【翻译】村上春树《总是站在鸡蛋那边》全文

这是本月15日至20 日，村上春树在以色列接受“耶路撒冷文学奖”时的致谢辞。这篇演讲辞与2001年苏珊·桑塔格接受此奖项时的致谢辞《文字的良心》一样，都是直截了当地批评以色列在以巴冲突中的政策。然而网上的译文读起来并不能让人满意，而环球时报今日的译文又有删节，不是全文。于是本人不辞浅薄，对此文翻译如下，还望各位指正。

总是站在鸡蛋那边
村上春树

晚上好。今天，我以小说家的身份来到耶路撒冷，而小说家，据说就是以讲述谎言为职业的人。

当然，小说家并非是唯一说谎的职业。我们知道，政客们也说谎，在某些场合，外交官与将军们也会以自己的方式吐露谎言，还有汽车经销商、肉贩子和建筑商也一样。但是，小说家的谎言和其他人不同，没有人会因为小说家说谎而批评他品行不端。实际上，他的谎言编得越浩大，越精巧，越有创造力，就越有可能从公众和评论家那里获得赞扬。为什么呢？

我想可能是这样的：巧妙地叙述谎言，也就是虚构出以假乱真的情节，小说家就是凭借这些手法，才能将事实真相带入新的场合下，并使其昭然于世。许多时候，想要恢复事件的本来面貌，精确地描写真相，是不可能的。因此，我们才努力以一丝线索而追寻到真相的藏身地，将它以故事的形式改头换面，安排到我们小说的体系中去。为了达成这个目标，我们首先必须弄清，那些在我们身边的，还有我们自己真实的谎言，到底在哪里。若想编好谎言，这是一个重要前提。

然而，今天我却不想说谎。我会试着尽力诚实些。一年来我只有很少几天才不说谎话，今天恰好属于这个时刻。

现在让我来说件事。在日本，有很多人建议我不要到这里来领取耶路撒冷文学奖。有些人甚至警告我，说如果我来了，他们就会宣传制抵我的作品。这一切当然是因为加沙正在激战中。而联合国报道说，有超过1000人在被封锁的加沙市区内丧失了生命，他们中许多人都是手无寸铁的平民，有孩子，也有老人。

从收到获奖的通知开始，我便反反复复多次质问自己，在这种时刻，前往以色列领取一个文学奖项，到底是不是正确的选择？这是否会给人们留下这样的印象，认为我是在支持这冲突中的某一方，并且认同某国施展其压倒性军事力量的政策？更何况，我也不希望看到自己的书籍被制抵。

可是，经过仔细的考虑后，我还是决定来这里。原因之一是有太多人劝我不要这么做。像其他许多小说家一样，我的行为也许会和别人的建议正好相反。当人们纷纷告诉我，特别是他们都警告我“别去那里”，“不要那样做”的时候，我却想要尝试着“就去那里”，“就那样做”。这恐怕是我身为小说家的天性。小说家是很特别的人群，除非他们亲眼所见，亲手所感，他们不会轻信任何事情。

这就是为什么我来这里的原因。我选择来这里，而不是呆在远方。我选择亲自观察，而不是漠然无视。我选择与你们交谈，而不是完全沉默。

请允许我对你们说句格言，一条很私密的格言，它在我创作小说时，总萦绕在脑海里。我虽然从没有想过把它写在纸上，贴在墙上，但它却铭刻在我心里。它是这么说的：

“在一堵坚固的高墙与一个撞向它而破碎的鸡蛋之间，我总是站在鸡蛋那边。”

就是这样，无论那墙可能多正确，那鸡蛋可能多错误，我都会站在鸡蛋那边。其他人会判断到底谁合理，谁谬误，也许时间或历史会给出答案。但是，无论什么原因，如果有个小说家站在墙的那边而创作，那么他的作品究竟价值何在？

这个比喻是什么意思？有时候，它非常简单明了。轰炸机、坦克与白磷弹就是那堵高墙，而那些赤手空拳的平民则是鸡蛋，他们在那武器的威力下被炸碎，被烧灼，被枪击。这就是比喻的一重含义。

但这还不够，还有更深的寓意。请设想如下的情景：我们每个人或多或少也是一个鸡蛋，每个人都具有独一无二的灵魂，包裹在一个脆弱的躯壳里。这是我的真面目，也是你们所有人的真身。在某种意义上，我们每个人也多多少少都在和一堵坚固的高墙对抗，这堵墙有个名字，叫做体制。这种体制本来是打算保护我们，但有时候，它却会自己获得生命，并开始杀戮我们，或驱使我们冷酷高效有组织地屠杀别人。

我写小说的目的只有一个，就是要展现出个体灵魂的尊严，使其焕发光彩。故事的主旨是要发出警报，要让一束光芒射向那体制，使其不能网罗我们的灵魂，不能惑乱和贬低我们的人格。我坚信，小说家的工作应该是阐述每个独立灵魂的唯一性，而手法就是写故事，写有关生与死的故事，写有关爱的故事，写那些能让人哭泣，让人因恐惧而颤抖，让人开怀大笑的故事。这就是我们日复一日，一直高度认真地编著小说的原因。

