- Feb 13 Sun 2011 21:52
- Jan 19 Wed 2011 17:16
- Dec 06 Mon 2010 00:54
Copyright: All Reserved
- Dec 05 Sun 2010 00:25
- Nov 18 Thu 2010 23:59
夜深了 睡意濃 還是想要趁著現在的寧靜時光寫寫
在這裡 與大自然的接觸近乎其微 滿街的人 忙碌的商家 噹噹作響的電車 這個城市似乎就是這麼被架構起來
而我 則羨慕著香港較為文明的傳媒環境 以及政商與非營利組織之間的頻繁互動與公開對話
說實在這對我著實是個很大的culture shock 摒除在香港路上有很多人隨地吐痰以及吃蛇湯的文化以外
是啊~ 睡覺時間到了! 晚安各位 :)
- Nov 14 Sun 2010 21:35
我寫小說只有一個原因，就是給予每個靈魂尊嚴，讓它們得以沐浴在陽光之下。故事的目的在於提醒世人，在於檢視體制，避免它馴化我們的靈魂、剝奪靈魂的意 義。我深信小說家的職責就是透過創作故事，關於生死、愛情、讓人感動落淚、恐懼顫抖或開懷大笑的故事，讓人們意識到每個靈魂的獨一無二和不可取代。這就是 我們為何日復一日，如此嚴肅編織小說的原因。
今天，我只希望能向你們傳達一個訊息。我們都是人類，超越國籍、種族和宗教，我們都只是一枚面對體制高牆的脆弱雞蛋。無論怎麼看，我們都毫無勝算。 牆實在是太高、太堅硬，也太過冷酷了。戰勝它的唯一可能，只來自於我們全心相信每個靈魂都是獨一無二的，只來自於我們全心相信靈魂彼此融合，所能產生的溫 暖。
(來源: 天下雜誌 418期 2009/03)
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.
- Nov 05 Fri 2010 14:18
時間: 4 Nov 2010
我聽到: 樓下大門摔門聲, 腳踏車吱吱作響, 行人走在公園落葉上的腳步聲, 汽車飛嘯而過, 機車向前衝, 鋁箔包爆破聲, 公車停車的嗶嗶警示聲...
環境 反應了周遭環境 培養了人的感官神經
在視覺暴力的時代 在噪音公害的世代 我們的聽覺能力是否也漸漸被消磨?
上一次你注意到蟲鳴鳥叫 蛙聲迭起 蟬鳴震耳是什麼時候?
或許你聽到了什麼 但是因為不懂到底是啥動物 所以也就算了.....
在台北生活 每天都是在公車呼嘯而過的引擎聲中甦醒 接著再被手機鬧鈴嚇醒
我 想要重新開啟我的耳朵 尋找台灣生活裡美妙的自然音樂
- Nov 04 Thu 2010 15:01
在英國農場生活時, 每天都在空想回台灣要開有機店, 要當農夫, 要開cafe, 連喜愛的鍋碗瓢盆和烘培用具都買了些, 海運回台灣.
回來了! 這三個月內隨處走走, 看看廠商, 了解現況, 在途中也遇到許多有趣好玩的新朋友.
重新認識台灣的有機市場及環境議題之後, 覺得環保的實踐有許多方式, 而我始終沒有商業世界最需要的動力- driven for profit.
好巧不巧老天又把我帶回了media & communication的老本行.
即將又成為網路公民(Net Citizen)的一員, 這是我料想不到的一齣戲, 但卻是很開心地期待新工作的開始.
趁著這幾天的黯淡天氣, 我走回政大校園, 翻了一堆網路文化的書, 彷彿又回到了在荷蘭念New Media碩士的那段時間.
我曾經跟系上老師抱怨過我們的課程太過批判, 太過哲學性, 太過左傾,
借了一堆Net Critics的文化理論用書回家, 這禮拜要好好放鬆地重拾對網路的了解與熱愛.
關於部落格, 我還是會定期更新, 抒發我在環境議題或環保行動中的小感受.
還有, 謝謝你們這些總是默默地在看我部落格的潛水朋友們 :)
World peace and green peace!!