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名著精读:《悉达多》-覺醒(2)

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He looked around, as if he was seeing the world for the first time. Beautiful was the world, colourful was the world, strange and mysterious was the world! Here was blue, here was yellow, here was green, the sky and the river flowed, the forest and the mountains were rigid, all of it was beautiful, all of it was mysterious and magical, and in its midst was he, Siddhartha, the awakening one, on the path to himself. All of this, all this yellow and blue, river and forest, entered Siddhartha for the first time through the eyes, was no longer a spell of Mara, was no longer the veil of Maya, was no longer a pointless and coincidental diversity of mere appearances, despicable to the deeply thinking Brahman, who scorns diversity, who seeks unity. Blue was blue, river was river, and if also in the blue and the river, in Siddhartha, the singular and divine lived hidden, so it was still that very divinity's way and purpose, to be here yellow, here blue, there sky, there forest, and here Siddhartha. The purpose and theessential properties were not somewhere behind the things, they were in them, in everything.他环视四周,就好像是第一次见到这个世界。世界多么美好,世界多么绚丽,世界多么奇妙和迷人!这儿有蓝色,有黄色,有绿色,天空在流动,河流也在流动,森林高高耸立,山岭也高高耸立,一切都十分美丽,一切都十分神秘和不可思议,而席特哈尔塔置身其中,他是个正在觉醒的人,正走在通向自我的路上。所有这一切,这黄色和蓝色,这河流和森林,第一次通过眼睛进入席特哈尔塔内心,不再是玛拉的法术,不再是玛雅的面纱,不再是现象世界毫无意义和偶然的繁复多样,而对于这个鄙弃繁复多样并寻求和谐统一的婆罗门来说却算不得什么。蓝色就是蓝色,河流就是河流,即便在席特哈尔塔眼里,蓝色与河流中潜藏着神性,那也是神性的方式和意义。这边是黄色,是蓝色,那边是天空,是森林,而席特哈尔塔就在这里。内容和本质并不是在事物后面的什么地方,而是在事物内部,在所有事物之中。
"How deaf and stupid have I been!" he thought, walking swiftly along. "When someone reads a text, wants to discover its meaning, he will not scorn the symbols and letters and call them deceptions, coincidence, and worthless hull, but he will read them, he will study and love them, letter by letter. But I, who wanted to read the book of the world and the book of my own being, I have, for the sake of a meaning I had anticipated before I read, scorned the symbols and letters, I called the visible world a deception, called my eyes and my tongue coincidental and worthless forms without substance. No, this is over, I have awakened, I have indeed awakened and have not been born before this very day."“我是多么麻木和迟钝啊!”这个匆匆前行的人心想,“如果一个人读一篇文章,其内容正是他要寻找的,那么,他就不会看不起那些符号和字母,称它们为错觉、偶然和没有价值的皮毛,而是逐字逐句地仔细阅读,钻研和热爱它们。而我呢,我想阅读世界这本书,阅读我自己的本质这本书,却为了取悦一个预先臆测的含义,轻视 些符号和字母,我称现象的世界为错觉,称我的眼睛和舌头为偶然和无价值的现象。不,这已经过去了,我已经醒来了,我确实已经觉醒了,今天才刚刚新生!”
In thinking this thoughts, Siddhartha stopped once again, suddenly, as if there was a snake lying in front of him on the path.席特哈尔塔想着这些,又一次突然停下了郐步,就好像有一条蛇横在他面前的路上。
