第一篇：村上春树耶路撒冷演讲稿
「Always on the side of the egg 永遠站在雞蛋的一側」
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 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 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.總是和雞蛋站在同一邊 村上春樹於耶路撒冷文學獎
我是以小說家的身份來到耶路撒冷，也就是說，我的身份是一個專業的謊言編織者。
當然，說謊的不只是小說家。我們都知道，政客也會。外交人員和軍人有時也會被迫說謊，二手車業務員，屠夫和工人也不例外。不過，小說家的謊言和其他人不同的地方在於，沒有人會用道德標準去苛責小說家的謊言。事實上，小說家的謊言說的越努力，越大、越好，批評家和大眾越會讚賞他。為什麼呢？
我的答案是這樣的：藉由傳述高超的謊言；也就是創造出看來彷彿真實的小說情節，小說家可以將真實帶到新的疆域，將新的光明照耀其上。在大多數的案例中，我們幾乎不可能捕捉真理，並且精準的描繪它。因此，我們才必須要將真理從它的藏匿處誘出，轉化到另一個想像的場景，轉換成另一個想像的形體。不過，為了達成這個目的，我們必須先弄清楚真理到底在自己體內的何處。要編出好的謊言，這是必要的。
不過，今天，我不準備說謊。我會盡可能的誠實。一年之中只有幾天我不會撒謊，今天剛好是其中一天。
讓我老實說吧。許多人建議我今天不應該來此接受耶路撒冷文學獎。有些人甚至警告我，如果我敢來，他們就會杯葛我的作品。
會這樣的原因，當然是因為加薩走廊正發生的這場激烈的戰鬥。根據聯合國的調查，在被封鎖的加薩城中超過一千人喪生，許多人是手無寸鐵的平民，包括了兒童和老人。
在收到獲獎通知之後，我自問：在此時前往以色列接受這文學獎是否是一個正確的行為。這會不會讓人以為我支持衝突中的某一方，或者認為我支持一個選擇發動壓倒性武力的國家政策。當然，我不希望讓人有這樣的印象。我不贊同任何戰爭，我也不支持任何國家。同樣的，我也不希望看到自己的書被杯葛。
最後，在經過審慎的考量之後，我終於決定來此。其中一個原因是因為有太多人反對我前來參與了。或許，我就像許多其他的小說家一樣，天生有著反骨。如果人們告訴我，特別是警告我：「千萬別去那邊，」「千萬別這麼做，」我通常會想要「去那邊」和「這麼做」。你可以說這就是我身為小說家的天性。小說家是種很特別的人。他們一定要親眼所見、親手所觸才願意相信。
所以我來到此地。我選擇親身參與，而不是退縮逃避。我選擇親眼目睹，而不是蒙蔽雙眼。我選擇開口說話，而不是沈默不語。
這並不代表我要發表任何政治信息。判斷對錯當然是小說家最重要的責任。
不過，要如何將這樣的判斷傳遞給他人，則是每個作家的選擇。我自己喜歡利用故事，傾向超現實的故事。因此，我今日才不會在各位面前發表任何直接的政治訊息。
不過，請各位容許我發表一個非常個人的訊息。這是我在撰寫小說時總是牢記在心的。我從來沒有真的將其形諸於文字或是貼在牆上。我將它雋刻在我內心的牆上，這句話是這樣說的：
「若要在高聳的堅牆與以卵擊石的雞蛋之間作選擇，我永遠會選擇站在雞蛋那一邊。」
是的。不管那高牆多麼的正當，那雞蛋多麼的咎由自取，我總是會站在雞蛋那一邊。就讓其他人來決定是非，或許時間或是歷史會下判斷。但若一個小說家選擇寫出站在高牆那一方的作品，不論他有任何理由，這作品的價值何在？
這代表什麼？在大多數的狀況下，這是很顯而易見的。轟炸機、戰車、火箭與白磷彈是那堵高牆。被壓碎、燒焦、射殺的手無寸鐵的平民則是雞蛋。這是這比喻的一個角度。
