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Portuguese to English - Rates: 0.05 - 0.10 USD per word / 25 - 35 USD per hour English to Portuguese - Rates: 35 - 25 USD per hour Portuguese to Spanish - Rates: 0.05 - 0.10 USD per word / 25 - 35 USD per hour Spanish to Portuguese - Rates: 0.05 - 0.10 USD per word / 25 - 35 USD per hour
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Project History
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Project Details
Project Summary
Corroboration
Translation Volume: 249 pages Completed: Jun 2005 Languages: Portuguese to English
Translation of autobiographical novel
I completed this project at the request of the author, JB Gelpi.
Poetry & Literature
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Sample translations submitted: 1
Portuguese to English: Pankrác ECII by JB Gelpi
Source text - Portuguese No.2101 Dia
Em meus devaneios vivo vendo as folhas da folhinha se destacando do bloco e sendo levadas pelo vento.
Folhas secas, secas, secas como só são os dias passados em uma prisão.
O aroma ocre dos corpos mal dormidos, o humor azedo dos presos mal acordados - tudo me agride com força, desde bem cedo. Cada dia, todo dia.
As cores sem vida de Pankrác, a mesmice de seus tons ocre e cinza, só ocre e cinza - uma monotonia sem fim...
Todo acordar igual...ou não, sempre pior, um pouco pior, piorzinho a cada manhã.
Arrumar acama correndo, fechar a janela berrando, que lá fora tá frio, frio, cada dia mais frio, e nós aqui sem muita defesa.
A roupa grudando, o pijama suado, o humor - o mal humor! - cotidiano abalado arruinado matado dos presos que roubam e matam. Dos presos, dos presos, dos muitos presos.
Só presos, qu'este mundo é só feito de homens presos desgrenhados, desarrumados e descuidados. Sem sal e com vinagre, a disciplina oca de uma banda de indisciplinados.
As filas da primeira manhã: para mijar, para se pseudolavar, para pegar o desjejum. Todoas empacotados dentro de uma nuvem concreta de ranço ocre e cinza.
O corredor imenso, o ruído abafado dos passos arrastados em chinelos usados, de tiras soltas, de pés mal lavados.
O pão seco de cada dia, a margarina sem sal, o leite com ironia, o sempre chá - chá chá chás, os passos que voltam, o mastigar mal-humorado em bocas mal escovadas.
Um olhar sorrindo que vi passando rapidamente, um fiapinho de alegria: é meu amigo Jarda que passa lavado, mijado, de ioga feita, levantando bém os pés do chão - uma pincelada só de cor, a esperança que só vive lá fora e que nos visitou brevemente - para logo se perder depressa na fila dos ovos cozidos sem gosto.
Chiclete de madeira, perfume de cimento velho, a dor muda nas bolas, as mãos grudentas e as flores morrendo - mas só lá fora. Que aqui, dentro de nossas agonias, já está tudo morto há muito tempo.
Pankrác, 14 de outubro de 1999
Translation - English V 2101 DEN
DAY 2101
In my daydreams I see the leaves on the calendar lifting themselves off and being blown away on the breeze.
Dry leaves, dry, dry, like the days spent in jail.
The brown smell of bodies that haven’t slept, the acid temper of the prisoners irritable from lack of sleep – everything has been an assault, right from the start, and repeated every day. All day.
The lifeless colors of Pankrác, the sameness of its browns and grays, are an endless monotony…
You wake up to it every morning and it’s always the same… or worse. It seems to be a little bit worse each time.
You rush to make the bed and close the window, complaining that it’s cold outside, cold, cold, every day it seems a bit colder and we have no defense against it.
Clothes stick to your skin, your pyjamas are covered in sweat and the temper - the bad temper! Every day is knocked back, ruined, killed by prisoners who have robbed and killed. By the prisoners, prisoners, so many prisoners.
This place is so full of them, unkempt, disheveled, disgusting. Without salt but with vinegar, any idea of discipline is hopeless with this rabble.
There are queues every morning: to pee, to pretend to wash, to get breakfast. Everything packed inside a concrete fog of rancid gray and ochre.
In the immense corridor there is the muffled sound of steps dragging along in loose, old slippers full of dirty feet.
Every day there is dry bread, margarine without salt, milk with irony, and of course always tea, tea and more tea. With steps returning, still chewing in bad-tempered mouths that need mouthwash.
A brief smile passes me rapidly: a sliver of happiness: it’s my friend Jarda. He goes past after having peed, washed and done his yoga. He walks properly and doesn’t shuffle – a splash of color like hope from outside just visiting briefly – before it gets lost again in the queue for the boiled eggs without taste.
Chewing gum of sawdust, the scent of old concrete, a dull pain in the balls, sticky hands and dying flowers, but only outside. In here, within our private agonies, they have all been dead for a long time.
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