Monday, June 18, 2012

English to French and back - With Google Translate

Hmm. I will get my play Milk and Water translated into French, once I have the final draft down.

I had a passing frivolous and very unrealistic idea about using Google to translate, and  conducted an experiment.

I translated the prologue from my eplay Milk and Water  from English into French and then back,  again, expecting the resulting text to be gibberish. It wasn't. I've done this before with other texts to hysterically funny results. Does this mean my prose style is uncomplicated?  I wonder.

Here's the original:

1927 was Canada’s Jubilee year, the 60th anniversary of Confederation. To celebrate, 2 Royal Princes, David (the future Edward VIII) and George (the future Duke of Kent) took a month long tour of Canada. Upon arrival, at the beginning of August, they were feted, along with UK Prime Minister Baldwin, at Montreal City Hall. A public ceremony was held in front on the steps of the recently refurbished Hotel de Ville, with Mayor Mederic Martin standing in state in his long purple robes. My grandfather, Jules Crepeau, Director of Municipal Departments and his eldest daughter, my Aunt Alice, watched from a perch higher up on the steps.

The Royal Princes would stay in Montreal only 36 hours, then travel across Canada, to return to the City on the St. Lawrence at the end of the month for four days of rest and recreation before returning to England.

This setting of this play, Milk and Water, takes advantage of this fact.

In 1927, the City of Montreal was at the peak of its influence, a bustling industrial and transportation centre, even if  some Torontonians disparaged the city, claiming that, although happily situated for business, it was corrupt to the core, French and “so hopeless.”

In the 1920’s the Americans had Prohibition and reportedly many crime bosses headed up North to control their empires from Montreal.

Montreal had no Prohibition, although the sale of hard liquor was controlled by a Provincial Liquor Commission. Liquor licenses were handed out primarily to taverns, as well as to restaurants and hotels. According to the Coderre Inquiry into Police Corruption, conducted in the city in 1924 and 25, there were about 1,000 establishments in Montreal serving hard liquor without a license, not speakeasies in the traditional sense, but still operating outside the law.

Here's the French Google translation:

 1927 a été l'année du Canada Jubilé, le 60e anniversaire de la Confédération. Pour fêter ça, 2 princes royaux, David (le futur Edouard VIII) et George (le futur duc de Kent) a pris une tournée d'un mois long terme du Canada. À l'arrivée, au début de Août, ils ont été fêtés, avec au Royaume-Uni Premier ministre Baldwin, à Montréal Hôtel de Ville. Une cérémonie publique a eu lieu en face sur les marches de l'récemment rénové Hôtel de Ville, avec le maire Médéric Martin, debout dans l'état dans ses longues robes de pourpre. Mon grand-père, Jules Crépeau, directeur des services municipaux et sa fille aînée, ma tante Alice, regardé depuis un perchoir plus haut sur ​​les marches.

Les princes royaux resterait à Montréal seulement 36 heures, puis voyager partout au Canada, pour revenir à la ville sur le fleuve Saint-Laurent à la fin du mois pour quatre jours de repos et les loisirs avant de retourner en Angleterre.

  Ce réglage de cette pièce, le lait et l'eau, tire parti de cet état de fait.

En 1927, la Ville de Montréal était à l'apogée de son influence, un animé centre industriel et des transports, même si certains Torontois dénigré la ville, faisant valoir que, même si heureusement situé pour les affaires, elle était corrompue jusqu'à la moelle, en français et "de manière sans espoir. "
Dans les années 1920, les Américains avaient l'interdiction et de nombreux patrons du crime aurait dirigé vers le Nord pour contrôler leurs empires à partir de Montréal.
Montréal a eu aucune interdiction, même si la vente d'alcool fort a été contrôlé par une Commission provinciale des alcools.

 Permis d'alcool ont été distribués principalement aux tavernes, ainsi que des restaurants et des hôtels. Selon l'enquête Coderre dans la corruption de la police, menée dans la ville en 1924 et 25, il y avait environ 1.000 établissements à Montréal servir des boissons alcoolisées dur sans une licence, et non speakeasies dans le sens traditionnel, mais toujours en activité en dehors de la loi

And here's the Google English translation of the French translation:

1927 was the year Canada's Jubilee, the 60th anniversary of Confederation. To celebrate, two royal princes, David (later Edward VIII) and George (the future Duke of Kent) took a one month tour of Canada long term. 

