有夠多的蛋，硬牆的命運將不再一樣
今天在《信報》練生在專欄寫的〈一隻不自量力的壞蛋〉中引用了村上春樹年初在以色列文學頒獎禮上發表的「雞蛋演說」，並在此看到了全文及譯文，震動不已，在明天便是除夕時，正是好好內省、向前的時間。佩服村上先生把持作家的本份及良知，就在滿地鮮血、發動加沙戰爭的以色列舞台上說一些實話。看罷，激動良久。加強了作為一隻不自量力的壞蛋的決心。也再度看到小說家應該做的事情。
由於太愛此篇演說，還是大著膽子，把文章照抄如下，希望博客計算士不要介懷。
Good evening. I have come to Jerusalem today as a novelist, which is to say as a professional spinner of lies.
各位晚上好，我今天作為一名小說家來到耶路撒冷的，也就是說一名職業謊言製造者。
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?
當然，並不是只有小說家才說謊的。政治家也說謊，正如大家所知道的。外交官和將軍有時也要說著他們自己的謊言，就如同二手車推銷員、劊子手以及建築師一樣。但是，小說家的謊言與其他人不一樣，因爲沒有人會批評小說家，稱他們說謊不道德。實際上，小說家的謊言說得越大越好，編造謊言的能力越高明，他才更可能受到公衆和評論家的認可和好評。這是爲什麽呢？
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.
我的答案是：通過更有技巧地說謊——也就是說，創作看起來似乎是真實的小說——小說家才能夠將真相帶到新的地方，才能讓新的陽光撒到這片新的土地上。在多數情況下，幾乎不可能以其原始形式掌握真相，也不可能準確地闡述真相。這就是爲什麽我要将真相從眾多掩蓋之中拉出來，將它放到一個虛幻的地方，再用一種虛幻的形式將它替代。但是要想做到這一點，我們首先要清楚真實的謊言在我們心中，就在我們自己的心中。這是要想編造完美謊言的一個非常重要的資質。
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.
但今天，我並不想說謊。我會盡可能地做到誠實。這也是一年當中我不說謊的為數不多的幾天之一，今天碰巧就是其中之一。
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.
讓我來告訴你們真相。在日本有許多人建議我不要來這裡接受“耶路撒冷文學獎”。甚至有些人警告我，如果我要堅持來的話，他們就會掀起抵制閱讀我的小說的活動。當然，原因是加沙的戰爭正如火如荼。據聯合國報導，已經有一千多人在已封鎖的加沙城失去了他們的生命，許多都是手無寸鐵的平民——孩子和老人。
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.
在接到這個獲獎通知後我不斷地問自己，是否要在這樣一個特殊時刻來耶路撒冷，接受這樣的文學獎是否是現在該做的事情，這樣做是否會讓人產生一種印象，說我支持衝突中的其中一方，說我支持選擇向世界展示其龐大軍事力量的國家的政策呢。當然我也不希望看到我的書遭到抵制。
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.
但最後在經過深思熟慮後，我還是決定來到耶路撒冷。我之所以做出這樣的決定，原因之一就是有太多的人不想讓我來這裡。可能與許多其他小說家一樣，我總是要做人們反對我做的事情。如果人們對我說——並且特别是如果他們警告我——“不要去那裡”、“不要這樣做”，我就偏偏要去那裡，偏偏要這樣做。你可能會說，這就是小說家的性格。小說家是另類。如果他們沒有親眼所見，沒有親手觸摸，他們是不會真正相信任何事情的。
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.
這就是我來到這裡的原因。我選擇來這裡，而不是逃避。我選擇親自來看一看，而不是回避，我選擇在這裏向大家說幾句，而不是沉默。
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:
請允許我在這裡向你們傳遞一條信息，是一個非常私人的信息。在我寫小說時我總是在心裡牢記，但我從來都不會把它寫在紙上，貼在牆上，我是把它刻在了心靈的牆上，這條信息是這樣的：
“Between a high, solid wall and an egg that breaks against it, I will always stand on the side of the egg.”
“在一座高大堅實的牆和與之相撞的雞蛋之間，我永遠都站在雞蛋的一側”。
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?
是的，無論牆是多麽的正確，雞蛋是多麽地錯誤，我都站在雞蛋的一側。其他人可能會判斷誰是誰非，也許時間或歷史會來判斷。但是，如果一個小說家無論因何種原因站在牆的一側來創造，那麽他的作品的價值何在呢？
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.
這個比喻是什麽意思呢，在有些時候，非常簡單明了。轟炸機、坦克、火箭以及白磷彈就是那堵高牆，雞蛋是被這些武器毀滅、燒傷並擊斃的手無寸鐵的百姓。這就是這個比喻的其中一層含義。
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.
但是，並不僅僅是這些。它還有更深一層的含義，我們來這樣考慮一下，我們中的每一個人或多或少都是一個雞蛋。我們中的每一個人都是存在於一個脆弱外殼中唯一的、不可替代的靈魂。我也一樣，對你們中的每一個人也一樣。並且，我們中的每一個人在某種程度上也面臨著一堵高大堅實的牆。這個牆有一個名字：那就是“體制”。這個體制本來是要保護我們的，但是有時候它會呈現出它自己的一面，然後就開始殘殺我們，並使我們去殘殺他人——冷酷、有效、系統地殘殺。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.
我寫小說之有一個原因，那就是要給予每一個靈魂以尊嚴，並且讓他們接受陽光的沐浴。情節的目的聽起來是一種警報，是對體制進行光芒的培訓，阻止它將我們的靈魂纏結在它的圈套中，防止踐踏我們的靈魂。我忠實地相信，小說家的職責就是通過創作故事——關於生死、關於愛情、讓人哭泣和顫慄以及讓人大笑不已的故事，讓人們意識到每一個靈魂的唯一性。這就是我不停創作的原因，日復一日，以十分嚴肅的態度創作小說。
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.
我的父親是在去年去世的，享年九十歲。他是一名退休教師，是一名兼職佛教高僧。他從京都的研究生院畢業後，應徵入伍，被派到中國打仗。作為一個戰後出生的孩子，每天早晨在早飯前，我總是看到他的在我家的小佛教祭壇前非常虔誠地長時間地祈禱。有一次我就問父親為什麽要這樣做，他就告訴我說，他是在為戰爭中死去的人們祈禱。他說，他為所有死去的人祈禱，無論是同盟還是敵人。當我看着他跪在祭壇前的背影時，我似乎感受到了縈繞在他周圍的死亡的陰影。
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.
我的父親去世了，帶著他的記憶，我永遠都不可能知道的記憶。但是環繞在他周圍的那些死亡卻留在了我自己的記憶中。這是我從他那裡學習到東西之一，也是最重要的東西之一。
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.
今天我之希望向你們傳達一個信息。我們都是人類，是超越國籍、種族和宗教的個體的人，我們都是脆弱的雞蛋，要面臨被稱作“體制”的堅實的牆。從外表來看，我們根本就沒有贏的希望。這堵牆太高太堅實——並且太冷酷了。如果我們有一點戰勝它的希望，那就是來源於我們對我們自己以及他人靈魂唯一性和不可替代性的信念，來源於我們對将將魂聯合起來可獲得溫暖的信念。
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.
花一點時間來考慮這些，我們每一個人都擁有有形的生動的靈魂，而體制沒有。我們不能讓體制來剝削我們。我們不能讓體制現出它自己的一面。不是體制創造了我們，而是我們建立了體制。
That is all I have to say to you.
這就是這想要對你們說的。
I am grateful to have been awarded the Jerusalem
