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TEXT D There are two ways in which we can think of literary translation: as reproduction and as recreation. If we think of translation as reproduction, it is a safe and harmless enough business: the translator is a literature processor into which the text to be translated is inserted and out of which it ought to emerge identical, but in another language. But unfortunately the human mind is an imperfect machine, and the goal of precise interlinguistic message-transference is never-achieved; so the translator offers humble apologies for being capable of producing only a pale shadow of the original. Since all he is doing is copying another’s meanings from one language to another, he removes himself from sight so that the writer’s genius can shine as brightly as may be. To do this, he uses a neutral, conventionally literary language which ensures that the result will indeed be a pale shadow, in which it is impossible for anybody’s genius to shine. Readers also regard the translator as a neutral meaning-conveyor, then attribute the mediocrity of the translation to the original author. Martin Amis, for example, declares that Don Quixote is unreadable, without stopping to think about the consequences of the fact that what he has read or not read is what a translator wrote, not what Cervantes wrote. If we regard literary translation like this, as message-transference, we have to conclude that before very long it will be carried out perfectly well by computers. There are many pressures encouraging translators to accept this description of their work, apart from the fact that it is a scientific description and therefore must be right. Tradition is one such additional encouragement, because meaning-transference has been the dominant philosophy and manner of literary translation into English for at least three hundred years. The large publishing houses provide further encouragement, since they also expect the translator to be a literature-processor, who not only’ copies texts but simplifies them as well, eliminating troublesome complexities and manufacturing a readily consumable product for the marketplace. But there is another way in which we can think of literary translation. We can regard the translator not as a passive reproducer of meanings but as an active reader first, and then a creative rewriter of what be has read. This description has the advantages of being more interesting and of corresponding more closely to reality, because a pile of sheets of paper with little squiggly lines on them, glued together along one side, only becomes a work of literature when somebody reads it, and reading is not just a logical process but one involving the whole being: the feelings and the intuitions and the memory and the creative imagination and the whole life experience of the reader. Computers cannot read, they can only scan. And since the combination of all those human components is unique in each person, there are as many Don Quixotes as there are readers of Don Quixote, as Jorge Luis Borges once declared. Any translation of this novel is the translator’s account of his reading of it, rather than some inevitably pale shadow of what Cervantes wrote. It will only be a pale shadow if the translator is a dull reader, per haps as a result of accepting the preconditioning that goes with the role of literature processor. You may object that what I am advocating is extreme chaotic subjectivism, leading to the conclusion that anything goes, in reading and therefore in translation; but it is not, because reading is guided by its own conventions, the interpersonal roles of the literary game that we internalize as we acquire literary experience. By reference to these, we can agree, by reasoned argument, that some readings are more appropriate than others, and therefore that some translations are better than others. According to the author, the quality of translation depends on ______.
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TEXT A As a contemporary artist, Jim Dine has often incorporated other people’s photography into his abstract works. But, the 68-year-old American didn’t pick up a camera himself and start shooting until he moved to Berlin in 1995--and once he did, he couldn’t stop. The result is a voluminous collection of images, ranging from early-20th-century style heliogravures to modern-day digital printings, a selection of which are on exhibition at the Maison Europeenne de la Photographic in Paris. They are among his most prized achievements. "I make photographs the way I make paintings," says Dine, "but the difference is, in photography, it’s like lighting a fire every time." Though photography makes up a small slice of Dine’s vast oeuvre, the exhibit is a true retrospective of his career. Dine mostly photographs his own artwork or the subjects that he has portrayed in sculpture, painting and prints including Venus de Milo, ravens and owls, hearts and skulls. There are still pictures of well-used tools in his Connecticut workshop, delightful digital self-portraits and intimate portraits of his sleeping wife, the American photographer Diana Michener. Most revealing and novel are Dine’s shots of his poetry, scribbled in charcoal on walls like graffiti. To take in this show is to wander through Dine’s life: his childhood obsessions, his loves, his dreams. It is a poignant and powerful exhibit that rightly celebrates one of modern art’s most intriguing--and least hyped--talents. When he arrived on the scene in the early 1960s, Dine was seen as a pioneer in the pop-art movement. But he didn’t last long; once pop