莫言作品選讀

莫言的小說一直在兩個不同的時空中展開：一個是殘酷現(xiàn)實，細(xì)膩生動地展現(xiàn)當(dāng)前鄉(xiāng)村日常生活中的各種風(fēng)貌，其核心主題是“饑餓”和“不公”；另一個是浪漫世界，以強大的想象力推進(jìn)到被官方歷史嚴(yán)厲遮蔽的微暗世界，關(guān)鍵詞是“生命力”和“人性”。這兩條藤蔓分別蔓延，各自結(jié)出了豐碩果實，并在彼此吸引中漸漸靠近。

——葉開（作家、《收獲》雜志副編審）

《紅高粱家族》（1993）

一九三九年古歷八月初九，我父親這個土匪種十四歲多一點。他跟著后來名滿天下的傳奇英雄余占鰲司令的隊伍去膠平公路伏擊日本人的汽車隊。奶奶披著夾襖，送他們到村頭。余司令說：“立住吧?！蹦棠叹土⒆×?。奶奶對我父親說：“豆官，聽你干爹的話?！?父親沒吱聲，他看著奶奶高大的身軀，嗅著奶奶的夾襖里散出的熱烘烘的香味，突然感到?jīng)鰵獗迫?，他打了一個戰(zhàn)，肚子咕嚕嚕響一陣。余司令拍了一下父親的頭，說：“走，干兒?！?/p>

天地混沌，景物影影綽綽，隊伍的雜沓腳步聲已響出很遠(yuǎn)。父親眼前掛著藍(lán)白色的霧幔，擋住他的視線，只聞隊伍腳步聲，不見隊伍形和影。父親緊緊扯住余司令的衣角，雙腿快速挪動。奶奶像岸愈離愈遠(yuǎn)，霧像海水愈近愈洶涌，父親抓住余司令，就像抓住一條船舷。

《酒國》（2000）

門窗嚴(yán)絲合縫，密封很好。丁鉤兒周身發(fā)癢，汗在臉上爬。他聽到平頭友善地說：

“您不要著急，心靜自然涼?！?/p>

丁鉤兒耳朵里有嗡嗡的響聲，他想到蜜蜂。蜂蜜。蜜餞嬰兒。此行任務(wù)重大，不敢馬虎。窗玻璃似乎在微微顫抖。幾架巨大的機械，在窗戶外的天地間緩慢地、無聲無息地移動著。他感到自己在一個水柜里，像一條魚。那些礦山機械是黃色的。黃色令人昏昏欲醉。他努力諦聽著礦山機械的聲音，但任何努力都是徒勞。

丁鉤兒聽到自己在說：

“我要見你們的礦長、黨委書記?！?/p>

平頭說：

“喝酒喝酒?！?/p>

平頭的熱情使丁鉤兒感動，便端起酒杯一飲而盡。

他的杯子剛放下，平頭又給斟滿了。

“我不喝了，帶我去見礦長、黨委書記。”

“首長莫急，喝酒，喝一杯就走，等于讓我失職。好事成雙，來，再喝一杯?！?/p>

丁鉤兒看看那拳頭大的杯子，心里有些發(fā)怵，但為了工作，只好端杯喝盡。

他剛放下杯子平頭又給斟滿了。

平頭說：

“首長，不是我逼您喝，這是我們礦上的規(guī)矩：敬酒不成三，坐立都不安！”

丁鉤兒說：

“我酒量有限，一滴也不能喝了?！?/p>

平頭雙手把杯子舉起來，送到了丁鉤兒嘴邊，含著眼淚說：

“求求您，首長，喝了吧，不要讓我坐立不安?！?/p>

丁鉤兒一看平頭這樣真誠，心頓時軟了，接過杯子一仰脖灌了。

平頭感動地說：

“多謝多謝，您再來三杯？”

