perfunctory rub as he went by. She waited the usual count of three and moments later Kate, her white tabby, came bounding up onto the porch and sauntered in as well.

Eithnie went through the mechanical motions of giv­ing them their supper, but she had no appetite herself. She was unable to shake the feeling that the forest had crept closer to her cabin under the cover of the night. She drew the curtains and lowered blinds throughout the cabin until every dark eye was covered..

She forced herself to eat some toast then, washing it down with a soothing herbal tea. But still she couldn't relax. For the first time since she'd bought the cabin, she regretted the purchase. Suddenly she longed for the com­forting intrusion of noisy city streets. She wanted to be surrounded by people, each going about his or her busi­ness, the world unchanged.

Tap-tap-tap she heard in her mind, a brief echo of memory that faded and was gone almost before she could focus on it.

Finally she went up to bed. She removed her shoes, then lay down fully clothed, tucked herself in under the comforter, and stared up at the ceiling with the same single-mindedness with which she'd watched the twilight come across the fields earlier in the evening. She was at once tense and unbearably weary, in both body and heart. But when she closed her eyes, she still saw that mask of red maple leaves, the skittering twig and branch shapes with their fox faces. She lay with her eyes open and tracked the small network of cracks in the ceiling plaster, following one line, then another, over and over again.

Emptiness haunted her inner landscape like a gray wash painted across her spirit, so thick in parts it was almost opaque, rendering invisible all the details that defined her, secreting them even from herself. It wasn't exactly an unfamiliar mood, yet it wasn't quite the same as the sense of despondency that seemed to be coming over her all too often of late.

It usually happened when she sat down at her drawing table and faced the blank white rectangle of stretched paper taped there, palette, brushes, and water all laid out, sketchbooks full of value studies and preliminary roughs leaning up against the wall within easy reach. She could still draw, she could still paint, but it was rendering, prac­tice, reference, not the evocation of an inner vision. Her finished work had become strictly naturalistic, adhering exactly to what she saw, rather than realistic, capturing the attitude, the expression, the emotion of her subjects.

Inspiration had fled, and gone with it was the inherent mystery that underscored casual inspection, the luminous soul of the world around her, which fueled the need to create her own side of the dialogue shared between observed and observer. Light had become simply a lack of darkness rather than the most expressive definition of shape and form and perspective. Cast shadows no longer held color, were merely an absence of light. She could no longer see spirit, only surface; and surface, for an artist of her predisposition, could never be enough.

She needed that luminosity. Mystery. Communication with something beyond herself. Without it, her paintings meant nothing to her. Her work became only so much pigment laid upon the paper in varying degrees of inten­sity. Abstract in the most negative sense of the word.

She found she had begun to fear the simple presence of that blank rectangle overshadowing everything else on her drawing board. The paper was so virgin, so unnatu­rally white, that anything she placed upon it—graphite, ink, watercolor—seemed an intrusion, a desecration. Any line she might draw would seem no better than a child's crayon marks on a kitchen wall. Or worse, graffiti spray-painted about the nave of a church. A mustache painted onto the perfectly rendered features of the young woman in Winslow Homer's "The New Novel." What had once been a magical window into whatever her imagination happened to conceive had dwindled into a mundane, two-dimensional piece of paper taped to her. She might as well wrap fish in it or stick it in the wood stove to start a fire. At least then it would prove to be of some use.

A contributor to this despondent mood was the fact that while she had many friends, she hadn't had a lover for even longer than the months it had been since her art had failed her and inspiration fled.

Almost a year and a half now, she thought, tracking a particularly complex webwork of cracks. Could it really have been so long?

Perhaps she was fated to spend her life alone, and that was all there was to it. But even that thought, depressing as It was, didn't account for the hollow feeling that had hold of her now.

She knew what it was.

It was the afternoon lying thick in her memory, the impossibility of what she'd experienced, the weight of the hallucinatory visitation.

She'd once yearned to see spirits in the air, especially when she was much younger, but flighty as she could be at times, living in the world of her imagination as she did, she'd always known the difference between what was real and what was not.

If she trusted her senses as to what she'd seen and heard today, then everything she knew about the world had to be redefined. If she didn't, then she'd gone off the deep end and that was even worse. As an artist, all she had to depend on were her senses. Without them she had nothing. If she couldn’t trust her senses, she might as well give up art.

Перевод (всего отрывка или половины) присылать по адресам larmih@gmail.com и editor@snovasf.com до 20 января 2008 г. Успехов!