TED演講精選：談呵護(hù)創(chuàng)造力及減輕創(chuàng)作壓力

　　I am a writer. Writing books is my profession but it’s more than that, of course. It is also my great lifelong love and fascination. And I don’t expect that that’s ever going to change. But, that said, something kind of peculiar has happened recently in my life and in my career, which has caused me to have to recalibrate my whole relationship with this work. And the peculiar thing is that I recently wrote this book, this memoir called “Eat, Pray, Love” which, decidedly unlike any of my previous books, went out in the world for some reason, and became this big, mega-sensation, international bestseller thing. The result of which is that everywhere I go now, people treat me like I’m doomed. Seriously – doomed, doomed! Like, they come up to me now, all worried, and they say, “Aren’t you afraid – aren’t you afraid you’re never going to be able to top that? Aren’t you afraid you’re going to keep writing for your whole life and you’re never again going to create a book that anybody in the world cares about at all, ever again?”

　　我是個(gè)作家，寫(xiě)作不僅僅是我的職業(yè)，更是我一輩子的摯愛(ài)與迷戀 我認(rèn)為這是永遠(yuǎn)不會(huì)改變的事情盡管如此，最近在我的生活工作中，發(fā)生了一個(gè)特殊事件這個(gè)特殊事件就是：我最新出版的那本回憶錄《美食、祈禱、愛(ài)》與我以前那些普普通通的作品大不一樣 ，不知怎么的，成了一本轟動(dòng)一時(shí)、令人激動(dòng)的國(guó)際暢銷書(shū)結(jié)果是，現(xiàn)在不論我到哪里，人們都覺(jué)得我這一輩子就這樣了 真的，就這樣了，徹底地，沒(méi)救了，玩完了! 他們會(huì)非常憂慮地過(guò)來(lái)跟我說(shuō)： “你不怕嗎? 不怕你這輩子都超越不了那本書(shū)了嗎?” “你不怕你會(huì)這樣寫(xiě)一輩子，卻永遠(yuǎn)再也寫(xiě)不出世人熱愛(ài)的作品了嗎?”

　　So that’s reassuring, you know. But it would be worse, except for that I happen to remember that over 20 years ago, when I first started telling people – when I was a teenager – that I wanted to be a writer, I was met with this same kind of, sort of fear-based reaction. And people would say, “Aren’t you afraid you’re never going to have any success? Aren’t you afraid the humiliation of rejection will kill you? Aren’t you afraid that you’re going to work your whole life at this craft and nothing’s ever going to come of it and you’re going to die on a scrap heap of broken dreams with your mouth filled with bitter ash of failure?” (Laughter) Like that, you know.

　　他們可真是會(huì)安慰人呀 我的日子本來(lái)會(huì)很難熬，幸運(yùn)的是，我想起了20年前決定成為作家的事情 那時(shí)我才十幾歲我當(dāng)時(shí)遭遇到了同樣的質(zhì)疑，人們說(shuō)：你不怕永遠(yuǎn)都不會(huì)成功嗎? 你不怕持續(xù)的拒絕會(huì)把你擊垮嗎? 你不怕努力終身卻一無(wú)所成嗎?你最后會(huì)在支離破碎的夢(mèng)想中絕望死去，滿含著失敗的痛楚 我當(dāng)時(shí)一直得到諸如此類的質(zhì)疑。

　　The answer – the short answer to all those questions is, “Yes.” Yes, I’m afraid of all those things. And I always have been. And I’m afraid of many many more things besides that people can’t even guess at. Like seaweed, and other things that are scary. But, when it comes to writing the thing that I’ve been sort of thinking about lately, and wondering about lately, is why? You know, is it rational? Is it logical that anybody should be expected to be afraid of the work that they feel they were put on this Earth to do. You know, and what is it specifically about creative ventures that seems to make us really nervous about each other’s mental health in a way that other careers kind of don’t do, you know? Like my dad, for example, was a chemical engineer and I don’t recall once in his 40 years of chemical engineering anybody asking him if he was afraid to be a chemical engineer, you know? It didn’t – that chemical engineering block John, how’s it going? It just didn’t come up like that, you know? But to be fair, chemical engineers as a group haven’t really earned a reputation over the centuries for being alcoholic manic-depressives. (Laughter)

