Chapter 8 2

①②In the old customs of India, the princess chooses a favorite among many suitors, and puts a wreath around his neck to show that he has been chosen. ——The narrative poem written by the author Kalidasa, who was translated by Shagongdara.Silaida, August 20, 1892 Whenever I see a beautiful landscape painting, I often think, "How wonderful it would be if I could live in it!" This desire is here got satisfied.Here, a person comes alive in a grim, brightly colored drawing without reality.When I was little, the illustrations of forests and seas in Paul and Virginia or Robinson Crusoe would have transported me from the everyday world; The feeling of time came to my heart again.

I cannot really state, or expressly explain, what kind of longing was aroused in me.It was as if the pulse of some current flowed through the main line connecting me to the wider world.I feel as though the memory of that dim, distant time when I was one with all that was on earth came back to my heart; The warm breath of youth will rise from every pore of my large, soft, green body under the contact of the sunlight, and a new life, a gentle joy, will be half-consciously hidden, and yet Wordlessly poured out of all my vastness, as it stretched silently with its nations and mountains and seas under the bright blue sky.

My senses are like the carnival sensations of our ancient earth, in sun-kissed daily life; my own consciousness seems to flow through every blade of grass, every sucking root, through the trunk and sap Rising, in a quiver of joy, unfurls with the shaking corn and rustling palm leaves in the fields. I feel compelled to express my blood ties to the earth, and my kinship love for her, but I am afraid I will not be understood.POLYA November 18th, 1892 I wonder where your train is going by now.The sun is now rising over the rolling, treeless rocky terrain near Nawadi Station.The scenery there must have been illuminated by the fresh sunlight, in which the distant green hills began to be seen.

Apart from a little plowing done by primitive tribesmen with buffaloes, cleared fields are barely visible; on either side of the railroad crossings, stacks of black rocks - pebbles leaving the footprints of dry rivers - sway black bird standing on the wire.A wild, scarred nature lay in the sun, tamed as if caressed by a soft and bright fairy hand. Do you know which picture this scene reminds me of?In Kalidasa's Shakundala there is a scene where Bharata, the youngest son of King Dusandra, is playing with a lion cub.The child lovingly stroked the thick mane of the giant beast with his soft, ruddy fingers.The lion lay peacefully in trusting repose, and from time to time cast an affectionate glance at his little human friend.

Shall I tell you what these dry, pebbly-strewn waterways remind me of?We read "Babies in the Woods" in the English fairy tale. When the little brother and sister were driven into the woods by their stepmother, they dropped pebbles one by one at any time, leaving their wandering traces in the strange woods. .These brooks are like babies who are sent into the world and lost on the way. Therefore, as they go forward, they leave pebbles as marks, so that when they may return, they will not be lost.But they don't look back!Natuli, December 2, 1892, in the sunset outside the Bengal forest, there is a deep emotion and a breath of tranquility stretching along the boundless silent fields to the horizon.

Lovingly, yet sorrowfully, our night sky bows far away to touch the earth.It casts upon the earth its remaining melancholy light--a light which gives us the sense of the divine sorrow of Farewell; the silence that pervades earth, sky, and water is expressive. As I watched in lost stillness, I thought—if the silence lost control, if this present time, the expression it had been seeking from eternity, would all give vent, there would be a A deep, serious, joyously moving music that surges from the earth to the stars? With a little determined concentration, we ourselves can transfer this great light and color that pervades all into music.We only need to close our eyes and feel the vibration of this ever-flowing moving picture with our inner ear.

But how many sunsets and sunrises will I have to describe?Each time I feel their new brilliance; and how can I express this new brilliance? ① Refers to Purusha and Brakriti in Indian mythology, that is, the eternal farewell between God and the created. ——Translator Xilaida December 9, 1892 After a painful illness, I still feel weak and recuperate.Under such circumstances, nature's care is really sweet.I feel that I am like all things, lazily shining my joy in the sun, and I am only absent-mindedly writing letters. The world is always new to me; like an old friend who has loved in this life and the previous life, our friendship is deep and long.

I can well feel how, many centuries ago, the earth, in her primeval youth, came up from bathing in the sea, and worshiped the sun in prayer, and I must have been a tree in the woods, from her new-formed soil, to All the fresh business of the first impulse unfolds my dense leaves. The sea is swaying, turbulent, and covering, like a doting mother who caresses her first-born baby-land; Trembling under the blue sky, I hold my mother earth tightly with all my roots and suck it quickly.In blind joy my leaves burst forth, and my flowers bloom; and when the clouds gather, their cool shades will comfort me with gentle caresses.

Since then, from century to century, I have been reborn on this earth in a changing manner. So when we are alone now, all kinds of ancient memories slowly come back to my heart one by one. My mother earth sits today in sun-kissed gold on the cornfield by the river; I roll and play at my feet, knees, and arms.The mother of countless children, she met their incessant calls absent-mindedly, with great patience and corresponding indifference.She sat there, gazing dreamily at the noon sky, while I murmured endlessly beside her.Tuesday, February, 1893. I don't want to wander anymore.I wish I had a corner where I could lie down comfortably away from everyone.

India has two aspects - on the one hand she is a householder, on the other she is a wandering traveler.The first one never takes a step away from the family corner, the second simply has no home.I found that in me, it was both.I am willing to wander around to see the vast world, but I also want a hidden corner; like a bird, there is a small nest for it to live in, and a vast sky for it to soar. I want to ask for a corner, because it will bring peace to my heart.My heart really wants to be busy, but in trying to do so, it keeps crashing into the crowd, becomes utterly frantic, and it keeps hitting me from within -- its cage.

