finally, i ask your indulgence to talk about my novel life and death are wearing me out. the chinese title comes from buddhist scripture, and i've been told that my translators have had fits trying to render it into their languages. i am not especially well versed in buddhist scripture and have but a superficial understanding of the religion. i chose this title because i believe that the basic tenets of the buddhist faith represent universal knowledge, and that mankind's many disputes are utterly without meaning in the buddhist realm. in that lofty view of the universe, the world of man is to be pitied. my novel is not a religious tract; in it i wrote of man's fate and human emotions, of man's limitations and human generosity, and of people's search for happiness and the lengths to which they will go, the sacrifices they will make, to uphold their beliefs. lan lian, a character who takes a stand against contemporary trends, is, in my view, a true hero. a peasant in a neighboring village was the model for this character. as a youngster i often saw him pass by our door pushing a creaky, wooden-wheeled cart, with a lame donkey up front, led by his bound-foot wife. given the collective nature of society back then, this strange labor group presented a bizarre sight that kept them out of step with the times. in the eyes of us children, they were clowns marching against historical trends, provoking in us such indignation that we threw stones at them as they passed us on the street. years later, after i had begun writing, that peasant and the tableau he presented floated into my mind, and i knew that one day i would write a novel about him, that sooner or later i would tell his story to the world. but it wasn't until the year XX, when i viewed the buddhist mural "the six stages of samsara" on a temple wall that i knew exactly how to go about telling his story.
the announcement of my nobel prize has led to controversy. at first i thought i was the target of the disputes, but over time i've come to realize that the real target was a person who had nothing to do with me. like someone watching a play in a theater, i observed the performances around me. i saw the winner of the prize both garlanded with flowers and besieged by stone-throwers and mudslingers. i was afraid he would succumb to the assault, but he emerged from the garlands of flowers and the stones, a smile on his face; he wiped away mud and grime, stood calmly off to the side, and said to the crowd: for a writer, the best way to speak is by writing. you will find everything i need to say in my works. speech is carried off by the wind; the written word can never be obliterated. i would like you to find the patience to read my books. i cannot force you to do that, and even if you do, i do not expect your opinion of me to change. no writer has yet appeared, anywhere in the world, who is liked by all his readers; that is especially true during times like these.