○  莫言获奖演讲英文版  ○

er came out of their mouths. but slowly she was dragged into my retold stories, and from that day on, she never gave me chores on market day, unspoken permission to go to the marketplace and listen to new stories. as repayment for mother's kindness and a way to demonstrate my memory, i'd retell the stories for her in vivid detail. it did not take long to find retelling someone else's stories unsatisfying, so i began embellishing my narration. i'd say things i knew would please mother, even changed the ending once in a while. and she wasn't the only member of my audience, which later included my older sisters, my aunts, even my maternal grandmother. sometimes, after my mother had listened to one of my stories, she'd ask in a care-laden voice, almost as if to herself: "what will you be like when you grow up, son? might you wind up prattling for a living one day?"

i knew why she was worried. talkative kids are not well thought of in our village, for they can bring trouble to themselves and to their families. there is a bit of a young me in the talkative boy who falls afoul of villagers in my story "bulls." mother habitually cautioned me not to talk so much, wanting me to be a taciturn, smooth and steady youngster. instead i was possessed of a dangerous combination – remarkable speaking skills and the powerful desire that went with them. my ability to tell stories brought her joy, but that created a dilemma for her.

a popular saying goes "it is easier to change the course of a river than a person's nature." despite my parents' tireless guidance, my natural desire to talk never went away, and that is what makes my name – mo yan, or "don't speak" – an ironic expression of self-mockery. after dropping out of elementary school, i was too small for heavy labor, so i became a cattle- and sheep-herder on a nearby grassy riverbank. the sight of my former schoolmates playing in the schoolyard when i drove my animals

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