村上春树在耶路撒冷文学奖上的演讲词

第一篇：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.

第二篇：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

第三篇：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

第四篇：学院毕业典礼上演讲词

学院毕业典礼上演讲词

各位老师，各位06级的同学们：

下午好！非常荣幸能够作为导师代表向即将踏入毕业的你们表达我的期待和祝福。首先我要祝贺你们顺利完成了大学本科学业，在四年的大学时光中，你们通过自己的努力学到了专业知识，更树立了良好的人生观和价值观。在这里，我首先要向同学们表示衷心地祝贺！

今天你们毕业了，即将离开大学校园，这并不意味着“完成”，而是用鼠标去点击“刷新”键，从此以后，你们的人生将开始一段崭新的旅程。这意味着你们要运用大学积累的知识、形成的能力、培养的素质和悟得的智慧去实现自己的人生价值。

我想告诉男孩子们，你们将是一个家庭的顶梁柱，一个企业的管理者，一个负责任的社会公民。你们要有定力、有器识、担当、作为，要大气、从容应对你应该承担的一切。

我想告诉女孩子，你们将是一个家庭的核心，要用你们的爱包容一切，要培养好祖国的未来——你们的孩子。你们要用激情、热情、柔情温暖你周围人，用你的灵气、秀气和媚气让这个世界更美好，更和谐。

在任何时候，都不要放弃对美好事物的追求。在社会上你们会看到社会的黑暗面，会看到生活中种种的不如意，请一定不要以偏概全，请相信真善美永远存在，请保持你的纯洁善良，怀着一颗感恩的心生活——感谢自然、你的父母、你的老师、你的同学感谢一切帮助过你和即将帮助过你的所有的人，无论如何都不要放弃追求自己的理想和信念，因为理想是支撑人走下去的最大动力。

要爱自己的父母，珍惜与他们在一起的日子。父母永远会走在你们前面，他们会老，会衰弱，有一天会需要你的照顾，请耐心，就如他们当初对你一样；请细心，他们有自尊，不一定愿意把求助说出口；请用心，如果你有父母需要你的照顾，你是一个幸福的人。世界上对你最好的人，永远是父母。避免“子欲养而亲不待”的遗憾。

不要跟别人攀比，这样你会快乐很多。生活中总是会有各式各样的人，才能构成整个社会。不要跟别人比，自己就是自己，相信自己有自己的发展空间，合适自己的就是最好的。要自由、自信、自为、自律、自足、自娱。要有忙里偷闲的能力和苦中作乐的智慧。

尊重他人，善待他人。不管是贫富贵贱，请尊重身边的每一个人。只要在工作，就在为社会创造价值，就值得尊重。存在即是合理的，别人是你生活的场景、是你的世界，我们要珍惜自己的世界。请善待需要帮助的人，赠人玫瑰，手留余香。存善心、做善事，能帮助别人，证明你有能力，应该感到高兴。

为自己的行为负责，守时守信。如果你还在为自己的错误找借口，说明你还没有长大。成熟从不抱怨开始。要勇于承担自己的过失并不可耻，反而会让人尊敬。生活中的守时守信会为你赢得很多朋友。不轻诺，诺必行。那些敢于承担大责任的人才是最后的成功者。

章乃器学院06级毕业生中，有57位同学考上了心仪的国内外高校，即将在那里度过美好的硕士生涯，请抓住这次继续深造的机会，用所剩无多的时间来看书、学习、研究，与同学探讨、与名师交流，获取你们所能获取的一切有价值的东西。硕士、博士、博士后是你们需要经历的，要真正将读书、搞研究作为你的生活方式。要成为每天发现新事物、找到新感受、解决新问题、提出新观点、进入新领域的“五新”人才。

步入社会的同学们，你们将在国有企业、事业单位、外企、银行、会计师事务所等单位施展才华，你们即将成为各个领域的精英，必将有所作为，请记住要不断学习，向书本学习，向社会学习，向他人学习。社会是一个真正的大课堂，你们要学的还有很多，人生的路才刚刚起步。离开校园是你们真正学以致用，回报社会的时候。我期待着你们事业有成的那一天。

海阔凭鱼跃，天高任鸟飞。尽管你们马上就要毕业，但是毕业这个词的“英文词根”却没有“完成”、“结束”的意思，而是蕴含着“开始”和“进步”。我觉得今天我们不是庆祝“结束”，而是欢呼开始；不是纪念“完成”，而是宣布进步。我祝福你们在未来的日子里取得好的成就。

要成为有历史眼光、有专业训练、善于学习应变、有终极关怀的“四有”新人！要成为为家庭、为社会、为民族、为人类做出贡献的人！要成为优秀的专业者、合格的管理者乃至卓越的经营者！女孩子要努力成为你未来丈夫所认识的所有女人的动态集大成者；男孩子要努力成为你未来妻子所认识的所有男人的动态终结者！

谢谢大家！

第五篇：村上耶路撒冷文学奖获奖演说(自译)

大家好，我今天作为一个小说家，也就是说站在一个撒谎专家的立场来到耶路撒冷。当然，并非只有小说家会撒谎。众所周知，政治家也撒谎。就像汽车销售员、肉贩子、木匠之流，外交官和军队干部也有他们自己的谎言。然而，小说家撒的谎和其他人撒的谎是不一样的。小说家即使撒谎也不会被批判为不道德的。相反，他们谎撒得越大，撒得越精妙，越能得到群众和评论家的赞扬。为何会如此呢？对此我这样回答：也就是说，这是因为小说家能够通过撒一个圆满的谎言，并把编的瞎话当做现实，这样来把事实暴露在新的光明的照射之下。在多数情况下，实际上是不可能把握事实本来的面目并把它正确表现出来的。正因如此，我们把事实从其藏身之所诱出，转移到架空的场所，转换成小说的形式。但是，为了圆满的达成这种意愿，必须明确地知道我们之中的哪里隐藏着事实。这是捏造好谎言所必需的素质。

