"What do you think, Govinda?" Siddhartha asked on one of these begging expeditions. "Do you think we are any further? Have we reach our goal?"
Govinda replied: "We have learned and we are still learning. you will become a great Samana, Siddhartha. You have learned each exercise quickly. The old Samanas have often praised you. Some day you will be a holy man, Siddhartha."
Siddhartha said:" It does not appear to me, my friend. What I have so far learned from the SAmanas I could have learned more quickly and easily in every inn in a prostitutes' quater, amongst the carriers and dice players."
Govinda said: "Siddhartha is joking. How could you have learned meditation, holding of the breath and insensibility towards hunger and pain, with those wrethes?"
And Siddhartha said softly, as if speaking to himself: "What is meditation? What is abandonment of the body? What is fasting? What is the holding of breath? It is a flight from the Self, it is a temporary palliative against the pain and folly of life. The driver of oxen makes the same flight, takes this temporary drug when he drinks a few bowl of rice wine or coconut milk in the inn. He then no longer feels his Self, no longer feels the pain of life; he then experiences temporary excape. Falling asleep over his bowl of rice wine, he finds what Siddhartha and Govinda find when they escape from their bodies by long exercises and dwell in the non-Self."
Govinnda said:" You speak thus, my friend, and yet you know that Siddhartha is no driver of oxen and a Samana is no drunkard. The drinker does indeed find excape, he does indeed find a short respite and rest, but he returns from the illusion and finds everythng as it was before. He has not grown wiser, he has not gained knowledge, he has not climbed any higher."
Siddhartha answered with a smile on his face: " I do not know. I have never been a drunkard. But that I, Siddhartha, only find a short respite in my exercises and meditation, and am as remote from wisdom, from salvation, as a child in the womb, that, Govinda, I do know."
2010年1月7日 星期四
5
Siddhartha learned a great deal from the Samanas; he learned many ways of losing the Self. He travelled along the path of self-denial through pain, through voluntary suffering and conquering of pain, through hunger, thirst and fatigue. He travelled the way of self-denial through meditation, through the emptying of the mind of all images. Along these and other paths did he learn to travel. He lost his Self a thousand times and for days on end he dwelt in non-being. But although the path took him away from Self, in the end they always led back to it. Although Siddhartha fled from the Self a thousand times, dwelt in nothing, dwelt in animal and stone, the return was inevitable; the hour was inevitable when he would again find himself in sunshine or in moonlight, in shadow or in rain, and was again Self and Siddhartha, again felt the torment of the onerous life cycle.
At his side lived Govinda, his shadow; he travelled along the same path, made the same endeavour. They rarely conversed with each other apart from the necessities of their service and practices. Sometimes they went together through the villages in order to beg food for themselves and their teachers.
At his side lived Govinda, his shadow; he travelled along the same path, made the same endeavour. They rarely conversed with each other apart from the necessities of their service and practices. Sometimes they went together through the villages in order to beg food for themselves and their teachers.
2010年1月3日 星期日
4
With the Samanas
On the evening of that day they overtook the Samanas and requested their company and allegiance. They were accepted.
Siddhartha gave his clothes to a poor Brahmin on the road and retained his loincloth and earth-coloured unstitched cloak. He only ate once a day and never cooked food. He fasted fourteen days. He fasted twenty-eight days. The flesh disappeared from his legs and cheeks. Strange dreams were reflected in his enlarged eyes. The nails grew long on his thin fingers and a dry, bristly beard appeared on his chin. His glance became icy when he encountered women; his lips curled with contempt when he passed through a town of well-dressed people. He saw businessmen trading, princes going to the hunt, mourners weeping over their dead, prositutes offering themselves, doctors attending the sick, priests deciding the day for sowing, lovers making love, mothers soothing their children--and all were not worth a passing glance, everything lied, stank of lies; they were all illusions of sense, happiness and beauty. All were doomed to decay. The world tasted bitter. Life was pain.
Siddhartha had one single goal--to become empty, to become empty of thirst, desire, dreams, pleasure and sorrow--to let the Self die. No longer to be Self, to experience the peace of an emptied heart, to experience pure thought--that was his goal. When all the Self was conquered and dead, when all passions and desires were silent, then the last must awaken, the inermost of Being that is no longer Self--the great secret!
