莫言瑞典学院演讲(中英对照)
莫言瑞典学院演讲全文《讲故事的人》
尊敬的瑞典学院各位院士,女士们、先生们:通过电视或网络,我想在座的各位,对遥远的高密东北乡,已经有了或多或少的了解。
你们也许看到了我的九十岁的老父亲,看到了我的哥哥姐姐我的妻子女儿和我的一岁零四个月的外孙子,但是有一个此刻我最想念的人,我的母亲,你们永远无法看到了。
我获奖后,很多人分享了我的光荣,但我的母亲却无法分享了。
我母亲生于1922年,卒于1994年。
她的骨灰,埋葬在村庄东边的桃园里。
去年,一条铁路要从那儿穿过,我们不得不将她的坟墓迁移到距离村子更远的地方。
掘开坟墓后,我们看到,棺木已经腐朽,母亲的骨殖,已经与泥土混为一体。
我们只好象征性地挖起一些泥土,移到新的墓穴里。
也就是从那一时刻起,我感到,我的母亲是大地的一部分,我站在大地上的诉说,就是对母亲的诉说。
文档来自于网络搜索我是我母亲最小的孩子。
我记忆中最早的一件事,是提着家里唯一的一把热水壶去公共食堂打开水。
因为饥饿无力,失手将热水瓶打碎,我吓得要命,钻进草垛,一天没敢出来。
傍晚的时候我听到母亲呼唤我的乳名,我从草垛里钻出来,以为会受到打骂,但母亲没有打我也没有骂我,只是抚摸着我的头,口中发出长长的叹息。
文档来自于网络搜索我记忆中最痛苦的一件事,就是跟着母亲去集体的地理拣麦穗,看守麦田的人来了,拣麦穗的人纷纷逃跑,我母亲是小脚,跑不快,被捉住,那个身材高大的看守人煽了她一个耳光,她摇晃着身体跌倒在地,看守人没收了我们拣到的麦穗,吹着口哨扬长而去。
我母亲嘴角流血,坐在地上,脸上那种绝望的神情深我终生难忘。
多年之后,当那个看守麦田的人成为一个白发苍苍的老人,在集市上与我相逢,我冲上去想找他报仇,母亲拉住了我,平静的对我说:“儿子,那个打我的人,与这个老人,并不是一个人。
”文档来自于网络搜索我记得最深刻的一件事是一个中秋节的中午,我们家难得的包了一顿饺子,每人只有一碗。
正当我们吃饺子时,一个乞讨的老人来到了我们家门口,我端起半碗红薯干打发他,他却愤愤不平地说:“我是一个老人,你们吃饺子,却让我吃红薯干。
莫言获奖演讲英文版
Mo Yan’s Award Winning Speech (English Version)Dear Members of the Swedish Academy,Ladies and Gentlemen,I am humbled and privileged to receive this prestigious award. This Nobel Prize for literature is not just an honour for me, but it is also a recognition of Chinese literature and culture. I appreciate the Academy’s recognition of my works, which I believe is a reflection of the values and themes that I have explored in my writing.I am a storyteller, and I believe that storytelling is one of the most powerful ways to convey experiences, emotions, and cultures. I grew up listening to stories from my elders and reading Chinese classics, and I was always fascinated by the power of storytelling. My upbringing in a rural village in China has greatly influenced my writing, and I strive to capture the voices and experiences of the working-class people in China.My novels explore various themes, including history, politics, culture, and human nature. I believe that literature has the power to bridge cultural and linguistic divides, and my works have been translated into many languages, reaching readers across the world.In my writing, I have also explored the complexities of human nature, including its dark facets. My works have been criticized by some for their depictions of violence and sexuality. However, I believe it is important for literature to confront the uncomfortable truths of human existence. To ignore these realities would be a disservice to both literature and humanity.Moreover, I believe that literature has a significant role in promoting empathy and understanding between people of different backgrounds and cultures. Literature has the power to connect us to our shared humanity, and I hope that my works can contribute to fostering a greater sense of global community.Therefore, I am deeply honoured to receive this award, which I believe is a recognition of the power of literature to bridge cultural divides and promote mutual understanding. In receiving this award, I am humbled by the responsibility to continue to write with honesty, courage, and empathy.Thank you once again to the Swedish Academy and to all the readers around the world who have supported my writing.。
莫言赴瑞典领取诺贝尔文学奖演讲全文
莫言赴瑞典领取诺贝尔文学奖演讲全文北京时间今日凌晨,2012年诺贝尔文学奖获得者、中国作家莫言在瑞典学院发表文学演讲,主题为“讲故事的人”(storyteller)。
以下为演讲全文。
莫言:讲故事的人2012年12 月7 日尊敬的瑞典学院各位院士,女士们、先生们:通过电视或者网络,我想在座的各位,对遥远的高密东北乡,已经有了或多或少的了解。
你们也许看到了我的九十岁的老父亲,看到了我的哥哥姐姐我的妻子女儿和我的一岁零四个月的外孙女。
但有一个我此刻最想念的人,我的母亲,你们永远无法看到了。
我获奖后,很多人分享了我的光荣,但我的母亲却无法分享了。
我母亲生于1922 年,卒于1994 年。
她的骨灰,埋葬在村庄东边的桃园里。
去年,一条铁路要从那儿穿过,我们不得不将她的坟墓迁移到距离村子更远的地方。
掘开坟墓后,我们看到,棺木已经腐朽,母亲的骨殖,已经与泥土混为一体。
我们只好象征性地挖起一些泥土,移到新的墓穴里。
也就是从那一时刻起,我感到,我的母亲是大地的一部分,我站在大地上的诉说,就是对母亲的诉说。
我是我母亲最小的孩子。
我记忆中最早的一件事,是提着家里唯一的一把热水瓶去公共食堂打开水。
因为饥饿无力,失手将热水瓶打碎,我吓得要命,钻进草垛,一天没敢出来。
傍晚的时候,我听到母亲呼唤我的乳名。
我从草垛里钻出来,以为会受到打骂,但母亲没有打我也没有骂我,只是抚摸着我的头,口中发出长长的叹息。
我记忆中最痛苦的一件事,就是跟随着母亲去集体的地里捡麦穗,看守麦田的人来了,捡麦穗的人纷纷逃跑,我母亲是小脚,跑不快,被捉住,那个身材高大的看守人搧了她一个耳光。
她摇晃着身体跌倒在地。
看守人没收了我们捡到的麦穗,吹着口哨扬长而去。
我母亲嘴角流血,坐在地上,脸上那种绝望的神情让我终生难忘。
多年之后,当那个看守麦田的人成为一个白发苍苍的老人,在集市上与我相逢,我冲上去想找他报仇,母亲拉住了我,平静地对我说:“儿子,那个打我的人,与这个老人,并不是一个人。
莫言诺贝尔文学奖演讲全文
莫言诺贝尔文学奖演讲全文:《讲故事的人》北京时间今日凌晨,2012年诺贝尔文学奖获得者、中国作家莫言在瑞典学院发表文学演讲,主题为“讲故事的人”(storyteller)。
以下为演讲全文。
莫言:讲故事的人尊敬的瑞典学院各位院士,女士们、先生们:通过电视或者网络,我想在座的各位,对遥远的高密东北乡,已经有了或多或少的了解。
你们也许看到了我的九十岁的老父亲,看到了我的哥哥姐姐我的妻子女儿和我的一岁零四个月的外孙女。
但有一个我此刻最想念的人,我的母亲,你们永远无法看到了。
我获奖后,很多人分享了我的光荣,但我的母亲却无法分享了。
我母亲生于1922年,卒于1994年。
她的骨灰,埋葬在村庄东边的桃园里。
去年,一条铁路要从那儿穿过,我们不得不将她的坟墓迁移到距离村子更远的地方。
掘开坟墓后,我们看到,棺木已经腐朽,母亲的骨殖,已经与泥土混为一体。
我们只好象征性地挖起一些泥土,移到新的墓穴里。
也就是从那一时刻起,我感到,我的母亲是大地的一部分,我站在大地上的诉说,就是对母亲的诉说。
我是我母亲最小的孩子。
我记忆中最早的一件事,是提着家里唯一的一把热水瓶去公共食堂打开水。
因为饥饿无力,失手将热水瓶打碎,我吓得要命,钻进草垛,一天没敢出来。
傍晚的时候,我听到母亲呼唤我的乳名。
我从草垛里钻出来,以为会受到打骂,但母亲没有打我也没有骂我,只是抚摸着我的头,口中发出长长的叹息。
我记忆中最痛苦的一件事,就是跟随着母亲去集体的地里捡麦穗,看守麦田的人来了,捡麦穗的人纷纷逃跑,我母亲是小脚,跑不快,被捉住,那个身材高大的看守人搧了她一个耳光。
她摇晃着身体跌倒在地。
看守人没收了我们捡到的麦穗,吹着口哨扬长而去。
我母亲嘴角流血,坐在地上,脸上那种绝望的神情让我终生难忘。
多年之后,当那个看守麦田的人成为一个白发苍苍的老人,在集市上与我相逢,我冲上去想找他报仇,母亲拉住了我,平静地对我说:“儿子,那个打我的人,与这个老人,并不是一个人。
”我记得最深刻的一件事是一个中秋节的中午,我们家难得地包了一顿饺子,每人只有一碗。
莫言在瑞典诺贝尔颁奖典礼上的英语演讲稿
莫言在瑞典诺贝尔颁奖典礼上的英语演讲稿XX年12月10日(当地时间)mo yan s prepared banquet speech at the nobel banquet10 december XX尊敬的国王陛下、王后陛下,女士们,先生们:your majesties, your royal highnesses, ladies and gentlemen,我,一个来自遥远的中国山东高密东北乡的农民的儿子,站在这个举世瞩目的殿堂上,领取了诺贝尔文学奖,这很像一个童话,但却是不容置疑的现实。
