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Stories

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51#
 楼主| 发表于 2006-1-25 17:45:32 | 只看该作者
<font color="chocolate"><font size="4"><font face="verdana">Paradise
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<br>Two people are lost in the desert. They are dying from hunger and thirst. Finally, they come to a high wall. On the other side they can hear the sound of a waterfall and birds singing. Above, they can see the branches of a lush tree extending over the top of the wall. Its fruit look delicious.
<br>One of them manages to climb over the wall and disappears down the other side. The other, instead, returns to the desert to help other lost travelers find their way to the oasis.
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<br>People's reactions to this story:
<br>"Paradise is nothing without others to share it with. Who wants paradise anyway?"
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<br>"People have different views of paradise. Is it more fulfilling to find your paradise or to share it with others? Moral - Know yourself before you guide others?"
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<br>"Who will be a more convincing salesman for Paradise: a person who has seen it or a person who has lived in it? And is someone who is dying of thirst ready to retrace his steps across the desert, regardless of the nobility of the task? The road to hell and death is paved with good intentions."
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<br>"The story seems to ask a question: is it better to improve your own life, or improve the lives of others at expense to yourself? As an individualist, I favor the former option. In my view, the story provides a somewhat distorted image, neglecting the later travelers' ability to find paradise on their own. A secondary question is the motives of the original two travelers. The one who remains in paradise seems easy enough to explain: he wants to stay alive and enjoy life. The other one is more complicated. Is he motivated by a pure and inexplicable sense of altruism, of enjoying the success of others, even at his own expense? Or is he motivated by a desire to be admired (after all, the first traveler *disappears* into the garden, and that's the last we hear of him). Or does he feel he is unworthy to enjoy paradise while others wander in the desert?"
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<br>"Desert is our current life: Beautiful Oasis or other side is Nirvanna. The story is dealing with the traditional disagreement between the Hinayana and the Mahayana: What behaviour is the culmination of spiritual journey: liberating self: Arahat who through personal discipline comes to the wall and then transcends it or Bodhisattva ideal- facing infinite rebirths (going back into the desert for the liberation of infinite myriad of sentient beings?) I am not sure if we get a clear opinion from this story and perhaps one is not intended however one man seems selfish while the other seems mad."
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<br>"It took so much faith to walk the desert and so much awareness to see the wall and so much doubt to look up above the wall and so much courage to both climb the wall and to walk back for others... so much and yet just enough... thank you for this wonderful story..."
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<br>"Buddha turned away from paradise to help lead others out of the desert. God so loved the world that he gave up his only begotten son that our sins might be forgiven."
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<br>"Buddha returns to the desert to lead others to the oasis. He dies, and each traveler can only follow the tracks that he left."
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<br>"The one climbing over the wall finds his own salvation/enlightenment. The one returning to the desert is the teacher who finds the way and wants to help many others achieve their salvation. If everyone who found enlightenment STAYED there, who would exist to tell others it is not a dream?"
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<br>"This story reminds me of the teachings of Jesus. The traveler who see's the oasis and immediately runs to it is a sinner because he desired the good life without thinking of others. The traveler who went back to find other travelers who are lost will find eternal life. The oasis is superficial much like our life. The oasis like our life is only a test. If we go through life thinking only of riches and the good life like the weary traveler who immediately jumped the wall we will miss out on an even better oasis, an internal oasis with God."
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<br>"This illustrates the Zen equivalent of what Christians call 'evangelism'. It is not enough to possess paradise, the creature comforts; one is called to lead others to it. Great story!"
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<br>"It appears that the first traveler 'stole heaven' by scaling the wall while the second traveler compassionately sacrificed himself for the good of other travelers. Perhaps paradise to the first traveler is rest while paradise to the second is service. This tale also bears a striking similarity to a chapter from John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress."
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<br>"One dying traveller chooses life. He struggles to climb the wall to paradise and succeeds. The other dying traveller chooses death. 'Two people are lost in the desert' is not 'Two of the people lost in the desert'. The return to the desert to help imagined 'other lost travelers' is a justification for choosing death."
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<br>"The second person doesn't return to the desert out of commitment, he returns for pleasure. To him, it is the giving, or sharing that is paradise."
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<br>"The 2 who reached that wall are one , as who would not want to enjoy paradise, while at the same time saving his peers?"
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<br>"A lot of comments on your website have referred to classic literature (i.e., the Bible, the Scarlet Letter, Ben Franklin, etc.) to try and interpret the meanings of the stories. I feel as though I'm in my American Lit. class. But this story really does connect to the whole tradition of success in America, what some call the 'success myth'. The American concept of success has said for a long time that a successful person has a responsibility to help others, to use his position to serve the community. But recently, as the focus of success has changed from 'we' to 'me,' success is totally selfish. No one cares about anyone but himself. This story makes me think about who is more successful. I say the second traveler, because he is more enlightened than the first. Helping others is more a mark of true success than luxury is."
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<br>"Was it wise for the second person to go back to tell everyone, not knowing for sure what is beyond the wall. May be there was a Monster on the other side of the wall!"
