莫言諾貝爾文學(xué)獎致辭英文演講稿

　　以下這篇演講稿是中國當(dāng)代著名作家莫言2012年獲得諾貝爾文學(xué)獎時在瑞典學(xué)院發(fā)表的領(lǐng)獎演講《講故事的人》(storyteller)，莫言在這次演講中追憶了自己的母親，回顧了文學(xué)創(chuàng)作之路，并與聽眾分享了三個意味深長的“故事”，講述了自己如何成為一個用筆來講故事的人的過程。莫言表示，自己今后還要繼續(xù)講自己的故事。

　　Distinguished members of the Swedish Academy, Ladies and Gentlemen:Through the mediums of television and the Internet, I imagine that everyone here has at least a nodding acquaintance with far-off Northeast Gaomi Township. You may have seen my ninety-year-old father, as well as my brothers, my sister, my wife and my daughter, even my granddaughter, now a year and four months old. But the person who is most on my mind at this moment, my mother, is someone you will never see. Many people have shared in the honor of winning this prize, everyone but her.

　　尊敬的瑞典學(xué)院各位院士，女士們、先生們：通過電視或網(wǎng)絡(luò)，我想在座的各位，對遙遠的高密東北鄉(xiāng)，已經(jīng)有了或多或少的了解。你們也許看到了我的九十歲的老父親，看到了我的哥哥姐姐我的妻子女兒和我的一歲零四個月的外孫子，但是有一個此刻我最想念的人，我的母親，你們永遠無法看到了。我獲獎后，很多人分享了我的光榮，但我的母親卻無法分享了。

　　My mother was born in 1922 and died in 1994. We buried her in a peach orchard east of the village. Last year we were forced to move her grave farther away from the village in order to make room for a proposed rail line. When we dug up the grave, we saw that the coffin had rotted away and that her body had merged with the damp earth around it. So we dug up some of that soil, a symbolic act, and took it to the new gravesite. That was when I grasped the knowledge that my mother had become part of the earth, and that when I spoke to mother earth, I was really speaking to my mother.

　　我母親生于1922年，卒于1994年。她的骨灰，埋葬在村莊東邊的桃園里。去年，一條鐵路要從那兒穿過，我們不得不將她的墳?zāi)惯w移到距離村子更遠的地方。掘開墳?zāi)购螅�我們看到，棺木已�?jīng)腐朽，母親的骨殖，已經(jīng)與泥土混為一體。我們只好象征性地挖起一些泥土，移到新的墓穴里。也就是從那一時刻起，我感到，我的母親是大地的一部分，我站在大地上的訴說，就是對母親的訴說。

　　I was my mother's youngest child. My earliest memory was of taking our only vacuum bottle to the public canteen for drinking water. Weakened by hunger, I dropped the bottle and broke it. Scared witless, I hid all that day in a haystack. Toward evening, I heard my mother calling my childhood name, so I crawled out of my hiding place, prepared to receive a beating or a scolding. But Mother didn't hit me, didn't even scold me. She just rubbed my head and heaved a sigh.

　　我是我母親最小的孩子。我記憶中最早的一件事，是提著家里唯一的一把熱水壺去公共食堂打開水。因為饑餓無力，失手將熱水瓶打碎，我嚇得要命，鉆進草垛，一天沒敢出來。傍晚的時候我聽到母親呼喚我的乳名，我從草垛里鉆出來，以為會受到打罵，但母親沒有打我也沒有罵我，只是撫摸著我的頭，口中發(fā)出長長的嘆息。

　　My most painful memory involved going out in the collective's field with Mother to glean ears of wheat. The gleaners scattered when they spotted the watchman. But Mother, who had bound feet, could not run; she was caught and slapped so hard by the watchman, a hulk of a man, that she fell to the ground. The watchman confiscated the wheat we'd gleaned and walked off whistling. As she sat on the ground, her lip bleeding, Mother wore a look of hopelessness I'll never forget. Years later, when I encountered the watchman, now a gray-haired old man, in the marketplace, Mother had to stop me from going up to avenge her. "Son," she said evenly, "the man who hit me and this man are not the same person."

　　我記憶中最痛苦的一件事，就是跟著母親去集體的地理揀麥穗，看守麥田的人來了，揀麥穗的人紛紛逃跑，我母親是小腳，跑不快，被捉住，那個身材高大的看守人煽了她一個耳光，她搖晃著身體跌倒在地，看守人沒收了我們揀到的麥穗，吹著口哨揚長而去。我母親嘴角流血，坐在地上，臉上那種絕望的神情深我終生難忘。多年之后，當(dāng)那個看守麥田的人成為一個白發(fā)蒼蒼的老人，在集市上與我相逢，我沖上去想找他報仇，母親拉住了我，平靜的對我說：“兒子，那個打我的人，與這個老人，并不是一個人。”

　　My clearest memory is of a Moon Festival day, at noontime, one of those rare occasions when we ate jiaozi at home, one bowl apiece. An aging beggar came to our door while we were at the table, and when I tried to send him away with half a bowlful of dried sweet potatoes, he reacted angrily: "I'm an old man," he said. "You people are eating jiaozi, but want to feed me sweet potatoes. How heartless can you be?" I reacted just as angrily: "We're lucky if we eat jiaozi a couple of times a year, one small bowlful apiece, barely enough to get a taste! You should be thankful we're giving you sweet potatoes, and if you don't want them, you can get the hell out of here!" After (dressing me down) reprimanding me, Mother dumped her half bowlful of jiaozi into the old man's bowl.My most remorseful memory involves helping Mother sell cabbages at market, and me overcharging an old villager one jiao – intentionally or not, I can't recall – before heading off to school. When I came home that afternoon, I saw that Mother was crying, something she rarely did. Instead of scolding me, she merely said softly, "Son, you embarrassed your mother today."