for me, a farm boy from gaomi s northeast township in far-away china, standing here in this world-famous hall after having received the nobel prize in literature feels like a fairy tale, but of course it is true.获奖后一个多月的经历,使我认识到了诺贝尔文学奖巨大的影响和不可撼动的尊严。
我一直在冷眼旁观着这段时间里发生的一切,这是千载难逢的认识人世的机会,更是一个认清自我的机会。
my experiences during the months since the announcement have made me aware of the enormous impactof the nobel prize and the unquestionable respect it enjoys. i have tried to view what has happened during this period in a cool, detached way. it has been a golden opportunity for me to learn about the world and, even more so, an opportunity for me to learn about myself.我深知世界上有许多作家有资格甚至比我更有资格获得这个奖项;我相信,只要他们坚持写下去,只要他们相信文学是人的光荣也是上帝赋予人的权利,那么,他必将华冠加在你头上,把荣冕交给你。
演讲致辞-莫言诺贝尔文学奖致辞英文演讲稿 精品
莫言诺贝尔文学奖致辞英文演讲稿以下这篇演讲稿是中国当代著名作家莫言XX年获得诺贝尔文学奖时在瑞典学院发表的领奖演讲《讲故事的人》(storyteller),莫言在这次演讲中追忆了自己的母亲,回顾了文学创作之路,并与听众分享了三个意味深长的“故事”,讲述了自己如何成为一个用笔来讲故事的人的过程。
莫言表示,自己今后还要继续讲自己的故事。
distinguished members of the swedish academy, ladies andgentlemen:through the mediums of television and the internet, i imaginethat everyone here has at least a nodding acquaintance with far-offnortheast 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 moston 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.尊敬的瑞典学院各位院士,女士们、先生们:通过电视或网络,我想在座的各位,对遥远的高密东北乡,已经有了或多或少的了解。
你们也许看到了我的九十岁的老父亲,看到了我的哥哥姐姐我的妻子女儿和我的一岁零四个月的外孙子,但是有一个此刻我最想念的人,我的母亲,你们永远无法看到了。
莫言诺贝尔文学奖致辞英文演讲稿
莫言诺贝尔文学奖致辞英文演讲稿以下这篇演讲稿是中国当代著名作家莫言XX年获得诺贝尔文学奖时在瑞典学院发表的领奖演讲《讲故事的人》(storyteller),莫言在这次演讲中追忆了自己的母亲,回顾了文学创作之路,并与听众分享了三个意味深长的“故事”,讲述了自己如何成为一个用笔来讲故事的人的过程。
莫言表示,自己今后还要继续讲自己的故事。
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.尊敬的瑞典学院各位院士,女士们、先生们:通过电视或网络,我想在座的各位,对遥远的高密东北乡,已经有了或多或少的了解。
你们也许看到了我的九十岁的老父亲,看到了我的哥哥姐姐我的妻子女儿和我的一岁零四个月的外孙子,但是有一个此刻我最想念的人,我的母亲,你们永远无法看到了。
莫言诺贝尔文学奖演讲(中英文对照)
莫言诺贝尔文学奖演讲北京时间2012年12月8日0时30分,诺贝尔文学奖获得者莫言在瑞典学院发表演讲,以下为演讲实录,英文由Howard Goldblatt翻译:尊敬的瑞典学院各位院士,女士们、先生们:Distinguished members of the Swedish Academy, Ladies and Gentlemen:通过电视或网络,我想在座的各位,对遥远的高密东北乡,已经有了或多或少的了解。
你们也许看到了我的九十岁的老父亲,看到了我的哥哥姐姐我的妻子女儿和我的一岁零四个月的外孙子,但是有一个此刻我最想念的人,我的母亲,你们永远无法看到了。
我获奖后,很多人分享了我的光荣,但我的母亲却无法分享了。
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. 我母亲生于1922年,卒于1994年。
莫言诺贝尔演讲全文完整版:我是一个讲故事的人
2013年诺贝尔文学奖莫言在瑞典文学院的报告大厅举行诺贝尔文学奖演讲。
因为莫言将用中文演讲,而现场没有翻译。
下面是莫言演讲全文:莫言:讲故事的人尊敬的瑞典学院各位院士,女士们、先生们:通过电视或者网络,我想在座的各位,对遥远的高密东北乡,已经有了或多或少的了解。
你们也许看到了我的九十岁的老父亲,看到了我的哥哥姐姐我的妻子女儿和我的一岁零四个月的外孙女。
但有一个我此刻最想念的人,我的母亲,你们永远无法看到了。
我获奖后,很多人分享了我的光荣,但我的母亲却无法分享了。
我母亲生于1922年,卒于1994年。
她的骨灰,埋葬在村庄东边的桃园里。
去年,一条铁路要从那儿穿过,我们不得不将她的坟墓迁移到距离村子更远的地方。
掘开坟墓后,我们看到,棺木已经腐朽,母亲的骨殖,已经与泥土混为一体。
我们只好象征性地挖起一些泥土,移到新的墓穴里。
也就是从那一时刻起,我感到,我的母亲是大地的一部分,我站在大地上的诉说,就是对母亲的诉说。
我是我母亲最小的孩子。
我记忆中最早的一件事,是提着家里唯一的一把热水瓶去公共食堂打开水。
因为饥饿无力,失手将热水瓶打碎,我吓得要命,钻进草垛,一天没敢出来。
傍晚的时候,我听到母亲呼唤我的乳名。
我从草垛里钻出来,以为会受到打骂,但母亲没有打我也没有骂我,只是抚摸着我的头,口中发出长长的叹息。
我记忆中最痛苦的一件事,就是跟随着母亲去集体的地里捡麦穗,看守麦田的人来了,捡麦穗的人纷纷逃跑,我母亲是小脚,跑不快,被捉住,那个身材高大的看守人搧了她一个耳光。
她摇晃着身体跌倒在地。
看守人没收了我们捡到的麦穗,吹着口哨扬长而去。
我母亲嘴角流血,坐在地上,脸上那种绝望的神情让我终生难忘。
多年之后,当那个看守麦田的人成为一个白发苍苍的老人,在集市上与我相逢,我冲上去想找他报仇,母亲拉住了我,平静地对我说:儿子,那个打我的人,与这个老人,并不是一个人。
我记得最深刻的一件事是一个中秋节的中午,我们家难得地包了一顿饺子,每人只有一碗。
2012莫言诺贝尔文学奖获奖致辞中文-英语-双语版
尊敬的国王、王后陛下,尊敬的王室成员,女士们、先生们,我的讲稿忘在旅馆了,但是我的话记在脑子里了。
获奖以来,发生了很多有趣的事情,由此也可以见证到诺贝尔奖确实是一个影响巨大的奖项,它在全世界的地位无法动摇的。
我是一个来自中国的山东高密东北乡的农民的儿子,能够在庄严的殿堂里领取这样一个巨大的奖项,很像一个童话,但它毫无疑问是一个事实,我想借这个机会,向诺贝尔基金会,向支持诺贝尔奖的瑞典人民表示崇高的敬意。
要向瑞典皇家学院坚守自己信念的院士们表示崇高的敬意和真挚的感谢。
Your Majesties, Your Royal Highnesses, Ladies and Gentlemen,It is a great pity that I happened to have left my lecture notes back in the hotel room; however, the main ideas are all imprinted on my mind. Since the award announcement, many funny things have cropped up all along, so it can speak volumes for the fact that the Nobel Prize Award is really something out of the ordinary as it stands out so brilliantly with the overwhelming impact on the entire world. For me, a farm boy from Gaomi's Northeast Township in far-away China, standing here in this world-famous hall after having received the Nobel Prize in Literature feels like a fairy tale, but of course it is true. I’d like to avail myself of this good opportunity to pay tribute and express my heartfelt sincerity to the Nobel Foundation and the Swedish people for their support to the Nobel Prize Award. Plus, I will convey my highest respect and sincerest gratitude to academicians of the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences for their being so steadfast in their faith.我还要感谢这些把我的作品翻译成了世界很多语言的翻译家们,没有他们的创造性的劳动,文学只是各种语言的文学,正是因为有了他们的劳动,文学才可以变成世界的文学,当然我还要感谢我的亲人、我的朋友们,他们的友谊、他们的智慧都在我的作品里闪耀光芒。
莫言在瑞典学院诺贝尔获奖演讲全文
里,一个贫嘴的小孩,是招人厌烦的,有时候还会给自己和家庭带来麻烦。我在小说《牛》里所写的那个因为话多被村子里厌恶的小孩,就有我童年时的影子。我母亲常常提示我少说话,她希望我能做一个沉默寡言、平稳大方的小孩。但在我身上,却显露出极强的说话能力和极大的说话欲望,这无疑是极大的危险,但我说的故事的能力,又带给了她愉悦,这使他陷入深深的矛盾当中。
我母亲生于1922年,卒于1994年。她的骨灰,埋葬在村落东边的桃园里。去年,一条铁路要从那儿穿过,咱们不能不将她的坟墓迁移到距离村子更远的地址。掘开坟墓后,咱们看到,棺木已经腐朽,母亲的骨殖,已经与泥土混为一体。咱们只好象征性地挖起一些泥土,移到新的墓穴里。也确实是从那一时刻起,我感到,我的母亲是大地的一部份,我站在大地上的诉说,确实是对母亲的诉说。
我最新的小说《蛙》中,就显现了我姑姑的形象。因为我取得诺贝尔奖,许多记者到她家采访,起初她还很耐心地回答提问,但专门快便不胜其烦,跑到县城里她儿子家躲起来了。姑姑确实是我写《蛙》时的模特,但小说中的姑姑,与现实生活中的姑姑有着天壤之别。小说中的姑姑专横嚣张,有时简直像个女匪,现实中的姑姑和善爽朗,是一个标准的贤妻良母。现实中的姑姑晚年生活幸福美满,小说中的姑姑到了晚年却因为心灵的庞大痛楚患上了失眠症,身披黑袍,像个幽灵一样在暗夜中游荡。我感激姑姑的宽容,她没有因为我在小说中把她写成那样而动气;我也十分佩服我姑姑的明智,她正确地明白得了小说中人,让它们自己吃草。蓝天如海,草地一望无际,周围看不到一个人影,没有人的声音,只有鸟儿在天上鸣叫。我感到很孤独,很孤单,内心空空荡荡。有时候,我躺在草地上,望着天上懒洋洋地飘动着的白云,脑海里便浮现出许多莫名其妙的幻象。咱们那地址流传着许多狐狸变成美女的故事,我空想着能有一个狐狸变成美女与我来作伴放牛,但她始终没有显现。但有一次,一只火红色的狐狸从我眼前的草丛中跳出来时,我被吓得一屁股蹲在地上。狐狸跑没了踪迹,我还在那里哆嗦。有时候我会蹲在牛的身旁,看着湛蓝的牛眼和牛眼中的我的倒影。有时候我会仿照着鸟儿的叫声试图与天上的鸟儿对话,有时候我会对一棵树诉说心声。但鸟儿不睬我,树也不睬我。许连年后,当我成为一个小说家,昔时的许多空想,都被我写进了小说。很多人夸我想象力丰硕,有一些文学爱好者,希望我能告知他们培育想象力的要领,对此,我只能报以苦笑。
