村上春樹的最新長篇小說《1Q84》鐵定初夏出版，聽講仲長過《海邊的卡夫卡》。Q字日文讀音和9相同，書名概念來自George Orwell的《1984》，也有說有一張爵士唱片編號《1Q84》。
Swing都有首歌叫做《1984》，寫他們心目中某個美好的年份，黃金少年情懷，那年是香港樂壇豐收年，有譚詠麟《霧之戀》《愛的根源》、張國榮《Monica》、梅艷芳《飛躍舞台》、林子祥《愛到發燒》、Danny Chan《百強 '84》。
未有新書睇之前，可以讀他的演講辭，他在2月遠赴以色列領取「耶路撒冷文學獎」，領獎詞題為《永遠站在蛋的一方》，抨擊以軍欺凌加沙，世人大讚有吉士，值得一讀。
************
英文原文
Always on the side of the egg
By Haruki Murakami
I have come to Jerusalem today as a novelist, which is to say as a professional spinner of lies.
Of course, novelists are not the only ones who tell lies. Politicians do it, too, as we all know. Diplomats and military men tell their own kinds of lies on occasion, as do used car salesmen, butchers and builders. The lies of novelists differ from others, however, in that no one criticizes the novelist as immoral for telling them. Indeed, the bigger and better his lies and the more ingeniously he creates them, the more he is likely to be praised by the public and the critics. Why should that be?
My answer would be this: Namely, that by telling skillful lies - which is to say, by making up fictions that appear to be true - the novelist can bring a truth out to a new location and shine a new light on it. In most cases, it is virtually impossible to grasp a truth in its original form and depict it accurately. This is why we try to grab its tail by luring the truth from its hiding place, transferring it to a fictional location, and replacing it with a fictional form. In order to accomplish this, however, we first have to clarify where the truth lies within us. This is an important qualification for making up good lies.
Today, however, I have no intention of lying. I will try to be as honest as I can. There are a few days in the year when I do not engage in telling lies, and today happens to be one of them.
So let me tell you the truth. A fair number of people advised me not to come here to accept the Jerusalem Prize. Some even warned me they would instigate a boycott of my books if I came.
The reason for this, of course, was the fierce battle that was raging in Gaza. The UN reported that more than a thousand people had lost their lives in the blockaded Gaza City, many of them unarmed citizens - children and old people.
Any number of times after receiving notice of the award, I asked myself whether traveling to Israel at a time like this and accepting a literary prize was the proper thing to do, whether this would create the impression that I supported one side in the conflict, that I endorsed the policies of a nation that chose to unleash its overwhelming military power. This is an impression, of course, that I would not wish to give. I do not approve of any war, and I do not support any nation. Neither, of course, do I wish to see my books subjected to a boycott.
Finally, however, after careful consideration, I made up my mind to come here. One reason for my decision was that all too many people advised me not to do it. Perhaps, like many other novelists, I tend to do the exact opposite of what I am told. If people are telling me - and especially if they are warning me - “don’t go there,” “don’t do that,” I tend to want to “go there” and “do that.” It’s in my nature, you might say, as a novelist. Novelists are a special breed. They cannot genuinely trust anything they have not seen with their own eyes or touched with their own hands.
And that is why I am here. I chose to come here rather than stay away. I chose to see for myself rather than not to see. I chose to speak to you rather than to say nothing.
This is not to say that I am here to deliver a political message. To make judgments about right and wrong is one of the novelist’s most important duties, of course.
It is left to each writer, however, to decide upon the form in which he or she will convey those judgments to others. I myself prefer to transform them into stories - stories that tend toward the surreal. Which is why I do not intend to stand before you today delivering a direct political message.
Please do, however, allow me to deliver one very personal message. It is something that I always keep in mind while I am writing fiction. I have never gone so far as to write it on a piece of paper and paste it to the wall: Rather, it is carved into the wall of my mind, and it goes something like this:
“Between a high, solid wall and an egg that breaks against it, I will always stand on the side of the egg.”
Yes, no matter how right the wall may be and how wrong the egg, I will stand with the egg. Someone else will have to decide what is right and what is wrong; perhaps time or history will decide. If there were a novelist who, for whatever reason, wrote works standing with the wall, of what value would such works be?
