英语世界翻译大赛原文
第七届翻译大赛英文原文
OpticsManini NayarWhen I was seven, my friend Sol was hit by lightning and died. He was on a rooftop quietly playing marbles when this happened. Burnt to cinders, we were told by the neighbourhood gossips. He'd caught fire, we were assured, but never felt a thing. I only remember a frenzy of ambulances and long clean sirens cleaving the silence of that damp October night. Later, my father came to sit with me. This happens to one in several millions, he said, as if a knowledge of the bare statistics mitigated the horror. He was trying to help, I think. Or perhaps he believed I thought it would happen to me. Until now, Sol and I had shared everything; secrets, chocolates, friends, even a birthdate. We would marry at eighteen, we promised each other, and have six children, two cows and a heart-shaped tattoo with 'Eternally Yours' sketched on our behinds. But now Sol was somewhere else, and I was seven years old and under the covers in my bed counting spots before my eyes in the darkness.After that I cleared out my play-cupboard. Out went my collection of teddy bears and picture books. In its place was an emptiness, the oak panels reflecting their own woodshine. The space I made seemed almost holy, though mother thought my efforts a waste. An empty cupboard is no better than an empty cup, she said in an apocryphal aside. Mother always filled things up - cups, water jugs, vases, boxes, arms - as if colour and weight equalled a superior quality of life. Mother never understood that this was my dreamtime place. Here I could hide, slide the doors shut behind me, scrunch my eyes tight and breathe in another world. When I opened my eyes, the glow from the lone cupboard-bulb seemed to set the polished walls shimmering, and I could feel what Sol must have felt, dazzle and darkness. I was sharing this with him, as always. He would know, wherever he was, that I knew what he knew, saw what he had seen. But to mother I only said that I was tired of teddy bears and picture books. What she thought I couldn't tell, but she stirred the soup-pot vigorously.One in several millions, I said to myself many times, as if the key, the answer to it all, lay there. The phrase was heavy on my lips, stubbornly resistant to knowledge. Sometimes I said the words out of con- text to see if by deflection, some quirk of physics, the meaning would suddenly come to me. Thanks for the beans, mother, I said to her at lunch, you're one in millions. Mother looked at me oddly, pursed her lips and offered me more rice. At this club, when father served a clean ace to win the Retired-Wallahs Rotating Cup, I pointed out that he was one in a million. Oh, the serve was one in a million, father protested modestly. But he seemed pleased. Still, this wasn't what I was looking for, and in time the phrase slipped away from me, lost its magic urgency, became as bland as 'Pass the salt' or 'Is the bath water hot?' If Sol was one in a million, I was one among far less; a dozen, say. He was chosen. I was ordinary. He had been touched and transformed by forces I didn't understand. I was left cleaning out the cupboard. There was one way to bridge the chasm, to bring Solback to life, but I would wait to try it until the most magical of moments. I would wait until the moment was so right and shimmering that Sol would have to come back. This was my weapon that nobody knew of, not even mother, even though she had pursed her lips up at the beans. This was between Sol and me.The winter had almost guttered into spring when father was ill. One February morning, he sat in his chair, ashen as the cinders in the grate. Then, his fingers splayed out in front of him, his mouth working, he heaved and fell. It all happened suddenly, so cleanly, as if rehearsed and perfected for weeks. Again the sirens, the screech of wheels, the white coats in