But as long as it can have a moment of leisurely solitude, look around, and think freely, it will express its feelings satisfactorily. This solitary freedom is what my heart desires; it will stand alone against its imagination!As the creator contemplates his creation.KADAK, FEBRUARY, 1893 Let us live in incognito until we can do something about it, I said.Why should we demand respect when we can only be despised?When we have our own foothold in the world, when we have our share in determining the policy and route of the world, we can contact others with a smile.Until then let's stay in the background and go about our own business. But our fellow citizens seem to see it differently.They do not value our needs which we must seek to satisfy behind the scenes—their whole attention is directed to temporary airs and ostentation. Our country is truly a God-forgotten country.Difficulties, of course there are, it all depends on our strength of will to do it.In a real sense, we never got any assistance.For miles around we could find no one to talk to and get alive.No one was thinking, feeling, or working nearby.None of them had the experience of making a great effort, or actually living it.They all ate and drank, did some office work, smoked, slept, and talked nonsense.They are sentimental when they are emotional, and childish when they are reasonable.One yearns for a vigorous, strong, capable figure; these are fleeting shadows, cut off from the world.February 10, 1893 He was a fully developed extreme type of John Bull—a huge hooked nose, cunning eyes, and a yard-long chin.Right now the government is considering taking away our right to be tried by a jury.The fellow brought up the subject, and persisted in arguing with poor Mr. B, our host.He said the moral standards of the people in this country were low; they had no real faith in the sanctity of life; and therefore they were not worthy to serve on juries. When I saw him accept the hospitality of a Bengali, and talk like this, and sit at his table, without the slightest reproach of conscience, I felt the extreme contempt these people had for us. As I sat in the corner of the living room after dinner, everything around me was blurred.I seem to sit at the head of my great and insulted fatherland, who lies sadly dim in the dust before me.I cannot express the profound sorrow that weighs on my heart. How out of place are the "ladies" over there, dressed in evening dress, buzzing in English, and laughing!How rich and real our old India is to us, how cheap and deceitful a vain English feast!March 1893 If we began to place too much importance on the applause of the British, we would have to lose a lot of our good things and take in a lot of their bad things. Gradually we will be ashamed to go out without socks, and we will not be ashamed to see their ball clothes.We shall throw out our ancient manners with indifference, and compete with them in impertinence.We shall no longer wear the gown because it needs improvement, but put their hats on our heads without a second thought, though no headgear is more ugly than that. Simply put, consciously or subconsciously, we will get our lives altered depending on whether they applaud or not. So I said bluntly, "Crock pot, for God's sake, get out of that brass pot! Whether he's running at you in anger, or just to save you, give you a pat on the back, and you'll be fine." It's over, and it's going to break anyway. So remember old Aesop's good words—get out of the way, I beg you." Let those copper pots adorn the rich and the rich; you have plenty of work to do in the poor.If you let him break you, you'll lose your place in both houses and go back to the dust; if you're lucky, maybe in a cultural relic cabinet—as an antique, you can occupy a corner, and if you It is the most honorable thing for the humblest woman in the countryside to fetch water with this.CELEDA May 8, 1893 Poetry was a very old lover of mine—I think I was engaged to her when I was only Roti's age. A long time ago, resting under the old banyan tree by our pool, the inner garden, the strange area in the basement of the house, the whole outside world, the nursery rhymes and stories told by the maids, built a ①author's son in my heart, I was only five years old then. ——Translator A beautiful fairyland.It is difficult to say clearly about the vague and mysterious things that happened during that period, but this is clear, that is, the ceremony of "exchanging garlands of poetry" with me has officially passed. But I must admit that my fiancée is not an auspicious girl—whatever she brings, it is by no means lucky.I can't say that she never gave me happiness, but there is no peace with her.The man she loves may be in complete joy, but under her cruel embrace, his heart will be wrung out.The unfortunate thing she chooses can never become a