　　我記得最深刻的一件事是一個中秋節(jié)的中午，我們家難得的包了一頓餃子，每人只有一碗。正當(dāng)我們吃餃子時，一個乞討的老人來到了我們家門口，我端起半碗紅薯干打發(fā)他，他卻憤憤不平地說：“我是一個老人，你們吃餃子，卻讓我吃紅薯干。你們的心是怎么長的?”我氣急敗壞的說：“我們一年也吃不了幾次餃子，一人一小碗，連半飽都吃不了!給你紅薯干就不錯了，你要就要，不要就滾!”母親訓(xùn)斥了我，然后端起她那半碗餃子，倒進了老人碗里。我最后悔的一件事，就是跟著母親去賣白菜，有意無意的多算了一位買白菜的老人一毛錢。算完錢我就去了學(xué)校。當(dāng)我放學(xué)回家時，看到很少流淚的母親淚流滿面。母親并沒有罵我，只是輕輕的說：“兒子，你讓娘丟了臉。”

　　Mother contracted a serious lung disease when I was still in my teens. Hunger, disease, and too much work made things extremely hard on our family. The road ahead looked especially bleak, and I had a bad feeling about the future, worried that Mother might take her own life. Every day, the first thing I did when I walked in the door after a day of hard labor was call out for Mother. Hearing her voice was like giving my heart a new lease on life. But not hearing her threw me into a panic. I'd go looking for her in the side building and in the mill. One day, after searching everywhere and not finding her, I sat down in the yard and cried like a baby. That is how she found me when she walked into the yard carrying a bundle of firewood on her back. She was very unhappy with me, but I could not tell her what I was afraid of. She knew anyway. "Son," she said, "don't worry, there may be no joy in my life, but I won't leave you till the God of the Underworld calls me."

　　我十幾歲時，母親患了嚴(yán)重的肺病，饑餓，病痛，勞累，使我們這個家庭陷入了困境，看不到光明和希望。我產(chǎn)生了一種強烈的不祥之兆，以為母親隨時都會自己尋短見。每當(dāng)我勞動歸來，一進大門就高喊母親，聽到她的回應(yīng)，心中才感到一塊石頭落了地。如果一時聽不到她的回應(yīng)，我就心驚膽戰(zhàn)，跑到廚房和磨坊里尋找。有一次找遍了所有的房間也沒有見到母親的身影，我便坐在了院子里大哭。這時母親背著一捆柴草從外面走進來。她對我的哭很不滿，但我又不能對她說出我的擔(dān)憂。母親看到我的心思，她說：“孩子你放心，盡管我活著沒有一點樂趣，但只要閻王爺不叫我，我是不會去的。”

　　I was born ugly. Villagers often laughed in my face, and school bullies sometimes beat me up because of it. I'd run home crying, where my mother would say, "You're not ugly, Son. You've got a nose and two eyes, and there's nothing wrong with your arms and legs, so how could you be ugly? If you have a good heart and always do the right thing, what is considered ugly becomes beautiful." Later on, when I moved to the city, there were educated people who laughed at me behind my back, some even to my face; but when I recalled what Mother had said, I just calmly offered my apologies.

　　我生來相貌丑陋，村子里很多人當(dāng)面嘲笑我，學(xué)校里有幾個性格霸蠻的同學(xué)甚至為此打我。我回家痛苦，母親對我說：“兒子，你不丑，你不缺鼻子不缺眼，四肢健全，丑在哪里?而且只要你心存善良，多做好事，即便是丑也能變美。”后來我進入城市，有一些很有文化的人依然在背后甚至當(dāng)面嘲弄我的相貌，我想起了母親的話，便心平氣和地向他們道歉。

　　My illiterate mother held people who could read in high regard. We were so poor we often did not know where our next meal was coming from, yet she never denied my request to buy a book or something to write with. By nature hard working, she had no use for lazy children, yet I could skip my chores as long as I had my nose in a book.

　　我母親不識字，但對識字的人十分敬重。我們家生活困難，經(jīng)常吃了上頓沒下頓。但只要我對她提出買書買文具的要求，她總是會滿足我。她是個勤勞的人，討厭懶惰的孩子，但只要是我因為看書耽誤了干活，她從來沒批評過我。

　　A storyteller once came to the marketplace, and I sneaked off to listen to him. She was unhappy with me for forgetting my chores. But that night, while she was stitching padded clothes for us under the weak light of a kerosene lamp, I couldn't keep from retelling stories I'd heard that day. She listened impatiently at first, since in her eyes professional storytellers were smooth-talking men in a dubious profession. Nothing good ever came out of their mouths. But slowly she was dragged into my retold stories, and from that day on, she never gave me chores on market day, unspoken permission to go to the marketplace and listen to new stories. As repayment for Mother's kindness and a way to demonstrate my memory, I'd retell the stories for her in vivid detail. It did not take long to find retelling someone else's stories unsatisfying, so I began embellishing my narration. I'd say things I knew would please Mother, even changed the ending once in a while. And she wasn't the only member of my audience, which later included my older sisters, my aunts, even my maternal grandmother. Sometimes, after my mother had listened to one of my stories, she'd ask in a care-laden voice, almost as if to herself: "What will you be like when you grow up, son? Might you wind up prattling for a living one day?"

　　有一段時間，集市上來了一個說書人。我偷偷地跑去聽書，忘記了她分配給我的活兒。為此，母親批評了我，晚上當(dāng)她就著一盞小油燈為家人趕制棉衣時，我忍不住把白天從說書人聽來的故事復(fù)述給她聽，起初她有些不耐煩，因為在她心目中說書人都是油嘴滑舌，不務(wù)正業(yè)的人，從他們嘴里冒不出好話來。但我復(fù)述的故事漸漸的吸引了她，以后每逢集日她便不再給我排活，默許我去集上聽書。為了報答母親的恩情，也為了向她炫耀我的記憶力，我會把白天聽到的故事，繪聲繪色地講給她聽。很快的，我就不滿足復(fù)述說書人講的故事了，我在復(fù)述的過程中不斷的添油加醋，我會投我母親所好，編造一些情節(jié)，有時候甚至改變故事的結(jié)局。我的聽眾也不僅僅是我的母親，連我的姐姐，我的嬸嬸，我的奶奶都成為我的聽眾。我母親在聽完我的故事后，有時會憂心忡忡地，像是對我說，又像是自言自語：“兒啊，你長大后會成為一個什么人呢?難道要靠耍貧嘴吃飯嗎?”

　　I knew why she was worried. Talkative kids are not well thought of in our village, for they can bring trouble to themselves and to their families. There is a bit of a young me in the talkative boy who falls afoul of villagers in my story "Bulls." Mother habitually cautioned me not to talk so much, wanting me to be a taciturn, smooth and steady youngster. Instead I was possessed of a dangerous combination – remarkable speaking skills and the powerful desire that went with them. My ability to tell stories brought her joy, but that created a dilemma for her.

