Below are some of our articles. Click the title and you will be led to the relevant page. (Di bawah ini adalah beberapa artikel kami dan rekan-rekan kami. Klik judulnya dan Anda akan dipandu menuju halaman yang Anda inginkan.)
Have a nice reading – Selamat membaca
Translation and Localization (Sugeng)
This is a short account on the relation between translation and localization. Basing the discussion on the opinions of the authorities in Translation Studies, Sugeng asserts that to avoid confusing, “localization” should be seen as a process not as a product.
Steps in Translating Poetry (Sugeng)
In this article Sugeng discusses general steps in translating poetry.
Terjemahan Jabberwocky: Dari Kosong Menjadi Kosong (Wawan)
Artikel ini mengulas bagaimana seorang ahli linguistik (Effendi Kadarisman) berupaya menerjemahkan puisi yang sebenarnya tanpa makna jika ditelisik melalui teropong semantik yang seperti biasanya.
Some Reactions to Points Made in “An Evaluation of the English Translation of an Indonesian Novel” by Sugeng Hariyanto (1997) (written by Thomas M. Hunter)
It may be interesting to know that I had not specifically studied translation theory before 1989, when I began translating Burung-Burung Manyar. However, I had attained a Ph.D. in Linguistics at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor and was strongly influenced by the works of my “Promoter” Dr. A. L. Becker. ….
The implication of Culture on Translation Theory (Sugeng Hariyanto)
This article discusses the implication of culture on translation theory, especially how the translation strategy employed to handle culturally bound words and expressions. …
Definition and Kinds of Translation (Sugeng Hariyanto)
According to Brislin (1976: 1) translation is a general term referring to the transfer of thoughts and ideas from one language to another, whether the language is in written or oral form, whether the languages have established orthographies or not; or whether one or both languages is based on signs, as with signs of the deaf. …
Have a nice reading :-)
Sugeng
Abd.Faqih Syafi’e
NPM: 2091040042
Hello,
Below I try to translate the first chapter of Segal’s Love Story into Indonesian as my exercise for your Translation class. Would you please give me your comment.
The original chpater is below the translation. Thanks.
TRANSLATION:
Apa yang bisa kamu katakan tentang seorang gadis umur dua puluh lima tahun yang meninggal?
Dia cantik dan pintar. Dia suka Mozart, Bach, Beatles dan aku. Pernah, ketika dia dengan spesifik mengkelompokkanku dengan jenis musik itu, aku tanya ke dia apa alasanya itu, dan dia menjawab sambil tersenyum, “ikut urutan Alphabet aja”. Aku sih senyum aja. Tapi kini aku duduk sambil mikir kenapa dia memasukkan nama awalanku membuntuti Mozart atau nama keduaku ada diantara Bach dan Beatles. Apa pun itu, yang jelas aku tidak duluan lah, dengan beberapa alasan yang menggangguku, yakni tumbuh dewasa dengan pikiran dan cita-cita untuk selalu menjadi yang nomer satu. Sudah tahu kan? Biasa warisan keluarga.
