莫言在斯德哥爾摩的演講.docVIP

莫言在斯德哥爾摩的演講（中英文）稿尊敬的瑞典學(xué)院各位院士，女士們、先生們：Distinguished members of the Swedish Academy, Ladies and Gentlemen: 通過電視或網(wǎng)絡(luò)，我想在座的各位，對(duì)遙遠(yuǎn)的高密東北鄉(xiāng)，已經(jīng)有了或多或少的了解。你們也許看到了我的九十歲的老父親，看到了我的哥哥姐姐我的妻子女兒和我的一歲零四個(gè)月的外孫子，但是有一個(gè)此刻我最想念的人，我的母親，你們永遠(yuǎn)無(wú)法看到了。我獲獎(jiǎng)后，很多人分享了我的光榮，但我的母親卻無(wú)法分享了。 Through the mediums of television and the Internet, I imagine that everyone here has at least a nodding acquaintance with far-off Northeast Gaomi Township. You may have seen my ninety-year-old father, as well as my brothers, my sister, my wife and my daughter, even my granddaughter, now a year and four months old. But the person who is most on my mind at this moment, my mother, is someone you will never see. Many people have shared in the honor of winning this prize, everyone but her. 我母親生于1922年，卒于1994年。她的骨灰，埋葬在村莊東邊的桃園里。去年，一條鐵路要從那兒穿過，我們不得不將她的墳?zāi)惯w移到距離村子更遠(yuǎn)的地方。掘開墳?zāi)购?，我們看到，棺木已?jīng)腐朽，母親的骨殖，已經(jīng)與泥土混為一體。我們只好象征性地挖起一些泥土，移到新的墓穴里。也就是從那一時(shí)刻起，我感到，我的母親是大地的一部分，我站在大地上的訴說，就是對(duì)母親的訴說。 My mother was born in 1922 and died in 1994. We buried her in a peach orchard east of the village. Last year we were forced to move her grave farther away from the village in order to make room for a proposed rail line. When we dug up the grave, we saw that the coffin had rotted away and that her body had merged with the damp earth around it. So we dug up some of that soil, a symbolic act, and took it to the new gravesite. That was when I grasped the knowledge that my mother had become part of the earth, and that when I spoke to mother earth, I was really speaking to my mother. 我是我母親最小的孩子。 我記憶中最早的一件事，是提著家里唯一的一把熱水壺去公共食堂打開水。因?yàn)轲囸I無(wú)力，失手將熱水瓶打碎，我嚇得要命，鉆進(jìn)草垛，一天沒敢出來。傍晚的時(shí)候我聽到母親呼喚我的乳名，我從草垛里鉆出來，以為會(huì)受到打罵，但母親沒有打我也沒有罵我，只是撫摸著我的頭，口中發(fā)出長(zhǎng)長(zhǎng)的嘆息。 I was my mothers youngest child.My earliest memory was of taking our only vacuum bottle to the public canteen for drinking water. Weakened by hunger, I dropped the bottle and broke it. Scared witless, I hid all that day in a haystack. Toward evening, I heard my mother calling my childhood name, so I crawled out of my hiding place, prepared to receive a beating or a scolding. But Mother didnt hit me, didnt even scold me. She just rubbed my head and heaved a sigh. 我記憶中最痛苦的一件事，就是跟著母親去集體的地里揀麥穗，看守麥田的人來了，揀麥穗的人紛紛逃跑，我母親是小腳，跑不快，被捉住，那個(gè)身材高大的看守人煽了她一個(gè)耳光，她搖晃著身體跌倒在地，看守人沒收了我們揀到的麥穗，吹著口哨揚(yáng)長(zhǎng)而去。我母親嘴角流血，坐在地上，臉上那種絕望的神情深我終生難忘。多年之后，當(dāng)那個(gè)看守麥田的人成為一個(gè)白發(fā)蒼蒼的老人，在集市上與我相逢，我沖上去想找他報(bào)仇，母親拉住了我，平靜的對(duì)我說：“兒子，那個(gè)打我的人，與這個(gè)老人，并不是一個(gè)人。” My most painful memory involved going out in the collectives field with Mother to glean ears of wheat. The gleaners scattered when they spotted the watchman. But Mother, who had bound feet, could not run; she was caught and slapped so hard by the watchman, a hulk of a man, that she fell to the ground. The watchman confiscated the wheat wed gleaned and walked off whistling. As she sat on the ground, her lip bleeding, Mother wore a look of hopelessness Ill never forget. Years later, when I encountered the watchman, now a gray-haired old man, in the marketplace, Mother had to stop me from going up to avenge him. “Son,” she said evenly, “the man who hit me and this man are not the same person.” 