村上春樹在耶路撒冷文學獎上的演講 (附译文)

... 发表于 2009-2-22 23:44  ... 7271 次点击

  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 telltheir own kinds of lies on occasion, as do used car salesmen, butchersand builders. The lies of novelists differ from others, however, inthat no one criticizes the novelist as immoral for telling lies.Indeed, the bigger and better his lies and the more ingeniously hecreates them, the more he is likely to be praised by the public and thecritics. Why should that be?
  My answer would be this: namely, that by telling skilfullies--which is to say, by making up fictions that appear to betrue--the novelist can bring a truth out to a new place and shine a newlight on it. In most cases, it is virtually impossible to grasp a truthin its original form and depict it accurately. This is why we try tograb its tail by luring the truth from its hiding place, transferringit to a fictional location, and replacing it with a fictional form. Inorder to accomplish this, however, we first have to clarify where thetruth-lies within us, within ourselves. This is an importantqualification for making up good lies.
  Today, however, I have no intention of lying. I will try to be ashonest as I can. There are only a few days in the year when I do notengage in telling lies, and today happens to be one of them.
  So let me tell you the truth. In Japan a fair number of peopleadvised me not to come here to accept the Jerusalem Prize. Some evenwarned me they would instigate a boycott of my books if I came. Thereason for this, of course, was the fierce fighting that was raging inGaza. The U.N. reported that more than a thousand people had lost theirlives in the blockaded city of Gaza, many of them unarmedcitizens--children and old people.
  Any number of times after receiving notice of the award, I askedmyself whether traveling to Israel at a time like this and accepting aliterary prize was the proper thing to do, whether this would createthe impression that I supported one side in the conflict, that Iendorsed the policies of a nation that chose to unleash itsoverwhelming military power. Neither, of course, do I wish to see mybooks subjected to a boycott.
  Finally, however, after careful consideration, I made up my mindto come here. One reason for my decision was that all too many peopleadvised me not to do it. Perhaps, like many other novelists, I tend todo the exact opposite of what I am told. If people are telling me-- andespecially 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, youmight say, as a novelist. Novelists are a special breed. They cannotgenuinely trust anything they have not seen with their own eyes ortouched with their own hands.
  And that is why I am here. I chose to come here rather than stayaway. I chose to see for myself rather than not to see. I chose tospeak to you rather than to say nothing.
  Please do allow me to deliver a message, one very personalmessage. It is something that I always keep in mind while I am writingfiction. I have never gone so far as to write it on a piece of paperand paste it to the wall: rather, it is carved into the wall of mymind, 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, Iwill stand with the egg. Someone else will have to decide what is rightand what is wrong; perhaps time or history will do it. But if therewere a novelist who, for whatever reason, wrote works standing with thewall, of what value would such works be?
  What is the meaning of this metaphor? In some cases, it is alltoo simple and clear. Bombers and tanks and rockets and whitephosphorus shells are that high wall. The eggs are the unarmedcivilians who are crushed and burned and shot by them. This is onemeaning of the metaphor.
  But this is not all. It carries a deeper meaning. Think of itthis 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, andit is true of each of you. And each of us, to a greater or lesserdegree, is confronting a high, solid wall. The wall has a name: it is“The System.” The System is supposed to protect us, but sometimes ittakes on a life of its own, and then it begins to kill us and cause usto kill others--coldly, efficiently, systematically.
  I have only one reason to write novels, and that is to bring thedignity of the individual soul to the surface and shine a light uponit. The purpose of a story is to sound an alarm, to keep a lighttrained on the System in order to prevent it from tangling our souls inits web and demeaning them. I truly believe it is the novelist’s job tokeep trying to clarify the uniqueness of each individual soul bywriting stories--stories of life and death, stories of love, storiesthat make people cry and quake with fear and shake with laughter. Thisis why we go on, day after day, concocting fictions with utterseriousness.
  My father passed away last year at the age of ninety. He was aretired teacher and a part-time Buddhist priest. When he was ingraduate school in Kyoto, he was drafted into the army and sent tofight in China. As a child born after the war, I used to see him everymorning before breakfast offering up long, deeply-felt prayers at thesmall Buddhist altar in our house. One time I asked him why he didthis, and he told me he was praying for the people who had died in thebattlefield. He was praying for all the people who died, he said, bothally and enemy alike. Staring at his back as he knelt at the altar, Iseemed to feel the shadow of death hovering around him.
  My father died, and with him he took his memories, memories thatI can never know. But the presence of death that lurked about himremains in my own memory. It is one of the few things I carry on fromhim, and one of the most important.
  I have only one thing I hope to convey to you today. We are allhuman beings, individuals transcending nationality and race andreligion, and we are all fragile eggs faced with a solid wall calledThe System. To all appearances, we have no hope of winning. The wall istoo high, too strong--and too cold. If we have any hope of victory atall, it will have to come from our believing in the utter uniquenessand irreplaceability of our own and others’ souls and from ourbelieving in the warmth we gain by joining souls together.
  Take a moment to think about this. Each of us possesses atangible, living soul. The System has no such thing. We must not allowthe System to exploit us. We must not allow the System to take on alife 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 amgrateful that my books are being read by people in many parts of theworld. And I would like to express my gratitude to the readers inIsrael. You are the biggest reason why I am here. And I hope we aresharing something, something very meaningful. And I am glad to have hadthe opportunity to speak to you here today.
  Thank you very much.



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本主题共有 7 条回复 | 回到顶部
#1 - 2009-2-23 00:00
禾陶 桂林
#2 - 2009-2-26 17:30
Lancee 金星
春树君 耶路撒冷文学奖!
#3 - 2009-2-26 17:30
Lancee 金星
#4 - 2009-2-26 17:35
Lancee 金星
罗素 昆德拉……(我就知道这么点
#5 - 2009-2-26 17:56
Lancee 金星
And each of us, to a greater or lesserdegree, is confronting a high, solid wall. The wall has a name: it is“The System.” The System is supposed to protect us, but sometimes ittakes on a life of its own, and then it begins to kill us and cause usto kill others--coldly, efficiently, systematically.
#6 - 2009-2-26 17:57
Lancee 金星
Take a moment to think about this. Each of us possesses atangible, living soul. The System has no such thing. We must not allowthe System to exploit us. We must not allow the System to take on alife of its own. The System did not make us: we made the System.
#7 - 2009-5-14 15:27
剪烛 Sputnik 1



















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