Silently Siddhartha stood in the firce sun's rays, filled with pain and thirst, and stood until he no longer felt pain and thirst. Silently he stood in the rain, water dripping from his hair on to his freezing shoulders, on to his freezing hips and legs. And the ascetic stood until his shoulders and legs no longer froze, till they were silent, till they were still. silently he crouched among the thorns. Blood dripped from his smarting skin, ulcers formed, and Siddhartha remained stiff,, motionless, till no more blood flowed, till there was no more pricking, no more smarting.
Siddhartha sat upright and learned to save his breath, to manege with little breathing, to hold his breath. He learned, while breathing in, to quiet his hearbeat, learned to lessen his heartbeats, until there were few and hardly any more.
Instructed by the eldest of the Samanas, Siddhartha practised self-denial and meditation according to the Samana rules. A heron flew over the bamboo wood and Siddhartha took the heron into his soul, flew over forest and mountains, became a heron, ate fishes, suffered heron hunger, used heron language, died a heron's death. A dead jackal lay on the sandy shore and Siddhartha's soul slipped into its corpse; he became a dead jackal, lay on the shore, swelled, stank, decayed, was dismembered by hyenas, was picked at by vultures, became a skeleton, became dust, mingled with the atmosphere. And Siddhartha's soul returned, died, decayed, turned into dust, experienced the troubled course of the life cycle. He waited with new thirst like a hunter at a chasm where the life cycles ends, where there is an end to causes, where painless eternity begins. He killed his senses, he killed his memory, he slipped out of his Self in a thousand different forms. He was animal, carcass, stone, wood, water, and each he reawakened. The sun or moon shone, he was again Self, swung into the life cycle, felt thirst, conquered thirst, felt new thirst.
On the evening of that day they overtook the Samanas and requested their company and allegiance. They were accepted.
Siddhartha gave his clothes to a poor Brahmin on the road and retained his loincloth and earth-coloured unstitched cloak. He only ate once a day and never cooked food. He fasted fourteen days. He fasted twenty-eight days. The flesh disappeared from his legs and cheeks. Strange dreams were reflected in his enlarged eyes. The nails grew long on his thin fingers and a dry, bristly beard appeared on his chin. His glance became icy when he encountered women; his lips curled with contempt when he passed through a town of well-dressed people. He saw businessmen trading, princes going to the hunt, mourners weeping over their dead, prositutes offering themselves, doctors attending the sick, priests deciding the day for sowing, lovers making love, mothers soothing their children--and all were not worth a passing glance, everything lied, stank of lies; they were all illusions of sense, happiness and beauty. All were doomed to decay. The world tasted bitter. Life was pain.
Siddhartha had one single goal--to become empty, to become empty of thirst, desire, dreams, pleasure and sorrow--to let the Self die. No longer to be Self, to experience the peace of an emptied heart, to experience pure thought--that was his goal. When all the Self was conquered and dead, when all passions and desires were silent, then the last must awaken, the inermost of Being that is no longer Self--the great secret!
Silently Siddhartha stood in the firce sun's rays, filled with pain and thirst, and stood until he no longer felt pain and thirst. Silently he stood in the rain, water dripping from his hair on to his freezing shoulders, on to his freezing hips and legs. And the ascetic stood until his shoulders and legs no longer froze, till they were silent, till they were still. silently he crouched among the thorns. Blood dripped from his smarting skin, ulcers formed, and Siddhartha remained stiff,, motionless, till no more blood flowed, till there was no more pricking, no more smarting.
Siddhartha sat upright and learned to save his breath, to manege with little breathing, to hold his breath. He learned, while breathing in, to quiet his hearbeat, learned to lessen his heartbeats, until there were few and hardly any more.
Instructed by the eldest of the Samanas, Siddhartha practised self-denial and meditation according to the Samana rules. A heron flew over the bamboo wood and Siddhartha took the heron into his soul, flew over forest and mountains, became a heron, ate fishes, suffered heron hunger, used heron language, died a heron's death. A dead jackal lay on the sandy shore and Siddhartha's soul slipped into its corpse; he became a dead jackal, lay on the shore, swelled, stank, decayed, was dismembered by hyenas, was picked at by vultures, became a skeleton, became dust, mingled with the atmosphere. And Siddhartha's soul returned, died, decayed, turned into dust, experienced the troubled course of the life cycle. He waited with new thirst like a hunter at a chasm where the life cycles ends, where there is an end to causes, where painless eternity begins. He killed his senses, he killed his memory, he slipped out of his Self in a thousand different forms. He was animal, carcass, stone, wood, water, and each he reawakened. The sun or moon shone, he was again Self, swung into the life cycle, felt thirst, conquered thirst, felt new thirst.
