我跟記者說，專訪寫得好看。他倒是謙虛起來了。

按圖放大，可以閱讀仔細仔細。

這圖片本來是刊在《亞洲周刊》的。

看到這圖片，那麼清楚地看到胡蘭成。我花了很多字，跟朋友講了一堆真心話。真心到，沒有別的更真心了。朋友都笑。但我真是這麼想的。

今天用了三十分鐘，跪下來，學會一件事。
把一個難題交給天主，由祂安排。
我做好我的本份：誠心。

我給你寫了一封很長的信。
我會在我小別此城那天，
跟你說明一切。

最近好幾回，夢見已死去的父親。母親說他可能想念我了。其實我不清楚，到底是他想念我，還是我想念他。我跟他總是在特定的情況下於夢中相見。譬如我失落的時候，又譬如，我真傷心時候。前兩夜夢到他，我驚醒，馬上起來開了屋內所有燈。手在抖，心狂跳不止。我害怕，也許並非因為我很有可能見到原本熟悉的魂，而是，我害怕他會向我提問，但我無從說明。

如何訴說尋常事。如何訴說情感。如何訴說，一切我在現實生活中我無力控制的糾結。

我可以跟父親說真話嗎。他聽了，會像從前一樣皺眉嗎。會怨我任性嗎。

夢到父親的那個白天我流了極其不解的淚。彷彿一低頭，淚水就淌滴了。用手背拭去之後又好像什麼都沒有發生。繼續面對電腦，按著鍵盤啪啪作響。我想，我是真傷心了。所以，那個晚上，我夢到父親了。

最新的 The New Yorker 刊登了 John Updike 的詩。書要出了。抄一段起名叫 Hospital 的在這。我很喜歡。一月時他病逝了，在書店整理有關他的資料和書籍，看了一堆圖片。從年少到老。他有副特別的輪廓。

My wife of thirty years is on the phone.
I get a busy signal, and I know
she's in her grief and needs to organize
consulting friends. But me, I need her voice;
her body is the only locus where
my desolation bumps against its end.

她和他一起的時候
她覺得自己很虛榮。

村上春樹獲耶路撒冷文學獎的講辭。震動了我。

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.

也不知何時開始我喜歡了心形。談無聊的公務電話，不用太聚精會神之際，我總是拿起紅筆在工作筆記上畫很多心。

我把一個已過期的、不再用的米芝蓮宣傳紙板放在身後。那個米芝蓮與我一般高。我用箱頭筆，在上面寫了 "How can it be" 之句。每回遇到自己難以穿越的，難解的，就會轉頭看一看，給自己念一遍。念過了，彷彿好一點，放棄尋問方才讓人困惑的事。

我還有一個小小的米芝蓮，老是想把它貼在老闆的辦公室門。

在一家內地書店，看到一個大叔在睡覺。我在旁邊看著他。他帶來一瓶混濁的茶，應該是涼的。那書店好靜好靜，每個人走路的腳步都很輕。

接著，我的眼皮也重了。

七。若有改變，她相信會是好的一面。但沒有。

一。最後一個了，是不是。
二。她不可能有喜惡。
三。她問：你是誰？
四。也許，不能再來了。
五。停滯不前的生活，很厭。
六。這是他對她的態度。
七。若有改變，她相信會是好的一面。但沒有。