莫言诺奖授奖词全文曝光 中英文对照
莫言诺奖授奖词全文曝光中英文对照(完成版)[导读]“莫言,请。
”在长达七分钟的以瑞典语讲述、热情洋溢的授奖词之后,诺贝尔文学奖评选委员会主席帕〃瓦斯特伯格终于说出了中国读者能听懂的这三个字。
2012年诺贝尔文学奖得主、中国作家莫言上台,从瑞典国王卡尔十六世〃古斯塔夫手中接过了获奖证书和金质奖章。
北京时间昨晚11点半(瑞典当地时间10日下午4点半),诺贝尔颁奖典礼在瑞典斯德哥尔摩音乐厅举行。
备受瞩目的中国作家莫言在收获诺贝尔文学奖之余,也收获了整场颁奖典礼最热情“冗长”的颁奖词,和最热烈持久的掌声。
莫言诺奖授奖词中文全文瑞典文学院诺奖委员会主席瓦斯特伯格:尊敬的国王和皇后陛下,尊敬的诺贝尔奖得主们,女士们先生们,莫言是个诗人,他扯下程式化的宣传画,使个人从茫茫无名大众中突出出来。
他用嘲笑和讽刺的笔触,攻击历史和谬误以及贫乏和政治虚伪。
他有技巧的揭露了人类最阴暗的一面,在不经意间给象征赋予了形象。
高密东北乡体现了中国的民间故事和历史。
在这些民间故事中,驴与猪的吵闹淹没了人的声音,爱与邪恶被赋予了超自然的能量。
莫言有着无与伦比的想象力。
他很好的描绘了自然;他基本知晓所有与饥饿相关的事情;中国20世纪的疾苦从来都没有被如此直白的描写:英雄、情侣、虐待者、匪徒--特别是坚强的、不屈不挠的母亲们。
他向我们展示了一个没有真理、常识或者同情的世界,这个世界中的人鲁莽、无助且可笑。
中国历史上重复出现的同类相残的行为证明了这些苦难。
对莫言来说,这代表着消费、无节制、废物、肉体上的享受以及无法描述的欲望,只有他才能超越禁忌试图描述。
在小说《酒国》中,最精致的佳肴是烧烤三岁儿童。
男童沦为食物;女童因为被忽视而得以幸存。
这是对中国计划生育政策的嘲讽,因为计划生育大量女胎被堕胎:女孩连被吃的资格都没有。
莫言为此写了一整本小说《蛙》。
莫言的故事有着神秘和寓意,让所有的价值观得到体现。
莫言的人物充满活力,他们甚至用不道德的办法和手段实现他们生活目标,打破命运和政治的牢笼。
莫言获诺贝尔奖后的演讲
北京时间12月8日凌晨,2012年诺贝尔文学奖获得者、中国作家莫言在瑞典学院发表文学演讲,主题为“讲故事的人”(storyteller)。
以下为演讲全文。
讲故事的人---- 莫言尊敬的瑞典学院各位院士,女士们、先生们:通过电视或者网络,我想在座的各位,对遥远的高密东北乡,已经有了或多或少的了解。
你们也许看到了我的九十岁的老父亲,看到了我的哥哥姐姐我的妻子女儿和我的一岁零四个月的外孙女。
但有一个我此刻最想念的人,我的母亲,你们永远无法看到了。
我获奖后,很多人分享了我的光荣,但我的母亲却无法分享了。
我母亲生于1922年,卒于1994年。
她的骨灰,埋葬在村庄东边的桃园里。
去年,一条铁路要从那儿穿过,我们不得不将她的坟墓迁移到距离村子更远的地方。
掘开坟墓后,我们看到,棺木已经腐朽,母亲的骨殖,已经与泥土混为一体。
我们只好象征性地挖起一些泥土,移到新的墓穴里。
也就是从那一时刻起,我感到,我的母亲是大地的一部分,我站在大地上的诉说,就是对母亲的诉说。
我是我母亲最小的孩子。
我记忆中最早的一件事,是提着家里唯一的一把热水瓶去公共食堂打开水。
因为饥饿无力,失手将热水瓶打碎,我吓得要命,钻进草垛,一天没敢出来。
傍晚的时候,我听到母亲呼唤我的乳名。
我从草垛里钻出来,以为会受到打骂,但母亲没有打我也没有骂我,只是抚摸着我的头,口中发出长长的叹息。
我记忆中最痛苦的一件事,就是跟随着母亲去集体的地里捡麦穗,看守麦田的人来了,捡麦穗的人纷纷逃跑,我母亲是小脚,跑不快,被捉住,那个身材高大的看守人搧了她一个耳光。
她摇晃着身体跌倒在地。
看守人没收了我们捡到的麦穗,吹着口哨扬长而去。
我母亲嘴角流血,坐在地上,脸上那种绝望的神情让我终生难忘。
多年之后,当那个看守麦田的人成为一个白发苍苍的老人,在集市上与我相逢,我冲上去想找他报仇,母亲拉住了我,平静地对我说:“儿子,那个打我的人,与这个老人,并不是一个人。
”我记得最深刻的一件事是一个中秋节的中午,我们家难得地包了一顿饺子,每人只有一碗。
莫言在瑞典学院诺贝尔获奖演讲全文
莫言在瑞典学院诺贝尔获奖演讲全文尊敬的瑞典学院各位院士,女士们、先生们:通过电视或网络,我想在座的各位,对遥远的高密东北乡,已经有了或多或少的了解。
你们也许看到了我的九十岁的老父亲,看到了我的哥哥姐姐我的妻子女儿和我的一岁零四个月的外孙子,但是有一个此刻我最想念的人,我的母亲,你们永远无法看到了。
我获奖后,很多人分享了我的光荣,但我的母亲却无法分享了。
我母亲生于1922年,卒于1994年。
她的骨灰,埋葬在村庄东边的桃园里。
去年,一条铁路要从那儿穿过,我们不得不将她的坟墓迁移到距离村子更远的地方。
掘开坟墓后,我们看到,棺木已经腐朽,母亲的骨殖,已经与泥土混为一体。
我们只好象征性地挖起一些泥土,移到新的墓穴里。
也就是从那一时刻起,我感到,我的母亲是大地的一部分,我站在大地上的诉说,就是对母亲的诉说。
我是我母亲最小的孩子。
我记忆中最早的一件事,是提着家里唯一的一把热水壶去公共食堂打开水。
因为饥饿无力,失手将热水瓶打碎,我吓得要命,钻进草垛,一天没敢出来。
傍晚的时候我听到母亲呼唤我的乳名,我从草垛里钻出来,以为会受到打骂,但母亲没有打我也没有骂我,只是抚摸着我的头,口中发出长长的叹息。
我记忆中最痛苦的一件事,就是跟着母亲去集体的地里拣麦穗,看守麦田的人来了,拣麦穗的人纷纷逃跑,我母亲是小脚,跑不快,被捉住,那个身材高大的看守人煽了她一个耳光,她摇晃着身体跌倒在地,看守人没收了我们拣到的麦穗,吹着口哨扬长而去。
我母亲嘴角流血,坐在地上,脸上那种绝望的神情让我终生难忘。
多年之后,当那个看守麦田的人成为一个白发苍苍的老人,在集市上与我相逢,我冲上去想找他报仇,母亲拉住了我,平静的对我说:“儿子,那个打我的人,与这个老人,并不是一个人。
”我记得最深刻的一件事是一个中秋节的中午,我们家难得的包了一顿饺子,每人只有一碗。
正当我们吃饺子时,一个乞讨的老人来到了我们家门口,我端起半碗红薯干打发他,他却愤愤不平地说:“我是一个老人,你们吃饺子,却让我吃红薯干。
莫言在瑞典学院诺贝尔获奖演讲全文
莫言在瑞典学院诺贝尔获奖演讲全文尊敬的瑞典学院各位院士,女士们、先生们:通过电视或网络,我想在座的各位,对遥远的高密东北乡,已经有了或多或少的了解。
你们也许看到了我的九十岁的老父亲,看到了我的哥哥姐姐我的妻子女儿和我的一岁零四个月的外孙子,但是有一个此刻我最想念的人,我的母亲,你们永远无法看到了。
我获奖后,很多人分享了我的光荣,但我的母亲却无法分享了。
我母亲生于1922年,卒于1994年。
她的骨灰,埋葬在村庄东边的桃园里。
去年,一条铁路要从那儿穿过,我们不得不将她的坟墓迁移到距离村子更远的地方。
掘开坟墓后,我们看到,棺木已经腐朽,母亲的骨殖,已经与泥土混为一体。
我们只好象征性地挖起一些泥土,移到新的墓穴里。
也就是从那一时刻起,我感到,我的母亲是大地的一部分,我站在大地上的诉说,就是对母亲的诉说。
我是我母亲最小的孩子。
我记忆中最早的一件事,是提着家里唯一的一把热水壶去公共食堂打开水。
因为饥饿无力,失手将热水瓶打碎,我吓得要命,钻进草垛,一天没敢出来。
傍晚的时候我听到母亲呼唤我的乳名,我从草垛里钻出来,以为会受到打骂,但母亲没有打我也没有骂我,只是抚摸着我的头,口中发出长长的叹息。
我记忆中最痛苦的一件事,就是跟着母亲去集体的地里拣麦穗,看守麦田的人来了,拣麦穗的人纷纷逃跑,我母亲是小脚,跑不快,被捉住,那个身材高大的看守人煽了她一个耳光,她摇晃着身体跌倒在地,看守人没收了我们拣到的麦穗,吹着口哨扬长而去。
我母亲嘴角流血,坐在地上,脸上那种绝望的神情让我终生难忘。
多年之后,当那个看守麦田的人成为一个白发苍苍的老人,在集市上与我相逢,我冲上去想找他报仇,母亲拉住了我,平静的对我说:“儿子,那个打我的人,与这个老人,并不是一个人。
”我记得最深刻的一件事是一个中秋节的中午,我们家难得的包了一顿饺子,每人只有一碗。
正当我们吃饺子时,一个乞讨的老人来到了我们家门口,我端起半碗红薯干打发他,他却愤愤不平地说:“我是一个老人,你们吃饺子,却让我吃红薯干。
莫言诺贝尔演讲全文完整版:我是一个讲故事的人
2013年诺贝尔文学奖莫言在瑞典文学院的报告大厅举行诺贝尔文学奖演讲。
因为莫言将用中文演讲,而现场没有翻译。
下面是莫言演讲全文:莫言:讲故事的人尊敬的瑞典学院各位院士,女士们、先生们:通过电视或者网络,我想在座的各位,对遥远的高密东北乡,已经有了或多或少的了解。
你们也许看到了我的九十岁的老父亲,看到了我的哥哥姐姐我的妻子女儿和我的一岁零四个月的外孙女。
但有一个我此刻最想念的人,我的母亲,你们永远无法看到了。
我获奖后,很多人分享了我的光荣,但我的母亲却无法分享了。
我母亲生于1922年,卒于1994年。
她的骨灰,埋葬在村庄东边的桃园里。
去年,一条铁路要从那儿穿过,我们不得不将她的坟墓迁移到距离村子更远的地方。
掘开坟墓后,我们看到,棺木已经腐朽,母亲的骨殖,已经与泥土混为一体。
我们只好象征性地挖起一些泥土,移到新的墓穴里。
也就是从那一时刻起,我感到,我的母亲是大地的一部分,我站在大地上的诉说,就是对母亲的诉说。
我是我母亲最小的孩子。
我记忆中最早的一件事,是提着家里唯一的一把热水瓶去公共食堂打开水。
因为饥饿无力,失手将热水瓶打碎,我吓得要命,钻进草垛,一天没敢出来。
傍晚的时候,我听到母亲呼唤我的乳名。
我从草垛里钻出来,以为会受到打骂,但母亲没有打我也没有骂我,只是抚摸着我的头,口中发出长长的叹息。
我记忆中最痛苦的一件事,就是跟随着母亲去集体的地里捡麦穗,看守麦田的人来了,捡麦穗的人纷纷逃跑,我母亲是小脚,跑不快,被捉住,那个身材高大的看守人搧了她一个耳光。
她摇晃着身体跌倒在地。
看守人没收了我们捡到的麦穗,吹着口哨扬长而去。
我母亲嘴角流血,坐在地上,脸上那种绝望的神情让我终生难忘。
多年之后,当那个看守麦田的人成为一个白发苍苍的老人,在集市上与我相逢,我冲上去想找他报仇,母亲拉住了我,平静地对我说:儿子,那个打我的人,与这个老人,并不是一个人。
我记得最深刻的一件事是一个中秋节的中午,我们家难得地包了一顿饺子,每人只有一碗。
莫言获奖演讲英文版
