Игра слов. Практика и идеология художественного перевода

I stared at the pickle slices floating brightly with the fish, some of them sinking and twirling. They bounced slowly over the bright pink and blue rocks below. The orange-striped fish had all flashed about the tank as I had been pouring, but they, too, now moved slowly. They leaned a little to one side as they swam, and several rested on the rocks. Others stretched their long, see-through cartilage mouths at the surface every few moments and sucked for air. Their side fins rippled as delicately as fine lace.

When the pickle slices had settled more, they rocked like sleeping fish just above the pink and blue gravel, and the real fish rocked silently beside them, as if in gentle groves of eelgrass and sunken lily pads. The image was beautiful, and in that moment of beauty I strained forward.

I pressed my hands and face close to the glass and gazed into the mute black core of one of those silvery eyes. I felt as if I, too, were floating, gently rocking, oddly out of place, and in that flicker of a moment I caught myself feeling the rocking and, perceiving myself perceiving, realized that I was I. This distracted me; then I forgot what had distracted me, lost interest in the fish, and, after slapping my feet across the linoleum of the kitchen floor, passed again into the soft, dark rain.

Разумеется, рыбки погибли, но взрослый автор нам об этом не сообщает, потому что в это время он находится внутри себя пятилетнего и смотрит сквозь стекло аквариума его глазами. В основном язык его остается языком взрослого человека (perceiving myself perceiving, realized that I was I), но то, что он видит, он видит как ребенок, и это сквозит в описании:

the pickle slices floating brightly with the fish… several rested on the rocks… When the pickle slices had settled more, they rocked like sleeping fish… Именно этот микс взрослого и детского сознаний, как мне показалось, и может оправдать соседство в переводе апофеоза

с всамделишным: