این متن زیر را به بهترین شیوه به فارسی ترجمه کن

This is the voice not of the third-person narrator but of Rosa Coldfield, who
becomes the principal narrator of the story. The impersonal narrator is equally
voluble, with phrases like “augmenting and defunctive twilight” and “retroactive
overcoming of primary inertia” arranged in a tumble of clauses and phrases,
although he is less emotional. Rosa, in addition to being unthinkingly racist in
the way of her time and place, as in the “apelike body” description, is living
through events from many years earlier as if they just happened, and their
vividness gives her narration a slightly hysterical tone. The verbs—“flaunt,”
“fling,” “retaliate,” “cursing,” “panting,” “laughing”—are active and sharp, the
nouns frequently long and Latinate—“implacability,” “imperviousness”—but
also strong and clear, as in “stevedores,” “deckhands,” and “honky-tonks.” And
the punctuation! What punctuation! There’s a reason Hemingway so rarely
resorts to colons and semicolons: Faulkner took them all. And one other thing
you might notice here is sentence structure. Hand this in to your freshman
writing teacher and expect to get it back marked “fragment—see me.” Faulkner
writes the world’s longest sentence fragments (in fact, this one isn’t close to his
record), sentences that eschew a main verb altogether or opt for a participle
(“hunting,” in this case) where the main verb should be.
It also goes the other way, though. A few writers can sound incredibly
different from one book to the next, even within books. Jane Smiley creates a
host of voices in Ten Days in the Hills (2007), her recreation of Boccaccio’s
Decameron. In addition to the third-person narrator, the novel features ten
characters telling a phalanx of stories over ten days, a veritable orgy of narrative
to go with the other orgy in the narrative. She’s like Boccaccio in that as well. In
such a structure, it is absolutely necessary to make every voice distinctive. Her
characters, although largely drawn from the same class, differ by age, gender,
race, national origin, and region, and their language differs by vocabulary,
sentence structure, rhythm, and tone. They each, in other words, have their own
sound. Edna O’Brien accomplishes much the same thing in her searing In the
Forest (2002), a tale following the case of three horrific murders, which could be
called, after Wallace Stevens, Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Murderer. A central
narrative presence periodically hands the story off to various characters,
including one of the victims and the killer himself, who come from very
different backgrounds and psychological places. From the beginning of her
career, in The Country Girls (1960), O’Brien has specialized in finding
distinctive and appropriate narrators to carry her storylines, and this late novel
makes perhaps the finest use of varied voices, because of the communal nature
of the tragedy, of any of her works. These two writers go a bit beyond Wuthering
Heights perhaps, in the number of speakers combining on a narrative, but the
impetus is largely the same, to find the best way of telling a story and the best
voices to carry it along.
So why should we care about all this?
Depends. Does it matter to you with whom you spend the next sixty or
eighty or two hundred thousand words? Sometimes at the bookstore, you’ll open
a novel, read a page or so, and decide, right then and there, that this narrator is
not for you. Too erudite, too low-brow, too smarmy, whatever. You just can’t
take that voice for five hundred pages. Or you find yourself absolutely
mesmerized by a voice in the first paragraph and you have to have that novel.
Ever had that happen? I have. Both ways.
But here’s a more significant reason: voice is meaning. What a narrator says
and how he says it changes the story being told. Can you imagine Huckleberry
Finn without Huck telling it? Might as well ask if you can imagine the book
without him in it. Or Pride and Prejudice without that knowing, arch, amused
narrative intelligence. Austen could have told the book with a straight face, no
smirk, but I don’t believe we would still be talking about it. The stories writers
tell are important, but just as important are the means they find of telling them.
And that’s plenty of reason to care.