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Message de here4u posté le 01-10-2025 à 12:09:42 (S | E | F)
Hello dears,
New month, and new translation. At first reading, this text may look difficult
to understand, but after a few more readings, pieces fall right into place, and
everything will be OK, I'm sure...
I give you THE FORCE!
Translate into French:
Anna's call came at the most mundane of times, just past noon on Saturday.
Bad news is supposed to come at night, when one is vulnerable and unprepared;
not in the middle of an early spring day when life seems bountiful and to die
absurd. I was sitting on the toilet reading the paper; Michael took the call as
he was within reaching distance, being in what passes for a kitchen, rustling
up lunch-he is much more adept at it than I am, which may be one of the reasons
I have put up with him for longer than with any of his predecessors. (That, and
the fact that he's Michael, not Mike; I'm allergic to Mikes and Nicks and Dicks.
Not, I should add that marriage, for me at least, is on the cards, not even
after three years of sharing a fair amount of our waking and most of our sleeping
hours. Michael has no axes to grind, no cause to espouse-his predecessors used
at least to be into Anti-apartheid; his only passion, except for me I hope, is
Shakespeare.)
"Somebody called Anna on the phone," he announced from the door. "She
said 'Ah-na' frightful Afrikaans accent. I told her you were involved in a matter
which requires your undivided attention but she said it's important."
"My sister!"
"I didn't know you had a sister." He sounded hurt.
"She's a part of a past I've written off."
"And now it's catching up with you."
"No," I said. "I won't let it." But I felt more apprehensive than I dared
let on. I picked up the telephone. "Anna? It's Ouma, isn't it?" Because it was the
one thing I'd always feared; this was the phantom limb which one day would begin
to ache again.
André Brink, Imaginings of Sand.
Cet exercice est un
et sa correction sera en ligne le
mercredi 15 octobre 2025. Courage !
Message de here4u posté le 01-10-2025 à 12:09:42 (S | E | F)
Hello dears,
New month, and new translation.
At first reading, this text may look difficult to understand, but after a few more readings, pieces fall right into place, and
everything will be OK, I'm sure...
I give you THE FORCE!
Translate into French:
Anna's call came at the most mundane of times, just past noon on Saturday.
Bad news is supposed to come at night, when one is vulnerable and unprepared;
not in the middle of an early spring day when life seems bountiful and to die
absurd. I was sitting on the toilet reading the paper; Michael took the call as
he was within reaching distance, being in what passes for a kitchen, rustling
up lunch-he is much more adept at it than I am, which may be one of the reasons
I have put up with him for longer than with any of his predecessors. (That, and
the fact that he's Michael, not Mike; I'm allergic to Mikes and Nicks and Dicks.
Not, I should add that marriage, for me at least, is on the cards, not even
after three years of sharing a fair amount of our waking and most of our sleeping
hours. Michael has no axes to grind, no cause to espouse-his predecessors used
at least to be into Anti-apartheid; his only passion, except for me I hope, is
Shakespeare.)
"Somebody called Anna on the phone," he announced from the door. "She
said 'Ah-na' frightful Afrikaans accent. I told her you were involved in a matter
which requires your undivided attention but she said it's important."
"My sister!"
"I didn't know you had a sister." He sounded hurt.
"She's a part of a past I've written off."
"And now it's catching up with you."
"No," I said. "I won't let it." But I felt more apprehensive than I dared
let on. I picked up the telephone. "Anna? It's Ouma, isn't it?" Because it was the
one thing I'd always feared; this was the phantom limb which one day would begin
to ache again.
André Brink, Imaginings of Sand.
Cet exercice est un
et sa correction sera en ligne lemercredi 15 octobre 2025. Courage !
Réponse : Ex 308/ Anna, Ouma, Kristien and others... de gerold, postée le 01-10-2025 à 22:36:40 (S | E)
Hello!
for this new exercise!Anna's call came at the most mundane of times, just past noon on Saturday.
Bad news is supposed to come at night, when one is vulnerable and unprepared;
not in the middle of an early spring day when life seems bountiful and to die
absurd. I was sitting on the toilet reading the paper; Michael took the call as
he was within reaching distance, being in what passes for a kitchen, rustling
up lunch-he is much more adept at it than I am, which may be one of the reasons
I have put up with him for longer than with any of his predecessors. (That, and
the fact that he's Michael, not Mike; I'm allergic to Mikes and Nicks and Dicks.
Not, I should add that marriage, for me at least, is on the cards, not even
after three years of sharing a fair amount of our waking and most of our sleeping
hours. Michael has no axes to grind, no cause to espouse-his predecessors used
at least to be into Anti-apartheid; his only passion, except for me I hope, is
Shakespeare.)
"Somebody called Anna on the phone," he announced from the door. "She
said 'Ah-na' frightful Afrikaans accent. I told her you were involved in a matter
which requires your undivided attention but she said it's important."
"My sister!"
"I didn't know you had a sister." He sounded hurt.
"She's a part of a past I've written off."
"And now it's catching up with you."
"No," I said. "I won't let it." But I felt more apprehensive than I dared
let on. I picked up the telephone. "Anna? It's Ouma, isn't it?" Because it was the
one thing I'd always feared; this was the phantom limb which one day would begin
to ache again.
L'appel d'Anna survint au plus banal des moments, samedi, juste après midi. Les mauvaises nouvelles sont censées arriver la nuit, quand on est vulnérable et pris au dépourvu, pas au milieu d'une journée de printemps précoce, quand la vie semble pleine de promesses et la mort absurde. Assise sur les toilettes, je lisais le journal. Michael a pris l'appel car il était à portée du téléphone dans cet endroit qui ressemblait à une cuisine, préparant le déjeuner à la hâte. Ce qu'il faisait bien mieux que moi, et c'est peut-être l'une des raisons pour lesquelles je l'ai supporté plus longtemps qu'aucun de ses prédécesseurs. (Cela, et aussi le fait que c'est Michael, et pas Mike. Je suis allergique aux Mike, aux Nick et aux Dick). Non, je devrais ajouter que le mariage, pour moi tout au moins, était du domaine du possible, sans attendre d'avoir partagé pendant trois ans une bonne partie de notre temps éveillé et la plupart de nos heures de sommeil. Michael n'a pas de cheval de bataille, pas de cause à épouser - ses prédécesseurs étaient au moins contre l'apartheid. Sa seule passion, en dehors de moi, je l'espère, c'est Shakespeare).
"C'est une certaine Anna qui appelle" annonça-t-il de la porte. "Elle a dit "Ah-na" avec un terrible accent afrikaans. Je lui ai dit que tu étais absorbée par une tâche qui requiert toute ton attention, mais elle a dit que c'est important."
"Ma soeur!"
"Je ne savais pas que tu avais une soeur." Il avait l'air froissé.
"C'est une partie de mon passé sur laquelle j'ai fait une croix."
"Et maintenant elle te rattrape."
"Non", dis-je."Je ne le permettrai pas." Mais j'étais plus inquiète que je ne voulais le paraître. Je pris le téléphone. "Anna ? C'est Ouma, n'est-ce pas ?" Car c'était la seule chose que j'avais toujours crainte, c'était le membre fantôme qui, un jour, recommencerait à faire mal.
André Brink, Les Imaginations du sable
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Modifié par gerold le 02-10-2025 07:53
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