Find in the text examples of translation transformations (Differentiation of meanings,Specification of meanings,Generalization of meanings, Semantic development (modulation), Antonymic translation,Holistic transformations, Compensation of losses, Sentence partitioning,Sentence integration, Substitution of parts of speech, Addition of words, Omission of words) with ukrainian translation

Olly Rice had given his life to literature, but what had literature given him? A wound in the head that oozed something worse than blood or brain matter. A gaping hole which, even when he managed to staunch the flow, just seemed to reappear in a different part of his skull. Again, and again, and again. And for what? For the glory of an artform that nobody was even interested in any more.

Well, of course, people were. Plenty of them enjoyed a handsome living from it, from many different angles too. Olly, though, was lucky if his poems and stories made him 100 pounds or dollars or euros a year. And he had to invest/sacrifice the entirety of his life for the privilege of receiving that pittance.

If you were a writer - a British writer - you had to live in London. According to Olly's romantic notions at least. You could be regional, you could spend your whole career writing about those regions, but at some point you'd find yourself in London. That's where the contacts were. Where the literary life was.

Fortunately, he hadn't had to travel too far to get there. The train journey from his hometown to central London took less than an hour. He could, conceivably, have stayed in Grays and commuted. And for a couple of years, he did. His parents were highly amenable to the whims of their only child. Though it was never explicitly stated, it was understood that he was welcome to stay with them indefinitely. Rent-free. And probably expenses-free as well. But the lure of the capital was too great. Respect, and the success that went with it, was only available if you had a London address. Olly was adamant about that.

"I don't know what he sees in that place," Valerie Rice said to Ted Rice when Olly was out of the house.

Ted just raised his eyes and shook his head. In his world, that was more powerful than words.

And so began a series of locations. There was Kilburn. Royal Oak. Kentish Town. Archway. Finsbury Park. And a long and varied sequence of occupations. Shelf stacker. Checkout operator. Industrial cleaner. Exterminator. Trainee locksmith. Library assistant. Postman. Many of which were undertaken on and off at various intervals, and quite often simultaneously. The city of Dickens wasn't cheap.

It would be glib to continue with something along the lines of "the only thing that kept him going was the thought that, one day, …" because, in truth, there were several things that kept Olly going. Pre-eminent, naturally enough, was the thought that he was going to make it big. He had to. He simply had too much going on in his head to allow him to remain undiscovered. Also there was the strong likelihood that, somewhere along the path, money - serious money - was going to come his way. A story of his would prove to be so vivid that a film or TV series would be a logical result. Finally, people would listen to him. Because that was another thing. He wasn't just that oversized freak from Essex with an insatiable reading habit and a couple of mediocre A-Levels. The one the other kids had thought was weird and their mothers had gossiped about. No, he was the platinum to their aluminum foil. He knew it, and he would prove it beyond doubt.

But the hits, they never came.

Olly didn't spare himself in the daytime in order to collect the money to afford his nights. He matched the rent, had enough for modest meals, and devoted the dark hours to acts of creation. With curses, despair and determination, he battled all the manifold horrors that cheap accommodation in the capital could expose him to and, shockingly perhaps, managed to produce work that looked professional enough. Some of his pieces were even accepted by mid-ranking magazines and journals. Most, however, were not.

The cycle went on. He wrote what interested him but quickly found that what he liked was mostly not what they liked. The literary gatekeepers. The ones you had to get past before you could reach your audience.

"I can't understand it," he'd say to Tim, his only constant friend. "I put everything I've got into those pieces and they just send back some standard rejection six months, nine months, one year later."

Tim would stare into his pint. "Maybe you should write something different. Change your style."

It wasn't advice that Olly wanted to hear. But he tried it anyway. Called himself Olivia a couple of times. Reworked his bio. Exchanged some of his habitual certainties for uncertainties. The only difference he could detect was that the rejections were a tad more cordial, a bit more encouraging.

