福克纳诺贝尔奖获奖致辞_ 分析.ppt

I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work, a lifes 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 material of the human spirit something which did not exist before. So this award is only mine in trust. It would not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it, commensurate for the purpose and significance of its origin. But I wou1d 1ike 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 woman, already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will someday stand here where I am standing. Our tragedy today is a general and universal physica1 fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit, theres 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 most of all, without pity or compassion. His grief weaves on no universal bone, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart, but of the glands. Until he re1earns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of mall. I dec1ine to accept the end of man. It