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不合理的行為

By 唐．麥庫林, 李文吉 (Translator)

(247)

| Paperback | 9789866665035

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Book Description

　　麥庫林，公認為當今世上最傑出的戰地記者。他的影像備受討論，他的作品連英國政府也畏懼，他的經歷令間諜小說作家約翰．勒卡雷大為折服；他的一生跌宕起伏，比大多數小說、電影都精彩，卻又很少有男主角能如他一般剖析自己的黑暗與卑懦。

　　戰火不曾擊倒他、軍方的格殺令阻止不了他，唯有良知令他退出了戰場。

　　我們全都受天真的信念之害，以為只需憑著正直，便能理直氣壯地站在任何地方。但倘若你是站在垂死者面前，你需要更多理由。假若你幫不上忙，你便不該在那裡。

　　試著『拍下』和平吧，這其實比拍攝苦難影像更難，卻是一個改變當今好戰世界的辦法。

　　他對生命的Continue

　　戰火不曾擊倒他、軍方的格殺令阻止不了他，唯有良知令他退出了戰場。

　　試著『拍下』和平吧，這其實比拍攝苦難影像更難，卻是一個改變當今好戰世界的辦法。

　　他對生命的體認來自最直接的撞擊與目擊，沒有一絲作偽或誇大。他的人道精神不是透過閱讀養成，而是出自一生經歷的創痛。

　　我們可以在其中看到一位極為傑出的攝影師，如何堅持其原則而成為一種專業典範；如何成為英雄，又如何在這種英雄主義裡，誠實地發現了自己匱乏、荒蕪的生命風景。──郭力昕

　　他的影像有如黑暗報告，而他那深刻反省的文字，就彷彿是在行過黑暗時所發出的良知之光──阮義忠

作者簡介

唐．麥庫林（Don Mccullin）

　　公認為當今世上最傑出的戰地記者。他的傑出表現在他的犀利影像，他如驚悚小說般不凡的經歷，也表現在他的坦誠自剖、不斷自我質疑。

　　麥庫林曾自述：假如我不拍照，我只能成為迷失的靈魂。照片讓我認同自己是個人。作品備受當代藝評家如約翰．柏格、蘇珊．宋妲等人關注。

　　麥庫林於一九三五年出生，以一張街頭幫派的照片一鳴驚人，首次採訪戰地即獲得當代攝影記者的高獎項。他的戰地生涯長達十八年，無數次與死亡擦肩而過，甚至曾被關入烏干達阿敏的死亡監獄，也曾被Nikon相機救了一命。

　　在經歷了這一切之後還能從戰場全身而退，這件事本身已是一則傳奇。

　　他拍攝的照片幾乎涵蓋了二十世紀下半葉的主要戰役，其中有很多幅都已成為時代符號。晚年定居英國鄉間拍攝風景照，致力於呼籲和平。

　　麥庫林生長在倫敦治安最糟的地方，家庭貧困，摯愛的父親早逝；他生性不?，甚至患有閱讀障礙，拍照全憑本能。這一切都使他的作品具有宗教般的莊嚴感，最真誠的同理心。

　　他的照片被世界各地主要的美術館列為館藏。他獲得許多殊榮與獎項，包括不列顛帝國勳章（CBE，首位獲頒此勳章的攝影師）。著有《毀滅的事業》、《歸鄉》、《巴勒斯坦人》（與丁伯白合著）、《黑暗之心》、《開闊的天空》、《與鬼魂共枕》、《印度》、《唐．麥庫林》、《唐．麥庫林在非洲》。

譯者簡介

李文吉

　　報導攝影與報導文學工作者，一九五七年生於台北三重，畢業於東海大學外文系。主要報導作品發表於《人間雜誌》。一九九三年以「我們的淡水河」獲金鼎獎雜誌攝影獎。曾擔任《人間雜誌》、《大地地理雜誌》、《自由時報》、《中國時報》等媒體攝影記者、圖片編輯、資深撰述等工作。九二一地震後在石岡鄉協助重建與採編社區報，並在幾所社區大學教攝影。譯作有《紀實攝影》、《攝影與人體》、《攝影的哲學思考》、《紀實攝影》等。

2 Reviews

站在蛋這邊的男人

雖然他已經是如此疲憊了
戰爭與血已經滲進他的身體
殘酷的人性已經腐蝕了他的靈魂
甚至摧毀了遠在幾千里外應該是安全和樂的家庭生活
然而如果還有力量
相信他依然會像軍人拿起槍戰鬥一樣
帶著他的相機上戰場
唐麥克林，就是站在蛋這邊的男人
以下是村上春樹在領取耶路撒冷文學獎時的致詞
告訴我們為什麼以卵擊石的時候
我們要站在蛋這一邊
I have come to Jerusalem today as a novelist, which is to say as a profes ... (continue)