　　對(duì)于這些質(zhì)疑，最簡(jiǎn)單的回答是：“怕” 是的，這種種一切都讓人害怕，直到今天也一樣 其實(shí)除了這些，我還害怕很多別人猜不到的東西比方說(shuō)海草，還有其他嚇人的東西 ，但是，說(shuō)到害怕寫(xiě)作，我最近一直在想，我為什么要害怕寫(xiě)作呢? 這難道是一種理性的想法嗎?人們害怕從事自己命中注定的工作?這符合邏輯嗎? 創(chuàng)造性工作究竟有著怎樣的特殊性，以至于讓我們?yōu)楸舜说男闹墙】祿?dān)心起來(lái)了呢?別的行業(yè)可不太會(huì)這樣，不是嗎? 比方說(shuō)，我爸爸是個(gè)化學(xué)工程師 ，在他40年的化學(xué)工程生涯中，我不曾記得有人問(wèn)他是否害怕成為化學(xué)工程師沒(méi)人說(shuō)：“約翰，化學(xué)工作遇到瓶頸了嗎?怎么樣了?” 從來(lái)不曾發(fā)生過(guò)這種問(wèn)話 ，當(dāng)然，平心而論，化學(xué)工程師這一群體并沒(méi)有在過(guò)去幾個(gè)世紀(jì)里，因酗酒吸毒、狂躁抑郁而享譽(yù)全球 。

　　We writers, we kind of do have that reputation, and not just writers, but creative people across all genres, it seems, have this reputation for being enormously mentally unstable. And all you have to do is look at the very grim death count in the 20th century alone, of really magnificent creative minds who died young and often at their own hands, you know? And even the ones who didn’t literally commit suicide seem to be really undone by their gifts, you know. Norman Mailer, just before he died, last interview, he said “Every one of my books has killed me a little more.” An extraordinary statement to make about your life’s work, you know. But we don’t even blink when we hear somebody say this because we’ve heard that kind of stuff for so long and somehow we’ve completely internalized and accepted collectively this notion that creativity and suffering are somehow inherently linked and that artistry, in the end, will always ultimately lead to anguish.

　　而我們作家，倒確確實(shí)實(shí)有著那樣的名聲不僅作家，各個(gè)領(lǐng)域的創(chuàng)作人才似乎都有著情緒極不穩(wěn)定的惡名， 只需看看上個(gè)世紀(jì)，各個(gè)領(lǐng)域偉大創(chuàng)作天才們英年早逝的案例常常是年紀(jì)輕輕死于自殺 ，即使那些沒(méi)有自殺的，往往也沒(méi)有完全展現(xiàn)出他們的才華 ，即使那些沒(méi)有自殺的，往往也沒(méi)有完全展現(xiàn)出他們的才華諾曼梅勒，在去世前的最后一次采訪中說(shuō)： “我的每一本書(shū)都蠶食了一部分的我”， 對(duì)于你畢生的作品，這是多么激進(jìn)的說(shuō)法啊但我們對(duì)此類說(shuō)法卻視若無(wú)睹，因?yàn)槲覀冊(cè)缫岩?jiàn)怪不怪了 ，且不知為何,人們都已經(jīng)完全內(nèi)化接受了這一觀念這種觀念就是：創(chuàng)造力和痛苦息息相關(guān)，藝術(shù)創(chuàng)造最終一定會(huì)導(dǎo)致極度苦悶。

　　And the question that I want to ask everybody here today is are you guys all cool with that idea? Are you comfortable with that – because you look at it even from an inch away and, you know – I’m not at all comfortable with that assumption. I think it’s odious. And I also think it’s dangerous, and I don’t want to see it perpetuated into the next century. I think it’s better if we encourage our great creative minds to live.

　　我今天想問(wèn)在座各位的是：你們大家都對(duì)此毫無(wú)異議嗎? 你們都覺(jué)得這一觀點(diǎn)毫無(wú)問(wèn)題嗎? 哪怕稍稍離遠(yuǎn)點(diǎn)看這個(gè)觀點(diǎn)，我也不能同意這種臆斷 ，這個(gè)觀點(diǎn)不但可憎，而且可怕，我不希望這樣的想法一直延續(xù)到下個(gè)世紀(jì)我覺(jué)得鼓勵(lì)我們偉大的創(chuàng)作天才們繼續(xù)活下去會(huì)更加好。

　　And I definitely know that, in my case – in my situation – it would be very dangerous for me to start sort of leaking down that dark path of assumption, particularly given the circumstance that I’m in right now in my career. Which is – you know, like check it out, I’m pretty young, I’m only about 40 years old. I still have maybe another four decades of work left in me. And it’s exceedingly likely that anything I write from this point forward is going to be judged by the world as the work that came after the freakish success of my last book, right? I should just put it bluntly, because we’re all sort of friends here now – it’s exceedingly likely that my greatest success is behind me. Oh, so Jesus, what a thought! You know that’s the kind of thought that could lead a person to start drinking gin at nine o’clock in the morning, and I don’t want to go there. (Laughter) I would prefer to keep doing this work that I love.