stagnated, Dine moved on. "Pop art had 1o do with the exterior world," he says. He was more interested, he adds, in "what was going on inside me." He explored his own personality, and from there developed themes. His love for handcrafting grew into a series of artworks incorporating hammers and saws. His obsession with owls and ravens came from a dream he once had. His childhood toy Pinocchio, worn and chipped, appears in some self-portraits as a red and yellow blur flying through the air. Dine first dabbled in photography in the late 1970s, when Polaroid invited him to try out a new large-format camera at its head-quarters in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He produced a series of colorful, out-of-focus self-portraits, and when he was done, he packed them away. A half dozen of these images in per feet condition--are on display in Paris for the first time. Though masterful, they feel flat when compared with his later pictures. Dine didn’t shoot again until he went to Berlin in the mid ’90s to teach. By then he was ready to embrace photography completely. Michener was his guide: "She opened my eyes to what was possible," he says. "Her approach is so natural and classic. I listened." When it came time to print what he had photo graphed, Dine chose heliogravure, the old style of printing favored by Alfred Stieglitz, Edward Curtis and Paul Strand, which gives photographs a warm tone and an almost hand drawn loop like Dine’s etchings. He later tried out the traditional black-and-white silver-gelatin process, then digital photography and jetink printing, which he adores. About the same time, Dine immersed himself into Jungian psychoanalysis. That, in conjunction with his new artistic tack, proved cathartic. "The access photography gives you to your subconscious is so fantastic," he says. "I’ve learned how to bring these images out like a stream of consciousness--something that’s not possible in the same way in drawing or painting because technique always gets in your way." This is evident in the way he works: when Dine shoots, he leaves things alone. Eventually, Dine turned the camera on himself. His self-portraits are disturbingly personal; he opens himself physically and emotionally before the lens. He says such pictures are an attempt to examine himself as well as "record the march of time, what gravity does to the face in everybody. I’m a very willing subject." Indeed, Dine sees photography as the surest path to self-discovery. "I’ve always learned about myself in my art," he says. "But photography expresses me. It’s me. Me. "The Paris exhibit makes that perfectly clear. Which of the following photographs of Dine’s leaves the deepest impression on the author
TEXT A As a contemporary artist, Jim Dine has often incorporated other people’s photography into his abstract works. But, the 68-year-old American didn’t pick up a camera himself and start shooting until he moved to Berlin in 1995--and once he did, he couldn’t stop. The result is a voluminous collection of images, ranging from early-20th-century style heliogravures to modern-day digital printings, a selection of which are on exhibition at the Maison Europeenne de la Photographic in Paris. They are among his most prized achievements. "I make photographs the way I make paintings," says Dine, "but the difference is, in photography, it’s like lighting a fire every time." Though photography makes up a small slice of Dine’s vast oeuvre, the exhibit is a true retrospective of his career. Dine mostly photographs his own artwork or the subjects that he has portrayed in sculpture, painting and prints including Venus de Milo, ravens and owls, hearts and skulls. There are still pictures of well-used tools in his Connecticut workshop, delightful digital self-portraits and intimate portraits of his sleeping wife, the American photographer Diana Michener. Most revealing and novel are Dine’s shots of his poetry, scribbled in charcoal on walls like graffiti. To take in this show is to wander through Dine’s life: his childhood obsessions, his loves, his dreams. It is a poignant and powerful exhibit that rightly celebrates one of modern art’s most intriguing--and least hyped--talents. When he arrived on the scene in the early 1960s, Dine was seen as a pioneer in the pop-art movement. But he didn’t last long; once pop stagnated, Dine moved on. "Pop art had 1o do with the exterior world," he says. He was more interested, he adds, in "what was going on inside me." He explored his own personality, and from there developed themes. His love for handcrafting grew into a series of artworks incorporating hammers and saws. His obsession with owls and ravens came from a dream he once had. His childhood toy Pinocchio, worn and chipped, appears in some self-portraits as a red and yellow blur flying through the air. Dine first dabbled in photography in the late 1970s, when Polaroid invited him to try out a new large-format camera at its head-quarters in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He produced a series of colorful, out-of-focus self-portraits, and when he was done, he packed them away. A half dozen of these images in per feet condition--are on display in Paris for the first time. Though masterful, they feel flat when compared with his later pictures. Dine didn’t shoot again until he went to Berlin in the mid ’90s to teach. By then he was ready to embrace photography completely. Michener was his guide: "She opened my eyes to what was possible," he says. "Her approach is so natural and classic. I listened." When it came time to print what he had photo graphed, Dine chose heliogravure, the old style of printing