serious, self-possessed, comfortably settled head of household on a social basis. Consciously or unconsciously, I may have done many dishonest things, but in my poetry I never uttered a single falsehood—it was a sanctuary where the deepest truths of my life were preserved. shelter.On May 10, 1893, the black, bloated snow came in and absorbed the golden sunlight in the landscape before me like a blotting paper.The rain must be coming soon, because the breeze feels wet and full of tears. Over there, on the peak of Shimla, piercing into the sky, you will find it difficult to appreciate properly how important the coming of the clouds is here, or how many people eagerly look up to the sky and celebrate their glory. advent. I feel great pity for these peasants—our tenants—the tall, impotent, immature children of God, and food must be brought to their mouths. Engagement ceremony. — in the translator, or they are finished.When Mother Earth's milk dries up, they don't know what to do but cry.But when their hunger was satisfied, they forgot all past disasters. I don't know whether the ideal of socialism and rational distribution of wealth can be achieved. If you can't, God's distribution is really cruel, and people are really unfortunate things.For if there must be misery in this world, so be it; but at least leave a few little air-holes, a glimpse of poor gleams, which may encourage the nobler parts of humanity to continually hope for relief from misery. , and struggle. They say a very cruel thing, those who assert that it is only a Utopian dream to distribute the goods of the world so that everyone has a mouthful of food and a little clothing.All social problems are originally cruel!Fate only allows such a narrow and pitiful quilt for human beings, and if it is pulled to this part of the world, the rest of the world will be uncovered.Relieved from our poverty, we lose our wealth; and with wealth, we lose countless quantities of kindness, beauty, and strength. But the sun came out again, though the clouds were still gathering in the west.One more thing that pleases me here, May 11th, 1893, is that sometimes our simple and loyal old sharecroppers come to see me—their pious obedience is genuine!In reverence, beauty, simplicity and faithfulness, they are infinitely greater than I am.Even if I am unworthy of their reverence--their sentiments are not for that worthless. I treat these older children with the same love I have for the little ones—but here too there is a difference.They are more immature than children.Little children will grow up, but these big children will never grow up again. A docile brilliant simple soul shining through their tired, wrinkled, aging bodies.Little children are just simple, they don't have the unquestionable and unwavering loyalty of these older children.If there is an undercurrent that connects the souls of men, then my sincere blessings will reach out to them and serve them.May 16, 1893 After my mid-afternoon bath, refreshing and clean, I walked for about an hour on the river bank.Then I went aboard the new yacht moored in the midstream, and lay on the bed spread out on the stern, lying on my back quietly in the darkness of night.This little thought comes to my mind every day: Will I be born again under this starry sky?On this river of Bengal, in such a remote corner of the world, will the peaceful revelry of this wonderful evening be mine again? Maybe not, maybe the storm will change; maybe reborn, I think differently.Many such nights may come, but they may not rest in my bosom so trustingly, lovingly, utterly wild. Strangely enough, my greatest fear is that I will be reborn in Europe!For one cannot lie there like this, opening one's whole being to the infinite space above—I'm afraid that one would be severely reprimanded if one just lay down.I may be busy in a factory or a congress, like the road over there, a person's mind, because of the traffic, must be paved with stones, laid out geometrically, so that it is open and unobstructed. Organized. I am sure I cannot say exactly why this lazy, dreamy, self-absorbed, sky-filled state of mind is most desirable to me.As I lie here on my yacht, I don't feel at all inferior to the busiest layman.Rather, if I had tightened my belt and worked hard, I would have looked very weak compared to those typical characters.Last night, July 3rd, 1893, the wind howled all night like a bereaved dog.The rain continued to pour.The water in the fields rushes into countless eddies and flows into the river.Drenched peasants crossed the river by boat, some wearing bamboo hats, and others covered their heads with yam leaves.The big cargo ship slid past, the helmsman sat at the helm wet, and the sailors pulled hard on the tow rope in the rain.The birds shut themselves in their nests morosely, but the sons of men march on, for the work