perpetual motion. Heart seizures weren't one in a million. But they deprived you just the same, darkness but no dazzle, and a long waiting.Now I knew there was no turning back. This was the moment. I had to do it without delay; there was no time to waste. While they carried father out, I rushed into the cupboard, scrunched my eyes tight, opened them in the shimmer and called out'Sol! Sol! Sol!' I wanted to keep my mind blank, like death must be, but father and Sol gusted in and out in confusing pictures. Leaves in a storm and I the calm axis. Here was father playing marbles on a roof. Here was Sol serving ace after ace. Here was father with two cows. Here was Sol hunched over the breakfast table. The pictures eddied and rushed. The more frantic they grew, the clearer my voice became, tolling like a bell: 'Sol! Sol! Sol!' The cupboard rang with voices, some mine, some echoes, some from what seemed another place - where Sol was, maybe. The cup- board seemed to groan and reverberate, as if shaken by lightning and thunder. Any minute now it would burst open and I would find myself in a green valley fed by limpid brooks and red with hibiscus. I would run through tall grass and wading into the waters, see Sol picking flowers. I would open my eyes and he'd be there,hibiscus-laden, laughing. Where have you been, he'd say, as if it were I who had burned, falling in ashes. I was filled to bursting with a certainty so strong it seemed a celebration almost. Sobbing, I opened my eyes. The bulb winked at the walls.I fell asleep, I think, because I awoke to a deeper darkness. It was late, much past my bedtime. Slowly I crawled out of the cupboard, my tongue furred, my feet heavy. My mind felt like lead. Then I heard my name. Mother was in her chair by the window, her body defined by a thin ray of moonlight. Your father Will be well, she said quietly, and he will be home soon. The shaft of light in which she sat so motionless was like the light that would have touched Sol if he'd been lucky; if he had been like one of us, one in a dozen, or less. This light fell in a benediction, caressing mother, slipping gently over my father in his hospital bed six streets away. I reached out and stroked my mother's arm. It was warm like bath water, her skin the texture of hibiscus.We stayed together for some time, my mother and I, invaded by small night sounds and the raspy whirr of crickets. Then I stood up and turned to return to my room.Mother looked at me quizzically. Are you all right, she asked. I told her I was fine, that I had some c!eaning up to do. Then I went to my cupboard and stacked it up again with teddy bears and picture books.Some years later we moved to Rourkela, a small mining town in the north east, near Jamshedpur. The summer I turned sixteen, I got lost in the thick woods there. They weren't that deep - about three miles at the most. All I had to do was cycle forall I was worth, and in minutes I'd be on the dirt road leading into town. But a stir in the leaves gave me pause.I dismounted and stood listening. Branches arched like claws overhead. The sky crawled on a white belly of clouds. Shadows fell in tessellated patterns of grey and black. There was a faint thrumming all around, as if the air were being strung and practised for an overture. And yet there was nothing, just a silence of moving shadows, a bulb winking at the walls. I remembered Sol, of whom I hadn't thought in years. And foolishly again I waited, not for answers but simply for an end to the terror the woods were building in me, chord by chord, like dissonant music. When the cacophony grew too much to bear, I remounted and pedalled furiously, banshees screaming past my ears, my feet assuming a clockwork of their own. The pathless ground threw up leaves and stones, swirls of dust rose and settled. The air was cool and steady as I hurled myself into the falling light.光学玛尼尼·纳雅尔谈瀛洲译在我七岁那年，我的朋友索尔被闪电击中死去了。
