Chapter 15 Treasures

Shell and Core I have drunk cup after cup of bitter wine, even the remaining juice is as sweet as honey. I climbed the hard way, and finally reached the green plain. Every friend I lost in the night fog will be found again in the dawn light. How many times have I cloaked my pain and annoyance under a cloak of stoicism, thinking it would be compensated and relieved.However, when I took off my coat, I found that the pain has been transformed into joy, and the troubles have been transformed into silence and peace. How many times have I walked in the world of appearances with my companions, and I have said to myself, "How stupid and dull he is!" elegant.

How many times have I passed out on my own drink and I have seen myself and my drinking buddies as sheep and wolves.After sobering up, look again, I am a human being, and he is also a human being. Me and you, people, are deluded by the appearances around us and blind to our hidden essence.When one of us stumbles, we say he is fallen; when he staggers, we say he is decadent; when he mumbles, we say he is dumb; gasp, he was dying. You and I are both focused on the shell of "me" and the surface of "you", so we cannot see what the soul reveals to "me" and what the soul hides from "you".

What can we do if we ignore the truth in us with the pride that overwhelms us? I say to you, perhaps my words are a mask that hides my true face; I say to you, and I say to myself, that what we see with our eyes is but a dark cloud everything we see; what we hear with our ears is but a tinkle that distorts what we should grasp with our hearts.Therefore, when we see a policeman take a person to prison, we should not draw conclusions on which of the two is the criminal; when we see a person covered in blood and another with stained hands, it is wise to do Were not to be sure which must be the murderer and which must be the slain; and when we hear the one singing and the other weeping, let us bear it till we can be sure which is the merry one.

No, my brother!Don't use a person's external things to infer his truth, and don't take someone's words or actions as his inner mark, because maybe the person who is clumsy, slurred, and you think is stupid, his intuition It is the way of wisdom, and his heart is the sanctuary of understanding; perhaps the man who is ugly, whose life is rough, and whom you despise, is a gift from heaven on earth; a gift from God among men. . You might visit a palace and a thatched cottage in one day.You walk out of the palace with reverence, and out of the hut with pity.But if you can tear apart the fabric of your senses, your reverence will weaken to the level of regret, and your compassion will change to the level of reverence.

You may meet two people between dawn and dusk, the first one speaks to you with the din of the storm in his voice and the majesty of the army in his movements; the second one speaks to you with fear and trembling voice stuttering.So you attribute decisiveness and bravery to the first place; you attribute incompetence and weakness to the second place.However, if you see the sun and the moon teaching them to face adversity, or to make sacrifices for a certain principle, you will definitely understand: brazenness and exaggeration are not bravery, and shyness and silence are not cowardice. You may look out the window of your living room and you see a nun walking on the right and a prostitute walking on the left among the passers-by, and you immediately say, "How noble this is! How ugly that is!" But if you close your Your eyes, listen for a moment, and you'll hear a voice as soft as a whisper in space saying, "This one begs me with prayer, and the other begs me with pain, and in the souls of both of them there is something that belongs to you." An umbrella for my soul."

You may be cruising the land in search of what you call civilization, progress.You walk into a city, where the palaces are majestic, the colleges are grand, the streets are wide, and people come and go in a hurry.This one burrows into the ground, that one hovers in the air, this one catches lightning, and that one interrogates the air.They were all dressed in well-proportioned and well-made clothes, as if they were at a festival or a party. After a few days, you come to another city.The houses here are small and the streets are narrow.When it is cloudy and rainy, the whole city becomes a mud island in the water town of Zeguo.As the sun rises, the city turns into a cloud of dust again.The residents here are still between natural and simple, like a loose bowstring between the two ends of the bow.They walked slowly and dragged their feet on work.When they look at you, there seems to be another pair of eyes behind the eyes, staring at the target far away from you.So you leave the city in disgust.Say in your heart, "The difference between what I saw in that city and what I saw in this city is like the difference between the newborn and the dying. There, the tide is strong; here, it is weak. There , Vigorous as spring and summer; here, silent as autumn and winter. There, perseverance is youth, dancing in the garden; here, decadence is old man, falling in the ashes."

But if you could look at these two cities by the light of God, you would surely see them as two alike trees in the same garden.Insight may lead your eye to the nature of both, and you will see that the one you thought was rising was only a sparkling bubble about to burst; It is the essence of the implication which is fixed and unchanging. No, life is not its appearance, but its content; visible things do not lie in their shells, but in their core; the essence of the world does not lie in their faces, but in their hearts. No, religion does not consist in what is manifested in churches and temples, nor in what is manifested in rites and customs, but in what is hidden in the mind, purified and turned into treasure by the mind.

No, art is not in the intonation of a song you hear through your ears, or the words in a poem; art is not in the lines and colors of a painting you see through your eyes, but in coming to the poem. The silent trembling space distance in the cadence of the song; it lies in the tranquility that penetrates into your body and mind through this poem, and the thing that lives alone in the poet's soul; What I saw at the time was farther and more beautiful than this painting. No, my brother!Day and night are not what they appear to be.I walk in the ranks of day and night.I am not in these words to you, but in the serenity of my heart that these words bring to you.So you shouldn't call me a fool until you examine my hidden self; don't call me a genius until you expose my conventional self; don't say "He is a miser"; nor do you say "he is a generous man" without knowing the background of my generosity; and do not say "he is a generous man" until my love is clearly manifested to you in all its light and fire. Call me a lover; don't you think I'm carefree and carefree until you touch my bloody wound.My heart is heavy with fruit

My heart is laden with fruit, which hungry man to pick, to eat, to share? Is there not a fasting man among men, who fasts my morning fruit, and gives me some relief from the burden of fullness? My heart is weary under the weight of gold and silver; who of men will fill his pockets, and lighten my burden? My heart is full of the old wine of the years, who thirsty to drink, to satisfy? This is a man standing in the middle of the street. He stretched out his hand full of jewels to passers-by, and called to them: "Please! Take some from me! Have mercy! Take what is here from me." Go!" But the people went on without looking back.

