《第十八届梁实秋文学奖开始征件》

主办单位：中华日报社

赞助单位：行政院文化建设委员会

一．目的：
　 为纪念文学大师梁实秋先生对散文及翻译之贡献，鼓励散文创作，发掘翻译人才。

二．类别：
　 甲．散文创作类：
　 以中文白话文写作，叙事、抒情为主，不限题材、文题自定。字数以三千至四千五百字为限。
　 文建会优等奖一名：奖金十五万元，奖座一尊。
　 佳作若干名：每名奖金三万元，奖盾一尊。
　 乙．翻译类（英译中）：
　 译诗组
　 文建会优等奖一名：奖金五万元，奖座一尊。
　 佳作若干名：每名奖金一万元，奖盾一尊。
　 译文组
　 文建会优等奖一名：奖金五万元，奖座一尊。
　　 佳作若干名：每名奖金一万元，奖盾一尊。
　 译诗及译文之原文（译诗及译文各有两则），由梁实秋文学奖评委会订定。

三．应征条件：
　 （一）应征散文作品必须未公开发表或出书，每人应征散文以一篇为限。
　 （二）应征翻译类译诗或译文，两则需同时翻译。为了增加参与者得奖机会，如应征译诗、译文同时获奖，择优录取其中一项。
　 （三）获得梁实秋文学奖翻译类文建会优等奖者，其后两届，不得应征同一性质的奖项。散文创作类则不受此限。

四．相关规定：
　 （一）征件期限：九十四年七月一日至八月三十一日止（以邮戳为凭）。
　 （二）揭晓日期：九十四年十月中旬。
　 （三）颁奖日期：九十四年十二月上旬。
　 （四）发表及出版：
　 散文类及翻译类得奖作品将于中华日报副刊发表，两年出版一本作品集，不另支稿费及版税。

五．征件办法：凡不符征件规定者，一律不予参赛。
　 （一）作品须用计算机打印于Ａ４纸张（作品上不可有任何姓名资料），散文创作类一 式两份，翻译类一式三份，并附磁盘片。
　 （二）应征者资料，包括真实姓名、地址及手机、电话号码（含机关、住宅），并附 简历、照片、身分证影印本。相关资料请另行打印、照片请浮贴于不同于作品之Ａ４纸张，并附文字文件于磁盘片中，以便获奖时方便联络。
　 （三）发现抄袭、模仿、顶用他人名义应征者，除取消资格外，并公布真实姓名及地址。
　 （四）应征作品应由个人创作或翻译，集体创作或翻译不予录取。
　 （五）作品请挂号邮寄（１０４）台北市八德路二段二六○号五楼中华日报社梁实秋文学奖评委会，封面请注明应征类别，如同时参加一项以上之类别（译诗、译文 亦为不同类别），请分别以不同信封寄件，否则由评委会择一参选。恕不退件。亦不得以e-mail方式传件。
　 （六）译诗及译文之原文，一律采函索方式，或可自行上中华日报网站下载，恕不提供传真服务。来件信封请注明索取梁奖翻译原文，并请附写妥收件人姓名、地址 之回邮信封，贴足邮票，寄台北市八德路二段二六○号五楼中华日报梁实秋文学奖评委会，即寄；不备回邮信封及邮票者，恕不提供服务。

六．评审：
　　（一）分初审、复审、决审三阶段进行。
　　（二）各阶段评审委员，均敦聘名作家、学者或评论家担任，以昭公允。评审委员名单，于揭晓时同时公布。

七．其它：
　 　本办法如有未尽事宜，将另行公告补充。

八．联络电话：（○二）二七七一六六一一转八一二、八一四

    中华日报网址：http://www.cdns.com.tw
　　文建会网址：http://www.cca.gov.tw

《第十八届梁实秋文学奖翻译类　译文原文》

The Eighteenth Liang Shih-ch'iu Literary Award, 2005
──Translation Contest in Prose 
Translate the following passages into Chinese:

(1) From "Epilogue"

At his new place of residence, he had the support of various English friends, including Shelley and that ruffianly adventurer, Edward John Trelawny. Then, in April 1822, died Allegra, his illegitimate child by Claire Clairmont; and during the following June, soon after the arrival of Leigh Hunt (invited to Italy to assist in the preparation of a monthly paper), Shelley's wandering existence came to a sudden and tragic end. Meanwhile Byron's restlessness and dissatisfaction were growing more and more pronounced. The gentle servitude imposed by Teresa had begun to chafe his spirit. He longed for some escape into a life of action; and the opportunity was at last provided by the course of events in Greece.

