1. Organizatorem konkursu jest Oddział Łódzki Stowarzyszenia Pisarzy Polskich oraz Śródmiejskie Forum Kultury w Łodzi.
2. Przedmiotem konkursu są przekłady artystyczne na język polski anglojęzycznych tekstów prozatorskich autorów angielskich i irlandzkich.
3. Konkurs adresowany jest do młodych adeptów sztuki translatorskiej, którzy nie posiadają w dorobku samodzielnej przekładowej publikacji książkowej z zakresu literatury pięknej o objętości większej niż jeden arkusz wydawniczy.
4. Prace w trzech jednobrzmiących egzemplarzach należy nadsyłać do 20 listopada 2010 r.
Śródmiejskie Forum Kultury
ul. Roosevelta 17
z dopiskiem na kopercie "anglojęzyczny konkurs translatorski".
5. Prace trzeba opatrzyć godłem, do zestawu zaś dołączyć oddzielną, zaklejoną kopertę, opatrzoną tym samym godłem i zawierającą dane autora (imię, nazwisko, adres, mail, telefon).
6. Materiały konkursowe powinny być wydrukami komputerowymi sformatowanymi następująco: czcionka Arial, 14 p., odstęp 1,5, tekst wyjustowany, względnie szeroki margines z prawej strony (umożliwiający robienia notatek przez członków jury).
7. Zestaw konkursowy zawierać powinien:
a. samodzielne przekłady tekstów zamieszczonych w załączniku do niniejszego regulaminu i opublikowanych na stronie www.spplodz.pl;
b. zwięzłą wypowiedź (maksymalnie 1 800 znaków pisarskich ze spacjami), zawierającą charakterystykę problemów, jakich nastręczały tłumaczone teksty.
8. Laureaci konkursu prócz nagród finansowych i rzeczowych otrzymają zaproszenie do udziału w bezpłatnych dwudniowych warsztatach translatorskich, które w ramach łódzkiego Festiwalu Puls Literatury (11-12 grudnia 2010) poprowadzi przewodniczący jury konkursu Maciej Świerkocki.
9. Prac nadesłanych nie zwraca się.
10. Wykładnia niniejszego regulaminu należy do organizatorów. Wszelkie pytanie kierować należy na adres: email@example.com.
ZAŁĄCZNIK DO REGULAMINU KONKURSU ZAWIERAJĄCY TEKSTY DO PRZEŁOŻENIA
1. RODDY DOYLE - The woman who walked into doors.
“His best work yet” – The Times
I was told by a Guard who came to the door. He wasn’t one I’d seen before, one of the usual ones. He was only a young fella, skinny and with raw spots all over his neck.
– Missis Spencer?
He couldn’t have been more than twenty. He looked miserable.
– Missis Spencer?
I knew before he spoke. It clicked inside me when I opened the door. (For years opening that door scared the life out of me. I hated it; it terrified me. We had this screeching bell like an alarm that shoook the walls when anyone rang it. It lifted me off the floor, the kids started bawling; it was fuckin’ dreadful. You were caught, snared, caught in the act. Ypu looked around to hide whatever you’d been caught with, things that Charlo had left in the hall, things he robbed and left there. He changed the bell, after I chewed his ear and nearly wet myself five or six times a day. Nicola, my oldest, wouldn’t come round the back to get into the house. She wanted to come through the front door; it was more grown up. She rang the bell ten times a minute.
– Forgot me jacket.
– Forgot me money.
– Don’t like these jeans on me.
I hit her – she was thirteen, or twelve, much too old to be smacked – the hundreth time she rang the bell one Saturday morning. I hit her the way a woman would hit another woman, smack in the face. I was a bit drunk, I have to admit. I regretted it, tried to stop my hand after it had smashed her cheek and come back. She held her hand up to her cheek. It was red where I’d got it. She was stunned; she hadn’t noticed me getting more annoyed. They never do at that age – at any age. I was sorry for her byt she’d deserved it. I was sorry I was drunk, ashamed, angry; I usually made sure that no one noticed. I couldn’t cope; it was only a stupid bell. She said she hated me, slammed the door and ran off. I let her away with it. The new bell was nice bing-bong one but it made no difference. I still died a bit whenever someone rang it. The Guards looking for Charlo, teachers looking for John Paul, men looking for money. It’s hard to hide in a house full of kids, to pretend there’s no one there. Bing-bong. Pnly bad news came through that door; my sister, my daddy, John Paul, Charlo. Bing-bong.) It clicked inside me when I opened the door and saw the Guard. It was his face that told me before I was ready to know it. He wasn’t looking for Charlo; it wasn’t the usual. He was scared and there was something he had to tell me. I felt sorry for the poor young fella, sent in to do the dirty work. The other wasters were out in a car, too lazy and cute to come in and tell me themselves. I asked him in for a cup of tea. He sat in the kitchen whith his hat still on him. He told me all about his family.
2. DAVID LODGE - Deaf Sentence. A novel
The tall, bespectacled, grey-haired man standing at the edge of the throng in the main room of the gallery, stooping very close to the young woman in the red silk blouse, his head lowered and angled away from her face, nodding sagely and emitting a phatic murmur from time to time, is not as yo might think an off-duty priest whm she has persuaded to hear her confession in the midst of the party, or a psychiatrist conned into giving her a free consultation; nor has he adopted this posture the better to look down the front of her blouse, though this is an accidental bonus of his situation, the only one in fact. The reason for his stance is that the room is full of noise, a conversional hubbub which bounces off the hard surfaces of the ceiling, walls and floor, and swirls around the heads of the guests, causing them to shout even louder to make themselves heard. This is known to linguists as the Lombard Reflex, named after Entienne Lombard, who established early in th twentieth century that speakers increase their vocal effort in the presence of noise in the environment in order to resist degradation of the intelligibility of their messages. When many speakers display this reflex simultanously they become, of course, their own environmental noise source, adding incrementally to its intensity. For the man now almost nuzzling the bosom of the woman in the red blouse, as he brings his right ear closer to her mouth, the noise reached some time ago a level that makes impossible for him to hear more than the odd word or phrase of those she addresses to him. ‘Side’ seems to be one recurring word – or is it ‘cider’? And ‘flight from hell’ – or was it ‘cry for help’? He is, you see, ‘hard of hearing’, or ‘hearing impaired’ or, not to put too fine a point on it, deaf – not profoundly deaf, but deaf enough to make communication imperfect in most social situations and impossible in some, such as this one.