利比亚女郎

记得那个夏天常常听这首歌：利比亚女郎。
昨晚，ＢＢＣ４台一直在放麦克杰克逊的ＭＴＶ，突然听到这首久违的歌。
回忆中，白色的T恤，淡蓝的牛仔裤，清澈的眼睛。
回忆中，阳光那么干净，背景音乐是深情款款的利比亚女郎。
一起手牵手听歌的少年哪里去了，不知这一刻，是否那人也会想起那个夏天，永远不会再来的夏天。
音乐是介质，穿越它，回到过去的时光。听别人的歌，想自己的心事。

Liberian Girl，
You Know That You Came And You Changed My World,
Just Like In The Movies,
With Two Lovers In A Scene
And She Says "Do You Love Me"
And He Says ＂So Endlessly"
"I Love You, Liberian Girl"

Liberian Girl，You Know That You Came And You Changed My World,
I Wait For The Day,
When You Have To Say　"I Do,"
And I'll Smile And Say It Too,
And Forever We'll Be True
I Love You, Liberian Girl,　All The Time

在一个凉夏读一首深秋的诗

小时候家里的小书架上颇有一些诗集，真奇怪，现在想想那时家里人个个那么忙碌，白天上班，晚上家务，到底那些诗是谁买的？谁看？

我并不能算诗歌爱好者，诗歌最大的功用，对我不过是让纷杂的生活有一刻平静。我甚至不能确定哪些算好诗。不过，诗歌和音乐一样，都是很私人的东西，听一段音乐，看一行诗，感觉心里喜欢，这就够了。

----------------------------------------------------

家居

by 柏桦


三日细雨，二日晴朗
门前停云寂寞
院里飘满微凉
秋深了
家居的日子又临了

古朴的居室宽敞大方
祖父的肖像挂在壁上
帘子很旧，但干干净净

屋里屋外都已打扫
几把竹椅还摆在老地方
仿佛去年回家时的模样

父亲，家居的日子多快乐
再让我邀二、三知己
酒约黄昏
纳着晚凉
闲话好时光

大宝上学记二

王大宝喜欢上学，在家里待了两个星期的复活节假期之后，新学校对他格外有吸引力。

第一天，老师考虑到不让新同学落单，细心地指定一位小男生照顾他，不知道的地方可以问老师，也可以由小同学来指点一二。 这个严肃的金发高个同学 Joe 于是毫无悬念的成了王大宝的好朋友，男孩子的友谊和女孩子的大概不一样，接王大宝放学时看两个人在一起玩，说话也不多，不像女孩子那样叽叽喳喳，我问王大宝：“那你们两中午吃饭是不是说说话？” 王大宝认真答：“嘴巴吃东西的时候不可以说话。”好吧，不说话只要高兴就好了。

以前上学只是半天，这里一年级是全天，从早上9点到下午3点，中午可以带午餐盒，或者在学校小餐厅午餐，低年级小同学基本都带午餐。第一天上学，早上为王大宝做了午餐盒，放上火腿芝士三明治，青瓜和小胡萝卜片沙拉，和几粒葡萄，英国的酸奶小小一盒，正好放进透明的午餐盒里。叮嘱王大宝记得要把午餐盒和吃酸奶用的小勺带回家。下午回家，打开他的午餐袋，盒子勺子都在，午餐盒盖不见踪影，没有盖子怎么装午餐？ 王大宝很可爱地笑笑说：“早上你没说午餐盒的~ 盖子~也要带回来呵。”，哭笑不得，原来是我的错。第二天送他上学，天气真好，得知第一天中午他们班级在教室门外碧绿的橡树下几张木桌椅午餐，那个盒盖果然还在桌上躺着等我们来找它。

