永遠站在「雞蛋」的那方 Always on the side of the egg

永遠站在「雞蛋」的那方/Always on the side of the egg

色列政府空襲迦薩，獲頒耶路撒冷文學獎的日本知名小說家村上春樹受到國內外壓力，猶疑是否該出席頒獎。

結局是，他去了，並掀起了比小說更為震動世人的餘波。

現年六十歲的日本作家村上春樹，被《時代雜誌》喻為當代最具國際影響力的日本作家。

權力和體制的深層意義

村上春樹三度問鼎諾貝爾文學獎，被媒體形容為繼川端康成、大江健三郎之後，「離諾貝爾文學獎最近的日本人」。他包括《挪威的森林》在內的多部長篇小說作品，陸續被翻譯成四十多國語言，全球銷售超過兩千萬冊，近年陸續獲得捷克「卡夫卡文學獎」、愛爾蘭「法蘭克．歐康納國際短篇小說獎」等多項國際文學獎項肯定。

今年二月初，村上春樹獲頒耶路撒冷文學獎。該獎項每兩年頒發一次，表彰對人類自由、社會公平、政治民主具貢獻的作家。歷屆得獎者包括西蒙波娃、羅素、米蘭昆德拉等。

諷刺的是，頒發獎項的以色列政府，近來空襲迦薩，備受國際和平團體批評。日本輿論因此要求村上春樹為避免被認為支持以色列近來的軍事行動，應拒領該獎項，否則將抵制其作品。

但二月十五日，村上春樹在國內外壓力下，仍選擇赴耶路撒冷出席頒獎典禮。他更出人意料地，在以色列總統佩雷斯面前，公開批判以色列的軍事行動，同時一吐作為文學創作者，希望透過描寫微不足道的個人，對抗既有。

村上春樹於耶路撒冷的英語演講辭「永遠站在雞蛋的那方」，道出個人應有的道德勇氣、與對體制霸權的深刻反省，隨即被國際媒體競相轉載，更超越文壇，在國際政治、人權組織間引起廣大迴響。

村上春樹的中英文演講文

今夜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？

今天，我不打算說謊

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。

今天，我不打算說謊。我會盡可能地誠實。我在一年之中只有幾天不會說謊，今天剛好就是其中之一。

請容我告訴你們真相。

在日本，許多人建議我不要來這裡接受耶路撒冷文學獎。甚至有人警告我，如果我堅持前來，他們會聯合抵制我的小說。主要的原因，當然是迦薩正在發生的激烈戰鬥。

根據聯合國調查，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。

我收到獲獎通知後，不斷問自己：此時到耶路撒冷接受文學獎，是否正確？這會不會讓人認為我支持衝突中的某一方，或認為我支持一個發動壓倒性武力攻擊的國家政策？老實說，我也不想看到自己的書被抵制。

經過反覆思考，我還是決定來到這裡。原因之一是，太多人反對我來。我和許多小說家一樣，總是要做人們反對的事情。如果有人對我說，尤其是警告我說，「不要去」、「不要這麼做」，我通常反而會特別想去、特別想做。

這就是小說家的天性。小說家是特別的族群，除非親眼所見，親手觸摸，否則他們不會相信任何事情。

我來到這裡，我選擇親身面對而非置身事外；我選擇親眼目睹而非矇蔽雙眼；我選擇開口說話，而非沉默不語。

但是這不代表我要發表任何政治訊息。判斷對錯，當然是小說家的重要責任，但如何傳遞判斷，每個作家有不同的選擇。我個人偏好用故事、尤其用超現實的故事來表達。因此，我今天不會在你們面前發表任何直接的政治訊息。

不過，請容我在這裡向你們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。我從未將這句話真正行諸文字或貼在牆壁，而是刻劃在我心靈深處的牆上。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。」

無論高牆是多麼正確，雞蛋是多麼地錯誤，我永遠站在雞蛋這邊。誰是誰非，自有他人、時間、歷史來定論。但若小說家無論何種原因，寫出站在高牆這方的作品，這作品豈有任何價值可言？

這代表什麼意思呢？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。這是這個比喻的其中一層涵義。

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。

是我們創造了體制

我寫小說只有一個原因，就是給予每個靈魂尊嚴，讓它們得以沐浴在陽光之下。故事的目的在於提醒世人，在於檢視體制，避免它馴化我們的靈魂、剝奪靈魂的意義。我深信小說家的職責就是透過創作故事，關於生死、愛情、讓人感動落淚、恐懼顫抖或開懷大笑的故事，讓人們意識到每個靈魂的獨一無二和不可取代。這就是我們為何日復一日，如此嚴肅編織小說的原因。

我九十歲的父親去年過世。他是位退休老師和兼職的和尚。當他在京都的研究所念書時，被強制徵召到中國打仗。

身為戰後出生的小孩，我很好奇為何他每天早餐前，都在家中佛壇非常虔誠地祈禱。有一次我問他原因，他說他是在為所有死於戰爭的人們祈禱，無論是戰友或敵人。看著他跪在佛壇前的背影，我似乎感受到周遭環繞著死亡的陰影。

我父親過世了，帶走那些我永遠無法盡知的記憶。但環繞他周遭那些死亡的陰影卻留在我的記憶中。這是我從他身上繼承的少數東西之一，卻也是最重要的東西之一。

今天，我只希望能向你們傳達一個訊息。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。

請花些時間思考這點：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。

這就是我想對你們說的。


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.