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Traduction Français - Anglais

Posted: 01 Feb 2018 23:08
by yannrivacobel
Bonjour,
Je m'appelle Yann et je suis écrivain. Je souhaiterais traduire en anglais l'un de mes livres.
J'ai pour l'instant traduit le premier chapitre.
Voici la version française :
Comme toutes les heures depuis six heures du matin, Amaury Berthelot monta l’échelle de la première tour aussi vite qu’un escargot. Le gardien des faisceaux de lumière était fatigué.
Cela faisait vingt ans qu’il dormait mal, qu’il était perpétuellement las. Comme nombre de Sombrevalois, il était démoralisé. Il y avait de quoi : Sombreval n’avait jamais aussi bien porté son nom. Le village était plongé dans des gris déprimants depuis que le Grand Tyr, un sorcier tyrannique qui avait ravi le pouvoir au roi Martin II en l’exécutant, avait capturé les couleurs.
S’il n’y avait eu que Sombreval, cela aurait encore été : les habitants auraient quitté le bourg pour s’installer ailleurs. Mais c’était tout Arkadia qui avait perdu ses couleurs : le Grand Tyr avait traversé le continent et jeté son sort de décoloration sur chaque mètre-carré.
Imaginez un monde où le ciel et la mer auraient perdu leur bleu étincelant, le soleil son jaune revigorant, l’herbe, les feuilles, les plantes leurs verts bienfaisants. Imaginez que tout ne soit plus que gris, blanc et noir. Ainsi était devenue Arkadia.
Amaury arriva enfin au sommet de la tour dont il avait la charge. Une large coupole en aluminium, posée à la verticale, réverbérait les cinquante flammes de l’immense bougie placée devant. Elle éclairait une partie de Sombreval. Car, en plus d’avoir pris les couleurs, le Grand Tyr avait amassé une épaisse couche de nuages au-dessus du continent, occultant le soleil. Dès lors, dans toutes les villes et tous les villages d’Arkadia, des faisceaux avaient dû être allumés afin que les habitants ne vivent pas dans la pénombre.
Amaury polit la coupole pour optimiser l’éclat des rais lumineux. Puis il s’assit sur le bord de la plateforme et observa la vie qui s’écoulait morosement.
Outre ses deux tours, Sombreval comptait une trentaine de maisons en bois et torchis surmontées de toit en chaume, réparties autour de la place et dans les cinq rues qui en partaient tels des rayons de soleil.
Quelques femmes déambulaient d’étal en étal, achetant leurs pains chez Guillaume Aiglemont, leurs poissons chez Alexandre Boutefeu et leurs légumes auprès d’Aude Valvert.
Yohan Clairval, le forgeron, était en train de frapper une pièce de métal sur son enclume. Il forgeait peut-être un fer à cheval ou un crochet. Peu importait : malgré sa carrure massive, il semblait peiner à soulever son marteau et tapait le métal rougi avec mollesse, dépressivement.
David Neuville, le tisserand, apportait un lourd rouleau de tissu grisâtre à Charlotte Courtelande, la couturière. Malgré ses trente ans, il marchait le dos courbé, à petits pas, tel un vieillard.
Jimmy Montbard réparait la charpente des Brisefer qui avait été frappée par la foudre quelques jours plus tôt. Le charpentier enfonçait une cheville en bois pour maintenir solidement deux poutres. Mais, là où autrefois, il y serait parvenu en trois, voire deux coups, il lui en fallut au moins une dizaine, comme si ses forces avaient disparu en même temps que les couleurs.
Quant à Guillaume Aiglemont, le boulanger, il pétrissait sa pâte sans entrain. Il n’avait rien changé à son extraordinaire recette qui ravissait les papilles de ses clients. Mais, bizarrement, le pain semblait moins bon qu’auparavant, comme si le fait que son doré ait viré au gris avait corrompu son goût.