of the world must go on no matter what the weather may be. Two shepherd boys tended the cattle in front of my boat.The cows were very happy to eat the grass, their noses stuck in the green grass, and their tails were busy brushing away the flies. The raindrops and the shepherd boy's pole kept falling on their backs for no reason, but they let them bear it without hesitation, and chewed loudly calmly.Cows have such soft, loving, melancholy eyes; I don't know why Heaven would think that all the burdens of man's labor should be imposed on the tame shoulders of these mighty, gentle beasts? The water of the river rises every day.What I could only see yesterday from the deck, I can now see from the cabin window. Every morning I wake up and find that my vision is wider.Not long ago, only the tops of the trees on the far side of the village were exposed like dark green clouds, but today the whole forest can be seen. Land and water slowly come towards each other, like a pair of shy lovers.They were almost at the limit of their shyness—their arms would wrap around each other's necks.In torrential rain, I'll appreciate a trip on this overflowing river.I'm considering ordering the ship.July 4th, 1893 A little sunshine this morning.The rain stopped for a while yesterday, but the clouds in the sky are still thick, and there is no hope for Jiuqing.This pile of dark clouds looks like a thick cloud blanket rolled aside, any time a good wind may come and spread it again, covering the entire ground, covering the blue sky and golden sunlight without a trace. I don't know how much water has accumulated in the sky this year.The river had risen over the low fertile fields, and was about to drown all the growing crops in the fields.The hapless sharecroppers were desperately cutting off bunches of half-ripe rice and carrying them away in small boats.As they passed my ship, I heard them bemoaning their fate.It is easy to understand how a farmer must grieve when he is compelled to cut the rice just before harvest, when his only hope is that some of the ears may have grown into corn. There must be some element of compassion in the way of heaven, otherwise how could we get our share of compassion from there?But it is hard to see where the heart of compassion is.The cries of millions of innocent people seem to be getting nowhere.The rain was pouring indiscriminately, the river was still rising, and no relief was obtained by any number of pleas.One has to say such things—all this beyond human comprehension—for comfort.However, people desperately need to understand that there are such things as compassion and justice in the world. However, this is nothing more than getting angry.Reason tells us that heaven and earth must never fill a field of arable soil on the sandy shore. ——Translators have complete happiness.As long as it is incomplete, it must endure the sorrow of incompleteness.Only when it is not the universe but God can it be complete.Do we dare to pray so boldly?The more we think about it, the more we often go back to the starting point—why is there a universe and everything?It is useless to complain of its companion, sorrow, if we cannot resolve to reject the thing in itself.Shachapu July 7, 1893 The flow of rural life is not too fast, but it is not stagnant either. Work and rest go hand in hand.Ferries drove back and forth, pedestrians walked along the towpath under umbrellas, women washed rice in bamboo baskets soaked in water, and farmers carried hemp bundles on their heads to the market. Two people were chopping a piece of wood with a well-proportioned sound of percussion.The village carpenter was repairing an upside-down boat under a large fig tree.A Mongolian dog walked aimlessly back and forth on the river bank.A few cows, after a feast of rich grass, lay chewing the cud, lazily bobbing their ears back and forth, and flicking flies with their tails.When a few crows stood presumptuously on their backs, they occasionally shook their heads impatiently. The monotonous sound of the woodcutter's ax or the carpenter's hammer, the clang of the oars, the laughter of naked children at play, the melancholy song of the peasants, louder than that of the turning oil mill. The creaking, all these moving sounds, are not out of tune with the whispering leaves and calling birds, and are all joining together like the moving tune of a great orchestra of dreams, playing a veiled song. Yes, a slightly depressing and sad piece of music.July 10, 1893 All I have to say about the silent poet we have been discussing is that although the silent man has the same emotional force as the speaking man, this has nothing to do with poetry.Poetry is not a matter of emotion, it is the creation of form. Thoughts take shape in the poet's mind with some secret and subtle artifice.Creativity is at the root of poetry.Perception, emotion, or