莫言获奖演讲英文版distinguishedmembersoftheswedishacademy,ladiesandgentlemen:through themediumsoftelevisionandtheinternet,iimaginethateveryoneherehasatle astanoddingacquaintancewithfar-offnortheastgaomitownship.youmayhave seenmyninety-year-oldfather,aswellasmybrothers,mysister,mywifeandmyd aughter,evenmygranddaughter,nowayearandfourmonthsold.buttheperson whoismostonmymindatthismoment,mymother,issomeoneyouwillneversee .manypeoplehavesharedinthehonorofwinningthisprize,everyonebuther.my motherwasbornin1922anddiedin1994.weburiedherinapeachorchardeastof styearwewereforcedtomovehergravefartherawayfromthevillag einordertomakeroomforaproposedrailline.whenwedugupthegrave,wesawt hatthecoffinhadrottedawayandthatherbodyhadmergedwiththedampearth aroundit.sowedugupsomeofthatsoil,asymbolicact,andtookittothenewgrave site.thatwaswhenigraspedtheknowledgethatmymotherhadbecomepartoft heearth,andthatwhenispoketomotherearth,iwasreallyspeakingtomymothe r.iwasmymother'syoungestchild.myearliestmemorywasoftakingouronlyvac uumbottletothepubliccanteenfordrinkingwater.weakenedbyhunger,idropp edthebottleandbrokeit.scaredwitless,ihidallthatdayinahaystack.towardeve ning,iheardmymothercallingmychildhoodname,soicrawledoutofmyhidingpl ace,preparedtoreceiveabeatingorascolding.butmotherdidn'thitme,didn'tevenscoldme.shejustrubbedmyheadandheavedasigh.mymostpainfulmemoryi nvolvedgoingoutinthecollective'sfieldwithmothertogleanearsofwheat.thegl eanersscatteredwhentheyspottedthewatchman.butmother,whohadboundf eet,couldnotrun;shewascaughtandslappedsohardbythewatchman,ahulkofa man,thatshefelltotheground.thewatchmanconfiscatedthewheatwe'dglean edandwalkedoffwhistling.asshesatontheground,herlipbleeding,motherwor ealookofhopelessnessi'llneverforget.yearslater,wheniencounteredthewatc hman,nowagray-hairedoldman,inthemarketplace,motherhadtostopmefro mgoinguptoavengeher."son,"shesaidevenly,"themanwhohitmeandthisman arenotthesameperson."myclearestmemoryisofamoonfestivalday,atnoonti me,oneofthoserareoccasionswhenweatejiaoziathome,onebowlapiece.ana gingbeggarcametoourdoorwhilewewereatthetable,andwhenitriedtosendhi mawaywithhalfabowlfulofdriedsweetpotatoes,hereactedangrily:"i'manold man,"hesaid."youpeopleareeatingjiaozi,butwanttofeedmesweetpotatoes.h owheartlesscanyoube?"ireactedjustasangrily:"we'reluckyifweeatjiaoziacou pleoftimesayear,onesmallbowlfulapiece,barelyenoughtogetataste!youshou ldbethankfulwe'regivingyousweetpotatoes,andifyoudon'twantthem,youca ngetthehelloutofhere!"after(dressingmedown)reprimandingme,motherdu mpedherhalfbowlfulofjiaoziintotheoldman'sbowl.mymostremorsefulmem oryinvolveshelpingmothersellcabbagesatmarket,andmeovercharginganold villageronejiao–intentionallyornot,ican'trecall–beforeheadingofftoschool.whenicamehomethatafternoon,isawthatmotherwascrying,somethingsherar elydid.insteadofscoldingme,shemerelysaidsoftly,"son,youembarrassedyour mothertoday."mothercontractedaseriouslungdiseasewheniwasstillinmyteens.hunger,dise ase,andtoomuchworkmadethingsextremelyhardonourfamily.theroadahead lookedespeciallybleak,andihadabadfeelingaboutthefuture,worriedthatmot hermighttakeherownlife.everyday,thefirstthingididwheniwalkedinthedoora fteradayofhardlaborwascalloutformother.hearinghervoicewaslikegivingmy heartanewleaseonlife.butnothearingherthrewmeintoapanic.i'dgolookingfo rherinthesidebuildingandinthemill.oneday,aftersearchingeverywhereandn otfindingher,isatdownintheyardandcriedlikeababy.thatishowshefoundmew henshewalkedintotheyardcarryingabundleoffirewoodonherback.shewasve ryunhappywithme,buticouldnottellherwhatiwasafraidof.sheknewanyway." son,"shesaid,"don'tworry,theremaybenojoyinmylife,butiwon'tleaveyoutillt hegodoftheunderworldcallsme."iwasbornugly.villagersoftenlaughedinmyfa ce,andschoolbulliessometimesbeatmeupbecauseofit.i'drunhomecrying,wh eremymotherwouldsay,"you'renotugly,son.you'vegotanoseandtwoeyes,an dthere'snothingwrongwithyourarmsandlegs,sohowcouldyoubeugly?ifyouh aveagoodheartandalwaysdotherightthing,whatisconsidereduglybecomesb eautiful."lateron,whenimovedtothecity,therewereeducatedpeoplewholaughedatmebehindmyback,someeventomyface;butwhenirecalledwhatmother hadsaid,ijustcalmlyofferedmyapologies.myilliteratemotherheldpeoplewho couldreadinhighregard.weweresopoorweoftendidnotknowwhereournextm ealwascomingfrom,yetsheneverdeniedmyrequesttobuyabookorsomethingt owritewith.bynaturehardworking,shehadnouseforlazychildren,yeticouldski pmychoresaslongasihadmynoseinabook.astorytelleroncecametothemarket place,andisneakedofftolistentohim.shewasunhappywithmeforforgettingmy chores.butthatnight,whileshewasstitchingpaddedclothesforusunderthewe aklightofakerosenelamp,icouldn'tkeepfromretellingstoriesi'dheardthatday. shelistenedimpatientlyatfirst,sinceinhereyesprofessionalstorytellersweres mooth-talkingmeninadubiousprofession.nothinggoodevercameoutoftheir mouths.butslowlyshewasdraggedintomyretoldstories,andfromthatdayon,s henevergavemechoresonmarketday,unspokenpermissiontogotothemarket placeandlistentonewstories.asrepaymentformother'skindnessandawaytod emonstratemymemory,i'dretellthestoriesforherinvividdetail.itdidnottakelo ngtofindretellingsomeoneelse'sstoriesunsatisfying,soibeganembellishingm ynarration.i'dsaythingsiknewwouldpleasemother,evenchangedtheendingo nceinawhile.andshewasn'ttheonlymemberofmyaudience,whichlaterinclud edmyoldersisters,myaunts,evenmymaternalgrandmother.sometimes,after mymotherhadlistenedtooneofmystories,she'daskinacare-ladenvoice,almos tasiftoherself:"whatwillyoubelikewhenyougrowup,son?mightyouwindupprattlingforalivingoneday?"iknewwhyshewasworried.talkativekidsarenotwellthoughtofinourvillage,for theycanbringtroubletothemselvesandtotheirfamilies.thereisabitofayoungm