長久以來，這已經成為我的習慣：如果沒有把照片整理完畢，沒有寫完一篇總結性的博文，一段旅程就好像始終沒有結束。

儘管我是多么不愿結束它，但是今天一定要把這兩件事做完。唯此，才能開始新的旅程。

 

1.關於相片。

 

相片都已經上傳到空間的相冊。分別用四臺相機完成：HOLGA 120（膠捲）、Fisheye 2（膠捲）、索尼T-77（數碼）、尼康D90（數碼單反）。大多數的照片都是在諸如飛機、出租車、火車等交通工具上完成。還有一些，在去采訪的途中，一邊走一邊拍。可算是另一種“趕時間”的掃街行為。涉及人物的位數不多的幾張（尤其在地鐵上拍的），全部為偷拍。每次都冒著被他們發現后發怒的危險。（一滴汗~）

 

2.關於博文。

 

有一些是秘密，因為一落筆，便無可避免要開始偏離完美版本的真相，所以我不寫。

但有一些可以寫下來，它們不必過於嚴肅地被對待。

 

上海綿綿無絕期的陰雨天讓我無比懷念加州的陽光。而我離開那個奇遇開始的地方已整整一個月。

在太平洋的另一端，我度過2009年的第一個月。這是個意外的旅行。帶著一系列的任務。

這讓我想起Nicolas Cage的一句臺詞：My work sent me to many places. I eat alone, sleep alone, walk alone...My name is xxx

這種狀態非常接近我整個一月的狀態。在二十幾天裡面，我倒了無數次飛機，搭乘過火車、輪渡、地鐵、公車、出租車等各種交通工具。

我踏過冰天雪地的底特律、欣賞過對岸加拿大賭場的夜景；我也曾暴走于被激動人群簇擁的華盛頓街頭。

我曾用有限的西班牙語把紐約的TAXI DRIVER哄開心；也曾在洛杉磯人煙稀少的商業區迷路。

我曾遭遇由於惡劣天氣而突然取消當日所有航班，我也曾在極度疲憊的狀態下忘記倒第三個時差而誤了飛機。

我看到陌生的人們對我微笑，像老朋友一樣跟我打招呼；天真無邪的孩童，不容拒絕地邀請我做她的玩伴；我甚至還偶遇年邁的女作家，信任我仿佛信任她的家人。

他和她，一對班車上鄰座的黑人夫婦，不僅在總統就職日照顧了我一整天，還堅持要為我補過一個不一樣的生日！

他，甚至還不確信我究竟是中國人還是日本人，不僅犧牲掉一整天做生意的時間來幫助我完成工作，居然最後還主動要免掉我總共250美元的車費！

 

28天，每一天都有數不清的發現，還未待我有時間消化，便要趕緊開始下一個任務。

原來，一天只睡兩個小時，次日也能做到神采奕奕地去見我的采訪對象，同時在對話時保持連貫的邏輯。

原來，我可以一天只吃一頓飯，也不覺得特別餓；穿細跟的靴子走一天，也不感覺腳疼。

原來，一直有電話恐懼癥的我，也可以抄起手機，對著一個又一個陌生號碼撥過去，迅速找到核心人物解決問題，而沒有迷失在不同的口音與音色中。（P.S.最後染上不時地檢查voice mail的強迫癥。）

常常在筆記本面前寫著寫著，突然發現房間充滿光線，原來，天亮了。

 

好的東西要和大家分享，更何況是我喜愛的村上春樹。

雖然我懶到幾個月都不更新空間，接下來也不會更新得太勤。但是今天請大家做好準備看個長篇。

沒耐心看前面英文部分的，可以直接看后面的中文。

 

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.
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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. 

村上春树的墙与蛋
 
　　毛丹青

　　对我来说，阅读村上春树一直有两条途径，一个出自日本，包括老牌的日本文化人指责他的文学压根儿找不到日本元素。另一个来源于中国，因为他的文学太火，火得甚至可以无视日本其他作家的存在。这样的途径是否恰当，暂且不论，但至少说明了一个相当大的差距，村上春树的面孔可以被解读成两个模样！   

　　至于村上春树，一个迎来了六十岁的职业小说家，一个充分把握了自己，坚持写作就像每天坚持长跑一样跃跃欲试，把瞬间的想法逐一压进自己的小说，类似这样的日本作家也许是奇特的，难怪有人称他是日本当代文学的康德。据说，德国大哲学家康德是一个讲究生活规律讲究到底的人。每天定时必然走过小广场的传说已经变成了他的哲学符号，就像村上春树的长跑已经替他的小说打上了招牌一样。     

