Translation examples
That might explain my weepy days in the middle of the month.
Eso puede explicar mis días de llanto en la mitad del mes.
And the fact that my colleagues see me as the type of person who would burst into tears in the middle of an important professional situation, well, that doesn't make me weepy, that makes me mad.
Y el hecho de que mis colegas me vean como alguien que rompería en llanto en medio de una situación importante para mi carrera no me da ganas de llorar. Me da rabia.
Railway termini gave us weepy farewells and coarse recouplings. That was easy.
Las terminales ferroviarias nos proporcionaban despedidas bañadas en llanto y torpes reencuentros. Eso era fácil.
It has the unwelcome lilt of paranoia, of rage and weepiness made articulate in spasms of vividness;
Esta voz tiene la tendenciosidad insoportable de la paranoia, de la furia y el llanto articulados en espasmos vivísimos: ebria palabrería escuchada en momentos sobrios.
Virginia mopped her face, blew her nose again, glanced around the dining-room, anxious that no other person had noticed her sudden attack of weepy emotion.
Virginia se enjugó la cara, volvió a sonarse y miró en derredor, temiendo que alguien hubiera reparado en su súbito llanto.
Finally, my brother had given me his blessing, endowed me with abundant gifts and gold, and after a final week of weepy and riotous banqueting and endless farewells, I’d at last set out, confident that I might come back home if I didn’t find the new realm to my liking.
Al final, mi hermano me dio su bendición, me obsequió con abundantes regalos y oro, y tras una última semana de banquetes desenfrenados que solían terminar en llanto, y de despedidas interminables, por fin partí, confiando en que siempre podría regresar a casa si no encontraba de mi agrado el nuevo reino.
Ferguson was looking down at the floor by then, pretending to examine a loose thread in the carpet as a way to avoid his mother’s eyes, for he knew he would be lost if he dared to look into them now, her eyes had always been too strong for him, they were charged with a power that could decipher his thoughts and extract confessions from him and overwhelm his puny will even as he fought to resist her, and now, horribly and inevitably, she was reaching out and touching his jaw with the tips of her fingers, gently prodding him to lift his face and look into her eyes again, and the moment he felt her hand make contact with his skin, he knew that all hope was gone, tears were gathering in his eyes, the first tears that had been there in months, and how humiliating it was to feel the invisible faucet turn on again without warning, no better than stupid, weepy Stan, he said to himself, a nine-year-old infant with faulty plumbing in his brain, and by the time he found the courage to fix his eyes on his mother’s eyes, two waterfalls were trickling down his cheeks and his mouth was moving, words were tumbling out of him, the story of Hilliard was being told, the battle with God and the reason for the bad grades, the silenced voice and the murder of his father, breaking the rules in order to be punished and then hating God for not punishing him, hating God for not being God, and Ferguson had no idea if his mother understood what he was telling her, her eyes looked pained and confused and almost tearful, and after he had been talking for two or three or four minutes, she leaned over, put her arms around him, and told him to stop.
Ferguson estaba mirando al suelo para entonces, fingiendo observar una hebra suelta en la alfombra como medio de evitar la mirada de su madre, porque sabía que si la miraba estaría perdido, su mirada siempre había sido demasiado para él, sus ojos llevaban el peso de una fuerza que podía descifrarle los pensamientos y extraerle confesiones y aplastar su insignificante voluntad aun cuando luchara por resistirse, y ahora, de forma horrible e inevitable, ella extendía la mano y le tocaba la barbilla con la punta de los dedos, instándolo con dulzura a que levantase la cabeza y la mirase a los ojos, y en el momento en que la mano de su madre hizo contacto con su piel supo que debía abandonar toda esperanza, los ojos se le llenaron de lágrimas, las primeras que le brotaban en meses, y qué humillación sentir que de nuevo se abrían los grifos invisibles sin previo aviso, igual que al estúpido y llorica Stan, dijo para sí, un crío de nueve años con las tuberías cerebrales defectuosas, y cuando se armó de valor para fijar los ojos en los de su madre, dos cataratas le corrían por las mejillas y los labios se le movían, le salía un torrente de palabras, contaba la historia de Hilliard, la batalla con Dios y el motivo de las malas notas, la voz silenciada y el asesinato de su padre, el incumplimiento de las normas con objeto de ser castigado y el posterior aborrecimiento de Dios por no castigarlo, el odio a Dios por no ser Dios, y Ferguson no sabía si su madre entendía lo que le estaba diciendo, tenía los ojos tristes, confusos y al borde del llanto, y cuando llevaba hablando dos, tres o cuatro minutos, ella se inclinó, lo rodeó con los brazos y le dijo que se callara.
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