诺贝尔奖获得者全书【2002】【文学奖】
【获奖类别】文学奖【获奖年代】2002年
【获得情况】凯尔泰斯·伊姆雷(Imre Kertész)
[img]http://nobelprize.org/literature/laureates/2002/kertesz.jpg[/img]
凯尔泰斯１９２９年出生在匈牙利首都布达佩斯一个犹太人家庭。１９４４年，他被关进了德国纳粹分子设在波兰的奥斯威辛集中营，后来又被转移到德国境内的布痕瓦尔德集中营，１９４８年返回匈牙利。他在报社工作过，并长期从事文学翻译工作，主要翻译德国作家的作品，这对他后来的文学创作产生了很大的影响。他曾荣获过包括德国布兰登堡文学奖在内的多项国际文学奖。
凯尔泰斯·伊姆雷书目
一九七五《无关命运》
一九七七《寻路人》
一九八八《惨败》
一九九○《给未出世孩子的安息文》
一九九一《英国国旗》
一九九二《划船苦力的日记》
一九九三《Esterhazy》（匈牙利贵族世家）
一九九三《大屠杀浩劫作为一种文化》
一九九七《我他者：变形者纪事》
一九九八《行刑队上膛的寂静时刻》
二○○一《流亡话语》
【获奖理由】表彰他对脆弱的个人在对抗强大的野蛮强权时痛苦经历的深刻刻划以及他独特的自传体文学风格。
【主要成就】凯尔泰斯通过在作品中描述自己的亲身经历，孜孜不倦地探索了这样一个主题，即一个人在自己所属的群体被迫屈服于社会强权的时代是如何生活和思考问题的。在纳粹分子疯狂迫害匈牙利犹太人的黑暗时期，还是一个少年的凯尔泰斯在集中营里渡过了４年的痛苦岁月。集中营的生活使凯尔泰斯对人类的本质和生存状态产生了严肃的思考，为他日后的文学创作打下了基础。凯尔泰斯１９７５年开始发表长篇文学作品。处女作《非劫数》描写了他在纳粹集中营的经历，但这部自传体小说发表后并没有引起多大反响。直到１９８８年和１９９０年《非劫数》的两部续篇《惨败》和《为一个未出生的孩子祈祷》发表之后，他才为世界所了解，并开始在世界文坛上占有一席之地。凯尔泰斯的作品坚定不移地持续着自我的生活与思考模式，这在一个个体无奈屈从于社会的大时代中颇为难得。而这也恰恰成为了凯尔泰斯日后创作的一大基调。虽然困难重重，凯尔泰斯却拒绝一切让步，他也曾表示希望读者放下一切包袱，去尽情地享受一种完全属于自己的个性思考。
【获奖感言】了解音乐的的人可能知道在上个世纪六、七十年代有一位匈牙利指挥家叫凯尔泰斯，而对于匈牙利作家凯尔泰斯，2002年诺贝尔文学奖得主，却知之甚少。凯尔泰斯1929年11月9日生于布达佩斯，是一名犹太人，1944年被纳粹投入奥斯威辛集中营，后来又转到布痕瓦尔德集中营，1945年获得解救。凯尔泰斯重获自由后，回到匈牙利，并从１９４８年起在布达佩斯一家报社工作，直至１９５１年该报社被勒令解散。接着，凯尔泰斯服了两年兵役，之后开始当自由作家和翻译家维生，他经常翻译尼采、佛洛伊德、霍夫曼斯塔、士尼兹勒等人的作品，这些作家后来都对他的写作产生重大影响。1975年，他的首部小说《Sorstal anság》(英文译为《无形的命运》)出版，以他在集中营生活为背景。描写了他在纳粹集中营的经历，但这部自传体小说发表后并没有引起多大反响。直到１９８８年和１９９０年《非劫数》的两部续篇《惨败》和《为一个未出生的孩子祈祷》发表之后，他才为世界所了解，其作品开始引起西方国家重视，并逐渐在世界文坛上占有一席之地。
《无关命运》写集中营以及前後的生活历程，一个懵懂的小孩对自己处境的辨识，别人有意识地视之为恐怖，可是对小孩来说，「怎麽过日子？」他的哲学是「一步一步就过去了！」这种「无可与说」的生命情境，标识了一种精神上逃逸的路线。《惨败》是以小说的方式来写为何《无关命运》是一部不可能被写出来的书，因为没有同样情境的人，是无法体会奥森维兹的状况，也因此，作家其实是在宣示：他永远被囚禁在奥森维兹。第叁本小说《给未出世孩子的安息文》，就如同阿多诺（Adorno）在经历奥森维兹之後，被别人询问还能不能写诗？阿多诺回答：「不可能！没有诗，没有文化，一切尽归於无！」这种弃绝的情境，出现在小说里的状况是：「经历过奥森维兹之後，能不能生孩子？」小说如此开头：「不！不能生孩子！」因为第一个奥森维兹过去之後，谁能保证，不会有第二个？
《划船苦力的日记》是散文、格言混合的文集，书中有这样的句子：「总是要往前看，不要往後看，死亡在前面，因之你有选择的自由了！」或者是他谈到创作与现实的精神寂寞：「小说里的主人翁，总是有他不愿意读者以及作者了解的秘密」，马悦然院士说：如同生命的庞大、复杂和艰难。在国族认同的困惑里，残酷的生存实境，使得凯尔泰斯·伊姆雷的作品充满了无比的张力。作者发出真挚、正直的声音，他用非戏剧的声音叙述集中营的恐怖，语言的音乐性很强，读他的着作，会联想到卡夫卡和贝克特。
人类的春天，什麽时候才会来？谁能保证恐怖与恐惧不会再发生？在以、巴问题情势严峻的此刻，马悦然院士表示，瑞典学院决定颁奖给一位犹太裔的作家，或许会引起争论，但只有文学的价值，才是瑞典学院唯一衡量的标准。
[b]Imre Kertész – Nobel Lecture[/b]
Heureka!
I must begin with a confession, a strange confession perhaps, but a candid one. From the moment I stepped on the airplane to make the journey here and accept this year's Nobel Prize in Literature, I have been feeling the steady, searching gaze of a dispassionate observer on my back. Even at this special moment, when I find myself being the center of attention, I feel I am closer to this cool and detached observer than to the writer whose work, of a sudden, is read around the world. I can only hope that the speech I have the honor to deliver on this occasion will help me dissolve the duality and fuse the two selves within me.
