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2015年第六屆“《英語世界》杯”翻譯大賽啟事
“《英語世界》杯”翻譯大賽肇始于2010年，由商務印書館《英語世界》雜志社主辦。短短數載，大賽參賽人數屢創新高，現在已經穩居國內各類翻譯比賽之冠。為推動翻譯學科的進一步發展，促進中外文化交流，我們將秉承“給力英語學習，探尋翻譯之星”的理念，于2015年5月繼續舉辦第六屆“《英語世界》杯”翻譯大賽，誠邀廣大翻譯愛好者積極參與，比秀佳譯。
大賽贊助單位
本屆大賽由悉尼翻譯學院獨家贊助。悉尼翻譯學院成立于2009年，是在澳大利亞教育部注冊的一家專業翻譯學院。學院相關課程由澳大利亞翻譯認證管理局(NAATI)認證。該院面向海內外招生，以構建“一座跨文化的橋梁”為目標，力圖培養具有國際視野和跨文化意識的涉及多語種的口筆譯人才。
大賽合作單位
中國翻譯協會社科翻譯委員會、中國英漢語比較研究會英漢翻譯研究學科委員會、四川省翻譯協會、上海翻譯家協會、廣東省翻譯協會、湖北省翻譯理論與教學研究會、陜西省翻譯協會、江蘇省翻譯協會、南開大學和成都通譯翻譯有限公司。
一、大賽形式
本屆大賽為英漢翻譯，大賽啟事及原文發布于商務印書館網站(http://www.cp.com.cn)、《英語世界》2015年第5期、《英語世界》官方博客(http://blog.sina.com.cn/theworldofenglish)以及《英語世界》官方微信公眾平臺(微信號：theworldofenglish)上。
二、參賽要求
1、參賽者國籍、年齡、性別、學歷不限。
2、參賽譯文須獨立完成，不接受合作譯稿。
3、參賽譯文及個人信息于截稿日期前發送至電子郵箱：yysjfyds@sina.com 。
(1)郵件主題標明“翻譯大賽”;
(2)以附件一(excel格式)發送參賽者個人信息，文件名“XXX個人信息”，以方便獲獎時聯系。
請按下表格式填寫個人信息：
姓名
性別
出生年月日
學校或工作單位
通信地址(郵編)
電子郵箱
電話
(3)以附件二(word格式)發送參賽譯文，文件名“XXX參賽譯文”，內文規格：黑色小四號宋體，1.5倍行距，兩端對齊。
4、僅第一次投稿有效，不接受修改后的再投稿件。
5、在大賽截稿之日前，妥善保存參賽譯文，勿在報刊、網絡等任何媒體上或以任何方式公布，違者取消參賽資格并承擔由此造成的一切后果。
三、大賽時間
起止日期：2015年5月1日～2015年7月20日。
獎項公布時間：2015年10月，在《英語世界》雜志、官方博客、官方微博和官方微信公眾平臺上公布大賽評審結果。
四、獎項設置
所有投稿將由主辦單位組織專家進行評審，分設一、二、三等獎及優秀獎。一、二、三等獎獲獎者將頒發獎金、獎品和證書，優秀獎獲獎者將頒發證書和紀念獎。所有獲獎者均獲贈2016年全年(1—12期)《英語世界》雜志一套，并有機會成為《英語世界》的譯者。
對于積極組織學生參加本屆翻譯大賽的院校，將頒發“優秀組織獎”證書。獲獎院校還有機會成為“翻譯實踐基地”合作單位。
五、聯系方式
為辦好本屆翻譯大賽，保證此項賽事的公平、公正，特成立大賽組委會，負責整個大賽的組織、實施和評審工作。組委會辦公室設在《英語世界》編輯部，電話/傳真010-65539242。
六、特別說明
1、本屆翻譯大賽不收取任何費用。
2、本屆翻譯大賽只接受電子版投稿，不接受紙質投稿。
3、參賽譯文一經發現抄襲或雷同，即取消涉事者參賽資格。
《英語世界》雜志社
2015年5月
第六屆“《英語世界》杯”翻譯大賽原文
A Garden That Welcomes Strangers
By Allen Lacy
I do not know what became of her, and I never learned her name. But I feel that I knew her from the garden she had so lovingly made over many decades.