　　而且就我自己來(lái)說(shuō)，持這一觀點(diǎn)必然將我引入黑暗的絕境 尤其是在我目前的事業(yè)階段 你看，我還年輕，我才四十來(lái)歲我今后還有大約四十年的創(chuàng)作生涯 而且很有可能的是，從這一刻起，我所寫(xiě)的每一部作品 ，都會(huì)被用來(lái)和我上一本轟動(dòng)一時(shí)的巨作進(jìn)行比較，不是嗎?坦率地說(shuō)吧，看在我們都聊了這么久，我就說(shuō)句朋友間的掏心話吧 極有可能的是，我這輩子最大成功已經(jīng)過(guò)去了， 天啊，這是何種的想法!就是這種想法，讓人踏上了一大清早就喝琴酒的不歸路啊 我可不想變成那樣我希望繼續(xù)從事我所熱愛(ài)的寫(xiě)作事業(yè)，所以問(wèn)題就變成：我應(yīng)該怎么辦呢?

　　And so, the question becomes, how? And so, it seems to me, upon a lot of reflection, that the way that I have to work now, in order to continue writing, is that I have to create some sort of protective psychological construct, right? I have to, sort of find some way to have a safe distance between me, as I am writing, and my very natural anxiety about what the reaction to that writing is going to be, from now on. And, as I’ve been looking over the last year for models for how to do that I’ve been sort of looking across time, and I’ve been trying to find other societies to see if they might have had better and saner ideas than we have about how to help creative people, sort of manage the inherent emotional risks of creativity.

　　經(jīng)過(guò)一番深入思考，在我看來(lái) 要想繼續(xù)寫(xiě)作，我必須要?jiǎng)?chuàng)造出某種心理保護(hù)機(jī)制 我必須以某種方式，建立起一個(gè)安全距離區(qū)別開(kāi)寫(xiě)作本身，以及我對(duì)于作品反響的極度焦慮， 前一年，我到處找尋可以參考的模式，在歷史中找，也在不同文化中找看他們是否有比我們更好、更理智的觀點(diǎn) 來(lái)幫助藝術(shù)工作者處理藝術(shù)創(chuàng)作所固有的內(nèi)在情感風(fēng)險(xiǎn)。

　　And that search has led me to ancient Greece and ancient Rome. So stay with me, because it does circle around and back. But, ancient Greece and ancient Rome – people did not happen to believe that creativity came from human beings back then, OK? People believed that creativity was this divine attendant spirit that came to human beings from some distant and unknowable source, for distant and unknowable reasons. The Greeks famously called these divine attendant spirits of creativity “daemons.” Socrates, famously, believed that he had a daemon who spoke wisdom to him from afar. The Romans had the same idea, but they called that sort of disembodied creative spirit a genius. Which is great, because the Romans did not actually think that a genius was a particularly clever individual. They believed that a genius was this, sort of magical divine entity, who was believed to literally live in the walls of an artist’s studio, kind of like Dobby the house elf, and who would come out and sort of invisibly assist the artist with their work and would shape the outcome of that work.

　　這一尋找最后把我?guī)У搅斯畔ＥD和古羅馬 所以請(qǐng)耐心聽(tīng)我講，因?yàn)樽詈髸?huì)繞回到我們的問(wèn)題在古希臘和古羅馬，人們并不認(rèn)為創(chuàng)造力來(lái)自于人類本身 ，人們相信，創(chuàng)造力是一種神圣的守護(hù)精靈從遙遠(yuǎn)而不可知的地方來(lái)到藝術(shù)家身邊，帶著某種遙遠(yuǎn)而不可知的目的 希臘人普遍地稱這種伴隨著創(chuàng)造力的守護(hù)精靈為“守護(hù)神”。 當(dāng)時(shí)人們普遍地認(rèn)為蘇格拉底就有這樣一個(gè)守護(hù)神，從遠(yuǎn)處賦予他智慧 古羅馬人有著相似的觀點(diǎn)，他們把這種無(wú)形的創(chuàng)造精靈稱為“天才” 這種觀點(diǎn)很妙，因?yàn)榱_馬人并沒(méi)有認(rèn)為“天才”是某個(gè)特別聰慧的個(gè)人。 他們認(rèn)為“天才”是某種奇妙的神圣存在他們甚至認(rèn)為“天才”居住在藝術(shù)家工作室的墻壁中，就像小精靈多比一樣 它們會(huì)悄悄地鉆出來(lái)，無(wú)形地幫助藝術(shù)家創(chuàng)作，并影響作品成敗。

　　So brilliant – there it is, right there that distance that I’m talking about – that psychological construct to protect you from the results of your work. And everyone knew that this is how it functioned, right? So the ancient artist was protected from certain things, like, for example, too much narcissism, right? If your work was brilliant you couldn’t take all the credit for it, everybody knew that you had this disembodied genius who had helped you. If your work bombed, not entirely your fault, you know? Everyone knew your genius was kind of lame. And this is how people thought about creativity in the West for a really long time.

