Traduzione inglese george orwell
ciao ragazzi..mi servirebbe un aiutino per quanto riguarda la traduzione di un testo di george orwell "nineteen eighy-four" ho cercato in internet ma purtroppo nn sono riuscita a trovarla..grazie in anticipo!!!
Risposte
Ciao,
devi aprire una nuova discussione, questa qui è di 9 anni fa quindi devo chiuderla :hi
devi aprire una nuova discussione, questa qui è di 9 anni fa quindi devo chiuderla :hi
ciao a tutte e a tutti,
potreste aiutarmi con la traduzione di questo paragrafo?
vi ringrazio in anticipo per l'eventuale disponibilità.
Behind Winston's back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling away about pig-iron and the overfulfilment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard. There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live -- did live, from habit that became instinct -- in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.
Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was safer, though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing. A kilometre away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work, towered vast and white above the grimy landscape. This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste -- this was London, chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him whether London had always been quite like this. Were there always these vistas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy garden walls sagging in all directions? And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the willow-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chicken-houses? But it was no use, he could not remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.
The Ministry of Truth -- Minitrue, in Newspeak -- was startlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the air. From where Winston stood it was just possible to read, picked out on its white face in elegant lettering, the three slogans of the Party:
WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
potreste aiutarmi con la traduzione di questo paragrafo?
vi ringrazio in anticipo per l'eventuale disponibilità.
Behind Winston's back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling away about pig-iron and the overfulfilment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard. There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live -- did live, from habit that became instinct -- in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.
Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was safer, though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing. A kilometre away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work, towered vast and white above the grimy landscape. This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste -- this was London, chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him whether London had always been quite like this. Were there always these vistas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy garden walls sagging in all directions? And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the willow-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chicken-houses? But it was no use, he could not remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.
The Ministry of Truth -- Minitrue, in Newspeak -- was startlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the air. From where Winston stood it was just possible to read, picked out on its white face in elegant lettering, the three slogans of the Party:
WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
:)
prego, prego, prego, prego!!! :lol...alla prossima :blowkiss
grazie grazie grazie grazie!!!!!! =)
Era un giorno d'Aprile freddo luminoso, e gli orologi rintoccavano le tredici. Winston Smith, il suo mento si strofinava dentro il suo petto nello sforzo di far uscire l'orribile vento, scivolato via rapidamente attraverso il la finestra fi Victory Mansions, nonostante ciò non era abbastanza veloce per prevenire il mulinello di polvere granulosa che era entrata insieme a lui.
L'odore del vestibolo di cavolo bollito a del vecchio cencio di campagna. Ad un'estremità di esso un poster colorato, troppo grande per l'esposizione dell'interno, era stato attaccato al muro. QUesto ritraeva semplicemente una grande faccia, alta molto più di un metro: la faccia di un uomo di circa 55 anni, con dei baffi pesanti, neri e irti, con dei bei lineamenti. fatto da Winston pe rle scale. Questo non era stato mai alzato. Sempre nel momento più bello questo lavorava raramente, e nel momento la corrente elettrica era stata staccata durante le ore di luce del giorno. Questo faceva parte della guida economica in preparazione della Hate Week. l'appartamento era 7 piani sopra e Winston che aveva 39 anni e soffriva di ulcera varicosa sopra la caviglia destra, arrivo lentamente, fermandosi più voltelungo la strada. in ogni approdo, di fronte al LIFT SHAFT (non ho il dizionario quindi vedi cosa è), il poster con l'enorme volto guardava fisso il muro. Questo era uno di quei disegni nei quali sono così pianificati che gli occhi ti seguono mentre ti muovi. Il Grande fratello di Guarda, recitava la didascalia sotto al poster All'interno della casa una voce fruttata leggeva fuori una lista delle figure che avevano avuto a che fare con la produzione di Ghisa. La voce proveniva. La voce proveniva fa una piastra di metallo come uno specchio spento formato in parte sulla superficie destra del muro. Winston girò un interruttore e la voce calò moderatamente, sebbene le parole fossero ancora distinguibili. Lo strumento (chiamato telescreen) poteva essere abbassato, ma no c'era modo per farlo tacere completamente. Egli andò oltre la finestra, una piccola figura delicata, la magrezza del suo corpo era meramente enfatizzata da una tuta blu che era l'uniforme della esta. I uoi capelli erano molto chiari, la sua faccia naturalmente rubiconda, la sua pelle irruvidita dal sapone grezzo e dal rasoio con la lama che non taglia e dal freddo dell'inverno che era appena terminato. Fuori, sempre attraverso il pannello della finestra chiusa, il mondo sembrava freddo. Giù nella strada un piccolo vortice di vento facevano girare la polvere e la carta strappata in una spirale, e anche se il sole stava splendendo e il cielo si un rigido blu, sembrava non avere colore senza nessuna eccezione, eccetto il poster che era distrutto in ogni parte. La faccia dai baffi neri fissava sotto dominando l'angolo
C'era uno di frnonte alla casa immediatamente difronte. Grande fratello ti sta osservando. diceva il titolo, mentre gli occhi scuri guardavano dentro l'anima di Winston. Sotto al livello della strada un altro poster, strappato ad un angolo e sbattuto dal vento , alternatamente copriva e scopriva l'unica parola INGSOC. In lontananza un elicottero volava a bassa quota attravero i tetti, librava per un istante come una bottiglia blu, e sfrecciò via ancora curvando in volo. questo era un pattugliamento della polizia, che curiosava dentro le finestre delle persone. Il pattugliamento, tuttavia, non era un problema. Solo la Polizia di Pensiero era un problema...
