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Sample translations submitted: 1
Japanese to English: 蜘蛛の糸 - The Spider's Thread (Akutagawa Ryunosuke) General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Translation - English The Spider’s Thread
Akutagawa Ryunosuke
I.
In times long past, the Great Buddha, Shakyamuni, had been on a meandering stroll in paradise when he came across a heavenly lotus pond and peered into its depths. Among the pond were the myriad blooms of the sacred lotus, and within each lotus was a golden stamen, surrounded by the purest white. Effused from each was an ambrosial fragrance lingering in the air. Such was an idyllic morning fitting of nirvana.
At length the Holy Shakyamuni stopped at the pond and between the leaves of the lotus floating atop the water he gazed beneath the veneer of the surface to the depths below. Deep beneath the crystal waters of the pond, past the River Sanzu, lay Hell and all its horrors.
Thereupon in the bottom of Hell was a man known as Kandata and the Holy Shakyamuni’s eyes came to rest upon the form of him amidst the other sinners, writhing in the darkness. This man, Kandata, was a murderer and arsonist and had done many atrocities as a notorious thief, yet despite this he had done one good deed in life. It had been while he was traveling in the thick of a forest and had come across a small spider crawling across the road. He swiftly raised his foot to crush it when he hesitated, saying “no... no... small though it may be, it is life nonetheless. Recklessly taking its life would be pitiful.” Just as swiftly he changed his mind and showed mercy to the creature.
As the Divine Shakyamuni looked down into hell, he recalled this Kandata’s mercy to the spider. As that was the only good deed to be had, he thought of showing like mercy to the man. Felicitously, Shakyamuni looked to the side and saw a lotus whose shade of jade was akin to a kingfisher. Atop it a lone spider was fashioning a beautiful thread of silver. Shakyamuni gently took the creature from where it worked among the pure, perfect lotuses and lowered its thread down into the cavernous depths of Hell below.
II.
Below in the abyss, the ranks of the damned drowned forever in the sanguine depths of the Lake of Blood, Kandata among them. Engulfing his vision on all sides was utter darkness, save the occasional glint on the hellish Mountain of Needles. Further, the only sounds of the grave were faint, consisting solely of the fatigued sighs of the condemned. Those who had been sent here had grown tired from the myriad sufferings and most had even lost the strength to wail out in agony. Subject to such torment, even the notorious Kandata was helpless to do anything other than croak on for eternity like a toad choking on blood.
As this macabre existence toiled on, Kandata by chance glanced upward. From the cavernous skyward reaches above, a thin, silver thread lowered from Heaven without a sound, as if it itself feared to be seen. As Kandata saw this, without thinking he began to clap his hands in joy. Surely if he could cling to this thread and climb to its origin, he could escape this torture! If it went well, he might even make it all the way to Heaven! Never again would he suffocate on the murky crimson of the Lake of Blood nor be subject to the razor pains and pangs of the Mountain of Needles.
His exodus thought through, Kandata gripped the thread and began climbing with all of his might. As Kandata lived life as a master thief, his sure-handed expertise returned to him with ease.
Despite his skill, however, after climbing leagues and leagues, even a master fatigues. Eventually, he could not muster the strength to pull himself up even one more time. Listening to his body if not his zeal, he decided to rest momentarily where he had stalled. As he regained strength, he glanced down at the depths he had risen from.
Through his determination, the cerise expanse of the depths had become little more now than an unseeable memory. Even the horrors of the Mountain of Needles was now reduced to little more than a glimmer in the distance. Should he continue to rise at this pace, who was to say what he could not achieve? Gripping the thread now with both hands, Kandata exalted in a voice not used for ages, “merciful salvation! I can do this!” No sooner did he exclaim this that a sight caught his attention. Far below, like so many ants, the other tormented damned climbed with a lusty fervor, grasping for the same deliverance. Shock and fear washed over and paralyzed him. His mouth hung agape like a fool and his eyes moved frantically. How would it be possible that this thin spider’s thread, already strained under his own weight, could withstand that of those coming as well? Should it snap, his own liberation would be ruined and he, along with all those others, would plunge to perdition once more. This could not, must not happen. Even as he began to yell at them, they still rose from the murk of the Lake of Blood not in the hundreds nor thousands, but in an endless stream slowly creeping up the thin luminescent thread of the spider. Unless he did something immediately, his lifeline would break from the center and they would surely fall.
Hysterically, Kandata began to growlingly fulminate at them, “all of you, get off! This is my thread! Go back down where you belong! This is mine!”
No sooner had the words left his mouth that the thread, which had been as strong as steel before, immediately broke where Kandata held it. Before he could even cry out, he was once more consumed by the abyss.
All that remained hence was a glistening remnant twisting alone, its divine apex shrouded in a sky devoid of both moon and stars.
III.
Above in the immaculacy of paradise, Shakyamuni watched the entirety of the event from the edge of the Lotus Pond. As he watched Kandata fall beneath the surface of the Lake of Blood once more, his eyes closed in remorse. Leaving the celestial view of the pond, Shakyamuni departed. Though it grieved him so, the Buddha saw through his own eyes how Kandata’s merciless nature led to his own demise. For one such as him, damnation truly was his lot.
Unperturbed by any of this in the least, the lotus blossoms of the pond carried on. The blossoms swayed slightly at the departing footsteps of the Great Buddha and from their golden stamens the finest aroma of nirvana drifted onward. It would soon be noon in Heaven.
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Years of experience: 12. Registered at ProZ.com: Jul 2015.