Oh, if only he were a beggar who stretches out his trembling hand to passers-by, and withdraws it with an empty trembling hand!If only he were a blind paralyzed man, and people walked past him and ignored him! Here was a generous rich man who pitched his tent in the deserted moors and in the foothills, lit fires every night to receive his guests, and sent his servants to watch by the wayside, and they might bring him home. A guest that can be warmly entertained.But these paths are stingy, and send him neither a receiver nor a supplicant generously. oh!If only he were a forsaken pauper! If only he were a wandering wanderer with a cane in his hand and a jug at his elbow.When night fell, crooked alleys brought him together with his wandering fellow beggars.So he sat by their side and shared the alms of bread with them!

This is the most wonderful king's princess. She woke up from her sleep, got out of the bed, put on a red shirt and green dress, put on pearls and gems, sprinkled musk on her hair, dipped her fingers in ambergris, and walked out. , came to her garden.As she walked, dew wetted her clothes. In the stillness of night the princess of the greatest king is looking for her lover in her garden.But there was no one she loved in her father's kingdom. Oh, I wish she was a farmer's daughter, grazing her father's sheep in the valley, returning to her father's hut at dusk, with isolated dust on her feet, and orchard flowers floating from her clothes. Fragrant.But when the night was quiet and the neighbors were asleep, she would stealthily go to the place where her lover was waiting for her. If only she were a nun in a convent who burnt her soul like an incense, and the air was filled with the fragrance of her soul; she burned her soul like a candle, and the sky bore her aura; she Kneeled to pray, and the mysterious phantom sent her prayers to the vault of time, where, beside the passion of the lover and the melancholy of the solitary, there is kept the prayer of the pious. If only she were an old frame sitting in the sun with someone who shared her youth!Better than that she be a princess of the greatest king, and no one in her father's kingdom eats her heart for bread and drinks her blood for wine! My heart is heavy with its many fruits.On the earth, is there a hungry man who comes to pick it and eat it? My heart is full of its wine, who thirsty to drink, to satisfy? Oh, that I were a tree which neither blossomed nor bore fruit!For the pain of childbirth is worse than the pain of barrenness; the pain of the rich who has no one to ask for is more terrible than the disappointment of the poor who has no one to give! If only I were a dry well, to whom stones were thrown!It is also better than I am a living fountain, and the thirsty ones pass over me and take no drink. I wish I were a crushed reed than I am a silver-stringed guitar of a house whose master has a broken finger and whose relatives are all deaf! A handful of sand on the shore The sorrow of love sings, the sorrow of knowledge speaks, the sorrow of desire whispers, the sorrow of poverty cries.But there is another sorrow, deeper than love, nobler than knowledge, more powerful than desire, more bitter than poverty.It was silent, though, and its eyes shone like stars. When you tell your neighbor about your misfortune, you are entrusting a part of your heart to him.If he is broad-minded, he will thank you; if he is narrow-minded, he will despise you. Progress is not about improving "was", but moving toward "will". Poverty is a veil over pride.Appeals are masks that cover toughness. When the savage is hungry, he picks fruit from the tree and eats it; when the civilized man is hungry, he buys fruit from the buyer of the fruit picker and eats it. Art is a step from the obvious known to the hidden unknown. Some people tempt me to be loyal to them in order to enjoy being tolerant of me. I don't know a man's heart unless he thinks I owe him. The earth breathes, we are born; the earth rests, we die. The human eye is a microscope, and the world it sees is bigger than it actually is. I am innocent before those who see shamelessness as bravery and meekness as weakness. I am innocent in front of those who take chatter for knowledge, silence for ignorance, and affectation for art. There may be a shortcut to what we think is difficult. They said to me: If Lin sees a slave asleep, do not wake him, perhaps he is dreaming of his freedom. "I said to them, 'If you see a slave sleeping, wake him up and talk to him about freedom. " Objection is the lowest level among intelligence. Beauty holds us captive, but more beautiful sets us free, even from within herself. Enthusiasm is a volcano, and no hesitation grows on its summit. A writer is made of thoughts and feelings, and then endowed with language; a researcher is made of words, and then is endowed with a little thought and feeling. The river runs to the sea persistently, no matter whether the water grinding wheel is broken or good. You eat fast and walk slowly, why not eat with your feet and walk with your hands? Only when the world in your eyes becomes smaller can your happiness or sorrow become larger. Science is your seed, not your seed. I do not hate unless I use it as a weapon of self-defense; but I will never use it unless I am weak. Had the grandfather of the grandfather of Jesus known his hidden secret, he would have stood solemnly before him. Love is trembling happiness. They think I have a sharp eye because I see them through the sieve. No sooner had I felt the pangs of loneliness than people praised my fault—battle; criticized my virtue—silence. Among the people there are murderers who have not shed blood, thieves who have not stolen, liars who only tell the truth. A truth that needs to be proved is a half-truth. Why don't you keep me from wisdom that doesn't weep, philosophy that doesn't smile, greatness that doesn't bow to children? Covered by the appearance of all things, exist because of all things, exist among all things and belong to the wisdom world of all things!You listen to me because you are my present, my self; you look at me because you are the gaze of all living things.Throw in my soul a seed of your wisdom, that it may grow in your forest and provide one of your fruits.Amen! seven stages Seven times has my heart grieved: the first time when it was trying to rise through the mean way; the second time it was walking before the paralyzed; the fourth time when it errs and comforts itself with the mistakes of others; the fifth time when it suffers weakly and calls this patience strong; the sixth time when When it curled up its tail in the