http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1064909.html
村上は次のように述べた。
"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.
抗しがたいシステムである「壁」と、魂を持つ個々という意味での「卵」と区別し、人間「卵」の側にコミットするというのだ。それがどんな意味を持つのかといえば、ある意味で明白である。
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.
「壁」とはイスラエル国家が行使している軍事行動、すなわち爆撃機であり、戦車であり、ロケット砲であり、白リン弾を示唆する。これに対して、「卵」とは、そういった武力によって殺されていく非武装のパレスチナ市民のことである。
しかしながら、村上の言いたいことは、おそらくそういうことだけではなかった。いやむしろ、別のことに関心があったのかもしれないと思う。現に村上は、急いで次のように付け加えるの忘れない。
.
This is not all, though. It carries a deeper meaning
"a deeper meaning"とは何だろうか。
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.
抽象的で分かりにくく読めるかも知れない。しかし、私にはきわめて明快な事実を指摘しているにほかならないと思われる。
ここでは、「壁」をイスラエル国家とみなしておこう。だが、この時「卵」と言うのは、イスラエルによって攻撃されているパレスチナ市民だけではないのだ。なぜならば、イスラエル国家の内側にあるユダヤ教徒のイスラエル市民も、全く同じように「壁」に囲まれているからである。イスラエル人はパレスチナ人を壁に囲い込んだかのように考えているかもしれないが、実は彼らも、その「壁」によって囲まれてしまった「卵」なのである。
村上は、何度も何度もme, each of you, each of usといった表現を持ちながら、次のように続けた。
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.
私の理解するところでは、「卵」と言うのは決して非武装の市民だけではない。武器を持って非武装市民を虐殺していくイスラエルの兵士に対しても向けられている。だからここで何度も、「あなた達一人一人」が強調されているわけである。
そして村上は、若い頃に中国戦線に送られていった、亡き父親の話に転ずる。村上のお父さんは、毎朝、戦争で亡くなった敵と味方の双方に対して祈りを捧げていたのだそうだ。このお父さん話は、イスラエルという国家の中で生きるイスラエルの市民と兵士を念頭においているに違いない。イスラエルの「卵」が、イスラエルの「壁」に押しつぶされないことを祈ってものでもあろう。
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.
だが、村上春樹の「壁」の概念には、少々疑問に思うところがないわけではない。
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.
村上の「壁」あるいはシステムの説明は、彼の今までの小説の認識とよく通じ合っているように見える。だが、これほどまでに抽象的で、神秘的な「壁」は存在するのだろうか。たとえば問題を、パレスチナにおける虐殺問題のようなものに限定してしまえば、その軍事行動を指揮する何人かの政府要人を絞り込むことができる。彼らは決して、『ねじまき鳥』や『羊』のなかの、不思議な権力者のような存在ではない。むしろ、村上の前にはっきりと姿を現す普通の人間である。そして、彼らが実際に軍事行動を決定したのではないのか。言い換えれば、「壁」はそんなに神秘的でもないだろうし、それほど強固で高いわけではない。むしろ、現実に崩壊することを予期することさえもできるのではないのか。
村上の世界観と、村上の小説は、いたずらに権力とsystemを神秘化としているのではないか。村上春樹の世界観と、例えば司馬遼太郎の世界観とか絶対に交叉しないところであるが、この大いなるギャップがむしろ問題ではなかろうか。（司馬遼太郎に代表されるような、権力者を描く歴史小説が、歴史とシステムの人間化を目論んでいるのに対し、村上は歴史とシステムを「あまりにも高く、強く、冷たい」壁としてしまったのである。ある意味では、司馬的世界ーーあるいは司馬遼太郎の「世代」というのだろうかーーがサルトルと的な実存主義的歴史観、村上春樹はレビーストロース的な構造主義的な歴史観を反映していると言えなくもないではない。もっとも、あまりにも図式的な理解であることは否めないが）。
最後にもうひとつだけ疑問点を書いておきたい。それは村上スピーチの結びの言葉である。
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.
村上の小説は、確かに世界中にたくさんの読者を持っている。しかし、アラブやイスラムの読者はどれだけいるのだろうか。また、彼の発言は、イスラエルの人には届くかもしれないが、パレスチナの側には、全く届いていないのではないだろうか。すでにこういう村上に対する批判は多いと思うが、やはり一言述べておかずにはいかない。
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【英語全文】村上春樹さん「エルサレム賞」授賞式講演全文
以下の英文は村上春樹さんが講演を終えたあと共同通信エルサレム支局の長谷川健司特派員（支局長）がエルサレム賞主催者から入手したテキストが基になっています。しかし、実際の講演はこれに少し修正が加えられていました。当日、長谷川特派員が授賞式会場の取材で録音したレコーダーを聞きなおし、実際に村上さんが話した通りに再現したものです。
“Jerusalem Prize” Remarks
Good evening. 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 generals 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 lies. 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 skilful lies--which is to say, by making up fictions that appear to be true--the novelist can bring a truth out to a new place 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, within ourselves. 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 only 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. In Japan 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 fighting that was raging in Gaza. The U.N. reported that more than a thousand people had lost their lives in the blockaded city of Gaza, 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. 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.
Please do allow me to deliver a message, 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 do it. But 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 wall. The eggs are the unarmed civilians who are crushed and burned and shot by them. This is one meaning of the metaphor.
But this is not all. 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 truly 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 passed away last year at the age of ninety. He was a retired teacher and a part-time Buddhist priest. When he was in graduate school in Kyoto, 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 small 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 battlefield. 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, and we are all 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 our believing in 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 would like to express my gratitude to the readers in Israel. You are the biggest reason why I am here. And I hope we are sharing something, something very meaningful. And I am glad to have had the opportunity to speak to you here today. Thank you very much.
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