"The Cowboy Song" (Thin Lizzy), translated into French for Erin Jorgensen, performed by Erin Jorgensen.
01 The Cowboy Song.mp3
Song lyric translations for Seattle-based musicians THE FRENCH PROJECT
"Un jour" (Someday, Someway: Marshall Crenshaw) + "Les Sultans de Swing" (Dire Straits) YouTube live recording
Translation of Serge Halimi's August 2011 editorial in Le Monde diplomatique
août 2011 Chantage à Washington / Blackmail in Washington D.C.
Where the reduction of the American national debt is concerned, the dispute placing President Barack Obama in opposition to the Congressional Republican majority conceals what’s really at play: giving in to adversarial blackmail. Mr. Obama immediately conceded that more than three quarters of the budget for the next ten years – 3 billion dollars – would come from budget cuts to social programs. The American right wing could have settled for this win but it always wants more, even at the risk of losing popularity.
_ _Translation excerpt from The Disrespectful Attorney, by Gisèle Halimi (Avocate irrespectueuse, PLON 2002)
"We know that all freedom exists solely in the recognition of the freedom of others. Disrespect here is defined as a freedom whose fundamental role is to challenge. For example, by dialectically analyzing a certain law and its bearing. Is it just? Unjust? In practice, is it applied in general or is it protective of some while punishing others? Some trials revolve around an obsolete law and its discriminatory application. This was the case par excellence of the Bobigny trial (November 1972), in direct connection to a problem of society: abortion. In order to demolish the repressive abortion law, it was necessary to show that it was unjust. It was punishing women who didn’t have the means to prevent pregnancy (lack of sexual education and non-existent contraception). Among these women were the most vulnerable, those belonging to the underprivileged socio-economic classes (others could get abortions abroad or in exclusive French clinics, without any fear whatsoever of legal consequences). And the law no longer corresponded justly to the evolution in standards of behavior and in the society. Was it necessary, in the terms of the oath of attorney, to respect this unjust, discriminatory and archaic law that led a million women each year to run the risk and guilt of illegal abortions? No. Clearly we needed to hasten its demise by transforming this trial into a “political” trial that would move beyond the accused themselves to embrace the largest part of society: women. Ground rules for “political defense”: do not directly address the judges, rather go over their heads, to the citizens, both men and women. Call them as witnesses. Refuse the benefit of extenuating circumstances to claim responsibility. Indict the law that was indicting. Demand its abolition."
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The reasons are many. One of the most obvious albeit least understood is that the Chinese do not write like us. They do not use words; they use ideograms, signs originating from schematic drawings. The difference is substantial since the words we use for writing are the tools we use for thinking.
A language builds its representation of the world based on the terms it uses to designate and write the objects surrounding it. Languages write these particular terms in the same way, through graphic elements in the form of alphabetical letters or syllabic signs. These elements have no inherent meaning; they merely transcribe the sounds of words.
Only the Chinese use graphic signs initiating from schematics that were full of imagery but carried no sounds. The difference is fundamental and goes well beyond questions of translation, to create a veritable intercultural barrier.”
_ _Translation excerpt from "Arab Revolts, Libyan Chaos: The Snares of War",
by Serge Halimi (Le Monde Diplomatique, April 2011)
" The 1973 Security Council Resolution authorizing the bombing of Libya will perhaps prevent crushing a revolt condemned by the poverty of the insurgents. It resembles nonetheless a dance of hypocrites. For it is not because Qaddafi is the worst or the most murderous of dictators that his troops have been bombed, but because he is also weaker than others, with no nuclear arms or powerful friends likely to protect him from a military attack or defend him in the Security Council. The intervention against him confirms that international law does not lay down clear principles, the violation of which, in every case, would lead to disciplinary measures."
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Translation excerpts from stories by Bernard Friot
THE LOVELORN WITCH
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HE OR SHE : Choose the appropriate term.
He/she locks the bathroom door then turns on the light above the medicine cabinet. On the right side of the shelf there’s a razor, shaving cream and after-shave; on the left, lipstick tubes, eye shadow, blush, mascara…
He/she hesitates then reaches to the right, takes the shaving cream, pumps some of it out and awkwardly spreads it on his/her face. Of course, he/she doesn’t have a beard, not even a single hair, but who knows? Maybe pretending helps… He/she handles the razor carefully and quickly figures out how to hold it just the right way. The blade glides smoothly over his/her skin and doesn’t hurt a bit. That’s not really surprising; after all, he/she has often watched Daddy shave.
Next comes the after-shave. That stings a bit.
Hmm, now what ? He/she looks in the mirror. Lipstick. How does Mommy do it? Making a little O with his/her lips, he/she puts on the lipstick, trying not to smear it, like you do when you try to stay inside the lines for coloring. There. Next he/she puckers his/her lips and smacks them together like Mommy.
“What do you want for a snack?” his/her mother calls from the kitchen.
He/she shrugs. He/she isn’t hungry. He/she has better things to do. He/she puts on some mascara then some eyeliner. What a difference that makes! He/she looks like some kind of prince or princess.
Why not add a little mustache, too? And some eye shadow? He/she isn’t smiling. This is serious business. He/she stares into the mirror, as if looking for something.
He/she glances around the bathroom. There’s a tie hanging on the door. He/she takes it down and puts it on. For the finishing touch, he/she clips on two gold earrings from Mommy’s jewelry box.
“Chris, have you decided what you want yet?”
Why decide? He/she looks at his/her reflection in the mirror: lipstick, mustache, eye shadow, tie… It’s absolutely perfect. So no, he/she won’t decide. Not today, not yet anyway.