face of the quagmire of life and surrendered; the seventh time when it stood before God and sang hymns, thinking it was one of its virtues.my heart tells me My heart taught me, it taught me to love what people hate, to be true to what people hate.It made it clear to me that love is not a virtue in the lover, but a virtue in the loved one.Before the heart told me, love to me was but a thin thread stretched between two adjacent columns, but now love has become a halo that begins and ends and ends and begins, encircling every existence. things that are going on; it slowly expands to include everything that comes up. My soul taught me, it taught me to see the beauty concealed by the appearance of form and color, to scrutinize what people think ugly until it becomes what I think is beautiful.Before my heart told me, beauty I saw was but a quivering fire among smoke.But now, the smoke is gone, and all I see is burning stuff. My heart taught me, it taught me to listen to what is not the lips and throat.Before the heart told me, my hearing was dulled, and I heard only noise and shouting.But now I can hear the silence, and hear its chorus singing the carols of time and the hymns of space, proclaiming dark mysteries. My soul tells me, it teaches me to drink from what cannot be squeezed, cupped, handed, or lips touched.Before my heart told me, my thirst was a spark on the ashes I quenched with water from streams and cisterns.But now, my longing has become my cup, my thirst has become my drink, and my loneliness has become my drunkenness.I don't drink it, and I will never drink it again.But in this unquenchable burn there is an unquenchable joy. My heart tells me that it teaches me to touch what is unformed and crystallized, to know that what is palpable is half-reasonable, that what we are capturing is part of what we want.Before my heart told me, I was content with heat when I was cold, cold when I was hot, and one or the other when I was mild.But now the sense of touch I have caught has dispersed, and has become a mist, passing through all manifest beings, to unite with shadowy beings. My heart taught me, it taught me to smell fragrances other than herbs and censers.Before my heart told me, whenever I wanted a scent, I had to turn to the gardener, the perfume bottle, or the censer.But now, what I smell is a fragrance that does not burn and does not evaporate, and what fills my chest is a fresh breath that has not passed through any garden in this world, nor has it been carried by any strand of air in this sky. My soul warned me, it taught me to answer when the unknown and danger called: "I am coming!" Before the soul warned me, I only stood up when the familiar voice called, and only when I walked the familiar road walk.But now, the known has become my mount towards the unknown, and the easy has become the ladder for me to climb dangerous peaks. My heart admonishes me, it teaches me not to use my own words - "Yesterday was...". "Tomorrow will be..." - to measure time.Before my soul told me, I thought that the "past" was just a time that would never return, and the "future" was an era that I could never reach.But now, I understand that the moment in front of me has all the time, including everything that is expected, accomplished and proven in time. My psyche taught me that it taught me not to use my language—"here," "there," "farther away"—to delimit space.Standing in one part of the earth, I thought I was far away from all other places, before my heart told me.But now I understand that the place where I land includes all places, and every journey I have taken is all journeys. My heart taught me, and it taught me to stay up when the people around me were sleeping soundly, and to sleep when they were awake.I shall not see their dreams in my bed, nor shall they find mine in their sleep, till my soul speaks to me.But now, I only fly in my dreams when they're looking at me, and they fly in their dreams only when I'm glad they're free. My soul teaches me, it teaches me not to be elated by a praise, nor sad by a reproach.I doubted the value and grade of my labours, till my soul told me, Till the time sent them a praiser or a detractor.But now, I have understood that trees bloom in spring and bear fruit in summer and do not expect praise, and when their leaves fall in autumn and wither in winter, they are not afraid of criticism. My soul taught me, it taught me and confirmed to me: I am not higher than the rough and poor, nor lower than the mighty and mighty.Before my heart taught me, I used to think that people were divided into two classes: those who were weak, whom I pitied or despised, and those who were strong, whom I followed or rebelled against.But now I understand that I am an individual made up of the things that make up a collective of human beings, my components are their components, my implication is their implication, my hope is their hope, and my goal is theirs The goal.If they sin, I am a sinner; if they do something good.Then I am also proud of this good thing. If they stand up, then I will stand up together; if they sit down, then I will sit down together. My heart tells me, it teaches me: the lamp I hold is not mine, nor the song I sing is composed of my material.If I walk with the light, then I am not the light; if I am a stringed lyre, then I am not the player. brother!My soul admonished me and educated me.Your heart has also warned you and educated you.Because you and I are like each other.There is no difference between us, except that I talk about me, and there is a little disputation in my words; you cover yourself, and there is a virtue in your concealment. You have your Lebanon, I have mine You have your Lebanon and I have mine. You have your Lebanon and its problems, I have mine and its beauty. You have your Lebanon with all its aims and purposes, and I have mine with all its dreams and hopes. You have your Lebanon, please be satisfied with it; I have my Lebanon, only be satisfied with the absolute purity. Your Lebanon is a political deadlock that time is trying to unravel; my Lebanon is a towering mountain that pierces into the blue sky. Your Lebanon is a chessboard for religious leaders and military commanders; my Lebanon is a temple that I enter with my soul when I see the face of civilization on wheels. Your Lebanon is two: the one who pays and the one who receives; my Lebanon is one: he leans his arm before the cedar, and he renounces everything but God and the sun. Your Lebanon is port, post, trade; my Lebanon is distant thoughts, passionate feelings, the sacred language that the earth speaks softly in the ear of the sky. Your