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莫言獲諾貝爾文學(xué)獎(jiǎng)演說
《講故事的人》
（中英文對(duì)照）
尊敬的瑞典學(xué)院各位院士，女士們、先生們：
Distinguished members of the
通過電視或網(wǎng)絡(luò)，我想在座的各位，對(duì)遙遠(yuǎn)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(gè)月的外孫子，但是有一個(gè)此刻我最想念的人，我的母親，你們永遠(yuǎn)無法看到了。我獲獎(jiǎng)后，很多人分享了我的光榮，但我的母親卻無法分享了。
Through the mediums of television and the Internet, I imagine that everyone here has at least a nodding acquaintance with far-off
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(yuǎn)的地方。掘開墳?zāi)购�，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(shí)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(duì)母親的訴說。
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.
我是我母親最小的孩子。
I was my mother’s youngest child.
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?yàn)轲囸I無力，失手將熱水瓶打碎，我嚇得要命，鉆進(jìn)草垛，一天沒敢出來。傍晚的時(shí)候我聽到母親呼喚我的乳名，我從草垛里鉆出來，以為會(huì)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(zhǎng)長(zhǎng)的嘆息。
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 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(gè)身材高大的看守人煽了她一個(gè)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(yáng)長(zhǎng)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(gè)看守麥田的人成為一個(gè)白發(fā)蒼蒼的老人，在集市上與我相逢，我沖上去想找他報(bào)仇，母親拉住了我，平靜的對(duì)我說：“兒子，那個(gè)打我的人，與這個(gè)老人，并不是一個(gè)人。”
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.”
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