OM 唵 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. 那伤口很久仍然在疼。有时，席特哈尔塔摆渡某个身边带着儿子或女儿的旅客过河，心里总是很羡慕，想：“这么多人，千千万万的人，都拥有这份最温馨的幸福——为什么我偏偏没有？就连坏人，窃贼和强盗，也都有自己的孩子，既爱他们又为他们所爱，可是惟独我不行！”他想得就是这么简单，这么没有理性，他变得跟那些孩子般的俗人一模一样了。 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. 现在他待人跟以前不一样了，不再精明，不再自负，而是更热情、更好奇、更关心人了。他在摆渡通常类型的旅客，也就是孩子般的俗人、商人、士兵和女人时，觉得这些人不像以前那么生疏了：他理解他们，理解并分享他们那并非由思想和观点、而是由本能和愿望所引导的生活，觉得自己跟他们一样了。虽然他已接近于完美，身上有他最近的伤口，他却觉得这些俗人都是他的兄弟，他们的虚荣、贪心和可笑对于他已经失去了可笑之处，而是变得可理解、可爱甚至可尊敬了。一个母亲对自己孩子的盲目的爱，一个自负的父亲对自己独生子的愚蠢而盲目的自豪，一个爱打扮的年轻女人对珠宝首饰以及男人赞赏目光的盲目而疯狂的追求，所有这些欲望，所有这些幼稚，所有这些简单、愚蠢但又极为强烈、极为活跃和顽固的欲望与贪心，现在对于席特哈尔塔已不再是幼稚了，他看到人们为了这些而活着，为了这些而忙忙碌碌，四处奔波，互相打伏，吃无穷的苦，忍受无尽的烦恼。他因此而爱他们，在他们的每一种激情和每一种行动中，他都看到了生活，那种生气勃勃，那种坚不可摧，他看到了梵。这些人在其盲目的忠实以及盲目的刚强和坚韧方面是可爱和可敬的。他们不缺少什么，学者和思想家并不比他们高明，只除了一件小事，一件很细小的小事：觉悟，对一切生活统一性的清醒想法。席特哈尔塔有时甚至怀疑，对这认识、这想法是否该评价得这么高，就不定连他自己也有一种思索者的幼稚，一个思考的俗人的幼稚呢。总之，凡夫俗子在其他方面都与智者贤人不相上下，甚至还远远胜于他们，正像动物在其顽强而坚定的必要行动中有时会胜过人类一样。 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. 在席特哈尔塔心中，有一种认识，有一种学问，也就是智慧到底是什么，他长期探索的目标是什么，渐渐开花，渐渐成熟了。它无非就是一种心灵的准备，一种能力，一种神秘的艺术，每时每刻，在生活当中，能够想统一的思想，能够感受和吸入这种统一。这在他心中慢慢开花了，又在瓦苏代瓦那苍老的脸上反映出来：和谐，关于世界永恒完美的认识，笑容，统一。 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. 可是伤口仍灼痛不已，席特哈尔塔仍在苦苦地思念他的儿子，在心中培育他的爱心和柔情，任凭疼痛折磨自己，不惜干一切爱的蠢事。这火焰是不会自行熄灭的。