Lebanon is the clerk, the worker, the manager; my Lebanon is the ambition of youth, the resolution of middle age, and the wisdom of old age. Your Lebanon is all sorts of delegations, committees; mine is fireside parties on blustery, snowy nights. Your Lebanon is full of sects and political parties; my Lebanon is teenagers climbing rocks, chasing streams, and playing ball in squares. Your Lebanon is speeches, reports, debates; mine is the whistle of the black roc, the rustling of poplars and holly-pepper branches, the echo of pipes and scales floating in caves. Your Lebanon is a lie covered under the veil of false wisdom, a hypocrisy hidden under the cloak of imitation and embellishment; my Lebanon is a simple and exposed truth. expression. Your Lebanon is laws, clauses on paper, contracts and contracts in files; my Lebanon is an endowment in the mystery of life, which does not know that it already knows all about it; The thoughts on the edge of the nether world, it thought it was still in a dream. Your Lebanon is an old man with a beard in his hands, frowning brows, and only cares about himself; my Lebanon is a young man who stands tall like a tower, smiles like morning, and thinks of others as himself. Your Lebanon and Syria are in harmony with each other at different times, and they are at odds with each other; my Lebanon is incompatible, neither arrogant nor humble. You have your Lebanon and I have mine. You have your Lebanon and her children, and I have my Lebanon and her children. My God, who are your sons of Lebanon? Why not take a look, take a look, and let me show you what they really are: Their souls were born in Western hospitals. Their minds are opened in the arms of the greedy who play the role of the generous. They are weak branches that sway right and left, but have no will; tremble day and night, but don't know it. Such is a ship they are: it battles the wind and the waves, but has neither rudder nor sail, its captain is indecisive, and its port is the Devil's Den. —Oh, aren't all the capitals of Europe devil's dens? They are eloquent and eloquent strong men, but this only shows among themselves; in front of foreigners, they are dumb and soft. They are passionate liberals, reformists, and reformers, but they only publish in their newspapers and pulpits; in front of Westerners, they are obsequious and obedient conservatives. They are the ones who clamor like frogs, saying "we have rid ourselves of our cruel old enemy".But their brutal nemesis still lurks within them. They are people who play and dance in front of the funeral procession, but when they meet the welcoming procession, their playing turns into mourning and weeping, and their dancing turns into beating their breasts and feet. They only know purse hunger, and as soon as they meet a spiritual hunger they laugh at him, turning away saying, "It's but a knight wandering in a dream world!" They are slaves who think themselves absolutely free when the years replace their rusty shackles with shining shackles. These are your sons of Lebanon.Who among them can represent the will in the rocks of Lebanon?The nobility in the majestic?Sweetness in the spring?Fragrance in the air?Who among them dares to say: "If I die, the country I leave behind will be a little better than the country I saw when I was born." Who among them dares to say: "My life was in the veins of Lebanon a drop of blood, a tear from between her eyelids or a smile from the corner of her mouth." These are your sons of Lebanon.How tall they are in your eyes!How small they are in my eyes! But wait a minute, and let me tell you about my sons and daughters of Lebanon: They are the farmers who turn wastelands into gardens or orchards; They are shepherds who drive their flocks from one hill to another, and the sheep grow and multiply, and provide you with meat for food and wool for clothing; They are the gardeners of the vineyard, who press the grapes into sour juice, and distill the nectar into honey; They are the father who grows mulberry and raises silkworms, and the mother who weaves silk; They are the husbands who reap the harvest, and the wives who gather the wood; They are masons, potters, weavers and bell-makers; They were poets who poured their souls into new cups, simple nature singers of ballads; They are the ones who left Lebanon with passion in their hearts and will in their arms and returned with the riches of the earth in their hands and laurels on their heads; They are the ones who conquer the environment wherever they go and win hearts wherever they appear; They are men who were born in low huts and died in the halls of science.These are the sons and daughters of Lebanon; they are the lamps that cannot be blown out, and the salt that never perishes; They are those who walk with firm steps toward truth, beauty, and perfection. What will be left of your Lebanon and your Lebanese sons in a hundred years?Tell me, what do you leave for tomorrow but loose words, lies and stupidity?Do you think time will keep flattery and deceit in its memory? Do you think time stores in its pockets the shadow of death and the breath of the grave?Do you think that life will cover its naked body with tattered clothes?I say to you—the facts bear witness to me: "The olive tree that the peasants plant in the foothills of Lebanon will outlast all that you have done and will do; More glorious and noble than all your hopes and aspirations! I say to you, the conscience of all things hears me: the song of the bean-pickers on the Lebanese plateau will be louder than the most dignified and grandest of your babbles More alive! Let me tell you, you are insignificant, and if you knew you were insignificant, my dislike for you would turn into a kind of sympathy and pity, but you don't know it. You have your Lebanon and I have mine. You have your Lebanon and her children, and if you can be content with an empty bubble, be content with it and them!And I am content with my Lebanon and her children; and in my contentment there is sweetness, peace and ease. the earth The earth bursts unwillingly from the earth, Then the earth, triumphant upon the earth, swaggers, The earth builds palaces, towers, and temples on the earth, The earth created myths and laws on the earth, Afterwards, the earth got tired of the work of the earth, and used the aura of the earth to weave phantoms and fantasies.clear dream. After that, the sleepiness of the earth tempted the eyelids of the earth, so she fell asleep and slept peacefully.Deep and long. Then the earth called to the earth and said, "I am the womb and I am the grave. I will be so forever until the stars die and