What is the meaning of this metaphor? In some cases, it is all too simple and clear. Bombers and tanks and rockets and white phosphorus shells are that high, solid wall. The eggs are the unarmed civilians who are crushed and burned and shot by them. This is one meaning of the metaphor.
This is not all, though. It carries a deeper meaning. Think of it this way. Each of us is, more or less, an egg. Each of us is a unique, irreplaceable soul enclosed in a fragile shell. This is true of me, and it is true of each of you. And each of us, to a greater or lesser degree, is confronting a high, solid wall. The wall has a name: It is The System. The System is supposed to protect us, but sometimes it takes on a life of its own, and then it begins to kill us and cause us to kill others - coldly, efficiently, systematically.
I have only one reason to write novels, and that is to bring the dignity of the individual soul to the surface and shine a light upon it. The purpose of a story is to sound an alarm, to keep a light trained on The System in order to prevent it from tangling our souls in its web and demeaning them. I fully believe it is the novelist’s job to keep trying to clarify the uniqueness of each individual soul by writing stories - stories of life and death, stories of love, stories that make people cry and quake with fear and shake with laughter. This is why we go on, day after day, concocting fictions with utter seriousness.
My father died last year at the age of 90. He was a retired teacher and a part-time Buddhist priest. When he was in graduate school, he was drafted into the army and sent to fight in China. As a child born after the war, I used to see him every morning before breakfast offering up long, deeply-felt prayers at the Buddhist altar in our house. One time I asked him why he did this, and he told me he was praying for the people who had died in the war.
He was praying for all the people who died, he said, both ally and enemy alike. Staring at his back as he knelt at the altar, I seemed to feel the shadow of death hovering around him.
My father died, and with him he took his memories, memories that I can never know. But the presence of death that lurked about him remains in my own memory. It is one of the few things I carry on from him, and one of the most important.
I have only one thing I hope to convey to you today. We are all human beings, individuals transcending nationality and race and religion, fragile eggs faced with a solid wall called The System. To all appearances, we have no hope of winning. The wall is too high, too strong - and too cold. If we have any hope of victory at all, it will have to come from our believing in the utter uniqueness and irreplaceability of our own and others’ souls and from the warmth we gain by joining souls together.