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一。最後一個了，是不是。

她來晚了。她問她是不是最後一個了。對話的人說是，他稍微撥開窗簾，妳看都黃昏了，待會離開，已經天黑。那是一間潔淨的辦公室。白色的牆，掛了不知名的畫，桌上放了幾本書，右邊是個不大不小的空間，只有兩張椅子，偶爾讓來者做些簡單的動作，據聞可反映一個人的心。她從不相信。她向來拒絕做那些愚笨的動作。她第一次來時，沒有談上兩句，就抱著自己，窩在兩張椅子中間哭泣並且哭得很大聲。後來的日子，無不是這樣的情景。漸漸她懷疑，她來都不過為了哭泣。今天都是。對話的人問近來睡得好嗎。她有點破音，說剛好昨夜失眠，讀完一整本書後，抬頭已見太陽，床前燈還是亮著。她看著那燈覺得累便睡去了，醒來是下午兩點，頭疼得像要裂開。她不知描述這些細微末節有沒有用處。她只想證明她的心遠遠比那兩張椅子和幾套簡單動作來得複雜和真實。對話的人點點頭，在檔案記下一些什麼。她老是看著他袖口的字。繡上去的英國牌子名。他的手隨著書寫移動而她的眼睛也跟著轉。她搞不懂自己為何總是專注於這些。她停止哭泣的時候就只專注於這些。沒有其他。

二。她不可能有喜惡。

在未學懂收放之前，她不可能有任何喜惡。她的喜惡總是分明間或互相對立。她必須假設，她手裡從來沒有握著什麼。她清楚知道，如此，她會減少傷心的程度。她隔絕了她曾經有過的朋友。認識了一些新的，又隔絕，再認識，這些年來不斷重覆。然後，她把時間重新分配給那些她歡喜的人們。有些她天天見面有些不。別人以一句半句話斷定她的性情而她偏偏不要。她會抗拒那些人。她會憂鬱。她以最微小的聲音跟自己說，無人明白她不要緊。她離開對話的人的辦公室，馬上回家，坐在床邊，拿起紙筆，寫滿一張又一張。她寫很快，字體寫得草，她想在死去之前，留下最重要的字句。這是，她從沒有過的書寫速度。她打算未來幾天也這麼做。這都用來反映她的心，而不靠那兩張椅子。她滿懷希望，別人讀過那堆凌亂的稿件後，就會懂得自己了。

三。她問：你是誰？

他來了一通電話。他如常把她帶到自己的家。燈光很昏黃，飯桌永遠都是工作文件。第一次到那裡去，她問他，文件可以看嗎。他有點諤然，啊當然，當然可以。都是他的計劃書。她喜歡能幹的人，能幹至可以被她暗暗微微崇拜 ﹣﹣ 一旦她把對方定義為能幹的。一小時過去了，她竟然看得那麼入神，直至他走來把她整個人抱離飯桌為止。她不緊張，也沒有太快樂。她看著他雙眼只覺他有點陌生。在她眼中，他已經不年輕。她寧願偶爾能聽到他一句真誠的、打從心底裡說的關懷。造愛只是一些重覆的溫柔。漸漸，她能猜到他接下來的動作。而她卻總是那樣的哀傷，哀傷到，某回問了他一句：你到底是誰。她其實比較喜歡抱著他，把自己的手放在他的髮腳位置。如此純粹。雖然，她不常主動這樣做。關於愛，她有她的一套打算。沒有瞞騙，才能被稱為愛。

四。也許，不能再來了。

自此以後，她顯得格外勤快。她下班後馬上趕回家，匆匆淋一個熱水浴，依舊坐在床邊，密密麻麻地書寫起來。剩餘的日子足夠她寫多少頁紙她不管。手機響了，她按熄了。那刻她不想有任何話語。

有時候她認為，應該是這樣子的。生活只能這個樣子。她怯於面對群體，她難以投入。並非事不關己的冷漠，而是無法融入的狀態。她覺得永遠被摒棄在外，她感到十分、十分孤獨。她知道沒有人會懂。她在想，怎可能跟別人訴說這些呢。她轉身離開群體那刻，就偷偷流了眼淚。於是她告訴自己：不能再來了。也許，這是最後一次。