　　同样还是村上春树，最近在耶路撒冷文学奖上的讲演引起了公众媒体的高度关注，日本《朝日新闻》以《村上春树的真实》为标题，称这次讲演是一次破例，而且将有可能变成村上文学的转折点！   

　　不可否认，村上春树此次获奖的时机很糟糕，因为正值以色列刚轰炸完巴勒斯坦的加沙地区，造成了大量无辜市民的伤亡，其中包括了老人与儿童。面对这样一个政治的角斗场，村上春树一反以往的所谓“小资风格”，突然变身为一个敢于挺身而出，并且猛烈抨击以色列的小说家。他的讲演开场如下：   

　　“晚上好。今天我作为一个小说家来到耶路撒冷，也可以说，我是作为一个职业的写谎话的人来到了这里。当然，小说家们不是唯一说谎的人。众所周知，政治家们也说谎。外交官和将军们，还有汽车推销员、屠夫，和建筑师一样都是说谎的人。然而小说家的谎言与其他谎言不同，因为没人指责他的谎言不道德。小说家的谎话越大，越把谎话讲得精巧，谎言就会被创造得越像天才之作一样，大众与评论就越会赞美他。这是为什么呢？”   

　　接下来，村上春树把这个理由归结为“小说家可以将真相放到一个新的场合从而让它显得更为清晰”以后，直接面对台下的以色列总统佩雷斯以及六百多名来宾这么说:“然而今天，我不想撒谎。我要尽量诚实。一年之中，我仅仅只有几天时间不会讲谎话，而今天碰巧就是其中的一天。所以请允许我告诉你们真相，在日本，许多人建议我不要来这里接受耶路撒冷文学奖。有人甚至警告我，如果我来了，他们就会抵制我的书。这所有的原因当然在于加沙地区发生的激战。联合国报告说在封锁的加沙城有上千人身亡，其中很多都是手无寸铁的平民、孩子和老人。从得知获奖之时开始，我就问自己，在这么一个时间内去以色列领取文学奖项是否合适？是否会给人带来我只支持冲突某一方、赞同某国以势不可挡的武力而制定的国策的印象。当然，与此同时，我不希望看到我的书遭到抵制。最终，在深思熟虑之后，我决定来到这里。我作此决定的一个原因就是太多的人建议我不要到这里来。”[全场笑]   

　　根据现场采访的日本记者的报道，村上春树是用英语做的讲演，他的态度十分坚定，虽然跟佩雷斯总统一起进入了讲演大厅，但在讲到上述内容的时候，他的目光是对着佩雷斯总统说的。于是，在这样一个气氛中，村上说出了以下的话：

　　“在一面高大而坚固的墙和一只撞向墙的蛋之间，我永远会站在蛋的一边！无论墙有多对，蛋有多错，我都会和蛋站在一起。炸弹、坦克、飞弹和白磷弹就是那面墙。而那些蛋就是那些手无寸铁的平民，他们被炮弹粉碎、烧毁、击中。这是我的比喻的意味。 然而它又不是全部。它还有更深的含义。你们想想：我们每一个人，或多或少都是一个蛋。我们每一个人都是一个独特的而不可替代的灵魂，而这个灵魂被一个脆弱的外壳覆盖着，这就是我自己的真相，而且这也是你们每一个人的真相。我们每一个人，或重或轻，都在面对一面高大而坚固的墙。而这面墙有一个名字：它的名字叫体制（The System）。这个体制本来应该保护我们，可有的时候它却有了生命，而这时它开始杀死我们，开始怂恿我们互相残杀！冷血地、有效地、系统性地残杀。”   

　　整个讲演到了最后，村上春树开始向世界呼吁:“我今天只有一个信息希望传达给你们。那就是我们都是人类，是超越了国籍种族和信仰的个体，我们都是面对着名为体制的坚固的墙的一个脆弱的蛋。我们没办法赢。墙太高大了，太强大了，而且太冷酷了！如果我们还有一点点胜利的希望，那么它将来自于我们对于自己和他人的灵魂当中的那种极端独特而又不可替代的信念，来自于从我们的灵魂的联合中所获得的那种温暖的信念。请花一点点时间想想这个吧。我们每一个人都拥有一个脆弱而活生生的灵魂，而体制一无所有。我们不应该让体制剥削我们。我们一定不能允许体制有它自己的意志。因为体制并不创造我们，而是我们创造了体制！这就是我想说的全部。”   

　　耶路撒冷文学奖创办于1963年，每两年颁发一次，主要表彰的对象是探究文学与人类自由、以及人与社会和政治关系的作家。卡夫卡、加缪和博尔赫斯都曾经是这个奖项的得主。   

　　据说，村上春树获奖后的个人感慨是自己步入了六十岁，而父亲于去年以九十岁的高龄获得了往生。