the sun is ashes." Yesterday·Today·Tomorrow I said to my friend, "Look, she's in his arms, just as she was in mine yesterday." He said, "Tomorrow she will be in my arms." I said, "Look, she's sitting next to him, and she was sitting next to me yesterday." He said, "Tomorrow she will sit next to me." I said, "Didn't you see that she was drinking from his glass, and she was drinking from my arms yesterday." He said, "Tomorrow she will drink with me." I said, "Look! She's looking at him with the same loving eyes she was looking at me yesterday." He said, "Tomorrow she will stare at me." I said, "Listen, she is whispering love songs in his ear, and she was singing these love songs in my ear yesterday." He said, "Tomorrow she will sing in my ear." I said, "Look, she is embracing him just as she was embracing me yesterday." "Tomorrow she will embrace me," he said. I said, "What a strange woman she is!" He said: "She, like life, is possessed by all; she, like death, conquers all; she, like eternity, embraces all." Perfect You ask me, brother, when man becomes perfect. Please listen to my answer: When man feels that he is the boundless sky, the boundless sea, the ever-burning fire, the ever-flashing light, the wind that blows wildly or dies, the cloud that thunders and thunders and rains, the brook that sings or weeps, When it is the trees that bloom in spring and fall their leaves in autumn, when it is high mountains and low-lying valleys, when it is fertile or barren land, he is moving towards perfection. If man can feel all this, he is halfway to perfection.If he wants to achieve the ultimate goal of perfection, he should perceive his own essence, know that he is a child who depends on his mother, an elder who is responsible for his children, and a person who is lost between his belief and love. The young man is a middle-aged man wrestling with his past and future, a worshiper living in seclusion in his hut, a prisoner in his own prison, a man buried in his study and piles of papers. The scholar is a fool in the darkness of his night and the darkness of his day, a nun between the flowers of his faith and the thorns of solitude, a whore between the fangs of his weakness and the claws of his needs , a poor man between his own bitterness and resignation, a rich man between his own greed and partiality, a poet between his own fog of evening and the light of magic. If man could experience and understand all this, he would attain perfection and become a shadow within the shadow of God.Independence and the red felt hat Not long ago, I read an article by a certain writer.In this article, he became angry and protested against the captain and crew of a French steamer sailing from Syria to Egypt.Because the men had forced him or tried to force him to take off his red felt hat when he was seated at the table.As we all know, it is the habit of Westerners to take off their hats under the ceiling. This protest surprised me because it showed me how attached Orientals are to a certain symbol in their personal lives. I admired the courage of the Syrian as I once admired an Indian prince.When I invited him to attend an opera performance in Milan, Italy, he said to me: "If you invite me to visit Dante's Inferno, I will go with you. Sit where you smoke." Yes, I am amazed to see an Oriental clinging to some of his creeds, even to a shadow of his national customs. However, this astonishment of mine will not and will never erase the vulgar facts behind it, which are connected with the nature of Orientals, Eastern tastes and sayings. For the writer who thought it was difficult to take off the red felt hat on a foreign ship, if he could think that this noble red felt hat was originally made in a foreign factory, then for him, no matter where Anywhere, on any foreign boat, it is a breeze to take off the felt hat. If our writer thinks that personal independence in trivial matters has and will depend on the two great independences of technological independence and industrial independence, then he will obediently take off his red felt hat without saying a word. . Suppose our friend thinks that a nation which is enslaved in spirit and intellect cannot by her dress, her customs, become a free man. If he had thought of this, he would not have written his protest article. If our writer thinks that his Syrian grandfather sailed to Egypt in a Syrian ship wearing clothes woven and sewn by Syrians, then our hero of freedom can only wear domestic clothes and travel in A Syrian ship with a Syrian captain and a Syrian sailor at the helm went to Egypt. The misfortune of our brave man of letters is that he opposes the effect without noticing the cause, and so is seized by chance before he has attained the essence.This is the case of most Orientals.They don't want to be Orientals, except in trifles, while at the same time they pride themselves on what they imitate from Westerners, which are neither boring nor trivial. I want to say to our writers and all those who wear red felt hats: why don't you make your red felt hats with your own hands, and then put them on the deck of the ship, or on the top of the mountain, or in the deep valley, To consider what to do with your red felt hats? God knows!These words are not written for the red felt hat, or whether the red felt hat is taken off or worn under the ceiling or under the Milky Way.God knows!These words are written for a question older than all red felt hats; a question that hangs over every head, over every quivering body.O earth! How beautiful you are, O earth!How splendid! How complete is your submission to the light, how noble is your submission to the sun! How elegant you look when paired with Fu Ying!How pretty you are with your veil! How sweet is your song at dawn, how terrible is your call at night! O earth, how perfect and how magnificent you are! I have crossed your plains, climbed your mountains, descended into your valleys, climbed your perilous rocks, and entered your caves.So I understand: your dreams are in the plains, your dignity is in the mountains, your peace is in the valleys, your will is in the rocks, and your secrets are in the caves.You, you are expansive with power, towering with humility, sinking with rising, soft with strength, and clear with secret. I have sailed your seas, waded your rivers, chased your streams, so I hear eternity talk in your tides, time sing in your plateaus and hills, life and life call to each other in your mountain paths .You are the lips and tongue of eternity, the strings and fingers of time, the thought and interpretation of life. Your spring wakes me up and sends me to your woods where your