Because suddenly, he had also become aware of this: He, who was indeed like someone who had just woken up or like a new-born baby, he had to start his life anew and start again at the very beginning. When he had left in this very morning from the grove Jetavana, the grove of that exalted one, already awakening, already on the path towards himself, he he had every intention, regarded as natural and took for granted, that he, after years as an ascetic, would return to his home and his father. But now, only in this moment, when he stopped as if a snake was lying on his path, he also awoke to this realization: "But I am no longer the one I was, I am no ascetic any more, I am not a priest any more, I am no Brahman any more. Whatever should I do at home and at my father's place? Study? Make offerings? Practise meditation? But all this is over, all of this is no longer alongside my path."这是因为他突然还明白了一点:他实际上就像一个觉醒者或者新生者,必须从头开始他的生活,完全从头开始。当天早上他离开耶塔瓦纳林苑,离开那个活佛的林苑时,他已经开始觉醒,已经在通向自我的道路上了,这正是他的目的。在经过多年苦修之后,他觉得回家乡去看望父亲是理所当然和不言而喻的。但是现在,就在他停住脚,仿佛有一条蛇横在他路上这一瞬间,他又清醒地认识到:“我不再是原来的我,不再是苦修者,不再是僧侣,不再是婆罗门了。我回到家在父亲身边又能做什么呢?钻研?祭祀?沉思潜修?这一切都过去了,这一切都不再挡着我的路了。”
Motionless, Siddhartha remained standing there, and for the time of one moment and breath, his heart felt cold, he felt a cold in his chest, as a small animal, a bird or a rabbit, would when seeing how alone he was. For many years, he had been without home and had felt nothing. Now, he felt it. Still, even in the deepest meditation, he had been his father's son, had been a Brahman, of a high caste, a cleric. Now, he was nothing but Siddhartha, the awoken one, nothing else was left. Deeply, he inhaled, and for a moment, he felt cold and shivered. Nobody was thus alone as he was. There was no nobleman who did not belong to the noblemen, no worker that did not belong to the workers, and found refuge with them, shared their life, spoke their language. No Brahman, who would not be regarded as Brahmans and lived with them, no ascetic who would not find his refuge in the caste of the Samanas, and even the most forlorn hermit in the forest was not just one and alone, he was also surrounded by a place he belonged to,he also belonged to a caste, in which he was at home. Govinda had become a monk, and a thousand monks were his brothers, wore the same robe as he, believed in his faith, spoke his language. But he, Siddhartha, where did he belong to? With whom would he share his life? Whose language would he speak?席特哈尔塔一动不动地站着,他的心冷了一下,感到心在胸口中很冷很冷,就像一只小动物,就像一只鸟儿或一只免子,他看到了自己是多么孤独。多年来他没有家,流落四方,没有这种感受,而今天却感觉到了。即使在以前的潜修中,他依然是他父亲的儿子,是婆罗门,地位高贵,是个有教养的人。而现在他只是席特哈尔塔,一个觉醒者,除此之外便什么也不是了。他深深地吸气,有一瞬间感到浑身发冷,颤栗不已,没有谁像他这么孤独。没有一个贵族不属于贵族们,没有一个工匠不属于工匠们,同时还求助于他们,分享他们的生活,说他们的语言。没有一个婆罗门不属于所有婆罗门,和他们在一起生活。没有一个苦行僧不求助于沙门这个阶层。就连森林中与世隔绝的隐士,也不是孤零零的一个人,他周围也有附属的东西,他也属于一个阶层,那就是他的家。戈文达当了和尚,上千的和尚都是他的弟兄,穿着他的衣服,信奉他的信仰,讲他的语言。但是他,席特哈尔塔,他属于哪儿呢?他分享谁的生活?他讲谁的语言呢?
Out of this moment, when the world melted away all around him, when he stood alone like a star in the sky, out of this moment of a cold and despair, Siddhartha emerged, more a self than before, more firmly concentrated. He felt: This had been the last tremor of the awakening, the last struggle of this birth. And it was not long until he walked again in long strides, started to proceed swiftly and impatiently, heading no longer for home, no longer to his father, no longer back.从这一瞬间起,他周围的世界消失了。他一个人站在那儿,就好像天空中的一颗星星。从这一瞬间起,席特哈尔塔已从一种寒冷和沮丧中浮了上来,比先前有了更多的自我,也显得更坚实了。他感到这便是觉醒的最后寒战,新生的最后痉挛。他重又迈开了步子,急匆匆地走起来,不再是回家,不再是投奔父亲,不再是走回头路。