Yet, when the moment for departure came, he set out with reluctance. He did not expect that he would return alive. He had few illusions, either as to the difficulties he would encounter or as to the cause he served. But he had always believed in fate, and now he obeyed his destiny. That destiny was at length completed on the mud-banks of Missolonghi, after three months of frustration and gloom and anguish. While the rain thrashed down into the sodden courtyard, Fletcher listened in vain to his muttered dying message. But the words were unintelligible; and Byron sank back at last with an expression of despair. 'Poor Greece'-he murmured - 'poor town -my poor servants. Io lascio qualche cosa di caro nel mondo. I am leaving behind me something dear in the world.' And later, at six o'clock that wet and cheerless evening: 'I want to go to sleep now.' He died at sunset on the 19th of April 1824, as a distant roll of thunder sounded on the Gulf outside.

──by Peter Quennell (1905-1993): 
Byron: The Years of Fame

(2) From "Democracy and the Search for Style"

The private personality of L. B. J., as reported by the authority of the best gossip, is different from his public presence. He is, one is told, not too unlike Broderick Crawford in All the King's Men, roaring, smarting, bellowing, stabbing fingers on advisers' chests, hugging his daughters, enjoying his food, mean and unforgiving, vindictive, generous, ebullient, vain, suddenly depressed, then roguish, then overbearing, suddenly modest again only to bellow once more, It is somewhat like the description of an early Renaissance prince, and if one looks hard at the photograph of the President on the cover of My Hope for America, a leader of condottieri stands forth ─ hard, greedy, exceptionally intelligent eyes whose cynicism is spiked by a fierce pride, big fleshy inquisitive (and acquisitive) nose, thin curved mouth (a boss mouth) and a slab of round hard jaw, deep dimple on the upper lip, deep dimple on the chin. It is not a bad face altogether, it is sufficiently worldly to inspire a kind of confidence that while no age of high ideals is close at hand, yet no martyrs are to be tortured, for there is small profit in that.

It is a face and a concealed personality which could even, considering the Republican alternative, inspire a touch of happiness, if it were not for the public image-that bottomless sea of overweening piety which collects here in this slim volume, this cove of Presidential prose whose waters are so brackish that a spoonful is enough to sicken the mind for hours.

──by Norman Mailer (1923-- )

《第十八届梁实秋文学奖翻译类　译诗原文》

The Eighteenth Liang Shih-ch'iu Literary Award, 2005
──Translation Contest in Verse 

Translate the following poems into Chinese:

(1) By the Statue of King Charles at Charing Cross

Somber and rich, the skies; 
Great glooms, and starry plains. 
Gently the night wind sighs; 
Else a vast silence reigns. 
The splendid silence clings 
Around me; and around 
The saddest of all kings 
Crowned, and again discrowned. 
Comely and calm, he rides 
Hard by his own Whitehall. 
Only the night wind glides; 
No crowds, nor rebels, brawl. 
Gone, too, his Court; and yet, 
The stars his courtiers are─
Stars in their stations set, 
And every wandering star. 
Alone he rides, alone, 
The fair and fatal king;
Dark night is all his own, 
That strange and solemn thing. 
Which are more full of fate─ 
The stars, or those sad eyes? 
Which are more still and great─ 
Those brows, or the dark skies? 
Although his whole heart yearn 
In passionate tragedy,
Never was face so stern 
With sweet austerity. 
Vanquished in life, his death 
By beauty made amends; 
The passing of his breath 
Won his defeated ends. 
Brief life, and hapless? Nay; 
Through death, life grew sublime. 
Speak after sentence? Yea─
And to the end of time. 
Armored he rides, his head 
Bare to the stars of doom; 
He triumphs now, the dead, 
Beholding London's gloom. 
Our wearier spirit faints, 
Vexed in the world's employ; 
His soul was of the saints,
And art to him was joy. 
King, tried in fires of woe! 
Men hunger for thy grace; 
And through the night I go, 
Loving thy mournful face. 
Yet, when the city sleeps,
When all the cries are still, 
The stars and heavenly deeps 
Work out a perfect will. 
──by Lionel Johnson (1867-1902)

(2) Vergissmeinnicht

Three weeks gone and the combatants gone
returning over the nightmare ground
we found the place again, and found
the soldier sprawling in the sun.
The frowning barrel of his gun
overshadowing. As we came on
that day, he hit my tank with one
like the entry of a demon.
Look. Here in the gunpit spoil
the dishonoured picture of his girl
who has put: Steffi. Vergissmeinnicht
in a copybook gothic script.
We see him almost with content,
abased, and seeming to have paid
and mocked at by his own equipment
that's hard and good when he's decayed.
But she would weep to see today
how on his skin the swart flies move;
the dust upon the paper eye
and the burst stomach like a cave.
For here the lover and killer are mingled
who had one body and one heart.
And death who had the soldier singled
has done the lover mortal hurt.

──by Keith Douglas (1920-1944)