　　我理解母親的擔(dān)憂，因為在村子里，一個貧嘴的孩子，是招人厭煩的，有時候還會給自己和家庭帶來麻煩。我在小說《�！防锼鶎懙哪莻�因為話多被村子里厭惡的孩子，就有我童年時的影子。我母親經(jīng)常提醒我少說話，她希望我能做一個沉默寡言、安穩(wěn)大方的孩子。但在我身上，卻顯露出極強的說話能力和極大的說話欲望，這無疑是極大的危險，但我說的故事的能力，又帶給了她愉悅，這使他陷入深深的矛盾之中。

　　A popular saying goes "It is easier to change the course of a river than a person's nature." Despite my parents' tireless guidance, my natural desire to talk never went away, and that is what makes my name – Mo Yan, or "don't speak" – an ironic expression of self-mockery. After dropping out of elementary school, I was too small for heavy labor, so I became a cattle- and sheep-herder on a nearby grassy riverbank. The sight of my former schoolmates playing in the schoolyard when I drove my animals past the gate always saddened me and made me aware of how tough it is for anyone – even a child – to leave the group.

　　俗話說“江山易改、本性難移”，盡管我有父母親的諄諄教導(dǎo)，但我并沒有改掉我喜歡說話的天性，這使得我的名字“莫言”，很像對自己的諷刺。我小學(xué)未畢業(yè)即輟學(xué)，因為年幼體弱，干不了重活，只好到荒草灘上去放牧牛羊。當(dāng)我牽著牛羊從學(xué)校門前路過，看到昔日的同學(xué)在校園里打打鬧鬧，我心中充滿悲涼，深深地體會到一個人，哪怕是一個孩子，離開群體后的痛苦。 俗話說“江山易改、本性難移”，盡管我有父母親的諄諄教導(dǎo)，但我并沒有改掉我喜歡說話的天性，這使得我的名字“莫言”，很像對自己的諷刺。

　　I turned the animals loose on the riverbank to graze beneath a sky as blue as the ocean and grass-carpeted land as far as the eye could see – not another person in sight, no human sounds, nothing but bird calls above me. I was all by myself and terribly lonely; my heart felt empty. Sometimes I lay in the grass and watched clouds float lazily by, which gave rise to all sorts of fanciful images. That part of the country is known for its tales of foxes in the form of beautiful young women, and I would fantasize a fox-turned-beautiful girl coming to tend animals with me. She never did come. Once, however, a fiery red fox bounded out of the brush in front of me, scaring my legs right out from under me. I was still sitting there trembling long after the fox had vanished. Sometimes I'd crouch down beside the cows and gaze into their deep blue eyes, eyes that captured my reflection. At times I'd have a dialogue with birds in the sky, mimicking their cries, while at other times I'd divulge my hopes and desires to a tree. But the birds ignored me, and so did the trees. Years later, after I'd become a novelist, I wrote some of those fantasies into my novels and stories. People frequently bombard me with compliments on my vivid imagination, and lovers of literature often ask me to divulge my secret to developing a rich imagination. My only response is a wan smile.

　　到了荒灘上，我把牛羊放開，讓它們自己吃草。藍天如海，草地一望無際，周圍看不到一個人影，沒有人的聲音，只有鳥兒在天上鳴叫。我感到很孤獨，很寂寞，心里空空蕩蕩。有時候，我躺在草地上，望著天上懶洋洋地飄動著的白云，腦海里便浮現(xiàn)出許多莫名其妙的幻象。我們那地方流傳著許多狐貍變成美女的故事，我幻想著能有一個狐貍變成美女與我來作伴放牛，但她始終沒有出現(xiàn)。但有一次，一只火紅色的狐貍從我面前的草叢中跳出來時，我被嚇得一屁股蹲在地上。狐貍跑沒了蹤影，我還在那里顫抖。有時候我會蹲在牛的身旁，看著湛藍的牛眼和牛眼中的我的倒影。有時候我會模仿著鳥兒的叫聲試圖與天上的鳥兒對話，有時候我會對一棵樹訴說心聲。但鳥兒不理我，樹也不理我。許多年后，當(dāng)我成為一個小說家，當(dāng)年的許多幻想，都被我寫進了小說。很多人夸我想象力豐富，有一些文學(xué)愛好者，希望我能告訴他們培養(yǎng)想象力的秘訣，對此，我只能報以苦笑。

　　Our Taoist master Laozi said it best: "Fortune depends on misfortune. Misfortune is hidden in fortune." I left school as a child, often went hungry, was constantly lonely, and had no books to read. But for those reasons, like the writer of a previous generation, Shen Congwen, I had an early start on reading the great book of life. My experience of going to the marketplace to listen to a storyteller was but one page of that book. After leaving school, I was thrown uncomfortably into the world of adults, where I embarked on the long journey of learning through listening. Two hundred years ago, one of the great storytellers of all time – Pu Songling – lived near where I grew up, and where many people, me included, carried on the tradition he had perfected. Wherever I happened to be – working the fields with the collective, in production team cowsheds or stables, on my grandparents' heated kang, even on oxcarts bouncing and swaying down the road, my ears filled with tales of the supernatural, historical romances, and strange and captivating stories, all tied to the natural environment and clan histories, and all of which created a powerful reality in my mind.

　　就像中國的先賢老子所說的那樣：“福兮禍之所伏，福禍福所倚”，我童年輟學(xué)，飽受饑餓、孤獨、無書可讀之苦，但我因此也像我們的前輩作家沈從文那樣，及早地開始閱讀社會人生這本大書。前面所提到的到集市上去聽說數(shù)人說書，僅僅是這本大書中的一頁。輟學(xué)之后，我混跡于成人之中，開始了“用耳朵閱讀”的漫長生涯。二百多年前，我的故鄉(xiāng)曾出了一個講故事的偉大天才——蒲松齡，我們村里的許多人，包括我，都是他的傳人。我在集體勞動的田間地頭，在生產(chǎn)隊的牛棚馬廄，在我爺爺奶奶的熱炕頭上，甚至在搖搖晃晃地進行著的牛車社，聆聽了許許多多神鬼故事，歷史傳奇，逸聞趣事，這些故事都與當(dāng)?shù)氐淖匀画h(huán)境，家庭歷史緊密聯(lián)系在一起，使我產(chǎn)生了強烈的現(xiàn)實感。

　　Even in my wildest dreams, I could not have envisioned a day when all this would be the stuff of my own fiction, for I was just a boy who loved stories, who was infatuated with the tales people around me were telling. Back then I was, without a doubt, a theist, believing that all living creatures were endowed with souls. I'd stop and pay my respects to a towering old tree; if I saw a bird, I was sure it could become human any time it wanted; and I suspected every stranger I met of being a transformed beast. At night, terrible fears accompanied me on my way home after my work points were tallied, so I'd sing at the top of my lungs as I ran to build up a bit of courage. My voice, which was changing at the time, produced scratchy, squeaky songs that grated on the ears of any villager who heard me.