He looked around, as if he was seeing the world for the first time. Beautiful was the world, colourful was the world, strange and mysterious was the world! Here was blue, here was yellow, here was green, the sky and the river flowed, the forest and the mountains were rigid, all of it was beautiful, all of it was mysterious and magical, and in its midst was he, Siddhartha, the awakening one, on the path to himself. All of this, all this yellow and blue, river and forest, entered Siddhartha for the first time through the eyes, was no longer a spell of Mara, was no longer the veil of Maya, was no longer a pointless and coincidental diversity of mere appearances, despicable to the deeply thinking Brahman, who scorns diversity, who seeks unity. Blue was blue, river was river, and if also in the blue and the river, in Siddhartha, the singular and divine lived hidden, so it was still that very divinity's way and purpose, to be here yellow, here blue, there sky, there forest, and here Siddhartha. The purpose and theessential properties were not somewhere behind the things, they were in them, in everything.
"How deaf and stupid have I been!" he thought, walking swiftly along. "When someone reads a text, wants to discover its meaning, he will not scorn the symbols and letters and call them deceptions, coincidence, and worthless hull, but he will read them, he will study and love them, letter by letter. But I, who wanted to read the book of the world and the book of my own being, I have, for the sake of a meaning I had anticipated before I read, scorned the symbols and letters, I called the visible world a deception, called my eyes and my tongue coincidental and worthless forms without substance. No, this is over, I have awakened, I have indeed awakened and have not been born before this very day."
In thinking this thoughts, Siddhartha stopped once again, suddenly, as if there was a snake lying in front of him on the path.
Because suddenly, he had also become aware of this: He, who was indeed like someone who had just woken up or like a new-born baby, he had to start his life anew and start again at the very beginning. When he had left in this very morning from the grove Jetavana, the grove of that exalted one, already awakening, already on the path towards himself, he he had every intention, regarded as natural and took for granted, that he, after years as an ascetic, would return to his home and his father. But now, only in this moment, when he stopped as if a snake was lying on his path, he also awoke to this realization: "But I am no longer the one I was, I am no ascetic any more, I am not a priest any more, I am no Brahman any more. Whatever should I do at home and at my father's place? Study? Make offerings? Practise meditation? But all this is over, all of this is no longer alongside my path."
Motionless, Siddhartha remained standing there, and for the time of one moment and breath, his heart felt cold, he felt a cold in his chest, as a small animal, a bird or a rabbit, would when seeing how alone he was. For many years, he had been without home and had felt nothing. Now, he felt it. Still, even in the deepest meditation, he had been his father's son, had been a Brahman, of a high caste, a cleric. Now, he was nothing but Siddhartha, the awoken one, nothing else was left. Deeply, he inhaled, and for a moment, he felt cold and shivered. Nobody was thus alone as he was. There was no nobleman who did not belong to the noblemen, no worker that did not belong to the workers, and found refuge with them, shared their life, spoke their language. No Brahman, who would not be regarded as Brahmans and lived with them, no ascetic who would not find his refuge in the caste of the Samanas, and even the most forlorn hermit in the forest was not just one and alone, he was also surrounded by a place he belonged to,he also belonged to a caste, in which he was at home. Govinda had become a monk, and a thousand monks were his brothers, wore the same robe as he, believed in his faith, spoke his language. But he, Siddhartha, where did he belong to? With whom would he share his life? Whose language would he speak?
Out of this moment, when the world melted away all around him, when he stood alone like a star in the sky, out of this moment of a cold and despair, Siddhartha emerged, more a self than before, more firmly concentrated. He felt: This had been the last tremor of the awakening, the last struggle of this birth. And it was not long until he walked again in long strides, started to proceed swiftly and impatiently, heading no longer for home, no longer to his father, no longer back.


