勤劳的疯子一只

　　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.

    「耶路撒冷文学奖创办于1963年，每两年颁发一次，意在表彰其作品涉及人类自由、人与社会和政治间关系的作家。往届得主包括阿瑟‧米勒、苏珊‧桑塔格、 伯特兰‧罗素、VS.奈波尔、J.M.柯慈、博尔赫斯、米兰‧昆德拉、西蒙‧波娃、奥克塔维奥‧帕斯（Octavio Paz, 1914-1998，墨西哥诗人、散文家）和巴尔加斯‧略萨等人，皆为大名流。耶路撒冷书展在其官方网站上形容，村上乃「当代最伟大的作家之一」，其作品 已被译成40种语言，广受嘉许，在以色列，他也是读者最多的外国作家之一。该奖声明赞扬 了村上的艺术成就和「对人民的爱」，并称：「他的人道主义清晰地呈现于其作品中。」第24届耶路撒冷国际书展将于2月15日至20日举行。村上春树将于书 展开幕当天在耶路撒冷国际会议中心受奖。」

http://news.163.com/special/0001sp/2008ending.html

什么是web2.0，这就是web2.0。

    宿舍的两个孩子一大早相约去买火车票了，尽管他们小心翼翼地不想把我吵醒，但我还是从莫名其妙的梦里边醒了过来。怕他们内疚，我在他们走了一小会后才下床洗漱。也不怪他们，在原始社会的话，时刻保持高度警觉是活下去的必要技能。可惜的是我现在并不活在原始社会，这个技能基本是无用的。在洗漱的时候，看着嗷嗷黑的天慢慢翻为鱼肚白，天亮得跟寒冷、偏头痛一样快。这在家是看不到的。
    我还是那副死样，大家都在考虑放假回家的事情。我在考虑做火车还真不是一般地痛苦，再加上一年没回家了，数不完的酒局饭局在挨个排着队等着，我是不是该高兴，谁说酒没好处的？我至少有一个坚比磐石的肝。还好，我有个做毕业设计的借口晚回去几天。赶得上我爸的生日就可以了。
    与其说是怕酒局，倒不如说是怕回家。以前看到个比喻，最后这次回家，就该像风筝一样把自己的线断了。早早该想好回家的一切怎么回答，“工作找得怎么样？”，我不能说由于怕于毕业设计时间冲突，所以估计得来年再找，首先这个时代谁还看毕业设计？其次家里人应该就会想，这只是我找不到工作的托词而已，最后，我不喜欢我舅那种早为我安排好一切的从容。工作应该是会有的，看是什么了，在很多人徘徊于本专业还是非本专业的时候，我依然决然放弃了一份非本专业的实习机会。因为他们那对我初面考卷的答复让我不满意。我也许不知道BD是商务扩展的意思，但是我的答案不让人接受，这或多或少说明了至少那的氛围不适合我。还有一份本专业的面试需要等到明年三月了。
    发完工作的牢骚，再来继续说回家的事情，我觉得回家如果有机会，我得找我妹谈谈关于职业规划的问题。问候下我小姨她的基金是不是还是那副熊样，虽然答案我现在就知道。反正回家一大堆事情等着。但是最让我伤神的是怎么答复爸妈关于以后往哪走这个问题。我至少不愿回去，我甚至都有些不情愿留在长沙。当然我不能这样说，为了一些宽抚，我只能说，看情况再定。事实上我讨厌这种模糊不清的答案。
    无论如何，终于要回家了。

　　前言：昨天平安夜，三个大男人一起去看的叶问。大家都是死大学生，金融危机之下还能凑一百块钱看电影，实属是不容易，于是给自己个任务，怎么也得写东西出来，不然怎么对得起真子弹……
　　
　　也巧，不久之前才看完《动物农场》，对农场里那只叫本杰明的驴子很感兴趣。无论任何时代之下，总是有人怀着一身本事，或不愿，或不能，反正他们总是挂着一种特立独行，一意孤行的态度，无论是怎么行，反正总是让人看不透，世人都看不透，只好说他们是“出世”、“世外高人”。这在《动物农场》里边就是那只驴子，在叶问里边，就是叶问自己。换句话说，大时代之下能看到这篇文章的你我，大多也只是一只驴子。
　　叶问家底不错，自己身手也不错，片子开头一副养尊处优的死样。酒足饭饱才闭门习武（实际也满符合要满足物质需求才能朝精神追求前进的道理）。家里也时常有夫妻间的矛盾，儿子因为有个好爸爸也不好好习武学文了，只知道用毛笔画卡通。也许放到现在，把武术换成艺术修养，也同样地衣食无忧。叶问也许就是那个曾经的流行词的代言，小资。
　　战争的爆发改变了时代，但是改变不了叶问。也许衣食无忧没了，但是清高还在；也许养尊处优没了，但是傲气还在。叶问还是那个不愿诉说自己难处，不愿为报酬露武的叶问。到这里，真正的爆点是在叶问看着自己国人被残杀，而能一打十、一打百又能怎么样？暴徒还是在施暴。该死的还是死了，该沦陷的已经沦陷了，想出世？可以，先得无愧于自己，从叶问内心来说，他不是想证明自己，他依然还没变，他只是不想愧对那些爱护保护自己的人。叶问往前走了那么一小步，离驴子远了那么一点。
　　说完电影里的叶问，再来说下电影。
　　片子还是很和谐的，“佛山物价上涨了，说明大家的日子都好过了”从这句话开始，本片的基调注定了就是带着欢乐的。从前半段（两段的都以叶问打木桩作为开始）一些小细节，还是从后半段集体习武以抗金三找，一直到最后叶问的受伤未死（也不能死，死了李小龙怎么办）。我很喜欢这样的基调，比起《神探》什么结尾来给你个人性黑暗面或者来个死不瞑目要好很多，节假日看电影嘛，图得就是个舒畅和娱乐。
　　再来说说里边的打，以前以曾经参加过武打的对战表演，其实打的场面有一点是很重要的，那就是声音，很老的港台片里边就是听到大家傻傻的“嘿嘿呼呼”，现在的都被拳脚声音给盖了。说到这里，不得不承认樊少皇还是很能打的，霸道劲道和招式。简直就是虎虎生风。
　　最后说一下其他人物：李钊，我觉得他是第二男主角，先不说他救了多少次叶问，他本身以及他所处的位置都是片子里的亮点。首先是真实，他想卖国，国人的本性不允许，他想反抗，残疾无劳动能力的哥哥，没成年的妹妹，一家的生计问题不允许。据说原版里因为他拿了鬼子的枪，然后被不了解真相的群众打死。我的版本没有这段，没有也好，省的看了心烦。
　　三蒲，这个人不好评论。他某一程度上担当着中间人的角色。他也许有道德，但是是一种优越感爆满的伪道德。之所以这么复杂，我觉得是因为他只是导演发展情节的一颗棋，金三找也类似。导演做得英明的地方，就是将三蒲不杀叶问的理由，和金三找做恶的理由交代得还算充分。
　　最后，我不喜欢叶问他老婆。也许是我有基的倾向？
　　
　　2008-12-25