　　我做夢也想不到有朝一日這些東西會成為我的寫作素材，我當(dāng)時只是一個迷戀故事的孩子，醉心地聆聽著人們的講述。那時我是一個絕對的有神論者，我相信萬物都有靈性，我見到一棵大樹會肅然起敬。我看到一只鳥會感到它隨時會變化成人，我遇到一個陌生人，也會懷疑他是一個動物變化而成。每當(dāng)夜晚我從生產(chǎn)隊的記工房回家時，無邊的恐懼便包圍了我，為了壯膽，我一邊奔跑一邊大聲歌唱。那時我正處在變聲期，嗓音嘶啞，聲調(diào)難聽，我的歌唱，是對我的鄉(xiāng)親們的一種折磨。

　　I spent my first twenty-one years in that village, never traveling farther from home than to Qingdao, by train, where I nearly got lost amid the giant stacks of wood in a lumber mill. When my mother asked me what I'd seen in Qingdao, I reported sadly that all I'd seen were stacks of lumber. But that trip to Qingdao planted in me a powerful desire to leave my village and see the world.

　　我在故鄉(xiāng)生活了二十一年，期間離家最遠的是乘火車去了一次青島，還差點迷失在木材廠的巨大木材之間，以至于我母親問我去青島看到了什么風(fēng)景時，我沮喪地告訴她：什么都沒看到，只看到了一堆堆的木頭。但也就是這次青島之行，使我產(chǎn)生了想離開故鄉(xiāng)到外邊去看世界的強烈愿望。

　　In February 1976 I was recruited into the army and walked out of the Northeast Gaomi Township village I both loved and hated, entering a critical phase of my life, carrying in my backpack the four-volume Brief History of China my mother had bought by selling her wedding jewelry. Thus began the most important period of my life. I must admit that were it not for the thirty-odd years of tremendous development and progress in Chinese society, and the subsequent national reform and opening of her doors to the outside, I would not be a writer today.

　　1976 年2 月，我應(yīng)征入伍，背著我母親賣掉結(jié)婚時的首飾幫我購買的四本《中國通史簡編》，走出了高密東北鄉(xiāng)這個既讓我愛又讓我恨的地方，開始了我人生的重要時期。我必須承認(rèn)，如果沒有30 多年來中國社會的巨大發(fā)展與進步，如果沒有改革開放，也不會有我這樣一個作家。

　　In the midst of mind-numbing military life, I welcomed the ideological emancipation and literary fervor of the nineteen-eighties, and evolved from a boy who listened to stories and passed them on by word of mouth into someone who experimented with writing them down. It was a rocky road at first, a time when I had not yet discovered how rich a source of literary material my two decades of village life could be. I thought that literature was all about good people doing good things, stories of heroic deeds and model citizens, so that the few pieces of mine that were published had little literary value.

　　在軍營的枯燥生活中，我迎來了八十年代的思想解放和文學(xué)熱潮，我從一個用耳朵聆聽故事，用嘴巴講述故事的孩子，開始嘗試用筆來講述故事。起初的道路并不平坦，我那時并沒有意識到我二十多年的農(nóng)村生活經(jīng)驗是文學(xué)的富礦，那時我以為文學(xué)就是寫好人好事，就是寫英雄模范，所以，盡管也發(fā)表了幾篇作品，但文學(xué)價值很低。

　　In the fall of 1984 I was accepted into the Literature Department of the PLA Art Academy, where, under the guidance of my revered mentor, the renowned writer Xu Huaizhong, I wrote a series of stories and novellas, including: "Autumn Floods," "Dry River," "The Transparent Carrot," and "Red Sorghum." Northeast Gaomi Township made its first appearance in "Autumn Floods," and from that moment on, like a wandering peasant who finds his own piece of land, this literary vagabond found a place he could call his own. I must say that in the course of creating my literary domain, Northeast Gaomi Township, I was greatly inspired by the American novelist William Faulkner and the Columbian Gabriel García Márquez. I had not read either of them extensively, but was encouraged by the bold, unrestrained way they created new territory in writing, and learned from them that a writer must have a place that belongs to him alone. Humility and compromise are ideal in one's daily life, but in literary creation, supreme self-confidence and the need to follow one's own instincts are essential. For two years I followed in the footsteps of these two masters before realizing that I had to escape their influence; this is how I characterized that decision in an essay: They were a pair of blazing furnaces, I was a block of ice. If I got too close to them, I would dissolve into a cloud of steam. In my understanding, one writer influences another when they enjoy a profound spiritual kinship, what is often referred to as "hearts beating in unison." That explains why, though I had read little of their work, a few pages were sufficient for me to comprehend what they were doing and how they were doing it, which led to my understanding of what I should do and how I should do it.

　　1984年秋，我考入解放軍藝術(shù)學(xué)院文學(xué)系。在我的恩師著名作家徐懷中的啟發(fā)指導(dǎo)下，我寫出了《秋水》、《枯河》、《透明的紅蘿卜》、《紅高粱》等一批中短篇小說。在《秋水》這篇小說里，第一次出現(xiàn)了“高密東北鄉(xiāng)”這個字眼，從此，就如同一個四處游蕩的農(nóng)民有了一片土地，我這樣一個文學(xué)的流浪漢，終于有了一個可以安身立命的場所。我必須承認(rèn)，在創(chuàng)建我的文學(xué)領(lǐng)地“高密東北鄉(xiāng)”的過程中，美國的威廉·�？思{和哥倫比亞的加西亞·馬爾克斯給了我重要啟發(fā)。我對他們的閱讀并不認(rèn)真，但他們開天辟地的豪邁精神激勵了我，使我明白了一個作家必須要有一塊屬于自己的地方。一個人在日常生活中應(yīng)該謙卑退讓，但在文學(xué)創(chuàng)作中，必須頤指氣使，獨斷專行。我追隨在這兩位大師身后兩年，即意識到，必須盡快地逃離他們，我在一篇文章中寫道：他們是兩座灼熱的火爐，而我是冰塊，如果離他們太近，會被他們蒸發(fā)掉。根據(jù)我的體會，一個作家之所以會受到某一位作家的影響，其根本是因為影響者和被影響者靈魂深處的相似之處。正所謂“心有靈犀一點通”。所以，盡管我沒有很好地去讀他們的書，但只讀過幾頁，我就明白了他們干了什么，也明白了他們是怎樣干的，隨即我也就明白了我該干什么和我該怎樣干。

