雙語閱讀：村上春樹耶路撒冷文學(xué)獎(jiǎng)獲獎(jiǎng)感言

　　村上春樹耶路撒冷文學(xué)獎(jiǎng)獲獎(jiǎng)感言

　　Good evening. I have come to Jerusalem today as a novelist, which is to say as a professional spinner of lies.

　　Of course, novelists are not the only ones who tell lies. Politicians do it, too, as we all know. Diplomats and generals tell their own kinds of lies on occasion, as do used car salesmen, butchers and builders. The lies of novelists differ from others, however, in that no one criticizes the novelist as immoral for telling lies. Indeed, the bigger and better his lies and the more ingeniously he creates them, the more he is likely to be praised by the public and the critics. Why should that be?

　　My answer would be this: namely, that by telling skilful lies--which is to say, by making up fictions that appear to be true--the novelist can bring a truth out to a new place and shine a new light on it. In most cases, it is virtually impossible to grasp a truth in its original form and depict it accurately. This is why we try to grab its tail by luring the truth from its hiding place, transferring it to a fictional location, and replacing it with a fictional form. In order to accomplish this, however, we first have to clarify where the truth-lies within us, within ourselves. This is an important qualification for making up good lies.

　　Today, however, I have no intention of lying. I will try to be as honest as I can. There are only a few days in the year when I do not engage in telling lies, and today happens to be one of them.

　　So let me tell you the truth. In Japan a fair number of people advised me not to come here to accept the Jerusalem Prize. Some even warned me they would instigate a boycott of my books if I came. The reason for this, of course, was the fierce fighting that was raging in Gaza. The U.N. reported that more than a thousand people had lost their lives in the blockaded city of Gaza, many of them unarmed citizens--children and old people.

　　Any number of times after receiving notice of the award, I asked myself whether traveling to Israel at a time like this and accepting a literary prize was the proper thing to do, whether this would create the impression that I supported one side in the conflict, that I endorsed the policies of a nation that chose to unleash its overwhelming military power. Neither, of course, do I wish to see my books subjected to a boycott.

　　Finally, however, after careful consideration, I made up my mind to come here. One reason for my decision was that all too many people advised me not to do it. Perhaps, like many other novelists, I tend to do the exact opposite of what I am told. If people are telling me-- and especially if they are warning me-- “Don’t go there,” “Don’t do that,” I tend to want to “go there” and “do that”。 It’s in my nature, you might say, as a novelist. Novelists are a special breed. They cannot genuinely trust anything they have not seen with their own eyes or touched with their own hands.

　　And that is why I am here. I chose to come here rather than stay away. I chose to see for myself rather than not to see. I chose to speak to you rather than to say nothing.

　　Please do allow me to deliver a message, one very personal message. It is something that I always keep in mind while I am writing fiction. I have never gone so far as to write it on a piece of paper and paste it to the wall: rather, it is carved into the wall of my mind, and it goes something like this:

　　“Between a high, solid wall and an egg that breaks against it, I will always stand on the side of the egg.”

　　Yes, no matter how right the wall may be and how wrong the egg, I will stand with the egg. Someone else will have to decide what is right and what is wrong; perhaps time or history will do it. But if there were a novelist who, for whatever reason, wrote works standing with the wall, of what value would such works be?

　　What is the meaning of this metaphor? In some cases, it is all too simple and clear. Bombers and tanks and rockets and white phosphorus shells are that high wall. The eggs are the unarmed civilians who are crushed and burned and shot by them. This is one meaning of the metaphor.

　　But this is not all. It carries a deeper meaning. Think of it this way. Each of us is, more or less, an egg. Each of us is a unique, irreplaceable soul enclosed in a fragile shell. This is true of me, and it is true of each of you. And each of us, to a greater or lesser degree, is confronting a high, solid wall. The wall has a name: it is “The System.” The System is supposed to protect us, but sometimes it takes on a life of its own, and then it begins to kill us and cause us to kill others--coldly, efficiently, systematically.

　　I have only one reason to write novels, and that is to bring the dignity of the individual soul to the surface and shine a light upon it. The purpose of a story is to sound an alarm, to keep a light trained on the System in order to prevent it from tangling our souls in its web and demeaning them. I truly believe it is the novelist’s job to keep trying to clarify the uniqueness of each individual soul by writing stories--stories of life and death, stories of love, stories that make people cry and quake with fear and shake with laughter. This is why we go on, day after day, concocting fictions with utter seriousness.

　　My father passed away last year at the age of ninety. He was a retired teacher and a part-time Buddhist priest. When he was in graduate school in Kyoto, he was drafted into the army and sent to fight in China. As a child born after the war, I used to see him every morning before breakfast offering up long, deeply-felt prayers at the small Buddhist altar in our house. One time I asked him why he did this, and he told me he was praying for the people who had died in the battlefield. He was praying for all the people who died, he said, both ally and enemy alike. Staring at his back as he knelt at the altar, I seemed to feel the shadow of death hovering around him.