Amaury comprenait leur état d’esprit. Il était né à Sombreval il y avait quarante-huit ans. Il avait connu les couleurs. Il les aimait. Mais comme nombre de personnes, il n’y avait jamais réellement prêté attention. Ce n’est qu’en les perdant qu’il avait compris combien elles étaient primordiales pour le bonheur de chacun. Maintenant, tout le monde était triste, au trente-sixième dessous.
Amaury détourna le regard de la place et projeta son regard au loin. Au sud, la Forêt Noire portait elle aussi bien son nom. Derrière, on apercevait les Hauts Monts aux sommets perpétuellement enneigés. L’Alvine, qui coulait à la frontière ouest de la ville, arborait des eaux ardoise dans lesquelles s’ébattaient des poissons anthracites ou bistres. Derrière, ainsi qu’au nord et à l’est, les champs de maïs, de blé et de pommes de terre s’étendaient à perte de vue. Mais aucun n’était teinté de jaune ni de vert, mais de gris souris, d’étain et d’acier.
Au milieu de tout cela, un chemin de terre battue serpentait. Un cavalier ― certainement un messager du Grand Tyr, subodora Amaury ― arrivait au loin sur un canasson grège. Autrefois, avant le Grand Tyr, il serait arrivé au galop. Mais là, il avançait paresseusement.
Même les animaux subissent l’absence de couleurs. Ils sont aussi déprimés que nous, se lamenta silencieusement Amaury.
Il n’avait pas tort. Cela faisait deux décennies qu’on n’entendait plus les oiseaux gazouiller, les loups hurler, les chiens aboyer, les chats miauler. Les vaches se contentaient de brouter, sans meuglement. Les piverts creusaient le bois de leur bec en faisant le moins de bruit possible.
Et que dire des végétaux. Les fleurs étaient moins nombreuses. Les champs fournissaient moins de blé, d’orge, de légumes. La production des arbres fruitiers était divisée par deux.
Tous les êtres vivants pâtissaient de l’absence de couleurs et de soleil. Le marasme avait envahi Arkadia.
Amaury estima que le coursier mettrait une heure pour parcourir le dernier kilomètre qui le séparait de Sombreval. Le gardien n’était pas pressé qu’il arrive : en général, les messagers du Grand Tyr étaient rarement annonciateurs de bonnes nouvelles.
Amaury se leva. Il donna un dernier coup sur la coupole, ralluma deux mèches éteintes par le vent puis descendit de la tour. Il grimpa à sa sœur jumelle et entreprit le même travail. Sans entrain, sans envie. Il n’aspirait qu’à une chose : regagner son chez-lui et dormir.
Voici maintenant ma traduction :
As every hour since six in the morning, Amaury Berthelot climbed the ladder of the first tower so fast as a snail. The guard of the beams of light was tired.
For twenty years, he slept badly, was perpetually tired. As number of inhabitants of Dark City, he was demoralized. It was normal: Dark City had born never as well its name. The village was plunged in depressing greys since The Great Tyr, a tyrannical wizard who had abducted the power to King Martin II by killing him, had captured colors.
If there only had been in Dark City, the inhabitants would have had left the village to settle down somewhere else. But it was all Arkadia which had lost its colors: The Great Tyr had crossed the continent and cast its spell of discoloration on every meter-square.
Imagine a world where the sky and the sea would have lost their glittering blue, the sun its invigorating yellow, the grass, the leaves and the plants, their beneficial greens. Imagine that everything is only grey, white or black. Arkadia had become like that.
Amaury finally arrived at the top of the tower. A wide upright aluminum dome reverberated the fifty flames of the immense candle placed in front of. It illuminated a part of Dark City. Because, in addition to having taken colors, The Great Tyr had amassed a thick layer of clouds over the continent, hiding the sun. Thenceforth, in all the cities and villages of Arkadia, beams must be lit so that the inhabitants do not live in the darkness.
