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English to Italian: Oscar Wilde - The Picture of Dorian Gray General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - English The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.
From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flame-like as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion.
The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.
In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, come little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at that time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.
As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake.
Translation - Italian Lo studio era pervaso dal profumo intenso delle rose, e quando la brezza estiva agitava gli arbusti del giardino, attraverso la porta aperta giungeva l’odore carico dei lillà, o la più delicata fragranza del biancospino.
Dall’angolo del divano dalla tappezzeria orientale su cui era steso, fumando, com’era sua abitudine, una sigaretta dopo l’altra, lord Henry Wotton intravvedeva il baluginio dei boccioli color del miele, e colmi della stessa dolcezza, di un laburno, i cui rami tremuli sembravano reggere a stento il peso di una tale fiammeggiante bellezza. Di tanto in tanto, le ombre stravaganti degli uccelli passavano veloci dietro le tende di seta tussah tirate davanti l’enorme finestra, creando per un attimo un’atmosfera giapponese, riportandogli alla mente quei pittori di Tokyo dal pallido viso di giada che, attraverso un’arte per sua natura statica, cercano di trasmettere il senso del movimento.
Il cupo ronzio delle api che ci facevano strada tra l’erba incolta, o che giravano con monotona insistenza attorno agli stami dorati e polverosi del volubile caprifoglio, sembrava rendere il silenzio ancora più opprimente. Il rombo sommesso di Londra ricordava la nota di bordone di un organo lontano.
Al centro della stanza, fissato su un cavalletto verticale, era sistemato il ritratto a figura intera di un giovane di straordinaria bellezza, e di fronte, poco distante, era seduto l’artista stesso, Basil Hallward, la cui improvvisa scomparsa, qualche anno prima, aveva causato enorme scompiglio e dato origine a molte bizzarre congetture.
Mentre il pittore ammirava la figura elegante che così abilmente aveva rispecchiato nella sua opera, un sorriso compiaciuto gli illuminò il volto, e sembrò indugiarvi. Ma d’improvviso si alzò in piedi, e, chiudendo gli occhi, si posò le dita sulle palpebre, come se stesse cercando di intrappolare nella mente uno strano sogno da cui temeva di risvegliarsi.
English to Italian: Esmé Weijun Wang - The Border of Paradise: A Novel General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - English He died just when things seemed like they were getting better. He was eating at the table with us, and letting Gillian in the shed with him when he worked on skinning and stuffing his animals. He was even playing with us again.
“Fish verbs,” he said one morning, coming into the kitchen.
I looked up. “Flounder,” I said.
Gillian said, “Char.”
He grinned and gave us each a quarter from his mysterious pockets. I thought of my father as an unpredictable and skittish animal. I thought of David as a year of storms and blizzards stuffed into one man.
I knew what was going on as soon as the phone rang that day, sounding like a scream, because we never received calls, and the phone was only for emergencies. Everyone was raving mad for an intolerable duration, especially Ma and Gillian. I’m not saying that I was immune to the effects of my father’s death, but it was true that I was never his favorite, and I mostly felt merely tolerated by him. If I think about it too much—which I have, over the years—I could also say that I was scared of him. Mostly I worried about Gillian, who was his beloved, and who was too small to be confronted by something so big. When David died Gillian cried under her bed until she couldn’t move, and as she lay there I walked up to the bed. Then I squeezed myself under the bed with her, and we held hands while she cried and cried, and I thought, How could you do this to her? to a ghost.
Ma was angry. She was quiet and she was angry. Her gestures were sharp. Every drawer was closed with too much force. I thought she would take the doors off their hinges. She shouted, “Fuck!” when she dropped a pepper or a fork, but for the most part, she let her actions shriek for her.
Translation - Italian Morì proprio quando sembrava che le cose stessero migliorando. Mangiava a tavola con noi, e lasciava che Gillian rimanesse nel capanno con lui quando scuoiava e imbalsamava i suoi animali. Aveva persino ripreso a giocare con noi.
“Sia pesci che oggetti” disse un mattino, entrando in cucina.
Alzai la testa. “Palla” risposi.
Gillian disse: “Spada”.
Lui sorrise e ci diede un quarto di dollaro a testa dalle sue tasche misteriose. Vedevo mio padre come un animale imprevedibile e ombroso. Vedevo David come un anno di temporali e tormente imbottigliati in un unico uomo.
Quel giorno capii cos’era successo nel momento stesso in cui il telefono cominciò a squillare: fu come un grido, perché nessuno ci chiamava mai, e il telefono serviva solo per le emergenze.
Tutti andarono fuori di testa per un tempo intollerabilmente lungo, soprattutto Ma e Gillian. Non dico di essere stato immune agli effetti della morte di mio padre, ma non ero mai stato il suo preferito, e avevo l’impressione che semplicemente mi tollerasse. Se ci penso troppo – cosa che ho fatto, nel corso degli anni – direi anche che avevo paura di lui. Ero più che altro preoccupato per Gillian, la sua amata Gillian, che era troppo piccola per affrontare qualcosa di così grande. Quando David morì, Gillian pianse sotto il letto finché non riuscì più a muoversi, e mentre giaceva lì, la raggiunsi, mi infilai accanto a lei, e la tenni per mano mentre lei piangeva e piangeva, e io pensavo, rivolto a un fantasma: Come hai potuto farle questo?
