Mo-Yan---Storytellers-(in-English)-莫言的获奖演说-(英文版)

1MoYan------StorytellerNobelLectureonDec.7th,2012MoYan:StorytellersDistinguishedmembersoftheSwedishAcademy,LadiesandGentlemen:ThroughthemediumsoftelevisionandtheInternet,Iimaginethateveryoneherehasatleastanoddingacquaintancewithfar-offNortheastGaomiTownship.Youmayhaveseenmyninety-year-oldfather,aswellasmybrothers,mysister,mywifeandmydaughter,evenmygranddaughter,nowayearandfourmonthsold.Butthepersonwhoismostonmymindatthismoment,mymother,issomeoneyouwillneversee.Manypeoplehavesharedinthehonorofwinningthisprize,everyonebuther.Mymotherwasbornin1922anddiedin1994.Weburiedherinapeachorchardeastofthevillage.Lastyearwewereforcedtomovehergravefartherawayfromthevillageinordertomakeroomforaproposedrailline.Whenwedugupthegrave,wesawthatthecoffinhadrottedawayandthatherbodyhadmergedwiththedampeartharoundit.Sowedugupsomeofthatsoil,asymbolicact,andtookittothenewgravesite.ThatwaswhenIgraspedtheknowledgethatmymotherhadbecomepartoftheearth,andthatwhenIspoketomotherearth,Iwasreallyspeakingtomymother.Iwasmymother’syoungestchild.Myearliestmemorywasoftakingouronlyvacuumbottletothepubliccanteenfordrinkingwater.Weakenedbyhunger,Idroppedthebottleandbrokeit.Scaredwitless,Ihidallthatdayinahaystack.Towardevening,Iheardmymothercallingmychildhoodname,soIcrawledoutofmyhidingplace,preparedtoreceiveabeatingorascolding.ButMotherdidn’thitme,didn’tevenscoldme.Shejustrubbedmyheadandheavedasigh.2MoYan------StorytellerMymostpainfulmemoryinvolvedgoingoutinthecollective’sfieldwithMothertogleanearsofwheat.Thegleanersscatteredwhentheyspottedthewatchman.ButMother,whohadboundfeet,couldnotrun;shewascaughtandslappedsohardbythewatchman,ahulkofaman,thatshefelltotheground.Thewatchmanconfiscatedthewheatwe’dgleanedandwalkedoffwhistling.Asshesatontheground,herlipbleeding,MotherworealookofhopelessnessI’llneverforget.Yearslater,whenIencounteredthewatchman,nowagray-hairedoldman,inthemarketplace,Motherhadtostopmefromgoinguptoavengeher.“Son,”shesaidevenly,“themanwhohitmeandthismanarenotthesameperson.”MyclearestmemoryisofaMoonFestivalday,atnoontime,oneofthoserareoccasionswhenweatejiaoziathome,onebowlapiece.Anagingbeggarcametoourdoorwhilewewereatthetable,andwhenItriedtosendhimawaywithhalfabowlfulofdriedsweetpotatoes,hereactedangrily:“I’manoldman,”hesaid.“Youpeopleareeatingjiaozi,butwanttofeedmesweetpotatoes.Howheartlesscanyoube?”Ireactedjustasangrily:“We’reluckyifweeatjiaoziacoupleoftimesayear,onesmallbowlfulapiece,barelyenoughtogetataste!Youshouldbethankfulwe’regivingyousweetpotatoes,andifyoudon’twantthem,youcangetthehelloutofhere!”After(dressingmedown)reprimandingme,Motherdumpedherhalfbowlfulofjiaoziintotheoldman’sbowl.MymostremorsefulmemoryinvolveshelpingMothersellcabbagesatmarket,andmeovercharginganoldvillageronejiao–intentionallyornot,Ican’trecall–beforeheadingofftoschool.WhenIcamehomethatafternoon,IsawthatMotherwascrying,somethingsherarelydid.Insteadofscoldingme,shemerelysaidsoftly,“Son,youembarrassedyourmothertoday.”MothercontractedaseriouslungdiseasewhenIwasstillinmyteens.Hunger,disease,andtoomuchworkmadethingsextremelyhardonourfamily.Theroadaheadlooked3MoYan------Storytellerespeciallybleak,andIhadabadfeelingaboutthefuture,worriedthatMothermighttakeherownlife.Everyday,thefirstthingIdidwhenIwalkedinthedoorafteradayofhardlaborwascalloutforMother.Hearinghervoicewaslikegivingmyheartanewleaseonlife.Butnothearingherthrewmeintoapanic.I’dgolookingforherinthesidebuildingandinthemill.Oneday,aftersearchingeverywhereandnotfindingher,Isatdownintheyardandcriedlikeababy.Thatishowshefoundmewhenshewalkedintotheyardcarryingabundleoffirewoodonherback.Shewasveryunhappywithme,butIcouldnottellherwhatIwasafraidof.Sheknewanyway.“Son,”shesaid,“don’tworry,theremaybenojoyinmylife,butIwon’tleaveyoutilltheGodoftheUnderworldcallsme.”Iwasbornugly.Villagersoftenlaughedinmyface,andschoolbulliessometimesbeatmeupbecauseofit.I’drunhomecrying,wheremymotherwouldsay,“You’renotugly,Son.You’vegotanoseandtwoeyes,andthere’snothingwrongwithyourarmsandlegs,sohowcouldyoubeugly?Ifyouhaveagoodheartandalwaysdotherightthing,whatisconsidereduglybecomesbeautiful.”Lateron,whenImovedtothecity,therewereeducatedpeoplewholaughedatmebehindmyback,someeventomyface;butwhenIrecalledwhatMotherhadsaid,Ijustcalmlyofferedmyapologies.Myilliteratemotherheldpeoplewhocouldreadinhighregard.Weweresopoorweoftendidnotknowwhereournextmealwascomingfrom,yetsheneverdeniedmyrequesttobuyabookorsomethingtowritewith.Bynaturehardworking,shehadnouseforlazychildren,yetIcouldskipmychoresaslongasIhadmynoseinabook.Astorytelleroncecametothemarketplace,andIsneakedofftolistentohim.Shewasunhappywithmeforforgettingmychores.Butthatnight,whileshewasstitchingpaddedclothesforusundertheweaklightofakerosenelamp,Icouldn’tkeepfromretellingstoriesI’dheardthatday.Shelistenedimpatientlyatfirst,sinceinhereyes4MoYan------Storytellerprofessionalstorytellersweresmooth-talkingmeninadubiousprofession.Nothinggoodevercameoutoftheirmouths.Butslowlyshewasdraggedintomyretoldstories,andfromthatdayon,shenevergavemechoresonmarketday,unspokenpermissiontogotothemarketplaceandli