Amaury polished the dome to optimize the brightness of beams of light. Then he sat down on the edge of the platform and watched the life which passed morosely.
In addition of its two towers, Dark City counted around thirty wooden and cob houses with a roof in thatch, distributed in five streets which left like sunshine rays around the central place.
Some women roamed stall after stall, buying their breads at Guillaume Aiglemont, their fishes at Alexandre Boutefeu and their vegetables at Aude Valvert.
Yohan Clairval, the smith, was striking a piece of metal on his anvil. He maybe forged a horseshoe or a hook. It did not matter: despite his massive stature, he seemed to have difficulty in lifting his hammer and banged the glowing metal with languor, depressively.
David Neuville, the weaver, brought a heavy roller of greyish tissue to Charlotte Courtelande, the needlewoman. Despite his thirty years, he walked with the back bent, in small steps, like an old man.
Jimmy Montbard repaired the frame of Brisefer family which had been struck by the lightning a few days ago. The carpenter drove a wooden ankle to maintain solidly two beams. Formerly, he would have made that in three, even two knocks. But, now, he needed at least about ten knocks, as if his strengths had disappeared at the same time as colors.
Guillaume Aiglemont, the baker, molded his dough without pep. He had changed nothing his extraordinary recipe which delighted the papillae of his customers. But, strangely, the bread seemed less good than previously, as if the fact that its gilt was now grey had corrupted its taste.
Amaury understood their state of mind. He had been born to Dark City forty-eight years ago. He had known colors. He liked them. But as everybody, he had paid it never really attention. It is only by losing them that he had understood how much they were essential for the happiness of each. Now, everybody was sad, down in the dumps.
Amaury looked away from the place and threw his look far off. In the South, the Black Forest had the good name. Behind, the High Mounts showed its summits perpetually snowy. Alvine, who flowed on the border West of the city, had slate grey waters in which anthracite or bister fishes swam. Behind, in the North and in the East, corn, wheat and potatoes fields extended as far as the eye can see. But none was tinged with yellow or green, but with mid-grey, tin and steel.
In the middle of the fields, a dirt road snaked. A horseman — certainly a messenger of The Great Tyr, thought Amaury — was arriving on a raw horse. Formerly, before The Great Tyr, he would have arrived at a gallop. But there he was moving lazily.
Even animals undergo the absence of colors. They are as depressed as we, complained silently Amaury.
He was not wrong. For two decades, we didn’t hear birds twitter, wolves roar, dogs barking, cats meow. Cows just grazed, without mooing. Green woodpeckers dug the wood with their beak by making least possible noise.
And what to say about vegetables. Flowers were less numerous. Fields supplied less wheat, barley, vegetables. The production of fruit trees was divided by two.
All the human beings suffered from the absence of colors and of the sun. The slump had invaded Arkadia.
Amaury considered that the messenger would put one hour to do the last kilometer which separated him from Dark City. The guard was not pressed that he arrived: generally, the messengers of The Great Tyr rarely brought good news.
Amaury stood up. He gave a last blow onto the dome, relit two wicks put out by the wind and came down from the tower. He climbed to its twin sister and began the same work. Without spirit, without desire. He aspired only to go back and sleep.
Est-ce que ma traduction est bonne ? Quelles sont les erreurs ?
En vous remerciant par avance,
Yann Riva-Cobel