scent rises like smoke.Your summers let me sit in your fields, where your efforts come to fruition.Your autumn stops me in your vineyard where your blood flows into wine.Your winter leads me to your couch where your purity flakes.You, you bring the fragrance of spring, the generosity of summer, the abundance of autumn, and the purity of winter. In the bright night, I opened the doors and windows of my soul, burdened with my own desires, and wearing the shackles of my own selfishness, I came to you and found you gazing at the stars and they were smiling at you.So I cast off my shackles and burdens, and understand that the heart's dwelling place is your sky, its desires are in your desires, its safety is in your safety, and its happiness is in the stars In the golden dust of your body. Tired of my own carelessness, rigidity, and dullness, I come to you on a cloudy night.Then I find that you are a formidable giant armed with storms, you are fighting your present with your past, your new with your old, your Dao to disintegrate your weakness.So I understood that the human system is your system, human laws are your laws, and human norms are your norms.Whoever does not break his dead branches with his own storm will die of boredom; whoever does not tear up his fallen leaves with his own revolution will die silently; whoever does not forget to bury the dead past will die It will become the shroud of past achievements. O earth!How generous you are!How tolerant! What pity and sympathy do you have for your children, who have departed from what they are to falsehood, lost between what they have achieved and what they have not achieved! We are noisy, you smile. We insist, you deny. We profane, you bless. We discredit, you praise. We sleep and dream, but you dream in eternal wakefulness. We have pierced your breast with sword and spear, but you have anointed our wounds with oil and ointment. We planted skulls and bones in your garden, but you made it grow aspens and weeping willows. We put carrion into your deposit, and you fill our threshing-floors with corn, and our wineries with grapes. We stain your face with blood, but you wash our cheeks with the water of the Dover. We take your elements to make guns and bombs, but you take ours to make roses and lilies. How patient you are, O earth!How many sympathies you have! O earth, what are you?who are you? Are you a speck of dust rising from God's feet as he travels from the east of the universe to the west of the universe?Or a spark from a furnace that never goes out? Aren't you a fruit core, which is thrown into the field of space, so that by the will of its core, it can break through the shell and rise to the top of space like a beacon? Are you a drop of blood in the veins of one of the giants?Or a drop of sweat on his brow? Are you a fruit slowly waving by the sun?You are a pain whose rhizome extends to infinity.A fruit of the tree of omniscience whose branches reach to the summit of eternity?Or is it a gem placed by the God of Time in the palm of the God of Space? Are you a baby in the arms of the sky?Or an old man who watches day and night, whose wisdom he enjoys? O earth, what are you?who are you? O earth!You are me!You are my sight and my sight; you are my wisdom, my imagination, my dream; you are my hunger and thirst, my pain and joy, my confusion and lucidity. You are the beauty in my eyes, the thought in my heart, and the eternity in my soul. You are me, earth!If I never existed, there must not be your past either. wider ocean Yesterday—how far away was yesterday, and how near! ——I have come to the sea with my heart, in order to wash away the dust and grime that clings to us with the sea. When we reached the coast, we began to look for a quiet place where no one could see. As we walked and watched, we suddenly found a man sitting on a gray-brown rock with a bag in his hand. He was grabbing salt from the bag and throwing it into the sea. My heart said to me, "This is a pessimist who sees only the shadows of life, and it is not fit for a pessimist to see our naked bodies. Let's get out of this place, because there is no bathing here." We abandoned this place and continued on until we reached a small cove on the shore.We found a man standing on a white rock, holding a jeweled chest, from which he was taking some sugar cubes, and throwing them into the sea. My heart said to me, "Here is an optimist reporting good news with no good news. Be careful not to let the optimist see our naked bodies." So we went on the road again until we met a man who was standing The dead fish were picked up on the shore, and then sent back to the sea with mercy. My heart said to me, "Here is a merciful man who is trying to return life to the corpse in the tomb, let us stay away from him!" Then, we came to another place.We see a man drawing his fantasy on the beach, the waves come and erase what he has drawn, and he continues drawing again and again! My heart said to me: "Here is the mystic who has erected in his phantasy an idol to worship. Let him do his work!" We walked and walked, and came to a quiet bay, and saw a man skim the scum and foam from the water, and put it into a maben bottle. My heart said to me, "This is an utopian who weaves clothes out of spider silk. He doesn't deserve to see our naked bodies." We went on until we heard a cry: "This is the deep sea! This is the vast expanse of the surging sea." We followed the sound and found a man standing there with his back to the sea. He put a conch shell on his ear and listened carefully to its sound. My heart said to me: "Let's go, this is a transactionalist who turns his back on the big picture he can't grasp, and troubles himself with parts that make him totally deflected." Here we go again.Until I saw a man with his head buried in the sand on the grass and among the rocks. I said to my heart, "Heart! Let's take a bath here! Because this person can't see us." But my heart shook my head and said: "No! A thousand nos! You see this man, the worst of all! He is a man who hides the tragedy of life from his heart, and thus life from his heart." to the pure devotee to his joy." At this time, a deep sadness appeared on the face of my heart, and she said in a voice broken by pain: "Let us leave these shores! There is no secluded place here to bathe. I would not comb my golden tresses in such a wind, nor bare my delicate breasts before the sky, nor Willing to strip naked and stand naked in the sun."