Take a moment to think about this. Each of us possesses a tangible, living soul. The System has no such thing. We must not allow The System to exploit us. We must not allow The System to take on a life of its own. The System did not make us: We made The System.
That is all I have to say to you.
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.
中譯
永遠站在蛋的一方
今天我作為一個小說家來到耶路撒冷，也就是說，作為一個職業撒謊者。
當然，並不只有小說家才撒謊。政治家也撒謊，外交官和軍人有時也說他們自己的那種謊，二手車銷售員、肉販和建築商也是。但小說家的謊言與其他人的不同，因為沒有人會批評小說家說謊不道德。甚至，他說的謊言越好、越大、製造謊言的方式越有獨創性，他就越有可能受到公衆和評論家的表揚。為什麼會這樣呢？
我的回答是：通過講述精巧的謊言，通過編造看起來是真實的虛構故事，小說家能夠把一種真實帶到新的地方，賦予它新的見解。在多數情況下，要以原初的形態領會一個事實並準確描繪它，幾乎是不可能的。因此我們用虛構的形式取而代之。然而，為了完成這點，我們必須首先厘清真實在哪兒。要編造優秀的謊言，這是一種重要的資質。
不過，今天我不打算撒謊。我會努力盡可能地誠實。一年裡有幾天我不說謊，今天碰巧就是其中之一。所以讓我告訴你們一個事實：很多人建議我不要來這兒領取耶路撒冷獎。有些人甚至警告我，如果我來，他們就會策劃抵制我的書。此中的原因，當然是肆虐于加沙地區的激烈戰爭。聯合國報道，有超過1000人在被封鎖的加沙城內失去了生命，其中不少是手無寸鐵的公民——孩子和老人。
收到獲獎通知後，我多次問自己，是否要在像這樣的時候到以色列來，這是否會造成一種印象，讓人以為我支持衝突的某一方，以為我贊同某國決意釋放其壓倒性軍事力量的政策。我不願予人這種印象。我不贊同任何戰爭，我不支持任何國家。當然，我也不想看見我的書遭到抵制。
然而仔細考慮，我下定決心來到這裡。原因之一是，有太多人建議我不要來。或許，就像許多其他小說家，對於人們要我做的事，我傾向於反其道而行之。如果人們告訴我——尤其當他們警告我——「別去那兒」、「別做那個」，我就傾向於想去那兒，想做那個。這是我作為小說家的天性。小說家是異類。他們不能真正相信任何他們沒有親眼看過、親手接觸過的東西。
那就是我為什麼在這兒。
這並不是說我來這兒，是來傳達政治訊息的。當然，做出是非判斷是小說家最重要的職責之一。然而，把這些判斷傳達給他人的方式，要留給每個作家來決定。我自己寧願把它們轉化為故事——趨向於超現實的故事。但請你們允許我發表一條非常私人的訊息。這是我寫小說時一直記在心裡的。我從未鄭重其事到把它寫在紙上，貼到牆上，我寧願把它刻在我內心的牆上：
「在一堵堅硬的高牆和一隻撞向它的蛋之間，我會永遠站在蛋這一邊。」
其他人會不得不決定，什麼是對，什麼是錯；也許時間或歷史會決定。如果一個小說家，不管出於何種理由，所寫的作品站在牆那邊，那麼這樣的作品有價值嗎？
這個隱喻的涵義是什麼？有些情況下，它實在太簡單明白了。轟炸機、坦克、火箭和白磷炮彈是那堅硬的高牆。蛋是那些被碾碎、被燒焦、被射殺的手無寸鐵的平民。這是該隱喻的涵義之一。可這不是全部。它有更深刻的涵義。這樣來想，我們每個人，或多或少，都是一個蛋。我們每個人都是一個獨特的、無法取代的靈魂，被包裹在一個脆弱的殼裡。我們每一個人都是。而我們每個人，多多少少都面對著一堵堅硬的高牆。這堵牆有個名字：體制。體制應該保護我們，但有時，它不再受任何人所控，然後它開始殺害我們，及令我們殺害他人——無情地，高效地，系統地。
我寫小說只有一個理由，那就是使個人靈魂的尊嚴顯現，並用光芒照耀它。故事的用意是敲響警鐘，使一道光線對準體制，以防止我們的靈魂陷於它的網絡而自我貶低。我完全相信，小說家的任務是通過寫作故事來不斷試圖厘清每個個體靈魂的獨特性——生與死的故事，愛的故事，使人哭泣、使人害怕得發抖和捧腹大笑的故事。這就是為什麼我們日複一日，以極其嚴肅的態度編造虛構故事的原因。
我的父親去年去世，享年九十。他是位退休教師，兼佛教僧人。讀研究院時，他應徵入伍，被派去中國打仗。我是戰後出生的孩子，經常看見他每日早餐前，在家裡的佛壇前長時間虔誠地祈禱。有一次，我問他為什麼這樣做，他告訴我他是在為那些在戰爭中死去的人們祈禱。他說，他為所有死去的人祈禱，無論敵友。我的父親死了，他帶走了他的記憶，我永遠不可能瞭解的記憶。但潛藏在他周圍的死亡氣息卻留在了我自身的記憶裡。這是少數幾樣我從他那兒承繼下去的東西之一，其中最重要的之一。
我們都是人類，是超越國籍、種族、宗教的個體，是脆弱的蛋，面對著一堵叫作體制的堅硬的牆。我們沒有獲勝的希望。這堵牆太高，太強——也太冷。假如我們有任何贏的希望，那一定來自我們對於自身及他人靈魂絕對的獨特性和不可替代性的信任，來自于我們靈魂聚集一處獲得的溫暖。
花點時間想一想這個吧。我們都擁有一個真實的、活著的靈魂。體制沒有。我們不能讓體制來利用我們，不能讓體制失去控制。是我們造就了體制而不是相反。
那就是所有我要對你們說的話。我很榮幸獲得耶路撒冷獎。我很榮幸我的書正被世界上許多地方的人們閱讀著。我也很高興今天有這機會向你們演講。
*********************
耶路撒冷獎自1963年創立以來，每兩年頒發一次，得獎者包括米蘭昆德拉 (1985年)、Susan Sontag (2001年)。