favored by Alfred Stieglitz, Edward Curtis and Paul Strand, which gives photographs a warm tone and an almost hand drawn loop like Dine’s etchings. He later tried out the traditional black-and-white silver-gelatin process, then digital photography and jetink printing, which he adores. About the same time, Dine immersed himself into Jungian psychoanalysis. That, in conjunction with his new artistic tack, proved cathartic. "The access photography gives you to your subconscious is so fantastic," he says. "I’ve learned how to bring these images out like a stream of consciousness--something that’s not possible in the same way in drawing or painting because technique always gets in your way." This is evident in the way he works: when Dine shoots, he leaves things alone. Eventually, Dine turned the camera on himself. His self-portraits are disturbingly personal; he opens himself physically and emotionally before the lens. He says such pictures are an attempt to examine himself as well as "record the march of time, what gravity does to the face in everybody. I’m a very willing subject." Indeed, Dine sees photography as the surest path to self-discovery. "I’ve always learned about myself in my art," he says. "But photography expresses me. It’s me. Me. "The Paris exhibit makes that perfectly clear. What is the main idea of the passage
TEXT A As a contemporary artist, Jim Dine has often incorporated other people’s photography into his abstract works. But, the 68-year-old American didn’t pick up a camera himself and start shooting until he moved to Berlin in 1995--and once he did, he couldn’t stop. The result is a voluminous collection of images, ranging from early-20th-century style heliogravures to modern-day digital printings, a selection of which are on exhibition at the Maison Europeenne de la Photographic in Paris. They are among his most prized achievements. "I make photographs the way I make paintings," says Dine, "but the difference is, in photography, it’s like lighting a fire every time." Though photography makes up a small slice of Dine’s vast oeuvre, the exhibit is a true retrospective of his career. Dine mostly photographs his own artwork or the subjects that he has portrayed in sculpture, painting and prints including Venus de Milo, ravens and owls, hearts and skulls. There are still pictures of well-used tools in his Connecticut workshop, delightful digital self-portraits and intimate portraits of his sleeping wife, the American photographer Diana Michener. Most revealing and novel are Dine’s shots of his poetry, scribbled in charcoal on walls like graffiti. To take in this show is to wander through Dine’s life: his childhood obsessions, his loves, his dreams. It is a poignant and powerful exhibit that rightly celebrates one of modern art’s most intriguing--and least hyped--talents. When he arrived on the scene in the early 1960s, Dine was seen as a pioneer in the pop-art movement. But he didn’t last long; once pop stagnated, Dine moved on. "Pop art had 1o do with the exterior world," he says. He was more interested, he adds, in "what was going on inside me." He explored his own personality, and from there developed themes. His love for handcrafting grew into a series of artworks incorporating hammers and saws. His obsession with owls and ravens came from a dream he once had. His childhood toy Pinocchio, worn and chipped, appears in some self-portraits as a red and yellow blur flying through the air. Dine first dabbled in photography in the late 1970s, when Polaroid invited him to try out a new large-format camera at its head-quarters in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He produced a series of colorful, out-of-focus self-portraits, and when he was done, he packed them away. A half dozen of these images in per feet condition--are on display in Paris for the first time. Though masterful, they feel flat when compared with his later pictures. Dine didn’t shoot again until he went to Berlin in the mid ’90s to teach. By then he was ready to embrace photography completely. Michener was his guide: "She opened my eyes to what was possible," he says. "Her approach is so natural and classic. I listened." When it came time to print what he had photo graphed, Dine chose heliogravure, the old style of printing favored by Alfred Stieglitz, Edward Curtis and Paul Strand, which gives photographs a warm tone and an almost hand drawn loop like Dine’s etchings. He later tried out the traditional black-and-white silver-gelatin process, then digital photography and jetink printing, which he adores. About the same time, Dine immersed himself into Jungian psychoanalysis. That, in conjunction with his new artistic tack, proved cathartic. "The access photography gives you to your subconscious is so fantastic," he says. "I’ve learned how to bring these images out like a stream of consciousness--something that’s not possible in the same way in drawing or painting because technique always gets in your way." This is evident in the way he works: when Dine shoots, he leaves things alone. Eventually, Dine turned the camera on himself. His self-portraits are disturbingly personal; he opens himself physically and emotionally before the lens. He says such pictures are an attempt to examine himself as well as "record the march of time, what gravity does to the face in everybody. I’m a very willing subject." Indeed, Dine sees photography as the surest path to self-discovery. "I’ve always learned about myself in my art," he says. "But photography expresses me. It’s me. Me. "The Paris exhibit makes that perfectly clear. The word "oeuvre" in the second paragraph probably means ______.
