村上春樹氏 スピーチ

“Jerusalem Prize” Remarks
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.

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いつも「卵」のそばに 村上春樹
もちろん、嘘をつくのは小説家だけではありません。政治家もまた、嘘をつきます(これは皆さんよくご存じですよね)。外交官も、軍人も、機会さえあ えば、中古車のセールスマンや肉屋、建築業者であっても、彼らなりの嘘をつきます。しかしながら、小説家のつく嘘は、彼らの嘘とは違います。彼らが嘘をつ いた時のように不道徳だと責め立てられることはありません。それどころか、小説家の嘘が器用であればあるほど、世間や批評家たちからより大きな賞賛を得る ことができるのです。
多くの場合、「真実」をもとのかたちのまま理解し、正確に表現することは事実上不可能です。だからこそ僕たち小説家は、その隠された場所から真実を 誘い出して尻尾を掴もうとし、フィクションの位置に移し替え、フィクションのかたちにそれを作り替えるのです。しかしながら、僕たちがこれを達成するため には、まず最初に真実が僕たちのどこに属するのかを、はっきりさせる必要があります。
けれども、こうした判断をどうやって他の人々に伝えるかを決めるのは、それぞれの書き手に任されています。僕自身は、そういったことを物語、それも 超現実的な物語に移し替えて示すことを好みます。これが今日、僕が直接的な政治的メッセージを伝えないにもかかわらず、皆さんの前に立った理由です。
このメタファー(暗喩)はいったい何を意味しているのでしょうか? それはいくつかの場合において、とてもクリアで単純です。高く固い「壁」とは、 爆撃機であり、戦車であり、ロケット砲であり、白リン弾です。そして「卵」とは、それらに壊され、燃やされ、撃たれる非武装市民......、これがその 暗喩が意味することのひとつです。
けれどもそれがすべての意味というわけではありません。もっと深く考えることもできます。こう考えてはどうでしょう。僕たちひとりひとりが、多かれ 少なかれ「卵」なのです。僕たちは唯一かけがえのない魂を内包した、壊れやすい殻に包まれた卵なのです。これは僕にとっての真実であり、皆さんにとっての 真実でもあります。そして僕たちはそれぞれ――多少の違いはあっても――高くて固い壁に直面しています。その「壁」の名は、そう、「システム」です。システムは僕たちを守りを固めるためのものですが、しかし時折自己増殖して、冷酷に、効果的に、システマティックな方法で、僕たちに殺し合いをさせるようし向けます。
僕の父は昨年、90歳で亡くなりました。彼は教師をリタイヤし、たまに僧侶として働いていました。彼が大学院にいた頃、軍隊に招集され、中国戦線に 送られました。戦後生まれの僕は、彼が朝食前に必ず家の仏壇の前で深く祈りを捧げる姿をよく見かけました。ある時、僕は父に「なぜお祈りをするの?」と訪 ねたところ、彼は「戦争で亡くなった人のために祈っている」と答えてくれました。
僕たちは誰もが人間であり、国籍や人種や宗教を超えていく個人であり、システムと呼ばれる固い「壁」に直面する「卵」だというこ とです。どう見たって僕たちに勝ち目はなさそうです。壁はあまりにも高く、あまりにも強く、そしてあまりにも冷たい。もし僕たちに勝利の希望がいくらかあ るとすれば、それはかけがえのない独自性を信じ、自分と他の人々の魂とを互いにつなぎ合わせた「暖かさ」に頼るしかありません。




http://www.47news.jp/47topics/e/93925.php 英文