DOC《目录》

目录首届 方重翻译奖 英译中 原文

2 一等奖作品

5 二等奖作品

8 二等奖作品

13 首届 方重翻译奖 中译英 原文

16 一等奖作品

18 二等奖作品

21 二等奖作品

24 第二届 方重翻译奖 英译中 原文

27 一等奖作品

31 二等奖作品

35 二等奖作品

39 第二届 方重翻译奖 中译英 原文

42 一等奖作品

44 二等奖作品

47 二等奖作品

51 首届 方重翻译奖 英译中 原文 Writing and Winning by Adam Gopnik Ngugi wa Thiong'

o? Juan Goytisolo? Adonis? Over the past several weeks, some version of this list was muttered, usually to a silent spouse in the middle of the night, by insomniac writers contemplating another Nobel Prize about to go where it shouldn'

t;

i.

e., to someone other than themselves. (Not that winning puts out the competitive fires. Saul Bellow, who won the Nobel for literature in 1976, was said to have grown wistful every October after that, because you can win it only once.) Nor is the muttering restricted to the papabili who make the short list;

pretty much every living writer with a word processor thinks that he or she has a shot at winning. (Edmund Wilson reports that our own James Thurber longed for it to go, just once, to a humorist;

predictably, he never got anywhere near the podium.) When this year'

s prize was announced, last Thursday, it went to a writer who, if not a North American (again), is at least familiar to North Americans: the Peruvian novelist and man of letters Mario Vargas Llosa. So all hail Vargas Llosa, whom even his noisier left-wing critics have to regard as exactly the kind of writer the prize ought to go to: one with a host of well-regarded novels ( The Time of the Hero, Conversation in the Cathedral, the screen-adapted Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter, The Feast of the Goat ) and a sense of social responsibility (he ran seriously for, and lost badly, the Presidency of Peru), not to mention a lively personal life that includes once punching out another future laureate with an equally impressive triple-barrelled moniker, Gabriel García Márquez, reportedly over something to do with Mrs. Vargas Llosa. The Nobel thus not only crowns a career but provides the basis for a fine future Javier Bardem/Antonio Banderas movie. ( The only thing they cared for more than Latin American epic fiction was . . . the honor of a woman. ) What this year'

s prize really shows is that prizes, like people, have a DNA of their own. The Nobel Prize in Literature would have been more illuminatingly named not after Dynamite Alfred but after his close friend, greatest hero, and ideal writer, Victor Hugo, with whom he shared time in Paris and the friendship of the great salon-keeper Juliette Adam-Lamber. (Hugo once called Nobel the richest vagabond in Europe, with an eye to his wanderings.) Hugo was not quite a writer-artist in the manner that we associate with Flaubert and James, but he was the big moral writer of his time―a writer who intervened in the world, rowing in and riding the tides of reform. Seen as winners of the Victor Hugo prize, all the Nobel choices make some sense. Even a reticent lyricist like Szymborska or a dyspeptic traveller like Naipaul or writers too readily elbowed aside, like Pearl Buck and Sinclair Lewis, have a neatly delineated social view and a will to engage in the world'

s work, an urge to report as much as to invent, whereas the unlaurelled, on the whole, tend to be more writers of the sentence-and-its-structure than of the world-and-its-woes. Perhaps not coincidentally, one of Vargas Llosa'