2010年1月2日 星期六
3
There was Siddhartha's thoughts; this was his thirst, his sorrow.
He often repeated to himself the words from one of the Chandogya-Upanishada. "In truth, the name of the Brahman is Satyam. Indeed, he who knows it enters the heavenly world each day." It often seemed near--the heavenly world--but never had he quite reached it, never had he quenched the final thirst. And among the wise men that he knew and whose teachings he enjoyed, there was not one who had entirely reached it--the heavenly world--not one who had completely quenched the eternal thirst.
"Govinda, " said Siddhartha to his friend, " Govinda, come with me to the banyana tree. We will practise meditation."
They went to the banyana tree and sat down, twenty paces apart. As he sat down ready to pronounce the Om, Siddhartha softly recited the verse:
"Om in the bow, the arrow is the soul,
Brahman is the arrow's goal
At which one aims unflinchingly."
When the customary time for the practice of meditation had passed, Govinda rose. It was now evening. It was time to perform the evening ablutions. He called Siddhartha by his name; he did not reply. Siddhartha sat absorbed, his eyes staring as if directed at a distant goal, the tip of his tongue showing a little between his teeth. He did not seem to be breathing. He sat thus, lost in meditaion, thinking Om, his soul as the arrow directed at Brahman.
Some Samanas once passed through Siddhartha's town. Wandering ascetics, they were three thin worn-out men, neither old nor young, with dusty and bleeding shoulders, practically naked, scorched by the sun, solitary, strange and hostile--lean jackals in the world of men. Around themhovered an atmosphere of still passion, of devastating service, of unpitying self-denial.
In the evening, after the hour of contemplation, Siddhartha said to Govinda: "Tomorrow morning my friend, Siddhartha is going to join the Samanas. He is going to become a Samana."
Govinda blanched as he heard these words and read the decision in his friend's determined face, undeviating as the release arrow from the bow. Govinda realized from the first glance at his frind's face that now it was beginning. Siddhartha was going his own way; his destiny was beginning to unfold itself, and with his destiny, his own. And he became as pale as a dried banana skin.
"Oh Siddhartha, " he cried, "will your father permit it?"
Siddhartha looked at him like one who had just awakened. As quick as lightning he read Govinda's soul, read the anxiety, the resignation.
"We will not waste words, Govinda, " he said softly. " Tomorrow at daybreak I will begin the life of the Samanas. Let us not discuss it again."
Siddhartha went into the room where his father was sitting on a mat made of bast. He went up behind his father and remained standing there until his father felt his presence. "Is it you , Siddhartha?" the Brahmin asked. "Then speak what is in your mind."
Siddhartha said: "With your permission, Father, I have come to tell you that I wish to leave your house tomorrow and join the ascetics. I wish to become a Samana. I trust my father will not object."
The Brahmin was silent so long that the stars passed across the small window and changed their design before silence in the room was finally broken. His son stood silent and motionless with his arms folded. The father, silent and motionless, sat on the mat, and the stars passed across the sky. Then his father said: "It is not seemly for Brahmins to utter forceful and angry words, but there is displeasure in my heart. I should not like to hear you make this request a second time."
The Brahmin rose slowly. Siddhartha remained silent with folded arms.
"Why are you waiting?" asked his father.
"You know why, " answered Siddhartha.
His father left the room displease and lay down on his bed.
As an hour passed and he could not sleep, the Brahmin rose, wandered up and down and then left the house. He looked through the small window of the room and saw Siddhartha standing there with his arms folded, unmoving. He could see his pale robe shimmering. His heart troubled, the father returned to his bed.
As another hour passed and the Brahmin could not sleep, he rose again, walked up and down, left the house and saw the moon had risen. He looked through the window. Siddhartha stood there unmoving, his arms folded; the moon shone on his bare shinbones. His heart troubled, the father went to bed.
He returned again an hour and again after two hours, looked through the window and saw Siddhartha standing there in the moonlight, in the starlight, in the dark. And he came silently again, hour after hour, looked into the room, and saw him standing unmoving. His heart filled with anger, with anxiety, with fear, with sorrow.
And in the last hour of the night, before daybreak, he returned again, entered the room and saw the youth standing there. He seemed tall and a stranger to him.
"Siddhartha, " he said, "why are you waiting?"
"You know why."
"Will you go on standing and waiting until it is day, noon, evening?"
"I will stand and wait."
"You will grow tired, Siddhartha."
