馬鈴薯高談闊論

島田莊司堪稱日本推理界新本格推理派
在本書的前言中
提到了島田對於推理小說新見解
一直以來
本格推理小說就依循著范達因所提出的推理基本教義理論
也就是純粹的解謎 不加入其他與謎團無關之描述
因此許多本格派小說的作品
「既不重視犯罪動機 也不著重於人物刻劃
故事中所有角色的言行舉止 猶如棋子一般
其用途只是作為布置驚奇結局的工具」

的確 這是我在閱讀某些推理小說會閃過的念頭
例如國內的推理小說家
例如綾辻行人

而島田則是認為應擺脫范達因的作法
才能讓本格推理繼續發展
因此在島田的書中
解謎雖是重點（意即必須將所有的謎題完整交代）
但小說本身也須具有其文學性
就如同我之前所說
從島田的小說中
總能得到一些他的新想法
例如「水晶金字塔」中對於金字塔的新註解
而在這本「摩天樓的怪人」中是摩天樓對人類的影響

這本以紐約中央公園旁的摩天樓「中央公園高塔」為主題的小說
讀來格外令人興奮
因為是去年我才去過的地方
走在中央公園裡
感嘆其佔地之廣闊
到處慢跑跟做日光浴的人們
我曾經羨慕他們擁有一個最佳的居住環境

但走出中央公園後
櫛比鱗次的摩天樓遮住了日照
也遮住遠方的天空
美麗只存在建築物上的雕刻 人工的自然景色

回台中下班後有次騎腳踏車到美術館附近
我在街道上往西方抬頭仰望 竟就看到了夕陽
此時才發現原來那一整片區域
竟然都沒有高樓
相較於在紐約層層高樓壓迫的緊張感
也許我們離先進還落後很長一段時間（笑）

島田在本書中對於摩天樓有自己的一番見解
古時的人類建造巴別塔想通往天堂
現在的人們則是藉由摩天樓創造自己的歷史

建造摩天樓的建築師們
認為建築物是永恆的 所以建築物不是為了現在的人們
而是為了未來的人們所設想
摩天樓頂精彩的雕刻與裝飾
也許在現在根本沒有人能欣賞
但在未來以飛行器為交通工具的世界裡
摩天樓頂的這些裝飾就會變成街景的一部份

「建築物是永恆的」
如果所有的建築師都有這樣的遠見
就不會有這麼多醜陋的建築物了

我很喜歡裡面的一段話
『每個人應該都有自己想做的事情
例如思索哲學、沈思、讀書、寫詩、作畫
人類生來就有從藝術裡獲得樂趣的能力
我們不是動物 並不是為了上緊發條
每天做重複性的機械工作而誕生的
...
可是 很多人卻犧牲了自己正當的權利
每天孜孜不倦地做著乏味的工作
浪費了自己的一生之後 仍然一無所有
有人說勞動是一種道德
不 這句話根本是資本家為了滿足自己的私欲所創造出來的詭計
孜孜不倦工作這的人們 最後就像已經閱讀過的報紙
被丟進垃圾桶裡
許許多多的人為了資本家 或那些為利益而結合的政客、軍人或俗物
犧牲了自己的美好生活
沒日沒夜地擴展摩天樓的高度』

我最近喜歡用「使命」這個字眼
是篤姬告訴將軍的
說她懷抱著「使命」來到大奧

而小說家的使命呢
也許就是告訴人們
一些他們忽略的東西
一些大家遺忘的事情

但不可否認地
這些元素
成就了這本書
讓謎題不只是謎題
讓故事不只是故事
而是在那樣動盪不安的時代裡
所發生的獨一無二的事件

故事以安藤忠雄所設計的penthouse為主軸
所發展出來的故事
我特地去找了照片
真的是很特別的設計
不過當然島田在後記中有特別說明
只是參考 他在書中的描寫跟現實是完全不一樣的
而在這一方面也已取得安藤先生的同意了
呵呵 真是嚴謹呢






最後附上阿珍寄給我的村上春樹的演講
這個是村上春樹的「使命」

「Always on the side of the egg 」

Good evening. 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 generals 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 lies. 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 skilful lies--which is to say, by making up fictions that appear to be true--the novelist can bring a truth out to a new place 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, within ourselves. 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 only 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. In Japan 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 fighting that was raging in Gaza. The U.N. reported that more than a thousand people had lost their lives in the blockaded city of Gaza, 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. 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.

Please do allow me to deliver a message, 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 do it. But 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 wall. The eggs are the unarmed civilians who are crushed and burned and shot by them. This is one meaning of the metaphor.

But this is not all. 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 truly 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 passed away last year at the age of ninety. He was a retired teacher and a part-time Buddhist priest. When he was in graduate school in Kyoto, 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 small 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 battlefield. 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, and we are all 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 our believing in 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 would like to express my gratitude to the readers in Israel. You are the biggest reason why I am here. And I hope we are sharing something, something very meaningful. And I am glad to have had the opportunity to speak to you here today.

Thank you very much.