不過，並不是只有一個角度，還有更深的思考。這樣想吧。我們每個人或多或少都是一顆雞蛋。我們都是獨一無二，裝在脆弱容器理的靈魂。對我來說是如此，對諸位來說也是一樣。我們每個人也或多或少，必須面對一堵高牆。這高牆的名字叫做體制。體制本該保護我們，但有時它卻自作主張，開始殘殺我們，甚至讓我們冷血、有效，系統化的殘殺別人。
我寫小說只有一個理由。那就是將個體的靈魂尊嚴暴露在光明之下。故事的目的是在警醒世人，將一道光束照在體系上，避免它將我們的靈魂吞沒，剝奪靈魂的意義。我深信小說家就該揭露每個靈魂的獨特性，藉由故事來釐清它。用生與死的故事，愛的故事，讓人們落淚的故事，讓人們因恐懼而顫抖的故事，讓人們歡笑顫動的故事。這才是我們日復一日嚴肅編織小說的原因。
先父在九十歲時過世。他是個退休的教師，兼職的佛教法師。當他在研究所就讀時，他被強制徵召去中國參戰。身為一個戰後出身的小孩，我曾經看著他每天晨起在餐前，於我們家的佛壇前深深的向佛祖祈禱。有次我問他為什麼要這樣做，他告訴我他在替那些死於戰爭中的人們祈禱。
他說，他在替所有犧牲的人們祈禱，包括戰友，包括敵人。看著他跪在佛壇前的背影，我似乎可以看見死亡的陰影包圍著他。
我的父親過世時帶走了他的記憶，我永遠沒機會知道一切。但那被死亡包圍的背影留在我的記憶中。這是我從他身上繼承的少數幾件事物，也是最重要的事物。
我今日只想對你傳達一件事。我們都是人類，超越國籍、種族和宗教，都只是一個面對名為體制的堅實高牆的一枚脆弱雞蛋。不論從任何角度來看，我們都毫無勝機。高牆太高、太堅硬，太冰冷。唯一勝過它的可能性只有來自我們將靈魂結為一體，全心相信每個人的獨特和不可取代性所產生的溫暖。
請各位停下來想一想。我們每個人都擁有一個獨特的，活生生的靈魂。體制卻沒有。我們不能容許體制踐踏我們。我們不能容許體制自行其是。體制並沒有創造我們：是我們創造了體制。
這就是我要對各位說的。
我很感謝能夠獲得耶路撒冷文學獎。我很感謝世界各地有那麼多的讀者。我很高興有機會向各位發表演說
第二篇：村上春树在耶路撒冷文学奖上的演讲词
村上春树在耶路撒冷文学奖上的演讲词（英文）
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 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 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.
第三篇：村上春树耶路撒冷文学奖获奖感言
村上春树耶路撒冷文学奖获奖感言
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 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
村上春树1 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.村上春树2 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.今天我作为一个小说家来到耶路撒冷，也就是说，作为一个职业撒谎者。
当然，并不只有小说家才撒谎。政治家也做这个，我们都知道。外交官和军人有时也说他们自己的那种谎，二手车销售员、肉贩和建筑商也是。但小说家的谎言与其他人的不同，因为没有人会批评小说家说谎不道德。甚至，他说的谎言越好、越大、制造谎言的方式越有独创性，他就越有可能受到公众和评论家的表扬。为什么会这样呢？
我的回答会是这样：即，通过讲述精巧的谎言——也就是说，通过编造看起来是真实的虚构故事——小说家能够把一种真实带到新的地方，赋予它新的见解。在多数情况下，要以原初的形态领会一个事实并准确描绘它，几乎是不可能的。因此我们把事实从它的藏身之处诱出，将之转移到虚构之地，用虚构的形式取而代之，以试图抓住它的尾巴。然而，为了完成这点，我们必须首先厘清在我们之中真实在哪儿。要编造优秀的谎言，这是一种重要的资质。
