2009年5月29日

Joga Bonito

看巴塞踢球,才知道所謂「漂亮足球」是什麼一回事。才華橫溢、充滿決心,而且光明磊落。我真心替他們拿歐聯冠軍感到高興。

《1Q84》


(來源: 東方早報)

日本新潮社宣佈,日本作家村上春樹的新作將於今年“初夏”上市,書名定為《1Q84》。然而出版社方面並未透露更多資訊,反倒是村上春樹本人在國外對這一新作說了不少。村上春樹日前在西班牙證實,他欲以此書向奧威爾致敬。不同的是,“奧威爾寫《1984》是預言未來,而我的小說正相反,我回溯過去,但仍然在講未來。”村上說。此書非常有可能涉及“二戰”時日本的野蠻侵略與可悲戰敗,或許比以往更多地涉及政治,但不會成為《1984》那樣的政治小說。

正在西班牙訪問的村上春樹日前向西班牙《國家報》透露,他啟程出國前,剛剛將其新長篇《1Q84》的書稿交與出版商,“這是我最長、也是最雄心勃勃的作品,花去了我兩年時間。”這句話意味著《1Q84》在字數上將超越其《發條鳥年代記》和《海邊的卡夫卡》。

而就在今年1月,村上告訴《舊金山紀事報》的約翰·弗裏曼,已完成的新作長度為《海邊的卡夫卡》兩倍。中譯本《海邊的卡夫卡》厚500余頁,以此推斷,《1Q84》或許將超過1000頁,成為十足的“巨著"。

許多大作家上了年紀,便越寫越短,一本書只有百十來頁是常有的事,但60歲的村上春樹越寫越長,他始終堅持身體鍛鍊,生活規律,且戒煙多年,火力甚壯,操作起千頁長篇,至少全無體力問題。《1Q84》書名古怪,令人聯想起喬治·奧威爾的名作《1984》。事實上,在日語中,“Q”與“九”同音。

村上在西班牙證實,他欲以此書向奧威爾致敬。此書非常有可能涉及二戰時日本的野蠻侵略與可悲戰敗,或許比以往更多地涉及政治,但不會成為《1984》那樣的政治小說。村上的英文譯者傑伊·魯賓曾透露,村上自2006年12月開始寫新作新著,狀態甚佳,全無壓力。

1月11日的《舊金山紀事報》還肯定地援引村上本人的話說,此書“將於今年5月在日本出版”。村上此番前往西班牙,是促銷其小說《天黑以後》新出的西班牙文和加泰羅尼亞文版。他穿著汗衫在巴塞羅那的海灘上跑步,流連于畢加索美術館,並對西班牙人大讚其畫作意義常新。

在西班牙的致辭中,村上也再度提及亡父對他的影響:“我父親一年前過世了,他1940年參戰,也跟我說過他的故事,但我總是在他的故事和我的故事之間搖擺。當我動筆的時候,我並沒有藍圖。只有一個場景和幾個字。"

村上春樹性格羞澀,甚少接受媒體採訪。但今年以來,他的曝光率明顯增加。2月15日,他不顧反以團體的勸阻,前往以色列領受耶路撒冷文學獎,並當著以國總統和耶市市長的面,表情僵硬地大談“我們都是脆弱的蛋”,並堅定地宣佈,哪怕以卵擊墻,必死無疑,自己也要“和蛋們站在一起”。

在加沙血戰後前往以色列受獎,並未污損村上的世界盛名,相反,“脆蛋論”令他聲譽更隆。他理所當然地被西班牙媒體問及諾貝爾文學獎一事,但他輕易以四兩“擋”開了千斤。“諾貝爾獎是給上年紀的作家的,”他逗弄對方說,“你想罵我是老頭子嗎?”他說:“我對獎這些東西沒興趣,有興趣的是讀者。”

2009年5月26日

這陣子看什麼

  • 《窒色》:好頭爛尾。但頭半部份我真的是笑出眼淚來的。
  • 《愛到底》:由四個短篇組成,我只喜歡頭兩個。雖然陳伯霖在第四個故事才出現。
  • 《4月3周2日-墮胎日記》:bc sunday。可能是戲評說得太好了,是否有點過譽。羅馬尼亞的電影,講八十年代共產垮台後,墮胎才開始合法化,引起一輪墮胎熱。這是一個女子協助室友墮胎的故事。
  • 《韋氐風雲》:算了吧,大美國。我以後也不想看這種電影了。(我說過一千遍了。)
  • 《一半海水一半火焰》:驚喜。看罷那刻才知道是王朔的故事。
  • 《天使與魔鬼》:別問我,我對這種故事是情有獨鍾的,將考古、歷史、藝術、信仰串連在一起。一年前已看完小說了,可惜同行三人都說普通。怎會,你不認為一個具如此聰明才智的作家很厲害嗎?
  • 《天水圍之日與夜》:我沒共鳴,但我佩服許鞍華。
  • 《忘情朱古力》:我沒想過是搞懸疑的。是我自己抱錯心情了。
  • 《吳清源》:半夢半醒之間。
  • 《中國之鳥人》:喜歡呀。謝謝-S的介紹。