einthetalkativeboywhofallsafoulofvillagersinmystory"bulls."motherhabitua llycautionedmenottotalksomuch,wantingmetobeataciturn,smoothandstea dyyoungster.insteadiwaspossessedofadangerouscombination–remarkables peakingskillsandthepowerfuldesirethatwentwiththem.myabilitytotellstorie sbroughtherjoy,butthatcreatedadilemmaforher.apopularsayinggoes"itiseas iertochangethecourseofariverthanaperson'snature."despitemyparents'tirel essguidance,mynaturaldesiretotalkneverwentaway,andthatiswhatmakesm yname–moyan,or"don'tspeak"–anironicexpressionofself-mockery.afterdro ppingoutofelementaryschool,iwastoosmallforheavylabor,soibecameacattle -andsheep-herderonanearbygrassyriverbank.thesightofmyformerschoolma tesplayingintheschoolyardwhenidrovemyanimalspastthegatealwayssadden edmeandmademeawareofhowtoughitisforanyone–evenachild–toleavetheg roup.iturnedtheanimalslooseontheriverbanktograzebeneathaskyasblueast heoceanandgrass-carpetedlandasfarastheeyecouldsee–notanotherpersoni nsight,nohumansounds,nothingbutbirdcallsaboveme.iwasallbymyselfandte rriblylonely;myheartfeltempty.sometimesilayinthegrassandwatchedcloudsf loatlazilyby,whichgaverisetoallsortsoffancifulimages.thatpartofthecountryisknownforitstalesoffoxesintheformofbeautifulyoungwomen,andiwouldfant asizeafox-turned-beautifulgirlcomingtotendanimalswithme.sheneverdidco me.once,however,afieryredfoxboundedoutofthebrushinfrontofme,scaring mylegsrightoutfromunderme.iwasstillsittingtheretremblinglongafterthefox hadvanished.sometimesi'dcrouchdownbesidethecowsandgazeintotheirdee pblueeyes,eyesthatcapturedmyreflection.attimesi'dhaveadialoguewithbird sinthesky,mimickingtheircries,whileatothertimesi'ddivulgemyhopesanddes irestoatree.butthebirdsignoredme,andsodidthetrees.yearslater,afteri'dbec omeanovelist,iwrotesomeofthosefantasiesintomynovelsandstories.peoplef requentlybombardmewithcomplimentsonmyvividimagination,andloversofl iteratureoftenaskmetodivulgemysecrettodevelopingarichimagination.myo nlyresponseisawansmile.ourtaoistmasterlaozisaiditbest:"fortunedependsonmisfortune.misfortuneis hiddeninfortune."ileftschoolasachild,oftenwenthungry,wasconstantlylonel y,andhadnobookstoread.butforthosereasons,likethewriterofapreviousgene ration,shencongwen,ihadanearlystartonreadingthegreatbookoflife.myexpe rienceofgoingtothemarketplacetolistentoastorytellerwasbutonepageofthat book.afterleavingschool,iwasthrownuncomfortablyintotheworldofadults,w hereiembarkedonthelongjourneyoflearningthroughlistening.twohundredy earsago,oneofthegreatstorytellersofalltime–pusongling–livednearwhereigrewup,andwheremanypeople,meincluded,carriedonthetraditionhehadperf ected.whereverihappenedtobe–workingthefieldswiththecollective,inprodu ctionteamcowshedsorstables,onmygrandparents'heatedkang,evenonoxcar tsbouncingandswayingdowntheroad,myearsfilledwithtalesofthesupernatur al,historicalromances,andstrangeandcaptivatingstories,alltiedtothenatural environmentandclanhistories,andallofwhichcreatedapowerfulrealityinmy mind.eveninmywildestdreams,icouldnothaveenvisionedadaywhenallthisw ouldbethestuffofmyownfiction,foriwasjustaboywholovedstories,whowasinf atuatedwiththetalespeoplearoundmeweretelling.backtheniwas,withoutad oubt,atheist,believingthatalllivingcreatureswereendowedwithsouls.i'dstop andpaymyrespectstoatoweringoldtree;ifisawabird,iwassureitcouldbecome humananytimeitwanted;andisuspectedeverystrangerimetofbeingatransfor medbeast.atnight,terriblefearsaccompaniedmeonmywayhomeaftermywor kpointsweretallied,soi'dsingatthetopofmylungsasirantobuildupabitofcoura ge.myvoice,whichwaschangingatthetime,producedscratchy,squeakysongst hatgratedontheearsofanyvillagerwhoheardme.ispentmyfirsttwenty-oneyea rsinthatvillage,nevertravelingfartherfromhomethantoqingdao,bytrain,wher einearlygotlostamidthegiantstacksofwoodinalumbermill.whenmymotheras kedmewhati'dseeninqingdao,ireportedsadlythatalli'dseenwerestacksoflum ber.butthattriptoqingdaoplantedinmeapowerfuldesiretoleavemyvillageand seetheworld.infebruary1976iwasrecruitedintothearmyandwalkedoutofthenortheastgaomitownshipvillageibothlovedandhated,enteringacriticalphase ofmylife,carryinginmybackpackthefour-volumebriefhistoryofchinamymoth erhadboughtbysellingherweddingjewelry.thusbeganthemostimportantperi odofmylife.imustadmitthatwereitnotforthethirty-oddyearsoftremendousd evelopmentandprogressinchinesesociety,andthesubsequentnationalrefor mandopeningofherdoorstotheoutside,iwouldnotbeawritertoday.inthemidstofmind-numbingmilitarylife,iwelcomedtheideologicalemancipat ionandliteraryfervorofthenineteen-eighties,andevolvedfromaboywholisten edtostoriesandpassedthemonbywordofmouthintosomeonewhoexperimen tedwithwritingthemdown.itwasarockyroadatfirst,atimewhenihadnotyetdis coveredhowrichasourceofliterarymaterialmytwodecadesofvillagelifecouldb e.ithoughtthatliteraturewasallaboutgoodpeopledoinggoodthings,storiesof heroicdeedsandmodelcitizens,sothatthefewpiecesofminethatwerepublishe dhadlittleliteraryvalue.inthefallof1984iwasacceptedintotheliteraturedepart mentoftheplaartacademy,where,undertheguidanceofmyreveredmentor,th erenownedwriterxuhuaizhong,iwroteaseriesofstoriesandnovellas,including :"autumnfloods,""dryriver,""thetransparentcarrot,"and"redsorghum."nort