　　What I should do was simplicity itself: Write my own stories in my own way. My way was that of the marketplace storyteller, with which I was so familiar, the way my grandfather and my grandmother and other village old-timers told stories. In all candor, I never gave a thought to audience when I was telling my stories; perhaps my audience was made up of people like my mother, and perhaps it was only me. The early stories were narrations of my personal experience: the boy who received a whipping in "Dry River," for instance, or the boy who never spoke in "The Transparent Carrot." I had actually done something bad enough to receive a whipping from my father, and I had actually worked the bellows for a blacksmith on a bridge site. Naturally, personal experience cannot be turned into fiction exactly as it happened, no matter how unique that might be. Fiction has to be fictional, has to be imaginative. To many of my friends, "The Transparent Carrot" is my very best story; I have no opinion one way or the other. What I can say is, "The Transparent Carrot" is more symbolic and more profoundly meaningful than any other story I've written. That dark-skinned boy with the superhuman ability to suffer and a superhuman degree of sensitivity represents the soul of my entire fictional output. Not one of all the fictional characters I've created since then is as close to my soul as he is. Or put a different way, among all the characters a writer creates, there is always one that stands above all the others. For me, that laconic boy is the one. Though he says nothing, he leads the way for all the others, in all their variety, performing freely on the Northeast Gaomi Township stage.

　　我該干的事情其實很簡單，那就是用自己的方式，講自己的故事。我的方式，就是我所熟知的集市說書人的方式，就是我的爺爺奶奶、村里的老人們講故事的方式。坦率地說，講述的時候，我沒有想到誰會是我的聽眾，也許我的聽眾就是那些如我母親一樣的人，也許我的聽眾就是我自己，我自己的故事，起初就是我的親身經(jīng)歷，譬如《枯河》中那個遭受痛打的孩子，譬如《透明的紅蘿卜》中那個自始至終一言不發(fā)的孩子。我的確曾因為干過一件錯事而受到過父親的痛打，我也的確曾在橋梁工地上為鐵匠師傅拉過風(fēng)箱。當(dāng)然，個人的經(jīng)歷無論多么奇特也不可能原封不動地寫進小說，小說必須虛構(gòu)，必須想象。很多朋友說《透明的紅蘿卜》是我最好的小說，對此我不反駁，也不認(rèn)同，但我認(rèn)為《透明的紅蘿卜》是我的作品中最有象征性、最意味深長的一部。那個渾身漆黑、具有超人的忍受痛苦的能力和超人的感受能力的孩子，是我全部小說的靈魂，盡管在后來的小說里，我寫了很多的人物，但沒有一個人物，比他更貼近我的靈魂�；蛘呖梢哉f，一個作家所塑造的若干人物中，總有一個領(lǐng)頭的，這個沉默的孩子就是一個領(lǐng)頭的，他一言不發(fā)，但卻有力地領(lǐng)導(dǎo)著形形色色的人物，在高密東北鄉(xiāng)這個舞臺上，盡情地表演。

　　A person can experience only so much, and once you have exhausted your own stories, you must tell the stories of others. And so, out of the depths of my memories, like conscripted soldiers, rose stories of family members, of fellow villagers, and of long-dead ancestors I learned of from the mouths of old-timers. They waited expectantly for me to tell their stories. My grandfather and grandmother, my father and mother, my brothers and sisters, my aunts and uncles, my wife and my daughter have all appeared in my stories. Even unrelated residents of Northeast Gaomi Township have made cameo appearances. Of course they have undergone literary modification to transform them into larger-than-life fictional characters.An aunt of mine is the central character of my latest novel, Frogs. The announcement of the Nobel Prize sent journalists swarming to her home with interview requests. At first, she was patiently accommodating, but she soon had to escape their attentions by fleeing to her son's home in the provincial capital. I don't deny that she was my model in writing Frogs, but the differences between her and the fictional aunt are extensive. The fictional aunt is arrogant and domineering, in places virtually thuggish, while my real aunt is kind and gentle, the classic caring wife and loving mother. My real aunt's golden years have been happy and fulfilling; her fictional counterpart suffers insomnia in her late years as a result of spiritual torment, and walks the nights like a specter, wearing a dark robe. I am grateful to my real aunt for not being angry with me for how I changed her in the novel. I also greatly respect her wisdom in comprehending the complex relationship between fictional characters and real people.

　　自己的故事總是有限的，講完了自己的故事，就必須講他人的故事。于是，我的親人們的故事，我的村人們的故事，以及我從老人們口中聽到過的祖先們的故事，就像聽到集合令的士兵一樣，從我的記憶深處涌出來。他們用期盼的目光看著我，等待著我去寫他們。我的爺爺、奶奶、父親、母親、哥哥、姐姐、姑姑、叔叔、妻子、女兒，都在我的作品里出現(xiàn)過，還有很多的我們高密東北鄉(xiāng)的鄉(xiāng)親，也都在我的小說里露過面。當(dāng)然，我對他們，都進行了文學(xué)化的處理，使他們超越了他們自身，成為文學(xué)中的人物。我最新的小說《蛙》中，就出現(xiàn)了我姑姑的形象。因為我獲得諾貝爾獎，許多記者到她家采訪，起初她還很耐心地回答提問，但很快便不勝其煩，跑到縣城里她兒子家躲起來了。姑姑確實是我寫《蛙》時的模特，但小說中的姑姑，與現(xiàn)實生活中的姑姑有著天壤之別。小說中的姑姑專橫跋扈，有時簡直像個女匪，現(xiàn)實中的姑姑和善開朗，是一個標(biāo)準(zhǔn)的賢妻良母�，F(xiàn)實中的姑姑晚年生活幸福美滿，小說中的姑姑到了晚年卻因為心靈的巨大痛苦患上了失眠癥，身披黑袍，像個幽靈一樣在暗夜中游蕩。我感謝姑姑的寬容，她沒有因為我在小說中把她寫成那樣而生氣;我也十分敬佩我姑姑的明智，她正確地理解了小說中人物與現(xiàn)實中人物的復(fù)雜關(guān)系。

　　After my mother died, in the midst of almost crippling grief, I decided to write a novel for her. Big Breasts and Wide Hips is that novel. Once my plan took shape, I was burning with such emotion that I completed a draft of half a million words in only eighty-three days. In Big Breasts and Wide Hips I shamelessly used material associated with my mother's actual experience, but the fictional mother's emotional state is either a total fabrication or a composite of many of Northeast Gaomi Township's mothers. Though I wrote "To the spirit of my mother" on the dedication page, the novel was really written for all mothers everywhere, evidence, perhaps, of my overweening ambition, in much the same way as I hope to make tiny Northeast Gaomi Township a microcosm of China, even of the whole world.

