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anglais vers roumain - Tarif standard : 0.12 EUR par mot / 30 EUR de l'heure français vers roumain - Tarif standard : 0.12 EUR par mot / 30 EUR de l'heure italien vers roumain - Tarif standard : 0.12 EUR par mot / 30 EUR de l'heure roumain vers anglais - Tarif standard : 0.12 EUR par mot / 30 EUR de l'heure roumain vers français - Tarif standard : 0.12 EUR par mot / 30 EUR de l'heure
roumain vers italien - Tarif standard : 0.12 EUR par mot / 30 EUR de l'heure
Texte source - roumain În după-amiaza acelei zile pariziene văzusem, la Centrul Pompidou, o mare expoziţie André Breton, pretext, de fapt, pentru o desfăşurare de imagerie suprarealistă cum rareori poţi vedea într-un singur loc. Mă însoţiseră prietenii la care locuiam, un cuplu tânăr, mixt în mai multe sensuri, căci reunea două rase, două religii şi două arte, dar mai ales două fizionomii extrem de contrastante. Ei îi priveam faţa reflectată în sticla vreunui Delvaux şi părea chiar de acolo, înconjurată natural de femei goale şi blonde aşteptând (pe cine?) într-o gară pustie. Era aidoma lor, cu excepţia părului tăiat violent la ceafă. Şi, fireşte, a hainelor, între care faimoasa cămaşă bărbătească, neagră, în care o văzusem de cele mai multe ori în săptămâna cât stătusem cu ei. Cum îşi găsise românca asta sibiancă algerianul cu care locuia, habar n-am. Legătura mea fusese, fireşte, ea, prin intermediul unei prietene comune, tot muziciană. El era un berber mândru de originea lui, marcată prin tichia de catifea cu ape vişinii şi cu fund de atlaz albastru de care cred că nu se despărţea niciodată. Astfel, era, ca şi ea, haios, nepăsător, cam leneş... Imposibil de spus din ce trăia. Căci mă-ndoiesc că din actorie, cum (nici măcar nu) pretindea: nu cred că Othello – singurul rol în care-l vedeam cât de cât – se juca prea des în acele zile la Paris... Din toată expoziţia mi-a rămas în minte doar o singură pictură. Cred că sunt ţicnit: uneori iubesc câte un tablou atât de tare, încât literalmente îmi vine să dau spargere la muzeu şi să plec cu el. Era „Le soir qui tombe” al lui Magritte: o fereastră spartă, cioburi lungi aşezate sub ea în picioare şi soarele de amurg răsfrânt în ele sub unghiuri diferite...
Traduction - anglais In the afternoon of that Parisian day I had seen, at the Pompidou Center, a great exhibition of André Breton, a pretext, in fact, for a display of surrealistic imagery as you can rarely see in a single place. My friends, who put me up, accompanied me, a young couple, mixed in several ways, as it brought together two races, two religions and two arts, but above all two extremely opposite physiognomies. I looked at her face as it reflected in the glass of a Delvaux and it seemed to belong there, naturally surrounded by blonde female nudes waiting (for whom?) in a deserted train station. She was their living image, except for the hair, brutally cut at the nape of her head. And, of course, for the clothes, among which the famous black men’s shirt, that I saw her in most of the time in the week I had stayed with them. How that Romanian girl from Sibiu had managed to find the Algerian she lived with, I didn’t have the slightest idea. My connection was, of course, her, through a mutual friend, a musician as well. He was a Berber proud of his descent, showing it by the velvet cap with cherry shades and blue satin bottom that I believe he never separated from. Thus he was, just like her, funny, nonchalant, a little lazy... It was impossible to tell what he lived of. For I doubt it was acting, as he (hardly) claimed: I didn’t believe Othello – the only part I could have imagined him playing – was staged very often these days in Paris... Out of the entire exhibition there was one painting that stayed in my mind. I must be crazy: sometimes I love a painting so much that I literally want to break into the museum and take it away. It was Magritte’s „Le soir qui tombe”: a broken window, long shards of glass standing underneath and the setting sun reflected in them under different angles...