heastgaomitownshipmadeitsfirstappearancein"autumnfloods,"andfromtha tmomenton,likeawanderingpeasantwhofindshisownpieceofland,thisliterar yvagabondfoundaplacehecouldcallhisown.imustsaythatinthecourseofcreatingmyliterarydomain,northeastgaomitownship,iwasgreatlyinspiredbytheam ericannovelistwilliamfaulknerandthecolumbiangabrielgarcíamárquez.ihadn otreadeitherofthemextensively,butwasencouragedbythebold,unrestrained waytheycreatednewterritoryinwriting,andlearnedfromthemthatawritermu sthaveaplacethatbelongstohimalone.humilityandcompromiseareidealinon e'sdailylife,butinliterarycreation,supremeself-confidenceandtheneedtofoll owone'sowninstinctsareessential.fortwoyearsifollowedinthefootstepsofthe setwomastersbeforerealizingthatihadtoescapetheirinfluence;thisishowicha racterizedthatdecisioninanessay:theywereapairofblazingfurnaces,iwasablo ckofice.ifigottooclosetothem,iwoulddissolveintoacloudofsteam.inmyunder standing,onewriterinfluencesanotherwhentheyenjoyaprofoundspiritualkin ship,whatisoftenreferredtoas"heartsbeatinginunison."thatexplainswhy,tho ughihadreadlittleoftheirwork,afewpagesweresufficientformetocomprehen dwhattheyweredoingandhowtheyweredoingit,whichledtomyunderstandin gofwhatishoulddoandhowishoulddoit.whatishoulddowassimplicityitself:wr itemyownstoriesinmyownway.mywaywasthatofthemarketplacestoryteller, withwhichiwassofamiliar,thewaymygrandfatherandmygrandmotherandoth ervillageold-timerstoldstories.inallcandor,inevergaveathoughttoaudiencew heniwastellingmystories;perhapsmyaudiencewasmadeupofpeoplelikemym other,andperhapsitwasonlyme.theearlystorieswerenarrationsofmypersona lexperience:theboywhoreceivedawhippingin"dryriver,"forinstance,ortheboywhoneverspokein"thetransparentcarrot."ihadactuallydonesomethingbad enoughtoreceiveawhippingfrommyfather,andihadactuallyworkedthebello wsforablacksmithonabridgesite.naturally,personalexperiencecannotbeturn edintofictionexactlyasithappened,nomatterhowuniquethatmightbe.fiction hastobefictional,hastobeimaginative.tomanyofmyfriends,"thetransparentc arrot"ismyverybeststory;ihavenoopiniononewayortheother.whaticansayis, "thetransparentcarrot"ismoresymbolicandmoreprofoundlymeaningfulthan anyotherstoryi'vewritten.thatdark-skinnedboywiththesuperhumanabilityto sufferandasuperhumandegreeofsensitivityrepresentsthesoulofmyentirefict ionaloutput.notoneofallthefictionalcharactersi'vecreatedsincethenisasclos etomysoulasheis.orputadifferentway,amongallthecharactersawritercreates ,thereisalwaysonethatstandsabovealltheothers.forme,thatlaconicboyistheo ne.thoughhesaysnothing,heleadsthewayforalltheothers,inalltheirvariety,pe rformingfreelyonthenortheastgaomitownshipstage.apersoncanexperienceonlysomuch,andonceyouhaveexhaustedyourownsto ries,youmusttellthestoriesofothers.andso,outofthedepthsofmymemories,li keconscriptedsoldiers,rosestoriesoffamilymembers,offellowvillagers,andofl ong-deadancestorsilearnedoffromthemouthsofold-timers.theywaitedexpe ctantlyformetotelltheirstories.mygrandfatherandgrandmother,myfatheran dmother,mybrothersandsisters,myauntsanduncles,mywifeandmydaughterhaveallappearedinmystories.evenunrelatedresidentsofnortheastgaomitow nshiphavemadecameoappearances.ofcoursetheyhaveundergoneliterarym odificationtotransformthemintolarger-than-lifefictionalcharacters.anaunto fmineisthecentralcharacterofmylatestnovel,frogs.theannouncementofthen obelprizesentjournalistsswarmingtoherhomewithinterviewrequests.atfirst, shewaspatientlyaccommodating,butshesoonhadtoescapetheirattentionsby fleeingtoherson'shomeintheprovincialcapital.idon'tdenythatshewasmymo delinwritingfrogs,butthedifferencesbetweenherandthefictionalauntareexte nsive.thefictionalauntisarrogantanddomineering,inplacesvirtuallythuggish, whilemyrealauntiskindandgentle,theclassiccaringwifeandlovingmother.myr ealaunt'sgoldenyearshavebeenhappyandfulfilling;herfictionalcounterparts uffersinsomniainherlateyearsasaresultofspiritualtorment,andwalksthenigh tslikeaspecter,wearingadarkrobe.iamgratefultomyrealauntfornotbeingangr ywithmeforhowichangedherinthenovel.ialsogreatlyrespectherwisdominco mprehendingthecomplexrelationshipbetweenfictionalcharactersandrealpe ople.aftermymotherdied,inthemidstofalmostcripplinggrief,idecidedtowrite anovelforher.bigbreastsandwidehipsisthatnovel.oncemyplantookshape,iwa sburningwithsuchemotionthaticompletedadraftofhalfamillionwordsinonlye ighty-threedays.inbigbreastsandwidehipsishamelesslyusedmaterialassociat edwithmymother'sactualexperience,butthefictionalmother'semotionalstat eiseitheratotalfabricationoracompositeofmanyofnortheastgaomitownship'smothers.thoughiwrote"tothespiritofmymother"onthededicationpage,the novelwasreallywrittenforallmotherseverywhere,evidence,perhaps,ofmyov erweeningambition,inmuchthesamewayasihopetomaketinynortheastgaom itownshipamicrocosmofchina,evenofthewholeworld.theprocessofcreationisuniquetoeverywriter.eachofmynovelsdiffersfromthe othersintermsofplotandguidinginspiration.some,suchas"thetransparentcar rot,"werebornindreams,whileothers,likethegarlicballadshavetheiroriginina ctualevents.whetherthesourceofaworkisadreamorreallife,onlyifitisintegrat edwithindividualexperiencecanitbeimbuedwithindividuality,bepopulatedw ithtypicalcharactersmoldedbylivelydetail,employrichlyevocativelanguage,a