Breve Resumo Os comportamentos que indicam que o balde est vazio so: o baixo nvel de produo, dificuldade de relacionamento, pouca iniciativa e linguagem corporal. Breve Resumo Existem mtodos para tapar os furos em um balde como: desenvolver maturidade emocional, dar feedback de qualidade, elogiar e reconhecer, comemorar realizaes e delegar o poder de tomar decises.
Lembrando que a qualidade dos remendos feitos nos furos depende da qualidade do feedback dado. Breve Resumo Os 4 passos do Feedback positivo: -Descreva um comportamento especfico.
Breve Resumo Os 5 passos do Feedback corretivo para corrigir um comportamento: -Tente dar feedback positivo antes de qualquer coisa. Breve Resumo Lembrando que feedback positivo, feedback corretivo e disciplina esto relacionados entre si. Se o feedback positivo no funcionar, passe para o feedback corretivo. Se tambm no funcionar, estabelea um limite com nvel adequado de disciplina. Principal lio do livro Utilizar a tcnica do feedback traz muitos benefcios para a vida de quem d e de quem recebe.
As mudanas so perceptveis, pessoas que antes no tinham seu baldes de feedback cheios diariamente e passaram a ter obtiveram melhoras tanto na rea profissional como na rea pessoal. O que ficar em minha lembrana Dar feedback um desafio, pois precisamos entender as pessoas e a maneira como elas reagem para aprimorar nossa capacidade de dar retorno.
E ser capaz de fazer uma leitura das outras pessoas no uma habilidade inata, mas algo que precisamos desenvolver. Frase retirada do livro Preciso Saber se estou indo bem! Minha opinio final A importncia do feedback s se tornou clara depois da leitura desse livro. Pois percebemos os benefcios que dar e receber um feedback, principalmente o positivo, traz para a vida de quem o recebe ou emite. Alm do que, as melhorias que o feedback pode causar pode salvar algumas situaes que antes estavam sem soluo.
Recomendamos a leitura para todos aqueles que querem fazer uma autoavaliao e que querem ter um melhor relacionamento com as pessoas com repeito, compreenso e confiana. Pular no carrossel. Anterior no carrossel. Enviado por fabaum. Johnson , Samuel Kotz , N. ISBN Your tags:. Send-to-Kindle or Email Please login to your account first Need help? Please read our short guide how to send a book to Kindle. The file will be sent to your email address. Check your mailbox for the verification email from Amazon Kindle.
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Good translations are good because they are faithful to this contextual significance. They are not necessarily faithful to words or syntax, which are peculiar to specific languages and can rarely be brought over directly in any misguided and inevitably muddled effort to somehow replicate the original. This is the literalist trap, because words do not mean in isolation. Words mean as indispensable parts of a contextual whole that includes the emotional tone and impact, the literary antecedents, the connotative nimbus as well as the denotations of each statement.
I believe—if I didn't, I could not do the work—that the meaning of a passage can almost always be rendered faithfully in a second language, but its words, taken as separate entities, can almost never be. Translators translate context. We use analogy to recreate significance, searching for the phrasing and style in the second language which mean in the same way and sound in the same way to the reader of that second language.
And this requires all our sensibility and as much sensitivity as we can summon to the workings and nuances of the language we translate into. To balance the clear presumption of my criticizing Nabokov's theories of translation, I would like to cite John Dryden. A translator that would write with any force or spirit of an original must never dwell on the words of his author.
He ought to possess himself entirely and perfectly comprehend the genius and sense of his author, the nature of the subject, and the terms of the art or subject treated of. And then he will express himself as justly, and with as much life, as if he wrote an original: whereas he who copies word for word loses all the spirit in the tedious transfusion. Rabassa's glorious response was that this was certainly the wrong question.
The real question, he said, was whether he knew enough English to do justice to that extraordinary book. I am not sure how the benighted interviewer replied: one hopes with stunned silence. According to Ben Belitt, the important American translator and poet, Jorge Luis Borges had some extremely personal and very eccentric ideas about how he should be translated into English, his grandmother's native language.
As cited in Wechsler's book, Belitt recounts:. If Borges had had his way—and he generally did—all polysyllables would have been replaced [in English translation] by monosyllables. People concerned about the legitimacy of the literal might well be scandalized by his mania for dehispanization.
