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韩素音国际翻译大赛往届真题
本届韩素音国际翻译大赛的赛题已经发布，想要浏览的同学可以看以往的文章哦！那么今天，让我们来看看往届比赛的真题吧，这样我们可以对比赛题目风格和设置有更好地了解，帮助我们来更好地准备比赛！第33届韩素音国际翻译大赛试题如下！
01大赛简介
2021年第三十三届韩素音国际翻译大赛由中国翻译协会、北京第二外国语学院联合主办，《中国翻译》编辑部与北京第二外国语学院高级翻译学院联合承办。本届竞赛分别设立汉语与英语、法语、俄语、西班牙语、阿拉伯语、德语、日语、韩语8个语种的双向互译，共计16个比赛项目，参赛者可任选一项或同时参加多项竞赛。
02汉译英题目
从春游到溺水
李润问我，如果幸福指数是一百分的话，你现在给自己的状态打多少分。我说，九十八。他大惊，怎么会这么高？我也有点诧异，怎么，你不幸福吗？他说，这个问题他问了好多人，多数人的回答都没超过八十分，不知为何我会有这么高的分数。
我也有点奇怪，为什么会有这么多人感觉不幸福呢？我就问他，那你觉得哪里不幸福？他一时也答不出来，只是觉得好像并没有那么快乐。我突然明白了，原来很多人认为幸福就一定要天天快乐，这确实有些难。其实，对幸福过高的标准定义往往是造成不幸福的主要原因。
幸福的反义词是什么，是不幸吗？我觉得是麻木。
当一个人对幸福的感知力越来越少的时候，就很难体会到幸福。在听《积极心理学》课程时，有个特别形象的观点让我记忆深刻，说是现在很多成年人对于幸福的追求分为两种：一种是溺水模式，就是认为只有解脱的那一刻才会幸福，在此之前都要忍受痛苦。比如，有些人认为，发财了就幸福了，找到一个爱人就幸福了，创业成功了就幸福了……而在实现此目标前，就是得忍耐痛苦的过程。另一种是春游模式，就是整个环节从过程到结果都是快乐的。就像我们童年听到春游的通知会开心得跳起，会回到家快乐地做准备，然后坐上大巴愉快地和同学们聊天，到了目的地后的每一刻也都十足兴奋，整个过程都充满着幸福的感觉。我们成年后，很难再有这种感觉，慢慢地从春游模式变成了溺水模式，其实就是对于幸福的感知力开始变弱。
也许是我接触的病患太多，见识了太多的苦难，所以我对自己拥有的格外珍惜和知足。
大家无法想象，对于一个眼睛看不见的人来说，拥有一双健康的眼睛是多么幸福的事情；对于一个因为贫穷无钱医治疾病的人来说，一万块钱是多么重要。这些道理很多人都懂，但我真真切切地接触到了他们，所以我经常觉得老天给予我的足够多：能每天睁开眼看到天 空，可以住在一个无须忍受暑寒的房子，可以步行走到地铁站，可以 有一份稳定的工作……这些都让我非常感恩。
我相信人与人、人与世间万物之间有一种超越语言和行为的联结， 如果能用一种正念的思想与世间相处，人就会收到相应正念的回馈。过去的已经过去，未来也是不确定的，我能拥有的只有此时此刻。感受一枚树叶从空中飘落，飘飞出漂亮的弧线，感受一枚橘子瓣在口中爆裂，清甜的滋味蕴藏着大自然的馈赠，这种微小的幸福都是值得珍 惜和体会的。当我用这种心态去生活时，我会觉得每时每刻都有种充实的幸福感。
不把某种目标当作幸福的唯一砝码，而是用一种正念的心态去面对当下，用乐观的心态去构建未来，这种人往往无论取得什么结果， 内心都是幸福的。比如天赐父子和薇薇母女，他们能时刻地感知到生活中的美好和善意，所以他们对看似绝望的未来依然心怀乐观。直到现在，即便天赐和薇薇都全盲了，我仍然能感受到他们身上那种幸福和乐观的气息。所以幸福不是外部给予，而是内心发起，从内心涌出来的对现状的满足。学会知足是一种思想境界，如果能身体力行地去帮助一些境况不如自己的人，这种付出往往也是一种回馈。因为对比，更能珍惜自己所拥有的；因为付出，更能体会到自己的价值：这何尝不是一种幸福呢。
03英译汉题目
THE DEEPEST HUMAN LIFE
We had the sky, up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made, or only just happened — Jim allowed they was made, but I allowed they happened; I judged it would have took too long to make so many. Jim said the moon could a laid them; well, that looked kind of reasonable, so I didn’t say nothing against it, because I’ve seen a frog lay most as many, so of course it could be done. We used to watch the stars that fell too, and see them streak down. Jim allowed they’d got spoiled and was hove out of the nest.