Re: Traduction Français - Anglais

Posted: 09 Feb 2018 11:41
by Mathea
Bonjour Yann Riva-Cobel,

Cette histoire est “a fun read”, comme on dirait en anglais.

Voici le chapitre avec des corrections. Certains textes sont barrés, et quelques textes sont ajoutés. Tous les ajouts sont indiqués en rouge.


As At every hour since six in the morning, Amaury Berthelot climbed the ladder of the first tower so as fast as a snail. The guard of the beams of light lighthouse keeper was tired.
For twenty years, he slept badly, and was perpetually tired. As Like number of many inhabitants of Dark City, he was demoralized. It was normal: Dark City had never borne never as well its name so well. The village was plunged into depressing greys ever since The Great Tyr, a tyrannical wizard, had captured the colors, who had abducted the power to after taking over King Martin II’s power by killing him, had captured colors.
If there this color loss had only had been occurred in Dark City, then the inhabitants would have had left the village to settle down somewhere else. But it was all Arkadia which had lost its colors: The Great Tyr had crossed the continent and cast its his spell of discoloration on every meter-square square meter.
Imagine a world where the sky and the sea would have lost their glittering blue, the sun its invigorating yellow, the grass, the leaves and the plants, their beneficial greens. Imagine that everything is only grey, white or black. Arkadia had become like that.
Amaury finally arrived at the top of the tower. A wide upright aluminum dome reverberated reflected the fifty flames of the immense candle placed in front of. It illuminated a part of Dark City. Because, in addition to having taken colors, The Great Tyr had amassed a thick layer of clouds over the continent, hiding the sun. Thenceforth, in all the cities and villages of Arkadia, beams must be kept lit so that the inhabitants do not live in the darkness.
Amaury polished the dome reflector to optimize the brightness of the light beams of light. Then he sat down on the edge of the platform and watched the life which as it passed morosely passed by.
In addition of to its two towers, Dark City counted numbered around about thirty wooden and cob houses (see Note 1) that were topped with a roof in thatched roofs, and were distributed in on five streets, which left shot out like sunshine rays around the central place village-center.
Some women roamed stall after stall, buying their breads at Guillaume Aiglemont’s , their fishes at Alexandre Boutefeu’s and their vegetables at Aude Valvert’s.
Yohan Clairval, the smith, was striking a piece of metal on his anvil. He maybe forged Maybe he was forging a horseshoe or a hook. It did not matter: despite his massive stature build, he seemed to have difficulty in lifting his hammer and banged the glowing metal with languor, depressively.
David Neuville, the weaver, brought a heavy roller roll of greyish tissue fabric to Charlotte Courtelande, the needlewoman seamstress. Despite his thirty years, he walked with the back bent, in small steps, like an old man.
Jimmy Montbard repaired the frame of the Brisefer family home which had been struck by the lightning a few days ago. The carpenter drove a wooden ankle peg to maintain solidly securely hold two beams. Formerly, he would have made that succeeded in three, or even two knocks strokes. But, now, he needed at least about ten a dozen knocks strokes, as if his strengths strength had disappeared at the same time as the colors.
Guillaume Aiglemont, the baker, molded kneaded his dough without pep enthusiasm. He had changed nothing about his extraordinary recipe which delighted the papillae taste buds of his customers. But, strangely, the bread seemed less good than previously, as if the fact that its gilt was now grey had corrupted its taste.
Amaury understood their state of mind. He had been born to in Dark City forty-eight years ago. He had known colors. He liked them. But as like everybody else, he had paid it never really paid any attention to them. It is only by losing them that he had understood how much they were essential they were for the happiness of each and every one. Now, everybody was sad, down in the dumps.
Amaury looked away from the place village-center and threw cast his look gaze far off. In the South, the Black Forest had the good bore its name well. Behind, the High Mounts showed its their summits as perpetually snowy. Alvine, who which flowed on the border West of the city, had slate grey waters in which where anthracite- or bister-colored fishes swam. Behind, in the North and in the East, corn, wheat and potatoes potato fields extended as far as the eye can could see. But none was tinged with yellow or green, but with mid-grey, tin and steel.
In the middle of the fields, a dirt road snaked. A horseman — certainly a messenger of The Great Tyr, thought Amaury — was arriving on a raw-silk-grey horse. Formerly, before The Great Tyr, he would have arrived at a gallop. But there he was moving lazily along.
Even animals undergo the absence of colors. They are as depressed as we are, complained silently Amaury lamented silently.
He was not wrong. For two decades, we didn’t hear birds twitter, wolves roar, dogs barking bark, cats meow. Cows just grazed, without mooing. Green woodpeckers dug pecked the wood with their beaks, by while making the least possible noise.
And what to say about vegetables. plants? Flowers were less numerous. Fields supplied less wheat, barley, and vegetables. The production of fruit trees was divided by two cut in half.
All the human beings suffered from the absence of colors and of the sun. The slump doldrums had invaded Arkadia.
Amaury considered estimated that the messenger would put take one hour to do travel the last kilometer which separated him from Dark City. The guard lightkeeper was not pressed that he arrived in no hurry for the horseman’s arrival: generally in general, the messengers of The Great Tyr rarely brought good news.
Amaury stood up. He gave a one last blow polish onto the dome, relit two wicks put out by the wind and came down from the tower. He climbed to its twin sister and began the same work. Without spirit, without desire. He aspired only to go back home and sleep.

NOTE
1. In UK English, cob refers to a mixture of clay and straw, used for constructing walls of cottages.


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Note 1 est une note explicative pour le lecteur.

Dans le paragraphe deuxième au dernier, j'ai remplacé le mot “generally” par “in general”. Pourquoi? Parce que la phrase contient aussi le mot “rarely”. En anglais, nous détestons utiliser deux mots se terminant par “-ly” dans la même phrase.

Cheers from Southern California!
Mathea