　　這個(gè)觀點(diǎn)簡(jiǎn)直絕了，這就是我在找尋的那個(gè)安全距離 這就是讓人免受作品成敗影響的心理保護(hù)機(jī)制 我們都可以理解它的運(yùn)作模式，不是嗎?古代藝術(shù)家由這個(gè)觀點(diǎn)而得到保護(hù)，避免了過(guò)度自戀 ，如果你的作品很偉大，那可不能完全歸功于你因?yàn)榇蠹叶贾�道你是在一個(gè)無(wú)形的“天才”幫助下完成作品的 如果你的作品很爛，同樣也不全是你的錯(cuò) ，人人都知道那是因?yàn)槟愕?ldquo;天才”很差勁這就是西方人在過(guò)去很長(zhǎng)一段時(shí)間里看待創(chuàng)作力的方式。

　　And then the Renaissance came and everything changed, and we had this big idea, and the big idea was let’s put the individual human being at the center of the universe above all gods and mysteries, and there’s no more room for mystical creatures who take dictation from the divine. And it’s the beginning of rational humanism, and people started to believe that creativity came completely from the self of the individual. And for the first time in history, you start to hear people referring to this or that artist as being a genius rather than having a genius.

　　接著文藝復(fù)興來(lái)臨，一切都變了，人們產(chǎn)生了一個(gè)偉大的想法： “讓我們把人類置于宇宙中心，超越眾神和神秘未知” 于是再也沒(méi)有空間留給傳遞神圣意志的小精靈。 這就是理性人文主義的開(kāi)端，人們開(kāi)始相信創(chuàng)造力完全來(lái)源于人類個(gè)體本身有史以來(lái)，人們第一次將某個(gè)藝術(shù)家稱為“天才”，而非擁有一個(gè)“天才”。

　　And I got to tell you, I think that was a huge error. You know, I think that allowing somebody, one mere person to believe that he or she is like, the vessel you know, like the font and the essence and the source of all divine, creative, unknowable, eternal mystery is just a smidge too much responsibility to put on one fragile, human psyche. It’s like asking somebody to swallow the sun. It just completely warps and distorts egos, and it creates all these unmanageable expectations about performance. And I think the pressure of that has been killing off our artists for the last 500 years.

　　而我要說(shuō)的是，我認(rèn)為那是一個(gè)巨大的錯(cuò)誤 讓一個(gè)人，區(qū)區(qū)一個(gè)個(gè)體 去相信他(她)是承載著神圣、創(chuàng)造、未知和永恒這些事物的源泉與圣器無(wú)異于要求他(她)吞下太陽(yáng)，這對(duì)于脆弱的個(gè)體而言，是太大的責(zé)任。 這徹底地扭曲了一個(gè)人的自我認(rèn)知，并導(dǎo)致對(duì)于個(gè)人成就無(wú)比膨脹的預(yù)期我認(rèn)為就是這種壓力，在過(guò)去的500年間扼殺了無(wú)數(shù)藝術(shù)家

　　And, if this is true, and I think it is true, the question becomes, what now? Can we do this differently? Maybe go back to some more ancient understanding about the relationship between humans and the creative mystery. Maybe not. Maybe we can’t just erase 500 years of rational humanistic thought in one 18 minute speech. And there’s probably people in this audience who would raise really legitimate scientific suspicions about the notion of, basically fairies who follow people around rubbing fairy juice on their projects and stuff. I’m not, probably, going to bring you all along with me on this.

　　如果真是這樣 至少我認(rèn)為是這樣的 那么我們的問(wèn)題就是：現(xiàn)在該怎么辦?我們能夠改變這種狀況嗎?也許我們應(yīng)回到更古老的過(guò)去，去參考他們對(duì)于人類與創(chuàng)造力的理解? 也許不行我們無(wú)法用一個(gè)短短18分鐘的演講，抹殺掉發(fā)展了500多年的理性人文思想， 況且或許今天的聽(tīng)眾中，就有人能夠提出有理有據(jù)的科學(xué)質(zhì)疑批駁這種童話精靈跟著藝術(shù)家主人，給作品上點(diǎn)上神仙水的可笑想法也許，我無(wú)法說(shuō)服你們大家都同意我的看法。

　　But the question that I kind of want to pose is – you know, why not? Why not think about it this way? Because it makes as much sense as anything else I have ever heard in terms of explaining the utter maddening capriciousness of the creative process. A process which, as anybody who has ever tried to make something – which is to say basically, everyone here –- knows does not always behave rationally. And, in fact, can sometimes feel downright paranormal.

