Always stand on the side of the egg


Written by:

In 2009, the Japanese writer Haruki Murakami awarded the Jerusalem Prize for Literature.A time when the peak of a new round of Israeli-Palestinian conflict, but Murakami After careful consideration, the alumni to Israel and published in order to free the human soul as the theme of acceptance speech.Today, I, as a novelist came to Jerusalem to say as a professional spinner of lies.The lies of novelists differ from others, he said, lies the bigger and better ways to make a lie of the more ingenious, the more he may be praised by the public and critics.Today, however, I’m not going to lie.A lot of people advised me not to come here to accept the Jerusalem Prize.Some even warned me that if I came, they would instigate a boycott of my books.However, after careful consideration, I decided to come here.Please do allow me to deliver one very personal message, which is always be engraved in the heart wall when I wrote the novel: between the high, solid wall and an egg that breaks against it, I will always stand with the egg one side.What is right and what is wrong, perhaps time or history will decide.But if there were a novelist who, for whatever reason, wrote works standing with the wall, then what value would such works do?What is the meaning of this metaphor?In some cases, it is too simple to understand.Bombers and tanks and rockets and white phosphorus shells are that high wall; eggs are those that are crushed and burned and shot the unarmed civilians.It also has a deeper meaning.To think this way, each of us, more or less, an egg, is a unique, irreplaceable soul enclosed in a fragile shell.And we are faced with more or less high, solid wall.The wall has a name: the system.The System is supposed to protect us, but sometimes.It is no longer controlled by any person, 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 the manifestation of the dignity of the individual soul, and shine with light.The story was intended to sound an alarm, to keep a light trained on the System in order to prevent our souls caught in its web and demeaning.That is why we, day after day, in a very serious manner concocting fictions.My father died last year at the age of 90 years old.He was a retired teacher and a Buddhist monk.Reading Institute, he was drafted into the army, was sent to fight in China.I am a child born after the war, often see him every morning before breakfast, devoutly pray for a long time at the altar of the house.He told me he was in for those who died in the war in prayer, both friend and foe.My father died, he took his memories, memories that I can never understand.But lurking in the atmosphere surrounding his death has left in my own memory.This is one of the few I inherited from him a few things down there, and is one of the most important.We are all human beings, individuals transcending nationality, race, religion, are fragile eggs faced with a solid wall called the wall system, we have no hope of winning.This wall is too high, too strong, too cold.If we have any hope to win, it must come from our utter uniqueness and irreplaceability of our own and others’ souls and from our souls gathered to get a warm.

Comments are closed.