"I will grow tired."
"You will fall asleep, Siddhartha."
"I will not fall asleep."
"You will die, Siddhartha."
"I will die."
"And would you rather die than obey your father?"
"Siddhartha has always obeyed his father."
"So you will give up your project?"
"Siddhartha will do what his father tells him."
The first light of day entered the room. The Brahmin saw that Siddhartha's knees trembled slightly, but there was no trembling in Siddhartha's face; his eyes looked far away. Then the father realized that Siddhartha could no longer remain with him at home--that he had already left him.
The father touched Siddhartha's shoulder.
"You will go into the forest, " he said, " and become a Samana. If you find bliss in the forest, come back and teach it to me. If you find disillutionment, come back, and we shall again offer sacrifices to the gods together. Now go, kiss your mother and tell her where you are going. For me, however, it is time to go to the river and perform the first ablution."
He dropped his hand from his son's shoulder and went out. Siddhartha swayed as he tried to walk. He controlled himself, bowed to his father and went to his mother to do what had been told to him.
As, with benumbed legs, he slowly left the still sleeping town at daybreak, a crouching shadow emerged from the last hut and joined the pilgrim. It was Govinda.
"You have come, " said Siddhartha and smiled.
"I have come, " said Govinda.
He often repeated to himself the words from one of the Chandogya-Upanishada. "In truth, the name of the Brahman is Satyam. Indeed, he who knows it enters the heavenly world each day." It often seemed near--the heavenly world--but never had he quite reached it, never had he quenched the final thirst. And among the wise men that he knew and whose teachings he enjoyed, there was not one who had entirely reached it--the heavenly world--not one who had completely quenched the eternal thirst.
"Govinda, " said Siddhartha to his friend, " Govinda, come with me to the banyana tree. We will practise meditation."
They went to the banyana tree and sat down, twenty paces apart. As he sat down ready to pronounce the Om, Siddhartha softly recited the verse:
"Om in the bow, the arrow is the soul,
Brahman is the arrow's goal
At which one aims unflinchingly."
When the customary time for the practice of meditation had passed, Govinda rose. It was now evening. It was time to perform the evening ablutions. He called Siddhartha by his name; he did not reply. Siddhartha sat absorbed, his eyes staring as if directed at a distant goal, the tip of his tongue showing a little between his teeth. He did not seem to be breathing. He sat thus, lost in meditaion, thinking Om, his soul as the arrow directed at Brahman.
Some Samanas once passed through Siddhartha's town. Wandering ascetics, they were three thin worn-out men, neither old nor young, with dusty and bleeding shoulders, practically naked, scorched by the sun, solitary, strange and hostile--lean jackals in the world of men. Around themhovered an atmosphere of still passion, of devastating service, of unpitying self-denial.
In the evening, after the hour of contemplation, Siddhartha said to Govinda: "Tomorrow morning my friend, Siddhartha is going to join the Samanas. He is going to become a Samana."
Govinda blanched as he heard these words and read the decision in his friend's determined face, undeviating as the release arrow from the bow. Govinda realized from the first glance at his frind's face that now it was beginning. Siddhartha was going his own way; his destiny was beginning to unfold itself, and with his destiny, his own. And he became as pale as a dried banana skin.
"Oh Siddhartha, " he cried, "will your father permit it?"
Siddhartha looked at him like one who had just awakened. As quick as lightning he read Govinda's soul, read the anxiety, the resignation.
"We will not waste words, Govinda, " he said softly. " Tomorrow at daybreak I will begin the life of the Samanas. Let us not discuss it again."
Siddhartha went into the room where his father was sitting on a mat made of bast. He went up behind his father and remained standing there until his father felt his presence. "Is it you , Siddhartha?" the Brahmin asked. "Then speak what is in your mind."
Siddhartha said: "With your permission, Father, I have come to tell you that I wish to leave your house tomorrow and join the ascetics. I wish to become a Samana. I trust my father will not object."
The Brahmin was silent so long that the stars passed across the small window and changed their design before silence in the room was finally broken. His son stood silent and motionless with his arms folded. The father, silent and motionless, sat on the mat, and the stars passed across the sky. Then his father said: "It is not seemly for Brahmins to utter forceful and angry words, but there is displeasure in my heart. I should not like to hear you make this request a second time."
The Brahmin rose slowly. Siddhartha remained silent with folded arms.
"Why are you waiting?" asked his father.
"You know why, " answered Siddhartha.
His father left the room displease and lay down on his bed.