language, are but raw materials, and one man may be rich in feeling, another in language, a third in both; but only he who is also gifted with creativity is a poet.Partisa, August 13, 1893, crossing those "lakes" to the village of Cali Gray, an idea formed in my mind.This idea is not new, but sometimes old ideas strike me with new force. When the running water is not clamped by the two banks, but stretches out into a monotonous vastness, the village is composed of a few huts scattered on the small island-like mound.Boats and a kind of round clay pot are the only means of transportation.When the water covers the arable land, the rice dews. ①Sometimes the river passes through the plains of Bengal and meets the lowlands, where it spreads into a piece of water with an indefinite area, called a "lake". In the dry season, it is only the size of a large pond. become boundless. The water surface is quite deep and very clear. When the boat is driving on it, it looks like walking on rice fields. There are also special plants and animals in the "Huze", including water lotus, iris and various water birds.In this way, this "huze" is neither like a lake nor like a lake, but has its own characteristics. —The translator loses its beauty.As far as language is concerned, rhythm acts as the bank of the river, giving beauty and character to poetry.Just as the banks of the river give each river its individuality, so rhythm gives each poem its own style; prose is like the shapeless, personalityless "lake."Moreover, the river flows and advances; the "huze" only sweeps the fields with its vastness.Therefore, the narrow constraints of rhythm become necessary in order to give power to language; otherwise, it would spread itself out without progress. People in the countryside call "huze" "dumb water" - they have no language and no expression.The river is constantly gurgling; the words of poetry are also sung in this way, they are not "dumb words".Thus, meter produces beauty in form, movement, and music; meter not only produces beauty, but also power. Poetry is determined to be governed by meter, not by blind habit, but because it derives the joy of movement from doing so.Some fools think that rhyme is a kind of verbal gymnastics or juggling, aimed only at the admiration of the crowd.this is not right. Rhythm arises as all beauty arises in the whole universe.Introducing the trend of thought into a well-defined range gives rhythmic lines a power to move people's hearts, which cannot be achieved by vague and unclear prose. When I entered the "huze" from the river, and then entered the river from the "huze", this idea gradually became clear to me. 26th Slavan, 1893 I have sometimes thought that man is a crude commodity and woman a perfect product. Women have a complete set of manners, conventions, conversation, and decoration.The reason is that, throughout the centuries, nature has assigned her this definite role and has adapted her to it.Floods, political revolutions, changes in social ideals have not yet been able to divert her from her special role or destroy their mutual relations.She had been loving, tending, caressing, and doing nothing else; and the wonderful skill she had learned in these things permeated her mind, body, and actions.Her character and actions became inseparable, like flower and fragrance, so that she had no doubt or hesitation. But there are still many holes and knots in man's character; every different circumstance and force has contributed to his development and left its mark on him.Thus one man has a wide-spreading forehead, another an inexplicably protruding nose, and a third a strangely grim chin.If a man is a continuation and unity of purpose, nature will try his best to give him a clear model, so that he can function simply and naturally, without having to sell so much effort.He would not have to have such a complicated program of action; nor would he be so easily thrown off course when outside influences disturbed him. Woman is made in the mold of a mother.Man has no such primordial pattern on which to base himself, and therefore he has never been able to rise to the same perfection as beauty.On February 19, 1894, two elephants came to graze on the river bank here.I am very interested in them.They tapped the ground lightly with one hoof, then took the grass with their snouts, and picked up a great heap of turf clods and other things.They shake the chunk around until all the dirt is shaken off; then they put it in their mouths and eat it.Sometimes they suddenly rise up, suck the dust into their nostrils, and then spray the dust all over their bodies with their noses; this is their elephant make-up. I like to see these overgrown animals, their bulky bodies, their boundless strength, their ugly and disproportionate appearance, their docile obliviousness, their size