以下是小编为大家收集的海明威诺贝尔文学奖致辞英文演讲稿（共含5篇），欢迎参阅，希望可以帮助到有需要的朋友。同时，但愿您也能像本文投稿人“wwqcsc”一样，积极向本站投稿分享好文章。
海明威诺贝尔文学奖致辞英文演讲稿
No writer who knows the great writers who did not receive the Prize can accept it other than with humility. There is no need to list these writers. Everyone here may make his own list according to his knowledge and his conscience.
没有一个作家，当他知道在他以前不少伟大的作家并没有获得此项奖金的时候，能够心安理得地领奖而不感到受之有愧。这里无须一一列举这些作家的名字。在座的每一个人，都可以根据他的学识和良心提出自己名单来。 It would be impossible for me to ask the Ambassador of my country to read a speech in which a writer saidall of the things which are in his heart. Things may not be immediately discernible in what a man writes, and in this sometimes he is fortunate; but eventually they are quite clear and by these and the degree of alchemy that he possesses he will endure or be forgotten.
要求我国的大使在这儿宣读一篇演说，把一个作家心中所有感受说出来那是不可能的。一个人作品中的一些东西可能不会马上被人理解，在这点上，他有时是幸运的;但是这一切终究会十分清晰起来，通过它们以及作家所具有的点石成金的本领之大小，他将青史留名或被人遗忘。
Writing at its best is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer's loneliness, but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone, and if he is a good enough writer, he must face eternity or the lack of it each day.
很多时候，写作是一种孤寂的生活，
作家组织固然可以排遣他们的孤独，但是我怀疑它们是否能够促进作家的创作。一个在稠人广众之中成长起来的作家，自然可以免除孤苦寂寥之虑，但他的作品往往流于平庸。而一个在孤寂中工作的作家，如果他又确实不同凡响，那他就必须面对永恒或者面对缺乏永恒的每一天。
For a true writer, each book should be a new beginning where he tries again for something that is beyond attainment. He should always try for something that has never been done or that others have tried and failed. Then sometimes, with good luck, he will succeed.
对于一个真正的.作家来说，每一本书都应该成为他继续探索那些尚未涉及的领域的一个新起点。他应该永远尝试去做那些从来没有人做过或者他人做过但却已经失败的事。这样他就会有幸获得成功。
How simple the writing of literature would be if it were only necessary to write in another way what has been well written. It is because we have had such great writers in the past that a writer is driven far out past where he can go, out to where no one can help him.
如果仅仅是将已经写好的作品换一种方式来重新诠释，那么文学创作就显得太轻而易举了。我们的前辈大师们留下了伟大的业绩，正因为如此，一个普通作家常被他们逼人的光辉驱赶到远离他可能到达的地方，陷于孤立无援的境地。
I have spoken too long for a writer. A writer should write what he has to say and not speak it.
作为一个作家，我讲的已经太多了。作家应当把自己要说的话写下来，而不是说出来。
Again I thank you.
再一次谢谢大家。
以上内容由应届毕业生演讲稿网站整理提供。
莫言诺贝尔文学奖致辞英文演讲稿
以下这篇演讲稿是中国当代著名作家莫言获得诺贝尔文学奖时在瑞典学院发表的领奖演讲《讲故事的人》(storyteller)，莫言在这次演讲中追忆了自己的母亲，回顾了文学创作之路，并与听众分享了三个意味深长的“故事”，讲述了自己如何成为一个用笔来讲故事的人的过程，莫言表示，自己今后还要继续讲自己的故事。
Distinguished members of the Swedish Academy, Ladies and Gentlemen:Through the mediums of television and the Internet, I imagine that everyone here has at least a nodding acquaintance with far-off Northeast Gaomi Township. You may have seen my ninety-year-old father, as well as my brothers, my sister, my wife and my daughter, even my granddaughter, now a year and four months old. But the person who is most on my mind at this moment, my mother, is someone you will never see. Many people have shared in the honor of winning this prize, everyone but her.