For now, though, I still have trouble understanding the gap that I sense between the high honor and my life and work. Perhaps I lived too long under dictatorships, in a hostile, relentlessly alien intellectual environment, to have developed a distinct literary consciousness; even to contemplate such a thing would have been useless. Besides, all I heard from all sides was that what I gave so much thought to, the "topic" that forever preoccupied me, was neither timely nor very attractive. For this reason, and also because I happen to believe it, I have always considered writing a highly personal, private matter.
Not that such a matter necessarily precludes seriousness - even if this seriousness did seem somewhat ludicrous in a world where only lies were taken seriously. Here the notion that the world is an objective reality existing independently of us was an axiomatic philosophical truth. Whereas I, on a lovely spring day in 1955, suddenly came to the realization that there exists only one reality, and that is me, my own life, this fragile gift bestowed for an uncertain time, which had been seized, expropriated by alien forces, and circumscribed, marked up, branded - and which I had to take back from "History", this dreadful Moloch, because it was mine and mine alone, and I had to manage it accordingly.
Needless to say, all this turned me sharply against everything in that world, which, though not objective, was undeniably a reality. I am speaking of Communist Hungary, of "thriving and flourishing" Socialism. If the world is an objective reality that exists independently of us, then humans themselves, even in their own eyes, are nothing more than objects, and their life stories merely a series of disconnected historical accidents, which they may wonder at, but which they themselves have nothing to do with. It would make no sense to arrange the fragments in a coherent whole, because some of it may be far too objective for the subjective Self to be held responsible for it.
A year later, in 1956, the Hungarian Revolution broke out. For a single moment the country turned subjective. Soviet tanks, however, restored objectivity before long.