L'odore del vestibolo di cavolo bollito a del vecchio cencio di campagna. Ad un'estremità di esso un poster colorato, troppo grande per l'esposizione dell'interno, era stato attaccato al muro. QUesto ritraeva semplicemente una grande faccia, alta molto più di un metro: la faccia di un uomo di circa 55 anni, con dei baffi pesanti, neri e irti, con dei bei lineamenti. fatto da Winston pe rle scale. Questo non era stato mai alzato. Sempre nel momento più bello questo lavorava raramente, e nel momento la corrente elettrica era stata staccata durante le ore di luce del giorno. Questo faceva parte della guida economica in preparazione della Hate Week. l'appartamento era 7 piani sopra e Winston che aveva 39 anni e soffriva di ulcera varicosa sopra la caviglia destra, arrivo lentamente, fermandosi più voltelungo la strada. in ogni approdo, di fronte al LIFT SHAFT (non ho il dizionario quindi vedi cosa è), il poster con l'enorme volto guardava fisso il muro. Questo era uno di quei disegni nei quali sono così pianificati che gli occhi ti seguono mentre ti muovi. Il Grande fratello di Guarda, recitava la didascalia sotto al poster All'interno della casa una voce fruttata leggeva fuori una lista delle figure che avevano avuto a che fare con la produzione di Ghisa. La voce proveniva. La voce proveniva fa una piastra di metallo come uno specchio spento formato in parte sulla superficie destra del muro. Winston girò un interruttore e la voce calò moderatamente, sebbene le parole fossero ancora distinguibili. Lo strumento (chiamato telescreen) poteva essere abbassato, ma no c'era modo per farlo tacere completamente. Egli andò oltre la finestra, una piccola figura delicata, la magrezza del suo corpo era meramente enfatizzata da una tuta blu che era l'uniforme della esta. I uoi capelli erano molto chiari, la sua faccia naturalmente rubiconda, la sua pelle irruvidita dal sapone grezzo e dal rasoio con la lama che non taglia e dal freddo dell'inverno che era appena terminato. Fuori, sempre attraverso il pannello della finestra chiusa, il mondo sembrava freddo. Giù nella strada un piccolo vortice di vento facevano girare la polvere e la carta strappata in una spirale, e anche se il sole stava splendendo e il cielo si un rigido blu, sembrava non avere colore senza nessuna eccezione, eccetto il poster che era distrutto in ogni parte. La faccia dai baffi neri fissava sotto dominando l'angolo
C'era uno di frnonte alla casa immediatamente difronte. Grande fratello ti sta osservando. diceva il titolo, mentre gli occhi scuri guardavano dentro l'anima di Winston. Sotto al livello della strada un altro poster, strappato ad un angolo e sbattuto dal vento , alternatamente copriva e scopriva l'unica parola INGSOC. In lontananza un elicottero volava a bassa quota attravero i tetti, librava per un istante come una bottiglia blu, e sfrecciò via ancora curvando in volo. questo era un pattugliamento della polizia, che curiosava dentro le finestre delle persone. Il pattugliamento, tuttavia, non era un problema. Solo la Polizia di Pensiero era un problema...
Era una fresca limpida giornata d'aprile e gli orologi segnavano l'una. Winston Smith, col mento sprofondato nel bavero del cappotto per non esporlo al rigore del vento, scivolò lento fra i battenti di vetro dell'ingresso agli Appartamenti della Vittoria, ma non tanto lesto da impedire che una folata di polvere e sabbia entrasse con lui.
L'ingresso rimandava odore di cavoli bolliti e di vecchi tappeti sfilacciati. Nel fondo, un cartellone a colori, troppo grande per essere affisso all'interno, era stato inchiodato al muro. Rappresentava una faccia enorme, più larga d'un metro: la faccia d'un uomo di circa quarantacinque anni, con grossi baffi neri e lineamenti rudi ma non sgradevoli.
L'ho trovato sl fino a "features"
L'ingresso rimandava odore di cavoli bolliti e di vecchi tappeti sfilacciati. Nel fondo, un cartellone a colori, troppo grande per essere affisso all'interno, era stato inchiodato al muro. Rappresentava una faccia enorme, più larga d'un metro: la faccia d'un uomo di circa quarantacinque anni, con grossi baffi neri e lineamenti rudi ma non sgradevoli.
L'ho trovato sl fino a "features"
IT WAS a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.
Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of pig-iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.
Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere. The black-moustachio’d face gazed down from every commanding corner. There was one on the house-front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked deep into Winston’s own. Down at streetlevel another poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering the single word INGSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle, and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the police patrol, snooping into people’s windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.
The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.
Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of pig-iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.
Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere. The black-moustachio’d face gazed down from every commanding corner. There was one on the house-front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked deep into Winston’s own. Down at streetlevel another poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering the single word INGSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle, and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the police patrol, snooping into people’s windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.
non si trova il testo su internet in italiano cmq se vai in biblioteca e chiedi 1984 trovi il testo in italiano...Sono state fatte tante traduzioni in italiano...
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