一直覺得文字是靈動而有溫度的，有時(shí)雖只言片語卻會讓人產(chǎn)生良久共鳴。于是，對于那些“懷抱著耐心、固執(zhí)和喜悅將對內(nèi)心的凝視轉(zhuǎn)化成語言，進(jìn)而用文字創(chuàng)造出一個(gè)個(gè)新世界”的作家們很是崇敬和欽佩！

關(guān)于寫作，國內(nèi)著名作家格非曾說：“寫作是為了反抗遺忘！”，聽后很受啟發(fā)。細(xì)細(xì)品讀了土耳其作家奧爾罕#8226;帕慕克在My Father’s Suitcase（《父親的手提箱》）一文中對于寫作的闡述之后，我對其又有了更深的體悟和理解，也因而更著迷于文字的非凡魅力。

My Father’s Suitcase是帕慕克在2006年諾貝爾文學(xué)獎(jiǎng)?lì)C獎(jiǎng)典禮上發(fā)表的長篇演說。演講中，帕慕克提到，父親擔(dān)心因?qū)懽鞫鴣G失了真實(shí)的自我，因而放棄了寫作，最后變成了一個(gè)普通的市民。但他在繁忙的生活間隙里還是寫下了不少東西，并把那些手稿放在一只手提箱里留給了兒子，希望兒子能明白其中深沉的含義……演講的最后，當(dāng)帕慕克深情地說道——“我深切地希望此刻他就在我們中間！”時(shí)，在場的很多人留下了眼淚——帕慕克的父親于2002年12月去世了。

限于版面，這里只節(jié)選了這篇演說中關(guān)于寫作的精彩闡述，有心的讀者不妨找來全文細(xì)讀一番。

——Maisie

A writer is someone who spends years patiently trying to discover the second being inside him， and the world that makes him who he is. When I speak of writing， the image that comes first to my mind is not a novel， a poem， or a literary tradition; it is the person who shuts himself up in a room， sits down at a table， and， alone， turns inward. Amid his shadows， he builds a new world with words. This man—or this woman—may use a typewriter， or 1)profit from the ease of a computer， or write with a pen on paper， as I do. As he writes， he may drink tea or coffee， or smoke cigarettes. From time to time， he may rise from his table to look out the window at the children playing in the street， or， if he is lucky， at trees and a view， or even at a black wall. He may write poems， or plays， or novels， as I do. But all these differences arise only after the crucial task is complete—after he has sat down at the table and patiently turned inward. To write is to transform that inward gaze into words， to study the worlds into which we pass when we 2)retire into ourselves， and to do so with patience， 3)obstinacy， and joy.

As I sit at my table， for days， months， years， slowly adding words to empty pages， I feel as if I were bringing into being that other person inside me， in the same way that one might build a bridge or a 4)dome， stone by stone. As we hold words in our hands， like stones， sensing the ways in which each is connected to the others， looking at them sometimes from afar， sometimes from very close， 5)caressing them with our fingers and the tips of our pens， weighing them， moving them around， year in and year out， patiently and hopefully， we create new worlds.

The writer’s secret is not inspiration—for it is never clear where that comes from—but stubbornness， endurance. The lovely Turkish expression “to dig a well with a needle” seems to me to have been invented with writers in mind. In the old stories， I love the patience of 6)Ferhat， who digs through mountains for his love—and I understand it， too. When I wrote， in my novel My Name Is Red， about the old Persian 7)miniaturists who drew the same horse with the same passion for years and years， memorizing each 8)stroke，until they could re-create that beautiful horse even with their eyes closed， I knew that I was talking about the writing profession， and about my own life. If a writer is to tell his own story—to tell it slowly， and as if it were a story about other people—if he is to feel the power of the story rise up inside him， if he is to sit down at a table and give himself over to this art， this craft， he must first be given some hope. The angel of inspiration (who pays regular visits to some and rarely calls on others) favors the hopeful and the confident， and it is when a writer feels most lonely， when he feels most doubtful about his efforts， his dreams， and the value of his writing， when he thinks that his story is only his story—it is at such moments that the angel chooses to reveal to him the images and dreams that will draw out the world he wishes to build. If I think back on the books to which I have devoted my life， I am most surprised by those moments when I felt as if the sentences and pages that made me ecstatically happy came not from my own imagination but from another power， which had found them and generously presented them to me.