Modify me. Make me stark. My language often embarrasses me. It's too youthful, too Latinate. I want the power of Cynewulf, Beowulf, Bede. Make me macho and gaucho and skinny. Borges also reportedly told his translator not to write what he said but what he meant to say. How can any translator ever accomplish what Borges requested?
Isn't that the province of gifted psychics or literary critics? Yes on both counts, but I'll address only the issue of the second group. By now it is a commonplace, at least in translating circles, to assert that the translator is the most penetrating reader and critic a work can have. The very nature of what we do requires that kind of deep involvement in the text.
Our efforts to translate both denotation and connotation, to transfer significance as well as context, means that we must engage in extensive textual excavation and bring to bear everything we know, feel, and intuit about the two languages and their literatures. Translating by analogy means we have to probe into layers of purpose and implication, weigh and consider each element within its literary milieu and stylistic environment, then make the great leap of faith into the inventive rewriting of both text and context in alien terms.
And this kind of close critical reading is sheer pleasure for shameless literature addicts like me, who believe that the sum of a fine piece of writing is more than its parts and larger than the individual words that constitute it.
I have spent much of my professional life, not to mention all those years in graduate school, committed to the dual proposition that in literature, as in other forms of artistic expression, something more lurks behind mere surface, and that my purpose and role in life was to try to discover and interpret it, even if the goal turned out to be utopian in the sense suggested by Ortega y Gasset.
I think this kind of longing to unravel esthetic mysteries lies at the heart of the study of literature. It surely is the essence of interpretation, of exegesis, of criticism, and of translation. Yet now I feel obliged to confess that I am still mystified by the process of dealing with the same text in two languages, and have searched in vain for a way to express the bewildering relationship between translation and original, a paradoxical connection that probably can be evoked only metaphorically.
The question that lurks in the corners of my mind as I work and revise and mutter curses at any fool who thinks the second version of a text is not an original, too, is this: what exactly am I writing when I write a translation? Is it an imitation, a reflection, a transposition, or something else entirely? In what language does the text really exist, and what is my connection to it?
I do not mean to suggest that a translation is created with no reference to an original—that it is not actually a version of another text—but it seems clear that a translated work does have an existence separate from and different from the first text, if only because it is written in another language.
I do not have a grand, revelatory solution to the puzzle, even though essays like this one make an attempt to resolve the conundrum, but I think authors must often ask themselves the same question that is so difficult to articulate, must often see themselves as transmitters rather than creators of texts.
And here I mean translation not as the weary journeyman of the publishing world but as a living bridge between two realms of discourse, two realms of experience, and two sets of readers. He states that children translate the unknown into a language that slowly becomes familiar to them, and that all of us are continually engaged in the translation of thoughts into language.
And this means, in an absolutely utopian sense, that the most human of phenomena— the acquisition and use of language—is, according to Paz, actually an ongoing, endless process of translation; and by extension, the most creative use of language—that is, literature—is also a process of translation: not the transmutation of the text into another language but the transformation and concretization of the content of the writer's imagination into a literary artifact.
As many observers, including John Felstiner and Yves Bonnefoy, have suggested, the translator who struggles to re-create a writer's words in the words of a foreign language in fact continues the original struggle of the writer to transpose nonverbal realities into language.
In short, as they move from the workings of the imagination to the written word, authors engage in a process that is parallel to what translators do as we move from one language to another. If writing literature is a transfer or transcription of internal experience and imaginative states into the external world, then even when authors and readers speak the same language, writers are obliged to translate, to engage in the immense, utopian effort to transform the images and ideas flowing through their most intimate spaces into material, legible terms to which readers have access.
And if this is so, the doubts and paradoxical questions that pursue translators must also arise for authors: Is their text an inevitable betrayal of the imagination and the creative impulse? Is what they do even possible? Can the written work ever be a perfect fit with that imaginative, creative original when two different languages, two realms of experience, can only approximate each other?
To follow and expand on the terms of this analogy, a literary text can be thought of as written in what is called, clumsily enough, the translation language, or target language, even though it is presented to readers as if it were written in the original, or source language. They certainly occupied a vast amount of mental space when I agreed to take on the immense task of translating Don Quixote, but only after I had repeatedly asked the publisher whether he was certain he had called the right Grossman, because my work as a translator had been focused on contemporary Latin American writers, not giants of the Renaissance in Spain.