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<br>"Sometimes we walk the path of self indulgence other times the path of sacrifice for others. I believe Zen is the path of conscious choices."
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<br>"Seems to be addressing the decision all we must make, whether to act for the benefit of ourselves or to act in a way that will help others. To stay behind teaching or move ahead alone?"
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<br>"The one who lept the wall has found what he was seeking. The one who returned to help other travelers undoubtedly lost his own life as he did not take care of his own needs before seeking to help others. Therefore, finish what you started before you begin another task."
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<br>"This is a very fine story. The one who has found something valuable and keeps it only to himself will never become really happy."
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<br>"Some people find happiness through material things, while some find happiness by helping others and knowing in their heart that they're doing the right thing."
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<br>"Desire leads to suffering from desires yet to be quenched; non-attachment to desire leads to pleasure in selfless acts."
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<br>"Both men have found their way."
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<br>"The man who went back into the desert dying of hunger and thirst - did."
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<br>"As John Shaft would say 'Right On!'"
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<br>"Ah, the gift (and sacrifices) of the teacher..."
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<br>"This is the worst, most contrived story of them all. What a crappy attempt to communicate wisdom through a story!"</font></font></font>
52#
 楼主| 发表于 2006-1-25 17:46:39 | 只看该作者
<font color="chocolate"><font size="3"><font face="verdana">Searching for Buddha
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<br> A monk set off on a long pilgrimage to find the Buddha. He devoted many years to his search until he finally reached the land where the Buddha was said to live. While crossing the river to this country, the monk looked around as the boatman rowed. He noticed something floating towards them. As it got closer, he realized that it was the corpse of a person. When it drifted so close that he could almost touch it, he suddenly recognized the dead body - it was his own! He lost all control and wailed at the sight of himself, still and lifeless, drifting along the river's currents. That moment was the beginning of his liberation.
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<br>People's reactions to this story:
<br>"The dead body symbolizes his self-centeredness - his bodily desires and wants - which he must transcend in order to really find Buddha and the truth."
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<br>"I guess in order to find true spirituality, one must cast off this physical body. This guy's liberation came because he realized that his physical body had nothing to do with his pilgrimage to find the Buddha."
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<br>"You need to live your life for yourself, because one day you'll find yourself dead without having achieved anything you wanted out of life. You were too busy worrying about something else. What a waste!"
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<br>"Many times I have found myself heading towards a certain goal and then realized when I almost reached it that it really wasn't all that important. It was what I found on my way there that was important."
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<br>"Some people watch life pass them by - and they don't realize it until it's almost gone."
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<br>"Even when he was alive, he wasn't alive. He didn't realize that until he saw the corpse."
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<br>"I wonder if that corpse was his twin brother?"
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<br>"This story is very depressing to me - and it also doesn't make any sense."
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<br>"The man needed to find HIMSELF and not the Buddha. Seeing his own dead body made him realize that he had to search his own soul and not someone else's. He now knew that he could go on with his life and make it on his own."
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<br>"This guy wasted so many years of his life looking for this great Buddha, and for what?! He should make good of his own life and not spend it chasing after someone else, no matter how great they seem to be. He has to spend his life looking for himself!"
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<br>"Is this man being told not to look for death before his time?"
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<br>"He wasn't ready to receive Buddha. He still needed to search within himself."
<br>"I think the Buddha knew that the monk was searching for him and this was a test to see how he would cope with their meeting and the meaning of that meeting."
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<br>"Does this mean you can only find the Buddha after you're dead?"
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<br>"Facing up to the reality of death enables one to live life more fully."
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<br>"He HAD found Buddha. Buddha had taken his soul into the afterworld. His soul was born as his body died. His soul was liberated by Buddha."
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<br>"This story is unbelievable. If I saw my own dead body drifting down a river I would check myself into a mental hospital."
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<br>Ritual Cat
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<br> When the spiritual teacher and his disciples began their evening meditation, the cat who lived in the monastery made such noise that it distracted them. So the teacher ordered that the cat be tied up during the evening practice. Years later, when the teacher died, the cat continued to be tied up during the meditation session. And when the cat eventually died, another cat was brought to the monastery and tied up. Centuries later, learned descendants of the spiritual teacher wrote scholarly treatises about the religious significance of tying up a cat for meditation practice.
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<br>People's reactions to this story:
<br>"It's amazing how people don't question authority."
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<br>"People don't think about what they're doing. They just do it because it's always been done that way, or because everyone else is doing it. Kind of scary!"
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<br>"This reminds me of the game kids play when they whisper something into someone's ear, and then the message is passed along from one kid to the next. By the time it gets to the last kid, the message isn't anything like the way it was when it started."
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<br>"This must be similar to how superstitions develop. There once may have been a logical reason for them, but eventually people just do it because they believe they should."
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<br>"It's like people being afraid to walk under a ladder, or to have a black cat walk in front of them. It makes no sense. It's an irrational fear of some taboo that they don't fully understand."
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<br>"Why tie up the cat? Why didn't they just let it out?"
