Автор: Пользователь скрыл имя, 08 Февраля 2013 в 17:08, дипломная работа
Цель: изучить особенности создания образов героев в романе Д. Лоджа «Хорошая работа». В работе собран и систематизирован материал относительно средств создания образов героев художественного произведения, а также был проведен анализ особенностей создания образов главных героев в романе Дэвида Лоджа «Хорошая работа»
Введение
Теоретическая часть (раскрывающая цели и задачи, предоставляется теоретический материал на исследуемую проблематику)
Практическая часть (проведена характеристика главных героев романа Д. Лоджа «Хорошая работа», сделан перевод отрывков оригинального текста романа Д. Лоджа «Хорошая работа» с английского языка на русский)
Переводческий комментарий
Заключение
Глоссарий
Библиография
Приложение
Существуют различные формы портретной характеристики: портретное описание, портрет-сравнение, портрет-впечатление.
Д. Лодж также прибегнул к использованию антипода, поскольку Вик и Робин относятся к абсолютно разным слоям общества (он – успешный бизнесмен, а она – преподаватель университета, со дня на день ожидающая сокращения своей должности), из взгляды настолько расхожи, что они то и дело ссорятся. Но именно благодаря такому раскладу событий оба героя как нельзя лучше раскрываются именно во взаимодействии друг с другом.
English |
Russian |
a First |
степень бакалавра с отличием |
acquisitive thrill |
жадный трепет |
anticipate, v |
ожидать, предвидеть, предчувствовать, предвкушать, предупреждать, предвосхищать, опережать, ускорять |
blithe, adv |
беспечный, веселый, жизнерадостный, счастливый, блаженный |
booted, adv |
обутый |
booze, n |
выпивка |
chuck smb.out |
выставить к-л за двери |
chuckle, n |
тихий смех, хихиканье; ликование, жизнерадостность, радость |
commitment, n |
обязательство, вручения, передача, готовность (что-то сделать) |
creak in its springs |
скрипеть, треснуть |
cufflinks, n |
запонки |
cuffs, n |
манжеты |
Debating Society |
дискуссионный клуб |
dented, adv |
с вмятинами, неровный, зубчатый, слегка помятый |
devastated, v |
подавленный |
dimm, adj. |
смутный, тусклый, темный, слабый |
drawn face |
вытянутое лицо |
dusty, adv |
пыльный, запыленный, как пыль; сухой, серый, неинтересный, мелкий, размельченный, неопределенный |
faint, adv |
слабый, неотчетливый, вялый, бледный, блеклый |
filing cabinet, n |
канцелярский шкаф, картотека, шкафчик-регистратор |
folly, n |
глупость, безрассудство, безумие, прихоть, каприз |
frayed, adv |
протертый, потрепанный, покошенный, старый |
gait, n |
походка |
get behind the wheel |
попасть под колеса |
grand, adv |
важный |
gross, adv |
крупный |
hank, n |
прядь |
haughty, adv n |
надменный, высокомерный; неприступность |
homily, n |
нотации |
ingratiate oneself, v |
обхаживать к-л, в корысных целях |
jauntilly, adv |
живо, весело, бойко, беспечно, самодовольно, небрежно, развязно |
lawns, n |
лужайка |
limpid air |
прозрачный, чистый воздух |
lobby, n |
приемная |
mess around |
копошиться, возиться; сл. болтаться без дела, валять дурака |
mop, n |
копна |
motion, v |
жестом показать |
navy-blue pinstripe |
темно-синий с тонкой полоской |
neatly, adv |
аккуратно, обстоятельно, четко |
patina, n |
патина, налет |
personal Chair |
кафедра, председатель собрания |
perverse, adj |
вредный |
porch, n |
крыльцо, веранда |
promiscuous, adv |
неразборчивый |
prophetic, adv |
пророческий, предвещающий, предсказывающий |
put one’s nose out of joint |
утереть нос |
recklessly, adv |
опрометчиво, по грубой неосторожности |
reluctant, adj |
неохотный |
rinse, v |
полоскать, промывать |
rivalry |
соперничество, конкуренция, соревнование |
screw up |
неудачник, провал |
shrug off, v |
отделаться (от страха и т.п.), прийти в себя; не обращать внимание, сбрасывать со счетов |
shudder |
содрогать, вздрагивать |
smirk, n |
ухмылка |
spring on, v |
нападать на к-л, наскакивать, обрушиваться |
springy, adv |
гибкий, упругий. эластичный |
squeal, n |
визг |
staining to remember |
тщетно пытаясь вспомнить |
stocky, adv |
коренастый, приземистый |
subdued life |
посредственная жизнь |
swap, v |
менять, обменять, заменять, сменять |
swish (about a car), adv |
резвое |
threshold |
вход, порог |
tilt, v |
наклонять |
unostentatious |
ненавязчивый, не бросающийся в глаза, некричащий, скромный |
whеeze, v |
сопеть, пыхтеть, прохрипеть, хрипеть (про автомобиль) |
wiry, adv |
крепкий |
wisecrack, n |
яркая, лаконичная формулировка; острота; саркастическое замечание |
yawn, n |
зевок, зевота |
Оригинал цитат из романа Дэвида Лоджа «Хорошая работа», использованных в дипломной работе
1 „Академический обмен» („Changing Places“, 1975), «Мир тесен»(„Small World“, 1984).