I do not mean to be facetious. Consider what happened to language in the twentieth century, what became of words. I daresay that the first and most shocking discovery made by writers in our time was that language, in the form it came down to us, a legacy of some primordial culture, had simply become unsuitable to convey concepts and processes that had once been unambiguous and real. Think of Kafka, think of Orwell, in whose hands the old language simply disintegrated. It was as if they were turning it round and round in an open fire, only to display its ashes afterward, in which new and previously unknown patterns emerged.
But I should like to return to what for me is strictly private - writing. There are a few questions, which someone in my situation will not even ask. Jean-Paul Sartre, for instance, devoted an entire little book to the question: For whom do we write? It is an interesting question, but it can also be dangerous, and I thank my lucky stars that I never had to deal with it. Let us see what the danger consists of. If a writer were to pick a social class or group that he would like, not only to delight but also influence, he would first have to examine his style to see whether it is a suitable means by which to exert influence. He will soon be assailed by doubts, and spend his time watching himself. How can he know for sure what his readers want, what they really like? He cannot very well ask each and every one. And even if he did, it wouldn't do any good. He would have to rely on his image of his would-be readers, the expectations he ascribed to them, and imagine what would have the effect on him that he would like to achieve. For whom does a writer write, then? The answer is obvious: he writes for himself.
At least I can say that I have arrived at this answer fairly straightforwardly. Granted, I had it easier - I had no readers and no desire to influence anyone. I did not begin writing for a specific reason, and what I wrote was not addressed to anyone. If I had an aim at all, it was to be faithful, in language and form, to the subject at hand, and nothing more. It was important to make this clear during the ridiculous and sad period when literature was state-controlled and "engagé".
It would be more difficult to answer another, perfectly legitimate though still rather more dubious question: Why do we write? Here, too, I was lucky, for it never occurred to me that when it came to this question, one had a choice. I described a relevant incident in my novel Failure. I stood in the empty corridor of an office building, and all that happened was that from the direction of another, intersecting corridor I heard echoing footsteps. A strange excitement took hold of me. The sound grew louder and louder, and though they were clearly the steps of a single, unseen person, I suddenly had the feeling that I was hearing the footsteps of thousands. It was as if a huge procession was pounding its way down that corridor. And at that point I perceived the irresistible attraction of those footfalls, that marching multitude. In a single moment I understood the ecstasy of self-abandonment, the intoxicating pleasure of melting into the crowd - what Nietzsche called, in a different context though relevantly for this moment too, a Dionysian experience. It was almost as though some physical force were pushing me, pulling me toward the unseen marching columns. I felt I had to stand back and press against the wall, to keep me from yielding to this magnetic, seductive force.
I have related this intense moment as I (had) experienced it. The source from which it sprang, like a vision, seemed somewhere outside of me, not in me. Every artist is familiar with such moments. At one time they were called sudden inspirations. Still, I wouldn't classify the experience as an artistic revelation, but rather as an existential self-discovery. What I gained from it was not my art - its tools would not be mine for some time - but my life, which I had almost lost. The experience was about solitude, a more difficult life, and the things I have already mentioned - the need to step out of the mesmerizing crowd, out of History, which renders you faceless and fateless. To my horror, I realized that ten years after I had returned from the Nazi concentration camps, and halfway still under the awful spell of Stalinist terror, all that remained of the whole experience were a few muddled impressions, a few anecdotes. Like it didn't even happen to me, as people are wont to say.
It is clear that such visionary moments have a long prehistory. Sigmund Freud would trace them back to a repressed traumatic experience. And he may well be right. I, too, am inclined toward the rational approach; mysticism and unreasoning rapture of all kinds are alien to me. So when I speak of a vision, I must mean something real that assumes a supernatural guise - the sudden, almost violent eruption of a slowly ripening thought within me. Something conveyed in the ancient cry, "Eureka!" - "I've got it!" But what?
I once said that so-called Socialism for me was the petite madeleine cake that, dipped into Proust's tea, evoked in him the flavor of bygone years. For reasons having to do with the language I spoke, I decided, after the suppression of the 1956 revolt, to remain in Hungary. Thus I was able to observe, not as a child this time but as an adult, how a dictatorship functions. I saw how an entire nation could be made to deny its ideals, and watched the early, cautious moves toward accommodation. I understood that hope is an instrument of evil, and the Kantian categorical imperative - ethics in general - is but the pliable handmaiden of self-preservation.