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<br>"I wonder how many religious ceremonies and rituals originally started out as simply a PRACTICAL solution to some simple problem."
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<br>"Seems like someone (or something) always suffers from unnecessary, superstitious behavior."
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<br>"This makes me think of family traditions that are passed down from one generation to the next.... and they're not always a great thing to pass down!
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<br>"Family recipes are like this. Everyone keeps passing them down, even when they taste terrible."
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<br>"Scholars can make even stupidity sound intelligent."
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<br>"I feel sorry for those cats!"
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<br>"I think a lot of us live our whole lives like this. We do this and that, over and over again, without really thinking about the significance or meaning of it."
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<br>"Maybe tying up the cat symbolizes tying up our animal needs and desires during meditation in order to achieve higher levels of consciousness."
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<br>"This story is more about the failings of one man than rituals, cats or scholars."
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<br>Successor
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<br>The old Zen master's health was fading. Knowing his death was near, he announced to all the monks that he soon would be passing down his robe and rice bowl to appoint the next master of the monastery. His choice, he said, would be based on a contest. Anyone seeking the appointment was required to demonstrate his spiritual wisdom by submitting a poem. The head monk, the most obvious successor, presented a poem that was well composed and insightful. All the monks anticipated his selection as their new leader. However, the next morning another poem appeared on the wall in the hallway, apparently written during the dark hours of the night. It stunned everyone with it's elegance and profundity but no one knew who the author was. Determined to find this person, the old master began questioning all the monks. To his surprise, the investigation led to the rather quiet kitchen worker who pounded rice for the meals. Upon hearing the news, the jealous head monk and his comrades plotted to kill their rival. In secret, the old master passed down his robe and bowl to the rice pounder, who quickly fled from the monastery, later to become a widely renowned Zen teacher.
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<br>People's reactions to this story:
<br>"The person who everyone thinks is best doesn't always end up winning."
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<br>"The obvious choice is not always the best choice."
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<br>"Expect the unexpected. Take nothing for granted."
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<br>"Some people are born leaders."
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<br>"Never judge a book by its cover. It's a platitude, but it's true. Everyone has a hidden talent inside them."
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<br>"I would tell this story to children who lack self-esteem. It would allow them to see that anyone can accomplish anything, regardless of their appearance, race, money, etc."
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<br>"Why is it that the quiet people always seem to be the intelligent ones?"
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<br>"This story says a lot about 'little' people. Those who are not well known often are the ones who are well-composed and insightful."
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<br>"People you would never expect to be the 'ONE' usually turn out to be the best, if they're just given a chance."
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<br>"Sometimes the one you expect least to speak out does so, and does so wonderfully. I think this is a major problem with Americans. They prejudge so quickly."
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<br>"The greatest good can exist in the most unlikely places. Some people really hate this fact."
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<br>"The people who act like they are smart aren't really smart at all."
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<br>"Power corrupts."
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<br>"The other monks didn't understand that it was not a contest to find a winner, but to find a believer."
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<br>"People of great importance often fail to realize that everyone is equal.... And for the monks who plotted the killing, they are already part dead. "
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<br>"The kitchen worker would never have killed for the position. Knowledge (Zen) is not politics.
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<br>"Some people will do just about anything to get what they want."
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<br>"I guess pounding rice gives you lots of time to meditate and find selflessness."
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<br>"When small-minded people don't get what they want, their true colors come out."
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<br>"It pisses me off when the successful underdog is attacked for no other reason than just being the best! Were this story told to an impressionable individual, it might frightened that person away from trying to succeed."
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<br>"In life, there are no rules."
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<br>"Instead of this weak little rice pounder staying in the village, he runs away with the robe and bowl. He could have been an inspiration to the others in the village who didn't succeed! There are always people who are jealous, but to give into them only gives them another victory."
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<br>"The rice pounder didn't really want to become the next master. He just wanted to show his self without anyone knowing."
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<br>"Reminds me of King Arthur and how he pulled the sword out of the stone - but no one believed him."
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<br>"This sounds like Cinderella!"
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<br>"People who are truthful and genuine will go furthest in life."
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<br>"I guess the old Zen master learned to read the writing on the wall."</font></font></font>
53#
 楼主| 发表于 2006-1-25 17:47:37 | 只看该作者
<font color="chocolate"><font size="3"><font face="verdana">Sounds of Silence
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<br> Four monks decided to meditate silently without speaking for two weeks. By nightfall on the first day, the candle began to flicker and then went out. The first monk said, "Oh, no! The candle is out." The second monk said, "Aren't we not suppose to talk?" The third monk said, "Why must you two break the silence?" The fourth monk laughed and said, "Ha! I'm the only one who didn't speak."
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<br>People's reactions to this story:
<br>"Each monk broke the silence for a different reason, each of which is a common stumbling block to meditation. The first monk became distraced by one element of the world (the candle) and so lost sight of the rest. The second monk was more worried about rules than the meditation itself. The third monk let his anger at the first two rule him. And the final monk was lost in his ego."
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<br>The path is open to its failures as they are the stones to its success.