The house she lived in lies two miles from mine – a simple, two-story structure with the boxy plan, steeply-pitched roof and unadorned lines that are typical of houses built in the middle of the nineteenth century near the New Jersey shore.
Her garden was equally simple. She was not a conventional gardener who did everything by the book, following the common advice to vary her plantings so there would be something in bloom from the first crocus in the spring to the last chrysanthemum in the fall. She had no respect for the rule that says that tall-growing plants belong at the rear of a perennial border, low ones in the front and middle-sized ones in the middle, with occasional exceptions for dramatic accent.
In her garden, everything was accent, everything was tall, and the evidence was plain that she loved three kinds of plant and three only: roses, clematis and lilies, intermingled promiscuously to pleasant effect but no apparent design.
She grew a dozen sorts of clematis, perhaps 50 plants in all, trained and tied so that they clambered up metal rods, each rod crowned intermittently throughout the summer by a rounded profusion of large blossoms of dark purple, rich crimson, pale lavender, light blue and gleaming white.
Her taste in roses was old-fashioned. There wasn’t a single modern hybrid tea rose or floribunda in sight. Instead, she favored the roses of other ages – the York and Lancaster rose, the cabbage rose, the damask and the rugosa rose in several varieties. She propagated her roses herself from cuttings stuck directly in the ground and protected by upended gallon jugs.
Lilies, I believe were her greatest love. Except for some Madonna lilies it is impossible to name them, since the wooden flats stood casually here and there in the flower bed, all thickly planted with dark green lily seedlings. The occasional paper tag fluttering from a seed pod with the date and record of a cross showed that she was an amateur hybridizer with some special fondness for lilies of a warm muskmelon shade or a pale lemon yellow.
She believed in sharing her garden. By her curb there was a sign: “This is my garden, and you are welcome here. Take whatever you wish with your eyes, but nothing with your hand.”
Until five years ago, her garden was always immaculately tended, the lawn kept fertilized and mowed, the flower bed free of weeds, the tall lilies carefully staked. But then something happened. I don’t know what it was, but the lawn was mowed less frequently, then not at all. Tall grass invaded the roses, the clematis, the lilies. The elm tree in her front yard sickened and died, and when a coastal gale struck, the branches that fell were never removed.
With every year, the neglect has grown worse. Wild honeysuckle and bittersweet run rampant in the garden. Sumac, ailanthus, poison ivy and other uninvited things threaten the few lilies and clematis and roses that still struggle for survival.
Last year the house itself went dead. The front door was padlocked and the windows covered with sheets of plywood. For many months there has been a for sale sign out front, replacing the sign inviting strangers to share her garden.
I drive by that house almost daily and have been tempted to load a shovel in my car trunk, stop at her curb and rescue a few lilies from the smothering thicket of weeds. The laws of trespass and the fact that her house sits across the street from a police station have given me the cowardice to resist temptation. But her garden has reminded me of mortality; gardeners and the gardens they make are fragile things, creatures of time, hostages to chance and to decay.
Last week, the for sale sign out front came down and the windows were unboarded. A crew of painters arrived and someone cut down the dead elm tree. This morning there was a moving van in the driveway unloading a swing set, a barbecue grill, a grand piano and a houseful of sensible furniture. A young family is moving into that house.
I hope that among their number is a gardener whose special fondness for old roses and clematis and lilies will see to it that all else is put aside until that flower bed is restored to something of its former self.
(選自Patterns: A Short Prose Reader, by Mary Lou Conlin, published by Houghton Mifflin Company, 1983.)
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