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Muestrario
Muestras de traducción: 1
inglés al serbio: Special Topics in Calamity Physics General field: Arte/Literatura Detailed field: Poesía y literatura
Texto de origen - inglés Introduction
Dad always said a person must have a magnificent reason for writing out
his or her Life Story and expecting anyone to read it.
“Unless your name is something along the lines of Mozart, Matisse,
Churchill, Che Guevara or Bond—James Bond—you best spend your free
time finger painting or playing shuffleboard, for no one, with the exception
of your flabby-armed mother with stiff hair and a mashed-potato way of looking
at you, will want to hear the particulars of your pitiable existence, which
doubtlessly will end as it began—with a wheeze.”
Given such rigid parameters, I always assumed I wouldn’t have my Magnificent
Reason until I was at least seventy, with liver spots, rheumatism, wit
as quick as a carving knife, a squat stucco house in Avignon (where I could be
found eating 365 different cheeses), a lover twenty years my junior who
worked in the fields (I don’t know what kind of fields—any kind that were
gold and frothy) and, with any luck, a small triumph of science or philosophy
to my name. And yet the decision—no, the grave necessity—to take pen to
paper and write about my childhood—most critically, the year it unstitched
like a snagged sweater—came much sooner than I ever imagined.
It began with simple sleeplessness. It had been almost a year since I’d
found Hannah dead, and I thought I’d managed to erase all traces of that
night within myself, much in the way Henry Higgins with his relentless elocution
exercises had scrubbed away Eliza’s Cockney accent.
I was wrong.
Traducción - serbio Uvod
Tata je uvek govorio da je čoveku potreban stvarno veličanstven razlog da bi napisao svoju biografiju i očekivao da će to bilo ko da pročita.
„Ako se ne zoveš, recimo, Mocart, Matis ili Čerčil, Če Gevara ili Bond – Džejms Bond – bolje ti je da u slobodno vreme crtaš ili igraš školice, jer niko, osim možda tvoje majke oklembešenih nadlaktica, s frizurom krutom od laka, koja se beskrajno razneži svaki put kad te pogleda, neće hteti da čita detaljan opis tvog bednog postojanja, koje će se bez sumnje okončati kako je i počelo – neprimećeno.“
Imajući u vidu tako stroge parametre, uvek sam pretpostavljala da neću dobiti svoj Veličanstveni Razlog dok ne budem imala barem sedamdeset godina, staračke pege, reumu, um brz poput mesarskog noža i prizemnu malterisanu kuću u Avinjonu (gde ćete moći da me nađete kako jedem 365 različitih vrsta sira), dvadeset godina mlađeg ljubavnika koji radi u poljima (nije važno kakvim poljima – samo da su zlatna i ustalasana) i uz imalo sreće, mali naučni ili filozofski trijumf koji me je proslavio. A ipak se odluka – ili radije neodoljiva potreba – da uzmem papir i olovku i počnem da pišem o svom detinjstvu – javila mnogo ranije nego što sam očekivala.
Počelo je jednostavnom nesanicom. Prošlo je skoro godinu dana otkako sam Hanu pronašla mrtvu, i mislila sam da sam uspela da obrišem sve tragove te noći u svom sećanju, na sličan način kao što je Henri Higins neumoljivim vežbama izgovora izbrisao Ilajzin kokni akcenat.
Ali nisam.
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