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<br>"I am reminded of a car game I used to play with my children called 'Listening for Silence.' The object of the game for me was to stop the noise in the car. The object of the game for the children was to see who could resist speaking the longest by listening for silence. If the first child spoke and the second child automatically burst out proclaiming victory, then both children lost. The object was to listen for silence and silence speaks for itself"
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<br>Things do not always go as planned.
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<br>This is symbolic of something else, I know, but I'll just say it the way it was told. If you're used to talking, it's going to be hard to resist the temptation to talk, moreso when you're with others, which I would think they would've thought of. It's like telling someone who sees just fine to close their eyes for a week, staying awake, and not open them at all, no matter what noises they heard. It's pretty near impossible to resist temptation when you've never had to resist that type of temptation before.
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<br>You could have ended the story at the point when "the candle flickered and went out."
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<br>The four monks have each broken their silence for an altogether different reason. But another side is in the fact that the 4th monk spoke at all. Had he simply maintained his silence, he would've been successful in his endeavor. But if he had, in all likelihood, the other three would've probably continued to argue and not even noticed his silence. I know many people who are like the 4th monk; their motto: If I'm doing something good and no one is watching (or no one notices), I might as well not be doing it at all. They believe that the reward is not in the effort, but in the recognition.
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<br>Were I a fifth monk I would wait 10 minutes into the exercise, stand up and yell loudly. HAAAAAAH I LOSE!!!! Then walk out to do some non-competitive meditation.
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<br>Enter a woods and hear the wilderness listen. That's where you'll find it.... John, your "Ph.D." is not silent.
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<br>This story reminds me a teaching. When you meditate in breathing, you should concentrate your mind to your breath only and cast out all thoughts, including a thought that you are breathing.
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<br>"If you can describe the zen then you do not know it. 'The buffalo left his enclosure for the abyss, his head passed the doorway, his shoulders, girth and haunches, yet his tail would not pass through' - - koan from the gateless gate"
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<br>"Oaths and Promises - Lightly spoken..Hardly Kept."
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<br>It is the provence of knowledge to speak; it is the privilege of wisdom - to listen.
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<br>It is clear from reading the story that none of the monks are spiritually ready to perform the difficult silent meditation. Unfocused and easily distracted by their surroundings(the burnt out candle and the conversations of themselves) they all failed to reach their aim of meditating in silent for two weeks. I see the moral of the story is 'to plan thoroughly and be solidly ready before embarking on an action. Focus your mind constantly in reaching your aim, and the objective will be reached, no matter how hard it is.'
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<br>Holy Man
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<br> Word spread across the countryside about the wise Holy Man who lived in a small house atop the mountain. A man from the village decided to make the long and difficult journey to visit him. When he arrived at the house, he saw an old servant inside who greeted him at the door. "I would like to see the wise Holy Man," he said to the servant. The servant smiled and led him inside. As they walked through the house, the man from the village looked eagerly around the house, anticipating his encounter with the Holy Man. Before he knew it, he had been led to the back door and escorted outside. He stopped and turned to the servant, "But I want to see the Holy Man!"
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<br>"You already have," said the old man. "Everyone you may meet in life, even if they appear plain and insignificant... see each of them as a wise Holy Man. If you do this, then whatever problem you brought here today will be solved."
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<br>People's reactions to this story:
<br>" This reminds me of Jesus. He was born a simple carpenter's son. It also reminded me of Martin Luther King believing that we are all human and worthy of respect."
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<br> "Anticipation of something may be greater than the thing itself. Anticipation of looks is always a mistake."
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<br>"You can't judge a book by its cover."
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<br>"This is too obvious to be a story. You don't have to think about the point and make it yours. It just hits you on the head."
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<br>"We see ourselves in everyone we meet."
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<br>"Every step you take in life is significant. There are meanings to all and every event that takes place."
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<br>"The man in the story got lost looking for a deep solution to his problem, when all along the answer was right on the surface."
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<br> "This is like the age-old story of Beauty and the Beast. Don't judge people until you get to know them. They may surprise you."
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<br>"Reminds me of when Luke Skywalker meets Yoda. I think many people go searching for things (love, happiness) and don't recognize them when they see them."
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<br>"Everyone you meet in life will know something about life that you may not."
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<br>"I don't like this story. It's a bit too much like the Little House on the Prairie for me. It makes me nauseous. Most people aren't wise. Anyone who says so is unrealistic."
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<br> "A wise man learns more from a fool than the fool from the wise man."
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<br>"If you feel love and respect for all people that you meet, you will receive inward peace."
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<br>More Is Not Enough
<br>The Stone Cutter
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<br> There was once a stone cutter who was dissatisfied with himself and with his position in life.
<br>One day he passed a wealthy merchant's house. Through the open gateway, he saw many fine possessions and important visitors. "How powerful that merchant must be!" thought the stone cutter. He became very envious and wished that he could be like the merchant.
