【雨傘革命 第43天】
【本報訊】提出「雞蛋與高牆」抗命信念的日本作家村上春樹，隔空聲援本港的爭普選佔領運動。村上春樹在德國出席一個文學獎頒獎禮時，公開勉勵此時此刻正對 抗高牆的香港年輕示威者，切勿灰心放棄爭取一個更美好、更自由世界的理想，只要不斷嘗試，必定可親手建造一個沒有高牆的世界。
記者：麥志榮 袁樂婷
繼日本音樂大師坂本龍一表態支持本港佔領運動後，作品在中國暢銷的日本殿堂級作家村上春樹無懼被封殺，發聲支持本港佔領運動。
德頒獎禮上撐港人
曾提出「雞蛋與高牆」政治比喻的村上春樹，上周五在德國出席《世界報》（Die Welt）文學獎頒獎禮時以英語致辭，提到今天是分隔東、西方的柏林圍牆倒下25周年，並將本港爭普選的示威者，與在柏林圍牆下的前東德人民，及加沙地區戰火中的巴勒斯坦人相提並論。
他指出，柏林圍牆倒下後，世界紛爭仍然不斷，民族、宗教、不容異見、原教旨主義、貪婪及恐懼，成為一道又一道的高牆。而小說家的責任正是協助讀者釋放想像力的力量，跨越這些一幅幅難以突破的圍牆。
他又將以下一段話送給本港的爭普選年輕人：「只要平靜而堅持地繼續去歌唱，繼續去傳說那些故事，有關更美好及更自由世界將會來臨的故事，不要灰心，我們便 能親眼看到，只要不懈地嘗試，我們甚至可以親手觸摸到沒有高牆的世界。我想將這個訊息傳遞給那一群此時此刻正和他們的高牆對抗的香港年輕人。」（in the quiet but sustained effort to keep on singing, to keep on telling stories, stories about a better and freer world to come, without losing heart, we can see with our own eyes, we can even touch it with our own hands if we try hard. I'd like to send this message to the young people in Hong Kong who are struggling against their wall right now at this moment.）
全場觀眾熱烈鼓掌
村上春樹的「雞蛋與高牆」政治比喻，已成為本港公民抗命常用的口號。財政司司長曾俊華上周為去年落區被掟雞蛋一案出庭時，辯方律師問他有否聽過「雞蛋與高牆」，他也表示聽過，但自言不是高牆。
村上春樹發表獲獎致辭約10分鐘，獲全場200位觀眾熱烈鼓掌回應。德國《世界報》於1946年創辦，文學獎是該報為紀念德國已故文學批評家Willy Haas（1891-1973）而於1999年起設立，Willy Haas的文友包括著名作家卡夫卡。曾獲獎作家包括2002年諾貝爾文學獎得主Imre Kertesz、美國名作家Philip Roth等，獎金10,000歐羅（約96,000港元）。
雞蛋=脆弱靈魂 高牆=冷酷體制
【話你知】
雞蛋與高牆的比喻，源於村上春樹2009年到以色列接受耶路撒冷文學獎，在頒獎禮上的演說。他在演說中毫不客氣地直指以色列在加沙地區的軍事行動，導致數 以千計平民及兒童喪生。他稱寫作時腦中總有一個信念，「假如這裏有堅固的高牆和撞牆破碎的雞蛋，我總是站在雞蛋一邊。無論高牆多麼正確和雞蛋多麼錯誤，我 也還是站在雞蛋一邊」。他解釋，轟炸機、坦克、機關槍是堅硬的高牆，被其摧毀的非武裝平民是雞蛋。而更深的含義是雞蛋代表每個人都有的脆弱靈魂，而高牆就 是冷酷、高效、而且有系統的體制。每個人都是面對體制這道高牆的一個雞蛋，唯一獲勝希望是自己和他人的靈魂聚攏在一起。人有靈魂，體制則沒有，不是體制創 造了人，是人創造了體制。
Jerusalem Prize Acceptance Speech
2009 by Haruki Murakami (村上春樹)
Always on
the side of the egg
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.
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.