Ma era arrabbiata. Taciturna e arrabbiata. I suoi gesti erano bruschi. Ogni cassetto veniva chiuso con troppa forza. Pensavo che avrebbe finito per scardinare le porte. Urlava: “Cazzo” quando le cadevano un peperone o una forchetta, ma per la maggior parte del tempo lasciava che fossero le sue azioni a urlare per lei.
English to Italian: Dan Brown - Origin General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - English As the ancient cogwheel train clawed its way up the dizzying incline, Edmond Kirsch surveyed the jagged mountaintop above him. In the distance, built into the face of a sheer cliff, the massive stone monastery seemed to hang in space, as if magically fused to the vertical precipice.
This timeless sanctuary in Catalonia, Spain, had endured the relentless pull of gravity for more than four centuries, never slipping from its original purpose: to insulate its occupants from the modern world.
Ironically, they will now be the first to learn the truth, Kirsch thought, wondering how they would react. Historically, the most dangerous men on earth were men of God . . . especially when their gods became threatened. And I am about to hurl a flaming spear
into a hornets’ nest.
When the train reached the mountaintop, Kirsch saw a solitary figure waiting for him on the platform. The wizened skeleton of a man was draped in the traditional Catholic purple cassock and white rochet, with a zucchetto on his head. Kirsch recognized his
host’s rawboned features from photos and felt an unexpected surge of adrenaline.
Valdespino is greeting me personally.
Bishop Antonio Valdespino was a formidable figure in Spain—not only a trusted friend and counselor to the king himself, but one of the country’s most vocal and influential advocates for the preservation of conservative Catholic values and traditional political standards.
“Edmond Kirsch, I assume?” the bishop intoned as Kirsch exited the train.
“Guilty as charged,” Kirsch said, smiling as he reached out to shake his host’s bony hand. “Bishop Valdespino, I want to thank you for arranging this meeting.”
“I appreciate your requesting it.” The bishop’s voice was stronger than Kirsch expected—clear and penetrating, like a bell. “It is not often we are consulted by men of science, especially one of your prominence. This way, please.”
Translation - Italian Mentre l’antico treno a cremagliera si inerpicava lungo il pendio vertiginoso, Edmond Kirsch scrutava la cima frastagliata della montagna sopra di lui. In lontananza, incastonato nella parete di un dirupo, l’imponente monastero di pietra sembrava sospeso nel vuoto, come se fosse magicamente fuso al precipizio.
Quel santuario senza tempo della Catalogna, in Spagna, resisteva all’implacabile forza di gravità da più di quattro secoli, senza mai sottrarsi al suo scopo originario: isolare i suoi occupanti dal mondo e dalla modernità.
Ironia della sorte, ora saranno loro i primi a conoscere la verità, pensò Kirsch, chiedendosi come avrebbero reagito. Storicamente, gli uomini più pericolosi erano gli uomini di Dio… soprattutto quando le loro divinità venivano minacciate. E io sto per scagliare una lancia infuocata in un nido di vespe.
Quando il treno raggiunse la cima della montagna, Kirsch vide una figura solitaria ad attenderlo sulla piattaforma. Lo scheletro rinsecchito di un uomo era avvolto negli abiti tradizionali cattolici, una tonaca viola e un rocchetto bianco, e portava uno zucchetto sul capo. Kirsch riconobbe i lineamenti affilati del suo ospite dalle foto e provò un’inaspettata scarica di adrenalina.
Valdespino ha voluto accogliermi personalmente.
In Spagna, il vescovo Antonio Valdespino era una figura temuta: non solo era amico e consigliere fidato del re, ma era anche uno dei sostenitori più attivi e influenti della difesa dei valori cattolici e degli standard politici tradizionali.
“Edmond Kirsch, presumo” intonò il vescovo quando Kirsch scese dal treno.
“Colpevole” disse Kirsch, sorridendo e stringendo la mano ossuta del suo ospite. “Vescovo Valdespino, la ringrazio per aver organizzato questo incontro.”
“E io sono grato a lei per averlo richiesto.” La voce del vescovo era più sonora di quanto Kirsch si aspettasse. Chiara e squillante, come una campana. “Non accade spesso di essere interpellati da uomini di scienza, soprattutto da uno del suo spessore. Da questa parte, prego.”
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Years of experience: 6. Registered at ProZ.com: Feb 2020.
Adobe Acrobat, Crowdin, MateCat, Microsoft Excel, Microsoft Word, Smartcat
Bio
I’ve been reading pretty much since I can remember, learning from comic books and fairy tales read with my parents when I was a kid. After a brief parenthesis when I wanted to study biology (CSI was all the rage at that time, but me and maths & physics never got along), when it was time to go to university I chose Modern Literature. And I loved it. And I continued with an MA in Modern Philology. During the second year of the MA I went to Ireland (a dream come true) with the Erasmus programme, and I ended up being that 1-out-of-3-Italian-students that never got back. I studied there (Digital Humanities at UCC), worked in customer support, and just had a great time in the real-life version of The Shire.
After 4 years of rainbows and beer, I felt like I needed a new adventure. After a few weeks travelling around the Balkans, I moved to Bulgaria, where I’m currently based. I started working as a translator while doing customer support for a Bulgarian company, translating tutorials and other IT-related materials from English to Italian, till when I managed to go back to my real passion, books. Another dream come true.
Lately, I’ve been translating some paranormal novels, and I look back at that teenager who spent hours and hours playing RPG via chat when the connection was still at 56k, living her character’s adventures in worlds populated by vampires and demons and elves and all of that… and I feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be.
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