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<br>To his great surprise, he suddenly became the merchant, enjoying more luxuries and power than he had ever imagined, but envied and detested by those less wealthy than himself. Soon a high official passed by, carried in a sedan chair, accompanied by attendants and escorted by soldiers beating gongs. Everyone, no matter how wealthy, had to bow low before the procession. "How powerful that official is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be a high official!"
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<br>Then he became the high official, carried everywhere in his embroidered sedan chair, feared and hated by the people all around. It was a hot summer day, so the official felt very uncomfortable in the sticky sedan chair. He looked up at the sun. It shone proudly in the sky, unaffected by his presence. "How powerful the sun is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be the sun!"
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<br>Then he became the sun, shining fiercely down on everyone, scorching the fields, cursed by the farmers and laborers. But a huge black cloud moved between him and the earth, so that his light could no longer shine on everything below. "How powerful that storm cloud is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be a cloud!"
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<br>Then he became the cloud, flooding the fields and villages, shouted at by everyone. But soon he found that he was being pushed away by some great force, and realized that it was the wind. "How powerful it is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be the wind!"
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<br>Then he became the wind, blowing tiles off the roofs of houses, uprooting trees, feared and hated by all below him. But after a while, he ran up against something that would not move, no matter how forcefully he blew against it - a huge, towering rock. "How powerful that rock is!" he thought. "I wish that I could be a rock!"
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<br>Then he became the rock, more powerful than anything else on earth. But as he stood there, he heard the sound of a hammer pounding a chisel into the hard surface, and felt himself being changed. "What could be more powerful than I, the rock?" he thought.
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<br>He looked down and saw far below him the figure of a stone cutter.
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<br>People's reactions to this story:
<br>"We all have great power within us. We merely need to know that."
<br>"This story reminds me of a quote: 'At the end of all our searching we will arrive at the place we began and know it for the first time.'"
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<br>"If the stone cutter restart moving backwards, he go from nature in man. So, man flow out into nature, nature flow out into man.There's a fluid , energy ranbling between objects in the earth. It is'nt human ambition;it's simply life,moving in a circle."
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<br>"We are all powerful in our own way.... We all have our own place"
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<br>"The Stonecutter's story reflects the nature of the human mind and of our attachment to it. We jump from one compartment to the next, one desire to the next, one point of view to the next, never resting content with how things really are, never grasping the whole."
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<br>"We have to learn to celebrate who or what we are. When there is a way that we can better ourselves we must work for it and not just wish and dream."
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<br>"He should have settled for being rich and powerful. Then he could have had all the stone cutters working for him."
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<br>"So that's why the game of Rock Scissors Paper works...."
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<br>"The grass is always greener on the other side -- until you get there. It's a matter of perspective. Satisfaction is a personal choice. Choose to green up your own grass rather than hopping that fence."
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<br>"This definitely proves to me that a person can achieve anything, as long as they stay focused and have a goal ahead of them. As I studied in my MBA classes, you always have to work backwards! Find the end product/result and work back on how you are going to achieve it!"
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<br>"We often meet our destiny on the road we took to avoid it."
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<br>"Do not expect too much and you will get plenty." </font></font></font>
54#
 楼主| 发表于 2006-1-25 17:48:15 | 只看该作者
<font color="chocolate"><font size="4"><font face="verdana">Christian Buddha
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<br>One of master Gasan's monks visited the university in Tokyo. When he returned, he asked the master if he had ever read the Christian Bible. "No," Gasan replied, "Please read some of it to me." The monk opened the Bible to the Sermon on the Mount in St. Matthew, and began reading. After reading Christ's words about the lilies in the field, he paused. Master Gasan was silent for a long time. "Yes," he finally said, "Whoever uttered these words is an enlightened being. What you have read to me is the essence of everything I have been trying to teach you here!"
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<br>(In another version of this story, it is a Christian who reads the Bible passage to Gasan.)
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<br>People's reactions to this story:
<br>"It's so sad that wars are fought over differences in "religion," when in reality all the world's religions are saying the same essential things. If nations really took religion to heart, so many lives would be saved."
<br>
<br>"If what is true for you is true, and what is true for me is true, than really nothing is true. If there are no absolutes in the universe higher than our own opinions or experiences, than we live on an ever shifting sand. True truth is true whether we know it, or believe it. It is absolute, unchanging, and independent of our reactions to it. God is God and we are not him. I believe this story is an attempt to dilute the hard division line that the Bible deliberately draws. Our culture trys to offer solutions that do not offend anyone. I wonder how Master Gasan would react to Christ's words "no one may come to the Father but by me." Or "the kingdom of heaven advances violently, and violent men lay hold of it."?
<br>"I think this is saying that a great lesson can come out of one short story. Something that someone is searching for desperately can be revealed in one simple story."
<br>
<br>"This story held no interest for me. I don't believe in the existence of God and therefore believe that the Bible is a bunch of bologna!"