不过，今天我不打算撒谎。我会努力尽可能地诚实。一年里有几天我不说谎，今天碰巧就是其中之一。
所以让我告诉你们一个事实。很多人建议我不要来这儿领取耶路撒冷奖。有些人甚至警告我，如果我来，他们就会策划抵制我的书。
此中的原因，当然是肆虐于加沙地区的激烈战争。联合国报道，有超过一千多人在被封锁的加沙城内失去了生命，其中不少是手无寸铁的公民——孩子和老人。
收到获奖通知后，我多次问自己，是否要在像这样的时候到以色列来，接受一个文学奖是不是合适，这是否会造成一种印象，让人以为我支持冲突的某一方，以为我赞同某国决意释放其压倒性军事力量的政策。当然，我不愿予人这种印象。我不赞同任何战争，我不支持任何国家。当然，我也不想看见我的书遭到抵制。
然而最终，经过仔细考虑，我下定决心来到这里。我如此决定的原因之一是，有太多人建议我不要来。或许，就像许多其他小说家，对于人们要我做的事，我倾向于反其道而行之。如果人们告诉我——尤其当他们警告我——“别去那儿，”“别做那个，”我就倾向于想去那儿，想做那个。你们或许可以说，这是我作为小说家的天性。小说家是异类。他们不能真正相信任何他们没有亲眼看过、亲手接触过的东西。
而那就是我为什么在这儿。我宁愿来这儿，而非呆在远处。我宁愿亲眼来看，而非不去观看。我宁愿向你们演讲，而非什么都不说。
这并不是说我来这儿，是来传达政治讯息的。当然，做出是非判断是小说家最重要的职责之一。
然而，把这些判断传达给他人的方式，要留给每个作家来决定。我自己宁愿把它们转化为故事——趋向于超现实的故事。因此今天我不打算站在你们面前，传达直接的政治讯息。
但请你们允许我发表一条非常私人的讯息。这是我写小说时一直记在心里的东西。我从未郑重其事到把它写在纸上，贴到墙上：而宁愿，把它刻在我内心的墙上，它大约如此： “在一堵坚硬的高墙和一只撞向它的蛋之间，我会永远站在蛋这一边。”
对，不管墙有多么正确，蛋有多么错，我都会站在蛋这一边。其他人会不得不决定，什么是对，什么是错；也许时间或历史会决定。如果有一个小说家，不管出于何种理由，所写的作品站在墙那边，那么这样的作品会有什么价值呢？
这个隐喻的涵义是什么？有些情况下，它实在太简单明白了。轰炸机、坦克、火箭和白磷炮弹是那坚硬的高墙。蛋是那些被碾碎、被烧焦、被射杀的手无寸铁的平民。这是该隐喻的涵义之一。
可这不是全部。它有更深刻的涵义。这样来想。我们每个人，或多或少，都是
村上春树3 一个蛋。我们每个人都是一个独特的、无法取代的灵魂，被包裹在一个脆弱的壳里。我是如此，你们每一个人也是。而我们每个人，多多少少都面对着一堵坚硬的高墙。这堵墙有个名字：它叫体制（The System）。体制应该保护我们，但有时，它不再受任何人所控，然后它开始杀害我们，及令我们杀害他人——无情地，高效地，系统地。
我写小说只有一个理由，那就是使个人灵魂的尊严显现，并用光芒照耀它。故事的用意是敲响警钟，使一道光线对准体制，以防止它使我们的灵魂陷于它的网络而贬低灵魂。我完全相信，小说家的任务是通过写作故事来不断试图厘清每个个体灵魂的独特性——生与死的故事，爱的故事，使人哭泣、使人害怕得发抖和捧腹大笑的故事。这就是为什么我们日复一日，以极其严肃的态度编造着虚构故事的原因。
我的父亲去年去世，享年九十。他是位退休教师，兼佛教僧人。读研究院时，他应征入伍，被派去中国打仗。我是战后出生的孩子，经常看见他每日早餐前，在家里的佛坛前长时间虔诚地祈祷。有一次，我问他为什么这样做，他告诉我他是在为那些在战争中死去的人们祈祷。他说，他为所有死去的人祈祷，无论敌友。我凝视着他跪在祭坛前的背影，似乎感到死亡的阴影笼罩着他。
