在今天的领袖人才培训班上，导师说到他当年供职的一家公司，管理混乱，毫无章法，他问他们：
Do you have a budget? They replied: No, but we have hurts.
我一愣，只好在中文句子中将hurts这个英文字照着说出来，同时拼命揣摩他的意思。他顿了一下，接着说：
Of course, for them, budget is the name of a car hire company and so is Hertz.
我赶快补充：“预算”这个词，在英语里是budget，而Budget又是北美和英国的一家租车公司的名字。他的同事听到budget，以为指的是租车公司，便说：我们这里没这家公司，只有Hertz租车公司。
我这么一解释，原话里的幽默荡然无存。但不解释又怎么行呢？我注意了一下，我的听众表情木然，再看一下听得懂英语的其他人，表情亦木然。晚饭时，有人好奇问起我如何处理工作中的一些难点，我就举了这个例子，他们居然根本不记得导师说过这句话，而他们是英语听力最强的几个。看来，这不是听力的问题，而是文化差异的问题。
就像今年早些时候我为仲裁庭做交传时，证人不愿正面回答对方律师的一个问题，是关于他手下的销售人员如何将功能、质量完全一样的产品，换个牌子之后卖出更高价钱的问题。他答道：我是董事长，不管具体的销售，至于销售部门如何推销公司的产品，我想他们自然是八仙过海，各显神通啦！
我当时把最后一部分作了这样的处理：As to how my sales people go about selling our products, I'm sure they each have some tricks up their sleeves.
那一节的证词结束之后，仲裁员之一（一位大名如雷贯耳的资深大律师）对美国律师说：“刚才证人用了一句成语，讲的是中国的一则神话故事，翻译翻得很好，但麻烦他将原文直译给你们听听，我觉得挺有意思的。”于是，我就遵命将“八仙过海，各显神通”当场翻了一下：They are like the Eight Immortals crossing the sea, each using whatever expedient is available to them.
美国律师互相看了一眼，点了点头（nodding knowingly, that is）。仲裁员又说：是呀，那八仙据说住在山东蓬莱，蓬莱我去过，很美。
休息时，速记员把我叫过去，让我把直译的那句成语再说一遍，因为她们当时来不及记。我又说了一遍，她们打好字，看了看，摇摇头， 说：还是不大明白到底是什么意思，还是你原来的译法比较好懂！
那是侥幸凭意译取胜的一例。有时，意译不如直译，尤其是在不知道说这话的人下面要说什么的时候，往往直译更取巧，你听不懂是你的问题，起码我可以避免陷入被动，例如著名的“小葱拌豆腐”事件（我听朋友说的）和“鱼与熊掌不可兼得”事件（我亲耳听到的）。
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
朋友质疑我的小发明“Ocutrak”（Ocutrak更像商标名，比原先起的Ocutrack好）的实用性，并要求我加以改进。我想了一下，其实眼球（瞳孔）跟踪是在幕后进行的，屏幕上没有可视的光标浮动，选取时可以改为踏板致动，这样脚也可以用上，双手可用来做其他事。要加亮一段文字时，只要踩住踏板，眼睛扫视，完了再放开踏板即可。
小时候很喜欢发明。有段时间在学拉小提琴（爸妈希望自己的儿子将来能成为像盛中国一样，在台上潇洒甩头发的琴手），由于我视唱能力很差，五音不全，全无音乐细胞，最终在外公的干预下，他们悻悻然地放弃了。但我对琴弓的构造产生了浓厚的兴趣，而且根据它的原理，用螺母、螺杆和罐头盒设计出了一种千斤顶。几天后，我在街上发现有辆卡车抛锚了，有人正在换轮胎，我赶紧趴下，看了一眼，顿时感到一瓢凉水从头顶浇下来：原来，这玩意儿已经有人发明过了！
为此我懊恼了好几天，所以至今还记得。
小时候很喜欢发明。有段时间在学拉小提琴（爸妈希望自己的儿子将来能成为像盛中国一样，在台上潇洒甩头发的琴手），由于我视唱能力很差，五音不全，全无音乐细胞，最终在外公的干预下，他们悻悻然地放弃了。但我对琴弓的构造产生了浓厚的兴趣，而且根据它的原理，用螺母、螺杆和罐头盒设计出了一种千斤顶。几天后，我在街上发现有辆卡车抛锚了，有人正在换轮胎，我赶紧趴下，看了一眼，顿时感到一瓢凉水从头顶浇下来：原来，这玩意儿已经有人发明过了！
为此我懊恼了好几天，所以至今还记得。
Saturday, October 22, 2005
一位好友看完有关我父亲的帖子后，问了我一些问题。我拉拉杂杂写了一些，作为回答。现贴上。
The way I dealt with what happened to my family in the Cultural Revolution was to tell myself that my family, as a cell of the nation, had to go through the journey, together with the nation, towards modernity. It's an arduous journey, largely thanks to the legacy burden accumulated over millennia that arose from (a) a lack of generosity on the part of Nature and (b) the bondage imposed on the individual, as necessitated by the reality of being land-bound.