2009年5月23日

《麥田捕手》

自上星期六聯賽後,便一直生病到現在了。同時期,哥哥與家暉也像約好了似的,一個一個發起燒來,怎努力吃退燒藥也不肯退那種。今天,本來約好一家人去隆河丘試酒會的,最終還只有我單刀赴會,勉強喝了幾口白酒(別告訴我媽),將門票交給別人便離開了。是流感,但不是豬那種。醫生說。他說最近就是很多人因為這來看他,不用流鼻涕或者喉嚨痛,就單是腰酸背痛與偏頭痛就夠難受了。

在家休養的一星期,感覺無聊得很。我算是喜歡留在家那種人,但我喜歡我能選擇留或不留在家,而不是像現在般有點被逼留在家的感覺。可幸的是,雖然吃了藥感覺不太精神,但我還是用意志力將《麥田捕手》看完,沒法子實在太爽了,我覺得這才是一本真真正正能稱得上為「有趣」的作品,全書都以「他媽的」、「窩囊廢」、「真夭壽」這些俗話貫穿,講童真、成長、成人世界的虛偽,好笑,也到肉得叫人拍案叫絶。究竟,為何我至今才看這本如此傑出的作品呢?我想起了,是他媽的以前有個窩囊廢,告訴我這本書是講棒球什麼的,天呀,真夭壽。(看,我學壞了)

很喜歡故事裡面的男主角,看似一無是處,卻是最有主見、純真而坦率的一個人,而且他看透了世界上很多裝模作樣的人和事。他不過是想找個人真心談話,卻不是被同學恥笑,被學校退學,便是被妓女欺騙、毒打,到最後他唯有對著小學四年級的妹妹才能暢所欲言。我上網找這本書的資料,是美國作家沙林傑於1951年的作品,回看他的人生,覺得這本書很有可能是他的自傳,至少他將想法都透過男主角表達了。

沙林傑還在生,仍然遺世獨立,仍然隱居山林,他從不接受任何訪問,也不答應將故事改拍為電影。至2007年,麥田出版社跟九十歲的他商討有關重新翻譯的事,他答應了,但卻定下了三個條件:一,不得用任何「經典」的字眼。二,不得刊登他的照片。三,封面不要任何插圖。怎樣,很有個性吧?我手上就拿著這本新譯本,比較個多月前在圖書館借的舊譯版,這個新譯本爽太多了。

小說的最後一章很打動我:「我打定主意遠走高飛不再回家,也不再到另一個混帳學校裡去念書了。我決定……攔一輛車,然後再一輛、再一輛,這樣沒幾天我就可以到達西部,那兒陽光明媚,景色美麗;那兒沒有人認識我,我可以隨便找個工作做,我並不在乎找到的是什麼樣的工作,反正只要沒人認識我、我也不認識任何人就行。我打算到了那兒,就假裝又聾又啞,這樣我的下半輩子就再也用不著跟人說話了。我會用自己賺來的錢蓋一棟小屋,終生住在裡面……」第265頁。我 大概,有時很憤世的時候也會如此想吧。

2009年5月18日

他們 與小豆丁

他與媽媽



他說:「上一場我發脾氣掟衫,因為,我媽媽來了,我想入波給她看,但我被換離場了。」

2009年5月15日

《南京!南京!》

我身邊的朋友都說,不會看這電影,因為,太沉重、沒需要看令自己不舒服的東西、怕悶、不喜歡看太殘忍的電影之類。我不反對。我只是想起,這種電影,其實有誰會真正「喜歡」看的呢?

讀歷史的意義何在?人若真的能從歷史裡學習,繼而改變現在與未來的話,那為何,聲稱有幾千年歷史的中國,還有那麼多貪官污吏、以權謀私、環境污柒、甚至六四事件?我只是在想,歷史本身的重要性,並非純粹那事件本身,即是,不一定要執著於死者的人數、怎樣死、戰爭中的地理形勢之類。

重點,是閱讀歷史的過程時,那些個人感受。你會自願當慰安婦兩星期,以換取其他人的性命嗎?手執十字架的角川,怎樣在戰場中想起神的愛?你會不會為了保護家人,為了換取一張良民證而出賣同胞?當道德將人心扯向兩邊,你會怎選擇?當面對國的概念,家的概念,要不要捨生取義的時候,你有何感受?