and bulk make me feel kind to them. Pity - their clumsy bodies are childish, and they have big hearts.When they are wild, they are violent, but when they are quiet, they are the embodiment of peace. The combination of brutality and hugeness does not repel people, it can attract people.February 27, 1894 The sky was cloudy and uncertain.A sudden gust of wind made all the seams of the hull creak and groan idlely.The day went on like this. It's past one o'clock now, soaked in the time of the country noon, and its sounds--the croaking of the ducks, the eddy of passing boats, the splash of bathers' laundry, The distant yelling of cattle-drivers--making it difficult to even imagine chairs--tables, the monotonous and dull daily routine of Calcutta. Calcutta, like a government office, is heavily regulated.Each day came, sharp and gleaming like money from a mint.Ah!Those dull and lifeless days are so insignificant and dignified! Here I dodged the demands of my circle and didn't feel like a fully-fledged machine.Every day is my own, I walk across the fields with leisure and thoughts, not bound by time and space.As I walked with my head down, the night gradually deepened on the ground, in the air, and in the water.On March 22, 1894, when I was sitting in the window of the boat and looking at the river, I suddenly saw a strange bird desperately poaching from the water to the opposite bank, followed by a great commotion. I found it to be a poultry, struggling, and jumping into the water to escape the doom it had cornered in the galley.Now it is frantically trying to cross over, and when it is about to reach the other side, the cruel hands of the fugitives surround it, and it is triumphantly strangled by the neck and brought back.I told my cook that I don't want any meat today. I really have to stop eating meat.We try to swallow fresh meat only because we don't think that what we are doing is a cruel and evil thing.There are many evils of man's own making, and some are suppressed because they are contrary to custom, custom, tradition.But cruelty is not among these sins.It is a cardinal sin that admits no controversy or minor distinction.Its protest against cruelty can always be heard distinctly, so long as we do not let our hearts become insensitive; He was nicknamed a weirdo. How hypocritical is our knowledge of sin!I think the highest commandment is compassion for all beings.Love is the foundation of all religions.I read that day in a British newspaper that fifty thousand pounds of animal meat had been shipped to the African Garrison, but when it arrived it was found to be spoiled.The consignment was returned and finally auctioned off at Portsmouth for a few pounds.What an astonishing waste of life!How numb to the real value of life! How many creatures were sacrificed just to adorn the dishes at a banquet, and most of them will be removed from the table intact. As long as we are unconscious of our cruelty, we may be innocent, but if, after our compassion is aroused, we persist in killing our emotions in order to participate in the plundering of life by others , we insult all the good thoughts in our hearts.I've decided to try a vegetarian diet.March 28, 1894 It was already very warm here, but I was not much afraid of the heat of the sun.The hot wind whistled past, stopped for a while in the circle from time to time, and then spun its dust and skirts of fallen leaves and branches, and danced away. It's cold this morning—almost like a midwinter morning; to be honest, I'm not too keen on taking a bath.It is very difficult to explain what is really going on in this big thing called "nature".An unknown reason emerged from an unknown corner, and suddenly everything changed. The operation of the human mind is as mysterious as the nature outside the body - I just remembered it like this yesterday.A wonderful alchemy is at work in the arteries, vessels and nerves, in the brain and marrow.The blood flowed down, the nerve strings trembled, the muscles of the heart heaved, and the seasons in the human body were changing one by one.What kind of wind it will be next, when and from where—we don't know anything about it. This is a day when I'm sure I'm going to live well; I feel strong enough to ride through all the sorrows and trials in the world that stand in my way; In the pocket, my mood is comfortable.The next day, a strong wind blew from some hell, and there was a danger in the sky, and I began to wonder if I could really stand all the storms. 只因为在某处血管或者神经纤维有点毛病，我的一切力量和智慧都变得无用了。 我自己身内的神秘使我惊恐。它使我不敢说出我要做什么或不要做什么。它为什么总是胶着在我身上——这个我既不能了解又不能驾驭的无边的神秘？我不知道它要引导我或是我引导它到哪里去。我看不出什么事情在发生着，也没有人来请教我说什么事情将要发生，然而我必须摆出主人公的样子，装作一个执行者……我觉得我像一架活的钢琴，里面有很大很复杂的机构和钢丝，但是我没有法子知道谁是演奏者，而且对于演奏者为什么要演奏，也只能有一个猜度，我只能知道他弹的是什么，调子是愉快的或是哀伤的，什么时候那音符是婴音还是变音，曲调是不是合拍，基调是高还是低，但是，就连这些我也真正地知道吗？一八九四年三月三十日有时当我体会到生命的旅途是漫长的，所遭到的忧伤是很多而不可避免的，必须有一种极大的斗志来支持我的心的力量。