　　母親去世后，我悲痛萬分，決定寫一部書獻給她。這就是那本《豐乳肥臀》。因為胸有成竹，因為情感充盈，僅用了83 天，我便寫出了這部長達50 萬字的小說的初稿。在《豐乳肥臀》這本書里，我肆無忌憚地使用了與我母親的親身經(jīng)歷有關(guān)的素材，但書中的母親情感方面的經(jīng)歷，則是虛構(gòu)或取材于高密東北鄉(xiāng)諸多母親的經(jīng)歷。在這本書的卷前語上，我寫下了“獻給母親在天之靈”的話，但這本書，實際上是獻給天下母親的，這是我狂妄的野心，就像我希望把小小的“高密東北鄉(xiāng)”寫成中國乃至世界的縮影一樣。

　　The process of creation is unique to every writer. Each of my novels differs from the others in terms of plot and guiding inspiration. Some, such as "The Transparent Carrot," were born in dreams, while others, like The Garlic Ballads have their origin in actual events. Whether the source of a work is a dream or real life, only if it is integrated with individual experience can it be imbued with individuality, be populated with typical characters molded by lively detail, employ richly evocative language, and boast a well crafted structure. Here I must point out that in The Garlic Ballads I introduced a real-life storyteller and singer in one of the novel's most important roles. I wish I hadn't used his real name, though his words and actions were made up. This is a recurring phenomenon with me. I'll start out using characters' real names in order to achieve a sense of intimacy, and after the work is finished, it will seem too late to change those names. This has led to people who see their names in my novels going to my father to vent their displeasure. He always apologizes in my place, but then urges them not to take such things so seriously. He'll say: "The first sentence in Red Sorghum, 'My father, a bandit's offspring,' didn't upset me, so why should you be unhappy?" My greatest challenges come with writing novels that deal with social realities, such as The Garlic Ballads, not because I'm afraid of being openly critical of the darker aspects of society, but because heated emotions and anger allow politics to suppress literature and transform a novel into reportage of a social event. As a member of society, a novelist is entitled to his own stance and viewpoint; but when he is writing he must take a humanistic stance, and write accordingly. Only then can literature not just originate in events, but transcend them, not just show concern for politics but be greater than politics.

　　作家的創(chuàng)作過程各有特色，我每本書的構(gòu)思與靈感觸發(fā)也都不盡相同。有的小說起源于夢境，譬如《透明的紅蘿卜》，有的小說則發(fā)端于現(xiàn)實生活中發(fā)生的事件——譬如《天堂蒜薹之歌》。但無論是起源于夢境還是發(fā)端于現(xiàn)實，最后都必須和個人的經(jīng)驗相結(jié)合，才有可能變成一部具有鮮明個性的，用無數(shù)生動細節(jié)塑造出了典型人物的、語言豐富多彩、結(jié)構(gòu)匠心獨運的文學(xué)作品。有必要特別提及的是，在《天堂蒜薹之歌》中，我讓一個真正的說書人登場，并在書中扮演了十分重要的角色。我十分抱歉地使用了這個說書人真實姓名，當(dāng)然，他在書中的所有行為都是虛構(gòu)。在我的寫作中，出現(xiàn)過多次這樣的現(xiàn)象，寫作之初，我使用他們的真實姓名，希望能借此獲得一種親近感，但作品完成之后，我想為他們改換姓名時卻感到已經(jīng)不可能了，因此也發(fā)生過與我小說中人物同名者找到我父親發(fā)泄不滿的事情，我父親替我向他們道歉，但同時又開導(dǎo)他們不要當(dāng)真。我父親說：“他在《紅高粱》中，第一句就說‘我父親這個土匪種’，我都不在意你們還在意什么?”我在寫作《天堂蒜薹之歌》這類逼近社會現(xiàn)實的小說時，面對著的最大問題，其實不是我敢不敢對社會上的黑暗現(xiàn)象進行批評，而是這燃燒的激情和憤怒會讓政治壓倒文學(xué)，使這部小說變成一個社會事件的紀(jì)實報告。小說家是社會中人，他自然有自己的立場和觀點，但小說家在寫作時，必須站在人的立場上，把所有的人都當(dāng)做人來寫。只有這樣，文學(xué)才能發(fā)端事件但超越事件，關(guān)心政治但大于政治。

　　Possibly because I've lived so much of my life in difficult circumstances, I think I have a more profound understanding of life. I know what real courage is, and I understand true compassion. I know that nebulous terrain exists in the hearts and minds of every person, terrain that cannot be adequately characterized in simple terms of right and wrong or good and bad, and this vast territory is where a writer gives free rein to his talent. So long as the work correctly and vividly describes this nebulous, massively contradictory terrain, it will inevitably transcend politics and be endowed with literary excellence. Prattling on and on about my own work must be annoying, but my life and works are inextricably linked, so if I don't talk about my work, I don't know what else to say. I hope you are in a forgiving mood. I was a modern-day storyteller who hid in the background of his early work; but with the novel Sandalwood Death I jumped out of the shadows. My early work can be characterized as a series of soliloquies, with no reader in mind; starting with this novel, however, I visualized myself standing in a public square spiritedly telling my story to a crowd of listeners. This tradition is a worldwide phenomenon in fiction, but is especially so in China. At one time, I was a diligent student of Western modernist fiction, and I experimented with all sorts of narrative styles. But in the end I came back to my traditions. To be sure, this return was not without its modifications. Sandalwood Death and the novels that followed are inheritors of the Chinese classical novel tradition but enhanced by Western literary techniques. What is known as innovative fiction is, for the most part, a result of this mixture, which is not limited to domestic traditions with foreign techniques, but can include mixing fiction with art from other realms. Sandalwood Death, for instance, mixes fiction with local opera, while some of my early work was partly nurtured by fine art, music, even acrobatics.