As an hour passed and he could not sleep, the Brahmin rose, wandered up and down and then left the house. He looked through the small window of the room and saw Siddhartha standing there with his arms folded, unmoving. He could see his pale robe shimmering. His heart troubled, the father returned to his bed.
As another hour passed and the Brahmin could not sleep, he rose again, walked up and down, left the house and saw the moon had risen. He looked through the window. Siddhartha stood there unmoving, his arms folded; the moon shone on his bare shinbones. His heart troubled, the father went to bed.
He returned again an hour and again after two hours, looked through the window and saw Siddhartha standing there in the moonlight, in the starlight, in the dark. And he came silently again, hour after hour, looked into the room, and saw him standing unmoving. His heart filled with anger, with anxiety, with fear, with sorrow.
And in the last hour of the night, before daybreak, he returned again, entered the room and saw the youth standing there. He seemed tall and a stranger to him.
"Siddhartha, " he said, "why are you waiting?"
"You know why."
"Will you go on standing and waiting until it is day, noon, evening?"
"I will stand and wait."
"You will grow tired, Siddhartha."
"I will grow tired."
"You will fall asleep, Siddhartha."
"I will not fall asleep."
"You will die, Siddhartha."
"I will die."
"And would you rather die than obey your father?"
"Siddhartha has always obeyed his father."
"So you will give up your project?"
"Siddhartha will do what his father tells him."
The first light of day entered the room. The Brahmin saw that Siddhartha's knees trembled slightly, but there was no trembling in Siddhartha's face; his eyes looked far away. Then the father realized that Siddhartha could no longer remain with him at home--that he had already left him.
The father touched Siddhartha's shoulder.
"You will go into the forest, " he said, " and become a Samana. If you find bliss in the forest, come back and teach it to me. If you find disillutionment, come back, and we shall again offer sacrifices to the gods together. Now go, kiss your mother and tell her where you are going. For me, however, it is time to go to the river and perform the first ablution."
He dropped his hand from his son's shoulder and went out. Siddhartha swayed as he tried to walk. He controlled himself, bowed to his father and went to his mother to do what had been told to him.
As, with benumbed legs, he slowly left the still sleeping town at daybreak, a crouching shadow emerged from the last hut and joined the pilgrim. It was Govinda.
"You have come, " said Siddhartha and smiled.
"I have come, " said Govinda.
2010年1月1日 星期五
2
But Siddhartha himself was not happy. Wandering along the rosy paths of the fig garden, sitting in contemplation in the bluish shade of the grove, washing his limbs in the daily bath of atonement, offering sacrifices in the depths of the shady mango wood with complete grace of manner, beloved by all, a joy to all, there was yet no joy in his own heart. Dreams and restless thoughts came flowing to him from the river, from the twinkling stars at night, from the sun's melting rays. Dream and a restlessness of the soul came to him, arising from the smoke of the sacrifices, emanating from the verses of the Rig-Veda, trickling through from the teachings of the Brahmins.
Siddhartha had begun to feel the seeds of discontent within him. He had begun to feel that the love of his father and mother, and also the love of his friend Govinda, would not always make him happy, give him peace, satisfy and suffice him. He had begun to suspect that his worthy father and his other teachers, the wise Brahmins, had already passed on to him the bulk and best of their wisdom, that they had already poured the sum total of their knowledge into his waiting vessel; and the vessel was not full, his intellect was not satisfied, his soul was not at peace, his heart was not still. The ablutions were good, but they were water; they did not wash his sins aways, they did not relieve the distressed heart. The sacrifices and the supplication of the gods were excellent--but were they everything? Did the sacrifices give happiness? And what about the gods? Was it really Prajapati who had created the world? Was it not Atman, He alone, who had created it? Were not the gods forms created like me and you, mortal, transient? Was it therefore good and right, was it a sensible and worthy act to offer sacrifices, to whom else should one pay honour, but to Him, Atman, the Only One? And where was Atman to be found, where did He dwell, where did His eternal heart beat, if not within the Self, in the innermost, in the eternal which each person carried within him? But where was this Self, this innermost? It was not flesh and bone, it was not thought or consciousness. That was what the wise men taught. Where, then, was it? To press towards the Self, towards Atman--was there another way that was worth seeking? Nobody showed the way, nobody knew it--neither his father, nor teachers and wise men, nor the holy songs. The Brahmins and their holy books knew everything: they had gone into everything--the creation of the world, the origin of speech, food, inhalation, exhalation, the arrangement of the senses, the acts of the gods. They knew a tremendous number of things--but was it worth while knowing all these things if they did not know the one important thing, the only important thing?