有些夜晚，当我独坐着凝视着桌上的灯焰，我发誓我要像一个勇士似的活着——不动摇，沉静，不怨尤。这决心把我吹鼓了起来，当时我真把自己看做是一个十分、十分勇敢的人。当我担心着路上的荆棘会刺伤我的脚的时候，我又退缩了，我开始对于前途感到认真的忧虑。生命的道路又显得很长了，我的力量也显得不够了。 但是这最后的结论不会是真实的，因为正是那些细小的荆棘是最难忍受的。心的家务管理是节俭的，需用多少才花掉多少。在小事上决不浪费，它的力量的财富是精打细算地积攒起来，准备应付真正的巨大灾难的。因此，为较小的忧烦而流泪号哭，总不能引起慈善的反应。但当忧伤最深的时候，努力是没有限度的。那时候，外面的硬皮被戳穿了，慰安涌溢了出来，一切忍耐和勇敢的力量都结合在一起，来尽它们的责任。这样，巨大的苦难也带来了伟大的持久的能力。 人性的一方面有追求愉乐的欲望——另一方面是想望自我牺牲。当前者遇到失望的时候，后者就得到力量，这样，它们发现了更完满的范围，一种崇高的热情把灵魂充满了。因此当我们在微小困难面前是个懦夫的时候，巨大的忧伤激起了我们更真实的丈夫气概，使我们勇敢起来。所以，这里面有一种快乐。 说苦中有乐，不是一种空洞的似是而非的议论，反过来说，在愉乐中有缺憾，也有实在的，不难理解为什么应该是这样。西来达一八九四年六月二十四日我在这里还不过四天，因为不去计算时间，日子就仿佛已经很长了。我感到如果我今天回到加尔各答去，我会发现它变了很多——就像我自己一个人在逝水的光阴的外面站住了，不理会身外世界的渐渐变动的地位。 事实是，在这里，离开了加尔各答，我生活在我自己内心世界之中；在这里时钟不遵守通常的时间；在这里时间的持续是以情感的强度来衡量的；在这里因为外面世界不计算分秒，片刻变成小时，小时又变成片刻。我似乎觉得时间和空间的细分，只不过是精神的幻觉。每一个原子都是不可计量的，每一段时刻都是无限的。 我小的时候，读到一段波斯的故事，我非常地喜欢它——我想就在那个时候，我也能了解其中的深意，虽然我只不过是个孩子。为要指出时间的幻觉的本质，一个僧人倒些法水在一只桶里，请国王进去泡一泡。国王刚把脑袋浸进去，立刻就发现自己到了海边的一个国家里，在那里他度过很长的时间，经过了也做了许多事情。他结了婚，有了孩子，他的妻子儿女又都死了，他丧失了一切的财富，当他在痛苦中辗转的时候，他忽然发现他又回到自己的屋里，他的朝臣们在旁边围绕着。在他为他的痛苦而斥骂着这僧人的时候，他的朝臣们说： “但是，陛下，您只不过把头浸在水里，立刻又抬了起来！” 我们整个生命中的苦乐，也同样地圈在片刻的时间之中。 在苦和乐还在的时候，无论我们感觉到它是多么长久，多么强烈，只要我们一从世界的水里抬起头来，我们就会发现这一切都多么像一个细微的短暂的梦。一八九四年八月九日今天我看见一只死鸟随流而下。它死亡的经历是很容易推测的。它的窝巢是在村边的一棵芒果树上。它晚上回到家来，挨着它的羽毛柔软的伴侣，舒服地躺在里面，在睡眠中休息着它的纤小疲倦的身躯。忽然间，在夜里，巨大的巴特马河在她的床上轻轻转侧；芒果树根上的土被冲走了。这小东西的窝巢没有了，它在长眠不醒之前，只惊觉了短短的一瞬。 当我在毁坏一切的自然的可怕的神秘面前，我自己和其他生物的区别就显得很微小。在城市里，人类社会总是摆在前面，朦朦浮现；它对其他生物的苦乐和自己的比较，总是残酷地淡漠。 在欧洲，同样地，人是那么复杂而突出，因此动物对于他，只不过是个动物。对于印度人，那灵魂轮回的想法，人托生成为动物，动物托生成为人，并不奇怪，所以我们的经文里，对一切有情的东西，慈悲并没有被看作多情善感的夸张而被放弃掉。 当我在乡村和自然密切接触的时候，我心中的印度人的成分就露出头角，我不能冷酷淡漠地对待一只小鸟的，柔软的毛茸茸的胸腹中跳动着的生命的喜乐。一八九四年八月十日昨夜水里一阵汹涌的声音把我惊醒了——一阵突然的河流的狂闹的骚动——也许是雨融雪水的袭击：是这个季候常常发生的事情。踏在船板上的双脚会感觉到种种不同的力量在下面运行着。轻微的颤抖，小小的摇动，和缓的高起和凶猛的击撞，都把我和河流的脉搏连系起来了。 夜里一定有什么突然的动乱使得河水奔涌起来。我爬起坐在窗前。一片朦胧的晕光使汹涌的河水更显得疯狂。天空中散发着云雾的斑点。一颗极大的星星的光影，一长条地在水上颤动，像是一道痛苦的灼热的伤口。两岸被熟睡的模糊所笼罩，两岸中间是这粗野的不眠的动荡，不顾一切地奔涌着。 在夜半看到这种场面，使人觉得自己完全换了一个人，白天的生活只是一个幻觉。而今天早晨，那个夜半的世界又消退到梦境里去，融失为淡薄的空气。这两种生活是这样地不同，但是对于人，两种生活都是真实的。 白天的世界对于我仿佛是欧洲音乐——它的和谐与不和谐在交响乐的盛大队伍里交融起来，夜晚的世界像印度音乐——纯洁、自由的旋律，低沉而生动。即使它们的对照是那么显着——而这两种音乐都感动了我们。这个对立的原则是在创造的根柢的深处；是被国王和女王、白昼和黑夜统一和变异、永恒和进化的统治所区分着。 我们印度人是在夜的统治之下。我们沉浸在统一，即永恒之中。我们的曲调是为个人，对自己独唱的；它们把我们的日常世界引到静独的超然里去。欧洲音乐是为多数人的，带着他们舞蹈着穿过人的盛衰和哀乐。一八九四年八月十三日我所真切地想着的，真切地感到的，真切地体会的——它的自然的定数，就是要找到真实的表现。在我心里有一种力量不断地向这目的努力，但是这力量不只是我一个人的——它还渗透着万有。当这股万能的力量在个人里面显现的时候，它就不受他的约束，而只照自己的本性行动起来；把我们的生命驯伏在它的力量之下，是我们的最大的喜乐。它不但给我们以表情，也给我们以敏感和爱情；这就使我们的情感每次到来的时候，都会使我们感到它是那样地新鲜，那样地充满了奇妙。 当我的女儿使我快乐的时候，她就融入到喜乐的原始神秘，也就是万有中去；我的慈爱就像崇拜似的被唤了起来。我确信我们一切的爱情都只是伟大神秘的崇拜，我们只是不自觉地实行着，否则那就是无意义的。 和万有的引力一样，在物质世界里支配着大大小小的东西，这个万有的喜乐，在我们全部的内心世界中运用着它的引力，我们若以局部的眼光来看它，我们的了解就受到阻碍。 我们为什么从人和自然中会得到快乐，在《奥义书》中给我们做了唯一的合理的解释： 都是在喜乐中诞生的。一八九四年八月十九日吠檀多似乎帮助了许多人在万有和它的由来上得到了解答，但是我的疑问仍然没有澄清。说吠檀多比其他大多数的理论是简单一点，这也是实话。关于创世和创世者的问题，越看下去是越复杂；但是吠檀多确实把它精简了一半，用割断死结的办法把创造整个删掉了。 剩下的只有婆罗摩——我们这些人只是在想象说我们也是——人类的心怎会找到地方来容纳这个思想，真是一件奇妙的事情。更奇妙的是这想法并不像听去那样地不坚定，真正的困难倒是去证明世界上真个有物质存在。 无论如何，就像现在月亮升起了，以半闭的眼睛，我四肢伸展地躺在船舱上月光下面，柔风吹醒了。我的塞满问题的头脑，这时，大地，流水，四周的天空，河水的微波，从纤路上偶然走过的行人，不时掠过的小舟，田野外的树林，在月光下显得朦胧的树林外瞌睡的村庄，被村外树林的黑影围抱着，——的确像是幻境中的幻觉；但是它们比真理还真实地缠绕而牵引着神志和心，真理是抽象的，使人变成不可能体会：从这些幻觉里面解脱出来，能得到什么样的超度。沙乍浦一八九四年九月五日我理会到我变得怎样地渴求空间而且尽情地享有它，当我以唯一的元首的身份，在门户洞开的屋里的时候。在这里，不像在别的地方，写作的愿望与力量都是我自己的。外面生活的刺激，在碧绿的波浪中卷到我心里，和这波浪一起卷来的光、香、声，都把我的想象力鼓动成为故事的写作。 每一天的下午，都有它们自己特殊的魅力。太阳的强光，那沉默，那寂静，鸟的鸣声，特别是乌鸦的叫噪，以及愉快的安静的闲暇——这一切通同一气地把我整个地带走。 就是这样的中午，似乎会使人写出那样的故事——在大马士革，布哈拉，或是撒玛尔汗，和它们的沙漠上的车路，一串一串的骆驼！漫游的骑手，清澈的泉水，从茸茸的枣椰树荫里涌了出来；它们的数不清的玫瑰，夜莺的歌声，士拉茨的酒；它们的张着鲜艳的天篷的狭窄的市街，人们穿着宽大的长袍，裹着彩色的头巾，卖着枣子、壳果和瓜；它们的宫殿，熏得喷香，窗边的蒙着梵锦的长床和枕垫，摆设得十分华丽；它们的邹碧蒂亚、或是阿米娜、或是索菲亚，穿着文绣鲜明的衣服，宽大的裤子，绣金的鞋子，一根长长的水烟袋，在她脚边袅袅地卷着青烟，锦衣华服的太监们守在她们的旁边，——这个神秘遥远的地方，一切可能和不可能的人类的行为和愿望，欢笑和哀泣的故事。赴代革帕提阿途中一八九四年九月二十日大树都立在洪水里，树身完全淹没了，枝叶俯伏在水面上。船只都系在芒果和榕树下面，人们在船背后洗着澡。到处都看到农舍立在流水上，院落都浸在水里。 当我的船从田里庄稼上面沙沙地穿行的时候，不时地走过大水以前的池塘，池塘周围的莲花还看得出来，潜水鸟也在里面捕鱼。 洪水穿进一切可到的地方。我从来没有看见陆地溃退到这个地步。陆地再多退一点，洪水就要涌进农舍里，里面的居民就得搭起席棚来住。母牛就要死掉，如果它们总是站在没膝深的水里。所有的蛇都从洞穴里涌了出来，他们和无数的无家的爬虫和昆虫，必须和人类成为密友，在他屋顶的茅草里避难。 蔬菜都在水里烂坏了，各种的垃圾到处漂浮，四肢枯瘦脾脏涨大的赤裸的孩子，到处在溅泼着水，久经忧患的耐心的主妇们，穿着精湿的衣服在风中雨中蹒跚地掖起裙子做着日常的工作。在这一切的上面，一层棺衣似的蚊群，在污毒的空气里飞翔——这情景真不能使人愉快。 感冒和发烧和风湿每家都有，患疟疾的孩子整天在哭——没有什么能够拯救他们。人们怎能居住在这样不可爱，不健康，肮脏、荒凉的环境里呢？事实上是我们习惯于垂手忍受一场自然的灾害，统治者的压迫，我们经典的压力，对于它们，我们一声不响地忍受，同时他们却永远把我们折磨下去。赴波利亚途中一八九四年九月二十二日当人家提醒我说，只有三十二个秋天在我的生命中来了又去的时候，我感到奇怪；因为我的记忆似乎退回到不可记忆的年光的朦胧之中；当我的内心世界泛滥着像无云的秋晨一样的光明的时候，我觉得我正坐在一座魔宫的窗前，出神地注视着被充满着一切“过去”的暗香的柔风所抚慰的，一个遥远记忆的场面。 歌德在临终的时候，要“光更亮些”。如果我在那时候还有愿望的话，那就是同时也要“空间更大些”；因为我非常喜爱光明和空间。许多人看不起孟加拉，因为它只是一片平原，但是正是为此，我对它的风景格外迷恋。它的无遮无碍的天空，像一只紫晶的酒杯似的，斟满了降临的暮色和夜晚的宁静，直到杯沿；凝静的中午的金裙，也毫无障碍地伸展开来，把它整个地盖住。 在哪里还有像这样的一个可以使人游目骋怀的地方呢？加尔各答一八九四年十月五日明天是杜尔伽大祭节。在我到Ｓ．家去的路上，我注意到差不多每一所大房子里都在造着神像。使我想到在节日的几天中，老年人和青年人都变成孩子了。 我们细想起来，一切娱乐的筹备，其实和玩着玩具一样，本身是没有什么目的的。从表面上看也许像是浪费，但是在整个国家引起这样的感情的波浪，这能算是无益的吗？连那世故到最枯干的人也被这汹涌弥漫的情绪所感动，从自我中心的兴趣中跑出来了。 这样，一年一度有一段时间，一切的心都处在易于涌发爱恋和同情的柔怜的心情之中。 迎神送神的歌曲，情人的相会，节日的笛管的调子，明净的天空，和秋光的熔金般的颜色，都是这首伟大的欢歌的一部分。 单纯的快乐是儿童的快乐。他们有这种用任一件或每一件细小的东西，来创造自己的兴趣世界的力量，连那最难看的玩偶，也因着他们的想象而变得美丽，因着他们的生命而活了起来。在长大以后还能够保留享乐的天才的人，真是一个理想家。