Setelah semester empat, aku punya kebiasaan baca-baca di perpustakaan Radcliffe. Tidak sekedar melihat cewek-cewek saja, walaupun aku harus akui bahwa aku suka melihat-lihat. Tempatnya sangat sepi, gak ada yang tahu aku, dan bukunya sedikit. Satu hari sebelum ujian sejarahku, aku masih belum tertarik untuk membaca bacaan wajib Harvard yang kayak penyakit endemik itu. Aku berjalan santai kayak pengantin melewati meja untuk mengambil satu buku besar dan berat yang bakalan mengeluarkanku dari kesulitan ini. Ada dua cewek yang kerja disana. Satu bertubuh besar dan satunya lagi pakai kacamata. Aku lebih milih yang pakai kacamata. “Kamu punya gak buku The Waning of the Middle Ages?” Tanyaku. Dia melihat sekilas ke aku. “Emangnya kamu punya perpustakaan pribadi?” Tanya dia. “Dengar ya, Harvard itu udah ngidzinin kok.” “ Aku gak ngomongin legalitas kok, Preppie, etikamu loh. “Aku tahu kok kamu itu punya lima jutaan buku. Kita sih punya ribuaan aja”. Hebat, Christ.! Seperti apa yang kamu kira Radcliffe dan Harvard itu bandinganya lima dengan satu, cewek itu harus lima kali lipat pintarnya dari cowok. Aku sih biasanya tidak butuh buku itu, tapi entah kenapa aku butuh buku jelek itu sekarang. “Dengar ya, aku butuh buku jelek itu kok.” “Bisa kan kamu jaga kata-katamu, Preppie?” ”Apa sih yang bikin kamu kalau aku itu harus siap-siap sekolah?” “kamu itu bodoh dan kaya,” kata dia, sambil melepaskan kaca matanya. “Kamu salah,” protesku. “Aku itu sebenarnya pintar dan kaya kok”. “Oh, tidak, Preppie. Aku itu yang pintar dan miskin. Dia melihat lurus ke aku. Mata nya cokelat. Oke, mungkin aku kelihatan kaya, tapi aku tidak akan membiarkan orang-orang sini mengatain aku bodoh.”Emangnya apa sih yang bikin kamu itu pintar?”Tanyaku.
“Aku mau minum kopi sama kamu,” jawab dia.”Aku gak ngajak kok.”jawabku.
“Itulah,”jawab dia,” yang bikin kamu bodoh.”
Aku akan menjelaskan kenapa aku mengajak dia minum kopi. Dengan pintar, dia menyerah pada situasi yang genting yakni, dengan pura-pura butuh buku lah. Dan karena dia tidak dapat pergi kemana sampai perpustakaan tutup, aku punya banyak waktu untuk menikmati beberapa kalimat-kalimat kritis tentang pergeseran kepercayaan raja dari pendeta ke pengacara menjelang abad ke 18. Aku dapat nilai A minus, sama dengan nilai tugasku pada jenny ketika dia pertama kali berjalan dari belakang meja itu. Aku tidak bisa berkata, aku salut atas cara berpakaiannya dia. Tapi itu bagiku adalah kampungan banget. Terutama aku, tidak suka aksesoris Indian yang dia bawa selalu di tas tanganya. Untungnya aku tak sebut itu, seperti yang aku tahu ternyata aksesoris itu adalah rancangannya dia.
Kita pergi ke Midget restoran, dekat sandwich joint, meskipun begitu jangan salah, ini tidak terbatas pada orang-orang kecil saja. Aku pesan dua kopi dan satu brownis dengan es krim buat dia.
”aku Jennifer Cavilleri,” kata dia, “orang Amerika keturunan Itali.”
Seolah-olah saya belum mengetahuinya. “dan mengambil jurusan musik. Dia menambahkan. “nama saya adalah Oliver” kataku.
“Nama depan atau belakang?” dia bertanya
“Nama depan.” Jawabku. Dan kemudian aku mengakui bahwa nama lengkapku adalah Oliver Barrett. (maksudku itu adalah sebagian besar namaku)
“oh” katanya. “Barrett, kok mirip puisi ya?”
“ya.” Kataku. “tapi tidak ada hubungannya.”
Pada saat jeda yang terjadi, dalam hati aku berterima kasih bahwa dia tidak menanyakan dengan pertanyaan yang menyusahkan seperti biasanya: “Barrett, kok seperti nama aula?” karena itu adalah nama keluarga istimewaku yang berhubungan langsung dengan orang yang membangun aula Barrett, bangunan yang paling luas dan paling jelek di halaman Harvard, sebuah monumen kolosal dari uang keluarga, kesombongan dan kefanatikan Harvard yang mencolok. Setelah itu dia diam. Bisa kah kita menghabiskan obrolan ini dengan cepat?. Haruskah aku memperalihkan obrolan dari masalah yang puisi? Apa?dia dengan santai duduk disana, sambil tersenyum ke aku. Untuk melakukan sesuatu, aku lihat catatanya. Tulisannya aneh, kecil tanpa huruf kapital (mungkin dia mau seperti e. e. cummings). Dan dia mengambil beberapa kursusan di musim dingin: comp. Sastra. 105, Musik 150, Musik 201.