For me, it was a process of deliverance from bitterness and resentment. The person who helped me get there was none other than my father.
I remember the day he came home from prison.
We were living in a bungalow complex. It was more like a warehouse, divided into a row of rooms. We had a bedroom to ourselves, but shared the living room with a group of sent-down youth, whose bedroom faced ours. According to the villagers, our bedroom door had been taken from an unused coffin. They even showed my mother the holes in the door where coffin nails had been removed. Of course, they would have enjoyed seeing signs of terror in the eyes of this city girl, but they saw none. My mother later told me that she was horrified, but managed to mask her emotion at that point.
Right in front of the living room lay, from east to west, a chain of three grave mounds. We called them "The Three Big Mountains", alluding to Chairman Mao's famous metaphor. Beyond the "mountains" was a river and a bridge. I used to stand atop those mounds, a bamboo pole in hand, mimicking the boatmen punting their vessels in the river. That was my favourite pastime.
One day, I woke up from a siesta and heard his voice in the living room. I was trembling with joy and excitement, but didn't say anything. He was chatting with three villagers, who were obviously also happy to see him back and were curious about his experience, knowing that he had been released "not guilty".
Father was sitting on a low stool, back to the bedroom door. I sneaked up to him and sat down next to him. He turned round, acknowledged me, started stroking my head and carried on chatting with the visitors. I noticed he had a pair of nail clippers in his hand. I picked them up and studied them. They were tiny. On the front of the movable part (the reverse side of the file) was a glazed picture of a hammer, a sickle and Chairman Mao's quotation book. I noticed something unusual: The hammer was in the middle, the quotation book to its left and the sickle to its right. I remember saying to myself at that point - this is incorrect. Chairman Mao's quotation book should be the centrepiece!
That night, mother questioned father about some tiny, round scars on his face. They were faint, but visible. He said they were burns from lit cigarettes. It was part of the torture. He said it wasn't too painful. As far as I know, that was all he said about the torture.
Years later, we moved back to town and my parents were restored to their previous jobs. One evening, father said, "I saw Li Xiangyang in the street today."
Mother's face changed. "Did you go up to him and slap his face?"
"I didn't."
"What a wimp! I would have slapped him and spat in his face!"
Silence. Then father said, "They are also victims. I felt sorry for Li when I saw him."
After Deng Xiaoping returned to power, a campaign was launched to purge "Three Kinds of People". I cannot remember its definition. Li Xiangyang was one of the three kinds, I know, but father was very critical of that campaign. He said, "This is a case of repaying evil with evil. Most of those people were misled and now they are being singled out as fall guys. I think Deng is taking revenge on a huge number of people for the maiming of his eldest son, which was the doing of just a few."
That is why getting over the feeling of hate wasn't very difficult for me. In fact, the word "forgive" doesn't even apply here, because "forgive" necessarily puts "me" in the right and "him" in the wrong. But how do I know who's right and who's wrong? The trauma for me, as a child, stemmed from separation, isolation and despair. Full stop.
The way I dealt with what happened to my family in the Cultural Revolution was to tell myself that my family, as a cell of the nation, had to go through the journey, together with the nation, towards modernity. It's an arduous journey, largely thanks to the legacy burden accumulated over millennia that arose from (a) a lack of generosity on the part of Nature and (b) the bondage imposed on the individual, as necessitated by the reality of being land-bound.
For me, it was a process of deliverance from bitterness and resentment. The person who helped me get there was none other than my father.
I remember the day he came home from prison.
