莫言諾貝爾文學獎致辭英文演講稿

　　以下這篇演講稿是中國當代著名作家莫言2012年獲得諾貝爾文學獎時在瑞典學院發(fā)表的領獎演講《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，

莫言諾貝爾文學獎致辭英文演講稿

。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.

　　尊敬的瑞典學院各位院士，女士們、先生們：通過電視或網(wǎng)絡，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墓遷移到距離村子更遠的地方。掘開墳墓后，我們看到，棺木已經(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，

資料共享平臺

《莫言諾貝爾文學獎致辭英文演講稿》(http://www.lotusphilosophies.com)。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."

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