“musik 201? Bukan kah itu kursusan?
Dia mengangguk, dan dia lugu.
“Renaissance polyphony.”
“Apa itu?”
“Bukan seks kok, Preppie.”
Kenapa aku bisa tahan dengan semua ini ya? Apakah dia membaca the Crimson ya? Apakah dia tahu aku ya?
“Hai, kamu tahu aku kan?
“Ya,” dia menjawab sinis. “kamu kan yang punya Aula Barrett.”
Dia tidak tahu siapa saya.
“Aku gak punya Aula Barrett,” aku berdalih. “Moyangku yang bangun itu.”
“Jadi bukan cicitnya yang punya itu!”
Itulah batasnya.
“Jenny, kalau kamu percaya aku pecundang, kenapa kamu memaksaku beli kopi?”
“Aku suka tubuhmu,” kata dia.
Untuk menjadi seorang pemenang besar adalah harus punya kemampuan untuk menjadi seorang pecundang yang baik.
Tidak ada paradok di dalamnya. Ini adalah semboyan Harvard untuk merubah kekalahan menjadi kemenangan.
“Sial, Barrett. Kamu selalu bertindak sesuai dengan peraturan.”
“Benar, aku sangat senang temanmu mengambil itu. Maksudku orang-orangmu menang dengan jelek.”
Memang, kemenangan sempurna itu lebih baik. Maksudku, jika kamu punya pilihan, skor menit terakhir itu lebih disukai. Dan seperti ketika aku mengantarkan Jenny balik ke asramanya, ak tidak hilang harapan untuk kemenangan yang paling gemilang diantara wanita Radcliffe yang sombong.
“Dengar, wanita Radcliffe yang sombong, malam Jum’at adalah permainan hockey Darmouth.”
“Jadi?”
”Jadi maunya aku kamu datang.”
Dia menjawab dengan gaya respek Radcliffe yang biasa pada olahraga:
“Kenapa sih aku harus datang?”
Aku menjawab dengan santai:
“Karena aku main.”
Kemudian diam sebentar. Aku dengar salju turun.
”Aku dukung mana nih?” tanya dia.
SOURCE TEXT:
What can you say a twenty-five-year-old girl who died?
That she was beautiful. And brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach. And the Beatles. And me. Once, when she specifically lumped me with those musical types, I asked her what the order was, and she replied, smiling, “Alphabetical.” At the time I smiled too. But now I sit and wonder whether she was listing me by my first name- in which case I would trail Mozart- or by my last name, in which case I would edge in there between Bach and the Beatles. Either way I don’t come first, which for stupid reason bothers hell out of me, having grown up with the notion that I always had to be number one. Family heritage, don’t you know?
In the fall of my senior year, I got into the habit of studying at the Radcliffe library. Not just to eye the cheese, although I admit that I liked to look. The place was quiet, nobody knew me, and the reserve books were less in demand. The day before one of my history hour exams, I still hadn’t gotten around to reading the first book on the list, an endemic Harvard disease. I ambled over to the reserve desk to get one of the tomes that would bail me out on the morrow. There were two girls working there. One a tall tennis-anyone type, the other a bespectacled mouse type. I opted for Minnie Four-Eyes.
“Do you have The Waning of the Middle Ages?”
She shot a glance up at me.
”Do you have your own library?” she asked.
“Listen, Harvard is allowed to use the Radcliffe library.”
“I’m not talking legality, Preppie, I’m talking ethics. You guys have five million books. We have a few lousy thousand.”
Christ, a superior-being type! The kind who think since the ratio of Radcliffe to Harvard is five to one, the girls must be five times as smart. I normally cut these types to ribbons, but just then I badly needed that goddamn book.
“Listen, I need that goddamn book.”
“wouldja please watch your profanity, Preppie?”
“What makes you sure I went to prep school?”