话虽如此，今天我却没有打算撒谎。我尽量做诚实的演讲。每年不撒谎的日子屈指可数，今天便是其中之一。今天我只摆事实。在日本，相当一部分人劝诫我不要到耶路撒冷出席颁奖仪式。甚至有人警告我说出席的话，会致使我的书没有人买。加沙地区激烈的冲突导致这成为必然。据联合国报告指出，被封锁的加沙市有多于1000人丧命，他们大部分是手无寸铁的平民，也就是老人和孩子。

接到获奖通知后，我反反复复地自问自答。这种时期来耶路撒冷接受文学奖，到底是不是正确；出席颁奖仪式会不会给人们留下偏袒冲突一方的印象；会不会导致人们认为我认可行使绝对军事主义的国家的行为。当然，我不想给人们这样的印象。我反对战争，不支持战争中的任何国家。当然，我也不想看到我的书被联合抵制购买这种事情发生。

然而，慎重考虑之后，我最终决定出席。这样决定的原因之一，就是有很多人劝诫我不要出席。大概和其他小说家一样，我也倾向和他人的劝诫背道而驰。当人们告诉我“不能去”“别做那种事”，尤其是这样警告我的时候，我就会变得想去，想做。这或许是我作为小说家的一种性情吧。小说家是一个特殊的群体。因为我们只相信亲眼所见、亲手所感的事情。

因此，我来到了这里。我放弃远离而选择了来到这里，放弃迷失而选择了发现自我，放弃沉默而选择了说点什么。

在此，请允许我说一点儿非常私人的信息。这是写小说时经常停留在心里的一句话。虽然没想过把它写在纸上贴到墙上，却铭刻心间。这句话就是，“在一堵高大坚固的墙和碰到这墙而打破的蛋之间，我通常会站在蛋这一边。”

就是这样，即便墙再正确，蛋再有错，我依然站在蛋这一边。或许其他人会决定什么是正确的什么是错误的，或许时间和历史会这样做。但是，不管什么原因，如果有小说家站在墙的一边创作，那么我们还能从他的作品中看出什么价值吗？

这个暗喻所指何意呢？在有些特定的场合，这再明显不过了。炸弹、坦克、火箭弹、白磷弹就是一堵高大的墙。被这些东西碾碎、焚烧、枪击的手无寸铁的平民就是蛋。这就是这个暗喻的解释之一。

但是并非仅此而已，还有更深的涵义。请这样想，我们大家或多或少，都是蛋。在脆弱的蛋壳里，我们各自拥有一个富有个性而无可替代的心。我是如此，大家也是如此。而我们大家，虽然程度不同，却都面对着一堵高大坚固的墙。这堵墙叫做体制。这个体制通常被认为是保护我们的，但它有时会自己增殖，杀害我们，甚至怂恿我们冷酷、有效、有组织地杀害他人。

我写小说的目的只有一个。那就是让各个精神所持有的威严得见天日。写小说的目的，是为了防止我们被体制的罗网所捕猎、所伤害，而拉响对系统的警戒警报，警醒世人。我从心底相信，通过写关于涉及生死的故事、爱情故事和引人哭泣、引人恐惧、引人发笑的故事等等的小说来明确各个精神的个性，是小说家的职责。因此，我们日复一日地相当认真地编造着谎言。

去年，我的父亲以90岁的年龄辞世了。我父亲原来是教师，时而还做僧侣。他在京都读研究生时，被征兵送往中国战场。生于战后的我，每天早饭前会看见父亲诵读冗长深远的经书。有次，我问父亲为何这样做。父亲回答说，这是在为在战场上死去的人们祈祷。父亲不论敌友，在为所有的战死者祈祷。当时看着父亲在佛前正坐的光辉背影，我感觉他的周围萦绕着死的阴影。

父亲去世了，把我绝对不得而知的记忆也一并带走了。但是，在父亲周围潜伏着的死，却留在了我的记忆里。以上是关于我父亲的事，只是稍微说说，但也是最重要的事情之一。

今天，想对大家说的只有一件事。我们，是超越国籍、超越人种的人类，也是不同的个体。面对体制这堵坚固的大墙，我们是易碎的蛋。我们从哪里看，都看不出胜算。墙太过高大、太过坚固、太过冰冷。如果我们能够看见胜利的希望，那肯定是坚信我们自身和他人的独特性和不可替代性的结果，甚至是坚信来自灵魂交融的温暖的结果。

请考虑这件事情。我们都拥有实实在在的活着的精神，而体制却没有。我们不能允许体制把我们作为食物，不能允许体制自我增殖。并非体制创造了我们，也并非我们创造了体制。这就是我想说的一切。

衷心感谢“耶路撒冷文学奖”。我的书能被世界上那么多国家的人们阅读是件令我很高兴的事。感谢耶路撒冷的读者们。我之所以来这里的最大理由，是大家在这里。希望我们能够共享一些有意义的事情。感谢大家今天能给我在这里讲话的机会，谢谢。