　　但我想說(shuō)的是：為何不呢?為什么不換個(gè)角度思考呢? 就各種解釋人類變化無(wú)常的創(chuàng)作過(guò)程的理論而言這個(gè)精靈理論和我聽(tīng)過(guò)的所有其他理論一樣地合理(或者說(shuō)一樣地?zé)o理)這個(gè)過(guò)程，對(duì)于任何一個(gè)曾試圖創(chuàng)作的人來(lái)說(shuō)相信在坐各位都曾有這方面的經(jīng)歷 ，都會(huì)知道創(chuàng)作過(guò)程并不總是理性的 實(shí)際上，創(chuàng)作過(guò)程有時(shí)簡(jiǎn)直就是超乎常理。

　　I had this encounter recently where I met the extraordinary American poet Ruth Stone, who’s now in her 90s, but she’s been a poet her entire life and she told me that when she was growing up in rural Virginia, she would be out working in the fields, and she said she would feel and hear a poem coming at her from over the landscape. And she said it was like a thunderous train of air. And it would come barreling down at her over the landscape. And she felt it coming, because it would shake the earth under her feet. She knew that she had only one thing to do at that point, and that was to, in her words, “run like hell.” And she would run like hell to the house and she would be getting chased by this poem, and the whole deal was that she had to get to a piece of paper and a pencil fast enough so that when it thundered through her, she could collect it and grab it on the page. And other times she wouldn’t be fast enough, so she’d be running and running and running, and she wouldn’t get to the house and the poem would barrel through her and she would miss it and she said it would continue on across the landscape, looking, as she put it “for another poet.” And then there were these times – this is the piece I never forgot – she said that there were moments where she would almost miss it, right? So, she’s running to the house and she’s looking for the paper and the poem passes through her, and she grabs a pencil just as it’s going through her, and then she said, it was like she would reach out with her other hand and she would catch it. She would catch the poem by its tail, and she would pull it backwards into her body as she was transcribing on the page. And in these instances, the poem would come up on the page perfect and intact but backwards, from the last word to the first. (Laughter)

　　比方說(shuō)，我最近見(jiàn)到杰出的美國(guó)詩(shī)人露絲.斯通 露絲已經(jīng)九十多歲，她一直是一位詩(shī)人 她對(duì)我說(shuō)她少年時(shí)生活在弗吉尼亞鄉(xiāng)間的事情她會(huì)在田間勞作著，然后突然聽(tīng)到并感覺(jué)到一首詩(shī)，從遠(yuǎn)處沖她而來(lái)， 像一股雷鳴般的氣息，朝她傾瀉而下她可以感受到它的來(lái)臨，因?yàn)檫@股力量會(huì)撼動(dòng)她腳下的大地 每當(dāng)此時(shí)，她唯一能做的只有一件事 用她的話說(shuō)，就是“死命地狂奔” 她會(huì)狂奔回家里，這首詩(shī)則會(huì)一路追逐著她， 她需要飛快地找到紙筆，從而在這股力量穿過(guò)她時(shí)，捕捉住那首詩(shī)，把它記在紙上 有些時(shí)候她則不夠快她拼命地跑，還沒(méi)到家，那首詩(shī)已經(jīng)奔騰而過(guò)，于是她便錯(cuò)過(guò)了那首詩(shī)， 她說(shuō)那首詩(shī)會(huì)繼續(xù)在田野間穿行，尋找“下一位詩(shī)人” 在另一些時(shí)候，這是最叫我難忘的部分： 她說(shuō)有些時(shí)候她幾乎就要錯(cuò)過(guò)一首詩(shī)了 ，她飛奔回家，尋找紙筆而那首詩(shī)即將穿越她而去，她在它正要穿過(guò)之際抓住了筆 然后她會(huì)伸出另一只手，抓住那首詩(shī)的尾巴把它順勢(shì)拉回來(lái)，另一只手則一邊將詩(shī)句謄寫(xiě)在紙上 ，每當(dāng)這種時(shí)候，詩(shī)會(huì)完好無(wú)缺地呈現(xiàn)在紙上只不過(guò)順序是顛倒的，從最后那個(gè)詞開(kāi)始，由后往前，一直到第一個(gè)詞

　　So when I heard that I was like – that’s uncanny, that’s exactly what my creative process is like. (Laughter)

　　我聽(tīng)了她的故事后，心想：太不可思議了，這和我的創(chuàng)作過(guò)程一模一樣!

　　That’s not all what my creative process is – I’m not the pipeline! I’m a mule, and the way that I have to work is that I have to get up at the same time every day, and sweat and labor and barrel through it really awkwardly. But even I, in my mulishness, even I have brushed up against that thing, at times. And I would imagine that a lot of you have too. You know, even I have had work or ideas come through me from a source that I honestly cannot identify. And what is that thing? And how are we to relate to it in a way that will not make us lose our minds, but, in fact, might actually keep us sane?

　　當(dāng)然這并非我創(chuàng)作過(guò)程的全部，我不是管道，我的工作方式更像是一頭騾子 我必須每天同一時(shí)間起床，然后笨拙地，勤懇地工作不過(guò)即使古板如我，偶爾也會(huì)意外地得到不可思議的靈感， 在坐很多人或許也有類似經(jīng)歷你想，即使像我這樣墨守成規(guī)的人，也會(huì)遇到不知何處而來(lái)的靈感 這到底是怎么回事呢? 我們要以怎樣的方式看待它，才不會(huì)喪失理智呢?