《師傅越來越幽默》（2001）序言

任何作家從事這一行業(yè)都有自己的理由，我也不例外。但我為什么成了這種作家，而沒有成為海明威或者?？思{那樣的作家，我想是和我的童年經(jīng)歷分不開。我的寫作生涯受益于我的童年，它幫助我一直在這條道路上繼續(xù)走下去。回顧40多年前，也就是20世紀(jì)60年代初期，那是現(xiàn)代中國歷史上最奇異的一段時期，人們經(jīng)歷著史無前例的狂熱。一方面，整個國家經(jīng)濟(jì)停滯，人民貧困，人們?nèi)背陨俅?，終日掙扎在生死線上；另一方面，那個時代的人有著強烈的政治熱情，挨餓的人民勒緊褲腰帶也要追隨黨的共產(chǎn)主義實踐。那時我們相信，雖然忍饑挨餓，但我們是世界上最幸運的人。我們相信世界上2/3的人民都生活在悲慘之中，我們的神圣使命就是把他們從水深火熱中拯救出來。直到80年代中國實行改革開放政策，我們才最終開始面對現(xiàn)實，仿佛大夢初醒。

很快我就學(xué)會了與自己對話。我養(yǎng)成一種不尋常的表達(dá)才能，可以滔滔不絕地說下去，甚至還能押韻。我母親有一次聽見我和一棵樹說話。她慌張跑去告訴我父親：“孩子他爸，你覺得他是不是有病?。俊遍L大后，我作為一名勞動者走進(jìn)成人社會，開始養(yǎng)成一邊喂牛一邊自言自語的習(xí)慣，給我的家人帶來不少麻煩。“兒啊，”母親勸我，“你就不能不說嗎？”她的表情讓我淚流滿面，我答應(yīng)她不再自言自語。但是只要周圍有人，我心里積攢的話就滔滔不絕地涌出來，就像老鼠從老鼠窩跑出來一樣。然后我就會有一種強烈的內(nèi)疚感，覺得自己沒把母親的話放在心上。所以我起了“莫言”——別說話——這個筆名。但是正如母親生氣時經(jīng)常責(zé)備我說的：“狗改不了吃屎，狼改不了吃肉?！蔽乙膊荒芡Ｖ拱l(fā)言。這種習(xí)慣讓我得罪了不少同行，因為從我嘴里說出來的總是赤裸裸的真實?，F(xiàn)在我人到中年，話也開始少了，這肯定會讓母親的在天之靈深感欣慰。

《豐乳肥臀》（2004）

石橋上的火還在燃燒，橋中央的谷草堆上，躥起了黃色的火苗和白色的濃煙。青色的橋梁高高地弓起腰，發(fā)出呼哧呼哧的喘息聲，發(fā)出哼哼唧唧的呻吟聲。她感到橋梁在烈火中變成一條大蛇，扭曲著身體，痛苦不堪，渴望著飛升，但頭尾卻被牢牢地釘住了?？蓱z的石橋，她難過地想著。可憐的德國造麗人牌自行車，高密東北鄉(xiāng)的唯一的現(xiàn)代化機械，已被燒成一堆歪歪扭扭的碎鐵。

嗆鼻的火藥味、膠皮味、血腥味、淤泥味使灼熱的空氣又黏又稠，她感到胸膛里充滿了惡濁的氣體，隨時都要爆炸。更加嚴(yán)重的是，她們面前的灌木枝條被烤出了一層油，一股夾雜著火星的熱浪撲來，那些枝條畢畢叭叭地燃燒起來。她抱著求弟，尖聲呼叫著妹妹們，從灌木叢中跑出來。站在河堤上，她清點了一下人數(shù)，妹妹們?nèi)?，臉上都掛著灰，腳上都沒穿鞋，眼睛都發(fā)直，白耳朵都被烤紅了。她拉著妹妹們滾下河堤，向前跑，前邊是一塊廢棄的空地，據(jù)說是回族女人家的舊房基，斷壁殘垣，被野生的高大胡麻和蒼耳子掩映著。跑進(jìn)胡麻棵子里，她感到腳脖子軟得仿佛用面團(tuán)捏成，腳痛得如同錐刺。妹妹們跌跌撞撞，哭叫不迭。于是，她們便癱坐在胡麻棵子里，再次摟抱在一起。妹妹們都把臉藏在姐姐的衣襟里，只有上官來弟，豎著頭，驚恐不安地看著漫上河堤的黃褐色的大火。