<br>
<br>"Universalism is an extremely faulty world view. All the worlds religions do not teach the same thing. Religion is not about being good to your fellow man, or doing nice things to other people. So many of these comments seem to think that because most religions teach that, in general, you should'nt kill people, and you should'nt steal, and that you should feed the poor, etc., that its all the same thing. That misses the point entirely, and trivializes a vast amount of the most deeply held beliefs of the world's populace. Religion is about what you are, or at least the part of you that is you and not just molecules combined together in unique ways. The most important question that religion tries to answer are "How should we act towards other people?" but "How should we act towards God?" How we act towards others is a by-product of our relationship to the Divine." "There is only One God!"
<br>
<br>"Master Gasan found a pleasant verse. How would he have responded to less beautiful Revelations or Oholibah in Ezekial 23:10."
<br>
<br>"Every religion has an awareness of the basic ethical principles that govern humanity. Anything else that a religion teaches is not about the human but about the divine."
<br>
<br>"There is nothing even slightly Zen about this 'story.' It is an embarrassing, childish attempting to usurp the notion of Zen to endorse an unenlightened acceptance of Christian dogma without study, introspection, or question. Sad you published it. I admire both Christ and Buddah greatly, but this is catechism, rote dogma, not enlightenment."
<br>
<br>"I think Gasan was so relieved that he finally got his point across to the monks!"
<br>
<br>"This situation is similar to thinking about different races. People may look different on the outside, but when you look on the inside, everyone is basically the same."
<br>
<br>"This story gives me a feeling of unity with everyone - I like that."
<br>
<br>"This story is BORING! It begins nowhere and ends the same way. Shouldn't the essence of his teachings be understandable so we all can be enlightened as well? Master Gasan sounds like a fake or a very poor teacher"
<br>
<br>"It sounds like Master Gasan has no idea of what he is talking about."
<br>
<br>"Different people may be trying to convey the same message to others, but are going about it in different ways. I think that's good - diversity is good."
<br>
<br>"We should always be learning. No one knows everything."
<br>
<br>"Anyone can be a teacher."
<br>
<br>"Gasan realizes that the monk's might become interested in what the Bible says, so he tries to act like he understands and believes in the Bible. He is trying to get the monks to respect him and think that these words and thoughts were also his."
<br>
<br>"Cultural prejudices prevent us from seeing the Universals. It is irrational to think that a different truth applies to everyone."
<br>
<br>"All races across the world are teaching the same ideas through religion, but one person's way of teaching may differ from another."
<br>
<br>"I think the story is trying to say that we can ALL be right - or that sometimes a person needs to leave their usual surroundings in order to see and understand what's in front of their face."
<br>
<br>"How could Master Gasan never have read the Bible? Maybe that's the point of the story - even a Zen master can be illiterate."
<br>
<br>"I read this story twice and didn't like it. I felt like I needed more, but I wasn't sure what."
<br>
<br>"This story seems choppy and unfinished."
<br>
<br>"'Lillies of the field' is a rather zen story, encouraging naturalness acceptance of being."
<br>
<br>"It is interesting that when presented with the Bible, the Master was open to listening. I don't find the same to be true when the situation is reversed, . It feels very comfortable to me to be Buddhist and still feel at peace with others who do not share my views."
<br>
<br>"Maybe the point is that we don't need Bibles OR Zen teachers to find enlightenment. We already have it within ourselves."
<br>
<br>"This comment is not about the story but about the other comments: Taken collectively, they illustrate Martin Luther's observation, 'A book is like a mirror -- if an ape looks in, no saint will look out!'" </font></font></font>
55#
 楼主| 发表于 2006-1-25 17:54:56 | 只看该作者
<font color="chocolate"><font size="4"><font face="verdana"><p align="center">The Three Fishermen</p>
<br>There were three of them. There were four of us, and April lay on the campsite and on the river, a mixture of dawn at a damp extreme and the sun in the leaves at cajole. This was Deer Lodge on the Pine River in Ossipee, New Hampshire, though the lodge was naught but a foundation remnant in the earth. Brother Bentley's father, Oren, had found this place sometime after the First World War, a foreign affair that had seriously done him no good but he found solitude abounding here. Now we were here, post World War II, post Korean War, Vietnam War on the brink. So much learned, so much yet to learn.
<br>     Peace then was everywhere about us, in the riot of young leaves, in the spree of bird confusion and chatter, in the struggle of pre-dawn animals for the start of a new day, a Cooper Hawk that had smashed down through trees for a squealing rabbit, yap of a fox at a youngster, a skunk at rooting.
<br>     We had pitched camp in the near darkness, Ed LeBlanc, Brother Bentley, Walter Ruszkowski, myself. A dozen or more years we had been here, and seen no one. Now, into our campsite deep in the forest, so deep that at times we had to rebuild sections of narrow road (more a logger's path) flushed out by earlier rains, deep enough where we thought we'd again have no traffic, came a growling engine, an old solid body van, a Chevy, the kind I had driven for Frankie Pike and the Lobster Pound in Lynn delivering lobsters throughout the Merrimack Valley. It had pre-WW II high fenders, a faded black paint on a body you'd swear had been hammered out of corrugated steel, and an engine that made sounds too angry and too early for the start of day. Two elderly men, we supposed in their seventies, sat the front seat; felt hats at the slouch and decorated with an assortment of tied flies like a miniature bandoleer of ammunition on the band. They could have been conscripts for Emilano Zappata, so loaded their hats and their vests as they climbed out of the truck.