雖然他已經是如此疲憊了
戰爭與血已經滲進他的身體
殘酷的人性已經腐蝕了他的靈魂
甚至摧毀了遠在幾千里外應該是安全和樂的家庭生活
然而如果還有力量
相信他依然會像軍人拿起槍戰鬥一樣
帶著他的相機上戰場
唐麥克林，就是站在蛋這邊的男人
以下是村上春樹在領取耶路撒冷文學獎時的致詞
告訴我們為什麼以卵擊石的時候
我們要站在蛋這一邊
I have come to Jerusalem today as a novelist, which is to say as a professional spinner of lies.
Of course, novelists are not the only ones who tell lies. Politicians do it, too, as we all know. Diplomats and military men tell their own kinds of lies on occasion, as do used car salesmen, butchers and builders. The lies of novelists differ from others, however, in that no one criticizes the novelist as immoral for telling them. Indeed, the bigger and better his lies and the more ingeniously he creates them, the more he is likely to be praised by the public and the critics. Why should that be?
My answer would be this: Namely, that by telling skillful lies - which is to say, by making up fictions that appear to be true - the novelist can bring a truth out to a new location and shine a new light on it. In most cases, it is virtually impossible to grasp a truth in its original form and depict it accurately. This is why we try to grab its tail by luring the truth from its hiding place, transferring it to a fictional location, and replacing it with a fictional form. In order to accomplish this, however, we first have to clarify where the truth lies within us. This is an important qualification for making up good lies.
Today, however, I have no intention of lying. I will try to be as honest as I can. There are a few days in the year when I do not engage in telling lies, and today happens to be one of them.
So let me tell you the truth. A fair number of people advised me not to come here to accept the Jerusalem Prize. Some even warned me they would instigate a boycott of my books if I came.
The reason for this, of course, was the fierce battle that was raging in Gaza. The UN reported that more than a thousand people had lost their lives in the blockaded Gaza City, many of them unarmed citizens - children and old people.
Any number of times after receiving notice of the award, I asked myself whether traveling to Israel at a time like this and accepting a literary prize was the proper thing to do, whether this would create the impression that I supported one side in the conflict, that I endorsed the policies of a nation that chose to unleash its overwhelming military power. This is an impression, of course, that I would not wish to give. I do not approve of any war, and I do not support any nation. Neither, of course, do I wish to see my books subjected to a boycott.
Finally, however, after careful consideration, I made up my mind to come here. One reason for my decision was that all too many people advised me not to do it. Perhaps, like many other novelists, I tend to do the exact opposite of what I am told. If people are telling me - and especially if they are warning me - "don't go there," "don't do that," I tend to want to "go there" and "do that." It's in my nature, you might say, as a novelist. Novelists are a special breed. They cannot genuinely trust anything they have not seen with their own eyes or touched with their own hands.
And that is why I am here. I chose to come here rather than stay away. I chose to see for myself rather than not to see. I chose to speak to you rather than to say nothing.
This is not to say that I am here to deliver a political message. To make judgments about right and wrong is one of the novelist's most important duties, of course.
It is left to each writer, however, to decide upon the form in which he or she will convey those judgments to others. I myself prefer to transform them into stories - stories that tend toward the surreal. Which is why I do not intend to stand before you today delivering a direct political message.
Please do, however, allow me to deliver one very personal message. It is something that I always keep in mind while I am writing fiction. I have never gone so far as to write it on a piece of paper and paste it to the wall: Rather, it is carved into the wall of my mind, and it goes something like this: "Between a high, solid wall and an egg that breaks against it, I will always stand on the side of the egg."
Yes, no matter how right the wall may be and how wrong the egg, I will stand with the egg. Someone else will have to decide what is right and what is wrong; perhaps time or history will decide. If there were a novelist who, for whatever reason, wrote works standing with the wall, of what value would such works be?
What is the meaning of this metaphor? In some cases, it is all too simple and clear. Bombers and tanks and rockets and white phosphorus shells are that high, solid wall. The eggs are the unarmed civilians who are crushed and burned and shot by them. This is one meaning of the metaphor.
This is not all, though. It carries a deeper meaning. Think of it this way. Each of us is, more or less, an egg. Each of us is a unique, irreplaceable soul enclosed in a fragile shell. This is true of me, and it is true of each of you. And each of us, to a greater or lesser degree, is confronting a high, solid wall. The wall has a name: It is The System. The System is supposed to protect us, but sometimes it takes on a life of its own, and then it begins to kill us and cause us to kill others - coldly, efficiently, systematically.
I have only one reason to write novels, and that is to bring the dignity of the individual soul to the surface and shine a light upon it. The purpose of a story is to sound an alarm, to keep a light trained on The System in order to prevent it from tangling our souls in its web and demeaning them. I fully believe it is the novelist's job to keep trying to clarify the uniqueness of each individual soul by writing stories - stories of life and death, stories of love, stories that make people cry and quake with fear and shake with laughter. This is why we go on, day after day, concocting fictions with utter seriousness.
My father died last year at the age of 90. He was a retired teacher and a part-time Buddhist priest. When he was in graduate school, he was drafted into the army and sent to fight in China. As a child born after the war, I used to see him every morning before breakfast offering up long, deeply-felt prayers at the Buddhist altar in our house. One time I asked him why he did this, and he told me he was praying for the people who had died in the war.
He was praying for all the people who died, he said, both ally and enemy alike. Staring at his back as he knelt at the altar, I seemed to feel the shadow of death hovering around him.
My father died, and with him he took his memories, memories that I can never know. But the presence of death that lurked about him remains in my own memory. It is one of the few things I carry on from him, and one of the most important.
I have only one thing I hope to convey to you today. We are all human beings, individuals transcending nationality and race and religion, fragile eggs faced with a solid wall called The System. To all appearances, we have no hope of winning. The wall is too high, too strong - and too cold. If we have any hope of victory at all, it will have to come from our believing in the utter uniqueness and irreplaceability of our own and others' souls and from the warmth we gain by joining souls together.
Take a moment to think about this. Each of us possesses a tangible, living soul. The System has no such thing. We must not allow The System to exploit us. We must not allow The System to take on a life of its own. The System did not make us: We made The System.
That is all I have to say to you.
I am grateful to have been awarded the Jerusalem Prize. I am grateful that my books are being read by people in many parts of the world. And I am glad to have had the opportunity to speak to you here today

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Frances said on Mar 23, 2009 | Add your feedback

War is a terrible thing in the world.
I don't understand why people need to war?
for benefit,or for justice??
This is a confused issue.
In short, the book is describe a journalist's biography of war.

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Meditation said on Jan 31, 2009 | Add your feedback