FREE VERSE
Sunday, I went to visit my aunt and uncle. We ate chicken and French fries. Afterwards, we went to the zoo and saw the tiger in his cage. What a great day! On Monday, I went to visit the tiger. We ate my aunt and uncle with French fries. Afterwards, we went to the zoo and saw a chicken in its cage. What a great day! On Tuesday, I went to visit the chicken with French fries. We ate the tiger. Afterwards, we went to the zoo and saw my aunt and uncle in their cage. What a great day! Etc.
DETECTIVE STORY
A Flea was walking along the arm
of a chair. It bumped into a long blond Hair looking at itself in a tiny hand
mirror.
“Hey!”
said the Hair, “watch where you’re going. And be careful not to touch me; don’t
move me either: I’m a clue!”
“A
clue? What’s that?”
“Well, you see, a crime has been committed here in this room. They discovered the victim in that armchair over there. Shot straight through the heart. The police investigation proved that the killer was sitting in this very chair, right here where we are now. So you see, I’m extremely important. When the police find me, they’ll study me to learn where I came from. Thanks to me, they’ll know who the killer is! Everyone will be talking about me, the news, the TV – I’ll be famous!
“If
I understand you correctly,” said the Flea, as he whisked off his curly blond wig, “ being
bald is an advantage if you want to bump someone off." [...]
_ _
Translation excerpt from The First Time I Was Sixteen by Susie Morgenstern (Ecole des loisirs)
Chapter One: Hideous
The first time I turned sixteen I was hideous and always moaning about it to the mirror and my mother.
I rummaged through every clothes closet in our house, desperate to change the way I looked. It was hopeless. So I hid behind my double bass.
We were an obvious match: two enormous, grotesque creatures. Although it was difficult to carry and practically useless for solos, I loved my bass. It was my unruly child and the man of my dreams. We were inseparable; I took it everywhere on the trailer of my youth.
“I’m hideous!” I howl at my mother.
“You have very beautiful eyes,” she consoles me, as if that one feature could make up for all the rest.
“Beautiful eyes? Who can see them behind this wall of glass?” I had inherited my father’s eyesight; his glasses were thicker than a magnifying lens.
“Your hair is lovely.” Right. Somewhere between brown and mousy. Some nameless shade of who knows what, split ends...that I'm always twirling between my fingers. Long hair dangling around my face like the curtains in a funeral parlor.
“I wish I were a blond or a redhead!” It is my firm conviction that beauty should be a Human Right.
“You’re beautiful when you smile.” I can tell my mother wants the conversation to end. Her final offering: “You’re beautiful inside.” Some consolation that is! A beautiful gallbladder, stunning lungs, magical liver and spectacular ovaries – which haven’t even kicked into gear yet.
My older sisters are sublime goddesses. It’s like Cinderella in reverse, and I get to be Cinderella.
“Cinderella, go fetch the nail polish out of my room.”
“No!” My sisters know my refusal is purely symbolic.
“Go get it and I’ll take you out with me to EATS.
That changes things.
“Cinderella, take my turn setting the table?”
“No!”
“Then you can’t come with me.”
But there’s no blackmail for helping me overcome my complexes. Sandra’s longstanding promise is: “I’ll pay for the plastic surgery on your nose when I’m rich.”
It will take some time for that blessed day to come, so in the meantime Sandra lays the groundwork. Every night, for ten years, she sticks a piece of tape under my nose, and fastens the other end to my forehead. A decade of tape. Somehow my nostrils managed to breath around the sticky mess but I never got a perky nose out of ritual.
Effie has a different approach. Staring at me with an anguished look, she prays aloud: “Please God, help her get through puberty!” Then tells me: “You’ll see, everything will work out just fine.” She covers my nose sometimes with a scarf, sometimes with a turtleneck. “That’s a good look for you,” she says. So what if I couldn’t eat, speak or breathe!
My sisters kidnap me, peroxide my bangs to make me look like a starlet. I look more like the victim of a cross-eyed hairdresser. They desecrate my eyelids with pearly violet and neon green eye shadows, curl my spaghetti hair and outfit me in low-cut dresses...despite my flat chest.
And dish out advice over breakfast: “Take your glasses off; you don’t really need to see everything!” “Remember: keep your hand over your nose.” “Bend your knees; you won’t look so tall.”
Walking with my double bass in tow is already a challenge. Add to that half blind, one hand over my nose, knees bent… I’m seriously jealous of violinists, violists and flutists with their lightweight instruments. Especially on rainy days. And days when I don’t have three arms. [...]
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Translation excerpt from The Wizard, by Jack Prelutsky and Brandon Dorman (Greenwillow Books, 2007)
Le sorcier surveille, solitaire dans sa grise et froide tour de pierre,
et fomente les diableries à mettre en oeuvre aujourd'hui.
Grand, effilé, la peau frippée, il a la barbe tout emmêlée
ses yeux sont noirs, ses joues creusées, il mange à peine, ne dort jamais. [...]
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Translation excerpt from Skippyjon Jones by Judy Schachner, author and illustrator (Dutton Books, 2003)
Le pauvre Skippito n'eut même pas deux secondes pour réfléchir, car en un éclair une ombre énorme noircit le paysage. Les Chimichangos se dispersèrent dans toutes les directions.
" Vamos, Skippito, ou ce sera toi que le Bandito mangera ! "
Skippito tint bon. POURTANT ses jambes tremblotaient comme de la gelée, et il claquait des dents comme si c'étaient des castagnettes.
Puis, d'une muy, muy petite voix il dit : " Je m'appelle Skippito Friskito. Je...ne crains...aucun...bandito. "
Mais Alfredo Bzzito fonça droit sur Skippito, jusqu'à ce que le Bandito mangeur de haricots vombrisse à quelques centimètre seulement du visage de la Fine Lame.
" OLE FRIJOLES ! " cria Skippito, brandissant son épée en l'air. [...]