<br>     "Mornin', been yet?" one of them said as he pulled his boots up from the folds at his knees, the tops of them as wide as a big mouth bass coming up from the bottom for a frog sitting on a lily pad. His hands were large, the fingers long and I could picture them in a shop barn working a primal plane across the face of a maple board. Custom-made, old elegance, those hands said.
<br>    "Barely had coffee," Ed LeBlanc said, the most vocal of the four of us, quickest at friendship, at shaking hands. "We've got a whole pot almost. Have what you want." The pot was pointed out sitting on a hunk of grill across the stones of our fire, flames licking lightly at its sides. The pot appeared as if it had been at war, a number of dents scarred it, the handle had evidently been replaced, and if not adjusted against a small rock it would have fallen over for sure. Once, a half-hour on the road heading north, noting it missing, we'd gone back to get it. When we fished the Pine River, coffee was the glue, the morning glue, the late evening glue, even though we'd often unearth our beer from a natural cooler in early evening. Coffee, camp coffee, has a ritual. It is thick, it is dark, it is potboiled over a squaw-pine fire, it is strong, it is enough to wake the demon in you, stoke last evening's cheese and pepperoni. First man up makes the fire, second man the coffee; but into that pot has to go fresh eggshells to hold the grounds down, give coffee a taste of history, a sense of place. That means at least one egg be cracked open for its shells, usually in the shadows and glimmers of false dawn. I suspect that's where "scrambled eggs" originated, from some camp like ours, settlers rushing west, lumberjacks hungry, hoboes lobbying for breakfast. So, camp coffee has made its way into poems, gatherings, memories, a time and thing not letting go, not being manhandled, not being cast aside.
<br>     "You're early enough for eggs and bacon if you need a start." Eddie added, his invitation tossed kindly into the morning air, his smile a match for morning sun, a man of welcomes. "We have hot cakes, kulbassa, home fries, if you want." We have the food of kings if you really want to know. There were nights we sat at his kitchen table at 101 Main Street, Saugus, Massachusetts planning the trip, planning each meal, planning the campsite. Some menus were founded on a case of beer, a late night, a curse or two on the ride to work when day started.
<br>     "Been there a'ready," the other man said, his weaponry also noted by us, a little more orderly in its presentation, including an old Boy Scout sash across his chest, the galaxy of flies in supreme positioning. They were old Yankees, in the face and frame the pair of them undoubtedly brothers, staunch, written into early routines, probably had been up at three o'clock to get here at this hour. They were taller than we were, no fat on their frames, wide-shouldered, big-handed, barely coming out of their reserve, but fishermen. That fact alone would win any of us over. Obviously, they'd been around, a heft of time already accrued.
<br>     Then the pounding came, from inside the truck, as if a tire iron was beating at the sides of the vehicle. It was not a timid banging, not a minor signal. Bang! Bang! it came, and Bang! again. And the voice of authority from some place in space, some regal spot in the universe. "I'm not sitting here the livelong day whilst you boys gab away." A toothless meshing came in his words, like Walter Brennan at work in the jail in Rio Bravo or some such movie.
<br>     "Comin', pa," one of them said, the most orderly one, the one with the old scout sash riding him like a bandoleer.
<br>     They pulled open the back doors of the van, swung them wide, to show His Venerable Self, ageless, white-bearded, felt hat too loaded with an arsenal of flies, sitting on a white wicker rocker with a rope holding him to a piece of vertical angle iron, the crude kind that could have been on early subways or trolley cars. Across his lap he held three delicate fly rods, old as him, thin, bamboo in color, probably too slight for a lake's three-pounder. But on the Pine River, upstream or downstream, under alders choking some parts of the river's flow, at a significant pool where side streams merge and phantom trout hang out their eternal promise, most elegant, fingertip elegant.
<br>     "Oh, boy," Eddie said at an aside, "there's the boss man, and look at those tools." Admiration leaked from his voice.
<br>     Rods were taken from the caring hands, the rope untied, and His Venerable Self, white wicker rocker and all, was lifted from the truck and set by our campfire. I was willing to bet that my sister Pat, the dealer in antiques, would scoop up that rocker if given the slightest chance. The old one looked about the campsite, noted clothes drying from a previous day's rain, order of equipment and supplies aligned the way we always kept them, the canvas of our tent taut and true in its expanse, our fishing rods off the ground and placed atop the flyleaf so as not to tempt raccoons with smelly cork handles, no garbage in sight. He nodded.
<br>     We had passed muster.
<br>     "You the ones leave it cleaner than you find it ever' year. We knowed sunthin' 'bout you. Never disturbed you afore. But we share the good spots." He looked closely at Brother Bentley, nodded a kind of recognition. "Your daddy ever fish here, son?"