_ So, I and my heart left this sea.Let's go, to find a wider ocean. In a year never before seen in history... At that moment, a young girl appeared behind the willow forest.She stroked her skirt and stood on the grass.She stood beside a sleeping young man, and lightly placed her silky soft hand on the young man's head.The sun woke the young man up, and he saw her in his drowsiness.He found a princess standing before him, and he got up and knelt down, just as Musa had done when he saw the forest burning.He wanted to speak, but his voice trembled, and tears of longing replaced his lips. Afterwards, the girl embraced him, kissed his lips, eyes, and sucked his tears.The girl said in a voice sweeter than the sound of a flute: "My dear! I have seen you in my dreams, and seen your face in my solitude and solitude. You have been the companion of my lost soul from the time I was destined to come into this world." , the good half of myself from which I have been separated. Dear! I have come here secretly to meet you. Ah, you are in my arms now, fear not! I have left my father's Glory and wealth, come to follow you to the farthest places on earth. I want to drink the cup of life and the cup of death with you!" "Get up, my dear! Let us go to the wilderness where no one travels A pair of lovers walked in the woods, their figures were hidden by the night, and neither the majesty of their father nor the dark ghost frightened them.New Era Today, in the East, there are two contending minds: the old and the new.The old thinking, will be overcome because it is exhausted and the will is broken. In the East there is an awakening that disturbs the slumber.Awakening is the conqueror, for the sun is its commander, and the dawn its army. In the fields of the east, yesterday the east was a vast weakling, and today it is a young man standing in the field, calling to the inhabitants of the tomb to rise up and advance with the sun and the moon.When spring sings her song, winter's dead will rise, and take off its shroud, and walk. In the eastern sky, there are life-like shocks, which generate, expand, capture and embrace the alert and sensitive hearts.These shocks also wriggle around those haughty and sensitive hearts to win them over. There are two masters in the Orient today: one master commands, forbids, is obeyed, but he is a dying old man; And silent, but he is a giant with strong arms, he knows his will, firmly believes in his existence, and believes in his role. Today in the East there are two people: the man of yesterday and the man of tomorrow.East, which of them are you? Why don't you come to me and let me take a good look at your face, examine your appearance, and see if you belong to those who are going to the light or to those who are going to the dark. Come on, tell me, what are you?who are you? Is a politician there whispering "I want to benefit from my country"?Or a passionate person whispering in his heart "I long to benefit my country"? If you're number one, you're a parasite; if you're number two, you're an oasis in the desert. A merchant who, using the needs of men as a means of gaining profit and self-aggrandizement, monopolizes necessities of every kind in order to sell for a dollar what is bought for a penny?Also an industrious man who facilitates the exchange between the weaver and the tiller, making himself a link between the desirer and the desired, thus benefiting the desired and the desired, and receiving from them Where is the benefit obtained legitimately? If you are number one, you are a criminal in a palace or prison; if you are number two, you are a good man whom people thank or disapprove of. A religious chief who weaves his holy robe out of people's childishness, casts his crown of laurels out of people's simplicity of heart, claims to hate the devil, and lives off the devil's wealth?Or a devout believer, who regards individual virtue as the foundation of national progress, and the exhaustion of the secrets of one's soul as a ladder to the universal spirit? If you are number one, you are an apostate who fasts during the day and prays at night.Hypocrites; if you are the second, you are a tuberose in the garden of truth, whose fragrance floats in people's nostrils, or rises freely to the space where the scent of flowers is preserved. A journalist who sells his ideas and principles in the slaver's market, grows on the news of disasters and misfortunes created by society, and falls like a hungry gangster on rotting corpses?Or is it a teacher standing on a civilized platform, drawing lessons from the achievements of the sun and the moon, and passing on the enlightenment he got from it to people? If you are the first, then you are a piece of acne; if you are the second, then you are a good medicine for curing diseases and pain relief. A ruler who grovels before those who appoint him and swaggers before those whom he rules.Raise your arms and hands just to reach into their pockets, lift your feet and take a step, just to realize your desire for them?Or a loyal servant who manages the people's affairs, sleeps and eats for their interests, and works tirelessly to realize their wishes? If you are the first, then you are the poisonous weeds in the national threshing field; if you are the second, then you are the happiness and auspiciousness in the national granary. A husband who thinks that those things which are forbidden to his wife are just and reasonable to himself, and goes out to have fun, with the key of his wife's cell at his side; Wife sitting alone in front of an empty plate?As a partner, every time you do something, you always have to join hands with your female partner, and you always listen to your female partner’s thoughts and opinions on the matter. Every time you achieve success, you always let her add to your happiness and glory ? If you were number one, you were a living member of an extinct tribe that lived in caves and wore animal skins; if you were number two, you were the vanguard of a nation marching with the dawn to justice and wise day. Is a research writer who looks up at what is above our heads, but what is in our minds crawls in the abyss of the past; where generations have cast off their rags, Throwing away things that are no longer good for them?Or is it a kind of pure thought, exploring the edge of its own ocean, in order to know its benefits and its harms, and thus devote all its energy to building the beneficial and destroying the harmful? If you are number one, you are imbecile, crippled, dull, superficial; if you are number two, you are bread for the hungry and water for the thirsty. A poet who played dombra before the princes, sprinkled flowers before the newlyweds, walked behind the silent corpse, and carried a sponge heavy with lukewarm water in his hand, when he came to the graveyard, Squeeze