Two years before his death, my father gave me a small suitcase filled with his writings, manuscripts1 and notebooks. Assuming his usual joking, mocking2 air, he told me he wanted me to read them after he was gone, by which he meant after he died.
A week after he came to my office and left me his suitcase, my father came to pay me another visit; as always, he brought me a bar of chocolate (he had forgotten I was 48 years old). As always, we chatted and laughed about life, politics and family gossip3. A moment arrived when my father’s eyes went to the corner where he had left his suitcase and saw that I had moved it. We looked each other in the eye. There followed a pressing silence. I did not tell him that I had opened the suitcase and tried to read its contents, instead I looked away. But he understood. Just as I understood that he had understood. Just as he understood that I had understood that he had understood. But all this understanding only went so far as it can go in a few seconds. Because my father was a happy, easygoing4 man who had faith in himself: he smiled at me the way he always did. And as he left the house, he repeated all the lovely and encouraging things that he always said to me, like a father.
As always, I watched him leave, envying5 his happiness, his carefree and unflappable6 temperament. But I remember that on that day there was also a flash of joy inside me that made me ashamed. It was prompted by the thought that maybe I wasn’t as comfortable in life as he was, maybe I had not led as happy or footloose7 a life as he had, but that I had devoted it to writing —you’ve understood… I was ashamed to be thinking such things at my father’s expense. Of all people, my father, who had never been the source of my pain — who had left me free. All this should remind us that writing and literature are intimately linked to a lack at the centre of our lives, and to our feelings of happiness and guilt.
But my story has a symmetry8 that immediately reminded me of something else that day, and that brought me an even deeper sense of guilt. Twenty-three years before my father left me his suitcase, and four years after I had decided, aged 22, to become a novelist, and, abandoning all else, shut myself up in a room, I finished my first novel, Cevdet Bey and Sons;
with trembling hands I had given my father a typescript of the still unpublished novel, so that he could read it and tell me what he thought. This was not simply because I had confidence in his taste and his intellect: his opinion was very important to me, because he, unlike my mother, had not opposed my wish to become a writer. At that point, my father was not with us, but far away. I waited impatiently for his return. When he arrived two weeks later, I ran to open the door. My father said nothing, but he at once threw his arms around me in a way that told me he had liked it very much. For a while, we were plunged9 into the sort of awkward silence that so often accompanies moments of great emotion. Then, when we had calmed down and begun to talk, my father resorted to highly charged and exaggerated language to express his confidence in me or my first novel: he told me that one day I would win the prize that I am here to receive with such great happiness.
He said this not because he was trying to convince me of his good opinion, or to set this prize as a goal; he said it like a Turkish father, giving support to his son, encouraging him by saying, ‘One day you’ll become a pasha10!’ For years, whenever he saw me, he would encourage me with the same words.
My father died in December of 2002.
Today, as I stand before the Swedish Academy and the distinguished11 members who have awarded me this great prize — this great honour — and their distinguished guests, I dearly wish he could be amongst us.
在父亲去世的两年前，他给了我一个小小的手提箱，里面装满了他的作品、手稿和笔记本。他用平常那种搞笑调侃的口吻要我在他走后再看，这个“走”当然说的是他永远走了以后。
在父亲把箱子留到我办公室一个星期后，他又来看我了;和以往一样，他给我买了巧克力(他忘了我都48岁了)。亦如以往，我们笑谈生活、政治和家庭琐事。后来他的目光落到了他曾放箱子的那个角落，发现箱子被我移动过了。我们四目相对，陷入了令人压抑的沉默。我并没有告诉他我打开了箱子，去看里面的内容，而只是把视线移开了。然而他明白了一切。就像我明白他明白了一样。就像他明白我明白他明白了一样。但所有的明白就在几秒钟之内明白了。因为父亲是一个快乐、随和、心怀信念的人——他只是照例冲我笑了笑。当他离开时，没忘记把他作为父亲该说的那一席亲切的鼓励之词又重复了一遍。
我也同往日一样，注视着他的离开，无比羡慕他的快乐，他的无忧无虑和他处世不惊的脾气。然而，那天曾闪现在我心头，令我自愧无比的片刻的窃喜依旧记忆犹新。那是由我的这种感觉引起的——可能我没有过父亲那样舒适惬意的生活，也没有他那如此快乐、无拘无束的生活，但我献身于写作了——你明白……想到父亲为这一切所付出的代价，我惭愧极了。在所有的人中，父亲从来不曾给我带来痛苦——他完全让我自由发展。所有这些都应该让我们记住写作和文字都与我们生活中心所缺失的东西紧密相联，与我们的幸福感与负疚感息息相关。
我的故事同时也相应地提醒我那天还有让我更加内疚的一件事。在父亲留给我他的手提箱的二十三年前，在我从22岁开始决心成为一名小说家而放弃其它一切，把自己关在房间里写作之后的第四年，我完成了第一部小说《杰夫德贝伊与其子》。我用颤抖的手将未出版书的打印稿拿给父亲看，想听取一点他的读后感言。这并不仅仅是因为我对他的品位和智慧深信不已，他的看法对我如此重要，也是因为他不像母亲那样，反对我成为一名作家。在这一点上，父亲比我们看得更远。我迫不及待的等着他的回答。两个星期之后他来了，我跑过去开门。父亲没有说任何话，只是张开手臂给了我一个拥抱，用这种方式告诉我他非常非常喜欢这部作品。一时之间，我们陷入了那种令人尴尬的沉默中，那种时常伴随着重大情绪或起或落的沉默。后来，等我们平静下来开始说话，他用了一种情感激荡而夸张的语言对我和我的小说表达了他强烈的信心：他告诉我，终将会有一天，我会像在此时此地一样，带着如此巨大的喜悦接受奖项。
他说这话并不是为了试图要我相信他对我的好评，或是把这个奖项作为我的目标;他说这翻话就像一位土耳其父亲那样给予儿子支持，并鼓励我说：“总有一天，你会成为帕夏的!”许多年来，无论何时，他看到我都以同样的话语鼓励我。
2002年12月，父亲永远的走了。
今天，我站在瑞士文学院，站在给予我这无尚光荣奖项的各位尊敬的院士面前，我衷心地希望此刻我的父亲就在我们中间。
词汇表：
1. manuscript n. 手稿
2. mocking a. 取笑的，嘲弄的
3. gossip n. 闲言碎语
4. easygoing a. 易相处的，随和的
5. envy v. 羡慕，嫉妒
6. unflappable a. 临危不乱的，镇定的
7. footloose a. 自由自在的，无拘无束的
8. symmetry n. 对称，匀称
9. plunge v. 使事物突然陷入
10. pasha a. 帕夏(旧时奥斯曼帝国和北非高级文武官的称号)高级文武官
11. distinguished a. 著名的，高贵的
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