　　And for me, the best contemporary example that I have of how to do that is the musician Tom Waits, who I got to interview several years ago on a magazine assignment. And we were talking about this, and you know, Tom, for most of his life he was pretty much the embodiment of the tormented contemporary modern artist, trying to control and manage and dominate these sort of uncontrollable creative impulses that were totally internalized.

　　就我所知的當(dāng)代藝術(shù)家中，將這一問(wèn)題處理得最好的是音樂(lè)家湯姆威茲 幾年前，我就一個(gè)雜志工作采訪過(guò)他，當(dāng)時(shí)我們談及了這一問(wèn)題湯姆是備受創(chuàng)作壓力折磨的現(xiàn)代藝術(shù)家的典型 ，大半生時(shí)間，他都在努力地控制,管理并主宰那不可控的內(nèi)在創(chuàng)作靈感

　　But then he got older, he got calmer, and one day he was driving down the freeway in Los Angeles he told me, and this is when it all changed for him. And he’s speeding along, and all of a sudden he hears this little fragment of melody, that comes into his head as inspiration often comes, elusive and tantalizing, and he wants it, you know, it’s gorgeous, and he longs for it, but he has no way to get it. He doesn’t have a piece of paper, he doesn’t have a pencil, he doesn’t have a tape recorder.

　　但隨著年紀(jì)漸長(zhǎng)，他變得沉靜內(nèi)斂了 他告訴我說(shuō)：一天他在洛杉磯高速公路開(kāi)車，這時(shí)發(fā)生了一件改變他一生的事情他正在加速前行，突然，他隱約聽(tīng)到了一小段優(yōu)美的旋律?????? 這旋律莫名地進(jìn)入他的腦海，就像靈感來(lái)臨時(shí)那樣，捉摸不定而誘人心弦他急切地想要捕捉它，但是沒(méi)有辦法，他既沒(méi)有紙筆，也沒(méi)有錄音機(jī)

　　So he starts to feel all of that old anxiety start to rise in him like, “I’m going to lose this thing, and then I’m going to be haunted by this song forever. I’m not good enough, and I can’t do it.” And instead of panicking, he just stopped. He just stopped that whole mental process and he did something completely novel. He just looked up at the sky, and he said, “Excuse me, can you not see that I’m driving?” (Laughter) “Do I look like I can write down a song right now? If you really want to exist, come back at a more opportune moment when I can take care of you. Otherwise, go bother somebody else today. Go bother Leonard Cohen.”

　　他感覺(jué)到那種熟悉的創(chuàng)作焦慮又在他體內(nèi)集聚 “我就要失去這個(gè)靈感了，然后這首曲子會(huì)永世陰魂不散地折磨我” “我根本不行，我做不到” ，突然，他奇異般地停止了繼續(xù)抓狂和焦躁情緒，然后做了一件不尋常的事情 他抬頭望向天空，對(duì)它說(shuō)道：“不好意思，您沒(méi)看到我正在開(kāi)車嗎?” 我看上去像是能立馬記下一首曲子的樣子嗎? 如果你真想在世上流傳，另挑個(gè)合適的時(shí)間再來(lái)吧，在我方便的時(shí)候或者，你可以今天去騷擾別人，去找萊昂納德·科恩去。

　　And his whole work process changed after that. Not the work, the work was still oftentimes as dark as ever. But the process, and the heavy anxiety around it was released when he took the genie, the genius out of him where it was causing nothing but trouble, and released it kind of back where it came from, and realized that this didn’t have to be this internalized, tormented thing. It could be this peculiar, wondrous, bizarre collaboration kind of conversation between Tom and the strange, external thing that was not quite Tom.

　　自從那件事以后，湯姆的整個(gè)創(chuàng)作過(guò)程改變了 不是作品變了，他的作品仍是一如既往的黑暗但當(dāng)他把創(chuàng)作天才從自身剝離開(kāi)來(lái)時(shí)，伴隨著創(chuàng)作過(guò)程的嚴(yán)重焦慮也被化解了將創(chuàng)作靈感歸于自我，只是帶來(lái)痛苦與麻煩，將它解放出來(lái)，倒像是放歸原處 ，同時(shí)他也意識(shí)到，他原本無(wú)需將創(chuàng)作靈感內(nèi)化于自身，自我折磨創(chuàng)作靈感可以是他和這一外部未知存在之間奇異、奇妙又奇怪的合作關(guān)系 那是一個(gè)自身以外的存在。