第十一届CASIO杯翻译竞赛英语比赛原文
第十一届CASIO杯翻译竞赛原文（英语组）To evoke the London borough of Diston, we turn to the poetry of Chaos:Each thing hostileTo every other thing: at every pointHot fought cold, moist dry, soft hard, and the weightlessResisted weight.So Des lived his life in tunnels. The tunnel from flat to school, the tunnel (not the same tunnel) from school to flat. And all the warrens that took him to Grace, and brought him back again. He lived his life in tunnels … And yet for the sensitive soul, in Diston Town, there was really only one place to look. Where did the eyes go? They went up, up.School – Squeers Free, under a sky of white: the weakling headmaster, the demoralised chalkies in their rayon tracksuits, the ramshackle little gym with its tripwires and booby traps, the Lifestyle Consultants (Every Child Matters), and the Special Needs Coordinators (who dealt with all the ‘non-readers’). In addition, Squeers Free set the standard for the most police call-outs, the least GCSE passes, and the highest truancy rates. It also led the pack in suspensions, expulsions, and PRU ‘offrolls’; such an offroll – a transfer to a Pupil Referral Unit – was usually the doorway to a Youth Custody Centre and then a Young Offender Institution. Lionel, who had followed this route, always spoke of his five and a half years (on and off) in a Young Offender Institution (or Yoi, as he called it) with rueful fondness, like one recalling a rite of passage – inevitable, bittersweet. I was out for a month, he would typically reminisce. Then I was back up north. Doing me Yoi.* * *On the other hand, Squeers Free had in its staff room an exceptional Learning Mentor – a Mr Vincent Tigg.What’s going on with you, Desmond? You were always an idle little sod. Now you can’t get enough of it. Well, what next?I fancy modern languages, sir. And history. And sociology. And astronomy. And –You can’t study everything, you know.Yes I can. Renaissance boy, innit.… You want to watch that smile, lad. All right. We’ll see about you. Now off you go.And in the schoolyard? On the face of it, Des was a prime candidate for persecution. He seldom bunked off, he never slept in class, he didn’t assault the teachers or shoot up in the toilets – and he preferred the company of the gentler sex (the gentler sex, at Squeers Free, being quite rough enough). So in the normal courseof things Des would have been savagely bullied, as all the other misfits (swats, wimps, four-eyes, sweating fatties) were savagely bullied – to the brink of suicide and beyond. They called him Skiprope and Hopscotch, but Des wasn’t bullied. How to explain this? To use Uncle Ringo’s favourite expression, it was a no-brainer. Desmond Pepperdine was inviolable. He was the nephew, and ward, of Lionel Asbo.It was different on the street. Once a term, true, Lionel escorted him to Squeers Free, and escorted him back again the same day (restraining, with exaggerated difficulty, the two frothing pitbulls on their thick steel chains). But it would be foolish to suppose that each and every gangbanger and posse-artist (and every Yardie and jihadi) in the entire manor had heard tell of the great asocial. And it was different at night, because different people, different shapes, levered themselves upward after dark … Des was fleet of foot, but he was otherwise unsuited to life in Diston Town. Second or even first nature to Lionel (who was pronounced ‘uncontrollable’ at the age of eighteen months), violence was alien to Des, who always felt that violence – extreme and ubiquitous though it certainly seemed to be – came from another dimension.So, this day, he went down the tunnel and attended school. But on his way home he feinted sideways and took a detour. With hesitation, and with deafening self-consciousness, he entered the Public