尊敬的瑞典学院各位院士，女士们、先生们：通过电视或网络，我想在座的各位，对遥远的高密东北乡，已经有了或多或少的了解。你们也许看到了我的九十岁的老父亲，看到了我的哥哥姐姐我的妻子女儿和我的一岁零四个月的外孙子，但是有一个此刻我最想念的人，我的母亲，你们永远无法看到了。我获奖后，很多人分享了我的光荣，但我的母亲却无法分享了。
My mother was born in 1922 and died in 1994. We buried her in a peach orchard east of the village. Last year we were forced to move her grave farther away from the village in order to make room for a proposed rail line. When we dug up the grave, we saw that the coffin had rotted away and that her body had merged with the damp earth around it. So we dug up some of that soil, a symbolic act, and took it to the new gravesite. That was when I grasped the knowledge that my mother had become part of the earth, and that when I spoke to mother earth, I was really speaking to my mother.
我母亲生于1922年，卒于1994年。她的骨灰，埋葬在村庄东边的桃园里。去年，一条铁路要从那儿穿过，我们不得不将她的坟墓迁移到距离村子更远的地方。掘开坟墓后，我们看到，棺木已经腐朽，母亲的.骨殖，已经与泥土混为一体。我们只好象征性地挖起一些泥土，移到新的墓穴里。也就是从那一时刻起，我感到，我的母亲是大地的一部分，我站在大地上的诉说，就是对母亲的诉说。
I was my mother's youngest child. My earliest memory was of taking our only vacuum bottle to the public canteen for drinking water. Weakened by hunger, I dropped the bottle and broke it. Scared witless, I hid all that day in a haystack. Toward evening, I heard my mother calling my childhood name, so I crawled out of my hiding place, prepared to receive a beating or a scolding. But Mother didn't hit me, didn't even scold me. She just rubbed my head and heaved a sigh.
我是我母亲最小的孩子，
我记忆中最早的一件事，是提着家里唯一的一把热水壶去公共食堂打开水。因为饥饿无力，失手将热水瓶打碎，我吓得要命，钻进草垛，一天没敢出来。傍晚的时候我听到母亲呼唤我的乳名，我从草垛里钻出来，以为会受到打骂，但母亲没有打我也没有骂我，只是抚摸着我的头，口中发出长长的叹息。
My most painful memory involved going out in the collective's field with Mother to glean ears of wheat. The gleaners scattered when they spotted the watchman. But Mother, who had bound feet, could not run; she was caught and slapped so hard by the watchman, a hulk of a man, that she fell to the ground. The watchman confiscated the wheat we'd gleaned and walked off whistling. As she sat on the ground, her lip bleeding, Mother wore a look of hopelessness I'll never forget. Years later, when I encountered the watchman, now a gray-haired old man, in the marketplace, Mother had to stop me from going up to avenge her. “Son,” she said evenly, “the man who hit me and this man are not the same person.”
我记忆中最痛苦的一件事，就是跟着母亲去集体的地理拣麦穗，看守麦田的人来了，拣麦穗的人纷纷逃跑，我母亲是小脚，跑不快，被捉住，那个身材高大的看守人煽了她一个耳光，她摇晃着身体跌倒在地，看守人没收了我们拣到的麦穗，吹着口哨扬长而去。我母亲嘴角流血，坐在地上，脸上那种绝望的神情深我终生难忘。多年之后，当那个看守麦田的人成为一个白发苍苍的老人，在集市上与我相逢，我冲上去想找他报仇，母亲拉住了我，平静的对我说：“儿子，那个打我的人，与这个老人，并不是一个人。”
My clearest memory is of a Moon Festival day, at noontime, one of those rare occasions when we ate jiaozi at home, one bowl apiece. An aging beggar came to our door while we were at the table, and when I tried to send him away with half a bowlful of dried sweet potatoes, he reacted angrily: “I'm an old man,” he said. “You people are eating jiaozi, but want to feed me sweet potatoes. How heartless can you be?” I reacted just as angrily: “We're lucky if we eat jiaozi a couple of times a year, one small bowlful apiece, barely enough to get a taste! You should be thankful we're giving you sweet potatoes, and if you don't want them, you can get the hell out of here!” After (dressing me down) reprimanding me, Mother dumped her half bowlful of jiaozi into the old man's bowl.My most remorseful memory involves helping Mother sell cabbages at market, and me overcharging an old villager one jiao – intentionally or not, I can't recall – before heading off to school. When I came home that afternoon, I saw that Mother was crying, something she rarely did. Instead of scolding me, she merely said softly, “Son, you embarrassed your mother today.”