Upon arrival in early August, they were celebrated, with the UK Prime Minister Baldwin, Montreal City Hall. A public ceremony was held in front on the steps of the newly renovated City Hall with Mayor Médéric Martin, standing in the state in his robes of purple. 

My grandfather, Jules Crepeau, Town Manager and his eldest daughter, my Aunt Alice, watched from a perch on the steps above.

The royal princes would remain in Montreal only 36 hours, then travel across Canada, to return to the city on the St. Lawrence River at the end of the month for four days of rest and recreation before returning to England.

The setting of this piece, milk and water, takes advantage of this fact.

In 1927, the City of Montreal was at the height of his influence, a bustling industrial center and transport, although some Torontonians disparaged the city, arguing that although fortunately situated for business, it was corrupt until marrow, in French and "so hopeless."

In the 1920s, Americans were forbidden and many crime bosses would run north to control their empires from Montreal.

Montreal has been no ban, even if the sale of liquor was controlled by a Provincial Liquor Commission. Liquor licenses were distributed mainly in taverns and restaurants and hotels. 

According to the survey Coderre in police corruption, conducted in the city and 25 in 1924, there were approximately 1,000 establishments in Montreal serving liquor without a license drive, speakeasies and not in the traditional sense, but still active outside the law



The major change: my grandfather's been demoted to Town Manager.

Let's try something else:

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them: to die, to sleep
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to Dream; Ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time,
The Oppressor's wrong, the proud man's Contumely, [F:poor]
The pangs of despised Love, the Law’s delay, [F:disprized]
The insolence of Office, and the Spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would Fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveller returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all,
And thus the Native hue of Resolution
Is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of Thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment, [F:pith]
With this regard their Currents turn awry, [F:away]
And lose the name of Action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia? Nymph, in thy Orisons
Be all my sins remembered.[2]

Pour être, ou ne pas être, telle est la question:  Que ce soit 'tis plus noble dans l'esprit de souffrir  Les Slings and Arrows de la fortune outrageante,  Ou de prendre les armes contre une mer de troubles,  Et en s'opposant à leur fin: à mourir, dormir  Plus Non, et par un sommeil, nous nous retrouvons à-dire  Le cœur d'estomac, et les mille chocs naturels  Cette chair est l'héritière d'? «C'est là un  Dévotement à souhaiter. Pour mourir pour dormir,  Pour dormir, rêver peut-être; Ay, il n'y a que le bât blesse,  Car, dans ce sommeil de la mort, quels rêves peuvent venir,  Quand nous sommes débarrassés de This Mortal Coil,  Doit nous faire réfléchir. Il ya le respect  Cela rend la vie Calamity si longtemps:  Pour qui voudrait supporter les flagellations et les dédains du temps,  Mauvais de l'oppresseur, l'homme fier de mépris, [F: les pauvres]  Les affres de l'amour méprisé, le retard de la loi, [F: disprized]  L'insolence de l'Office, et la repousse  Que le mérite patient de l'indignes,  Quand il se pourrait faire ses Quietus  Avec un simple poinçon? Qui voudrait porter ces fardeaux,  Pour grogner et suer sous une vie accablante,  Mais que la crainte de quelque chose après la mort,  Le pays inconnu, dont la frontière  Aucun retour de voyageurs, casse-tête de la volonté,  Et nous fait plutôt supporter les maux que nous avons,  Que de fuir à d'autres que nous ne connaissons pas.  Ainsi la conscience fait de nous tous des lâches,  Et ainsi les couleurs natives de la résolution  Est-sicklied o'er, avec l'ombre pâle de la pensée,  Et les entreprises de grande hauteur et le moment, [F: la moelle]  Avec cet égard détournent de leur cours de travers, [F: loin]  Et perdent le nom d'action. Doucement, maintenant,  La belle Ophélie? Nymphe, dans tes Grisons  Soyez tous mes péchés rappeler. [2]

To be or not be, that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The Slings and Arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of ​​troubles, And by s' opposing end them: to die, to sleep No more, and by a sleep, we are left to say the heart, stomach and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to? "This is devoutly to be wished. To die to sleep To sleep, perchance to dream; Ay, there's the rub, For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we got rid of This Mortal Coil, Must we pause. There's the respect That makes Calamity so long life: For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, Wrong of the oppressor, the proud man with contempt, [F: poor] The pangs of despised love the delay of the law, [F: disprized] the insolence of office, and regrowth That patient merit of the unworthy, When he could make his Quietus With a bare bodkin? Who would bear these burdens, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered country, whose border No return of travelers, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear the ills we have, Than fly to others that we do not know. Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er-, with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pitch and moment, [F: marrow] with this regard their currents turn awry, [F: far] And lose the name of action. Gently, now, The fair Ophelia? Nymph, in thy Graubünden Be all my sins remembered. [2]


