我為何寫作

一直覺得文字是靈動而有溫度的，有時雖只言片語卻會讓人產生良久共鳴。于是，對于那些“懷抱著耐心、固執和喜悅將對內心的凝視轉化成語言，進而用文字創造出一個個新世界”的作家們很是崇敬和欽佩！

關于寫作，國內著名作家格非曾說：“寫作是為了反抗遺忘！”，聽后很受啟發。細細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年諾貝爾文學獎頒獎典禮上發表的長篇演說。演講中，帕慕克提到，父親擔心因寫作而丟失了真實的自我，因而放棄了寫作，最后變成了一個普通的市民。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，當帕慕克深情地說道——“我深切地希望此刻他就在我們中間！”時，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，這里只節選了這篇演說中關于寫作的精彩闡述，有心的讀者不妨找來全文細讀一番。

——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，是會耐心地花費數年去發掘內心的第二生命，并探究周遭世界如何塑造自我的那種人。提到寫作，首先浮現在我腦海的并不是一部小說、一首詩歌、或者一種文學傳統；而是那個將自己關入房內，坐在桌邊，獨自一人，向內探尋的人。他埋頭于自己的身影中，用言語建造出一個新世界。