去年，我的父亲以90高龄辞世。他生前曾经是退休教师，也兼职僧侣。当他从京都的学校毕业时，就被军队征召入伍，并拉到中国去打仗。作为战后出生的儿童，我曾常看见，每天早晨，他在早饭前，都要在家中的佛龛前长久地，深切地祈祷。有一次我问他为什么要这样做，他告诉我他是在为战场上死去的人们祈福。他说，他正在为所有死去的人而祈祷，无论是战友还是敌人都一样。我凝视着他跪拜在佛坛前的背影，仿佛感到死亡的阴影正在他周身盘旋。

我的父亲已经过世，也带走了他那些我永远无法知道的记忆。但是那种潜伏在他身上的死亡观感，依然留在我的印象里。这是我从他那里学到的为数不多的东西，但也是最重要的东西之一。

今天，我只有一点想转达给你们。我们都属于人类，都是超越了国家、种族与宗教信仰的个体，也都是一个个鸡蛋，在体制这堵坚壁前脆弱无比。表面看来，我们毫无胜机。这堵墙太高，太坚硬，也冷酷至极。如果说还有任何获胜的希望，那我们都必须信仰：我们自己和其他所有人的灵魂都是独特的，不可相互代替；还要相信：我们能获得温暖，只要我们的灵魂联合在一起。

请花点时间好好考虑。我们每个人的灵魂都是那样切实而有生气，但体制里却完全没有这些的踪迹。我们决不能任由体制摆布，决不能让体制自行其是。不是体制造就了我们，而是我们创造了这个体制。

我想对你们说的就是这些。

感谢你们授予我耶路撒冷文学奖。对我的书在全世界那么多地区被人阅读，我也很感激。在此我要谢谢以色列的读者们，你们才是让我到这里来的最大动力。我希望我们能共同分享某些有意义的观念，我也很高兴今天能有机会在这里发言。

谨致深刻的谢意。

下面再附上原文，以供比对。
Always on the side of the egg

Good evening. 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 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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 carvf 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 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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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, 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.
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 would like to express my gratitude to the readers in Israel. You are the biggest reason why I am here. And I hope we are sharing something, something very meaningful. And I am glad to have had the opportunity to speak to you here today.
Thank you very much.这是本月15日至20 日，村上春树在以色列接受“耶路撒冷文学奖”时的致谢辞。这篇演讲辞与2001年苏珊·桑塔格接受此奖项时的致谢辞《文字的良心》一样，都是直截了当地批评以色列在以巴冲突中的政策。然而网上的译文读起来并不能让人满意，而环球时报今日的译文又有删节，不是全文。于是本人不辞浅薄，对此文翻译如下，还望各位指正。

总是站在鸡蛋那边
村上春树

晚上好。今天，我以小说家的身份来到耶路撒冷，而小说家，据说就是以讲述谎言为职业的人。

当然，小说家并非是唯一说谎的职业。我们知道，政客们也说谎，在某些场合，外交官与将军们也会以自己的方式吐露谎言，还有汽车经销商、肉贩子和建筑商也一样。但是，小说家的谎言和其他人不同，没有人会因为小说家说谎而批评他品行不端。实际上，他的谎言编得越浩大，越精巧，越有创造力，就越有可能从公众和评论家那里获得赞扬。为什么呢？

我想可能是这样的：巧妙地叙述谎言，也就是虚构出以假乱真的情节，小说家就是凭借这些手法，才能将事实真相带入新的场合下，并使其昭然于世。许多时候，想要恢复事件的本来面貌，精确地描写真相，是不可能的。因此，我们才努力以一丝线索而追寻到真相的藏身地，将它以故事的形式改头换面，安排到我们小说的体系中去。为了达成这个目标，我们首先必须弄清，那些在我们身边的，还有我们自己真实的谎言，到底在哪里。若想编好谎言，这是一个重要前提。

然而，今天我却不想说谎。我会试着尽力诚实些。一年来我只有很少几天才不说谎话，今天恰好属于这个时刻。

现在让我来说件事。在日本，有很多人建议我不要到这里来领取耶路撒冷文学奖。有些人甚至警告我，说如果我来了，他们就会宣传制抵我的作品。这一切当然是因为加沙正在激战中。而联合国报道说，有超过1000人在被封锁的加沙市区内丧失了生命，他们中许多人都是手无寸铁的平民，有孩子，也有老人。

从收到获奖的通知开始，我便反反复复多次质问自己，在这种时刻，前往以色列领取一个文学奖项，到底是不是正确的选择？这是否会给人们留下这样的印象，认为我是在支持这冲突中的某一方，并且认同某国施展其压倒性军事力量的政策？更何况，我也不希望看到自己的书籍被制抵。