…

I believe literature to be the most valuable tool that humanity has found in its quest to understand itself. Societies， tribes， and peoples grow more intelligent， richer， and more advanced as they pay attention to the troubled words of their authors—and， as we all know， the burning of books and the 9)denigration of writers are both signs that dark and 10)improvident times are upon us. But literature is never just a national concern. The writer who shuts himself up in a room and goes on a journey inside himself will， over the years， discover literature’s eternal rule: he must have the artistry to tell his own stories as if they were other people’s stories， and to tell other people’s stories as if they were his own， for that is what literature is.

…

The question we writers are asked most often， the favorite question， is: Why do you write? I write because I have an 11)innate need to write. I write because I can’t do normal work as other people do. I write because I want to read books like the ones I write. I write because I am angry at everyone. I write because I love sitting in a room all day writing. I write because I can

12)partake of real life only by changing it. I write because I want others， the whole world， to know what sort of life we lived， and continue to live， in 13)Istanbul， in Turkey. I write because I love the smell of paper， pen， and ink. I write because I believe in literature， in the art of the novel， more than I believe in anything else. I write

because it is a habit， a passion. I write because I am afraid of being forgotten. I write because I like the glory and interest that writing brings. I write to be alone. Perhaps I write because I hope to understand why I am so very， very angry at

everyone. I write because I like to be read. I write because once I have begun a novel， an

essay， a 14)page I want to finish it. I write because everyone expects me to write. I write because I have a childish belief in the immortality of libraries， and in the way my books sit on the shelf. I write because it is exciting to turn all life’s beauties and riches into words. I write not to tell a story but to compose a story. I write because I wish to escape from the 15)foreboding that there is a place I must go but—as in a dream—can’t quite get to. I write because I have never managed to be happy. I write to be happy.

作家，是會耐心地花費(fèi)數(shù)年去發(fā)掘內(nèi)心的第二生命，并探究周遭世界如何塑造自我的那種人。提到寫作，首先浮現(xiàn)在我腦海的并不是一部小說、一首詩歌、或者一種文學(xué)傳統(tǒng)；而是那個(gè)將自己關(guān)入房內(nèi)，坐在桌邊，獨(dú)自一人，向內(nèi)探尋的人。他埋頭于自己的身影中，用言語建造出一個(gè)新世界。這個(gè)男人——或女人，也許使用一臺打字機(jī)，也許享受著電腦帶來的便利，也許只是用筆和紙，像我那樣。寫作時(shí)，他可能會喝茶，喝咖啡，或者抽煙。不時(shí)地，他會站起來，透過窗戶看著街上玩耍的孩子，或者幸運(yùn)的話，能看到樹林和其他風(fēng)景，亦可能只看到一堵黑墻。他可能在寫詩，寫劇本，或者寫小說，像我那樣。但這些不同只會在那個(gè)至關(guān)重要的工作完成之后才出現(xiàn)——在他坐在桌前，耐心地探尋內(nèi)心之后。寫作是把對內(nèi)心的凝視轉(zhuǎn)化成語言，是探究我們離群獨(dú)處時(shí)所走進(jìn)的世界，是懷抱著耐心、固執(zhí)和喜悅?cè)ネ瓿蛇@一切的。

當(dāng)我經(jīng)年累月地坐在桌旁，慢慢用詞語填補(bǔ)紙上的空白時(shí)，我感到內(nèi)心的另一個(gè)體仿佛漸漸成型，如同以一磚一石建起大橋殿宇那樣。如同審視手中的石頭，我們掂量著手中的詞語，感受其相連互動的方式，對其時(shí)而遠(yuǎn)觀時(shí)而近看，用手指和筆尖去輕觸愛撫它們，權(quán)衡它們，移動它們，年復(fù)一年，滿懷耐心與希望，我們創(chuàng)造著一個(gè)個(gè)新世界。