Many verses of the holy books, above all the Upanishads of Samaveda, spoke of this innermost thing. It is written: "Your soul is the whole world." It says that when a man is asleep, he penetrates his innermost and dwells in Atman. There was wonderful wisdom in these verses; all the knowledge of the sages was told here in enchanting language, pure as honey collected by the bees. No, this tremendous amount of knowledge, collected and preserved by successive generations of wise Brahmins, could not be easily overlooked. But where were the Brahmins, the priests, the wise men, who were successful not only in having this most profound knowledge, but in experiencing it? Where were the initiated who, attaining Atman in sleep, could retain it in consciousness, in life, everywhere, in speech and in action? Siddhartha knew many worthy Brahmins, above all his father--holy, learned, of highest esteem. His father was worthy of admiration; his manner was quiet and noble. He lived a good life, his words were wise; fine and noble thoughts dwelt in his head--but even he who knew so much, did he live in bliss, was he at peace? Was he not also a seeker, insatiable? Did he not go continually to the holy spring with an insatiable thirst, to the sacrifices, to books, to the Brahmins' discourses? Why must he, the blameless one, wash away his sins and endeavour to cleanse himself anew each day? Was Atman then not with him? Was not then the source within his own heart? One must find the source within one's own Self, one must possess it. Everything else was seeking--a detour, error.
Siddhartha had begun to feel the seeds of discontent within him. He had begun to feel that the love of his father and mother, and also the love of his friend Govinda, would not always make him happy, give him peace, satisfy and suffice him. He had begun to suspect that his worthy father and his other teachers, the wise Brahmins, had already passed on to him the bulk and best of their wisdom, that they had already poured the sum total of their knowledge into his waiting vessel; and the vessel was not full, his intellect was not satisfied, his soul was not at peace, his heart was not still. The ablutions were good, but they were water; they did not wash his sins aways, they did not relieve the distressed heart. The sacrifices and the supplication of the gods were excellent--but were they everything? Did the sacrifices give happiness? And what about the gods? Was it really Prajapati who had created the world? Was it not Atman, He alone, who had created it? Were not the gods forms created like me and you, mortal, transient? Was it therefore good and right, was it a sensible and worthy act to offer sacrifices, to whom else should one pay honour, but to Him, Atman, the Only One? And where was Atman to be found, where did He dwell, where did His eternal heart beat, if not within the Self, in the innermost, in the eternal which each person carried within him? But where was this Self, this innermost? It was not flesh and bone, it was not thought or consciousness. That was what the wise men taught. Where, then, was it? To press towards the Self, towards Atman--was there another way that was worth seeking? Nobody showed the way, nobody knew it--neither his father, nor teachers and wise men, nor the holy songs. The Brahmins and their holy books knew everything: they had gone into everything--the creation of the world, the origin of speech, food, inhalation, exhalation, the arrangement of the senses, the acts of the gods. They knew a tremendous number of things--but was it worth while knowing all these things if they did not know the one important thing, the only important thing?
Many verses of the holy books, above all the Upanishads of Samaveda, spoke of this innermost thing. It is written: "Your soul is the whole world." It says that when a man is asleep, he penetrates his innermost and dwells in Atman. There was wonderful wisdom in these verses; all the knowledge of the sages was told here in enchanting language, pure as honey collected by the bees. No, this tremendous amount of knowledge, collected and preserved by successive generations of wise Brahmins, could not be easily overlooked. But where were the Brahmins, the priests, the wise men, who were successful not only in having this most profound knowledge, but in experiencing it? Where were the initiated who, attaining Atman in sleep, could retain it in consciousness, in life, everywhere, in speech and in action? Siddhartha knew many worthy Brahmins, above all his father--holy, learned, of highest esteem. His father was worthy of admiration; his manner was quiet and noble. He lived a good life, his words were wise; fine and noble thoughts dwelt in his head--but even he who knew so much, did he live in bliss, was he at peace? Was he not also a seeker, insatiable? Did he not go continually to the holy spring with an insatiable thirst, to the sacrifices, to books, to the Brahmins' discourses? Why must he, the blameless one, wash away his sins and endeavour to cleanse himself anew each day? Was Atman then not with him? Was not then the source within his own heart? One must find the source within one's own Self, one must possess it. Everything else was seeking--a detour, error.
訂閱：
意見 (Atom)