莫言获诺贝尔文学奖致辞
尊敬的国王、王后和王室成员，女士们先生们：
我的讲稿忘在旅馆了，但是，我想说的，都记在了心里。感谢诺贝尔文学院给我的授奖词。
我获奖以来发生了很多有趣的事情，由此也可以见证到，诺贝尔奖确实是一个影响巨大的奖项，它在全世界的地位无法动摇。我是一个来自中国山东高密东北乡的一个农民的儿子，能在这样一个殿堂中领取这样一个巨大的奖项，很像一个童话，但它毫无疑问是一个事实。
我想借这个机会，向诺奖基金会，向支持了诺贝尔奖的瑞典人民，表示崇高的敬意。要向瑞典皇家学院坚守自己信念的院士表示崇高的敬意和真挚的感谢。
我还要感谢那些把我的作品翻译成了世界很多语言的翻译家们。没有他们的创造性的劳动，文学只是各种语言的文学。正是因为有了他们的'劳动，文学才可以变为世界的文学。
当然我还要感谢我的亲人，我的朋友们。他们的友谊，他们的智慧，都在我的作品里闪耀光芒。
文学和科学相比较，的确是没有什么用处。但是文学的最大的用处，也许就是他没有用处。谢谢大家!
约翰斯坦贝克诺贝尔文学奖的英文获奖感言
banquet speech
john steinbeck's speech at the nobel banquet at the city hall in stockholm, december 10, 1962
i thank the swedish academy for finding my work worthy of this highest honor.
in my heart there may be doubt that i deserve the nobel award over other men of letters whom i hold in respect and reverence - but there is no question of my pleasure and pride in having it for myself.
it is customary for the recipient of this award to offer personal or scholarly comment on the nature and the direction of literature. at this particular time, however, i think it would be well to consider the high duties and the responsibilities of the makers of literature.
such is the prestige of the nobel award and of this place where i stand that i am impelled, not to squeak like a grateful and apologetic mouse, but to roar like a lion out of pride in my profession and in the great and good men who have practiced it through the ages.
literature was not promulgated by a pale and emasculated critical priesthood singing their litanies in empty churches - nor is it a game for the cloistered elect, the tinhorn mendicants of low calorie despair.
literature is as old as speech. it grew out of human need for it, and it has not changed except to become more needed.
the skalds, the bards, the writers are not separate and exclusive. from the beginning, their functions, their duties, their responsibilities have been decreed by our species.
humanity has been passing through a gray and desolate time of confusion. my great predecessor, william faulkner, speaking here, referred to it as a tragedy of universal fear so long sustained that there were no longer problems of the spirit, so that only the human heart in conflict with itself seemed worth writing about.
faulkner, more than most men, was aware of human strength as well as of human weakness. he knew that the understanding and the resolution of fear are a large part of the writer's reason for being.
this is not new. the ancient commission of the writer has not changed. he is charged with exposing our many grievous faults and failures, with dredging up to the light our dark and dangerous dreams for the purpose of improvement.
furthermore, the writer is delegated to declare and to celebrate man's proven capacity for greatness of heart and spirit - for gallantry in defeat - for courage, compassion and love. in the endless war against weakness and despair, these are the bright rally-flags of hope and of emulation.
i hold that a writer who does not passionately believe in the perfectibility of man, has no dedication nor any membership in literature.