Library on Blimber Road. Squeers Free had a library, of course, a distant Portakabin with a few primers and ripped paperbacks scattered across its floor … But this: rank upon rank of proud-chested bookcases, like lavishly decorated generals. By what right or title could you claim any share of it? He entered the Reading Room, where the newspapers, firmly clamped to long wooden struts, were apparently available for scrutiny. No one stopped him as he approached.He had of course seen the dailies before, in the corner shop and so on, and there were Gran’s Telegraph s, but his experience of actual newsprint was confined to the Morning Lark s that Lionel left around the flat, all scrumpled up, like origami tumbleweeds (there was also the occasional Diston Gazette). Respectfully averting his eyes from the Times, the Independent, and the Guardian, Des reached for the Sun, which at least looked like a Lark, with its crimson logo and the footballer’s fiancée on the cover staggering out of a nightclub with blood running down her neck. And, sure enough, on page three (News in Briefs) there was a hefty redhead wearing knickers and a sombrero.But then all resemblances ceased. You got scandal and gossip, and more girls, but also international news, parliamentary reports, comment, analysis … Until now he had accepted the Morning Lark as an accurate reflection of reality. Indeed, he sometimes thought it was a local paper (a light-hearted adjunct to the Gazette), such was its fidelity to the customs and mores of his borough. Now, though, as he stood there with the Sun quivering in his hands, the Lark stood revealed for what it was – a daily lads’ mag, perfunctorily posing as a journal of record.The Sun, additionally to recommend it, had an agony column presided over not by the feckless Jennaveieve, but by a wise-looking old dear called Daphne, who dealt sympathetically, that day, with a number of quite serious problems and dilemmas, and suggested leaflets and helplines, and seemed genuinely …。
翻译大赛第一届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛原文及参考译文
翻译大赛第一届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛原文及参考译文第一届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛原文及参考译文2010年原文Plutoria Avenue By Stephen LeacockThe Mausoleum Club stands on the quietest corner of the best residential street in the city. It is a Grecian building of white stone. Above it are great elm-trees with birds—the most expensive kind of birds—singing in the branches. The street in the softer hours of the morning has an almost reverential quiet. Great motors move drowsily along it, with solitary chauffeurs returning at 10.30 after conveying the earlier of the millionaires to their down-town offices. The sunlight flickers through the elm-trees, illuminating expensive nursemaids wheeling valuable children in little perambulators. Some of the children are worth millions and millions. In Europe, no doubt, you may see in the Unter den Linden Avenue or the Champs Elysées a little prince or princess go past with a chattering military guard to do honour. But that is nothing. It is not half so impressive, in the real sense, as what you may observe every morning on Plutoria Avenue beside the Mausoleum Club in the quietest part of the city. Here you may see a little toddling princess in a rabbit suit who owns fifty distilleries in her own right. There, in a lacquered perambulator, sails past a little hooded head that controls from its cradle an entire New Jersey corporation. The United States attorney-general is suing her as she sits, in a vain attempt to make her dissolve herself into constituent companies. Nearby is a child of four, in a khaki suit, who represents the merger of two trunk line railways. You may meet in the flickered sunlight any number of little princes and princesses for more real than the poor survivals of