the sponge with your tongue and lips?Or a genius, into whose hands God placed the harp, to play the noble tunes that captivate our hearts, and cause us to stop and stand majestically before life, with all its beauty and awesomeness? If you are the first, you are one of those wizards who can only stir in us the opposite of what they want, if they cry we laugh, if they rejoice we mourn; if you are the first You two, then you are a wise person with piercing eyes who can see what we don't see, the sweet hope in our hearts, and the god when we are lost. In the East, I say, there are two processions: one is made up of stooped old men, who walk on crutches, panting and weary, though they go from high to low; the other is made up of young men They were composed of people, they ran as if they had wings on their feet, they cheered as if they had strings in their throats, they overcame obstacles, as if there was a force in front of the mountains that attracted them, a kind of enchanting magic. Orientals, what category do you belong to?In which ranks are you marching? If you don't ask yourself, ask your heart in the silence of the night—it has already woken up from its deep intoxication.Ask it, are you among yesterday's slaves or tomorrow's free? I say to you: the children of yesterday walk in the funeral procession of the age that created them and they created it.I say: They pull tight on the rope that time has made its ass worse, and when the rope breaks—and it will soon—those who cling to it sink into the abyss of oblivion .I say: they live in houses whose plinths are on the verge of falling down, and when the wind comes—and it will come—these houses will fall on their heads, and these houses are to them graves.I say: all their thoughts, all their words, all their controversies, all their writings, all their collections of poetry, all their exploits, are but heavy chains that tug at them, and they can no longer pull these chains, Because they are weak. As for the sons and daughters of tomorrow, they are the ones that life calls for. They follow it with firm steps and heads held high.They are the dawn of a new age, whose light cannot be extinguished by smoke, whose voice cannot be muffled by the clash of chains, whose fragrance cannot be extinguished by the stench of the hollow.They are the few of the many factions, but there is something in the boughs that the rotten forest does not have, and in the grain of wheat that there is not in the haystack.They are an unknown group, but they know each other, like towering mountains, they can look at each other and hear each other's calls.But those caves are the blind who cannot see and the deaf who cannot hear.Tomorrow's children are the seeds that God sows in the fertile soil, which breaks through the shell with inner strength, and swaying tender branches in the sun, it will grow into a giant tree, whose roots are deep in his heart, whose roots are deep in his heart. The technician reaches for the sky. Lonely Life is an island in an ocean of solitude. Life is an island—its rocks are wishes, its trees are dreams, its flowers are solitude, and its springs are thirst.This island is in the middle of the Sea of ​​Solitude. my brother!Your life is an island separated from all islands and all regions, and though you send ships to other shores, and though fleets come to your shores, you are still you, the one whose pain and Joyful and lonely, remote because of its longing, unknown islands because of their secrets and seclusions. my brother!I see you sitting on a golden mountain, rejoicing in your wealth and exalting in your abundance.You feel in every handful of ore a secret passage connecting your thoughts with the thoughts of men, your intentions with the intentions of men.I see that you are like a great pioneer, leading an invincible army, coming to an impregnable fortress, destroying it in one fell swoop; coming to an impregnable stronghold, and occupying it in one fell swoop.But the second time I saw you, I found behind the great wall of your storehouse a heart trembling in its solitude, trembling like a thirsty man in a cage of gold and jewels without water . my brother!I see you sitting on a throne of glory, surrounded by those who praise your name, repeat your words and actions, count your genius and stare at you eagerly.It was as if they stood before a prophet who, by the force of his spirit, lifted their souls up and carried them soaring among the stars.You look at them with gaiety, strength, and conquest in your face, and your place among them is as the soul is in the body.But, the second time I saw you, I saw your lonely essence sitting right beside your throne, aching with your solitude, troubled with your melancholy.Then I saw it stretch out its hands in all directions, as if seeking the sympathy and alms of invisible phantoms.Later, I saw it looking over people's heads into the distance, looking into a place where there is nothing but its solitude. my brother!I see you infatuated with the love of a beautiful woman, spraying the nectar of your soul in her hair, kissing her bare hands with your lips.She looks at you with affectionate eyes, and a maternal smile appears on the corner of her mouth.I whispered in my heart: "Love took away this man's loneliness, erased his loneliness, so that he was connected again with that ordinary and ordinary soul, which with love separated from him because of emptiness and oblivion. You are attracted to yourself by the things you have. "However, when I saw you again, I found a lonely heart in your obsessed heart. It wanted to pour his secrets into this woman's mind, but it can't do it.Behind your love-melted self I found another lonely self, like a fog, wishing to melt into tears in the clutching hands of your lady friend, but it could not. my brother!Your life is a lonely house far from all homes and communities. Your spiritual life is a mansion away from the ways of those appearances and appearances that people call by your name.If this house is dark and dim, you cannot light it with the lamps of your kin; if it is empty, you cannot fill it with your neighbor's property; if Say it was built in a desert, but you can't move it into a garden where other people plant flowers and trees; if you say it stands on a hilltop, you can't lower it into a valley that others have trampled on. My brother, your spiritual life is surrounded by solitude and solitude without which you would not be you and I would not be me; without this solitude I would hear your voice, You'll also think it's me talking; even if you see your face, you'll think it's me looking at myself in the mirror.