　　So when I heard that story it started to shift a little bit the way that I worked too, and it already saved me once. This idea, it saved me when I was in the middle of writing “Eat, Pray, Love,” and I fell into one of those, sort of pits of despair that we all fall into when we’re working on something and it’s not coming and you start to think this is going to be a disaster, this is going to be the worst book ever written. Not just bad, but the worst book ever written. And I started to think I should just dump this project. But then I remembered Tom talking to the open air and I tried it. So I just lifted my face up from the manuscript and I directed my comments to an empty corner of the room. And I said aloud, “Listen you, thing, you and I both know that if this book isn’t brilliant that is not entirely my fault, right? Because you can see that I am putting everything I have into this, I don’t have anymore than this. So if you want it to be better, then you’ve got to show up and do your part of the deal. OK. But if you don’t do that, you know what, the hell with it. I’m going to keep writing anyway because that’s my job. And I would please like the record to reflect today that I showed up for my part of the job.” (Laughter)

　　這個(gè)故事潛移默化地改變了我的工作方式，這一轉(zhuǎn)變已經(jīng)拯救了我一次 那是在寫(xiě)《美食、祈禱、愛(ài)》的時(shí)候，我陷入了一個(gè)焦慮絕望的無(wú)底洞那種不斷努力卻毫無(wú)靈感的絕望低潮狀態(tài) 。然后你漸漸覺(jué)得這部作品將成為一個(gè)徹底的失敗 成為有史以來(lái)最爛的一本書(shū)不僅是爛，而且是徹底的糟糕透頂，我開(kāi)始覺(jué)得我應(yīng)該放棄寫(xiě)這本書(shū) 。這時(shí)我想起了湯姆對(duì)著天空喊話的事情，然后我試了試我從手稿中抬起頭，轉(zhuǎn)向房間中的一個(gè)空角落 然后大聲宣布道：“你這個(gè)家伙，給我聽(tīng)著” ，“咱倆都知道，如果這本書(shū)不怎么樣，那可不是我一個(gè)人的錯(cuò)，不是嗎?” “因?yàn)槟憧梢钥吹剑�我已�?jīng)為之傾盡全力毫無(wú)保留了” “你若是想要這本書(shū)更好一些，現(xiàn)在輪到你出面，做你那部分工作了”。 “你要是不來(lái)幫忙，那就見(jiàn)你的鬼去吧” "我還是會(huì)繼續(xù)寫(xiě)下去的，因?yàn)檫@是我的工作" 我希望今天的歷史記錄證明：我盡責(zé)地堅(jiān)守了我的崗位。

　　Because – (Applause) in the end it’s like this, OK – centuries ago in the deserts of North Africa, people used to gather for these moonlight dances of sacred dance and music that would go on for hours and hours, until dawn. And they were always magnificent, because the dancers were professionals and they were terrific, right? But every once in a while, very rarely, something would happen, and one of these performers would actually become transcendent. And I know you know what I’m talking about, because I know you’ve all seen, at some point in your life, a performance like this. It was like time would stop, and the dancer would sort of step through some kind of portal and he wasn’t doing anything different than he had ever done, 1,000 nights before, but everything would align. And all of a sudden, he would no longer appear to be merely human. He would be lit from within, and lit from below and all lit up on fire with divinity.

　　因?yàn)?最后就是這樣的 在幾個(gè)世紀(jì)前的北非沙漠里，人們會(huì)在月色下舉行神圣的歌舞聚會(huì) 聚會(huì)持續(xù)數(shù)個(gè)小時(shí)直至天亮那些表演很精彩，因?yàn)樗麄兌际呛馨舻膶�業(yè)舞者 偶爾的時(shí)候，雖然很少見(jiàn)，但確確實(shí)實(shí)會(huì)發(fā)生。 某一位舞者會(huì)超越當(dāng)下，超然出世你們應(yīng)該都知道我說(shuō)的這種情況 因?yàn)榇蠹叶荚�在某個(gè)時(shí)刻，見(jiàn)識(shí)過(guò)那樣的表演 時(shí)間似乎停止了，舞者仿佛穿越了他所做的動(dòng)作和之前的1000場(chǎng)表演并沒(méi)有什么不同 ，但所有的一切卻奇跡般地統(tǒng)一起來(lái)了剎那間，他不再是個(gè)普通的凡人，他的生命從內(nèi)部點(diǎn)燃，從心底發(fā)光 他被神圣之火照耀

　　And when this happened, back then, people knew it for what it was, you know, they called it by it’s name. They would put their hands together and they would start to chant, “Allah, Allah, Allah, God God, God.” That’s God, you know. Curious historical footnote – when the Moors invaded southern Spain, they took this custom with them and the pronunciation changed over the centuries from “Allah, Allah, Allah,” to “Ole, ole, ole,” which you still hear in bullfights and in flamenco dances. In Spain, when a performer has done something impossible and magic, “Allah, ole, ole, Allah, magnificent, bravo,” incomprehensible, there it is – a glimpse of God. Which is great, because we need that.