OK. Something else



Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.
For Lucy had her work cut out for her. The doors would be taken off their hinges; Rumpelmayer's men were coming. And then, thought Clarissa Dalloway, what a morning--fresh as if issued to children on a beach.
What a lark! What a plunge! For so it had always seemed to her, when, with a little squeak of the hinges, which she could hear now, she had burst open the French windows and plunged at Bourton into the open air. How fresh, how calm, stiller than this of course, the air was in the early morning; like the flap of a wave; the kiss of a wave; chill and sharp and yet (for a girl of eighteen as she then was) solemn, feeling as she did, standing there at the open window, that something awful was about to happen; looking at the flowers, at the trees with the smoke winding off them and the rooks rising, falling; standing and looking until Peter Walsh said, "Musing among the vegetables?"--was that it?--"I prefer men to cauliflowers"--was that it? He must have said it at breakfast one morning when she had gone out on to the terrace--Peter Walsh. He would be back from India one of these days, June or July, she forgot which, for his letters were awfully dull; it was his sayings one remembered; his eyes, his pocket-knife, his smile, his grumpiness and, when millions of things had utterly vanished--how strange it was!--a few sayings like this about cabbages.
She stiffened a little on the kerb, waiting for Durtnall's van to pass. A charming woman, Scrope Purvis thought her (knowing her as one does know people who live next door to one in Westminster); a touch of the bird about her, of the jay, blue-green, light, vivacious, though she was over fifty, and grown very white since her illness. There she perched, never seeing him, waiting to cross, very upright.
For having lived in Westminster--how many years now? over twenty,--one feels even in the midst of the traffic, or waking at night, Clarissa was positive, a particular hush, or solemnity; an indescribable pause; a suspense (but that might be her heart, affected, they said, by influenza) before Big Ben strikes. There! Out it boomed. First a warning, musical; then the hour, irrevocable. The leaden circles dissolved in the air. Such fools we are, she thought, crossing Victoria Street. For Heaven only knows why one loves it so, how one sees it so, making it up, building it round one, tumbling it, creating it every moment afresh; but the veriest frumps, the most dejected of miseries sitting on doorsteps (drink their downfall) do the same; can't be dealt with, she felt positive, by Acts of Parliament for that very reason: they love life. In people's eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.