我記得最深刻的一件事是一個(gè)中秋節(jié)的中午，我們家難得的包了一頓餃子，每人只有一碗。正當(dāng)我們吃餃子時(shí)，一個(gè)乞討的老人來到了我們家門口，我端起半碗紅薯干打發(fā)他，他卻憤憤不平地說：“我是一個(gè)老人，你們吃餃子，卻讓我吃紅薯干。你們的心是怎么長(zhǎng)的？”我氣急敗壞的說：“我們一年也吃不了幾次餃子，一人一小碗，連半飽都吃不了！給你紅薯干就不錯(cuò)了，你要就要，不要就滾！”母親訓(xùn)斥了我，然后端起她那半碗餃子，倒進(jìn)了老人碗里。 My clearest memory is of a Moon Festival day, at noontime, one of those rare occasions when we ate jiaozi at home, one bowl apiece. An aging beggar came to our door while we were at the table, and when I tried to send him away with half a bowlful of dried sweet potatoes, he reacted angrily: “Im an old man,” he said. “You people are eating jiaozi, but want to feed me sweet potatoes. How heartless can you be?” I reacted just as angrily: “Were lucky if we eat jiaozi a couple of times a year, one small bowlful apiece, barely enough to get a taste! You should be thankful were giving you sweet potatoes, and if you dont want them, you can get the hell out of here!” After (dressing me down) reprimanding me, Mother dumped her half bowlful of jiaozi into the old mans bowl. 我最后悔的一件事，就是跟著母親去賣白菜，有意無(wú)意的多算了一位買白菜的老人一毛錢。算完錢我就去了學(xué)校。當(dāng)我放學(xué)回家時(shí)，看到很少流淚的母親淚流滿面。母親并沒有罵我，只是輕輕的說：“兒子，你讓娘丟了臉?！?My most remorseful memory involves helping Mother sell cabbages at market, and me overcharging an old villager one jiao intentionally or not, I cant recall before heading off to school. When I came home that afternoon, I saw that Mother was crying, something she rarely did. Instead of scolding me, she merely said softly, “Son, you embarrassed your mother today.” 我十幾歲時(shí)，母親患了嚴(yán)重的肺病，饑餓，病痛，勞累，使我們這個(gè)家庭陷入了困境，看不到光明和希望。我產(chǎn)生了一種強(qiáng)烈的不祥之兆，以為母親隨時(shí)都會(huì)自己尋短見。每當(dāng)我勞動(dòng)歸來，一進(jìn)大門就高喊母親，聽到她的回應(yīng)，心中才感到一塊石頭落了地。如果一時(shí)聽不到她的回應(yīng)，我就心驚膽戰(zhàn)，跑到廚房和磨坊里尋找。有一次找遍了所有的房間也沒有見到母親的身影，我便坐在了院子里大哭。這時(shí)母親背著一捆柴草從外面走進(jìn)來。她對(duì)我的哭很不滿，但我又不能對(duì)她說出我的擔(dān)憂。母親看到我的心思，她說：“孩子你放心，盡管我活著沒有一點(diǎn)樂趣，但只要閻王爺不叫我，我是不會(huì)去的?！?Mother contracted a serious lung disease when I was still in my teens. Hunger, disease, and too much work made things extremely hard on our family. The road ahead looked especially bleak, and I had a bad feeling about the future, worried that Mother might take her own life. Every day, the first thing I did when I walked in the door after a day of hard labor was call out for Mother. Hearing her voice was like giving my heart a new lease on life. But not hearing her threw me into a panic. Id go looking for her in the side building and in the mill. One day, after searching everywhere and not finding her, I sat down in the yard and cried like a baby. That is how she found me when she walked into the yard carrying a bundle of firewood on her back. She was very unhappy with me, but I could not tell her what I was afraid of. She knew anyway. “Son,” she said, “dont worry, there may be no joy in my life, but I wont leave you till the God of the Underworld calls me.” 我生來相貌丑陋，村子里很多人當(dāng)面嘲笑我，學(xué)校里有幾個(gè)性格霸蠻的同學(xué)甚至為此打我。我回家痛苦，母親對(duì)我說：“兒子，你不丑，你不缺鼻子不缺眼，四肢健全，丑在哪里？而且只要你心存善良，多做好事，即便是丑也能變美?！焙髞砦疫M(jìn)入城市，有一些很有文化的人依然在背后甚至當(dāng)面嘲弄我的相貌，我想起了母親的話，便心平氣和地向他們道歉。 