Question

ozymokbogdana ozymokbogdana

26-05-2024
English

Answered

Find in the text examples of translation transformations (Differentiation of meanings,Specification of meanings,Generalization of meanings, Semantic development (modulation), Antonymic translation,Holistic transformations, Compensation of losses, Sentence partitioning,Sentence integration, Substitution of parts of speech, Addition of words, Omission of words) with ukrainian translation

Olly Rice had given his life to literature, but what had literature given him? A wound in the head that oozed something worse than blood or brain matter. A gaping hole which, even when he managed to staunch the flow, just seemed to reappear in a different part of his skull. Again, and again, and again. And for what? For the glory of an artform that nobody was even interested in any more.

Well, of course, people were. Plenty of them enjoyed a handsome living from it, from many different angles too. Olly, though, was lucky if his poems and stories made him 100 pounds or dollars or euros a year. And he had to invest/sacrifice the entirety of his life for the privilege of receiving that pittance.

If you were a writer - a British writer - you had to live in London. According to Olly's romantic notions at least. You could be regional, you could spend your whole career writing about those regions, but at some point you'd find yourself in London. That's where the contacts were. Where the literary life was.

Fortunately, he hadn't had to travel too far to get there. The train journey from his hometown to central London took less than an hour. He could, conceivably, have stayed in Grays and commuted. And for a couple of years, he did. His parents were highly amenable to the whims of their only child. Though it was never explicitly stated, it was understood that he was welcome to stay with them indefinitely. Rent-free. And probably expenses-free as well. But the lure of the capital was too great. Respect, and the success that went with it, was only available if you had a London address. Olly was adamant about that.

"I don't know what he sees in that place," Valerie Rice said to Ted Rice when Olly was out of the house.

Ted just raised his eyes and shook his head. In his world, that was more powerful than words.

And so began a series of locations. There was Kilburn. Royal Oak. Kentish Town. Archway. Finsbury Park. And a long and varied sequence of occupations. Shelf stacker. Checkout operator. Industrial cleaner. Exterminator. Trainee locksmith. Library assistant. Postman. Many of which were undertaken on and off at various intervals, and quite often simultaneously. The city of Dickens wasn't cheap.

It would be glib to continue with something along the lines of "the only thing that kept him going was the thought that, one day, …" because, in truth, there were several things that kept Olly going. Pre-eminent, naturally enough, was the thought that he was going to make it big. He had to. He simply had too much going on in his head to allow him to remain undiscovered. Also there was the strong likelihood that, somewhere along the path, money - serious money - was going to come his way. A story of his would prove to be so vivid that a film or TV series would be a logical result. Finally, people would listen to him. Because that was another thing. He wasn't just that oversized freak from Essex with an insatiable reading habit and a couple of mediocre A-Levels. The one the other kids had thought was weird and their mothers had gossiped about. No, he was the platinum to their aluminum foil. He knew it, and he would prove it beyond doubt.

But the hits, they never came.

Olly didn't spare himself in the daytime in order to collect the money to afford his nights. He matched the rent, had enough for modest meals, and devoted the dark hours to acts of creation. With curses, despair and determination, he battled all the manifold horrors that cheap accommodation in the capital could expose him to and, shockingly perhaps, managed to produce work that looked professional enough. Some of his pieces were even accepted by mid-ranking magazines and journals. Most, however, were not.

The cycle went on. He wrote what interested him but quickly found that what he liked was mostly not what they liked. The literary gatekeepers. The ones you had to get past before you could reach your audience.

"I can't understand it," he'd say to Tim, his only constant friend. "I put everything I've got into those pieces and they just send back some standard rejection six months, nine months, one year later."

Tim would stare into his pint. "Maybe you should write something different. Change your style."

It wasn't advice that Olly wanted to hear. But he tried it anyway. Called himself Olivia a couple of times. Reworked his bio. Exchanged some of his habitual certainties for uncertainties. The only difference he could detect was that the rejections were a tad more cordial, a bit more encouraging.

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