Can one imagine greater freedom than that enjoyed by a writer in a relatively limited, rather tired, even decadent dictatorship? By the nineteen-sixties, the dictatorship in Hungary had reached a state of consolidation that could almost be called a societal consensus. The West later dubbed it, with good-humored forbearance, "goulash Communism". It seemed that after the initial foreign disapproval, Hungary's own version quickly turned into the West's favorite brand of Communism. In the miry depths of this consensus, one either gave up the struggle or found the winding paths to inner freedom. A writer's overhead, after all, is very low; to practice his profession, all he needs are paper and pencil. The nausea and depression to which I awoke each morning led me at once into the world I intended to describe. I had to discover that I had placed a man groaning under the logic of one type of totalitarianism in another totalitarian system, and this turned the language of my novel into a highly allusive medium. If I look back now and size up honestly the situation I was in at the time, I have to conclude that in the West, in a free society, I probably would not have been able to write the novel known by readers today as Fateless, the novel singled out by the Swedish Academy for the highest honor.
No, I probably would have aimed at something different. Which is not to say that I would not have tried to get at the truth, but perhaps at a different kind of truth. In the free marketplace of books and ideas, I, too, might have wanted to produce a showier fiction. For example, I might have tried to break up time in my novel, and narrate only the most powerful scenes. But the hero of my novel does not live his own time in the concentration camps, for neither his time nor his language, not even his own person, is really his. He doesn't remember; he exists. So he has to languish, poor boy, in the dreary trap of linearity, and cannot shake off the painful details. Instead of a spectacular series of great and tragic moments, he has to live through everything, which is oppressive and offers little variety, like life itself.
But the method led to remarkable insights. Linearity demanded that each situation that arose be completely filled out. It did not allow me, say, to skip cavalierly over twenty minutes of time, if only because those twenty minutes were there before me, like a gaping, terrifying black hole, like a mass grave. I am speaking of the twenty minutes spent on the arrival platform of the Birkenau extermination camp - the time it took people clambering down from the train to reach the officer doing the selecting. I more or less remembered the twenty minutes, but the novel demanded that I distrust my memory. No matter how many survivors' accounts, reminiscences and confessions I had read, they all agreed that everything proceeded all too quickly and unnoticably. The doors of the railroad cars were flung open, they heard shouts, the barking of dogs, men and women were abruptly separated, and in the midst of the hubbub, they found themselves in front of an officer. He cast a fleeting glance at them, pointed to something with his outstretched arm, and before they knew it they were wearing prison clothes.
I remembered these twenty minutes differently. Turning to authentic sources, I first read Tadeusz Borowski's stark, unsparing and self-tormenting narratives, among them the story entitled "This Way for the Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen". Later, I came upon a series of photographs of human cargo arriving at the Birkenau railroad platform - photographs taken by an SS soldier and found by American soldiers in a former SS barracks in the already liberated camp at Dachau. I looked at these photographs in utter amazement. I saw lovely, smiling women and bright-eyed young men, all of them well-intentioned, eager to cooperate. Now I understood how and why those humiliating twenty minutes of idleness and helplessness faded from their memories. And when I thought how all this was repeated the same way for days, weeks, months and years on end, I gained an insight into the mechanism of horror; I learned how it became possible to turn human nature against one's own life.
So I proceeded, step by step, on the linear path of discovery; this was my heuristic method, if you will. I realized soon enough that I was not the least bit interested in whom I was writing for and why. One question interested me: What have I still got to do with literature? For it was clear to me that an uncrossable line separated me from literature and the ideals, the spirit associated with the concept of literature. The name of this demarcation line, as of many other things, is Auschwitz. When we write about Auschwitz, we must know that Auschwitz, in a certain sense at least, suspended literature. One can only write a black novel about Auschwitz, or - you should excuse the expression - a cheap serial, which begins in Auschwitz and is still not over. By which I mean that nothing has happened since Auschwitz that could reverse or refute Auschwitz. In my writings the Holocaust could never be present in the past tense.
