福克纳：1949年诺贝尔文学奖领奖演说
我感到这份奖赏不是授予我个人的，而是授予我的工作的---授予我一生从事关于人类精神的呕心沥血的工作的。我从事这项工作，不是为名，更不是为利，而是为了从人的精神原料中创造出一些从前不曾有过的东西。因此，这份奖金只不过是托我保管而已。要做出与这份奖赏原本的目的和意义相符，又与其奖金等价的献词并不难，但我还是想利用这个时刻，利用这个举世瞩目的讲坛，向那些可能听到我说话并已献身于同一艰苦劳动的男女青年致敬。他们中肯定有人有一天也会站到我现在站着的地方。
我们今天的悲剧是人们普遍存在一种生理上的恐惧，这种恐惧存在已久，以致我们已经习惯了。现在不存在精神上的问题，唯一的问题是：“我什么时候会被炸得粉身碎骨？”正因如此，今天从事写作的男女青年已经忘记了人类内心的冲突。而这本身就能写好作品。因为这是唯一值得写、值得呕心沥血地去写的题材。
必须重新认识这些问题，必须使自己明白，世间最可鄙的事情莫过于恐惧，必须使自己永远忘却恐惧。在工作室里，除了心底古老的真理之外，任何东西都没有容身之地。没有这古老的普遍真理，任何小说都只能昙花一现，不会成功；这些真理就是爱、荣誉、怜悯、自尊、同情与牺牲等感情。若是做不到这样，将是白费气力。写出的爱情不是爱情而是情欲，写出的失败是没有人失去可贵的东西的失败，写出的胜利是没有希望、更糟的是没有怜悯或同情的胜利。写出的悲伤不是为了世上生灵，所以留下不深刻的痕迹。不是在写心灵而是在写器官。
在重新懂得这些之前，写作犹如站在处于世界末日的人类中去观察末日的来临。我不接受人类末日的说法，因人类能延续而说人是不朽的，这很容易。说即使最后一次钟声已经消失，消失的再也没有潮水冲刷的映在落日余晖里的海上最后一块无用礁石之旁时，还会有一个声音，人类微弱的、不断的说话声，这也很容易。但是我不能接受这种说法，我相信人类不仅能延续，而且能战胜一切而永存。人类不朽不是因为在万物中唯有他能永远发言、而是因为他有灵魂，有同情心、有牺牲和忍耐精神。诗人和作家的责任就是把这些写出来。诗人和作家的特权就是去鼓舞人的斗志、使人们记住过去曾经有过的光荣---人类曾有过的勇气、荣誉、希望、自尊、同情、怜悯与牺牲精神--以达到永恒。诗人的声音不应只是人类的记录，而应是使人类永存并获胜的支柱和栋梁。
feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work -- a life's work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle from which I might be listened to by the young men and women already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand here where I am standing.
Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only the question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.
He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid; and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed -- love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.
Until he relearns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance.
The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
我们今天的悲剧是人们普遍存在一种生理上的恐惧，这种恐惧存在已久，以致我们已经习惯了。现在不存在精神上的问题，唯一的问题是：“我什么时候会被炸得粉身碎骨？”正因如此，今天从事写作的男女青年已经忘记了人类内心的冲突。而这本身就能写好作品。因为这是唯一值得写、值得呕心沥血地去写的题材。
必须重新认识这些问题，必须使自己明白，世间最可鄙的事情莫过于恐惧，必须使自己永远忘却恐惧。在工作室里，除了心底古老的真理之外，任何东西都没有容身之地。没有这古老的普遍真理，任何小说都只能昙花一现，不会成功；这些真理就是爱、荣誉、怜悯、自尊、同情与牺牲等感情。若是做不到这样，将是白费气力。写出的爱情不是爱情而是情欲，写出的失败是没有人失去可贵的东西的失败，写出的胜利是没有希望、更糟的是没有怜悯或同情的胜利。写出的悲伤不是为了世上生灵，所以留下不深刻的痕迹。不是在写心灵而是在写器官。
在重新懂得这些之前，写作犹如站在处于世界末日的人类中去观察末日的来临。我不接受人类末日的说法，因人类能延续而说人是不朽的，这很容易。说即使最后一次钟声已经消失，消失的再也没有潮水冲刷的映在落日余晖里的海上最后一块无用礁石之旁时，还会有一个声音，人类微弱的、不断的说话声，这也很容易。但是我不能接受这种说法，我相信人类不仅能延续，而且能战胜一切而永存。人类不朽不是因为在万物中唯有他能永远发言、而是因为他有灵魂，有同情心、有牺牲和忍耐精神。诗人和作家的责任就是把这些写出来。诗人和作家的特权就是去鼓舞人的斗志、使人们记住过去曾经有过的光荣---人类曾有过的勇气、荣誉、希望、自尊、同情、怜悯与牺牲精神--以达到永恒。诗人的声音不应只是人类的记录，而应是使人类永存并获胜的支柱和栋梁。
feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work -- a life's work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle from which I might be listened to by the young men and women already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand here where I am standing.
Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only the question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.
He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid; and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed -- love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.
Until he relearns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance.
The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
