名著精讀:《悉達多》 唵(1)

OM
For a long time, the wound continued to burn. Many a traveller Siddhartha had to ferry across the river who was accompanied by a son or a daughter, and he saw none of them without envying him, without thinking: "So many, so many thousands possess this sweetest of good fortunes--why don't I? Even bad people, even thieves and robbers have children and love them, and are being loved by them, all except for me." Thus simply, thus without reason he now thought, thus similar to the childlike people he had become.
Differently than before, he now looked upon people, less smart, less proud, but instead warmer, more curious, more involved. When he ferried travellers of the ordinary kind, childlike people, businessmen, warriors, women, these people did not seem alien to him as they used to: he understood them, he understood and shared their life, which was not guided by thoughts and insight, but solely by urges and wishes, he felt like them. Though he was near perfection and was bearing his final wound, it still seemed to him as if those childlike people were his brothers, their vanities, desires for possession, and ridiculous aspects were no longer ridiculous to him, became understandable, became lovable, even became worthy of veneration to him. The blind love of a mother for her child, the stupid, blind pride of a conceited father for his only son, the blind, wild desire of a young, vain woman for jewelry and admiring glances from men, all of these urges, all of this childish stuff, all of these simple, foolish, but immensely strong, strongly living, strongly prevailing urges and desires were now no childish notions for Siddhartha any more, he saw people living for their sake, saw them achieving infinitely much for their sake, travelling, conducting wars, suffering infinitely much, bearing infinitely much, and he could love them for it, he saw life, that what is alive, the indestructible, the Brahman in each of their passions, each of their acts. Worthy of love and admiration were these people in their blind loyalty, their blind strength and tenacity. They lacked nothing, there was nothing the knowledgeable one, the thinker, had to put him above them except for one little thing, a single, tiny, small thing: the consciousness, the conscious thought of the oneness of all life. And Siddhartha even doubted in many an hour, whether this knowledge, this thought was to be valued thus highly, whether it might not also perhaps be a childish idea of the thinking people, of the thinking and childlike people. In all other respects, theworldly people were of equal rank to the wise men, were often far superior to them, just as animals too can, after all, in some moments, seem to be superior to humans in their tough, unrelenting performance of what is necessary.
Slowly blossomed, slowly ripened in Siddhartha the realisation, the knowledge, what wisdom actually was, what the goal of his long search was. It was nothing but a readiness of the soul, an ability, a secret art, to think every moment, while living his life, the thought of oneness, to be able to feel and inhale the oneness. Slowly this blossomed in him, was shining back at him from Vasudeva's old, childlike face: harmony, knowledge of the eternal perfection of the world, smiling, oneness.
But the wound still burned, longingly and bitterly Siddhartha thought of his son, nurtured his love and tenderness in his heart, allowed the pain to gnaw at him, committed all foolish acts of love. Not by itself, this flame would go out.

唵
那傷口很久仍然在疼。有時，席特哈爾塔擺渡某個身邊帶着兒子或女兒的旅客過河，心裏總是很羨慕，想：“這麼多人，千千萬萬的人，都擁有這份最溫馨的幸福——爲什麼我偏偏沒有？就連壞人，竊賊和強盜，也都有自己的孩子，既愛他們又爲他們所愛，可是惟獨我不行！”他想得就是這麼簡單，這麼沒有理性，他變得跟那些孩子般的俗人一模一樣了。
現在他待人跟以前不一樣了，不再精明，不再自負，而是更熱情、更好奇、更關心人了。他在擺渡通常類型的旅客，也就是孩子般的俗人、商人、士兵和女人時，覺得這些人不像以前那麼生疏了：他理解他們，理解並分享他們那並非由思想和觀點、而是由本能和願望所引導的生活，覺得自己跟他們一樣了。雖然他已接近於完美，身上有他最近的傷口，他卻覺得這些俗人都是他的兄弟，他們的虛榮、貪心和可笑對於他已經失去了可笑之處，而是變得可理解、可愛甚至可尊敬了。一個母親對自己孩子的盲目的愛，一個自負的父親對自己獨生子的愚蠢而盲目的自豪，一個愛打扮的年輕女人對珠寶首飾以及男人讚賞目光的盲目而瘋狂的追求，所有這些慾望，所有這些幼稚，所有這些簡單、愚蠢但又極爲強烈、極爲活躍和頑固的慾望與貪心，現在對於席特哈爾塔已不再是幼稚了，他看到人們爲了這些而活着，爲了這些而忙忙碌碌，四處奔波，互相打伏，吃無窮的苦，忍受無盡的煩惱。他因此而愛他們，在他們的每一種激情和每一種行動中，他都看到了生活，那種生氣勃勃，那種堅不可摧，他看到了梵。這些人在其盲目的忠實以及盲目的剛強和堅韌方面是可愛和可敬的。他們不缺少什麼，學者和思想家並不比他們高明，只除了一件小事，一件很細小的小事：覺悟，對一切生活統一性的清醒想法。席特哈爾塔有時甚至懷疑，對這認識、這想法是否該評價得這麼高，就不定連他自己也有一種思索者的幼稚，一個思考的俗人的幼稚呢。總之，凡夫俗子在其他方面都與智者賢人不相上下，甚至還遠遠勝於他們，正像動物在其頑強而堅定的必要行動中有時會勝過人類一樣。
在席特哈爾塔心中，有一種認識，有一種學問，也就是智慧到底是什麼，他長期探索的目標是什麼，漸漸開花，漸漸成熟了。它無非就是一種心靈的準備，一種能力，一種神祕的藝術，每時每刻，在生活當中，能夠想統一的思想，能夠感受和吸入這種統一。這在他心中慢慢開花了，又在瓦蘇代瓦那蒼老的臉上反映出來：和諧，關於世界永恆完美的認識，笑容，統一。
可是傷口仍灼痛不已，席特哈爾塔仍在苦苦地思念他的兒子，在心中培育他的愛心和柔情，任憑疼痛折磨自己，不惜幹一切愛的蠢事。這火焰是不會自行熄滅的。