It is often said of me - some intend it as a compliment, others as a complaint - that I write about a single subject: the Holocaust. I have no quarrel with that. Why shouldn't I accept, with certain qualifications, the place assigned to me on the shelves of libraries? Which writer today is not a writer of the Holocaust? One does not have to choose the Holocaust as one's subject to detect the broken voice that has dominated modern European art for decades. I will go so far as to say that I know of no genuine work of art that does not reflect this break. It is as if, after a night of terrible dreams, one looked around the world, defeated, helpless. I have never tried to see the complex of problems referred to as the Holocaust merely as the insolvable conflict between Germans and Jews. I never believed that it was the latest chapter in the history of Jewish suffering, which followed logically from their earlier trials and tribulations. I never saw it as a one-time aberration, a large-scale pogrom, a precondition for the creation of Israel. What I discovered in Auschwitz is the human condition, the end point of a great adventure, where the European traveler arrived after his two-thousand-year-old moral and cultural history.
Now the only thing to reflect on is where we go from here. The problem of Auschwitz is not whether to draw a line under it, as it were; whether to preserve its memory or slip it into the appropriate pigeonhole of history; whether to erect a monument to the murdered millions, and if so, what kind. The real problem with Auschwitz is that it happened, and this cannot be altered - not with the best, or worst, will in the world. This gravest of situations was characterized most accurately by the Hungarian Catholic poet János Pilinszky when he called it a "scandal". What he meant by it, clearly, is that Auschwitz occurred in a Christian cultural environment, so for those with a metaphysical turn of mind it can never be overcome.
Old prophecies speak of the death of God. Since Auschwitz we are more alone, that much is certain. We must create our values ourselves, day by day, with that persistent though invisible ethical work that will give them life, and perhaps turn them into the foundation of a new European culture. I consider the prize with which the Swedish Academy has seen fit to honor my work as an indication that Europe again needs the experience that witnesses to Auschwitz, to the Holocaust were forced to acquire. The decision - permit me to say this - bespeaks courage, firm resolve even - for those who made it wished me to come here, though they could have easily guessed what they would hear from me. What was revealed in the Final Solution, in l'univers concentrationnaire, cannot be misunderstood, and the only way survival is possible, and the preservation of creative power, is if we recognize the zero point that is Auschwitz. Why couldn't this clarity of vision be fruitful? At the bottom of all great realizations, even if they are born of unsurpassed tragedies, there lies the greatest European value of all, the longing for liberty, which suffuses our lives with something more, a richness, making us aware of the positive fact of our existence, and the responsibility we all bear for it.
It makes me especially happy to be expressing these thoughts in my native language: Hungarian. I was born in Budapest, in a Jewish family, whose maternal branch hailed from the Transylvanian city of Kolozsvár (Cluj) and the paternal side from the southwestern corner of the Lake Balaton region. My grandparents still lit the Sabbath candles every Friday night, but they changed their name to a Hungarian one, and it was natural for them to consider Judaism their religion and Hungary their homeland. My maternal grandparents perished in the Holocaust; my paternal grandparents' lives were destroyed by Mátyás Rákosi's Communist rule, when Budapest's Jewish old age home was relocated to the northern border region of the country. I think this brief family history encapsulates and symbolizes this country's modern-day travails. What it teaches me, though, is that there is not only bitterness in grief, but also extraordinary moral potential. Being a Jew to me is once again, first and foremost, a moral challenge. If the Holocaust has by now created a culture, as it undeniably has, its aim must be that an irredeemable reality give rise by way of the spirit to restoration - a catharsis. This desire has inspired me in all my creative endeavors.
Though I am nearing the end of my speech, I must confess I still have not found the reassuring balance between my life, my works and the Nobel Prize. For now I feel profound gratitude - gratitude for the love that saved me and sustains me still. But let us consider that in this difficult-to-follow life journey, in this "career" of mine, if I could so put it, there is something stirring, something absurd, something which cannot be pondered without one being touched by a belief in an otherworldly order, in providence, in metaphysical justice - in other words, without falling into the trap of self-deception, and thus running aground, going under, severing the deep and tortuous ties with the millions who perished and who never knew mercy. It is not so easy to be an exception. But if we were destined to be exceptions, we must make our peace with the absurd order of chance, which reigns over our lives with the whim of a death squad, exposing us to inhuman powers, monstrous tyrannies.