　　My father died, and with him he took his memories, memories that I can never know. But the presence of death that lurked about him remains in my own memory. It is one of the few things I carry on from him, and one of the most important.

　　I have only one thing I hope to convey to you today. We are all human beings, individuals transcending nationality and race and religion, and we are all fragile eggs faced with a solid wall called The System. To all appearances, we have no hope of winning. The wall is too high, too strong--and too cold. If we have any hope of victory at all, it will have to come from our believing in the utter uniqueness and irreplaceability of our own and others’ souls and from our believing in the warmth we gain by joining souls together.

　　Take a moment to think about this. Each of us possesses a tangible, living soul. The System has no such thing. We must not allow the System to exploit us. We must not allow the System to take on a life of its own. The System did not make us: we made the System.

　　That is all I have to say to you.

　　I am grateful to have been awarded the Jerusalem Prize. I am grateful that my books are being read by people in many parts of the world. And I would like to express my gratitude to the readers in Israel. You are the biggest reason why I am here. And I hope we are sharing something, something very meaningful. And I am glad to have had the opportunity to speak to you here today.

　　Thank you very much.

　　今天我作為一個(gè)小說家來到耶路撒冷，也就是說，作為一個(gè)職業(yè)撒謊者。

　　當(dāng)然，并不只有小說家才撒謊。政治家也做這個(gè)，我們都知道。外交官和軍人有時(shí)也說他們自己的那種謊，二手車銷售員、肉販和建筑商也是。但小說家的謊言與其他人的不同，因?yàn)闆]有人會(huì)批評(píng)小說家說謊不道德。甚至，他說的謊言越好、越大、制造謊言的方式越有獨(dú)創(chuàng)性，他就越有可能受到公眾和評(píng)論家的表揚(yáng)。為什么會(huì)這樣呢？

　　我的回答會(huì)是這樣：即，通過講述精巧的謊言——也就是說，通過編造看起來是真實(shí)的虛構(gòu)故事——小說家能夠把一種真實(shí)帶到新的地方，賦予它新的見解。在多數(shù)情況下，要以原初的形態(tài)領(lǐng)會(huì)一個(gè)事實(shí)并準(zhǔn)確描繪它，幾乎是不可能的。因此我們把事實(shí)從它的藏身之處誘出，將之轉(zhuǎn)移到虛構(gòu)之地，用虛構(gòu)的形式取而代之，以試圖抓住它的尾巴。然而，為了完成這點(diǎn)，我們必須首先厘清在我們之中真實(shí)在哪兒。要編造優(yōu)秀的謊言，這是一種重要的資質(zhì)。

　　不過，今天我不打算撒謊。我會(huì)努力盡可能地誠(chéng)實(shí)。一年里有幾天我不說謊，今天碰巧就是其中之一。

　　所以讓我告訴你們一個(gè)事實(shí)。很多人建議我不要來這兒領(lǐng)取耶路撒冷獎(jiǎng)。有些人甚至警告我，如果我來，他們就會(huì)策劃抵制我的書。

　　此中的原因，當(dāng)然是肆虐于加沙地區(qū)的激烈戰(zhàn)爭(zhēng)。聯(lián)合國(guó)報(bào)道，有超過一千多人在被封鎖的加沙城內(nèi)失去了生命，其中不少是手無寸鐵的公民——孩子和老人。

　　收到獲獎(jiǎng)通知后，我多次問自己，是否要在像這樣的時(shí)候到以色列來，接受一個(gè)文學(xué)獎(jiǎng)是不是合適，這是否會(huì)造成一種印象，讓人以為我支持沖突的某一方，以為我贊同某國(guó)決意釋放其壓倒性軍事力量的政策。當(dāng)然，我不愿予人這種印象。我不贊同任何戰(zhàn)爭(zhēng)，我不支持任何國(guó)家。當(dāng)然，我也不想看見我的書遭到抵制。

　　然而最終，經(jīng)過仔細(xì)考慮，我下定決心來到這里。我如此決定的`原因之一是，有太多人建議我不要來�；蛟S，就像許多其他小說家，對(duì)于人們要我做的事，我傾向于反其道而行之。如果人們告訴我——尤其當(dāng)他們警告我——“別去那兒，”“別做那個(gè)，”我就傾向于想去那兒，想做那個(gè)。你們或許可以說，這是我作為小說家的天性。小說家是異類。他們不能真正相信任何他們沒有親眼看過、親手接觸過的東西。

　　而那就是我為什么在這兒。我寧愿來這兒，而非呆在遠(yuǎn)處。我寧愿親眼來看，而非不去觀看。我寧愿向你們演講，而非什么都不說。

　　這并不是說我來這兒，是來傳達(dá)政治訊息的。當(dāng)然，做出是非判斷是小說家最重要的職責(zé)之一。

　　然而，把這些判斷傳達(dá)給他人的方式，要留給每個(gè)作家來決定。我自己寧愿把它們轉(zhuǎn)化為故事——趨向于超現(xiàn)實(shí)的故事。因此今天我不打算站在你們面前，傳達(dá)直接的政治訊息。

