متن زیر را به فارسی ترجمه کن

Now Dos Passos, as I’ve discussed elsewhere, is the creator of the U.S.A.
trilogy, comprising The 42nd Parallel (1930), 1919 (1932), and The Big Money
(1936). In it, the central narrative is interwoven with sections of biography of the
notable and notorious, Newsreels whose texts are literally ripped from the day’s
headlines (chiefly from the Chicago Tribune), and Camera Eye snapshots of the
America in which Dos Passos came to adult consciousness. Sound familiar?
Then you’re smarter than me. I distinctly remember reading The 42nd Parallel
for the first time with two responses: this doesn’t sound like anything I’ve read
before, and I’m missing something. In fact, I read the whole trilogy without
twigging to the connection. There was that persistent sense of an echo of
something, but I couldn’t bring it clearly into mind while confronted with the
tremendous originality of Dos Passos’s creation. It wasn’t until I reread the first
novel some years later (having in the meantime taught Ragtime once or twice in
book and movie form). Then, about halfway through, I thought to myself, I
know what this sounds like. Dos Passos, Doctorow, similarities, check. My only
question was why it took so long to arrive at that recognition. Your honor, the
defense pleads mitigating circumstances. First, and there’s no way around it,
Doctorow is a much better writer, particularly in managing a plotted story with
characters, even if they are handicapped by the absence of names. U.S.A. is a
cubist masterpiece. That’s not the same as a narrative gem. Dos Passos is not
great with his dialogue, which is often stilted in a kind of working-class king’s
English. Second, the flow is so much smoother in the later work than in the
earlier. Dos Passos employs the herky-jerky qualities of those two signatures of
the new medium of cinema, the montage and the newsreel; Doctorow the
comparatively smooth flow of the nickelodeon-like flip books created by Tateh.
And finally, the historical figures are woven much tighter into the main storyline
in Ragtime than in U.S.A. In fact, part of the charm of each is the distance or
nearness to the historical context, which may be a function of proximity. Dos
Passos catches the look of the country at the moment of writing his novel but
uses it as background to the stories of Mac and Janey and his other fictional
characters. Doctorow, on the other hand, is writing many years after the fact, and
all the famous figures are safely dead, so he can have Evelyn Nesbitt engage in a
sexual relationship with Mother’s Younger Brother without fear of lawsuits. Hey,
don’t laugh; these practical considerations are too onerous to ignore.
Here’s an analogous situation. You’re sitting in the theater watching Pirates
of the Caribbean: At World’s End, and suddenly you’re in a spaghetti Western.
Remember the scene? Things are looking distinctly bad for the pirates, who’ve
just discovered they’re facing a fleet only slightly larger than the Spanish
Armada (in fact, the word “armada” gets employed repeatedly), and Elizabeth
Swann, no dummy, calls for “parlay.” Suddenly we cut to a shot of boots
crossing sand, and while they’re definitely pirate boots, they’re not in a pirate
movie anymore. Against all odds, this sand, on the edge of the ocean, is the most
desiccated stuff you ever saw. Sand that’s bucking for promotion to dust. And
boots in the dust equal showdown. Good guys squaring off with bad. Gary
Cooper in High Noon, John Wayne at the end of Stagecoach. Okay, John Wayne
in about anything. But most of all, men with no name. No one in film history
showed more boots striding through more dust than Sergio Leone. And he’s the
one we’re supposed to think about here. How do we know? The soundtrack
ceases to be Hans Zimmer and becomes, for the duration of the walk, Ennio
Morricone. It’s all weird instrumentation and over-the-top effects. I’m willing to
swear, although I’m sure it’s not true, that I heard whistling in there. And as
anyone born before 1960 can tell you, Morricone means Leone. Old school
chums, they never went anywhere, creatively, without one another. And look
what they did together. Once Upon a Time in the West. A Fistful of Dollars. And
most of all, that other one.
And then it hits you. That’s what this is. The amoral Leone universe. Is the
good guy good or not? Can Charles Bronson really be the hero and Henry Fonda
the villain? Whose side is Clint on? The angels or the demons? Can we even
tell? One thing’s for certain, though, for all that water, this is The Good, the Bad
and the Ugly. Everybody’s playing his own hand (or hers, since Elizabeth
becomes a real player here), and nobody, with excellent reasons on all sides,
trusts anyone. There are double-crosses on the double-crosses. It may all work
out, but somebody’s gonna hafta die. All that from boots on the sand. And
listening.