“You look stupid and rich,” she said, removing her glasses.
“You’re wrong,” I protested. “I’m actually smart and poor.”
“Oh, no, Preppie. I’m smart and poor.”
She was string straight at me. Her eyes were brown. Okay, maybe I look rich, but I wouldn’t let some `Cliffe- even one with pretty eyes- call me dumb.
“What the hell makes you so smart?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t go for coffe with you,” she answered.
“Listen- I wouldn’t ask you.”
“That, she replied, “is what makes you stupid.”
Let me explain why I took her for coffee. By shrewdly capitulating at the crucial moment-i.e, by pretending that I suddenly wanted to- I got my book. And since she couldn’t leave until the library closed, I had plenty of time to absorb some pithy phrases about the shift of royal dependence from cleric to lawyer in the eleventh century. I got an A minus on the exams, coincidentally the same grade I assigned to Jenny’s legs when she first walked from behind that desk. I can’t say I gave her costume an honor grade, however; it was a bit too Boho for my taste. I especially loathed that Indian thing she carried for handbag. Fortunately I didn’t mention this, as I later discovered it was of her own design.
We went to the Midget Restaurant, a nearby sandwich joint which, despite its name, is not restricted to people of small stature. I ordered two coffees and a brownie with ice cream (for her)
“I’m Jennifer Cavilleri,” she said, “an American of Italian descent.”
As if I wouldn’t have known. “And a music major,”
She added.
“My name is Oliver,” I said.
“First or last?” she asked.
“First,” I answered, and the confessed that my entire name was Oliver Barrett. (I mean that’s most of it.)
“Oh,” she said. “Barrett, like the poet?”
“Yes,” I said. “No relation.”
In the pause that ensued, I gave inward thanks that she hadn’t come up with the usual distressing question:
“Barrett, like the hall?” For it is my special albatross to be related to the guy that built Barrett Hall, the largest and ugliest structure in Harvard Yard, a colossal monument to my family’s money, vanity and flagrant Harvadism.
After that, she was pretty quiet. Could we have run out of conversation so quickly? Had I turned her off by not being related to the poet? What? She simply sat there, semi-smiling at me. For something to do, I checked out her notebooks. Her handwriting was curious – small sharp little with no capitals (who did she think she was, e. e. cummings?). And she was taking some pretty snowy courses: Comp. Lit. 105, Music 150, Music 201-
“Music 201? Isn’t that a gradute course?”
She nodded yes, and was not very good at masking her pride.
“Renaissance polyphony.”
“What’s polyphony?”
“Nothing sexual, Preppie.”
Why was I putting up with this? Doesn’t she read the Crimson? Doesn’t she know who I am?”
“Hey, don’t you know who I am?”
“Yeah,” she answered with kind of disdain. “You’re the guy that owns Barrett Hall.”
She didn’t know who I was.
“I don’t own Barrett Hall,” I quibbled. “My great-father happened to give it to Harvard.”
“So his not-so-great grandson would be sure to get in!”
That was the limit.
“Jenny, if you’re so convinced I’m a loser, why did you bulldoze me into buying you coffee?”
She looked me straight in the eye and smiled.
“I like your body,” she said.
Part of being a big winner is the ability to be a good loser.
There’s no paradox involved. It’s a distinctly Harvard thing to be to turn any defeat into victory.
“Tough luck, Barrett. You played a helluva game.”
“Really, I’m so glad you fellows took it. I mean, you people need to win so badly”
Of course, an out-and-out triumph is better. I mean, if you have the option, the last-minute score is preferable. And as I walked Jenny back to her dorm, I had not despaired of ultimate victory over this snotty Radcliffe bitch.
“Listen, you snotty Radcliffe bitch, Friday night is the Dartmouth hockey game.”
“So?”
“So I’d like you to come.”
She replied with the usual Radcliffe reverence for sport:
“Why the hell should I come to a lousy hockey game?”
I answered casually:
“Because I’m playing.”
There was a brief silence. I think I heard snow falling.
“For which side?” she asked.
…