TEXT C Our public debates often fly off into the wild blue yonder of fantasy. So it’s been with the Federal Communications Commission’s new media-ownership rules. We’re told that, unless the FCC’s decision is reversed, it will worsen the menacing concentration of media power and that this will--to exaggerate only slightly--imperil free speech, the diversity of opinion and perhaps democracy itself. All this is more than overwrought; it completely misrepresents reality. In the past 30 years, media power has splintered dramatically; people have more choices than ever. Travel back to 1970. There were only three major TV networks (ABC, CBS, NBC); now, there’s a fourth (Fox). Then, there was virtually no cable TV; now, 68 percent of households have it. Then, FM radio was a backwater; now there are 5,892 FM stations, up from 2,196 in 1970. Then, there was only one national newspaper (The Wall Street Journal); now, there are two more (USA Today and The New York Times ). The idea that "big media" has dangerously increased its control over our choices is absurd. Yet much of the public, including journalists and politicians, believe religiously in this myth. They confuse size with power. It’s true that some gigantic media companies are getting even bigger at the expense of other media companies. But it’s not true that their power is increasing at the public’s expense. Popular hostility toward big media stems partly from the growing competition, which creates winners and losers and losers complain. Liberals don’t like the conservative talk shows, but younger viewers do. A June poll by the Pew Research Center for the People and the Press found that viewers from the ages of 18 to 29 approved of "hosts with strong opinions" by a 58 percent to 32 percent margin. Social conservatives despise what one recently called "the raw sewage, ultra violence, graphic sex and raunchy language" of TV. But many viewers love it. Journalists detest the cost and profit pressures that result from stiff com petition with other news and entertainment outlets. It’s the tyranny of the market: a triumph of popular tastes. Big media companies try to anticipate, shape and profit from these tastes. But media diversity frustrates any one company from imposing its views and values on an unwilling audience. People just click to another channel or cancel their subscription. The paradox is this: the explosion of choices means that almost everyone may be offended by something. A lot of this free-floating hostility has attached itself to the FCC ownership rules. The backlash is easily exaggerated. In the Pew poll, 51 percent of respondents knew "nothing" of the rules; an additional 36 percent knew only "a little". The rules would permit any company to own television stations in areas with 45 percent of U. S. households, up from 35 percent now. The networks could buy more of their affiliate stations a step that, critics say, would jeopardize "local’ control and content. At best, that’s questionable. Network programs already fill most of affiliates’ hours. To keep local audiences, any owner must satisfy local demands, especially for news and weather programming. But the symbolic backlash against the FCC and big media does pose one hidden danger. For some U.S. house holds, over-the-air broadcasting is the only TV available, and its long-term survival is hardly ensured. Both cable and the Internet are eroding its audience. In 2002 cable programming had more primetime viewers than broadcast programming for 1he first time (48 percent vs. 46 percent). Streaming video, now primitive, will improve; sooner or later certainly in the next 10 or 15 years--many Web sites will be TV channels. If over-the-air broadcasting declines or disappears, the big losers will be the poor. Broadcast TV will survive and flourish only if the networks remain profitable enough to bid for and provide competitive entertainment, sports and news programming. The industry’s structure must give them a long-term stake in over-the-air broadcasting. Owning more TV stations is one possibility. If Congress prevents that, it may perversely hurt the very diversity and the people that it’s trying to protect. The word "raunchy" in the fourth paragraph probably means ______.
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