然後我想起中學歷史科老師只著重死背史料而忽略感受性的指導是多麼可惜的一回事。我相信,只有很少部份的歷史記錄,最終會披露一個黑白分明的答案,反而,透過閱讀過程中的反思與感受,人的價值觀會在心裡慢慢建築起來。價值觀才有意義。我覺得。

至於有何途徑去將歷史與當下接駁,當然就是靠寫作的人,與拍錄像的人了。電影最後,角川在草坡上向腦袋補上的那一槍,說的,當然是死去比活著容易了,但死卻解決不了任何事,生者的世界,小豆子的回憶,遺留下來的慰安婦,日本人卻於此時還不願承認,更別說是他們那個慣性的九十度鞠躬了。

若問我,喜歡不喜歡的話,我怎可能會喜歡看同胞被斬、被殺、被強姦的事,但當問起,我會否支持這樣一個嚴謹、用心的導演,將如斯悲傷的歷史平實而真率記錄下來,我以行動證明了。

2009年5月14日

輸入與輸出

有關創作,是否必定先有input,才有output?我一直也相信是,至少對大部人來說是。然而,當我在文化中心劇院聽《費家洛的婚禮》選段時,我忽然覺得,莫扎特這神童小子,不就是不用任何輸入,便能輕易創作出神喻似的樂章嗎?或者那根本不叫創作,而是一種演繹。那種連綿的氣勢,步步的推進,好幾次以為已達到高潮了,卻又在急速滑落之際變調又湧上。他不像老柴,也不像蕭邦,他的音樂沒一種凡間的悲愴、浪漫與溫柔在內,那種打動反而像宗教式的,時而聖潔,時而清澈,即使偶有玩笑部份,感覺上也是相當的無傷大雅而歡快。一切的樂章、旋律,都流露著一份被披露的渴望,神童出生的目的,就是將那份精神的渴望自然流露出來。至於作為觀眾的,與其說很能理解當中那極致美好的部份,不如說,大家都是帶者一份充滿敬仰的態度去朝聖。

2009年5月8日

我也是站在雞蛋那邊

是有點過時了,但我實在很想記下,村上獲耶路撒冷文學獎的講辭。

I have come to Jerusalem today as a novelist, which is to say as a professional spinner of lies.

Of course, novelists are not the only ones who tell lies. Politicians do it, too, as we all know. Diplomats and military men tell their own kinds of lies on occasion, as do used car salesmen, butchers and builders. The lies of novelists differ from others, however, in that no one criticizes the novelist as immoral for telling them. Indeed, the bigger and better his lies and the more ingeniously he creates them, the more he is likely to be praised by the public and the critics. Why should that be?

My answer would be this: Namely, that by telling skillful lies - which is to say, by making up fictions that appear to be true - the novelist can bring a truth out to a new location and shine a new light on it. In most cases, it is virtually impossible to grasp a truth in its original form and depict it accurately. This is why we try to grab its tail by luring the truth from its hiding place, transferring it to a fictional location, and replacing it with a fictional form. In order to accomplish this, however, we first have to clarify where the truth lies within us. This is an important qualification for making up good lies.Today, however, I have no intention of lying. I will try to be as honest as I can. There are a few days in the year when I do not engage in telling lies, and today happens to be one of them.

So let me tell you the truth. A fair number of people advised me not to come here to accept the Jerusalem Prize. Some even warned me they would instigate a boycott of my books if I came.
The reason for this, of course, was the fierce battle that was raging in Gaza. The UN reported that more than a thousand people had lost their lives in the blockaded Gaza City, many of them unarmed citizens - children and old people.

Any number of times after receiving notice of the award, I asked myself whether traveling to Israel at a time like this and accepting a literary prize was the proper thing to do, whether this would create the impression that I supported one side in the conflict, that I endorsed the policies of a nation that chose to unleash its overwhelming military power. This is an impression, of course, that I would not wish to give. I do not approve of any war, and I do not support any nation. Neither, of course, do I wish to see my books subjected to a boycott.

Finally, however, after careful consideration, I made up my mind to come here. One reason for my decision was that all too many people advised me not to do it. Perhaps, like many other novelists, I tend to do the exact opposite of what I am told. If people are telling me - and especially if they are warning me - "don't go there," "don't do that," I tend to want to "go there" and "do that." It's in my nature, you might say, as a novelist. Novelists are a special breed. They cannot genuinely trust anything they have not seen with their own eyes or touched with their own hands.

And that is why I am here. I chose to come here rather than stay away. I chose to see for myself rather than not to see. I chose to speak to you rather than to say nothing.

This is not to say that I am here to deliver a political message. To make judgments about right and wrong is one of the novelist's most important duties, of course.