Mrs Dalloway dit qu'elle achèterait les fleurs elle-même.Pour Lucy avait du pain sur la planche. Les portes seraient prises hors de leurs gonds, les hommes ont été Rumpelmayer à venir. Et puis, pensait Clarissa Dalloway, ce matin - frais comme s'ils étaient délivrés aux enfants sur une plage.Qu'est-ce une alouette! Qu'est-ce un plongeon! Pour de sorte qu'il avait toujours semblé à elle, quand, avec un petit cri des charnières, où elle pouvait entendre maintenant, elle avait éclaté ouvert la fenêtres à la française et a plongé à Bourton à l'air libre. Quelle fraîcheur, le calme, plus tranquille que cela, bien sûr, l'air était tôt le matin; comme le rabat d'une vague, le baiser d'une vague; froid et forte, et pourtant (pour une fille de dix-huit, comme elle était alors) solennel , se sentant comme elle l'a fait, debout à la fenêtre ouverte, que quelque chose de terrible allait arriver; regardant les fleurs, les arbres avec la fumée d'enroulement hors eux et les corneilles hausse, en baisse; debout et en regardant jusqu'à ce que Peter Walsh a déclaré, "Rêvant parmi les légumes?" - était qu'il -? "Je préfère les hommes aux choux-fleurs" - qu'il a été? Il doit l'ai dit au petit déjeuner, un matin, quand elle avait sorti sur la terrasse - Peter Walsh. Il serait de retour de l'Inde un de ces jours, Juin ou Juillet, elle a oublié qui, pour ses lettres étaient terriblement ennuyeux, c'était ses paroles se souvenait; ses yeux, son couteau de poche, son sourire, sa mauvaise humeur et, quand des millions des choses tout à fait disparu avait - combien il était étrange - quelques adages de ce genre sur les choux.Elle se raidit un peu sur le bord du trottoir, attendant van Durtnall à passer. Une femme charmante, Scrope Purvis pensait que son (sa sachant que l'on ne connais des gens qui vivent à côté de celui de Westminster), une touche de l'oiseau à son sujet, du geai, bleu-vert, la lumière, de la vivacité, si elle était plus cinquante ans, et connu une croissance très blanche depuis sa maladie. Là, elle perché, ne l'ai jamais vu, dans l'attente de traverser, très droite.Pour avoir vécu à Westminster - combien d'années maintenant? plus de vingt, - on se sent même dans le milieu de la circulation, ou se réveiller la nuit, Clarissa a été positive, un silence particulier, ou la solennité; une pause indescriptible; un suspense (mais qui pourrait être son cœur, affecté, disaient-ils, par la grippe) avant les grèves Big Ben. Il! Sur ce explosé. D'abord un avertissement, musicale, puis l'heure, irrévocable. Les cercles de plomb dissous dans l'air. Ces imbéciles que nous sommes, pensait-elle, traversant la rue Victoria. Pour Dieu seul sait pourquoi on l'aime tellement, comment on le voit, elle l'invente, la construction elle le premier tour, il culbute, créant à chaque nouveau moment, mais le plus parfait, le plus frumps abattus de misères assis sur les seuils (boire leur chute) faire la même chose; ne peut pas être traitée, elle se sentait positive, par les lois du Parlement pour cette raison même: ils aiment la vie. Dans les yeux des gens, dans le swing, tramp et crapahuter; dans le soufflet et le tumulte, les voitures, les véhicules automobiles, autobus, fourgonnettes, les hommes sandwichs traînants et de se balancer; fanfares; orgues de Barbarie; dans le triomphe et le jingle et la étrange chant élevé de certains frais généraux avion était ce qu'elle aimait, la vie, à Londres; ce moment de Juin.

And back again:

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself même.Pour Lucy had the cut out. The doors would be taken off their hinges, the men were coming Rumpelmayer. And then, thought Clarissa Dalloway, this morning - fresh as if issued to children on a plage.

Qu 'is it a lark! What a dive! For so it had always seemed to her, when, with a little cry of hinges, where she could hear now, she had burst open the French windows and plunged at Bourton in the open air. What a cool, calm, calmer than that, of course, the air was early morning, as the flap of a wave, the kiss of a wave, cold and strong, and yet (for a girl of ten- eight, as she then was) solemn, feeling as she did, standing at the open window, that something terrible would happen, looking at the flowers, trees with the smoke winding off them and the rooks rising , down, standing and looking until Peter Walsh said, "Dreaming among the vegetables?" - Was that -? "I prefer men to cauliflowers" - was it? 

He must have said at breakfast one morning when she was out on the terrace - Peter Walsh. He would be back from India one of these days, June or July, she forgot which, for his letters were awfully dull, it was remembered his words, his eyes, his pocket knife, his smile, his bad mood and, when millions of things had entirely disappeared - how strange it was - a few sayings like this on the choux.

Elle stiffened a little on the curb, waiting van Durtnall to pass. A charming woman, Scrope Purvis thought her (knowing her as one does know people who live next to that of Westminster), a touch of the bird about her, the jay, blue-green light, liveliness, if it was fifty years, and grown very white since her illness. There she perched, never have seen, waiting to cross, very droite.Pour having lived in Westminster - how many years now? over twenty, - one feels even in the middle of traffic, or waking at night, Clarissa was positive, a special silence, or solemnity; indescribable pause; a suspense (but that could be her heart, affected , they said, by influenza) before Big Ben strikes. It! 

On that exploded. First a warning, musical, and then the hour, irrevocable. The circles of dissolved lead in the air. These fools that we are, she thought, crossing Victoria Street. For God only knows why we love her so much, how we see, she invents, construction it the first round, it tumbles, creating each new moment, but the most perfect, most frumps slaughtered miseries sitting on thresholds (drink their downfall) do the same thing can not be treated, she felt positive, by Acts of Parliament for that very reason: they love life. In people's eyes, the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellows and the tumult, cars, automobiles, buses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; bands; barrel organs, in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some airplane overhead was what she loved life in London, this time in June