I was born ugly. Villagers often laughed in my face, and school bullies sometimes beat me up because of it. Id run home crying, where my mother would say, “Youre not ugly, Son. Youve got a nose and two eyes, and theres nothing wrong with your arms and legs, so how could you be ugly? If you have a good heart and always do the right thing, what is considered ugly becomes beautiful.” Later on, when I moved to the city, there were educated people who laughed at me behind my back, some even to my face; but when I recalled what Mother had said, I just calmly offered my apologies. 我母親不識(shí)字，但對(duì)識(shí)字的人十分敬重。我們家生活困難，經(jīng)常吃了上頓沒下頓。但只要我對(duì)她提出買書買文具的要求，她總是會(huì)滿足我。她是個(gè)勤勞的人，討厭懶惰的孩子，但只要是我因?yàn)榭磿⒄`了干活，她從來沒批評(píng)過我。 My illiterate mother held people who could read in high regard. We were so poor we often did not know where our next meal was coming from, yet she never denied my request to buy a book or something to write with. By nature hard working, she had no use for lazy children, yet I could skip my chores as long as I had my nose in a book. 有一段時(shí)間，集市上來了一個(gè)說書人。我偷偷地跑去聽書，忘記了她分配給我的活兒。為此，母親批評(píng)了我，晚上當(dāng)她就著一盞小油燈為家人趕制棉衣時(shí)，我忍不住把白天從說書人聽來的故事復(fù)述給她聽，起初她有些不耐煩，因?yàn)樵谒哪恐姓f書人都是油嘴滑舌，不務(wù)正業(yè)的人，從他們嘴里冒不出好話來。但我復(fù)述的故事漸漸的吸引了她，以后每逢集日她便不再給我排活，默許我去集上聽書。為了報(bào)答母親的恩情，也為了向她炫耀我的記憶力，我會(huì)把白天聽到的故事，繪聲繪色地講給她聽。 A storyteller once came to the marketplace, and I sneaked off to listen to him. She was unhappy with me for forgetting my chores. But that night, while she was stitching padded clothes for us under the weak light of a kerosene lamp, I couldnt keep from retelling stories Id heard that day. She listened impatiently at first, since in her eyes professional storytellers were smooth-talking men in a dubious profession. Nothing good ever came out of their mouths. But slowly she was dragged into my retold stories, and from that day on, she never gave me chores on market day, unspoken permission to go to the marketplace and listen to new stories. As repayment for Mothers kindness and a way to demonstrate my memory, Id retell the stories for her in vivid detail. 很快的，我就不滿足復(fù)述說書人講的故事了，我在復(fù)述的過程中不斷的添油加醋，我會(huì)投我母親所好，編造一些情節(jié)，有時(shí)候甚至改變故事的結(jié)局。我的聽眾也不僅僅是我的母親，連我的姐姐，我的嬸嬸，我的奶奶都成為我的聽眾。我母親在聽完我的故事后，有時(shí)會(huì)憂心忡忡地，像是對(duì)我說，又像是自言自語(yǔ)：“兒啊，你長(zhǎng)大后會(huì)成為一個(gè)什么人呢？難道要靠耍貧嘴吃飯嗎？” It did not take long to find retelling someone elses stories unsatisfying, so I began embellishing my narration. Id say things I knew would please Mother, even changed the ending once in a while. And she wasnt the only member of my audience, which later included my older sisters, my aunts, even my maternal grandmother. Sometimes, after my mother had listened to one of my stories, shed ask in a care-laden voice, almost as if to herself: “What will you be like when you grow up, son? Might you wind up prattling for a living one day?” 我理解母親的擔(dān)憂，因?yàn)樵诖遄永?，一個(gè)貧嘴的孩子，是招人厭煩的，有時(shí)候還會(huì)給自己和家庭帶來麻煩。我在小說牛里所寫的那個(gè)因?yàn)樵挾啾淮遄永飬拹旱暮⒆樱陀形彝陼r(shí)的影子。我母親經(jīng)常提醒我少說話，她希望我能做一個(gè)沉默寡言、安穩(wěn)大方的孩子。但在我身上，卻顯露出極強(qiáng)的說話能力和極大的說話欲望，這無(wú)疑是極大的危險(xiǎn)，但我說的故事的能力，又帶給了她愉悅，這使他陷入深深的矛盾之中。 