Europe. Incalculable infants wave their fifty-dollar ivory rattles in an inarticulate greeting to one another. A million dollars of preferred stock laughs merrily in recognition of a majority control going past in a go-cart drawn by an imported nurse. And through it all the sunlight falls through the elm-trees, and the birds sing and the motors hum, so that the whole world as seen from the boulevard of Plutoria Avenue is the very pleasantest place imaginable. Just below Plutoria Avenue, and parallel with it, the trees die out and the brick and stone of the city begins in earnest. Even from the avenue you see the tops of the sky-scraping buildings in the big commercial streets and can hear or almost hear the roar of the elevate railway, earning dividends. And beyond that again the city sinks lower, and is choked and crowded with the tangled streets and little houses of the slums. In fact, if you were to mount to the roof of the Mausoleum Club itself on Plutoris Avenue you could almost see the slums from there. But why should you? And on the other hand, if you never went up on the roof, but only dined inside among the palm-trees, you would never know that the slums existed—which is much better.参考译文普路托利大道李科克著曹明伦译莫索利俱乐部坐落在这座城市最适宜居住的街道最安静的一隅。
第十四届“四川外国语大学—《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛汉译英组一等奖译文
刻下今天，抗拒遗忘【1】我们知道自己是容易忘记的。
有心人能坚持写下日记，日日记录，到时回头还能翻回去，某一年某一天，字字句句都在纸上，能唤起记忆。
也有人记忆超群，过了多少年，还能细数某时某地某事，让人惊叹。
但大部分的我们呢？我曾记过一阵日记，从开始的日日记，到后来的隔日记，再到后来的不知隔多少日记，终于有一天把日记本尘封在写字台的某个抽屉角落里了。
我也曾与好友仔细回想，在何时何地哪一个场合第一次遇见，却相顾茫然。
【2】这样的无从查考，这样的相顾茫然，并不算得上如何特殊。
【3】生活的大部分形态，总是碎片化的。
一时在东，一时在西，纷繁复杂，并不是那么容易记住的。
我们记住了海潮翻腾，侧耳又听见大江大河奔涌怒吼；记住了大江大河的浪高声宏，耳边又传来远处的人声鼎沸……热点似乎一个接着一个，连时尚流行都以百倍的速度在此起彼伏，每个似乎都在沸点上翻滚。
可新的记忆总是一页页压过旧的，遗忘总在这样不知不觉的侧耳、挪移间发生。
【4】而更多时候，生活的形态，又是屡屡重复的。
连古人都说，“年年岁岁花相似”，相似的花，相似的叶，总是最不容易区分的。
我们记忆里，只留下似曾相识的影子。
提过的话题要再提，理过的逻辑要再理，连听过的故事，也总在天南海北再听到相似的讲述。
“仙桂年年折又生”，如果枝头还是避着风头的朝向，连挂着的果子上的疤痕都一般，谁又能分清是哪一年、哪一月种下的树呢？【5】若说世上事尽是重复，无疑太消极。
而太阳每天都是新的，又高估了普通人心里的饱满度。
我们在光与影里穿行，日久年深。
有这样一个日子，我们停下来，做一个特别的标记，把它从漫长的旅途里区别出来，想想过去，看看前程，也是对自己的一种关怀。
在意义被怀疑、被消解的时候，有这样的庄重的一刻，反观静照，在一片喧腾或琐碎里执着地找到那份属于自己的历史感，也是一种觉醒。
1Record Today, Resist Forgetting【1】Forgetfulness is prone to plague us. There are those who, with unwavering diligence, chronicle their daily affairs in diaries, every word and sentence an evocative trigger for memories of a certain day in a certain year as they flip through the pages in days to come. Others are blessed with prodigious memories, able to recount events from years ago with astonishing clarity. But what about the vast majority of us? I, for one, attempted to keep a diary, only to see my entries dwindle from daily to every other day, and then to sporadic, until I finally sealed it away in a secluded corner of my writing desk drawer. I also endeavored to recall with a friend the precise moment, location, and occasion of our first encounter, but we were both lost in a fog.【2】Such a state of forgetfulness and the ensuing fog-bound befuddlement are par for the course.【3】Life, for the most part, takes on fragmented forms. We may find ourselves here today and there tomorrow, amidst a flurry of complexity that isn’t always easy to commit to memory. Just as we begin to recall the tumultuous ocean tides, the roaring rivers rush to our ears. Once the mighty rivers’ thunderous roar seeps into our memory, the distant din of chatter resounds in our ears. The current of hot topics seems to flow incessantly, with even fashion and trends surging and receding at breakneck speed, each one clamoring for our attention. Nevertheless, new memories unfailingly turn the page on the old, while forgetting sneaks up on us unnoticed amid our shifting attention and meandering movements.