We were living in a bungalow complex. It was more like a warehouse, divided into a row of rooms. We had a bedroom to ourselves, but shared the living room with a group of sent-down youth, whose bedroom faced ours. According to the villagers, our bedroom door had been taken from an unused coffin. They even showed my mother the holes in the door where coffin nails had been removed. Of course, they would have enjoyed seeing signs of terror in the eyes of this city girl, but they saw none. My mother later told me that she was horrified, but managed to mask her emotion at that point.
Right in front of the living room lay, from east to west, a chain of three grave mounds. We called them "The Three Big Mountains", alluding to Chairman Mao's famous metaphor. Beyond the "mountains" was a river and a bridge. I used to stand atop those mounds, a bamboo pole in hand, mimicking the boatmen punting their vessels in the river. That was my favourite pastime.
One day, I woke up from a siesta and heard his voice in the living room. I was trembling with joy and excitement, but didn't say anything. He was chatting with three villagers, who were obviously also happy to see him back and were curious about his experience, knowing that he had been released "not guilty".
Father was sitting on a low stool, back to the bedroom door. I sneaked up to him and sat down next to him. He turned round, acknowledged me, started stroking my head and carried on chatting with the visitors. I noticed he had a pair of nail clippers in his hand. I picked them up and studied them. They were tiny. On the front of the movable part (the reverse side of the file) was a glazed picture of a hammer, a sickle and Chairman Mao's quotation book. I noticed something unusual: The hammer was in the middle, the quotation book to its left and the sickle to its right. I remember saying to myself at that point - this is incorrect. Chairman Mao's quotation book should be the centrepiece!
That night, mother questioned father about some tiny, round scars on his face. They were faint, but visible. He said they were burns from lit cigarettes. It was part of the torture. He said it wasn't too painful. As far as I know, that was all he said about the torture.
Years later, we moved back to town and my parents were restored to their previous jobs. One evening, father said, "I saw Li Xiangyang in the street today."
Mother's face changed. "Did you go up to him and slap his face?"
"I didn't."
"What a wimp! I would have slapped him and spat in his face!"
Silence. Then father said, "They are also victims. I felt sorry for Li when I saw him."
After Deng Xiaoping returned to power, a campaign was launched to purge "Three Kinds of People". I cannot remember its definition. Li Xiangyang was one of the three kinds, I know, but father was very critical of that campaign. He said, "This is a case of repaying evil with evil. Most of those people were misled and now they are being singled out as fall guys. I think Deng is taking revenge on a huge number of people for the maiming of his eldest son, which was the doing of just a few."
That is why getting over the feeling of hate wasn't very difficult for me. In fact, the word "forgive" doesn't even apply here, because "forgive" necessarily puts "me" in the right and "him" in the wrong. But how do I know who's right and who's wrong? The trauma for me, as a child, stemmed from separation, isolation and despair. Full stop.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Having made a sweeping statement about the dietary inclinations of HK people, I must hasten to add that they do have a life-saving magic formula up their sleeves: Cantonese soup.
Some of their soup recipes are more medicinal than alimentary and can be off-putting, taste-wise, not to mention their interesting ingredients.
However, these recipes do work. Traditionally, the housewife/mother would throw the right combination of ingredients (depending on the season and weather conditions) into a tall, pot-bellied earthenware pot in the morning. It will then sit on a low flame simmering for practically the whole day. When husband and kids come home in the late afternoon/early evening, they are on autopilot and make a beeline for that pot.
If it's well made, the first sip would calm you down. Then you feel the energy settle into your lower abdomen and the antsy sensations, in your head and in your body, caused by the stress of the day simply fall off like autumn leaves.
Not surprising, because if you analyse the ingredients, you'll find that most of them are stuff that tonifies the yin energy, which is often in deficit among modern city dwellers.
Some of their soup recipes are more medicinal than alimentary and can be off-putting, taste-wise, not to mention their interesting ingredients.
However, these recipes do work. Traditionally, the housewife/mother would throw the right combination of ingredients (depending on the season and weather conditions) into a tall, pot-bellied earthenware pot in the morning. It will then sit on a low flame simmering for practically the whole day. When husband and kids come home in the late afternoon/early evening, they are on autopilot and make a beeline for that pot.