　　當(dāng)時(shí)的人們，清楚地知道這是什么，他們能叫出它的名字 他們會(huì)拍起手來(lái)，開(kāi)始吟唱：阿拉，阿拉，阿拉，神啊，神啊，神啊人人都知道：那是神跡顯現(xiàn) ，有趣的野史是，當(dāng)摩爾帝國(guó)入侵南西班牙時(shí)，他們帶去了這一習(xí)俗于是幾世紀(jì)來(lái)，頌詞的發(fā)音漸漸改變，從“阿拉,阿拉”變成“歐嘞,歐嘞” ，如今你仍能在斗牛比賽和弗拉明戈舞中聽(tīng)到這一喝彩聲在西班牙，當(dāng)一個(gè)表演者完成了某種不可思議的神奇之舉時(shí) 人們就會(huì)喝彩：“阿拉，歐嘞，歐嘞，阿拉，真?zhèn)ゴ�，太棒了，不可思議” 那就是神跡顯現(xiàn) 這種方式很好，因?yàn)檫@正是我們需要的

　　But, the tricky bit comes the next morning, for the dancer himself, when he wakes up and discovers that it’s Tuesday at 11 a.m., and he’s no longer a glimpse of God. He’s just an aging mortal with really bad knees, and maybe he’s never going to ascend to that height again. And maybe nobody will ever chant God’s name again as he spins, and what is he then to do with the rest of his life? This is hard. This is one of the most painful reconciliations to make in a creative life. But maybe it doesn’t have to be quite so full of anguish if you never happened to believe, in the first place, that the most extraordinary aspects of your being came from you. But maybe if you just believed that they were on loan to you from some unimaginable source for some exquisite portion of your life to be passed along when you’re finished, with somebody else. And, you know, if we think about it this way it starts to change everything.

　　對(duì)藝術(shù)家來(lái)說(shuō)，最棘手的是第二天早上，舞者悠悠轉(zhuǎn)醒 發(fā)現(xiàn)已經(jīng)是周二上午11點(diǎn)了，他不再是神跡的顯現(xiàn)而只是那個(gè)腰腿不好，終將老去的凡人 而且，他或許再也無(wú)法達(dá)到昨晚那樣的高度了 ，也許再也不會(huì)有人在他跳舞時(shí)喝彩神跡顯現(xiàn) 他該如何自處呢?這是個(gè)很棘手的問(wèn)題，也是創(chuàng)作生涯中最痛苦的自我認(rèn)知之一 ，但也許,我們?cè)�本無(wú)需如此痛苦如果你本來(lái)就從不曾認(rèn)為，那無(wú)與倫比的藝術(shù)作品完全來(lái)源于你 如果你認(rèn)為它們是某種神奇的存在，只是暫時(shí)借你一用，給你帶來(lái)精美絕倫的作品在你完成作品后，繼續(xù)傳遞給其他人 如果我們這樣看待這一問(wèn)題，一切就都改變了。

　　This is how I’ve started to think, and this is certainly how I’ve been thinking in the last few months as I’ve been working on the book that will soon be published, as the dangerously, frighteningly overanticipated follow up to my freakish success.

　　在過(guò)去的幾個(gè)月中，我開(kāi)始以這種方式看待這一問(wèn)題 同時(shí)從事著我下一本書(shū)的寫(xiě)作那本危險(xiǎn)的，駭人的，被過(guò)度預(yù)期的，繼我的暢銷大作之后的作品。

　　And what I have to, sort of keep telling myself when I get really psyched out about that, is, don’t be afraid. Don’t be daunted. Just do your job. Continue to show up for your piece of it, whatever that might be. If your job is to dance, do your dance. If the divine, cockeyed genius assigned to your case decides to let some sort of wonderment be glimpsed, for just one moment through your efforts, then “Ole!” And if not, do your dance anyhow. And “Ole!” to you, nonetheless. I believe this and I feel that we must teach it. “Ole!” to you, nonetheless, just for having the sheer human love and stubbornness to keep showing up.

　　而我需要做的，就是不斷告訴自己，尤其是在我憂郁焦躁的時(shí)候： “不要害怕，不要?dú)怵H，只需做好你的那部分工作” ，堅(jiān)守在你的崗位上，無(wú)論你的崗位是什么：如果你是舞者，那就跳舞如果那個(gè)屬于你的，神圣卻又邪門的精靈決定通過(guò)你讓神跡顯現(xiàn)，哪怕只是短短一瞬 ，那么，讓我們喝彩：歐嘞!如果沒(méi)有，那就請(qǐng)繼續(xù)跳舞，堅(jiān)守你的崗位，我依然為你喝彩：歐嘞! 我堅(jiān)信我們必須傳授這一理念只要你出于熱愛(ài)與執(zhí)著，堅(jiān)守崗位，那你就值得喝彩：歐嘞!

　　Thank you. (Applause) Thank you. (Applause)

　　謝謝，謝謝。