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莫言诺贝尔文学奖演讲全文(中英对照)

讲故事的人
 
Storytellers
 
 
 
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 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。”
 
 
 
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 hell 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。我产生了一种强烈的不祥之兆,以为母亲随时都会自己寻短见。每当我劳动归来,一进大门就高喊母亲,听到她的回应,心中才感到一块石头落了地。如果一时听不到她的回应,我就心惊胆战,跑到厨房和磨坊里寻找。有一次找遍了所有的房间也没有见到母亲的身影,我便坐在了院子里大哭。这时母亲背着一捆柴草从外面走进来。她对我的哭很不满,但我又不能对她说出我的担忧。母亲看到我的心思,她说:“孩子你放心,尽管我活着没有一点乐趣,但只要阎王爷不叫我,我是不会去的。”
 
 
 
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.”