If it's well made, the first sip would calm you down. Then you feel the energy settle into your lower abdomen and the antsy sensations, in your head and in your body, caused by the stress of the day simply fall off like autumn leaves.
Not surprising, because if you analyse the ingredients, you'll find that most of them are stuff that tonifies the yin energy, which is often in deficit among modern city dwellers.
Friday, October 07, 2005
People in Hong Kong typically have a low threshold for two things: hot weather and hot food.
Paradoxically, the overuse of air-conditioning only serves to raise the ambient temperature (i.e. creating hotter microclimate) and their penchant for what is termed "heaty" food (which causes symptoms and syndromes of excess) does exactly what spicy food does, i.e. depleting the body's reserve of yin energy which is vital to systemic equilibrium.
Paradoxically, the overuse of air-conditioning only serves to raise the ambient temperature (i.e. creating hotter microclimate) and their penchant for what is termed "heaty" food (which causes symptoms and syndromes of excess) does exactly what spicy food does, i.e. depleting the body's reserve of yin energy which is vital to systemic equilibrium.
遥远的记忆里有两个人，不是时时能想起，但偶尔会闯进脑海。最近却好像挥之不去。想想，觉得应该写下来。
他们俩是爸爸坐牢时的传信人。
一个叫马长国，村里的闲散人员；另一个叫“大嫂”，公社看守所里烧饭的。
马长国之所以闲散，是因为他患有晚期肝癌，做不了庄稼活。他父亲是抗战时期当地有名的双枪将。马长国是独养儿子，上面有个姐姐。我至今记得马长国长得很白净，腆着个肚子（据说是肝腹水造成的），喜欢两臂交叉抱在胸前，右手不停地捋着下巴，下巴上稀疏地长着几根胡须，这几根胡须也就在他捋下巴的同时时常地被顺手拽几下。记得他的文化是高中程度，喜欢看书，经常跟我爸妈聊文学之类的话题。
有段时间，中央号召工人农民学哲学、讲哲学、用哲学，马长国听说了，神情鄙夷地哼了两声：“哲学？哼，哲学？就凭他们？”现在想来，他当年也算是个大snob。
爸入狱后，马长国凭着自己响当当的出身，常常去公社看守所附近转悠，希望能见我爸。从来没有成功过。我知道从村里到公社有七华里地，其间不乏独木桥和陷阱般的沤肥的大坑。他拖着病躯一趟一趟走那段路，一定不容易。后来他跟烧饭的“大嫂”搭上话了。大嫂第一次见到我爸就觉得他不可能是坏人，很同情这个戴着眼睛的白面书生，非常愿意帮忙。这样，她和马长国的地下工作就开始了。爸是抽烟的。妈通常将写好的小纸条塞进烟卷，再跟其它的香烟混在一起，包好，交给马长国。记得写的内容通常都是一些安慰的话，以及我写字有进步了之类的信息，有时也夹带我写的字。爸的回信就是一张小纸片儿，估计是瞅准机会塞给大嫂的。记得有一次的信中说我的字写得很好了，而给他看的是我写了n遍的“主席”二字。
有一次，大嫂传来紧急口信，说我爸有轻生念头。估计他不知该招什么，屈打之后也成不了招，急了。妈立即写了一封信，叫他挺住。这事儿就过去了。
再后来，爸被转到县城监狱进一步审问。途中允许回家看一下。预先没有通知，汽艇就停靠在门前的岸边。从我妈告诉我“你爸被押来了”那一刻起，直到他们乘汽艇离开，我一直没抬头，死命抵抗着抬头看看爸的欲望，只是在练习簿上继续练字。清楚记得爸抱着我的头，眼泪滴在我的头发里，我的眼泪吧嗒吧嗒落在练习簿上，而我反复抄写的却是“兴奋”二字！
汽艇咆哮着箭一般离去时，我冲到门口，从牙缝里蹦出几个字：简直就像反动派警车的声音！
爸出狱并平反后（获“赔偿金”90元，我还记得，因为村里的一个聋子问他拿了多少赔偿金，我爸用手语告诉他的），我听见他跟妈商量了一阵，后来去扯了几匹布送给了大嫂，给马长国的，我记不清了，可能是一台收音机。
回城后不久，听村里来的人说马长国病故了。
他们俩是爸爸坐牢时的传信人。
一个叫马长国，村里的闲散人员；另一个叫“大嫂”，公社看守所里烧饭的。
马长国之所以闲散，是因为他患有晚期肝癌，做不了庄稼活。他父亲是抗战时期当地有名的双枪将。马长国是独养儿子，上面有个姐姐。我至今记得马长国长得很白净，腆着个肚子（据说是肝腹水造成的），喜欢两臂交叉抱在胸前，右手不停地捋着下巴，下巴上稀疏地长着几根胡须，这几根胡须也就在他捋下巴的同时时常地被顺手拽几下。记得他的文化是高中程度，喜欢看书，经常跟我爸妈聊文学之类的话题。