ndboastawellcraftedstructure.hereimustpointoutthatinthegarlicballadsiintr oducedareal-lifestorytellerandsingerinoneofthenovel'smostimportantroles .iwishihadn'tusedhisrealname,thoughhiswordsandactionsweremadeup.thi sisarecurringphenomenonwithme.i'llstartoutusingcharacters'realnamesino rdertoachieveasenseofintimacy,andaftertheworkisfinished,itwillseemtoola tetochangethosenames.thishasledtopeoplewhoseetheirnamesinmynovels goingtomyfathertoventtheirdispleasure.healwaysapologizesinmyplace,butt henurgesthemnottotakesuchthingssoseriously.he'llsay:"thefirstsentenceinr edsorghum,'myfather,abandit'soffspring,'didn'tupsetme,sowhyshouldyoub eunhappy?"mygreatestchallengescomewithwritingnovelsthatdealwithsocialrealities,suchasthegarlicballads,notbecausei'mafraidofbeingopenlycritical ofthedarkeraspectsofsociety,butbecauseheatedemotionsandangerallowpol iticstosuppressliteratureandtransformanovelintoreportageofasocialevent.a samemberofsociety,anovelistisentitledtohisownstanceandviewpoint;butw henheiswritinghemusttakeahumanisticstance,andwriteaccordingly.onlythe ncanliteraturenotjustoriginateinevents,buttranscendthem,notjustshowcon cernforpoliticsbutbegreaterthanpolitics.possiblybecausei'velivedsomuchof mylifeindifficultcircumstances,ithinkihaveamoreprofoundunderstandingofli fe.iknowwhatrealcourageis,andiunderstandtruecompassion.iknowthatneb ulousterrainexistsintheheartsandmindsofeveryperson,terrainthatcannotbe adequatelycharacterizedinsimpletermsofrightandwrongorgoodandbad,and thisvastterritoryiswhereawritergivesfreereintohistalent.solongastheworkco rrectlyandvividlydescribesthisnebulous,massivelycontradictoryterrain,itwill inevitablytranscendpoliticsandbeendowedwithliteraryexcellence.prattlingo nandonaboutmyownworkmustbeannoying,butmylifeandworksareinextrica blylinked,soifidon'ttalkaboutmywork,idon'tknowwhatelsetosay.ihopeyouar einaforgivingmood.iwasamodern-daystorytellerwhohidinthebackgroundof hisearlywork;butwiththenovelsandalwooddeathijumpedoutoftheshadows. myearlyworkcanbecharacterizedasaseriesofsoliloquies,withnoreaderinmin d;startingwiththisnovel,however,ivisualizedmyselfstandinginapublicsquare spiritedlytellingmystorytoacrowdoflisteners.thistraditionisaworldwidephenomenoninfiction,butisespeciallysoinchina.atonetime,iwasadiligentstudent ofwesternmodernistfiction,andiexperimentedwithallsortsofnarrativestyles. butintheendicamebacktomytraditions.tobesure,thisreturnwasnotwithoutit smodifications.sandalwooddeathandthenovelsthatfollowedareinheritorsof thechineseclassicalnoveltraditionbutenhancedbywesternliterarytechnique s.whatisknownasinnovativefictionis,forthemostpart,aresultofthismixture,w hichisnotlimitedtodomestictraditionswithforeigntechniques,butcaninclude mixingfictionwithartfromotherrealms.sandalwooddeath,forinstance,mixesf ictionwithlocalopera,whilesomeofmyearlyworkwaspartlynurturedbyfineart ,music,evenacrobatics.finally,iaskyourindulgencetotalkaboutmynovellifeanddeatharewearingmeo ut.thechinesetitlecomesfrombuddhistscripture,andi'vebeentoldthatmytran slatorshavehadfitstryingtorenderitintotheirlanguages.iamnotespeciallywell versedinbuddhistscriptureandhavebutasuperficialunderstandingofthereligi on.ichosethistitlebecauseibelievethatthebasictenetsofthebuddhistfaithrep resentuniversalknowledge,andthatmankind'smanydisputesareutterlywitho utmeaninginthebuddhistrealm.inthatloftyviewoftheuniverse,theworldofm anistobepitied.mynovelisnotareligioustract;initiwroteofman'sfateandhuma nemotions,ofman'slimitationsandhumangenerosity,andofpeople'ssearchfo rhappinessandthelengthstowhichtheywillgo,thesacrificestheywillmake,tounlian,acharacterwhotakesastandagainstcontemporarytr ends,is,inmyview,atruehero.apeasantinaneighboringvillagewasthemodelfo rthischaracter.asayoungsterioftensawhimpassbyourdoorpushingacreaky,w ooden-wheeledcart,withalamedonkeyupfront,ledbyhisbound-footwife.give nthecollectivenatureofsocietybackthen,thisstrangelaborgrouppresentedabi zarresightthatkeptthemoutofstepwiththetimes.intheeyesofuschildren,they wereclownsmarchingagainsthistoricaltrends,provokinginussuchindignation thatwethrewstonesatthemastheypassedusonthestreet.yearslater,afterihad begunwriting,thatpeasantandthetableauhepresentedfloatedintomymind,a ndiknewthatonedayiwouldwriteanovelabouthim,thatsoonerorlateriwouldt ellhisstorytotheworld.butitwasn'tuntiltheyearXX,wheniviewedthebuddhist mural"thesixstagesofsamsara"onatemplewallthatiknewexactlyhowtogoabo uttellinghisstory.theannouncementofmynobelprizehasledtocontroversy.atfi rstithoughtiwasthetargetofthedisputes,butovertimei'vecometorealizethatt herealtargetwasapersonwhohadnothingtodowithme.likesomeonewatching aplayinatheater,iobservedtheperformancesaroundme.isawthewinnerofthe prizebothgarlandedwithflowersandbesiegedbystone-throwersandmudsling ers.iwasafraidhewouldsuccumbtotheassault,butheemergedfromthegarlan dsofflowersandthestones,asmileonhisface;hewipedawaymudandgrime,sto odcalmlyofftotheside,andsaidtothecrowd:forawriter,thebestwaytospeakisb ywriting.youwillfindeverythingineedtosayinmyworks.speechiscarriedoffbythewind;thewrittenwordcanneverbeobliterated.iwouldlikeyoutofindthepati encetoreadmybooks.icannotforceyoutodothat,andevenifyoudo,idonotexpe