pouik

Bonjour,
J'ai fais quelques petites digressions sur ce thème. Pourriez vous m'aider à les rectifier ??? Merci d'avance.

Voici le texte à traduire :

Voilà dix ans que je faisais un livre, que je parlais de lui, qu’il me réveillait la nuit et m’accompagnait dans mes voyages, et voilà dix ans que ce livre, comme le reste, me faisait peur sans que je sache pourquoi. Je venais à ma machine à écrire comme on va gravement vers une amie à qui on voudrait dire le plus intime et le plus lourd secret. Mais aussi vrai qu’on quitte souvent l’amie sans s’être livré, des années ses sont écoulées avant que j’arrive à écrire autre chose que des histoires que je trouvais jolies et qui me rassuraient. Depuis ma petite enfance, un épouvantable secret, un secret honteux me rongeait. Je n’imaginais pas pouvoir l’écrire. […] Sous mes doigts, les mots appropriés se dérobaient, d’autres surgissaient, qui me faisaient moins mal, mais qui n’étaient pas ceux qu’il fallait. Mon livre me restait étranger. Je ne compte plus le nombre de fois où je me suis retrouvée devant un paquet de feuilles dactylographiées, prête à aller chez un éditeur, n’importe lequel.

Voici ma proposition :

I have been writing this book for the past 10 years and have talked about it, and it kept me awake at night, and invited itself in my journeys, and so it has been 1O years since this book, and all that goes with it, has been scaring me without me knowing the reason why it does so. I used to get to my typewriter as if it were a close friend who would be the recipient of my most intimate and heaviest secrets. However, because there is often something that prevents you from giving yourself up to your best friend, many years have passed by, before I was able to write anything else but nice and comfortable stories. Since my childhood, a dreadful secret, a shameful secret was gnawing on me. I had not yet realized it could be expressed in words. [...] My fingers could no find the proper words. Others came up instead which were less painful and less appropriate at the same time. My book remained alien to me. I am not counting any more the occasions when I had in front of me that stack of typewritten sheets and thought I should bring them to a publisher, whoever he might be.

The_FD

Quelques très légères suggestions

I have been writing this book for the past 10 years and have talked about it, it kept me awake at night, and invited itself in my journeys. So for 1O years, this book, and all that goes with it, scared me and I did not even know why. I used to get to my typewriter as if it were a close friend who would be the recipient of my most intimate and heaviest secrets. However, because there is often something that prevents you from giving yourself up to your best friend, many years have passed by, before I was able to write anything else but nice and comfortable stories. Since my childhood, a dreadful secret, a shameful secret was gnawing on me. I had not yet realized it could be expressed in words. [...] My fingers could not find the proper words. Others came up instead which were less painful and less appropriate at the same time. My book remained alien to me. I am not counting any more the occasions when I had in front of me that stack of typewritten sheets and thought I should bring them to a publisher, whoever he might be.

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L'histoire de la famille Bourdillon
Les fêtes d'Hébé
The flying dancer dancing

marielameche

Salut,
autre suggestion:


For the past 10 years, I had been writing this book, I had been talking about it, it had kept me awake at night, and had accompanied me in my trips, and for 10 years this book, as well as the rest, had been scaring me even though I didn't know why. I used to go to my typewriter as one goes towards a friend to tell him the most intimate and heaviest secret. However, in the same way as one often leaves this friend without having confided in him, years went by before I managed to write anything else but stories that I thought nice and that comforted me. Since my childhood, a dreadful secret, a shameful secret was gnawing at me. I never imagined I could write about it. [...] My fingers could not find the proper words. Others came up instead which were less painful and less appropriate at the same time. My book remained alien to me. I am not counting any more the occasions when I had in front of me that stack of typewritten sheets, ready to go and see a publisher, whoever he might be.

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