Much to my joy, he assured me that in fact I was the Grossman he wanted, and so my intimate, translatorial connection to the great novel began. But there was more: hovering over me were dark sui generis clouds of intense trepidation, vast areas of apprehension and disquiet peculiar to this project.
You can probably imagine what they were just think what it would mean to an English-Spanish translator to take on the work of Shakespeare , but I will try to clarify a few of them for you. There were the centuries of Cervantean scholarship, the specialized studies, the meticulous research, the untold numbers of books, monographs, articles, and scholarly editions devoted to this fiction-defining novel and its groundbreaking creator.
Was it my obligation to read and reread all of these publications before embarking on the translation? A lifetime would not be enough time to do this scholarly tradition justice, I was no longer a young woman, and I had a two-year contract with the publisher.
There were other translations into English—at least twenty, by someone's count—a few of them recent and others, like Tobias Smollett's eighteenth-century version, considered classics in their own right. Was it my professional duty to study all of them? Before I took on the project, I recalled having read Don Quixote at least ten times, as a student and as a teacher, but always in Spanish except for my first encounter with the novel, in Samuel Putnam's translation, when I was a teenager.
I had read no other translations since then. Was I willing to delay the work by years to give myself time to read each English-language version with care? To what end? Then there was the question of temporal distance, a chasm of four centuries separating me from Cervantes and the world in which he composed his extraordinary novel.
I had translated complex and difficult texts before, some of them exceptionally obscure and challenging, in fact, but they were all modern works by living writers. Would I be able to transfer my contemporary experience as a translator to the past and feel some measure of ease as I brought the Spanish of the seventeenth century over into the English of the twenty-first?
Would my efforts—my incursions into the sacrosanct—amount to blasphemy? What was I to do about the inevitable lexical difficulties and obscure passages? These occur in prodigious numbers in contemporary works and were bound to reach astronomical proportions in a work that is four hundred years old.
As I've said, normally when I translate I dig through countless dictionaries and other kinds of references—most recently Google—for the meaning of words I don't know, and then my usual practice is to talk with those kind, patient, and generous friends who are from the same country as the author, and preferably from the same region within the country. But Don Quixote clearly was a different matter: none of my friends came from the Spain of the early seventeenth century, and short of channeling, I had no way to consult with Cervantes.
I was, I told myself in a tremulous voice, fervently wishing it were otherwise, completely on my own. Riquer's editorial comments shed light on countless historical, geographical, literary, and mythical references, which I think tend to be more obscure for a modern reader than individual lexical items.
Throughout his edition, Riquer takes on particularly problematic words by comparing their renderings in the earliest translations of Don Quixote into English, French, and Italian, and I have always found this— one language helping to explicate another—especially illuminating. The second piece of invaluable assistance came from an old friend, the Mexican writer Homero Aridjis, who sent me a photocopy of a dictionary he had found in Holland when he was a diplomat there: a seventeenth-century Spanish- English dictionary first published by a certain gentleman named Percivale, then enlarged by a professor of languages named Minsheu, and printed in London in I do not mean to suggest that there were no excruciatingly obscure or archaic phrases in Don Quixote—it has a lifetime supply of those—but despite all the difficulties I was fascinated to realize how constant and steady Spanish has remained over the centuries as compared with English, for example , which meant that I could often use contemporary wordbooks to help shed light on a seventeenth-century text.
I wondered, too, if the novel would open to me as contemporary works sometimes do, and permit me to immerse myself in the intricacies of its language and intention. On occasion, at a certain point in the translation of a book, I have been lucky enough to hit the sweet spot, when I can begin to imagine that the author and I have started to speak together—never in unison, certainly, but in a kind of satisfying harmony.
In those instances it seems as if I can hear the author's voice in my mind speaking in Spanish at the same time that I manage to find a way to speak the work in English. The experience is exhilarating, symbiotic, certainly metaphorical, and absolutely crucial if I am to do what I am supposed to do— somehow get into the author's head and behind the author's eyes and re-create in English the writer's linguistic perceptions of the world.