《生死疲勞》（2008）

我的故事，從1950年1月1日講起。在此之前兩年多的時間里，我在陰曹地府里受盡了人間難以想象的酷刑。每次提審，我都會鳴冤叫屈。我的聲音悲壯凄涼，傳播到閻羅大殿的每個角落，激發(fā)出重重疊疊的回聲。我身受酷刑而絕不改悔，掙得了一個硬漢子的名聲。我知道許多鬼卒對我暗中欽佩，我也知道閻王老子對我不勝厭煩。為了讓我認(rèn)罪服輸，他們使出了地獄酷刑中最歹毒的一招，將我扔到沸騰的油鍋里，翻來覆去，像炸雞一樣炸了半個時辰，痛苦之狀，難以言表。鬼卒還用叉子把我叉起來，高高舉著，一步步走上通往大殿的臺階。兩邊的鬼卒嘬口吹哨，如同成群的吸血蝙蝠鳴叫。我的身體滴油淅瀝，落在臺階上，冒出一簇簇黃煙……鬼卒小心翼翼地將我安放在閻羅殿前的青石板上，跪下向閻王報告，“大王，炸好了?！?/p>

The ninth day of the eighth lunar month， 1939. My father， a bandit’s offspring who had passed his fourteenth birthday， was joining the forces of Commander Yu Zhan’ao， a man destined to become a legendary hero， to ambush a Japanese convoy on the Jiao-Ping highway. Grandma， a padded jacket over her shoulders， saw them to the edge of the village. “Stop here，” Commander Yu ordered her. She stopped. “Douguan， mind your foster-dad，” she told my father. The sight of her large frame and the warm fragrance of her lined jacket chilled him. He shivered. His stomach growled. Commander Yu patted him on the head and said， “Let’s go， foster-son.”

Heaven and earth were in turmoil； the view was blurred. By then the soldiers’ muffled footsteps had moved far down the road. Father could still hear them， but a curtain of blue mist obscured the men themselves. Gripping tightly to Commander Yu’s coat， he nearly flew down the path on churning legs. Grandma receded like a distant shore as the approaching sea of mist grew more tempestuous1）， holding on to Commander Yu was like clinging to the railing of a boat.

Republic of Wine （2000）

The office was hermetically2） sealed by perfectly dovetailed doors and windows. Once again Ding Gou’er started to itch all over， and rivulets of sweat ran down his face. He heard Crewcut say consolingly：

“Don’t worry， you’ll cool off as you calm down.”

A buzzing filled Ding Gou’er’s ears. Bees and honey， he was thinking， and honeyed infants. This mission was too important to be undone by carelessness. The glass in the windows seemed to vibrate. In the space between heaven and earth outside the room， large rigs moved slowly and noiselessly. He felt as if he were in an aquarium3）， like a pet fish. The mining rigs were painted yellow， a numbing color， an intoxicating color. He strained to hear the noise they made， but no dice.

Ding Gou’er heard himself say：

“I want to see your Mine Director and Party Secretary.”

Crewcut said：

“Drink up， drink up.”

Touched by Crewcut’s enthusiasm， Ding Gou’er leaned back and drained the glass.

He no sooner set down his glass than Crewcut filled it up again.

“No more for me，” he said. “Take me to see the Mine Director and Party Secretary.”

“What’s your hurry， Boss？ One more glass and we’ll go. I’d be guilty of dereliction of duty if you didn’t. Happy events call for double. Go on. Drink up.”

The sight of the full glass nearly unnerved Ding Gou’er， but he had a job to do， so he picked it up and drank it down.

He put down the glass， and it was immediately refilled.

“It’s mine policy，” Crewcut said. “If you don’t drink three， how edgy I will be.”

“I’m not much of a drinker，” Ding Gou’er protested.

Crewcut picked up the glass with both hands and raised it to Ding Gou’ er’ s lips.

“I beg you，” he said tearfully. “Drink it. You don’t want me to be edgy， do you？”

Ding Gou’er saw such genuine feeling in Crewcut’s face that his heart skipped a beat， then softened； he took the glass and poured the liquor down his throat.

“Thank you，” Crewcut said gratefully. “Thank you. Now， how about three more？”

The Preface to Shifu， You’ll Do Anything for a Laugh （2001）

Every person has his own reasons for becoming a writer， and I am no exception. But why I became the sort of writer I am and not another Hemingway or Faulkner is， I believe， linked to my childhood experiences. They have been a boon to my writing career and are what will make it possible for me to keep at it down the road. Looking back some forty years， to the early 1960s， I revisit one of modern China’s most bizarre periods， an era of unprecedented fanaticism. On one hand， those years saw the country in the grips of economic stagnation and individual deprivation. The people struggled to keep death from their door， with little to eat and rags for clothes； on the other hand， it was a time of intense political passions， when starving citizens tightened their belts and followed the Party in its Communist experiment. We may have been famished at the time， but we considered ourselves to be the luckiest people in the world. Two-thirds of the world’s people， we believed， were living in dire misery， and it was our sacred duty to rescue them from the sea of suffering in which they were drowning. It wasn’t until the 1980s， when China opened its door to the outside world， that we finally began to face reality， as if waking from a dream.