　　可能是因為我經(jīng)歷過長期的艱難生活，使我對人性有較為深刻的了解。我知道真正的勇敢是什么，也明白真正的悲憫是什么。我知道，每個人心中都有一片難用是非善惡準(zhǔn)確定性的朦朧地帶，而這片地帶，正是文學(xué)家施展才華的廣闊天地。只要是準(zhǔn)確地、生動地描寫了這個充滿矛盾的朦朧地帶的作品，也就必然地超越了政治并具備了優(yōu)秀文學(xué)的品質(zhì)。喋喋不休地講述自己的作品是令人厭煩的，但我的人生是與我的作品緊密相連的，不講作品，我感到無從下嘴，所以還得請各位原諒。在我的早期作品中，我作為一個現(xiàn)代的說書人，是隱藏在文本背后的，但從《檀香刑》這部小說開始，我終于從后臺跳到了前臺。如果說我早期的作品是自言自語，目無讀者，從這本書開始，我感覺到自己是站在一個廣場上，面對著許多聽眾，繪聲繪色地講述。這是世界小說的傳統(tǒng)，更是中國小說的傳統(tǒng)。我也曾積極地向西方的現(xiàn)代派小說學(xué)習(xí)，也曾經(jīng)玩弄過形形色色的敘事花樣，但我最終回歸了傳統(tǒng)。當(dāng)然，這種回歸，不是一成不變的回歸，《檀香刑》和之后的小說，是繼承了中國古典小說傳統(tǒng)又借鑒了西方小說技術(shù)的混合文本。小說領(lǐng)域的所謂創(chuàng)新，基本上都是這種混合的產(chǎn)物。不僅僅是本國文學(xué)傳統(tǒng)與外國小說技巧的混合，也是小說與其他的藝術(shù)門類的混合，就像《檀香刑》是與民間戲曲的混合，就像我早期的一些小說從美術(shù)、音樂、甚至雜技中汲取了營養(yǎng)一樣。

　　Finally, I ask your indulgence to talk about my novel Life and Death Are Wearing Me Out. The Chinese title comes from Buddhist scripture, and I've been told that my translators have had fits trying to render it into their languages. I am not especially well versed in Buddhist scripture and have but a superficial understanding of the religion. I chose this title because I believe that the basic tenets of the Buddhist faith represent universal knowledge, and that mankind's many disputes are utterly without meaning in the Buddhist realm. In that lofty view of the universe, the world of man is to be pitied. My novel is not a religious tract; in it I wrote of man's fate and human emotions, of man's limitations and human generosity, and of people's search for happiness and the lengths to which they will go, the sacrifices they will make, to uphold their beliefs. Lan Lian, a character who takes a stand against contemporary trends, is, in my view, a true hero. A peasant in a neighboring village was the model for this character. As a youngster I often saw him pass by our door pushing a creaky, wooden-wheeled cart, with a lame donkey up front, led by his bound-foot wife. Given the collective nature of society back then, this strange labor group presented a bizarre sight that kept them out of step with the times. In the eyes of us children, they were clowns marching against historical trends, provoking in us such indignation that we threw stones at them as they passed us on the street. Years later, after I had begun writing, that peasant and the tableau he presented floated into my mind, and I knew that one day I would write a novel about him, that sooner or later I would tell his story to the world. But it wasn't until the year 2005, when I viewed the Buddhist mural "The Six Stages of Samsara" on a temple wall that I knew exactly how to go about telling his story.

　　最后，請允許我再講一下我的《生死疲勞》。這個書名來自佛教經(jīng)典，據(jù)我所知，為翻譯這個書名，各國的翻譯家都很頭痛。我對佛教經(jīng)典并沒有深入研究，對佛教的理解自然十分膚淺，之所以以此為題，是因為我覺得佛教的許多基本思想，是真正的宇宙意識，人世中許多紛爭，在佛家的眼里，是毫無意義的。這樣一種至高眼界下的人世，顯得十分可悲。當(dāng)然，我沒有把這本書寫成布道詞，我寫的還是人的命運與人的情感，人的局限與人的寬容，以及人為追求幸福、堅持自己的信念所做出的努力與犧牲。小說中那位以一己之身與時代潮流對抗的藍臉，在我心目中是一位真正的英雄。這個人物的原型，是我們鄰村的一位農(nóng)民，我童年時，經(jīng)常看到他推著一輛吱吱作響的木輪車，從我家門前的道路上通過。給他拉車的，是一頭瘸腿的毛驢，為他牽驢的，是他小腳的妻子。這個奇怪的勞動組合，在當(dāng)時的集體化社會里，顯得那么古怪和不合時宜，在我們這些孩子的眼里，也把他們看成是逆歷史潮流而動的小丑，以至于當(dāng)他們從街上經(jīng)過時，我們會充滿義憤地朝他們投擲石塊。事過多年，當(dāng)我拿起筆來寫作時，這個人物，這個畫面，便浮現(xiàn)在我的腦海中。我知道，我總有一天會為他寫一本書，我遲早要把他的故事講給天下人聽，但一直到了2005年，當(dāng)我在一座廟宇里看到“六道輪回”的壁畫時，才明白了講述這個故事的正確方法。

　　The announcement of my Nobel Prize has led to controversy. At first I thought I was the target of the disputes, but over time I've come to realize that the real target was a person who had nothing to do with me. Like someone watching a play in a theater, I observed the performances around me. I saw the winner of the prize both garlanded with flowers and besieged by stone-throwers and mudslingers. I was afraid he would succumb to the assault, but he emerged from the garlands of flowers and the stones, a smile on his face; he wiped away mud and grime, stood calmly off to the side, and said to the crowd: For a writer, the best way to speak is by writing. You will find everything I need to say in my works. Speech is carried off by the wind; the written word can never be obliterated. I would like you to find the patience to read my books. I cannot force you to do that, and even if you do, I do not expect your opinion of me to change. No writer has yet appeared, anywhere in the world, who is liked by all his readers; that is especially true during times like these.