开学前一天老师面试，我和老师谈了担心学习上两地进度不同，这个学校学的英文和数学程度明显深一点，王大宝跟不上怎么办?老师很镇定地说：“不用担心，我们学校这个学区，说什么语言的孩子都有，有的孩子刚来连英文都不会说，至少王大宝没有这方面的障碍。同一个班级里，有的孩子学习上很超前，有的速度慢些，老师会分别对待，跟不跟得上，我们慢慢看。”面试那天，王大宝很沉稳，有问有答，两个小时没有不耐烦，老师说：“看他表现专注，学习上应该不用担心吧。”

每天接送王大宝上学，果然发现学校里说什么语言的家长都有，等放学时可以听到家长们在一起除了说英语的，也有说德语、法语、荷兰语、其他不明语种的，也能看到身披艳丽印度沙丽的母亲，还有沉默的阿拉伯式面纱美妈，黑色长沙镶着豹纹细边，极细的高跟鞋加名牌小手袋。 在众多的孩子里，王大宝的英文听起来和别的孩子明显不同，连语调的顿挫都大相径庭。 班主任老师阿诺德太太说：“小孩子变化很快，不出4个月，他就会失去他的美国口音。” 我且拭目以待。

写字也和以前的学校不一样，这里写单词是每个字母都link起来的连体式，王大宝开始很不习惯写连体字，连看都看得糊涂，老师特意给了几张作业纸让他回家练习，我也到书店买本字体练习簿回家。有天他埋头写了半天连体字，抬起头来说：“I think English people just try to be fancy . ” 我本来心里就觉得这么小的孩子练花式没必要，觉得他说的十分精辟在理，忍不住笑着表示同意。

每周一三五，书包里会有两天内需要读完的课外书，这书是一套Oxford Reading Tree: stage 4 ，每本薄薄的，分别讲的是小朋友一家找房子买房子搬家装修房子认识新朋友新学校的趣事，是不是老师特意挑给王大宝读的？实在配合我们家的当下现状。 故事带着淡淡的幽默，插图可爱，王小嘟听得津津有味，我也听得哈哈笑，名正言顺地吩咐王大宝同学：再读一遍。这几年，一遍又一遍地读书给他们兄弟二人组听，风水轮流转，如今也轮到我听故事了，分外欣喜。

第一次回家作业，老师留给王大宝的一张纸，老师特意向我解释：这是难的一组，回去练习，如果觉得难，下次可以改成简单的一组。我不敢掉以轻心，每天十五分钟和他学习温习新单词和数学加减，好像也跟下来了。一个月下来，问起王大宝学习上的事，他的回答总是在课堂上都答对了，问不出所以然我就去问老师了。那天放学和老师在教室门口交流，女老师看着在远处树荫下和同学追追跑跑的王大宝微微一笑说：“He is a star ！” 我心想，这夸得也太狠了太笼统了等于没说么，啥意思？ 只好掰开了揉碎地再追问老师：英语那个这个？数学这个那个 ？能跟上么? 老师于是又啾啾啾说了一番。 我只好暗自庆幸孩子还小，学业不重，改换新环境正是时候。

家里有了小朋友，就是这样无事不担心，我自知这份操心会延续很久，时时提醒自己勿太紧张，记得要严肃活泼，要放松，切记。

大宝上学记一

换了地方，头等大事之一是孩子上学。

没来之前就开始找几间学校的资料来看，来了没几天又特地拜访了小高的老友一家，他们住得很近，就隔了几条小街，步行可到。老友的太太以前在伦敦一家银行工作，有了两个小孩子之后为了配合孩子的作息及寒暑假，从银行辞工转在附近一间小学负责财务，和她聊了半天学校的事，心里不太漫无边际了。复活节假期开学第一天上午我就给附近的两个小学打了电话，第一家没有空位，第二家也是我心里选定的那家倒正好有位子。立刻约好了第二天早上带王大宝同学去面试。见过head teacher，了解学校和老师，参观校园，2个小时后，双方都很满意，星期三，王大宝就开始上学了。