And here I must repeat Ralph Manheim's observation comparing the translator to an actor who speaks as the author would if the author could speak English. A difficult role, and arduous enough with contemporary writers. What would happen to my performance when I began to interpret the work of an author who wrote in the seventeenth century—and not just an ordinary author but the remarkable man who is one of a handful of splendid writers who have determined the course of literature in the Western tradition?
Despite all my years of study, I am not a Golden Age specialist: would I be able to play the Cervantean part and speak those memorable lines, or would the entire quixotic enterprise close down on its first night out of town, before it ever got to Broadway?
These were some of the fears that plagued me as I prepared to take on the project, but the prospect was not entirely bleak, dire, and menacing, of course. The idea of working on Don Quixote was one of the most exciting things that had happened to me as a translator.
It was a privilege, an honor, and a glorious opportunity—thrilling, overwhelming, and terrifying. Another major consideration was the question of which edition of Don Quixote to use for the translation.
Based on the first printing of the book, it includes all the oversights, lapses, and slips in Part One that Cervantes subsequently tried to correct, and to which he refers in Part Two, published ten years later. I have always loved the errors in the first printing and been charmed by the companionable feeling toward Cervantes that they create in me. Someone—one of the book's translators, I think—called Don Quixote the most careless masterwork ever written, and I thought it would be a shame if my translation lost or smoothed over or scholarshiped away that enthusiastic, ebullient quality, what I think of as the creative surge that allowed Cervantes to make those all-too-human mistakes and still write his crucially important and utterly original book.
I am not suggesting, by the way, that Cervantes was a primitive savant or a man not fully conscious of the ramifications and implications of his art. He was, however, harried, financially hard-pressed, and overworked. Conventional wisdom informs us that even Homer nodded, and as every writer knows, in the urgency of getting a book into print, the strangest mistakes appear in the oddest places.
And yet, despite my lack of academic intention, pretension, and purpose, for the first time in my translating career I chose to use footnotes, many of them based on the notes in Riquer's edition, and the others the result of my seemingly endless perusals of encyclopedias, dictionaries, and histories.
These notes, which I wanted to be as unobtrusive and helpful as possible, were not meant as records or proofs of scholarly research but as clarifications for the reader of possibly obscure references and allusions—the kinds of clarifications made necessary in a contemporary version of the novel by external factors such as the passage of time, changes in education, transformations in the reading public, and the cultural differences between the United States in the twenty-first century and Spain in the seventeenth.
There was no reason I could think of for an intelligent modern reader to be put off by difficulties in the text that were not intended by the author. For instance, the ballads or romances cited so frequently in Don Quixote by the characters and by Cervantes himself in the guise of the narrator were common knowledge at the time, familiar to everyone in Spain, including the illiterate.
For a modern reader, however, especially one who reads the book in translation or is not conversant with the rich Spanish ballad tradition, the romances are unfamiliar, perhaps exotic, even though they are utterly unproblematic in the intention and structure of the novel. The same is true of allusions to figures and events from the history of Spain—not obscure in and of themselves, but probably not known to most modern readers of Don Quixote, regardless of the language in which they read it.
For instance, in the course of the novel, Cervantes mentions well- known underworld haunts, famous battle sites and fortresses in North Africa and Europe, popular authors and major military figures of the sixteenth century. These were the kinds of references that I did my best to explain in the notes.
Cervantistas have always loved to disagree and argue, often with venom and vehemence, but I concluded that my primary task was not to become involved in academic disputation or to take sides in any scholarly polemic but to create a translation that could be read with pleasure by as many people as possible.
I wanted English-language readers to savor its humor, its melancholy, its originality, its intellectual and esthetic complexity; I wanted them to know why the entire world thinks this is a great masterwork by an incomparable novelist. In the end, my primary consideration was this: Don Quixote is not essentially a puzzle for academics, a repository of Renaissance usage, a historical monument, or a text for the classroom. It is a work of literature, and my concern as a literary translator was to create a piece of writing in English that perhaps could be called literature too.
Even so, I hope you find it deeply amusing and truly compelling. If not, you can be certain the fault is mine. Bring over a poem's ideas and images, and you will lose its manner; imitate prosodic effects, and you sacrifice its matter.
