translation is all i seem to be doing lately
Back Translation Assignment
Ray Bradbury - Fahrenheit 451
Original
IT WAS A PLEASURE TO BURN.
It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a marshmallow on a stick in the furnace, while the flapping of pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawn of the house. While the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning.
Montag grinned the fierce grin of all men singed and driven back by flame.
He knew that when he returned to the firehouse, he might wink at himself, a minstrel man, burnt-corked, in the mirror. Later, going to sleep, he would feel the fiery smile still gripped by his face muscles, in the dark. It never went away, that smile, it never ever went away, as long as he remembered.
German Translation by Fritz Güttinger
Es war eine Lust, Feuer zu legen.
Es war eine eigene Lust, zu sehen, wie etwas verzehrt wurde, wie es schwarz und zu etwas anderem wurde. Das gelbe Strahlrohr in der Hand, die Mündung dieser mächtigen Schlange, die ihr giftiges Kerosin in die Welt hinaus spie, fühlte er das Blut in seinen Schläfen pochen, und seine Hände waren die eines erstaunlichen Dirigenten, der eine Symphonie des Sengens und Brennens aufführte, um die kärglichen Reste der Kulturgeschichte vollends auszutilgen. Auf dem Kopf den Helm mit dem Zeichen 451, in den Augen einen flammenden Widerschein dessen, was nun kommen sollte, knipste er das Feuerzeug an, und das Haus flog auf in eine gierige Lohe, die sich rot und gelb und schwarz in den Abendhimmel hineinfraß. Er selber war umschwirrt wie von einem Schwarm von Leuchtkäfern. Ein altes Witzwort kam ihm in den Sinn, und er hätte am liebsten eine aufgespießte Wurst in die Feuersbrunst hineingehalten, während die Bücher mit dem Flügelschlag weißer Tauben vor dem Haus den Flammentod starben. Während die Bücher in Funkenwirbel aufsprühten und von einem brandgeschwärzten Wind verweht wurden.
Montag verzog das Gesicht zu einem grimmigen Lächeln des Menschen, der vor dem sengenden Feuer zurückweichen muß.
Nach getaner Arbeit mochte es vorkommen, daß er dem Gesicht im Spiegel als dem eines Komödianten, mit Ruß in einen Neger umgefärbt, belustigt zuzwinkerte. Auch nachher, wenn er sich schlafen legte, spürte er jeweils im Dunkeln seine Züge noch zu dem brandigen Lächeln verkrampft. Es verließ ihn nie, dieses Lächeln, er konnte sich überhaupt nicht erinnern, es jemals abgelegt zu haben.
Back Translation - mine
It was a pleasure to start a fire.
It was its own pleasure to see how something was consumed, how it turned black and altogether became something else. The yellow steel tube in his hand, the opening of this powerful snake spewing its kerosene poison into the world; he felt the blood beating in his temples, his hands were those of an astonishing conductor who was directing a symphony of fire and sword in order to completely obliterate the meager remains of the history of civilization. On his head he wore a helmet with the symbol 451, and in his eyes was the blazing reflection of what was to come; he snapped the lighter und the house burst into raging flames that ate themselves into the evening sky, red and yellow and black. He himself was surrounded by a swarm of fireflies. An old joke came into his mind and he would have like to held a speared sausage into the conflagration while the books were being burnt to death in front of the house like white doves beating their wings. While the books sparked up in a whirl and were scattered with the blackened wind.
Monday grimaced like a person retreating from the scorching fire.
After a job well done it often happened that he would wink into a mirror like a comedian turned into a negro with soot smeared on his face. Even while he was lying in bed in the dark he still felt his features tensed into a burnt smile. This smile never left him, he couldn’t remember having ever cast it off.
Ray Bradbury - Fahrenheit 451
Original
IT WAS A PLEASURE TO BURN.
It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a marshmallow on a stick in the furnace, while the flapping of pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawn of the house. While the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning.
Montag grinned the fierce grin of all men singed and driven back by flame.
He knew that when he returned to the firehouse, he might wink at himself, a minstrel man, burnt-corked, in the mirror. Later, going to sleep, he would feel the fiery smile still gripped by his face muscles, in the dark. It never went away, that smile, it never ever went away, as long as he remembered.
German Translation by Fritz Güttinger
Es war eine Lust, Feuer zu legen.
Es war eine eigene Lust, zu sehen, wie etwas verzehrt wurde, wie es schwarz und zu etwas anderem wurde. Das gelbe Strahlrohr in der Hand, die Mündung dieser mächtigen Schlange, die ihr giftiges Kerosin in die Welt hinaus spie, fühlte er das Blut in seinen Schläfen pochen, und seine Hände waren die eines erstaunlichen Dirigenten, der eine Symphonie des Sengens und Brennens aufführte, um die kärglichen Reste der Kulturgeschichte vollends auszutilgen. Auf dem Kopf den Helm mit dem Zeichen 451, in den Augen einen flammenden Widerschein dessen, was nun kommen sollte, knipste er das Feuerzeug an, und das Haus flog auf in eine gierige Lohe, die sich rot und gelb und schwarz in den Abendhimmel hineinfraß. Er selber war umschwirrt wie von einem Schwarm von Leuchtkäfern. Ein altes Witzwort kam ihm in den Sinn, und er hätte am liebsten eine aufgespießte Wurst in die Feuersbrunst hineingehalten, während die Bücher mit dem Flügelschlag weißer Tauben vor dem Haus den Flammentod starben. Während die Bücher in Funkenwirbel aufsprühten und von einem brandgeschwärzten Wind verweht wurden.
Montag verzog das Gesicht zu einem grimmigen Lächeln des Menschen, der vor dem sengenden Feuer zurückweichen muß.
Nach getaner Arbeit mochte es vorkommen, daß er dem Gesicht im Spiegel als dem eines Komödianten, mit Ruß in einen Neger umgefärbt, belustigt zuzwinkerte. Auch nachher, wenn er sich schlafen legte, spürte er jeweils im Dunkeln seine Züge noch zu dem brandigen Lächeln verkrampft. Es verließ ihn nie, dieses Lächeln, er konnte sich überhaupt nicht erinnern, es jemals abgelegt zu haben.
Back Translation - mine
It was a pleasure to start a fire.
It was its own pleasure to see how something was consumed, how it turned black and altogether became something else. The yellow steel tube in his hand, the opening of this powerful snake spewing its kerosene poison into the world; he felt the blood beating in his temples, his hands were those of an astonishing conductor who was directing a symphony of fire and sword in order to completely obliterate the meager remains of the history of civilization. On his head he wore a helmet with the symbol 451, and in his eyes was the blazing reflection of what was to come; he snapped the lighter und the house burst into raging flames that ate themselves into the evening sky, red and yellow and black. He himself was surrounded by a swarm of fireflies. An old joke came into his mind and he would have like to held a speared sausage into the conflagration while the books were being burnt to death in front of the house like white doves beating their wings. While the books sparked up in a whirl and were scattered with the blackened wind.
Monday grimaced like a person retreating from the scorching fire.
After a job well done it often happened that he would wink into a mirror like a comedian turned into a negro with soot smeared on his face. Even while he was lying in bed in the dark he still felt his features tensed into a burnt smile. This smile never left him, he couldn’t remember having ever cast it off.