Здесь и далее перевод цитат из романа Д. Лоджа «Хорошая работа» наш – Н.А.
1 p.13 Monday, January 13th, 1986. Victor Wilcox lies awake, in the dark bedroom, waiting for his quartz alarm clock to bleep. It is set to do this at 6.45. How long he has to wait he doesn’t know. He could easily find out by groping for the clock, lifting it to his line of vision, and pressing the button that illuminates the digital display. But he would rather not know. Supposing it is only six o’clock? Or even five? It could be five. Whatever it is, he won’t be able to get to sleep again. This has become a regular occurrence lately: lying awake in the dark, waiting for the alarm to beep, worrying.
Worries streak towards him like enemy spaceships in one of Gary’s video games. He flinches, dodges, zaps them with instant solutions, but the assault is endless: the Avco account, the Rawlinson account, the price of the pig-iron, the value of the pound, the competition from Foundrax, the incompetence of his Marketing Director, the persistent breakdowns of the core blowers, the vandalizing of the toilets in the fettling shop, the pressure from his divisional boss, last month’s accounts, the quarterly forecast, the annual review…
In an effort to escape this bombardment, perhaps even to doze awhile, he twists on to his side, burrows into the warm plump body of his wife, and throws an arm round her waist. Startled, but still asleep, drugged with Valium, Marjorie swivels to face him. Their noses and foreheads bump against each other; there is a sudden flurry of limbs, an absurd pantomime struggle. Marjorie puts up her fists like a pugilist, groans and pushes him away. An object slides off the bed on her side and falls to the floor with a thump. Vic knows what it is: a book entitled Enjoy Your Menopause, which one of Marjorie’s friends at the Weight Watchers’ club has lent her, and which she has been reading in bed, without much show of conviction, and falling asleep over, for the past week or two. On retiring to bed Vic’s last action is normally to detach a book from Marjorie’s nerveless fingers, tuck her arms under the covers and turn out her bedside lamp, but he must have neglected the first of these chores last night, or perhaps Enjoy Your Menopause was concealed under the coverlet.
2 p.16 Some say – Vic has overheard them saying it – that he tries to compensate for his short stature by his aggressive manner. Well, let them. If it wasn’t for a bit of aggression, he wouldn’t be where he is now. Though how long he will stay there is far from certain. Vic frowns in the mirror above the handbasin, thinking again of last month’s accounts, the quarterly forecast, the annual review… He runs hot water into the dark purple bowl, lathers his face with shaving foam from an aerosol can, and begins to scrape his jaw with a safety razor, using a Wilkinson’s Sword blade. Vic believes fervently in buying British, and has frequent rows with his eldest son, Raymond, who favours a disposable plastic razor manufactured in France. Not that this is the only bone of contention between them, no, not by a long chalk. The principal constraint on the number of their disagreements is, indeed, the comparative rarity of their encounters, Raymond invariably being asleep when Vic leaves for work and out when he returns home.
Vic wipes the tidemark of foam from his cheeks and fingers and shaven flesh appraisingly. Dark brown eyes stare back at him. Who am I?
He grips the washbasin, leans forward on locked arms, and scans the square face, pale under a forelock of lank brown hair, flecked with grey, the two vertical furrows in the brow like a clip holding the blunt nose in place, the straight-ruled line of the mouth, the squared-off jaw. You know who you are: it’s all on file at Division.