我的父亲死了，他带走了他的记忆，我永远不可能了解的记忆。但潜藏在他周围的死亡气息却留在了我自身的记忆里。这是少数几样我从他那儿承继下去的东西之一，其中最重要的之一。
今天我只希望向你们传达一件事。我们都是人类，都是超越国籍、种族、宗教的个体，都是脆弱的蛋，面对着一堵叫作“体制”的坚硬的墙。显然，我们没有获胜的希望。这堵墙太高，太强——也太冷。假如我们有任何赢的希望，那一定来自我们对于自身及他人灵魂绝对的独特性和不可替代性的信任，来自于我们灵魂聚集一处获得的温暖。
花点时间想一想这个吧。我们每个人都拥有一个真实的、活着的灵魂。体制没有这种东西。我们一定不能让体制来利用我们。我们一定不能让体制完全失去控制。体制没有造就我们，我们造就了体制。
那就是所有我要对你们说的话。
我很荣幸获得耶路撒冷奖。我很荣幸我的书正被世界上许多地方的人们阅读着。同时我也想表达我对以色列读者的感谢。你们是让我来领奖的最大原因。我希望我们彼此分享了一些有意义的东西。很高兴我有机会能在这里做这个演讲。非常感谢！
村上春树4
第四篇：村上春树2009年2月22日接受“耶路撒冷文学奖”时的演讲稿《永远在蛋这一边》
本文是村上春树2009年2月22日接受“耶路撒冷文学奖”时的演讲稿。译自以色列《Haaretz》报。
今天我作为一个小说家来到耶路撒冷，也就是说，作为一个职业撒谎者。
当然，并不只有小说家才撒谎。政治家也做这个，我们都知道。外交官和军人有时也说他们自己的那种谎，二手车销售员、肉贩和建筑商也是。但小说家的谎言与其他人的不同，因为没有人会批评小说家说谎不道德。甚至，他说的谎言越好、越大、制造谎言的方式越有独创性，他就越有可能受到公众和评论家的表扬。为什么会这样呢？
我的回答会是这样：即，通过讲述精巧的谎言——也就是说，通过编造看起来是真实的虚构故事——小说家能够把一种真实带到新的地方，赋予它新的见解。在多数情况下，要以原初的形态领会一个事实并准确描绘它，几乎是不可能的。因此我们把事实从它的藏身之处诱出，将之转移到虚构之地，用虚构的形式取而代之，以试图抓住它的尾巴。然而，为了完成这点，我们必须首先厘清在我们之中真实在哪儿。要编造优秀的谎言，这是一种重要的资质。
不过，今天我不打算撒谎。我会努力尽可能地诚实。一年里有几天我不说谎，今天碰巧就是其中之一。
所以让我告诉你们一个事实。很多人建议我不要来这儿领取耶路撒冷奖。有些人甚至警告我，如果我来，他们就会策划抵制我的书。
此中的原因，当然是肆虐于加沙地区的激烈战争。联合国报道，有超过一千多人在被封锁的加沙城内失去了生命，其中不少是手无寸铁的公民——孩子和老人。
收到获奖通知后，我多次问自己，是否要在像这样的时候到以色列来，接受一个文学奖是不是合适，这是否会造成一种印象，让人以为我支持冲突的某一方，以为我赞同某国决意释放其压倒性军事力量的政策。当然，我不愿予人这种印象。我不赞同任何战争，我不支持任何国家。当然，我也不想看见我的书遭到抵制。
然而最终，经过仔细考虑，我下定决心来到这里。我如此决定的原因之一是，有太多人建议我不要来。或许，就像许多其他小说家，对于人们要我做的事，我倾向于反其道而行之。如果人们告诉我——尤其当他们警告我——“别去那儿，”“别做那个，”我就倾向于想去那儿，想做那个。你们或许可以说，这是我作为小说家的天性。小说家是异类。他们不能真正相信任何他们没有亲眼看过、亲手接触过的东西。
而那就是我为什么在这儿。我宁愿来这儿，而非呆在远处。我宁愿亲眼来看，而非不去观看。我宁愿向你们演讲，而非什么都不说。
这并不是说我来这儿，是来传达政治讯息的。当然，做出是非判断是小说家最重要的职责之一。
