在Youtube找到這段時簡直像粉絲般尖叫,讀了這麼多年村上春樹的文字(更精確的說是賴明珠的翻譯),卻是第一次有機會聽到他開口說話,而且是我聽得懂的英文,帶著日文腔莫名其妙覺得可愛(用可愛形容六十歲且離諾貝爾獎如此接近的大師會不會太不敬?)

就跟多數村上迷一樣,我是從他那些即便全部看完也未必完全了的小說開始進入村上那種似是而非、如夢似幻甚至有些傻氣的愛情國度,還在N年前被一個在香港做編劇的網友說覺得我很像「挪威森林」中的小綠,但是多年來其實我最愛的不是人造衛星也不是冷酷異境,而是村上春樹邊寫小說邊翻譯還有時間跟精力隨手寫的札記,譬如說遠方的鼓聲 是1986-1989年村上寫「挪威的森林」跟「舞舞舞」期間寫的,他和老婆為了遠離日本的雜務專心創作而到義大利、希臘小島生活,首先吸引我的是當然是開場白:
「有一天早上醒來,側耳傾聽時,忽然覺得好像聽見遠方的大鼓聲。從很遙遠的地方,從很遙遠的時間,傳來那大鼓的聲音。非常微弱。而且在聽著那聲音之間,我開始想無論如何都要去做一次長長的旅行。」,但是後來吸引我一讀再讀的是村上用一種很敏銳但也很搞笑的觀察記載了那些異國的人事物,即便是再微不足道的生活瑣事,包括跟老婆之間的拌嘴都化為近乎怪叔叔碎碎念卻又不無聊的文字。

另一本則是看完一直很熱血也一直很想好書道相報的關於跑步,我說的其實是...,完全不跑步的我對於有人能夠把馬拉松這種除了跑還是跑的單調至極運動寫得讓我一直想畫重點,譬如說:
「重要的不是和時間競爭。而是能以多少充實感跑完42公里,自己能多愉快地享受,我相信以後這會擁有更大的意義」
「想一想河流。想一想雲。但本質上,什麼也沒想。我只是在自家製造的小巧空白之中,在令人懷念的沈默之中,繼續跑著。這是一件相當美好的事。不管別人怎麼說。」

其實村上春樹還想說得是馬拉松跑者與小說家之間的關連:
「寫長篇小說的作業,我認為根本是肉體勞動。寫文章本身或許屬於頭腦的勞動,但要寫完一本完整的書,不如說更接近肉體勞動。」
「我寫小說,很多是從每天早晨練跑路上所學到的,很自然從肉體上、實務性地學到。可以把自己嚴格地逼到什麼程度,到哪裡才好?休息多久算正當,超過多久算太久?.....要相信自己多少?要懷疑自己多少?」
「以一個不完美的人,一個擁有極限的作家,一個走過充滿矛盾不起眼的人生之路,依然還能懷著這樣的心情,畢竟也是一種成就吧。」

以上只是眾多筆記中的舉例,只能說寫小說跟跑馬拉松都是一種自虐,但看到已經著作等身且享譽國際的作家稱自己為擁有極限的作家還是有種莫名的感動。

接下來才是這篇原本要寫的,關於這篇村上春樹在獲得耶魯撒冷文學獎時的受獎演說,原本是無意間讀到天下雜誌的翻譯--我永遠站在「雞蛋」那方,後來找到英文的講稿,畢竟英文不是村上的母語,看他的英文竟然比中文更有種親切感,用字遣詞並不難且規規矩矩遵循著文法,但是所傳達的訊息卻字字鏗鏘,很真誠也很急切的想表達他身為小說家對抗體制、保護個人的立場。

關於此篇演講的前情提要是當時以色列正在迦薩走廊開戰,震驚國際,所以很多人勸村上春樹不要去領獎,因為正等同於表態支持,甚至有人發起杯葛他的作品,但村上春樹選擇去了,且給了一篇如此完全不政治、充滿人道關懷卻又狠狠賞了「體制」一個耳光的演說。這些體制原本是被設計來保護我們這些如脆弱雞蛋的個人,到後來體制卻淪成為殺人工具,殺起人來冷血、有效率且組織化。藉此,村上春樹強烈表達以色列在戰爭中殺害手無寸鐵平民(包含許多老人及小孩)的不滿,看Youtube畫面演講之後的滿堂彩,真心希望那些體制的人能夠聽進去一些。

 

整篇講稿裡最喜歡這一句:我寫小說只有一個目的--把每一個靈魂的尊嚴帶到表層,同時讓他們綻放出耀眼的光芒。

 

Always on the side of the egg
By Haruki Murakami

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 military men 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 them. 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 skillful lies - which is to say, by making up fictions that appear to be true - the novelist can bring a truth out to a new location 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. This is an important qualification for making up good lies.
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Today, however, I have no intention of lying. I will try to be as honest as I can. There are a few days in the year when I do not engage in telling lies, and today happens to be one of them. (村上春樹在此嚴肅場合還不忘幽默啊)

So let me tell you the truth. 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 battle that was raging in Gaza. The UN reported that more than a thousand people had lost their lives in the blockaded Gaza City, 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. This is an impression, of course, that I would not wish to give. I do not approve of any war, and I do not support any nation. 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. (原來小說家是不怕死的好奇九命怪貓)

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.

This is not to say that I am here to deliver a political message. To make judgments about right and wrong is one of the novelist's most important duties, of course.

It is left to each writer, however, to decide upon the form in which he or she will convey those judgments to others. I myself prefer to transform them into stories - stories that tend toward the surreal. Which is why I do not intend to stand before you today delivering a direct political message.

Please do, however, allow me to deliver 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." (全篇演講的重點)

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 decide. 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, solid wall. The eggs are the unarmed civilians who are crushed and burned and shot by them. This is one meaning of the metaphor.

This is not all, though. 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 fully 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 died last year at the age of 90. He was a retired teacher and a part-time Buddhist priest. When he was in graduate school, 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 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 war.

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, 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 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 am glad to have had the opportunity to speak to you here today.

 

 

 

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