有段时间，中央号召工人农民学哲学、讲哲学、用哲学，马长国听说了，神情鄙夷地哼了两声：“哲学？哼，哲学？就凭他们？”现在想来，他当年也算是个大snob。
爸入狱后，马长国凭着自己响当当的出身，常常去公社看守所附近转悠，希望能见我爸。从来没有成功过。我知道从村里到公社有七华里地，其间不乏独木桥和陷阱般的沤肥的大坑。他拖着病躯一趟一趟走那段路，一定不容易。后来他跟烧饭的“大嫂”搭上话了。大嫂第一次见到我爸就觉得他不可能是坏人，很同情这个戴着眼睛的白面书生，非常愿意帮忙。这样，她和马长国的地下工作就开始了。爸是抽烟的。妈通常将写好的小纸条塞进烟卷，再跟其它的香烟混在一起，包好，交给马长国。记得写的内容通常都是一些安慰的话，以及我写字有进步了之类的信息，有时也夹带我写的字。爸的回信就是一张小纸片儿，估计是瞅准机会塞给大嫂的。记得有一次的信中说我的字写得很好了，而给他看的是我写了n遍的“主席”二字。
有一次，大嫂传来紧急口信，说我爸有轻生念头。估计他不知该招什么，屈打之后也成不了招，急了。妈立即写了一封信，叫他挺住。这事儿就过去了。
再后来，爸被转到县城监狱进一步审问。途中允许回家看一下。预先没有通知，汽艇就停靠在门前的岸边。从我妈告诉我“你爸被押来了”那一刻起，直到他们乘汽艇离开，我一直没抬头，死命抵抗着抬头看看爸的欲望，只是在练习簿上继续练字。清楚记得爸抱着我的头，眼泪滴在我的头发里，我的眼泪吧嗒吧嗒落在练习簿上，而我反复抄写的却是“兴奋”二字！
汽艇咆哮着箭一般离去时，我冲到门口，从牙缝里蹦出几个字：简直就像反动派警车的声音！
爸出狱并平反后（获“赔偿金”90元，我还记得，因为村里的一个聋子问他拿了多少赔偿金，我爸用手语告诉他的），我听见他跟妈商量了一阵，后来去扯了几匹布送给了大嫂，给马长国的，我记不清了，可能是一台收音机。
回城后不久，听村里来的人说马长国病故了。
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Although I'm at war with British Airways at the moment for their mishandling of my luggage, I still feel compelled to say a few nice words about the captain of our flight.
This picture shows him explaining the technical glitch that had kept our plane grounded for an hour or so. This is what he said:
"Did you hear what I was telling the other passengers? If you didn't, I'm quite happy to repeat it. Well, you see this little part in this plastic bag I'm holding... that's the culprit that caused the problem. There was a tiny leakage from this tiny part in the hydraulic pump. Our engineers identified the problem and went to the depot to get a new one. They've put the new one in now and they are running tests to make sure there's absolutely no more leakage. I'm expecting a call from them any moment now and I reckon you'll be able to board the plane in half an hour to 45 minutes. I do apologise for the delay, as this is our issue. I'm very sorry. I suppose these things do happen now and again."
He went from row to row. The passengers who decided to hang around the boarding gate while waiting were occupying about a dozen rows and the captain repeated the above explanation and apology as many times. In some rows, there were only two people.
This is what I call "transparency" at its extreme. While the whole exercise was rather touching, I thought he probably overdid it, as his first duty was to ready himself for the long flight ahead and this long litany of repeated explanations and apologies would no doubt sap his energy. It could have been left for someone else, like his co-pilot or, better still, a senior member of the ground crew!
Nevertheless, the captain deserved a thumbs-up!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
