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Translation, Editing/proofreading, Subtitling, Language instruction, Website localization, Copywriting, MT post-editing
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Specializes in:
Poetry & Literature
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French to English - Standard rate: 0.10 USD per word / 25 USD per hour / 0.40 USD per audio/video minute Japanese to English - Standard rate: 0.10 USD per character / 25 USD per hour / 0.40 USD per audio/video minute English to French - Standard rate: 0.10 USD per word / 25 USD per hour / 0.40 USD per audio/video minute English to Japanese - Standard rate: 0.10 USD per word / 25 USD per hour / 0.40 USD per audio/video minute Japanese to French - Standard rate: 0.10 USD per character / 25 USD per hour / 0.40 USD per audio/video minute
French to Japanese - Standard rate: 0.10 USD per word / 25 USD per hour / 0.40 USD per audio/video minute English - Standard rate: 0.10 USD per word / 25 USD per hour / 0.40 USD per audio/video minute French - Standard rate: 0.10 USD per word / 25 USD per hour / 0.40 USD per audio/video minute Japanese - Standard rate: 0.10 USD per character / 25 USD per hour / 0.40 USD per audio/video minute
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Portfolio
Sample translations submitted: 3
French to English: Hunting Horns by Guillaume Apollinaire General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - French Cors de chasse
par Guillaume Apollinaire
Notre histoire et noble et tragique
comme le masque d’un tyran
Nul drame hasardeux ou magique
Aucun détail indifférent
Ne rend notre amour pathétique
Et Thomas de Quincey buvant
l’opium poison doux et chaste
À sa pauvre Anne allait rêvant
Passons passons puisque tout passe
Je me retournerai souvent
Les souvenirs sont cors de chasse
Dont meurt le bruit parmi le vent
Translation - English Hunting Horns
by Guillaume Apollinaire
Our story is tragic and noble
like the mask of a tyrant;
no play, perilous or otherworldly,
no indifferent detail,
makes our love seemly.
And Thomas de Quincey, drinking
the poisonous opium, soft and chaste
would go to his poor Anne, dreaming,
we pass, we pass, as everything passes;
I will return often.
Memories are hunting horns
where the sound of the wind dies.
French to English: Notre Dame de Paris - final page General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - French Deux ans environ ou dix-huit mois après les événements qui terminent cette histoire, quand on vint rechercher dans la cave de Montfaucon le cadavre d’Olivier Le Daim, qui avait été pendu deux jours auparavant, et à qui Charles VIII accordait la grâce d’être enterré à Saint-Laurent en meilleure compagnie, on trouva parmi toutes ces carcasses hideuses deux squelettes dont l’un tenait l’autre singulièrement embrassé. L’un de ces deux squelettes, qui était celui d’une femme, avait encore quelques lambeaux de robe d’une étoffe qui avait été blanche, et on voyait autour de son cou un collier de grains d’adrézarach avec un petit sachet de soie, orné de verroterie verte, qui était ouvert et vide. Ces objets avaient si peu de valeur que le bourreau sans doute n’en avait pas voulu. L’autre, qui tenait celui-ci étroitement embrassé, était un squelette d’homme. On remarqua qu’il avait la colonne vertébrale déviée, la tête dans les omoplates, et une jambe plus courte que l’autre. Il n’avait d’ailleurs aucune rupture de vertèbre à la nuque, et il était évident qu’il n’avait pas été pendu. L’homme auquel il avait appartenu était donc venu là, et il y était mort. Quand on voulut le détacher du squelette qu’il embrassait, il tomba en poussière.
Translation - English About two years or eighteen months after the events that close this story, when the body of Olivier Le Daim, who had been hanged two days prior and to whom Charles VIII accorded the honor of being interred in Saint-Laurent in better company, was discovered in the cellar of Montfaucon, they also discovered among all of these hideous carcasses two skeletons, one holding the other in a singular embrace. One of these two skeletons, which was that of a woman, still had several scraps of a dress made from fabric that had been white, and around her neck one could see a necklace of Persian lilac seeds with a small silken pouch, adorned with green glassware, which was open and empty. These objects were of so little value that the executioner had undoubtedly not wanted them. The other, who held this one in a tight embrace, was the skeleton of a man. One could see that his spine was curved, his head down between the shoulder blades, and one leg was shorter than the other. He also had no breakage in the vertebrae at his neck, so it was clear that he had not been hanged. The man that it had belonged to had apparently come here, and here he had died. When they tried to separate him from the skeleton in his arms, he crumbled into dust.
Japanese to English: 私はうもをだきしめたい / I Want to Hold the Ocean in My Arms General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Translation - English I Want to Hold the Ocean in My Arms
by Sakaguchi Ango
Even while stories of long ago remain clear, we forget what happened only yesterday. Even while looking at what, from afar, looks enormous, objects held up close can grow hazy. Regarding ‘me,’ I can only recall things in that way; I can only see things in that way.
From the start, I have always sought out misfortune and suffering. I no longer wish for happiness, or anything of that sort. After all, what they call ‘happiness’ is not, in fact, to bring someone a true sense of comfort. Even for the briefest moment, I must not entertain the possibility of finding happiness, because, in the end, our souls will float in solitude for eternity. Thus, I began to believe these things fervently and deeply.
That said, I do not really know what misfortune and suffering are, at their core. On top of that, I do not know what happiness is, either. Make of that what you will. Perhaps that is simply confirmation that I have never, in any way, been able to find fulfillment within my own soul. In other words, I, myself, have become the public façade to the fulfillment of my soul.
Even thinking all of this, I still found myself yearning like a puppy for the figure of the woman. The demon of greed lurked in my heart; I simply spat this over and over. Always, no matter what, this tedium. What an unbearable void this is, I thought.
Once, I went with the woman to a hot spring.
Walking along the coast that day, the sea was incredibly agitated. The woman kicked off her shoes and ducked under the crests of the waves, gathering seashells. She was quick and unhesitating. Drinking in the breath of the sea, the woman moved wildly, as though she were conquering the ocean. Keeping an eye on this display, I somewhere, sometimes, was hit by an unexpected yearning and greed for the beauty of her strange form; but, suddenly, a wave the height of a man crashed down, and the woman’s figure was swallowed up all at once, and I saw her disappear. In that instant, the sudden wave hid the sea, blotted out half the sky, and I thought that I saw an enormous swell in the water. Involuntarily, I cried out.
That was my momentary hallucination. The sky remained cloudless. The woman was still dancing about, ducking in and out of the waves. I, however, was left with the lingering afterimage of that illusion’s beauty. It isn’t as if I wanted the figure of the woman to disappear. I am drowning in lust, and I adore the woman’s body, so there would be no purpose in my wishing her gone.
I was beginning to sink into something like the sort of forest-green trench that forms at the base of valleys, and I stared at the vast, playful jaws of the ocean spray that had hidden the woman. I saw a body, there, even more merciless, even more unconcerned, even more lithe than that of the lithe, unconcerned woman. It was the body of the ocean. What a vast, magnificent joke, I thought.
I want my body, too, to be coiled up in the dark swells of the ocean. I want to be battered and overwhelmed by that wave, I thought. I want to hold the ocean in my arms and let it fulfill my desire. I lamented how small that desire really was.
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Years of experience: 4. Registered at ProZ.com: Apr 2021.
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