【4】More often than not, life feels like a cycle of repetition, as even the anci ents recognized, remarking that “flowers are similar year in and year out.” It is those very similar flowers and leaves that prove most difficult to distinguish, leaving us with faintly familiar shadows in our memory. Topics once discussed resurface, past logical reasoning requires reevaluation, and even the tales we’ve heard before catch echoes of their likeness recounted from the far reaches of the earth. As an ancient Chinese poem states, “the immortal laurel’s branches break and renew each year.”If the branches still shy away from the wind, and their fruit bears the same scars, who then can discern the year or month that saw the planting of the tree?【5】To claim that everything in the world is mere repetition is too bleak a notion. And yet, to assert that the sun rises anew each day is to overestimate the average person's sense of fulfillment. We traverse through light and shadow for years on end. But there comes a moment when we pause and create a special mark to set apart a day from the long procession of time, a moment for us to reflect on the past and gaze toward the future as an act of self-care. In times when meaning is doubted or diminished, such a moment of solemnity allows us to turn inward and unearth our own sense of history amidst the tumult and trivialities of life, which might be deemed a form of awakening.2Embossing the Present, Resisting OblivionBy Yu JinxingTrans. by Cai Qingmei（蔡清美）【1】We recognize our tendency to forget. Those mindful among us persist in maintaining a journal, capturing moments on paper, day byday. As we revisit these pages, every word and phrase can rekindle a forgotten memory. Some among us are blessed with prodigious memory, recounting intricate details of experiences from years past with astonishing precision. But what about the majority? There was a time I maintained a diary, gradually transitioning from daily entries to every other day, until eventually, gaps of weeks appeared between entries. Eventually, the diary found a quiet corner in a drawer at my writing desk. I’ve tried to recall with friends the moment of our first encounter, only to be greeted with mutual bewilderment.【2】Such perplexity, this mutual bewilderment, is not particularly unusual.【3】The larger part of life tends to be fragmented. Moments fleet from one to another, creating a tapestry too intricate to remember easily. Our attention dances from the tumultuous tides to the echoing roar of grand rivers, from the towering waves and thundering rivers to the distant hum of human voices. One trend follows another, each seemingly at its zenith. Yet, the fresh memories continue to eclipse the old ones, and oblivion manifests subtly amidst these shifting focuses.【4】Frequently, life manifests itself in cycles of repetition. Even the ancients noted, “Every year the flowers resemble the previous ones.” Similar flowers, similar leaves, they are always the hardest to differentiate. We retain in our memories only an echo of familiarity. Topics once discussed are revisited, logic previously deduced is reconsidered, and familiar stories are heard again, told with different flavors in different locales. As the sweet osmanthus blooms each year, if the orientation of the branch remains unchanged, even the scars on the hanging fruits resemble each other. Who could then discern in which year and month the tree was planted?【5】To say that everything in the world is repetitive might be too pessimistic. Yet, to claim that each day brings a new sun might overstate our ability to appreciate the nuances of the mundane. We traverse through a world of light and shadows over time. There are days when we pause, mark a special moment, carving it out from the continuum of our journey. It’s a time to reminisce about the past and gaze into the future—a form of self-care. In times when our sense of purpose is questioned or seems to dissipate, such solemn moments of introspection allow us to seek our sense of history amidst the din and trivialities. It’s a form of awakening.。