然而，把这些判断传达给他人的方式，要留给每个作家来决定。我自己宁愿把它们转化为故事——趋向于超现实的故事。因此今天我不打算站在你们面前，传达直接的政治讯息。
但请你们允许我发表一条非常私人的讯息。这是我写小说时一直记在心里的东西。我从未郑重其事到把它写在纸上，贴到墙上：而宁愿，把它刻在我内心的墙上，它大约如此：
“在一堵坚硬的高墙和一只撞向它的蛋之间，我会永远站在蛋这一边。”
对，不管墙有多么正确，蛋有多么错，我都会站在蛋这一边。其他人会不得不决定，什么是对，什么是错；也许时间或历史会决定。如果有一个小说家，不管出于何种理由，所写的作品站在墙那边，那么这样的作品会有什么价值呢？
这个隐喻的涵义是什么？有些情况下，它实在太简单明白了。轰炸机、坦克、火箭和白磷炮弹是那坚硬的高墙。蛋是那些被碾碎、被烧焦、被射杀的手无寸铁的平民。这是该隐喻的涵义之一。可这不是全部。它有更深刻的涵义。这样来想。我们每个人，或多或少，都是一个蛋。我们每个人都是一个独特的、无法取代的灵魂，被包裹在一个脆弱的壳里。我是如此，你们每一个人也是。而我们每个人，多多少少都面对着一堵坚硬的高墙。这堵墙有个名字：它叫体制（The System）。体制应该保护我们，但有时，它不再受任何人所控，然后它开始杀害我们，及令我们杀害他人——无情地，高效地，系统地。
我写小说只有一个理由，那就是使个人灵魂的尊严显现，并用光芒照耀它。故事的用意是敲响警钟，使一道光线对准体制，以防止它使我们的灵魂陷于它的网络而贬低灵魂。我完全相信，小说家的任务是通过写作故事来不断试图厘清每个个体灵魂的独特性——生与死的故事，爱的故事，使人哭泣、使人害怕得发抖和捧腹大笑的故事。这就是为什么我们日复一日，以极其严肃的态度编造着虚构故事的原因。
我的父亲去年去世，享年九十。他是位退休教师，兼佛教僧人。读研究院时，他应征入伍，被派去中国打仗。我是战后出生的孩子，经常看见他每日早餐前，在家里的佛坛前长时间虔诚地祈祷。有一次，我问他为什么这样做，他告诉我他是在为那些在战争中死去的人们祈祷。
他说，他为所有死去的人祈祷，无论敌友。我凝视着他跪在祭坛前的背影，似乎感到死亡的阴影笼罩着他。
我的父亲死了，他带走了他的记忆，我永远不可能了解的记忆。但潜藏在他周围的死亡气息却留在了我自身的记忆里。这是少数几样我从他那儿承继下去的东西之一，其中最重要的之一。
今天我只希望向你们传达一件事。我们都是人类，都是超越国籍、种族、宗教的个体，都是脆弱的蛋，面对着一堵叫作“体制”的坚硬的墙。显然，我们没有获胜的希望。这堵墙太高，太强——也太冷。假如我们有任何赢的希望，那一定来自我们对于自身及他人灵魂绝对的独特性和不可替代性的信任，来自于我们灵魂聚集一处获得的温暖。
花点时间想一想这个吧。我们每个人都拥有一个真实的、活着的灵魂。体制没有这种东西。我们一定不能让体制来利用我们。我们一定不能让体制完全失去控制。体制没有造就我们，我们造就了体制。
那就是所有我要对你们说的话。
我很荣幸获得耶路撒冷奖。我很荣幸我的书正被世界上许多地方的人们阅读着。我也很高兴今天有这机会向你们演讲。
（完）
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 liesthe 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 citizensand especially if they are warning mestories 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 othersstories 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.
