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| 2009/04/25 14:55:38瀏覽1015｜回應6｜推薦22 | |
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朋友寄來一個連結（朱學恆的阿宅萬事通事務所），其中提到村上春樹得到今年的耶路撒冷文學獎，並於2月親赴耶城領獎致辭。我讀了他的演講稿之後，思緒紛至沓來。 村上的講題為“總是和雞蛋站在一邊 Always on the side of the egg.” 他說：「若要在堅固的高牆與砸在牆上的雞蛋之間作選擇，我永遠會選擇站在雞蛋那一邊。... 我們每個人或多或少都是一顆雞蛋。我們每個人都是獨一無二、無可取代的靈魂，裝在脆弱的蛋殼裡。我是如此，諸位也是一樣。我們每個人也或多或少，必須面對一堵高牆。這堵高牆的名字叫做體制（the System）。體制本該保護我們，但有時它卻自作主張，開始殘殺我們，甚至教唆我們以冷血、有效、系統化的手段殘殺別人。... 我寫小說只有一個理由，那就是發掘彰顯個體靈魂的尊嚴。故事的目的在於提出警訊，像一道照妖的光束般鎖定在體制上，以免它桎梏我們的靈魂、貶低靈魂的意義。」 村上講得很真誠，可是他忘了提醒一點：如果你貼近體制的高牆仔細看，你會發現那牆是一個個雞蛋砌成的。每個蛋殼裡貼了一張人臉，有的歡樂，有的黯然，有的興奮，有的呆滯，有的擠眉弄眼，有的沉鬱嚴肅。然後你發現自己的臉也嵌在牆上；你先是一陣錯愕，旋即恍然一悟，立刻結束牆外的神遊回到牆上去，拍拍胸口慶幸自己屬於堅強，不屬於脆弱。那些無牆可歸的雞蛋，則繼續留在牆前哭泣；你俯視這一切，心懷憐憫，憐憫他們不是牆的一部分。 我不是批評村上，其實我應該是喜歡他的。我說“應該，” 因為我好像沒讀過他的小說。我對他的印象來自多年前刊在《文藝春秋》的一篇隨筆，寫他與妻子認識的經過。他說當初挑選太太的必要條件，就是必須是長女。他的理論是，日本長女從小在威權霸道的父親薰陶之下，早已習慣了兇巴巴的臭男人，所以最溫柔最逆來順受。依據此種選妻標準，他認識太太不久確定她是長女之後，馬上就求婚。當然村上是開玩笑的，他很愛太太，曾說“這世界上除了我太太之外，我一無所有。” 話說回來，那篇隨筆是村上春樹寫的嗎？根據我不可靠的記憶，我搞錯人的可能性約有30%。要是如此，那就奇怪了：我怎麼會知道村上春樹這號人物？因此那篇隨筆一定是他寫的。不管怎樣，我將他的演說原文附在文末；我覺得他的使命感很強，也佩服他的觀察。 言歸正傳。我要說的，是人道精神的侷限。或者換一個說法，我想告訴你的，是雞蛋的另一個名字。 金融風暴來襲，公司紛紛裁員。看到同事被解雇，兔死狐悲感同身受，那是人道精神，可是你隱隱慶幸自己暫時逃過一劫。除非銀行裡已有巨額存款或家有恒產，我還沒聽說有人主動要求被解雇，為了和雞蛋站在一邊。 經濟嚴重衰退，成千上萬的人失業。因為商業世界的激烈競爭和全球分工，有些工作一去不復返，意味著有些人一旦失業就等於被淘汰、被迫往社會經濟的下層移動。我認識一些這樣的人，但慶幸自己還不是其中的一員；不，我絕不能成為其中的一員，不進則退，我要努力適應新的經濟模式，最好還有點閑錢玩玩股票享受網路經濟的果實。我同情那些被淘汰的人，但我不會主動往下層移動，為了和雞蛋站在一邊。 你聽說過關心過 Darfur 嗎？2003年發生在蘇丹的內戰，約20-50萬人遭到滅族式的屠殺，3百萬人流離失所。不太清楚？沒關係，坦白告訴你，我也只留意過兩次，一次是前年暑假帶孩子到 MIT 參加營會，在張貼社團活動的佈告欄上看到報導。一次就是現在為了寫這篇文章，到 Wikipedia 查死亡人數。確實是件駭人聽聞的慘事，但距離太遙遠了，而且是非洲人殺非洲人；我搖搖頭嘆口氣，連一毛錢都沒捐過，更別說要和雞蛋站在一邊。 或者，你上歷史課讀過亞美尼亞大屠殺（Armenian Holocaust）嗎？沒錯，Holocaust 這字不是猶太人的專利。事情發生在1915年，一次大戰正酣，奧圖曼帝國（土耳其的前身）開始有系統的滅絕境內的基督徒 - 主要是亞美尼亞人；估計約有一百五十萬人遇害。一百五十萬人是多少呢？一次大戰戰死的歐洲士兵有八百萬人（可與黃巢的戰績相輝映），戰後1918年的流行性感冒（Spanish flu）又造成全球至少五千萬人死亡。你嘆口氣，唉，早年人命不值錢啊！不過人類的生命力強悍，很快就補上來了，而且後來居上。別再提上世紀的慘事，亂破壞氣氛的，雞蛋不是咱砸破的，是吧。好好活著最重要，吃雞蛋，別吃蛋黃，免得膽固醇太高。 對不起，我真是不識相。我的意思不過是，要和雞蛋站在一邊，其實有點天方夜譚。我們最多最多只能做到，從牆上的蘿蔔坑裡（如果還有我們一席之地）看著落單的、孤立無援的雞蛋，掉幾滴眼淚。另外一種情況是，如果我們不幸成為無牆可歸的雞蛋，就要設法聯合其他境遇相似的雞蛋，築起我們自己的牆，給原來那面欺負我們的牆一點顏色看看。 於是以色列人亡國兩千年，被希特勒屠戮六百萬人，1948年復國，然後出現了巴勒斯坦難民。昨天的雞蛋是今天的體制，今天的體制是明天的雞蛋。誰能告訴我雞蛋真正的名字？全世界有六十億顆雞蛋，誰能告訴我有幾個人會在乎我的名字？ 我敢打賭，就連村上春樹也不知道答案。 但村上是誠實的作家，他沒說自己知道答案，只說我們得緊盯著體制。那麼，就看看瞧瞧吧，但你看到了什麼？這跟從什麼距離用什麼光學大有關係。像我，最近花錢給單眼相機換了新鏡頭，拍的相片清楚多了。就看看吧，只是別瞎說你知道雞蛋的名字。 【附錄】村上春樹演說全文： Haaretz israel news www.haaretz.com Last update - 22:56 17/02/2009 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. 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. 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. 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." 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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