他环视四周,就好像是第一次见到这个世界。世界多么美好,世界多么绚丽,世界多么奇妙和迷人!这儿有蓝色,有黄色,有绿色,天空在流动,河流也在流动,森林高高耸立,山岭也高高耸立,一切都十分美丽,一切都十分神秘和不可思议,而席特哈尔塔置身其中,他是个正在觉醒的人,正走在通向自我的路上。所有这一切,这黄色和蓝色,这河流和森林,第一次通过眼睛进入席特哈尔塔内心,不再是玛拉的法术,不再是玛雅的面纱,不再是现象世界毫无意义和偶然的繁复多样,而对于这个鄙弃繁复多样并寻求和谐统一的婆罗门来说却算不得什么。蓝色就是蓝色,河流就是河流,即便在席特哈尔塔眼里,蓝色与河流中潜藏着神性,那也是神性的方式和意义。这边是黄色,是蓝色,那边是天空,是森林,而席特哈尔塔就在这里。内容和本质并不是在事物后面的什么地方,而是在事物内部,在所有事物之中。
“我是多么麻木和迟钝啊!”这个匆匆前行的人心想,“如果一个人读一篇文章,其内容正是他要寻找的,那么,他就不会看不起那些符号和字母,称它们为错觉、偶然和没有价值的皮毛,而是逐字逐句地仔细阅读,钻研和热爱它们。而我呢,我想阅读世界这本书,阅读我自己的本质这本书,却为了取悦一个预先臆测的含义,轻视 些符号和字母,我称现象的世界为错觉,称我的眼睛和舌头为偶然和无价值的现象。不,这已经过去了,我已经醒来了,我确实已经觉醒了,今天才刚刚新生!”
席特哈尔塔想着这些,又一次突然停下了郐步,就好像有一条蛇横在他面前的路上。
这是因为他突然还明白了一点:他实际上就像一个觉醒者或者新生者,必须从头开始他的生活,完全从头开始。当天早上他离开耶塔瓦纳林苑,离开那个活佛的林苑时,他已经开始觉醒,已经在通向自我的道路上了,这正是他的目的。在经过多年苦修之后,他觉得回家乡去看望父亲是理所当然和不言而喻的。但是现在,就在他停住脚,仿佛有一条蛇横在他路上这一瞬间,他又清醒地认识到:“我不再是原来的我,不再是苦修者,不再是僧侣,不再是婆罗门了。我回到家在父亲身边又能做什么呢?钻研?祭祀?沉思潜修?这一切都过去了,这一切都不再挡着我的路了。”
席特哈尔塔一动不动地站着,他的心冷了一下,感到心在胸口中很冷很冷,就像一只小动物,就像一只鸟儿或一只免子,他看到了自己是多么孤独。多年来他没有家,流落四方,没有这种感受,而今天却感觉到了。即使在以前的潜修中,他依然是他父亲的儿子,是婆罗门,地位高贵,是个有教养的人。而现在他只是席特哈尔塔,一个觉醒者,除此之外便什么也不是了。他深深地吸气,有一瞬间感到浑身发冷,颤栗不已,没有谁像他这么孤独。没有一个贵族不属于贵族们,没有一个工匠不属于工匠们,同时还求助于他们,分享他们的生活,说他们的语言。没有一个婆罗门不属于所有婆罗门,和他们在一起生活。没有一个苦行僧不求助于沙门这个阶层。就连森林中与世隔绝的隐士,也不是孤零零的一个人,他周围也有附属的东西,他也属于一个阶层,那就是他的家。戈文达当了和尚,上千的和尚都是他的弟兄,穿着他的衣服,信奉他的信仰,讲他的语言。但是他,席特哈尔塔,他属于哪儿呢?他分享谁的生活?他讲谁的语言呢?
从这一瞬间起,他周围的世界消失了。他一个人站在那儿,就好像天空中的一颗星星。从这一瞬间起,席特哈尔塔已从一种寒冷和沮丧中浮了上来,比先前有了更多的自我,也显得更坚实了。他感到这便是觉醒的最后寒战,新生的最后痉挛。他重又迈开了步子,急匆匆地走起来,不再是回家,不再是投奔父亲,不再是走回头路。
重点单词   查看全部解释    
coincidence [kəu'insidəns]

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n. 巧合,同时发生

 
anticipated [æn'tisipeit]

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adj. 预期的;期望的 v. 预料(anticipat

 
concentrated ['kɔnsentreitid]

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adj. 全神贯注的,浓缩的 动词concentrate

 
magical ['mædʒikəl]

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adj. 魔术的,有魔力的,神奇的

 
ascetic [ə'setik]

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adj. 禁欲的 n. 苦行者

联想记忆
singular ['siŋgjulə]

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adj. 个人的,单数的,独一的,唯一的,非凡的

 
intention [in'tenʃən]

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n. 意图,意向,目的

联想记忆
despicable ['despikəbl]

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adj. 可鄙的,卑劣的

联想记忆
melted [meltid]

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adj. 融化的;溶解的 v. 融化;溶解(melt的过

 
rigid ['ridʒid]

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adj. 僵硬的,刻板的,严格的

 


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