第五篇：《耶路撒冷三千年》读后感
“每个人心中都有一叫耶路撒冷的地方。”
在这本《耶路撒冷三千年》中，作者给我们描绘了一个纯洁而又充满污秽、富于平静但又饱经战乱的现实之城的发展史。从它有历史记录起，就注定了它的不平凡。现实中的耶路撒冷是一个圣城，一个令如此多的犹太人、基督徒、穆斯林魂牵梦萦的地方。无数出悲喜剧在这里上演和谢幕，唯一不变的只有这个随着时间的变迁而在变化着的舞台。这块土地的每任统治者都是这里现实的主宰，但是，时间证明了所有人都仅仅只是这里的过客而已。
耶路撒冷是痛苦的。它一次次被摧毁，又一次次被重建，它记载了太多的历史，在涅灭和重生的轮回中从来不曾被人忘记，反而不断增加着信徒们对它的依恋。历史上有太多曾经伟大的城市，毁灭了、消失了，只留下矗立着的断壁残垣以至几捧泥土供后人们缅怀，甚至只在历史的书卷中才找得到曾经存在过的几笔印记。所以，耶路撒冷也是幸运的，只是这种幸运需要太多太多的历史厚重，才能够承载起来。
耶路撒冷是伟大而神圣的。但正是它承受的苦难造就了它的伟大。犹太人的流亡、耶稣的受难、穆斯林的救赎……这个地方承担了太多痛苦的记忆，它用深沉的思考把这些记忆统统保留了下来。这里是又西方宗教的源泉，因而它充满了神圣性。也正是这种神圣性，使得多少人为了它，或者是借着它的名义，将自己的现实的意愿强加给这个世界。但平凡的世人并不能为它的神圣增添多少光彩，相反的，他们了玷污它的纯洁……所幸的是，并未影响太多耶路撒冷在信徒们心中的形象。
提到耶路撒冷，人们自然而然地就会把它同宗教信仰联系在一起——应该说，世界上没有一个城市能像耶路撒冷一样，同宗教的关系如此密切。正如书中所说，“这是唯一的一个同时拥有天国和尘世两种存在维度的城市”。不论是犹太教、基督教还是伊斯兰教，都是信仰“末日审判”的，信徒们相信这里将是上帝进行最后审判的地方，葬在这里就会升入天堂。然而我在我看来，仅仅是“救赎”并不能代表耶路撒冷的全部，毕竟“信仰”和“宗教”并不完全是一回事。世俗的人们借着宗教的名义，去满足自己的种种目的——不论是正当的，还是不合理的，亦或是两者兼有。作为一个旁观者，我们从耶路撒冷反复被毁又重建的历史进程中可以看出，其实每次灾难的来临，都是那些所谓的“虔诚者”借着神圣的名义，为着民族的仇恨、信念的分歧而打着拯救人类的旗号（至少是宣扬对自己族群的救赎）而对其他人进行残酷的奴役、屠戮，对凝结着汗水和智慧的建筑物的无情毁灭，来掩盖自己不可告人的目的。这真是一件很可怕的事情。
真正的信仰应该是人们精神的支柱，是直面困难的勇气，是人类自我超越的过程指引。它代表着人们对所信奉的真理不惜一切的斗争，是人类对人生和世界的终极关怀。一个个独立的个人，不论是什么职业和地位，不论是乞丐、屠夫、贵族还是诸侯，必然会被卷入大时代的浪潮中。若要能够承受一切，成为真正的英雄，必定要历经辛酸痛苦和悲剧，必定要坚守真正的信仰，才能够拒绝被洪流冲散或带走。而耶路撒冷的毁灭和重生，正是象征着这种信仰的希望，所以，才被如此多的人们时刻放在心中。正如电影《天朝王国》（《Kingdom of Heaven》中，巴利安（Balian）向萨拉丁（Saladin）大帝问到耶路撒冷有何价值时，后者答到：“Nothing—Everything”（没有价值—无上的价值）。这，应该就是耶路撒冷最为独特的印记。
现实中的耶城，也不过是由砖石木瓦构筑而成。而那个“流着奶与蜜”的耶路撒冷，或许只应该存在人们的心中吧。
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