An ever-growing number of people have their view of the sky obstructed by the light pollution of our cities. Some go years without once gawking at the moon or the stars. It’s an apt metaphor of our whole human situation. There’s a haunting line by Kabir, the mysterious fifteenth-century Indian poet, a kind of mystical Mother Goose: “They squander their birth in isms.” He’s thinking of the few major religious traditions of his day, but the idea applies even more poignantly to our collection of religions, political affiliations, spiritualities, identities fabricated by marketers, and even theories constructed in philosophy departments. The glow of these beliefs, at their best, can guide us through life. But they often amount to a kind of light pollution. The feeling of possessing knowledge can be the worst enemy of the truth. Beliefs and theories, and the identities associated with them, are as indispensable and fascinating as politics, but they are, from the perspective of true philosophy, at worst impediments and at best starting and stopping points of a much larger journey, which involves going off into the darkness once in a while and taking a good long look at what shines above us.
The story I have to tell is about how, in the words of William James, “the deepest human life is everywhere.” The coordinates of a meaningful life — the stars, in my analogy — are there for any of us to see and puzzle out. The questions, stories, and injunctions of the great philosophers aren’t the speeches of angels loafing in their celestial abodes. Even the most formidable thinkers speak to us out of lives pretty much like our own, with their daily routines, their little aches and pains and pleasures, and their occasional upheavals. Their feet have no more wings than yours or mine.
A little over a decade later, I was finishing a PhD in philosophy at Emory University. The obvious path before me was to drift into a full-time position at a decent institution, work my dissertation into a book, zero in on a specialty, publish some articles and reviews, and lick the necessary wingtips to get tenure. But some sense of destiny (I would have never called it that then) kept me from ever taking such a path seriously. Though I’d proven myself capable of publishing articles and giving papers in the world of philosophy, I rebelled against the prospect of a microspecialty and the bureaucracy of tenure. Moreover, I hadn’t gotten into philosophy in order to become a scholar of philosophy, however wonderful and necessary the work of scholarship can be.
When my mother called me from Iowa saying that she’d read in the local classifieds that Kirkwood Community College had a fulltime philosophy position open, it seemed a reasonable way to get health insurance. The saying “a job is a job” is particularly poignant for philosophers. Diogenes of Sinope, one of our profession’s early practitioners, used to beg money from statues. When asked why, he replied, “In order to get used to being refused.” But he didn’t have a pregnant wife. And neither my wife nor I really wanted to live in a barrel and relieve ourselves outside, as were Diogenes’s customs.
Another decade later, my wife and two kids were sound asleep upstairs, and I was alone in the selva oscura (the “dark wood,” a phrase from Dante’s Comedy, which to someone with as little Italian as me initially looks like the “obscure self”), staring at the fire in our stove’s belly, reflecting on the question of my destiny: exactly the activity I preach to my students, exactly the activity I’d been avoiding as assiduously as they do. You see, earlier that night, someone at a dinner party had had the gall to ask me, “Are you fulfilling your destiny?” The rude question was partially my fault. I’d brought up the subject of destiny, inspired by my recent perusal of the Mahabharata, the gargantuan Sanskrit epic of ancient India (it’s about three times as long as the Bible), which narrates the fratricidal war between the Pandavas and the Kauravas. To talk abstractly about destiny may be boring or fascinating, but to be asked if you’re fulfilling your destiny has an archer’s precision in piercing to the heart of the matter. I’d hemmed and hawed, wiggling out of an honest answer like only someone trained in philosophy can do. But now, before the fire, I had only myself to confront.