3 p.108 Vic hesitated, then sprang on to the filing cabinet. He applied his eye to the hole in the paint and gazed, as if through a telescope already fixed and focused, at the young woman seated on the far side of the lobby. She had copper-coloured hair, cut short as a boy’s at the back, with a mop of curls tilted jauntily forward at the front. She sat at her ease on the sofa, with her long, booted and pantalooned legs crossed at the ankles, but the expression on her face was bored and haughty. ‘I’ve seen her before,’ he said.
‘Oh, where?’ said Shirley.
‘I don’t know.’ She was like a figure in a dream that he could not quite recall. He stared at the topknot of red-gold curls, straining to remember. Then she yawned suddenly, like a cat, revealing two rows of white, even teeth, before she covered her mouth. She lifted her head as she did this, and seemed to look straight at him. Embarrassed, feeling too like a peeping Tom for comfort, he scrambled to the floor.
‘Let’s stop playing silly buggers,’ he said, striding back into his office. ‘Show the woman in.’
Brian Everthorpe threw open the door of Vic Wilcox’s office and motioned Robyn across the threshold with a flourish. ‘Doctor Penrose,’ he announced, with a smirk.
The man who rose from behind a large polished desk on the far side of the room, and came forward to shake Robyn’s hand, was smaller and more ordinary-looking than she had expected. The term ‘Managing Director’ had suggested to her imagination some figure more grand and gross, with plump, flushed cheeks and wings of silver hair, a rotund torso sheathed in expensively tailored suiting, a gold tiepin and cufflinks, and a cigar wedged between manicured fingers. This man was stocky and wiry, like a short-legged terrier, his face was pale and drawn, with two vertical worry-lines scored into the brow above the nose, and the hank of dark, flat hair that fell forward across his brow had clearly never had the attention of an expert barber. He was in shirtsleeves, and the shirt did not fit him very well, the
buttoned cuffs hanging down over his wrists, like a schoolboy’s whose clothes had been purchased with a view to his ‘growing into’ them. Robyn almost smiled with relief as she appraised his advancing figure – she already heard herself describing him to Charles or Penny as a ‘funny little man’- but the strength of his handshake, and the glint in his dark brown eyes, warned her not to underestimate him.
4 p.25 He has six business suits, which he weares in the daily rotation. He used to think five was enough, but aquired an additional one after Raymond wisecracked, ‘If that’s the charcoal grey worsted, it must be Tuesday.’ Today is the turn of the navy-blue pinstripe. He selects a tie diagonally striped in dark tones of red, blue and grey.
<…> uncovers a cardboard box containing a brand-new clock radio, made in Hong Kong, sealed in a transparent plastic envelope and nestling in a polystyrene mould. Vic sighs and grimaces. Such discoveries are nor uncommon at this time of year.
5 p.28 Now begins the best half-an-hour of the day, the drive to work. In fact it is not quite half-an-hour – the journey usually takes twenty-four minutes, but Vic wishes it were longer. It is an interval between the irritations of home and the anxieties of work, a time of pure sensation, total control, effortless superiority. For the Jaguar is superior to every other car on the road, Vic is convinced of that. When Midland Amalgamated headhunted him for the MD’s job at Pringle’s they offered him a Rover 3500 Vanden Plas, but Vic stuck out for the Jaguar, a car normally reserved for divisional chairmen, and to his great satisfaction he had got one, even though it wasn’t quite new. It had to be a British car, of course, since Pringle’s did so much business with the local automotive industry – not that Vic has ever driven a foreign car: foreign cars are anathema to him, their sudden invasion of British roads in the 1970s marked the beginning of the region’s economic ruin in his view – but he has to admit that you don’t have a lot of choice in British cars when it comes to matching the top-of-range Mercedes and BMWs. In fact the Jag is just about the only one that can really wipe the smiles off their driver’s faces, unless you’re talking Rolls-Royce or Bentley.
6 p.37 There is a momentary silence in the line, then a forced chuckle, as Stuart Baxter decides not to take offence. Nevertheless he has taken offence. It was probably a foolish thing to say, but Vic shrugs off any regret as he puts the reciever down. He is not in the business of ingratiating himself with Stuart Baxter. He is in the business of making J. Pringle & Sons profitable.
7 p.26 Marjorie helps him on with his camelhair overcoat, a garment she persuaded him to buy against his better judgement, for it hangs well beloe his knees and, he thinks, accentuates his short stature, as well as making him look like a prosperious bookie.
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