　　我獲得諾貝爾文學(xué)獎后，引發(fā)了一些爭議。起初，我還以為大家爭議的對象是我，漸漸的，我感到這個被爭議的對象，是一個與我毫不相關(guān)的人。我如同一個看戲人，看著眾人的表演。我看到那個得獎人身上落滿了花朵，也被擲上了石塊、潑上了污水。我生怕他被打垮，但他微笑著從花朵和石塊中鉆出來，擦干凈身上的臟水，坦然地站在一邊，對著眾人說：對一個作家來說，最好的說話方式是寫作。我該說的話都寫進了我的作品里。用嘴說出的話隨風(fēng)而散，用筆寫出的話永不磨滅。我希望你們能耐心地讀一下我的書，當(dāng)然，我沒有資格強迫你們讀我的書。即便你們讀了我的書，我也不期望你們能改變對我的看法，世界上還沒有一個作家，能讓所有的讀者都喜歡他。在當(dāng)今這樣的時代里，更是如此。

　　Even though I would prefer to say nothing, since it is something I must do on this occasion, let me just say this: I am a storyteller, so I am going to tell you some stories. When I was a third-grade student in the 1960s, my school organized a field trip to an exhibit of suffering, where, under the direction of our teacher, we cried bitter tears. I let my tears stay on my cheeks for the benefit of our teacher, and watched as some of my classmates spat in their hands and rubbed it on their faces as pretend tears. I saw one student among all those wailing children – some real, some phony – whose face was dry and who remained silent without covering his face with his hands. He just looked at us, eyes wide open in an expression of surprise or confusion. After the visit I reported him to the teacher, and he was given a disciplinary warning. Years later, when I expressed my remorse over informing on the boy, the teacher said that at least ten students had done what I did. The boy himself had died a decade or more earlier, and my conscience was deeply troubled when I thought of him. But I learned something important from this incident, and that is: When everyone around you is crying, you deserve to be allowed not to cry, and when the tears are all for show, your right not to cry is greater still.

　　盡管我什么都不想說，但在今天這樣的場合我必須說話，那我就簡單地再說幾句。我是一個講故事的人，我還是要給你們講故事。上世紀(jì)六十年代，我上小學(xué)三年級的時候，學(xué)校里組織我們?nèi)�參觀一個苦難展覽，我們在老師的引領(lǐng)下放聲大哭。為了能讓老師看到我的表現(xiàn)，我舍不得擦去臉上的淚水。我看到有幾位同學(xué)悄悄地將唾沫抹到臉上冒充淚水。我還看到在一片真哭假哭的同學(xué)之間，有一位同學(xué)，臉上沒有一滴淚，嘴巴里沒有一點聲音，也沒有用手掩面。他睜著大眼看著我們，眼睛里流露出驚訝或者是困惑的神情。事后，我向老師報告了這位同學(xué)的行為。為此，學(xué)校給了這位同學(xué)一個警告處分。多年之后，當(dāng)我因自己的告密向老師懺悔時，老師說，那天來找他說這件事的，有十幾個同學(xué)。這位同學(xué)十幾年前就已去世，每當(dāng)想起他，我就深感歉疚。這件事讓我悟到一個道理，那就是：當(dāng)眾人都哭時，應(yīng)該允許有的人不哭。當(dāng)哭成為一種表演時，更應(yīng)該允許有的人不哭。

　　Here is another story: More than thirty years ago, when I was in the army, I was in my office reading one evening when an elderly officer opened the door and came in. He glanced down at the seat in front of me and muttered, "Hm, where is everyone?" I stood up and said in a loud voice, "Are you saying I'm no one?" The old fellow's ears turned red from embarrassment, and he walked out. For a long time after that I was proud about what I consider a gutsy performance. Years later, that pride turned to intense qualms of conscience. Bear with me, please, for one last story, one my grandfather told me many years ago: A group of eight out-of-town bricklayers took refuge from a storm in a rundown temple. Thunder rumbled outside, sending fireballs their way. They even heard what sounded like dragon shrieks. The men were terrified, their faces ashen. "Among the eight of us," one of them said, "is someone who must have offended the heavens with a terrible deed. The guilty person ought to volunteer to step outside to accept his punishment and spare the innocent from suffering. Naturally, there were no volunteers. So one of the others came up with a proposal: Since no one is willing to go outside, let's all fling our straw hats toward the door. Whoever's hat flies out through the temple door is the guilty party, and we'll ask him to go out and accept his punishment." So they flung their hats toward the door. Seven hats were blown back inside; one went out the door. They pressured the eighth man to go out and accept his punishment, and when he balked, they picked him up and flung him out the door. I'll bet you all know how the story ends: They had no sooner flung him out the door than the temple collapsed around them.

　　我再講一個故事：三十多年前，我還在部隊工作。有一天晚上，我在辦公室看書，有一位老長官推門進來，看了一眼我對面的位置，自言自語道：“噢，沒有人?”我隨即站起來，高聲說：“難道我不是人嗎?”那位老長官被我頂?shù)妹婕t耳赤，尷尬而退。為此事，我洋洋得意了許久，以為自己是個英勇的斗士，但事過多年后，我卻為此深感內(nèi)疚。請允許我講最后一個故事，這是許多年前我爺爺講給我聽過的：有八個外出打工的泥瓦匠，為避一場暴風(fēng)雨，躲進了一座破廟。外邊的雷聲一陣緊似一陣，一個個的火球，在廟門外滾來滾去，空中似乎還有吱吱的龍叫聲。眾人都膽戰(zhàn)心驚，面如土色。有一個人說：“我們八個人中，必定一個人干過傷天害理的壞事，誰干過壞事，就自己走出廟接受懲罰吧，免得讓好人受到牽連。”自然沒有人愿意出去。又有人提議道：“既然大家都不想出去，那我們就將自己的草帽往外拋吧，誰的草帽被刮出廟門，就說明誰干了壞事，那就請他出去接受懲罰。”于是大家就將自己的草帽往廟門外拋，七個人的草帽被刮回了廟內(nèi)，只有一個人的草帽被卷了出去。大家就催這個人出去受罰，他自然不愿出去，眾人便將他抬起來扔出了廟門。故事的結(jié)局我估計大家都猜到了——那個人剛被扔出廟門，那座破廟轟然坍塌。

　　I am a storyteller. Telling stories earned me the Nobel Prize for Literature. Many interesting things have happened to me in the wake of winning the prize, and they have convinced me that truth and justice are alive and well. So I will continue telling my stories in the days to come.Thank you all.

　　我是一個講故事的人。因為講故事我獲得了諾貝爾文學(xué)獎。我獲獎后發(fā)生了很多精彩的故事，這些故事，讓我堅信真理和正義是存在的。今后的歲月里，我將繼續(xù)講我的故事。謝謝大家!

　　以上內(nèi)容由應(yīng)屆畢業(yè)生演講稿網(wǎng)站整理提供。

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