the present universal fear has been the result of a forward surge in our knowledge and manipulation of certain dangerous factors in the physical world.
it is true that other phases of understanding have not yet caught up with this great step, but there is no reason to presume that they cannot or will not draw abreast. indeed it is a part of the writer's responsibility to make sure that they do.
with humanity's long proud history of standing firm against natural enemies, sometimes in the face of almost certain defeat and extinction, we would be cowardly and stupid to leave the field on the eve of our greatest potential victory.
understandably, i have been reading the life of alfred nobel - a solitary man, the books say, a thoughtful man. he perfected the release of explosive forces, capable of creative good or of destructive evil, but lacking choice, ungoverned by conscience or judgment.
nobel saw some of the cruel and bloody misuses of his inventions. he may even have foreseen the end result of his probing - access to ultimate violence - to final destruction. some say that he became cynical, but i do not believe this. i think he strove to invent a control, a safety valve. i think he found it finally only in the human mind and the human spirit. to me, his thinking is clearly indicated in the categories of these awards.
they are offered for increased and continuing knowledge of man and of his world - for understanding and communication, which are the functions of literature. and they are offered for demonstrations of the capacity for peace - the culmination of all the others.
less than fifty years after his death, the door of nature was unlocked and we were offered the dreadful burden of choice.
we have usurped many of the powers we once ascribed to god.
fearful and unprepared, we have assumed lordship over the life or death of the whole world - of all living things.
the danger and the glory and the choice rest finally in man. the test of his perfectibility is at hand.
having taken godlike power, we must seek in ourselves for the responsibility and the wisdom we once prayed some deity might have.
man himself has become our greatest hazard and our only hope.
so that today, st. john the apostle may well be paraphrased: in the end is the word, and the word is man - and the word is with men.
约翰・斯坦贝克诺贝尔文学奖的英文获奖感言
Banquet Speech
John Steinbeck's speech at the Nobel Banquet at the City Hall in Stockholm, December 10, 1962
I thank the Swedish Academy for finding my work worthy of this highest honor.
In my heart there may be doubt that I deserve the Nobel award over other men of letters whom I hold in respect and reverence - but there is no question of my pleasure and pride in having it for myself.
It is customary for the recipient of this award to offer personal or scholarly comment on the nature and the direction of literature. At this particular time, however, I think it would be well to consider the high duties and the responsibilities of the makers of literature.
Such is the prestige of the Nobel award and of this place where I stand that I am impelled, not to squeak like a grateful and apologetic mouse, but to roar like a lion out of pride in my profession and in the great and good men who have practiced it through the ages.
Literature was not promulgated by a pale and emasculated critical priesthood singing their litanies in empty churches - nor is it a game for the cloistered elect, the tinhorn mendicants of low calorie despair.
Literature is as old as speech. It grew out of human need for it, and it has not changed except to become more needed.
The skalds, the bards, the writers are not separate and exclusive. From the beginning, their functions, their duties, their responsibilities have been decreed by our species.
Humanity has been passing through a gray and desolate time of confusion. My great predecessor, William Faulkner, speaking here, referred to it as a tragedy of universal fear so long sustained that there were no longer problems of the spirit, so that only the human heart in conflict with itself seemed worth writing about.
Faulkner, more than most men, was aware of human strength as well as of human weakness. He knew that the understanding and the resolution of fear are a large part of the writer's reason for being.
This is not new. The ancient commission of the writer has not changed. He is charged with exposing our many grievous faults and failures, with dredging up to the light our dark and dangerous dreams for the purpose of improvement.
Furthermore, the writer is delegated to declare and to celebrate man's proven capacity for greatness of heart and spirit - for gallantry in defeat - for courage, compassion and love. In the endless war against weakness and despair, these are the bright rally-flags of hope and of emulation.
I hold that a writer who does not passionately believe in the perfectibility of man, has no dedication nor any membership in literature.
The present universal fear has been the result of a forward surge in our knowledge and manipulation of certain dangerous factors in the physical world.