My initial morose thoughts were that I should be doing more with my talents. As much as I loved teaching at a community college, it was, after all, a community college. Friends of mine at more prestigious institutions, my family, even some of my students, had all prodded me, with various degrees of subtlety, to work on advancing my academic career: a path my choices in life had essentially made vanish. My dark thoughts wandered — though maybe that’s the wrong verb — to a story from the Mahabharata, the very story that had provoked the bewildering question of my destiny after I’d told it at the dinner party.
A certain Ekalavya, a member of the most despised outcaste tribe, asks to study archery with the great guru Drona. Arjuna, the hero of the Bhagavad Gita (one short chapter of the Mahabharata), becomes through Drona’s tutelage the greatest archer in the world. But Drona disdainfully turns down Ekalavya, despite his considerable talents because the smelly presence of an outcaste would upset the other students. So, Ekalavya goes off to a secluded place in the woods and carves a little sculpture of Drona, which he sets up as an idol to oversee his solitary practice with bow and arrow.
One day Arjuna is out hunting. His dog runs off into the woods and starts yipping at the outcaste archer, who gets irritated and sends off a volley of arrows so expertly that without causing injury they instantaneously plug the dog’s mouth. The dog runs back to his master, who looks in awe at the gagged beast. Arjuna then sulks back to Drona and whines, “You told me you’d make me the greatest archer in the world.” “And I have,” the teacher responds. Arjuna points dejectedly at his pet, obviously the work of someone greater.
Drona and Arjuna head back to the woods to find out what’s going on. They discover and watch in amazement the lone archer practicing with his carved idol of the great teacher. Finally, Drona goes up to him and asks, “Am I your teacher?” The archer bows deeply, honored by the guru’s presence, and says, “Of course you are.” InIndiaat the time it was customary that teachers weren’t paid until after they’d successfully taught their students; but after graduation they could ask for any fee they saw fit. So, the teacher says, “Your abilities prove that you have graduated, and now I ask for my payment.” Even more deeply honored, the student says, “Whatever you ask, teacher.” To which Drona responds, “I ask for your right thumb.” Ekalavya takes out his knife, unhesitatingly chops off his right thumb, and gives it to the teacher, who then turns to Arjuna and says, “There, now you’re the greatest archer in the world.” What’s the story of Ekalavya about? A teacher who chooses the elite over the common. A student who offers the teacher a fulfillment of his calling. The possibilities of participating in the highest economy of education. The psychological blockages that prevent such participation. The brutal tragedy caused by the stupid divisions we draw. The story, it seemed, fragmented into two clear images: the possible me and the real me. I’d chosen to teach Ekalavya, but something in me was clinging to the prejudices of Drona.
以上就是往届韩素音大赛的真题，从中可以看出韩素音国际翻译大赛还是偏爱文学之类的文本翻译，其难度也是显著的。同学们在准备比赛时，可以通过阅读一些文学书籍来慢慢积累，提高自己的文学素养，其中最重要就是要培养自己对文学类文本的语感，只有这样我们才能够得心应手翻译此类文本！
添加竞赛获奖攻略群，更多大赛相关备考真题资料等群内直接领取~ http://cp.52jingsai.com/qrcode/6965（点击链接或扫描下方二维码码加群）
以上就是往届韩素音大赛的真题，从中可以看出韩素音国际翻译大赛还是偏爱文学之类的文本翻译，其难度也是显著的。同学们在准备比赛时，可以通过阅读一些文学书籍来慢慢积累，提高自己的文学素养，其中最重要就是要培养自己对文学类文本的语感，只有这样我们才能够得心应手翻译此类文本！
添加竞赛获奖攻略群，更多大赛相关备考真题资料等群内直接领取~ http://cp.52jingsai.com/qrcode/6965（点击链接或扫描下方二维码码加群）
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