对于他，事物不仅是眼睛看得见，耳朵听得见的，而且也是心感得到的，它们的狭窄或不完全，都消失在他自己所填补上的喜乐的音乐里了。 每一个人不能都希望做一个理想家，但是全体人民在这样的一个节期中，能最接近于这种极乐的境界。这时候，我们平日当作玩具的东西，就失去它的局限性，而被理想的光辉所美化了。波浦一八九四年十月十九日我们只在虚线画成的轮廓上认识人，这就是说，在我们的认识中，还有许多必须由我们自己尽量去填满的空隙。这样，连那些我们很熟识的人，大部分也是我们自己的想象造成的。有的时候这条线是这样地破缺不全，连重要的点子都没有了，一部分的图画一直是黑黑地模糊一片。如果我们最好的朋友，只不过是穿在想象的线上的一个轮廓的破片，那么我们真正地认识什么人了吗？或者除了用同样的支离破碎的方式以外，什么人又认识了我们呢？ 但是，也许就是这些洞孔，可以让彼此的想象进入，做成了亲密的友谊；否则每个人都安居在他的不可侵犯的个性里，除了里面的“居住者”之外，没有人能够去接近的。 对于我们自己，同样地，我们只能零碎地认识到，我们必须凭着这些零碎的材料，来模塑我们自传里的主人公——也必须请求我们想象的帮忙。无疑的，上天有意地省略去某些部分，让我们在创造自己的时候，可以自己帮一帮忙。一八九四年十月三十一日第一场北风今天开始颤抖地刮着。看去就像有税吏到余甘树林里来过一样——一切东西都失常了，叹息着，战抖着，畏缩着。中午阳光的疲倦的冷淡，和它的在芒果树梢的浓荫中的、单调的鸽子的鸣唤，仿佛以临别的痛苦来笼罩这困倦的值日。 我桌上时钟的滴答声，和松鼠在我屋里跳进跳出的拍达拍达的脚声，和其他一切的正午的声音协调着。 我觉得很好玩，看着这些柔软的、黑灰色条纹的毛茸茸的松鼠，和它们灌木似的尾巴，它们的念珠似的闪烁的眼睛，它们温柔而忙碌的老练的动作。一切可吃的东西，必须收放在屋角的纱橱里，防备这些贪婪的动物。因此它们在压抑不住的渴望中吸嗅着，来到碗橱周围闻来闻去的，想找个窟窿钻进去。如果有些谷粒或是面包的碎片掉在外面，它们就准能找到，而且用两只前爪捧着，使大劲地啃，一面把这东西转来转去地来适合它们的嘴。我只要有一点响动，它们立刻把尾巴撅到背上，飞快地跑走，可是跑到半道又停下了，坐在门口的垫子上，用后爪挠着耳朵，然后又跑回来。 这种微小的声音整天地继续着——咬啮的牙齿声，跳走的脚声，和架上磁器的叮当的响声。西来达一八九四年十二月七日每逢我在月下沙岸散步，Ｓ．总来谈些事务。 昨晚他来了；谈完了话，静默临到我上面的时候，我发觉那永在的万有，在夜色中站在我面前。一个人的琐碎的杂谈，足够使万有的弥漫一切的显示，变得模糊了。 杂谈的话语刚告了终结，星辰在宁静中降临了，把我的心斟到满溢，我在一个角落上找到了座位，和那些聚集的百万光球坐在一起，开着关于存在的伟大的神秘会谈。 在晚上我必须早些出去，好让我的心去吸收外界的宁静，否则Ｓ．就来向我拉杂地问到牛奶对我是否适合，或是我看完了那每年的契约没有。 我们是多么奇怪地安放在“永恒”与“刹那”之间呵！任何关于口腹的暗示，在心思居住在精神世界的时候，都显得无望地不调和，——但灵魂和胃口已经同居了那么久了。月光照到的地方，是我在地上的产业，但是月亮告诉我，说我的经理人是个幻象，而我的经理人告诉我，说月光是完全空虚的。可怜的我呢，就在这两者之间挤扁了。一八九五年二月二十三日当我想给《实践》杂志写稿的时候，我简直是心不在焉，我举目观望每一条走过的船只，而且凝注着渡船的来往。这时在岸上靠近我的船的地方，有一群水牛在把它们宽大的鼻子伸进牧草里去，用舌头把草卷起送进嘴里，然后咀嚼起来！ 使劲地喷出一阵阵满足的热气，一面用尾巴赶着背上的苍蝇。 忽然间一个赤裸的瘦弱的娃娃，出现在场面上，做出无数的声音，又用一根棍子捅着耐心的牲畜中之一，而它只偶然地对这小家伙瞥视一下，一路还抽空揪着吃着一簇一簇的叶子和青草，这个不动声色的畜牲，悠闲地走了几步，那个小鬼头就仿佛觉得他的牧人的责任已经尽到了。 我猜不透这个牧童心里的秘密。不论什么时候，一只乳牛或是水牛选好了自己喜爱的地方，舒服地在吃着草，我不懂为什么定要搅扰它，就像这牧童现在那样非赶它走开不可，直到它挪到别的地方。我推测那是人类在战胜他所驯伏的大力气的牲畜的主人公光荣感。无论如何，我喜欢看水牛在青草丛中掩映。 但是我开头想说的不是这个。我想告诉你，近来任何一件小事，都会分散我对于《实践》杂志的责任心。在我的上一封信①里告诉你的那些土蜂，它们为着无结果的追求，应和着无意义的嗡嗡调子，孜孜不倦地在我头上旋绕。 它们每天早上九、十点钟的光景就来了，突然疾飞到我的饭桌上，又急转到书桌下，碰撞着有色的玻璃窗，然后在我头上绕一两圈，就嗤嗤地飞走了。 我很容易把它们当作冤魂不散的鬼，变成黄蜂一再地回来，在过路的时候对我作一次问候的拜访。但我并没有这样想。我确信它们是真的土蜂，在梵文有时叫做吸蜜者，更罕见的就是叫做双须类。一八九五年二月十六日在我们生活下去的时候，我们必须时时刻刻脚踏实地走。 但在概括起来的时候，这却是十分细小的事情，两个钟头的集中思索，就可以把握一切。 在三十年的紧张生活之后，雪莱只能供给两卷的自传材料，而里面有相当的一部分，还让道登的杂谈给占去了。我的三十年的生活，是连一卷也填不满的。 为了这小小的生命，我们是多么小题大做啊！只要想想有多大的土地、买卖和商务只为供给它的粮食，全世界上每一个人占了多大的空间，虽然一张椅子就容得下他的全身！而等到这一切都做好做完之后，只剩下两个钟头思索的材料和几页的文章！ 我的懒散的这一天，在我的几页上占了多少个无足轻重①此信未选入本集。——译者的断片呢！但是这宁静的一天，在平静的水边的荒凉岸上，不会在我永恒的过去与将来的卷轴上，多少地留下一点鲜明的金迹吗？一八九五年二月二十八日今天我得到一封不具名的信，是这样开始的： 让自己全心全意地俯伏在另一个人的脚前，是一件最真诚的礼物。 写信的人从来没有见过我，只从我的作品中认识了我，他又接着说： 无论是多么少或是多么远，太阳①的崇拜者也会得到一部分的阳光。你是世界的诗人，但是对于我，你似乎是我一个人的诗人。 还有一些同样情调的话。 人是那样地切望把他的爱寄托在一个对象上，这样他最后就和他自己的“理想”爱恋上了。但是我们怎么就该认为思想就不像事实那么真实呢？我们永远不能确实知道我们通过感官所得到的真理，对于思想后面的本质，也就是心的创造来说，为什么我们就有更大的疑问呢？ 母亲在孩子身上实现了伟大的“思想”，这是每个孩子身上都有的，但那不可言说的“思想”，对于任何其他的人，并没有显露出来。难道我们可以说那把母亲自己以生命和灵魂牵引出来的东西是虚幻的，而不能把我们同样地牵引出来的①作者的名字。罗宾，是“太阳”的意思。——译者东西，却是真正的真实吗？ 每一个人都值得承受爱情的无限财富——他的灵魂的美是没有边际的……但是我谈的太宽泛了。我所要表达的是，一方面，我没有权利接受我的崇拜者贡献给我的心；这就是说，对我来讲，一个看透了我的日常的外表的人，是决不会有这些美好的情感的。但是在另一方面，我是配受一切甚至于更高的崇拜。赴帕卜那途中一八九五年七月九日我正滑穿过弯曲的小伊茶玛提，这条雨季的小小的河流。 它两岸的一排排的村舍，它的麻地和蔗田，它的小小的一块一块的芦苇地，它的碧绿的浴场的斜坡，它像被人所喜爱而常常背诵的几行诗句。人们不能熟记像巴特马那样的大河，但是这条曲折的小小的伊茶玛提，它的音节的流动，是被雨的韵律所调节的。我正在慢慢地写我自己的诗……这是黄昏时候，天空被云雾遮盖了，雷声怒吼，野树丛向着吹过的狂风波浪似地低首。 竹林深处，墨一样地沉黑。苍白的微光像传报恶耗的使者，在河水上闪烁着。 我在阴暗中伏案作书，我愿意低声说出低调的亲密的话语，来和这黄昏的半阴影的画面，取得一致的情调。但正是这种的愿望，把一切的效果都毁坏了。愿望不是自己得到了满足，就是一点也得不到。所以准备打一场严酷的仗，比准备说一段随便的、没有条理的话，简单得多。西来达一八九五年八月十四日关于工作的一个主要之点，就是为了工作的缘故，个人必须将私人的苦乐看轻；真的，要尽可能地忽视它们。我想起了在沙乍浦发生的一件事。有一天早晨，我的仆人来晚了，对于他的迟到我感着十分愤怒。他走来站在我面前照例地问了安，用微带哽咽的声音解释说，他的八岁的女儿昨天夜里死去了。以后，他拿起掸子来，开始收拾我的屋子。 当我们察看工作的园地，我们看到有的人在经商，有的人在耕地，有的人在挑担，而在这下面，死亡，忧伤，损失，在一个看不见的潜流中每天地涌流——它们的隐秘没有受到干扰。如果有一天这些情感压制不住地奔腾到水面来，那么一切工作都要立刻停顿。个人的忧伤在下边流着，上面是一条坚硬的石轨，责任的火车载着人类的担负隆隆地走过，除了指定的车站以外，不为任何人停车。这工作的残酷性，也许，就是人的最严肃的安慰。库施提亚一八九五年十月五日只从表面的经文传来的宗教，永远不会变成我们自己的；我们和它的唯一联结是习惯上的。把宗教吸收到内心里，是一个人的伟大的终身事业。它必须在痛苦中诞生；必须在他生命的血液中生活；然后，不管它是否给他带来了幸福，人的旅程将在圆满的喜乐中终结。 我们很少体会到我们是多么虚伪，我们听别人嘴里说着，我们也跟着不停地说，同时我们的“真理”的庙宇，却总在我们心里，一天一天地，一块砖一块砖地，不停地砌了起来。 我们不能了解这永远建造的神秘，当我们在流逝的时光中，把苦乐分起来看；就像把一句话分成一个字一个字地来读，就变成不可了解的了。 我们一旦发现了这个在我们心中进行着的创造计划的一致性，我们就体会到我们和永远扩展的万有的关系。我们体会到我们也在被创造的过程之中，和在轨道上旋转的天星一样——我们的愿望，我们的痛苦，都在整体里面找到它们恰当的地位。 我们也许不能确知有什么事情在发生；我们甚至于不能正确了解一粒尘土。但是当我们感到在我们里面的生命之流，是和外界万有的生命合一的时候，那么我们一切的快乐和痛苦，看去都是穿在一根喜乐的长线上。这些事实：我存在，我运动，我生长，它们和世上一切都联系在一起，使它们显得无边地广大，事实是，连一粒最小的原子中，也不能没有我们的一份。 我的灵魂，同这个美丽的秋晨，同这个浩阔的光辉，是一种密切的亲属关系；这一切色彩、芬香、音乐不过是我们秘密的神交的外表的表现。这种经常的神交，不管体会到与否，都使我的心思永远在运动着；在我的内心和外界的沟通里，我得到了这种的宗教，多也罢少也罢，看我能力之所及；在这种思想的光照之下，在我能把它们变成自己的宗教以前，我必须先考验一切的经典。西来达一八九五年十二月十二日有一天夜里，我正在读着一本英国的文学批评，里面充满了对于诗歌、艺术和美等等一切的各种各式的争论。当我费力地读完这些矫揉造作的讨论之后，我的困乏的脑力，似乎走入一个充满嘲弄的鬼脸的空幻的地区。 夜已经很深了，我砰的一声合上书，把它丢到桌上，然后我吹灭了灯想上床睡觉，我刚一吹灭灯，月光带着惊奇的激动，穿过洞开的窗户，立刻扑进我的屋里来。 那盏小灯曾经冷冷地在讥笑我，像那个靡非斯特匪勒司①：这个极小的讥笑，把这从全世界的深厚的爱中发出的，无穷的音乐之光给遮住了。说真的，我在那本空洞罗嗦的书里找些什么呢？这才真正是那件东西，充满着天空，在外面一直静静地等待着！ 如果我不去开窗就上床睡觉，因而错过了这个幻象，它也会依旧等在那里，也不对那讥笑的小灯提出任何抗议。甚至于即使我终身对它是视而不见——让那盏小灯胜利到底——直到我最后一次摸着黑爬上床去——即使在那时候，月亮也仍会在那里甜柔地微笑着，平静地、谦逊地和她从亘古①歌德所作《浮士德》剧中的魔鬼。——译者以来一样地在等着我。 （部分译文刊于《世界文学》１９６２年第４期、《河北文学》