五。停滯不前的生活，很厭。

她自覺，她不算不努力生活。她很努力。但她終究停滯不前。這讓她開始懷疑自己，她無法跟自己交代。她厭，和疲倦。她總有一天，也許很快，抵受不住。

六。這是他對她的態度。

也不知為什麼，每一次，她總是不小心推倒他浴室裡的東西。洗髮精，淋浴乳，之類。 最初他會敲敲門問妳還好嗎。她回一句還好。後來他習慣了。她出來的時候，他就會進去，重新放好被推倒的東西。

七。若有改變，她相信會是好的一面。但沒有。

她認識的人們都變得不一樣了。而他們卻說，改變的其實是她自己。聽起來，彷彿都錯在她。想到這裡，她就難過起來，感到十分、十分孤獨。她覺得，她怯於再親近他們。但若然她堅持，她始終如一，他們會怎樣。他們會認為她依然是她嗎。他們會理解她嗎。

她一直在想，若然她真的改變了，她相信那會是好的一面，譬如說，更快樂，生活更好。可惜，她沒有。

某回深夜，走過一道橋，忽然灑下微雨點點滴滴。抬頭看，天特別漆黑，空氣特別陰冷特別沉重。那刻我想，我是不能。什麼都不能。因為日子太長太久了，因為已成定局。都發生了。其實並非想像中的愉快。相對而言，也沒有想像中的哀傷。當分不出什麼是喜，什麼是惡的時候。彷彿，明明是惡了，又要說成是喜。或許如能有足夠的力氣和專注，看清眼前一秒，已算是幸。每天期待和尋找那一秒。每天在安慰自己：總會過去的。

一直在欺騙自己：都不要緊。

而我想說，他們都猜錯了。他們一直，統統，都猜錯了。

Cleo Laine 的聲音幾乎讓我流淚。現在八十一歲的 Cleo Laine。

也不知為什麼，每一次，她總是不小心推倒他浴室裡的東西。洗髮精，淋浴乳，之類。 最初他會敲敲門問妳還好嗎。她回一句還好。後來他習慣了。她出來的時候，他就會進去，重新放好被推倒的東西。

我心裡有些 hero。最好 hero 永遠是 hero 。最好想法不會距離太遠。那麼我就可以永遠覺得他們是對的，如同我第一天看到他們一樣。我希望自己，永遠也愛他們。

我實在喜歡這書。

關於張愛玲的二三事。

「沒有她們也會有別人，我不能與半個人類為敵。」 ﹣﹣《小團圓》

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《小團圓》裡，常有「顯然」二字。

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為了這書忙了好幾天。問身旁的前輩，不過是短短幾天而已，《小團圓》已是暢銷書了，是不是。我喚它暢銷書可以嘛。前輩點頭說，當然，那當然，好幾回補了又賣斷，補了又賣斷。

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在店裡大家都是尋找《小團圓》。有些明顯是張迷，站著書架前跟他們談著談著就談了好一些時間。有些，是初次接觸張愛玲，拿起書翻了兩頁，有點猶豫，於是前來問我：《小團圓》好看嗎。那麼〈色，戒〉好看還是《小團圓》好看。我不懂答，老是說：都好看呀。後來覺得答案很敷衍，索性誠誠實實地告訴他們：於我而言，似乎沒有不好看的張愛玲。他們聽了多半會笑。另有些記錯了書名，問我還有沒有《大團圓》，聽來有趣，但細想，張愛玲不是自己說了嗎：一算約有十八萬字，真是《大團圓》了。

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連續去了幾個晚飯。座上客都高談闊論《小團圓》。片面的印象，簡單的形容詞，就概括了我心中那麼好的女作家。聽著，心裡就肯定，嗯，他們應沒怎麼讀過張愛玲了。在他們眼中，這書也許跟一個復刻版名牌手袋沒分別。都是話題。所謂「文化修養」，就是這樣展現了。起初有點納悶，差點想中途離席。後來看開了就覺得不要緊。真的不要緊啊反正這讓我更珍惜《小團圓》的一字一句。而我，將要讀第二次。

張愛玲，依然是張愛玲。