Pretty soon I learned how to talk to myself. I developed uncommon gifts of expression， able to talk on and on not only with eloquence but even in rhyme. My mother once overheard me talking to a tree. Alarmed， she said to my father， “Father of our son， do you think there’s something wrong with him？” Later， when I was old enough， I entered adult society as a member of a labor brigade， and the habit of talking to myself that had begun when I was tending cattle caused nothing but trouble in my family. “Son，” my mother pleaded with me， “don’t you ever stop talking？” Moved to tears by the look on her face， I promised I’d stop. But the minute there were people around， out came all the words I’d stored up inside， like rats fleeing a nest. That would be followed by powerful feelings of remorse4） and an overwhelming sense that I had once again failed to take my mother’s instructions to heart. That’s why I chose Mo Yan—Don’t Speak—as a pen name. But as my exasperated mother so often said， “A dog can’t keep from eating excrement， and a wolf can’t stop from eating meat.” I simply couldn’t stop talking. It’s a habit that has caused me to offend many of my fellow writers， because what invariably comes out of my mouth is the unvarnished truth. Now that I’m well into my middle years， the words have begun to taper off5）， which must come as a comfort to my mother’s spirit as it looks down on me.

Big Breasts and Wide Hips （2004）

Fires continued to burn on the bridge， the now yellow flames sending thick white smoke out of the piles of straw. The green bridge flooring arched high in the air as it groaned and gasped and moaned. In her mind， the burning bridge was transformed into a giant snake writhing in agony， trying desperately to fly up into the sky with both its head and tail nailed down. The poor bridge， she thought sadly. And that poor German bicycle， the only modern machine in Gaomi， was now nothing but charred， twisted metal.

Her nose was assailed by the smells of gunpowder， rubber， blood， and mud that turned the heated air sticky and thick， and her breast was suffused with a foul miasma6） that seemed about to explode. Worse yet， a layer of grease had formed on the roasted bushes in front of them， and a wave of sparking heat rushed toward her， igniting crackling fires in the bushes. Scooping Qiudi up in her arms， she screamed for her sisters to leave the bushes. Then， standing on the dike， she counted until they were all there with her， grimy-faced and barefoot， their eyes staring blankly， their earlobes roasted red. They scampered down the dike and ran toward an abandoned patch of ground that everyone said was once the foundation and crumbled walls of a Muslim woman’s house that had since been reclaimed by wild hemp and cocklebur. As she ran into the tangle of undergrowth， her legs felt as if they were made of dough， and the nettles pricked her feet painfully. Her sisters， crying and complaining， stumbled along behind her. So they all sat down amid the hemp and wrapped their arms around each other， the younger girls burying their faces in Laidi’s clothing； only she kept her head up， gazing fearfully at the fire raging over the dike.

Life and Death Are Wearing Me Out （2008）

My story begins on January 1， 1950. In the two years prior to that， I suffered cruel torture such as no man can imagine in the bowels of hell. Every time I was brought before the court， I proclaimed my innocence in solemn and moving， sad and miserable tones that penetrated every crevice of Lord Yama’s Audience Hall and rebounded in layered echoes. Not a word of repentance escaped my lips though I was tortured cruelly， for which I gained the reputation of an iron man. I know I earned the unspoken respect of many of Yama’s underworld attendants， but I also know that Lord Yama was sick and tired of me. So to force me to admit defeat， they subjected me to the most sinister form of torture hell had to offer： They flung me into a vat of boiling oil， in which I tumbled and turned and sizzled like a fried chicken for about an hour. Words cannot do justice to the agony I experienced until an attendant speared me with a trident and， holding me high， carried me up to the palace steps. He was joined by another attendant， one on either side， who screeched like vampire bats as scalding oil dripped from my body onto the Audience Hall steps， where it sputtered and produced puffs of yellow smoke. With care， they deposited me on a stone slab at the foot of the throne， and then bowed deeply. “Great Lord，” he announced， “he has been fried.”