roumain vers anglais: 5th ProZ.com Translation Contest - Entry #3434
Texte source - roumain Pe vremuri (hei, hei, nu chiar pe când cu descălecarea lui Mihai la Alba-Iulia!), exista în Cluj o stradă numită Amurg (notaţi: nu „Amurgului”, Amurg). Întotdeauna mi-a plăcut acest nume de stradă; mi se părea ciudat, aparte, straniu, poetic, „punător pe gânduri”. Numele îmi plăcea, strada nu. Nici nu prea avea ce să-ţi placă. O stradă plină de absenţe. Copleşită de absenţe. Adică, de ajungeai pe-acolo, puteai fi sigur că nu vei întâlni pe nimeni (poate câte o gospodină în capot, care trecea alături, la altă gospodină îmbrăcată în capotul ei, sau, potrivit anotimpului, în combinezon; cam atât). De prin curţi te mai lătra câte un câine care ţinea să se afle în treabă. Culmea (fireşte, depinde din ce sens o luai) strada ducea înspre... amurg. Nici după ce am aflat că pe această stradă a locuit (în gazdă) nevastă-mea, pe când nu era (nevastă-mea), dar era studentă.
Ce, naiba, puteai căuta pe strada asta!?! Ni-mic. Nimic. Nu tu prăvălii, nu tu o crâşmă, cât despre firme, pe-atunci, nici vorbă. („Pe-atunci” = în urmă cu vreo, pardon, 30-40 de ani, adică acum cam 1500 de zile; vă daţi seama? 36.000 de ore! Minute? O mulţime.) Aşadar: ce puteai căuta pe strada asta? Neamuri (nu era cazul meu), gagici (n-am văzut), frumuseţi arhitectonice (nici vorbă), umbra copacilor de pe trotuar (nu erau, nici trotuar nu prea era)... atunci, ce? Ori, în mod obligatoriu (de pildă dacă erai poştaş, miliţian sau executor judecătoresc – iarăşi nu era cazul meu), ori de-a nebun (era cazul meu). Adică, încerc să explic:
Atât de altcumva era strada asta încât de multe ori, de multe ori, m-am dus pe-acolo (şi, zău, aveam cam 1/3 din anii mei de astăzi) doar ca să păşesc dinspre levant spre amurg, sau dinspre amurg spre răsărit. Nu avea nici o importanţă.
Tudor Ionescu, „Amurgul pierdut”, published in „Tribuna” (issue 120, 1-15 September 2007)
Traduction - anglais In times past (hey, hey, not quite during King Mihai’s entrance in Alba-Iulia!), there was a street in Cluj called Dusk (mind you: Dusk Street not Dusk’s Street). I have always liked this street name, I found it strange, peculiar, eerie, poetic, “thought provoking”. I liked the name, but not the street. There wasn’t much to like about it. A street full of absences. Overwhelmed by absences. That is, should you happen to pass by, you could be sure you wouldn’t run into anyone (maybe some housewife in a dressing gown going next door to another housewife wearing her own dressing gown or, according to season, a negligee; not much else). From some courtyard a dog would bark at you just for the heck of it. To top it all (naturally, depending on which end you were coming from) the street led towards... dusk. Not even after I learned that my wife had lived there (in lodging), while she wasn’t (my wife), but she was a student.
What the heck could one do on this street!?! No-thing. Nothing. No shops, no pubs, and as for companies, at the time, no way. (“At the time” = about 30-40 years ago, excuse me, that is about 1,500 days ago, can you imagine that? 36,000 hours! Minutes? Loads.) So: what could one do on this street? Relatives (not my case), chicks (haven’t seen any), architectural beauties (none whatsoever), the shade of trees on the sidewalk (there weren’t any, and there wasn’t even much of a sidewalk for that matter)... then, what? Either you had to (for instance you were a postman, a policeman or a bailiff – again not my case), or you were just wandering (this was my case). That is, I’ll try to explain:
So different was this street that many times, many times, I passed by (and, honestly, I had about a third of my age today) only to walk from dawn towards dusk or from dusk towards dawn. It didn’t matter at all.
Tudor Ionescu, “Amurgul pierdut” (“The lost dusk”), published in „Tribuna” (issue 120, 1-15 September 2007)
anglais vers roumain (Romanian Ministry of Justice) français vers roumain (Romanian Ministry of Justice) roumain vers anglais (Romanian Ministry of Justice) roumain vers français (Romanian Ministry of Justice)
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