英语世界杯翻译原文
第六届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛原文A Garden That Welcomes StrangersBy Allen LacyI 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 lastchrysanthemum in the fall. She had no respect for the rule that says that tall-growingplants 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 hy brid 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 carefullystaked. 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.(选自Patterns: A Short Prose Reader, by Mary Lou Conlin, published by Houghton Mifflin Company, 1983.)注意事项：1、以（word格式）发送参赛译文，文件名“XXX参赛译文”，内文规格：黑色小四号宋体，1.5倍行距，两端对齐。
2020年第四届世界中医英语翻译大赛原文
2020年第四届世界中医英语翻译大赛原文第四届世界中医英语翻译大赛原文：,中医健康观,木山,[1] 关于影响人类健康的因素，现代医学认为主要有生物遗传、生活环境、行为方式和医疗条件四大方面。
世界卫生组织对“健康”所作的定义是“健康不仅是没有疾病，而是指人在生理、心理和社会各方面都处于良好状态”。
,[2] 但有着五千年历史的中医，对此则有更为广博的理解。
,[3] 在宏观系统上，中医将人的生理及病理变化置于天地之中进行考察，探究其间的同构性和共振性，从而形成了“天—地—人”相应的医学模式。
《素问》说：“天覆地载，万物悉备，莫贵于人，人以天地之气生，四时之法成”。
唐代医家王冰也说：“不顺四时之和，数犯八风之害，与道相失，则天真之气，未期久远而致灭亡”，“故养生者必谨奉天时也”。
春夏季炎热，人们偏好冷饮，会伤阳气，而秋冬干燥寒冷，人们多食辛辣，可损阴气，故中医认为“春夏养阳，秋冬养阴”，说明人的气血要与四时变化相一致。
,[4] 在对立面的平衡上，中医认为健康就是机体处于阴阳谐调的状态。
《黄帝内经》上说：“阴平阳祕，精神乃治；阴阳离决，精气乃绝”。
生命顺势而为，则阴阳两方面促进生命运动；生命逆势而动，则阴阳两方面制约生命运动。
这种相生相克的过程，体现着大自然优胜劣汰的规律，是中华民族养生的基本哲学。
,[5] 在形神的关系上，中医主张要二者合一。
“形”指有形的身体，包括五脏六腑、筋脉骨骼、肌肉毛皮、五官九窍等生理组织器官；“神”则是指思维意识、情绪心理、聪明智慧等精神状态。
中医认为，“形为神之宅，神乃形之主；无形则神无以生，无神则形无以活”。
当二者不平衡时，便会导致形体虚弱乃至死亡，而在医疗实践中，则“粗守形”“上守神”。
,[6] 在心态的把持上，中医强调“正气为本”。
人所以得病，多是由于人体自身的正气不足、抵抗力下降的结果。
《内经》说“正气存内，邪不可干”，“精神内守，病安从来”？《伤寒论》中也有“四季脾旺不受邪”的论点。
第七届 “北京外国语大学-《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛英译汉一等奖译文
翻译大赛 1 第七届 “北京外国语大学－《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛英译汉一等奖译文开阔的领地文／［美）奥尔多利奥波德译／蒋怡颖按县书记员的话来说，眼前一百二十英亩的农场是我的领地。
不过，这家伙可贪睡了，不到日上三竿，是断然不会翻看他那些记录薄的。
那么拂晓时分，农场是怎样的一番景象，是个值得讨论的问题。
管他有没有记录在册呢，反正破晓时漫步走过的每一英亩土地都由我一人主宰，这一点我的爱犬也心领神会。
地域上的重重界限消失了，那种被秷楛的压抑感也随之抛诸脑后。
契据和地图上没法标明的无边光景[1]，其美妙展现在每天的黎明时分。
而那份独处的悠然，我本以为在这沙郡中已觅而不得，却不想在每一颗露珠上寻到了它的踪影。
和其他大农场主一样，我也有不少佃户。
他们不在乎租金这事，划起领地来却毫不含糊。
从四月到七月，每天拂晓时刻，他们都会向彼此宣告领地界限，同时以此表明他们对我的臣服。
这样的仪式天天有，都在极庄严的礼节中拉开帷幕，这恐怕和你所设想的大相径庭。
究竟是何方神圣立下这些规矩礼仪，我不得而知。
凌晨三点半，我从这七月的拂晓中汲取了威严，昂扬地走出小屋，一手端着咖啡壶，一手拿着笔记本，这两样象征了我对农场的主权。
望着那颗闪烁着白色光辉的启明星，我在一张长椅上坐下，咖啡壶先搁在一旁，又从衬衣前襟的口袋里取出一只杯子，但愿没人注意到，这么携带杯子确实有点随意。
我掏出手表，给自己倒了杯咖啡，接着把笔记本放在膝盖上。
一切就绪，这意味着仪式即将开始。
三点三十五分到了，离我最近的一只原野春雀用清澈的男高音吟唱起来，宣告北到河岸、南至古老马车道的这片短叶松树林，统统都归他所有。
附近的原野春雀也应声唱起歌来，一只接一只地声明着自己的领地。
歌声里没有争执，至少此时此刻没有。
我就这么聆听着，打心眼里希望在这幸福和谐中，他们的雌雀伴侣也能默许原先的领地划分。
原野春雀的吟唱声还在林中回荡，而这边大榆树上的知更鸟已开始鸣l转，歌声哦亮，他在宣告，这被冰暴[2]折断了枝丫的树权是他的地盘，当然附带着周围的一些也归他所有（对这只知更鸟而言，其实就是指树下草地里的所有蚚划，那里并不算宽敞）。
2015《英语世界》翻译比赛原文
第六届“《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛原文A Garden That Welcomes StrangersBy Allen LacyI 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 runrampant in the garden. Sumac, ailanthus, poison ivy and other uninvited things不速之客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.(选自Patterns: A Short Prose Reader, by Mary Lou Conlin, published by Houghton Mifflin Company, 1983.)。
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第九届“郑州大学—《英语世界》杯”翻译大赛英译汉原文The Whoomper FactorBy Nathan Cobb【1】As this is being written, snow is falling in the streets of Boston in what weather forecasters like to call “record amounts.” I would guess by looking out the window that we are only a few hours from that magic moment of paralysis, as in Storm Paralyzes Hub. Perhaps we are even due for an Entire Region Engulfed or a Northeast Blanketed, but I will happily settle for mere local disablement. And the more the merrier.【1】写这个的时候，波士顿的街道正下着雪，天气预报员将称其为“创纪录的量”。
从窗外望去，我猜想，过不了几个小时，神奇的瘫痪时刻就要来临，就像《风暴瘫痪中心》里的一样。
也许我们甚至能够见识到《吞没整个区域》或者《茫茫东北》里的场景，然而仅仅部分地区的瘫痪也能使我满足。
当然越多越使人开心。
【2】Some people call them blizzards, others nor’easters. My own term is whoompers, and I freely admit looking forward to them as does a baseball fan to April. Usually I am disappointed, however; because tonight’s storm warnings too often turn into tomorrow’s light flurries.【2】有些人称它们为暴风雪，其他人称其为东北风暴。