It is left to each writer, however, to decide upon the form in which he or she will convey those judgments to others. I myself prefer to transform them into stories - stories that tend toward the surreal. Which is why I do not intend to stand before you today delivering a direct political message.

Please do, however, allow me to deliver one very personal message. It is something that I always keep in mind while I am writing fiction. I have never gone so far as to write it on a piece of paper and paste it to the wall: Rather, it is carved into the wall of my mind, and it goes something like this:

"Between a high, solid wall and an egg that breaks against it, I will always stand on the side of the egg."

Yes, no matter how right the wall may be and how wrong the egg, I will stand with the egg. Someone else will have to decide what is right and what is wrong; perhaps time or history will decide. If there were a novelist who, for whatever reason, wrote works standing with the wall, of what value would such works be?

What is the meaning of this metaphor? In some cases, it is all too simple and clear. Bombers and tanks and rockets and white phosphorus shells are that high, solid wall. The eggs are the unarmed civilians who are crushed and burned and shot by them. This is one meaning of the metaphor.

This is not all, though. It carries a deeper meaning. Think of it this way. Each of us is, more or less, an egg. Each of us is a unique, irreplaceable soul enclosed in a fragile shell. This is true of me, and it is true of each of you. And each of us, to a greater or lesser degree, is confronting a high, solid wall. The wall has a name: It is The System. The System is supposed to protect us, but sometimes it takes on a life of its own, and then it begins to kill us and cause us to kill others - coldly, efficiently, systematically.

I have only one reason to write novels, and that is to bring the dignity of the individual soul to the surface and shine a light upon it. The purpose of a story is to sound an alarm, to keep a light trained on The System in order to prevent it from tangling our souls in its web and demeaning them. I fully believe it is the novelist's job to keep trying to clarify the uniqueness of each individual soul by writing stories - stories of life and death, stories of love, stories that make people cry and quake with fear and shake with laughter. This is why we go on, day after day, concocting fictions with utter seriousness.

My father died last year at the age of 90. He was a retired teacher and a part-time Buddhist priest. When he was in graduate school, he was drafted into the army and sent to fight in China. As a child born after the war, I used to see him every morning before breakfast offering up long, deeply-felt prayers at the Buddhist altar in our house. One time I asked him why he did this, and he told me he was praying for the people who had died in the war.

He was praying for all the people who died, he said, both ally and enemy alike. Staring at his back as he knelt at the altar, I seemed to feel the shadow of death hovering around him.
My father died, and with him he took his memories, memories that I can never know. But the presence of death that lurked about him remains in my own memory. It is one of the few things I carry on from him, and one of the most important.

I have only one thing I hope to convey to you today. We are all human beings, individuals transcending nationality and race and religion, fragile eggs faced with a solid wall called The System. To all appearances, we have no hope of winning. The wall is too high, too strong - and too cold. If we have any hope of victory at all, it will have to come from our believing in the utter uniqueness and irreplaceability of our own and others' souls and from the warmth we gain by joining souls together.

Take a moment to think about this. Each of us possesses a tangible, living soul. The System has no such thing. We must not allow The System to exploit us. We must not allow The System to take on a life of its own. The System did not make us: We made The System.

That is all I have to say to you.

I am grateful to have been awarded the Jerusalem Prize. I am grateful that my books are being read by people in many parts of the world. And I am glad to have had the opportunity to speak to you here today.

2009年5月7日

車路士 vs 巴塞隆納


93分鐘。香港時間4:40am。歐聯四強。當巴塞在補時階段射入決定性的一球,我立時興奮得跑到電視前,振臂高呼了好一段時間。太快人心了。雖然這樣說一定會得罪車仔球迷,但這夜,或者說這兩場主場作客,我感覺就像看一齣忠奸分明的電影,我拳頭握碎了也只見奸人得逞,正義的人卻只被敲詐、攔截、堵塞。幸好,命運之神終於肯做場好戲,還要在最後一分鐘才將底牌揭開。

事實是,我算不上巴塞球迷,這一場,卻是因為正義而捧巴塞。或者,我沒想過一隊big 4球隊會這樣踢球的,在開波8分鐘入了一球後便完全退回防守線,用兩、三個人mark一個前鋒,三番四次用杜奧巴與波力克以插水截停巴塞的節奏,以高大的身型作堵塞之類。我不知道,我不是足球員,但足球真的是這樣踢的嗎?他們合球例,有戰術,但他們眼中,除了"入決賽"三個字,我看不到所謂的風度、體育精神、漂亮足球之類的東西。我也相信,前一夜順利進入決賽的曼聯,也會較希望對手會是流麗、細緻、進攻的巴塞隆納是吧?決賽見。

2009年5月1日

那 小男孩


知道自己有魅力的男子,大概就是這樣走路的。
剛滿20歲,剛擺脫了孩子氣的Theo Walcott,很好看。