可是，经过仔细的考虑后，我还是决定来这里。原因之一是有太多人劝我不要这么做。像其他许多小说家一样，我的行为也许会和别人的建议正好相反。当人们纷纷告诉我，特别是他们都警告我“别去那里”，“不要那样做”的时候，我却想要尝试着“就去那里”，“就那样做”。这恐怕是我身为小说家的天性。小说家是很特别的人群，除非他们亲眼所见，亲手所感，他们不会轻信任何事情。

这就是为什么我来这里的原因。我选择来这里，而不是呆在远方。我选择亲自观察，而不是漠然无视。我选择与你们交谈，而不是完全沉默。

请允许我对你们说句格言，一条很私密的格言，它在我创作小说时，总萦绕在脑海里。我虽然从没有想过把它写在纸上，贴在墙上，但它却铭刻在我心里。它是这么说的：

“在一堵坚固的高墙与一个撞向它而破碎的鸡蛋之间，我总是站在鸡蛋那边。”

就是这样，无论那墙可能多正确，那鸡蛋可能多错误，我都会站在鸡蛋那边。其他人会判断到底谁合理，谁谬误，也许时间或历史会给出答案。但是，无论什么原因，如果有个小说家站在墙的那边而创作，那么他的作品究竟价值何在？

这个比喻是什么意思？有时候，它非常简单明了。轰炸机、坦克与白磷弹就是那堵高墙，而那些赤手空拳的平民则是鸡蛋，他们在那武器的威力下被炸碎，被烧灼，被枪击。这就是比喻的一重含义。

但这还不够，还有更深的寓意。请设想如下的情景：我们每个人或多或少也是一个鸡蛋，每个人都具有独一无二的灵魂，包裹在一个脆弱的躯壳里。这是我的真面目，也是你们所有人的真身。在某种意义上，我们每个人也多多少少都在和一堵坚固的高墙对抗，这堵墙有个名字，叫做体制。这种体制本来是打算保护我们，但有时候，它却会自己获得生命，并开始杀戮我们，或驱使我们冷酷高效有组织地屠杀别人。

我写小说的目的只有一个，就是要展现出个体灵魂的尊严，使其焕发光彩。故事的主旨是要发出警报，要让一束光芒射向那体制，使其不能网罗我们的灵魂，不能惑乱和贬低我们的人格。我坚信，小说家的工作应该是阐述每个独立灵魂的唯一性，而手法就是写故事，写有关生与死的故事，写有关爱的故事，写那些能让人哭泣，让人因恐惧而颤抖，让人开怀大笑的故事。这就是我们日复一日，一直高度认真地编著小说的原因。

去年，我的父亲以90高龄辞世。他生前曾经是退休教师，也兼职僧侣。当他从京都的学校毕业时，就被军队征召入伍，并拉到中国去打仗。作为战后出生的儿童，我曾常看见，每天早晨，他在早饭前，都要在家中的佛龛前长久地，深切地祈祷。有一次我问他为什么要这样做，他告诉我他是在为战场上死去的人们祈福。他说，他正在为所有死去的人而祈祷，无论是战友还是敌人都一样。我凝视着他跪拜在佛坛前的背影，仿佛感到死亡的阴影正在他周身盘旋。

我的父亲已经过世，也带走了他那些我永远无法知道的记忆。但是那种潜伏在他身上的死亡观感，依然留在我的印象里。这是我从他那里学到的为数不多的东西，但也是最重要的东西之一。

今天，我只有一点想转达给你们。我们都属于人类，都是超越了国家、种族与宗教信仰的个体，也都是一个个鸡蛋，在体制这堵坚壁前脆弱无比。表面看来，我们毫无胜机。这堵墙太高，太坚硬，也冷酷至极。如果说还有任何获胜的希望，那我们都必须信仰：我们自己和其他所有人的灵魂都是独特的，不可相互代替；还要相信：我们能获得温暖，只要我们的灵魂联合在一起。

请花点时间好好考虑。我们每个人的灵魂都是那样切实而有生气，但体制里却完全没有这些的踪迹。我们决不能任由体制摆布，决不能让体制自行其是。不是体制造就了我们，而是我们创造了这个体制。

我想对你们说的就是这些。

感谢你们授予我耶路撒冷文学奖。对我的书在全世界那么多地区被人阅读，我也很感激。在此我要谢谢以色列的读者们，你们才是让我到这里来的最大动力。我希望我们能共同分享某些有意义的观念，我也很高兴今天能有机会在这里发言。

谨致深刻的谢意。

下面再附上原文，以供比对。
Always on the side of the egg

Good evening. 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 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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 carvf 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 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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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, 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.
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 would like to express my gratitude to the readers in Israel. You are the biggest reason why I am here. And I hope we are sharing something, something very meaningful. And I am glad to have had the opportunity to speak to you here today.
Thank you very much.