我自己则有一个叫法：呐喊者。
我大方地承认道我期待着它们的到来，正如一位篮球迷盼望着四月份的来临。
然而通常情况下，我会大失所望，因为今天发布了风暴警报，明天往往只飘起小雪。
【3】Well, flurries be damned. I want the real thing, complete with Volkswagens turned into drifts along Commonwealth Avenue and the MBTA’s third rail frozen like a hunk of raw meat. A storm does not even begin to qualify as a whoomper unless Logan Airport is shut down for a minimum of six hours.【3】好吧，小雪令人厌恶。
我想要实实在在的东西，包括大众汽车成了联邦大道的漂浮物，波士顿市运输局的第三条轨道像一大块生肉一样被冻住了。
除非洛根机场至少关闭六个小时，否则这一场风暴根本配不上称作呐喊者。
【4】The point is, whoompers teach us a lesson. Or rather several lessons. For one thing, here are all these city folks who pride themselves on their instinct for survival, and suddenly they cannot bear to venture into the streets because they are afraid of being swallowed up. Virtual prisoners in their own houses is what they are. In northern New England, the natives view nights such as this with casual indifference, but let a whoomper hit Boston and the locals are not only knee deep in snow but also in befuddlement and disarray.【4】关键是，呐喊者们给了我们一个教训。
或者几个教训。
一方面，所有的城里人为他们的生存本能感到自豪，霎时间，他们不能忍受街道上的风险因为害怕被吞没。
他们就好像是自己房子里的囚犯。
在新英格兰的北部，当地人对这样的夜晚习以为常，但是让一位呐喊者袭击波士顿，居民不仅深陷雪中而且陷入困境和混乱。
【5】The lesson? That there is something more powerful out there than the sacred metropolis. It is not unlike the message we can read into the debacle of the windows falling out of the John Hancock Tower; just when we think we’ve got the upper hand on the elements, we find out we are flies and someone else is holding the swatter. Whoompers keep us in our place.【5】教训？那里有比神圣的大都市更强大的东西。
这与我们可以从约翰•汉考克大厦掉落下来的崩溃信息没什么不同；正当我们自认为凌驾于风雨之上时，才发现我们只是沧海一粟，另有高人将我们玩弄于股掌之间。
呐喊者们将我们困在原地。
【6】They also slow us down, which is not a bad thing for urbania these days. Frankly, I’m of the opinion Logan should be closed periodically, snow or not, in tribute to the lurking suspicion that it may not be all that necessary for a man to travel at a speed of 600 miles per hour. In a little while I shall go forth into the streets and I know what I will find. People will actually be walking, and the avenues will be bereft of cars. It will be something like those marvelous photographs of Back Bay during the nineteenth century, wherein the lack of clutter and traffic makes it seem as if someone has selectively airbrushed the scene.【6】他们也使我们放慢了速度，如今对于乌尔巴尼亚来说不是一件坏事。
坦率地讲，为了向潜在的怀疑致敬，即可能不是每个人都必须以每小时600英里的速度行走，我认为不管下不下雪，洛根应该定期关门。
我应该去街道上走上一小会儿就能知道自己寻找什么。
实际上人们将要行走，大道上没有车子。
如同19世纪巴克湾那些【7】And, of course, there will be the sound of silence tonight. It will be almost deafening. I know city people who have trouble sleeping in the country because of the lack of noise, and I suspect this is what bothers many of them about whoompers. Icy sidewalks and even fewer parking spaces we can handle, but please, God, turn up the volume. City folks tend not to believe in anything they can’t hear with their own ears.【8】It should also be noted that nights such as this are obviously quite pretty, hiding the city’s wounds beneath a clean white dressing. But it is their effect on the way people suddenly treat each other that is most fascinating, coming as it does when city dwellers are depicted as people of the same general variety as those New Yorkers who stood by when Kitty Genovese was murdered back in 1964.【9】There’s nothing like a good whoomper to get people thinking that everyone walking towards them on the sidewalk might not be a mugger, or that saying hello is not necessarily a sign of perversion. You would think that city people, more than any other, would have a strong sense of being in the same rough seas together, yet it is not until a quasi catastrophe hits that many of them stop being lone sharks.【10】But enough of this. Th ere’s a whoomper outside tonight, and it requires my presence.。