I knew why she was worried. Talkative kids are not well thought of in our village, for they can bring trouble to themselves and to their families. There is a bit of a young me in the talkative boy who falls afoul of villagers in my story “Bulls.” Mother habitually cautioned me not to talk so much, wanting me to be a taciturn, smooth and steady youngster. Instead I was possessed of a dangerous combination remarkable speaking skills and the powerful desire that went with them. My ability to tell stories brought her joy, but that created a dilemma for her. 俗話說“江山易改、本性難移”，盡管我有父母親的諄諄教導(dǎo)，但我并沒有改掉我喜歡說話的天性，這使得我的名字“莫言”，很像對(duì)自己的諷刺。A popular saying goes “It is easier to change the course of a river than a persons nature.” Despite my parents tireless guidance, my natural desire to talk never went away, and that is what makes my name Mo Yan, or “dont speak” an ironic expression of self-mockery. 我小學(xué)未畢業(yè)即輟學(xué)，因?yàn)槟暧左w弱，干不了重活，只好到荒草灘上去放牧牛羊。當(dāng)我牽著牛羊從學(xué)校門前路過，看到昔日的同學(xué)在校園里打打鬧鬧，我心中充滿悲涼，深深地體會(huì)到一個(gè)人，哪怕是一個(gè)孩子，離開群體后的痛苦。 After dropping out of elementary school, I was too small for heavy labor, so I became a cattle- and sheep-herder on a nearby grassy riverbank. The sight of my former schoolmates playing in the schoolyard when I drove my animals past the gate always saddened me and made me aware of how tough it is for anyone even a child to leave the group. 到了荒灘上，我把牛羊放開，讓它們自己吃草。藍(lán)天如海，草地一望無(wú)際，周圍看不到一個(gè)人影，沒有人的聲音，只有鳥兒在天上鳴叫。我感到很孤獨(dú)，很寂寞，心里空空蕩蕩。有時(shí)候，我躺在草地上，望著天上懶洋洋地飄動(dòng)著的白云，腦海里便浮現(xiàn)出許多莫名其妙的幻象。我們那地方流傳著許多狐貍變成美女的故事，我幻想著能有一個(gè)狐貍變成美女與我來作伴放牛，但她始終沒有出現(xiàn)。但有一次，一只火紅色的狐貍從我面前的草叢中跳出來時(shí)，我被嚇得一屁股蹲在地上。狐貍跑沒了蹤影，我還在那里顫抖。有時(shí)候我會(huì)蹲在牛的身旁，看著湛藍(lán)的牛眼和牛眼中的我的倒影。有時(shí)候我會(huì)模仿著鳥兒的叫聲試圖與天上的鳥兒對(duì)話，有時(shí)候我會(huì)對(duì)一棵樹訴說心聲。但鳥兒不理我，樹也不理我。許多年后，當(dāng)我成為一個(gè)小說家，當(dāng)年的許多幻想，都被我寫進(jìn)了小說。很多人夸我想象力豐富，有一些文學(xué)愛好者，希望我能告訴他們培養(yǎng)想象力的秘訣，對(duì)此，我只能報(bào)以苦笑。 I turned the animals loose on the riverbank to graze beneath a sky as blue as the ocean and grass-carpeted land as far as the eye could see not another person in sight, no human sounds, nothing but bird calls above me. I was all by myself and terribly lonely; my heart felt empty. Sometimes I lay in the grass and watched clouds float lazily by, which gave rise to all sorts of fanciful images. That part of the country is known for its tales of foxes in the form of beautiful young women, and I would fantasize a fox-turned-beautiful girl coming to tend animals with me. She never did come. Once, however, a fiery red fox bounded out of the brush in front of me, scaring my legs right out from under me. I was still sitting there trembling long after the fox had vanished. Sometimes Id crouch down beside the cows and gaze into their deep blue eyes, eyes that captured my reflection. At times Id have a dialogue with birds in the sky, mimicking their cries, while at other times Id divulge my hopes and desires to a tree. But the birds ignored me, and so did the trees. Years later, after Id become a novelist, I wrote some of those fantasies into my novels and stories. People frequently bombard me with compliments on my vivid imagination, and lovers of literature often ask me to divulge my secret to developing a rich imagination. My only response is a wan smile. 