作家的秘訣并不是靈感——因?yàn)殪`感的來源從不清晰——而是執(zhí)著不舍、堅(jiān)持到底的精神。土耳其語中有個(gè)有趣的表述——“以針掘井”，在我看來，這好像是針對“作家”而言的。古老傳說中有費(fèi)爾哈特這一人物，我欣賞他為愛鑿穿大山的那份堅(jiān)韌耐力，我理解這種舉動。在我的小說《我的名字叫紅》里，我寫過一群波斯的細(xì)密畫老畫家，他們年復(fù)一年以同樣的激情畫著同樣的一匹馬，牢記著每筆每劃，到最后，即使閉著眼他們也能畫出同樣俊美的馬匹。我知道那時(shí)我其實(shí)是在說寫作這一行，在說我自己的人生。當(dāng)一個(gè)作家講述他自己的故事——慢慢地訴說，宛如在說別人的故事——當(dāng)他感到故事的力量在其體內(nèi)浮現(xiàn)，當(dāng)他決定坐下來并全心投入到這門藝術(shù)、這種技藝時(shí)，他必須先獲賜希望。靈感的天使（常常會定期造訪一些人而對某些人卻從不賞光）偏愛那些滿懷希望和自信的作家。當(dāng)作家感到極度孤獨(dú)，當(dāng)他對自己的努力、夢想、作品的價(jià)值疑惑至深時(shí)，當(dāng)他認(rèn)為自己的作品不過是他一己的故事時(shí)——天使會選擇此時(shí)降臨，向作家展現(xiàn)他夢想構(gòu)建的境界影像?；叵肫鹱约簝A注心血寫成的作品，令我驚奇的是，那些讓我心醉愉悅的句子和篇章似乎并非出于自己的想象，而是來自另一種力量——尋獲佳作并慷慨贈與我。

……

我相信，文學(xué)是人類自我探求中找到的最寶貴的方式。當(dāng)社會、種族和人民關(guān)注作家筆下那些紛擾的文字時(shí)，他們會變得更為聰慧、富足和先進(jìn)；而眾所周知，那些焚書坑儒的舉動往往是黑暗短視時(shí)代的征兆。然而，文學(xué)決不僅僅是關(guān)乎民族國家的事。作家將自己關(guān)在房子里，展開內(nèi)心之旅，年復(fù)一年，終將發(fā)現(xiàn)文學(xué)的永恒準(zhǔn)則：他必須掌握一種藝術(shù)——講述自己的故事如同在講述他人的故事，講述他人的故事又如同在講述自己的經(jīng)歷，因?yàn)槟遣攀俏膶W(xué)。

……

我們作家最常被問到的，也是最喜歡的問題是：你為什么要寫作？我寫作是因?yàn)槲姨焐枰獙懽?。我寫作是因?yàn)槲覠o法像別人一樣從事普通工作。我寫作是因?yàn)槲蚁胱x到像我自己寫的書那樣的作品。我寫作是因?yàn)槲覍λ腥硕荚古粷M。我寫作是因?yàn)槲蚁矚g坐在房間里整天寫作。我寫作是因?yàn)槲抑荒芡ㄟ^改變生活而參與生活。我寫作是因?yàn)槲蚁Ｍ渌耍酥琳麄€(gè)世界，了解我們在伊斯坦布爾，在土耳其過去的生活是怎樣的，將來又會怎樣延續(xù)下去。我寫作是因?yàn)槲蚁矚g紙、筆和墨水的味道。我寫作是因?yàn)槲蚁嘈盼膶W(xué)，相信小說的藝術(shù)，這份信仰勝過我對其他任何東西的信仰。我寫作因?yàn)檫@是一種習(xí)慣，一種激情。我寫作是因?yàn)槲液ε卤贿z忘。我寫作是因?yàn)槲蚁矚g寫作所帶來的榮耀和關(guān)注。我寫作是因?yàn)槲乙?dú)處。也許，我寫作是因?yàn)橄肱靼诪槭裁醋约簩λ腥硕荚古粷M。我寫作是因?yàn)槲蚁矚g有讀者。我寫作是因?yàn)槊慨?dāng)我開始寫一部小說、一篇散文、一個(gè)專欄，我都想要完成它。我寫作是因?yàn)槊總€(gè)人都希望我寫作。我寫作是因?yàn)槲业暮⒆託獾男拍睢覉?jiān)信圖書館不滅，書本永存書架上。我寫作是因?yàn)閷⑸械拿篮门c富足全部轉(zhuǎn)化成文字是件令人激動的事情。我寫作不為講述故事，我要編織故事。我寫作是因?yàn)槲乙与x那種預(yù)感——在夢中有個(gè)我必須要到達(dá)的地方，但卻永遠(yuǎn)無法抵達(dá)。我寫作是因?yàn)槲乙幌蚩鞓凡黄饋怼榱丝鞓?，我要寫作?/p>