And yet something very special happened while I was preparing this lecture, which in a way reassured me. One day I received a large brown envelope in the mail. It was sent to me by Doctor Volkhard Knigge, the director of the Buchenwald Memorial Center. He enclosed a small envelope with his congratulatory note, and described what was in the envelope, so, in case I didn't have the strength to look, I wouldn't have to. The envelope contained a copy of the original daily report on the camp's prisoners for February 18, 1945. In the "Abg鋘ge", that is, the "Decrement" column, I learned about the death of Prisoner #64,921 - Imre Kertész, factory worker, born in 1927. The two false data: the year of my birth and my occupation were entered in the official registry when I was brought to Buchenwald. I had made myself two years older so I wouldn't be classified as a child, and had said worker rather than student to appear more useful to them.
In short, I died once, so I could live. Perhaps that is my real story. If it is, I dedicate this work, born of a child's death, to the millions who died and to those who still remember them. But, since we are talking about literature, after all, the kind of literature that, in the view of your Academy, is also a testimony, my work may yet serve a useful purpose in the future, and - this is my heart's desire - may even speak to the future. Whenever I think of the traumatic impact of Auschwitz, I end up dwelling on the vitality and creativity of those living today. Thus, in thinking about Auschwitz, I reflect, paradoxically, not on the past but the future.
[b]Imre Kertész – Banquet Speech[/b]
Today we are experiencing a globalization, an inflation of the Holocaust. The Holocaust survivor who knows Auschwitz through the experience of suffering, observes it all from the perspective assigned to him. He keeps silent or gives interviews to the Spielberg Foundation, he accepts the compensation payments promised him after a fifty-year delay, or, if he is prominent, he makes a speech in the Swedish Academy.
And he asks the question: what is he bequeathing, what is his spiritual legacy? Has he enriched human knowledge with his tale of suffering? Or has he only born witness to the unimaginable degradation of the human being, in which there is no lesson, and which ought to be forgotten as quickly as possible? I do not see it that way. I have not changed my opinion that the Holocaust is a trauma of European civilization. And it is becoming a life-and-death matter, whether this trauma lives on as culture or neurosis, in a constructive or destructive form in European societies.
However, all that will be a decision of the future, which I can scarcely hope to influence any longer. I have endeavoured – perhaps it is not sheer self-deception – to perform the existential labour that being an Auschwitz-survivor has thrust upon me as a kind of obligation. I realize what a privilege has been bestowed on me. I have seen the true visage of this dreadful century, I have gazed into the eye of the Gorgon, and have been able to keep on living. Yet, I knew I would never be able to free myself from the sight; I knew this visage would always hold me captive. Over the decades and one by one I rejected the misleading slogans of a misleading freedom such as "an inexplicable historical error", "cannot be rationalized", and other tautologies of that kind. They are the gestures of one who wishes to stand above the fray. I have never succumbed to the temptation of self-pity, nor, it may be, to that of true sublimity and divine perspicacity, but I have known from the beginning that my disgrace was not merely a humiliation; it also concealed redemption, if only my heart could be courageous enough to accept this redemption, this peculiarly cruel form of grace, and even to recognize grace at all in such a cruel form. – And if you now ask me what still keeps me here on this earth, what keeps me alive, then, I would answer without any hesitation: love. 呵呵，我在匈牙利，我帮你附上匈语的简介
1929. november 9-én született Budapesten. 1944. június 30-án a Budapest k鰎nyéki csendőrpuccs k鰒etkezményeképpen tizennégy évesen Auschwitzba deportálták. T鯾b koncentrációs táborban is fogva tartották, majd a lágerek felszabadítása után, 1945-ben hazatért Magyarországra. Ezt k鰒etően újságírással és fizikai munkával tartotta el magát.
Az 1955 és 1960 k鰖鰐t létrej鰐t írásokban született meg az 1960-tól 1973-ig írt első regény, a Sorstalanság gondolati alapanyaga. A sikert és azt, hogy írói, műfordítói munkájából megélhet, a nyolcvanas évek második fele, majd a magyarországi rendszerváltás hozta meg számára.
Els 谢谢补充
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