就像中國(guó)的先賢老子所說的那樣：“福兮禍之所伏，福禍福所倚”，我童年輟學(xué)，飽受饑餓、孤獨(dú)、無(wú)書可讀之苦，但我因此也像我們的前輩作家沈從文那樣，及早地開始閱讀社會(huì)人生這本大書。前面所提到的到集市上去聽說數(shù)人說書，僅僅是這本大書中的一頁(yè)。 Our Taoist master Laozi said it best: “Fortune depends on misfortune. Misfortune is hidden in fortune.” I left school as a child, often went hungry, was constantly lonely, and had no books to read. But for those reasons, like the writer of a previous generation, Shen Congwen, I had an early start on reading the great book of life. My experience of going to the marketplace to listen to a storyteller was but one page of that book. 輟學(xué)之后，我混跡于成人之中，開始了“用耳朵閱讀”的漫長(zhǎng)生涯。二百多年前，我的故鄉(xiāng)曾出了一個(gè)講故事的偉大天才蒲松齡，我們村里的許多人，包括我，都是他的傳人。我在集體勞動(dòng)的田間地頭，在生產(chǎn)隊(duì)的牛棚馬廄，在我爺爺奶奶的熱炕頭上，甚至在搖搖晃晃地進(jìn)行著的牛車上，聆聽了許許多多神鬼故事，歷史傳奇，逸聞趣事，這些故事都與當(dāng)?shù)氐淖匀画h(huán)境，家庭歷史緊密聯(lián)系在一起，使我產(chǎn)生了強(qiáng)烈的現(xiàn)實(shí)感。 After leaving school, I was thrown uncomfortably into the world of adults, where I embarked on the long journey of learning through listening. Two hundred years ago, one of the great storytellers of all time Pu Songling lived near where I grew up, and where many people, me included, carried on the tradition he had perfected. Wherever I happened to be working the fields with the collective, in production team cowsheds or stables, on my grandparents heated kang, even on oxcarts bouncing and swaying down the road, my ears filled with tales of the supernatural, historical romances, and strange and captivating stories, all tied to the natural environment and clan histories, and all of which created a powerful reality in my mind. 我做夢(mèng)也想不到有朝一日這些東西會(huì)成為我的寫作素材，我當(dāng)時(shí)只是一個(gè)迷戀故事的孩子，醉心地聆聽著人們的講述。那時(shí)我是一個(gè)絕對(duì)的有神論者，我相信萬(wàn)物都有靈性，我見到一棵大樹會(huì)肅然起敬。我看到一只鳥會(huì)感到它隨時(shí)會(huì)變化成人，我遇到一個(gè)陌生人，也會(huì)懷疑他是一個(gè)動(dòng)物變化而成。每當(dāng)夜晚我從生產(chǎn)隊(duì)的記工房回家時(shí)，無(wú)邊的恐懼便包圍了我，為了壯膽，我一邊奔跑一邊大聲歌唱。那時(shí)我正處在變聲期，嗓音嘶啞，聲調(diào)難聽，我的歌唱，是對(duì)我的鄉(xiāng)親們的一種折磨。 Even in my wildest dreams, I could not have envisioned a day when all this would be the stuff of my own fiction, for I was just a boy who loved stories, who was infatuated with the tales people around me were telling. Back then I was, without a doubt, a theist, believing that all living creatures were endowed with souls. Id stop and pay my respects to a towering old tree; if I saw a bird, I was sure it could become human any time it wanted; and I suspected every stranger I met of being a transformed beast. At night, terrible fears accompanied me on my way home after my work points were tallied, so Id sing at the top of my lungs as I ran to build up a bit of courage. My voice, which was changing at the time, produced scratchy, squeaky songs that grated on the ears of any villager who heard me. 我在故鄉(xiāng)生活了二十一年，期間離家最遠(yuǎn)的是乘火車去了一次青島，還差點(diǎn)迷失在木材廠的巨大木材之間，以至于我母親問我去青島看到了什么風(fēng)景時(shí)，我沮喪地告訴她：什么都沒看到，只看到了一堆堆的木頭。但也就是這次青島之行，使我產(chǎn)生了想離開故鄉(xiāng)到外邊去看世界的強(qiáng)烈愿望。 I spent my first twenty-one years in that village, never traveling farther from home than to Qingdao, by train, where I nearly got lost amid the giant stacks of wood in a lumber mill. When my mother asked me what Id seen in Qingdao, I reported sadly that all Id seen were stacks of lumber. But that trip to Qingdao planted in me a powerful desire to leave my village and see the world. 