上学前一天在学校定了校服。男孩子们穿白色polo小翻领衬衫配大红色套头衫，深灰色西装长裤或及膝短裤，黑色皮鞋；女孩子们的裙子有粉红格子连衣裙和深灰色西装百褶裙两种，配大红色开衫毛衣，黑色搭袢皮鞋。大家都拎学校统一的书袋 book bag，有深蓝和大红两种颜色可选，像大人的公文包。外套和书袋上都有印有校徽，穿起校服的小孩子们既活泼又端庄，总让我想起19世纪的英国，小孩子一直都被当作小大人 small adult 对待的。

王大宝上的是一年级year one，科目有英文、数学、科学、艺术、地理。 周二有舞蹈戏剧课，周三有室外运动课，周四有室内体操课，这几天要备好黑色运动鞋，白色短裤，白色T恤，总之大家全穿一样的。

此地无校车接送，所以步行上学对我对王大宝都是新鲜事。新学校离家不远也不近，步行20分钟的距离。出了家走过小街，过大街马路，穿过一片绿草如茵的公园，学校就在草地的另一头。早上8点半出门，这一路上往前看往后看，远远走着的都是去上学的小孩子和家长。从校服的颜色就能看出哪个小盆友是哪间学校的，另一个学校在公园的另一方向，他们学校穿绿色套头衫。

王小嘟从两岁开始就极少坐手推童车了，以前的两辆在搬家时已经被我卖了一辆送了一辆。为了王大宝上学，不得不又买了一辆童车，一般从家去学校时小嘟愿意和哥哥一起走，回家的路上他就走不动了。

学校鼓励大家walk to school，早上的学校门口非常热闹，赶来上学的孩子步行的，骑小自行车的，踩滑板车的，家长们推着手推车坐着更小的孩子或躺着小婴儿，送孩子上学有的家长也顺便溜狗，把大狗小狗系在大门口铁栅栏上，大人们聊天，狗狗们兴奋得互相摇尾巴滚成一团。 小学生们则奔向各间教室，在门外挂好外套，放好午餐lunch box，拎着书袋和父母告别。这热气腾腾的喧闹就是那么15分钟，然后校园里一下子就看不到人影静悄悄了。

( 每天都要穿过公园草地去上学，照片上隐约可见一个牵狗散步的人和树下的长椅)

囍贴街

演唱：謝安琪
作曲/編曲/監製 : Eric Kwok
填詞 : 黃偉文



忘掉種過的花　重新的出發　放棄理想吧
別再看　塵封的喜帖　你正在要搬家
築得起　人應該接受　都有日倒下
其實沒有一種安穩快樂　永遠也不差

就似這一區　曾經稱得上美滿甲天下
但霎眼　全街的單位　快要住滿烏鴉
好景不會每日常在　天梯不可只往上爬
愛的人沒有一生一世嗎　大概不需要害怕

忘掉愛過的他，當初的喜帖金箔印著那位他
裱起婚紗照那道牆　及一切美麗舊年華　明日同步拆下

忘掉有過的家，小餐枱 沙发 雪櫃及兩份紅茶
溫馨的光景不過借出　到期拿回嗎　
等不到下一代　是嗎

忘掉砌過的沙　回憶的堡壘　剎那已倒下
面對這浮起的荒土　你注定學會瀟灑
階磚不會拒絕磨蝕　窗花不可幽禁落霞
有感情就會一生一世嗎　又再婉惜有用嗎

終須會時辰到　別怕

請放下手裡那鎖匙 好嗎

---------------

（啊，到底是黄伟文！！我爱他的一支笔，总让我看得又哭又笑）

转载演讲词

他写作，他跑步，他漫游，他做饭，他沉默，他思考，他聆听。
读了村上春树在耶路撒冷获文学奖的致词，读了他对这个世界的看法和选择，很高兴没有喜欢错这个作家。

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.

安徒生童话，插图，拇指姑娘