Get the letter and you miss the spirit, which is everything in poetry; or get the spirit and you miss the letter, which is everything in poetry. But these are false dilemmas.
Verse translation at its best generates a wholly new utterance in the second language—new, yet equivalent, of equal value. John Felstiner knows more than most about the translation of difficult verse. He not only has translated the poetry of Pablo Neruda and Paul Celan but has written incisively and compellingly, in two brilliant books—Translating Neruda: The Way to Macchu Picchu, and Paul Celan: Poet, Survivor, Jew—about the process of bringing the work of those poets over into English.
Felstiner consistently affirms the intrinsic, independent significance of the successful poetic translation, calling it a literary artifact as noteworthy and estimable as the original piece of writing. The attribution of extreme value to the translation is a concept that has brought me extraordinary aid and comfort at those times when I have been engaged in the overwhelmingly difficult and exceptionally rewarding act of rendering Spanish-language verse in English. I have always derived immense pleasure from the translation of poetry.
My first forays into the work when I was a student at the University of Pennsylvania were well-intended, somewhat pious efforts to transform Spanish poems into English ones for the campus literary magazine.
And yet, in spite of that youthful enthusiasm, the main focus of my activity in translation has been prose fiction. What I learned in the early days of my career may help to explain why I did not follow my poetic bliss.
When I was starting out as a translator, in the s, the generally accepted rate in New York for the translation of poetry was fifty cents a line. This meant that if you devoted serious, sometimes excruciating amounts of effort, time, and emotional energy to the translation of a sonnet into English, your total fee was seven dollars.
No matter how abstemious your needs and wants, no matter how circumspect your financial ambitions, it was clearly impossible to earn even a modest living as a translator of poetry unless you were willing to take an irrevocable vow of poverty the rates for translating fiction were not much better, but most of the time it was possible to complete a page of prose in about the same time it took to revise and rework a line of poetry—it was, in other words, a more cost-effective enterprise.
No wonder the siren song of prose grew louder, sweeter, and increasingly irresistible as I devoted more and more time to translating, until it finally became my full-time occupation some twenty years ago. But over the years I have been fascinated to discover that the translation of artful prose and the translation of poetry are comparable in several significant ways. And they both present analogous challenges to the translator's literary sensibilities and our capacity for entering a text as deeply as possible.
The specific experience of translating poetry, with its obligatory attentiveness to the most minute compositional details—linguistic nuance, rhythm, and sound in two languages— enhances immeasurably the approach to the translation of prose, an artistic idiom that has its own nuances, rhythms, and sounds, all of which need to be transferred, their esthetic integrity intact, into a second language.
In spite of these undeniable intergenre connections, I do not believe anyone could, or would even want to, dispute the notion that poetry is the most intense, most highly charged, most artful and complex form of language we have.
In many ways it is the essential literary expression of our species, long associated with the distant origins of music, dance, and religious ritual in early human cultures. And yet, although it may be universally human, the inescapable truth is that poetry can seem completely localized, thoroughly contextualized, and absolutely inseparable from the language in which it is written in ways that prose is not.
The textures of a language, its musicality, its own specific tradition of forms and meters and imagery, the intrinsic modalities and characteristic linguistic structures that make it possible to express certain concepts, emotions, and responses in a specific manner but not in another—all of these inhere so profoundly in a poem that its translation into another language appears to be an act of rash bravado verging on the foolhardy. Still, we who make that injudicious attempt are the heirs to a long tradition of verse translation.
It is almost impossible to imagine what the course of Western poetry would have been without these and many similar cultural and linguistic convergences of poetic form and sensibility.
We are much more imagedriven as a result. Neruda is the great image-maker. The greatest colorist. It is certainly the case, however, that despite the weight and importance of translated poetry in our literature, the confluence of sound, sense, and form in a poem presents an especially difficult problem in parsing for the translator. How can you separate the inseparable? The simultaneous, indissoluble components of a poetic statement have to be re-created in another language without violating them beyond recognition, but the knotty, perplexing quandary is that in the poet's conception of the work, those elements are not disconnected but are all present at once in the imagining of the poem.
Felstiner and Bonnefoy both tell us that in many consequential and meaningful ways the translator continues the process initiated by the poet, searching for the ideal words, the perfect mode of expression needed to create a poem.
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