　　但請(qǐng)你們?cè)试S我發(fā)表一條非常私人的訊息。這是我寫小說時(shí)一直記在心里的東西。我從未鄭重其事到把它寫在紙上，貼到墻上：而寧愿，把它刻在我內(nèi)心的墻上，它大約如此：

　　“在一堵堅(jiān)硬的高墻和一只撞向它的蛋之間，我會(huì)永遠(yuǎn)站在蛋這一邊�！�

　　對(duì)，不管墻有多么正確，蛋有多么錯(cuò)，我都會(huì)站在蛋這一邊。其他人會(huì)不得不決定，什么是對(duì)，什么是錯(cuò)；也許時(shí)間或歷史會(huì)決定。如果有一個(gè)小說家，不管出于何種理由，所寫的作品站在墻那邊，那么這樣的作品會(huì)有什么價(jià)值呢？

　　這個(gè)隱喻的涵義是什么？有些情況下，它實(shí)在太簡(jiǎn)單明白了。轟炸機(jī)、坦克、火箭和白磷炮彈是那堅(jiān)硬的高墻。蛋是那些被碾碎、被燒焦、被射殺的手無寸鐵的平民。這是該隱喻的涵義之一。 可這不是全部。它有更深刻的涵義。這樣來想。我們每個(gè)人，或多或少，都是一個(gè)蛋。我們每個(gè)人都是一個(gè)獨(dú)特的、無法取代的靈魂，被包裹在一個(gè)脆弱的殼里。我是如此，你們每一個(gè)人也是。而我們每個(gè)人，多多少少都面對(duì)著一堵堅(jiān)硬的高墻。這堵墻有個(gè)名字：它叫體制（The System）。體制應(yīng)該保護(hù)我們，但有時(shí)，它不再受任何人所控，然后它開始?xì)⒑ξ覀�，及令我們殺害他人——無情地，高效地，系統(tǒng)地。

　　我寫小說只有一個(gè)理由，那就是使個(gè)人靈魂的尊嚴(yán)顯現(xiàn)，并用光芒照耀它。故事的用意是敲響警鐘，使一道光線對(duì)準(zhǔn)體制，以防止它使我們的靈魂陷于它的網(wǎng)絡(luò)而貶低靈魂。我完全相信，小說家的任務(wù)是通過寫作故事來不斷試圖厘清每個(gè)個(gè)體靈魂的獨(dú)特性——生與死的故事，愛的故事，使人哭泣、使人害怕得發(fā)抖和捧腹大笑的故事。這就是為什么我們?nèi)諒?fù)一日，以極其嚴(yán)肅的態(tài)度編造著虛構(gòu)故事的原因。

　　我的父親去年去世，享年九十。他是位退休教師，兼佛教僧人。讀研究院時(shí)，他應(yīng)征入伍，被派去中國(guó)打仗。我是戰(zhàn)后出生的孩子，經(jīng)�？匆娝�每日早餐前，在家里的佛壇前長(zhǎng)時(shí)間虔誠(chéng)地祈禱。有一次，我問他為什么這樣做，他告訴我他是在為那些在戰(zhàn)爭(zhēng)中死去的人們祈禱。

　　他說，他為所有死去的人祈禱，無論敵友。我凝視著他跪在祭壇前的背影，似乎感到死亡的陰影籠罩著他。

　　我的父親死了，他帶走了他的記憶，我永遠(yuǎn)不可能了解的記憶。但潛藏在他周圍的死亡氣息卻留在了我自身的記憶里。這是少數(shù)幾樣我從他那兒承繼下去的東西之一，其中最重要的之一。

　　今天我只希望向你們傳達(dá)一件事。我們都是人類，都是超越國(guó)籍、種族、宗教的個(gè)體，都是脆弱的蛋，面對(duì)著一堵叫作“體制”的堅(jiān)硬的墻。顯然，我們沒有獲勝的希望。這堵墻太高，太強(qiáng)——也太冷。假如我們有任何贏的希望，那一定來自我們對(duì)于自身及他人靈魂絕對(duì)的獨(dú)特性和不可替代性的信任，來自于我們靈魂聚集一處獲得的溫暖。

　　花點(diǎn)時(shí)間想一想這個(gè)吧。我們每個(gè)人都擁有一個(gè)真實(shí)的、活著的靈魂。體制沒有這種東西。我們一定不能讓體制來利用我們。我們一定不能讓體制完全失去控制。體制沒有造就我們，我們?cè)炀土梭w制。

　　那就是所有我要對(duì)你們說的話。

　　我很榮幸獲得耶路撒冷獎(jiǎng)。我很榮幸我的書正被世界上許多地方的人們閱讀著。同時(shí)我也想表達(dá)我對(duì)以色列讀者的感謝。你們是讓我來領(lǐng)獎(jiǎng)的最大原因。我希望我們彼此分享了一些有意義的東西。很高興我有機(jī)會(huì)能在這里做這個(gè)演講。

　　非常感謝！

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