村上春樹 - 永遠站在雞蛋那方

李怡 - 永遠站在雞蛋那方

香港蘋果日報  2009年4月9日

今年二月十五日，村上春樹在國內外壓力下，仍然到以色列出席耶路撒冷文學獎頒獎禮。在以色列總統佩雷斯面前，他說，雖然小說家是所謂的職業謊言製造者，「今天，我不打算說謊。我會盡可能地誠實。」他指出，在被封鎖的迦薩城內，已經有超過千人喪生，許多人是手無寸鐵的平民、孩童和老人。他說，「這不代表我要發表任何直接的政治訊息。」他今天要「傳達一個非常私人的訊息。這是我創作時永遠牢記在心的話語。……這句話是這樣的：『以卵擊石，在高大堅硬的牆和雞蛋之間，我永遠站在雞蛋那方。』」

高牆是什麼？雞蛋是什麼？「轟炸機、戰車、火箭和白磷彈就是那堵高牆；而被它們壓碎、燒焦和射殺的平民則是雞蛋。」「更深一層的看，我們每個人，也或多或少都是一枚雞蛋。我們都是獨一無二，裝在脆弱外殼中的靈魂。你我也或多或少，都必須面對一堵名為『體制』的高牆。體制照理應該保護我們，但有時它卻殘殺我們，或迫使我們冷酷、有效率、系統化地殘殺別人。」

「我們都是人類，超越國籍、種族和宗教，我們都只是一枚面對體制高牆的脆弱雞蛋。無論怎麼看，我們都毫無勝算。牆實在是太高、太堅硬，也太過冷酷了。戰勝它的唯一可能，只來自於我們全心相信每個靈魂都是獨一無二的，只來自於我們全心相信靈魂彼此融合，所能產生的溫暖。」「我們每個人都擁有獨特而活生生的靈魂，體制卻沒有。我們不能允許體制剝削我們，我們不能允許體制自行其道。體制並未創造我們：是我們創造了體制。」

這也是我一生的信念：儘管真理（真相）對抗強權有如以卵擊石，但強權是永遠無法代替真理的。


李怡 - 職業謊言製造者
香港蘋果日報  2009年4月8日

「今天我以一名小說家的身分來到耶路撒冷。而小說家，正是所謂的職業謊言製造者。

「當然，不只小說家會說謊。眾所周知，政治人物也會說謊。外交官、將軍、二手車業務員、屠夫和建築師亦不例外。但是小說家的謊言和其他人不同。沒有人會責怪小說家說謊不道德。相反地，小說家愈努力說謊，把謊言說得愈大愈好，大眾和評論家反而愈讚賞他。為什麼？

「我的答案是：藉由高超的謊言，也就是創作出幾可亂真的小說情節，小說家才能將真相帶到新的地方，也才能賦予它新的光輝。

「在大多數的情況下，我們幾乎無法掌握真相，也無法精準的描繪真相。因此，必須把真相從藏匿處挖掘出來，轉化到另一個虛構的時空，用虛構的形式來表達。

「但是在此之前，我們必須先清楚知道，真相就在我們心中的某處。這是小說家編造好謊言的必要條件。……」

以上，是今年二月十五日，日本著名作家村上春樹獲頒耶路撒冷文學獎，在以色列政府空襲迦薩正受到國際輿論譴責時，他出席這頒獎禮，所作發言的第一段。這段話告訴我們，真相通常是無法掌握的，這也是美國前總統尼克遜說，真理往往敵不過強權的意思。但真相藏在小說家心中某處，於是他就用虛構的故事來反映真實。

許久之前我就有類似看法。五年前我在香港文學節講座上講過：虛擬的世界才有真實。因為正如英國作家奧威爾所說：誰能控制過去，就能控制將來；而誰能控制現在，就能控制過去。因此，「所有的歷史都是當代史。」只有走進虛構的小說世界，才可保留和反映真實。所以有人說：歷史除了人名和年份是真的之外，其他都是假的；小說除了人名和年份是假的之外，其他都是真的。假作真時真亦假，這就是小說的價值。


Haruki Murakami - Always on the side of the egg
25 Feb 2009

I have come to Jerusalem today as a novelist, which is to say as a professional spinner 編造者 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 偶爾, 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 1. 唆使;慫恿2. 煽動,挑動 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 對準,瞄準 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 捏造 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.