1976年2月，我應(yīng)征入伍，背著我母親賣掉結(jié)婚時(shí)的首飾幫我購(gòu)買的四本中國(guó)通史簡(jiǎn)編，走出了高密東北鄉(xiāng)這個(gè)既讓我愛又讓我恨的地方，開始了我人生的重要時(shí)期。我必須承認(rèn)，如果沒有30 多年來中國(guó)社會(huì)的巨大發(fā)展與進(jìn)步，如果沒有改革開放，也不會(huì)有我這樣一個(gè)作家。In February 1976 I was recruited into the army and walked out of the Northeast Gaomi Township village I both loved and hated, entering a critical phase of my life, carrying in my backpack the four-volume Brief History of China my mother had bought by selling her wedding jewelry. Thus began the most important period of my life. I must admit that were it not for the thirty-odd years of tremendous development and progress in Chinese society, and the subsequent national reform and opening of her doors to the outside, I would not be a writer today. 在軍營(yíng)的枯燥生活中，我迎來了八十年代的思想解放和文學(xué)熱潮，我從一個(gè)用耳朵聆聽故事，用嘴巴講述故事的孩子，開始嘗試用筆來講述故事。起初的道路并不平坦，我那時(shí)并沒有意識(shí)到我二十多年的農(nóng)村生活經(jīng)驗(yàn)是文學(xué)的富礦，那時(shí)我以為文學(xué)就是寫好人好事，就是寫英雄模范，所以，盡管也發(fā)表了幾篇作品，但文學(xué)價(jià)值很低。In the midst of mind-numbing military life, I welcomed the ideological emancipation and literary fervor of the nineteen-eighties, and evolved from a boy who listened to stories and passed them on by word of mouth into someone who experimented with writing them down. It was a rocky road at first, a time when I had not yet discovered how rich a source of literary material my two decades of village life could be. I thought that literature was all about good people doing good things, stories of heroic deeds and model citizens, so that the few pieces of mine that were published had little literary value. 1984年秋，我考入解放軍藝術(shù)學(xué)院文學(xué)系。在我的恩師著名作家徐懷中的啟發(fā)指導(dǎo)下，我寫出了秋水、枯河、透明的紅蘿卜、紅高粱等一批中短篇小說。在秋水這篇小說里，第一次出現(xiàn)了“高密東北鄉(xiāng)”這個(gè)字眼，從此，就如同一個(gè)四處游蕩的農(nóng)民有了一片土地，我這樣一個(gè)文學(xué)的流浪漢，終于有了一個(gè)可以安身立命的場(chǎng)所。我必須承認(rèn)，在創(chuàng)建我的文學(xué)領(lǐng)地“高密東北鄉(xiāng)”的過程中，美國(guó)的威廉?？思{和哥倫比亞的加西亞馬爾克斯給了我重要啟發(fā)。我對(duì)他們的閱讀并不認(rèn)真，但他們開天辟地的豪邁精神激勵(lì)了我，使我明白了一個(gè)作家必須要有一塊屬于自己的地方。一個(gè)人在日常生活中應(yīng)該謙卑退讓，但在文學(xué)創(chuàng)作中，必須頤指氣使，獨(dú)斷專行。我追隨在這兩位大師身后兩年，即意識(shí)到，必須盡快地逃離他們，我在一篇文章中寫道：他們是兩座灼熱的火爐，而我是冰塊，如果離他們太近，會(huì)被他們蒸發(fā)掉。根據(jù)我的體會(huì)，一個(gè)作家之所以會(huì)受到某一位作家的影響，其根本是因?yàn)橛绊懻吆捅挥绊懻哽`魂深處的相似之處。正所謂“心有靈犀一點(diǎn)通”。所以，盡管我沒有很好地去讀他們的書，但只讀過幾頁(yè)，我就明白了他們干了什么，也明白了他們是怎樣干的，隨即我也就明白了我該干什么和我該怎樣干。In the fall of 1984 I was accepted into the Literature Department of the PLA Art Academy, where, under the guidance of my revered mentor, the renowned writer Xu Huaizhong, I wrote a series of stories and novellas, including: “Autumn Floods,” “Dry River,” “The Transparent Carrot,” and “Red Sorghum.” Northeast Gaomi Township made its first appearance in “Autumn Floods,” and from that moment on, like a wandering peasant who finds his own piece of land, this literary vagabond found a place he could call his own. I must say that in the course of creating my literary domain, Northeast Gaomi Township, I was greatly inspired by the American novelist William Faulkner and the Columbian Gabriel Garca Mrquez. I had not read either of them extensively, but was encouraged by the bold, unrestrained way they created new territory in writing, and learned