ctyouropinionofmetochange.nowriterhasyetappeared,anywhereintheworl d,whoislikedbyallhisreaders;thatisespeciallytrueduringtimeslikethese.eventhoughiwouldprefertosaynothing,sinceitissomethingimustdoonthisoc casion,letmejustsaythis:iamastoryteller,soiamgoingtotellyousomestories.w heniwasathird-gradestudentinthe1960s,myschoolorganizedafieldtriptoane xhibitofsuffering,where,underthedirectionofourteacher,wecriedbittertears. iletmytearsstayonmycheeksforthebenefitofourteacher,andwatchedassome ofmyclassmatesspatintheirhandsandrubbeditontheirfacesaspretendtears.i sawonestudentamongallthosewailingchildren–somereal,somephony–whos efacewasdryandwhoremainedsilentwithoutcoveringhisfacewithhishands.h ejustlookedatus,eyeswideopeninanexpressionofsurpriseorconfusion.aftert hevisitireportedhimtotheteacher,andhewasgivenadisciplinarywarning.year slater,wheniexpressedmyremorseoverinformingontheboy,theteachersaidth atatleasttenstudentshaddonewhatidid.theboyhimselfhaddiedadecadeorm oreearlier,andmyconsciencewasdeeplytroubledwhenithoughtofhim.butilea rnedsomethingimportantfromthisincident,andthatis:wheneveryonearound youiscrying,youdeservetobeallowednottocry,andwhenthetearsareallforsho w,yourrightnottocryisgreaterstill.hereisanotherstory:morethanthirtyyearsago,wheniwasinthearmy,iwasinmyofficereadingoneeveningwhenanelderlyof ficeropenedthedoorandcamein.heglanceddownattheseatinfrontofmeand muttered,"hm,whereiseveryone?"istoodupandsaidinaloudvoice,"areyousa yingi'mnoone?"theoldfellow'searsturnedredfromembarrassment,andhewa lkedout.foralongtimeafterthatiwasproudaboutwhaticonsideragutsyperfor mance.yearslater,thatprideturnedtointensequalmsofconscience.bearwith me,please,foronelaststory,onemygrandfathertoldmemanyyearsago:agroup ofeightout-of-townbricklayerstookrefugefromastorminarundowntemple.th underrumbledoutside,sendingfireballstheirway.theyevenheardwhatsound edlikedragonshrieks.themenwereterrified,theirfacesashen."amongtheeight ofus,"oneofthemsaid,"issomeonewhomusthaveoffendedtheheavenswithat erribledeed.theguiltypersonoughttovolunteertostepoutsidetoaccepthispun ishmentandsparetheinnocentfromsuffering.naturally,therewerenovoluntee rs.sooneoftheotherscameupwithaproposal:sincenooneiswillingtogooutside ,let'sallflingourstrawhatstowardthedoor.whoever'shatfliesoutthroughthete mpledooristheguiltyparty,andwe'llaskhimtogooutandaccepthispunishment ."sotheyflungtheirhatstowardthedoor.sevenhatswereblownbackinside;one wentoutthedoor.theypressuredtheeighthmantogooutandaccepthispunish ment,andwhenhebalked,theypickedhimupandflunghimoutthedoor.i'llbetyo uallknowhowthestoryends:theyhadnosoonerflunghimoutthedoorthanthet emplecollapsedaroundthem.iamastoryteller.tellingstoriesearnedmethenobelprizeforliterature.manyinte restingthingshavehappenedtomeinthewakeofwinningtheprize,andtheyhav econvincedmethattruthandjusticearealiveandwell.soiwillcontinuetellingmy storiesinthedaystocome.thankyouall.。
莫言诺贝尔文学奖致辞英文演讲稿
莫言诺贝尔文学奖致辞英文演讲稿莫言诺贝尔文学奖致辞英文演讲稿莫言诺贝尔文学奖致辞英文演讲稿以下这篇是中国当代著名作家莫言XX年获得诺贝尔文学奖时在瑞典学院发表的领奖演讲《讲故事的人》(storyteller),莫言在这次演讲中追忆了自己的母亲,回顾了文学创作之路,并与听众分享了三个意味深长的故事,讲述了自己如何成为一个用笔来讲故事的人的过程。
莫言表示,自己今后还要继续讲自己的故事。
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.尊敬的瑞典学院各位院士,女士们、先生们:通过电视或网络,我想在座的各位,对遥远的高密东北乡,已经有了或多或少的了解。
你们也许看到了我的九十岁的老父亲,看到了我的哥哥姐姐我的妻子女儿和我的一岁零四个月的外孙子,但是有一个此刻我最想念的人,我的母亲,你们永远无法看到了。
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莫言瑞典学院演讲(中英对照)尊敬的瑞典学院各位院士,女士们、先生们:Distinguished members of the Swedish Academy, Ladies and Gentlemen:通过电视或网络,我想在座的各位,对遥远的高密东北乡,已经有了或多或少的了解。
你们也许看到了我的九十岁的老父亲,看到了我的哥哥姐姐我的妻子女儿和我的一岁零四个月的外孙子,但是有一个此刻我最想念的人,我的母亲,你们永远无法看到了。
我获奖后,很多人分享了我的光荣,但我的母亲却无法分享了。
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.我母亲生于1922年,卒于1994年。
她的骨灰,埋葬在村庄东边的桃园里。
去年,一条铁路要从那儿穿过,我们不得不将她的坟墓迁移到距离村子更远的地方。
掘开坟墓后,我们看到,棺木已经腐朽,母亲的骨殖,已经与泥土混为一体。
我们只好象征性地挖起一些泥土,移到新的墓穴里。
也就是从那一时刻起,我感到,我的母亲是大地的一部分,我站在大地上的诉说,就是对母亲的诉说。
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.我是我母亲最小的孩子。
I was my mother‘s youngest child.我记忆中最早的一件事,是提着家里唯一的一把热水壶去公共食堂打开水。
因为饥饿无力,失手将热水瓶打碎,我吓得要命,钻进草垛,一天没敢出来。
傍晚的时候我听到母亲呼唤我的乳名,我从草垛里钻出来,以为会受到打骂,但母亲没有打我也没有骂我,只是抚摸着我的头,口中发出长长的叹息。
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 beatin g or a scolding. But Mother didn‘t hit me, didn‘t even scold me. She just rubbed my head and heaved a sigh.我记忆中最痛苦的一件事,就是跟着母亲去集体的地里拣麦穗,看守麦田的人来了,拣麦穗的人纷纷逃跑,我母亲是小脚,跑不快,被捉住,那个身材高大的看守人煽了她一个耳光,她摇晃着身体跌倒在地,看守人没收了我们拣到的麦穗,吹着口哨扬长而去。
我母亲嘴角流血,坐在地上,脸上那种绝望的神情深我终生难忘。
多年之后,当那个看守麦田的人成为一个白发苍苍的老人,在集市上与我相逢,我冲上去想找他报仇,母亲拉住了我,平静的对我说:―儿子,那个打我的人,与这个老人,并不是一个人。
‖My most painful memory invo lved 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.‖我记得最深刻的一件事是一个中秋节的中午,我们家难得的包了一顿饺子,每人只有一碗。
正当我们吃饺子时,一个乞讨的老人来到了我们家门口,我端起半碗红薯干打发他,他却愤愤不平地说:―我是一个老人,你们吃饺子,却让我吃红薯干。
你们的心是怎么长的?‖我气急败坏的说:―我们一年也吃不了几次饺子,一人一小碗,连半饱都吃不了!给你红薯干就不错了,你要就要,不要就滚!‖母亲训斥了我,然后端起她那半碗饺子,倒进了老人碗里。
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 hel l out of here!‖ After (dressing me down) reprimanding me, Mother dumped her half bowlful of jiaozi into the old man‘s bowl.我最后悔的一件事,就是跟着母亲去卖白菜,有意无意的多算了一位买白菜的老人一毛钱。
算完钱我就去了学校。
当我放学回家时,看到很少流泪的母亲泪流满面。
母亲并没有骂我,只是轻轻的说:―儿子,你让娘丢了脸。
‖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.‖ 我十几岁时,母亲患了严重的肺病,饥饿,病痛,劳累,使我们这个家庭陷入了困境,看不到光明和希望。