<br>    Brother must have passed through the years in a hurry, remembering his father bringing him here as a boy. "A ways back," Brother said in his clipped North Saugus fashion, outlander, specific, no waste in his words. Old Oren Bentley, it had been told us, had walked five miles through the unknown woods off Route 16 as a boy and had come across the campsite, the remnants of an old lodge, and a great curve in the Pine River so that a mile's walk in either direction gave you three miles of stream to fish, upstream or downstream. Paradise up north.
<br>     His Venerable Self nodded again, a man of signals, then said, "Knowed him way back some. Met him at the Iron Bridge. We passed a few times." Instantly we could see the story. A whole history of encounter was in his words; it marched right through us the way knowledge does, as well as legend. He pointed at the coffeepot. "The boys'll be off, but my days down there get cut up some. I'll sit a while and take some of thet." He said thet too pronounced, too dramatic, and it was a short time before I knew why.
<br>     The white wicker rocker went into a slow and deliberate motion, his head nodded again. He spoke to his sons. "You boys be back no more'n two-three hours so these fellers can do their things too, and keep the place tidied up."
<br>     The most orderly son said, "Sure, pa. Two-three hours." The two elderly sons left the campsite and walked down the path to the banks of the Pine River, their boots swishing at thigh line, the most elegant rods pointing the way through scattered limbs, experience on the move. Trout beware, we thought.
<br>     "We been carpenters f'ever," he said, the clip still in his words. "Those boys a mine been some good at it too." His head cocked, he seemed to listen for their departure, the leaves and branches quiet, the murmur of the stream a tinkling idyllic music rising up the banking. Old Venerable Himself moved the wicker rocker forward and back, a small timing taking place. He was hearing things we had not heard yet, the whole symphony all around us. Eddie looked at me and nodded his own nod. It said, "I'm paying attention and I know you are. This is our one encounter with a man who has fished for years the river we love, that we come to twice a year, in May with the mayflies, in June with the black flies." The gift and the scourge, we'd often remember, having been both scarred and sewn by it.
<br>    Brother was still at memory, we could tell. Silence we thought was heavy about us, but there was so much going on. A bird talked to us from a high limb. A fox called to her young. We were on the Pine River once again, nearly a hundred miles from home, in Paradise.
<br>     "Name's Roger Treadwell. Boys are Nathan and Truett." The introductions had been accounted for.
<br>     Old Venerable Roger Treadwell, carpenter, fly fisherman, rocker, leaned forward and said, "You boys wouldn't have a couple spare beers, would ya?"
<br>     Now that's the way to start the day on the Pine River. </font></font></font>
56#
 楼主| 发表于 2006-1-25 17:57:10 | 只看该作者
<font color="chocolate"><font size="4"><font face="verdana">The End Of The World
<br>
<br>One day, everybody was talking about it. It had even been printed in the newspapers. A great and learned sadhu had prophesized a conflagration, a natural disaster of such proportions that more than half of the world's population would be killed. Dil was on his way to work at the construction when site he stopped briefly to listen to a man propounding the benefits of a herb against impotence. Then he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, long lines of goats converging onto the green. "What's going on?" he asked. And the people told him: "Everybody's buying meat so they can have one last good meal before they die."
<br>     Dil, following this precedent of preparing for the end of the world, went into the shop and bought a kilogram of goat meat. On his way back home, he stopped at Gopal Bhakta's shop, where all the men saw the blood-soaked newsprint packet he was carrying in his hand. "So what's the big event, Dai? Are you celebrating Dashain early this year?" they joked. So he told them how goats were being sold in record numbers, and how the butchers were going a roaring business down in Tudikhel. The men, seizing on this opportunity for celebration, all decided to buy some meat for their last meal.
<br>     Sanukancha, who owned a milk-shop down the lane, said that his entire extended family of a hundred and sixteen people were planning to stay home that day so that they could be together when the seven suns rose the next morning and burnt up the earth. Bikash, who had transformed from an awara loafer to a serious young teacher since he got a job at the Disney English School, said that so many children had come in asking to be excused that day that the schools had declared a de facto national holiday. Gopalbhakta said that his sister, who worked in the airport, had told him that the seats of Royal Nepal Airlines were all taken with people hoping to escape the day of destruction.
<br>     Dil, showed up that night at his house with a kilo of meat wrapped in sal leaves. He handed it to Kanchi without a word.
<br>     "Meat! We don't have a kernel of rice, not a drop of oil, not a pinch of turmeric in the house. And you come back with a kilo of meat! We could have eaten for a week with that money." Kanchi was exasperated.
<br>     "Shut up, whore, and eat". said Dil. "You might be dead tomorrow, so you might as well enjoy this meat while you have it."
<br>     "How am I going to cook it? With body heat?" demanded Kanchi. There was no kerosene in the house. Dil stretched out on the bed, his body still covered with the grey and red dust of cement and newly fired brick from his day of labor at the construction site. He stretched out and stared at the ceiling, as was his habit after work. When he did not reply, Kanchi asked: "And what is this great occasion?"
<br>     He contemplated the water stains on the wooden beams for a while, and then answered: "It's the end of the world."      
<br>     So that's how she learnt that a great star with a long tail was going to crash against Jupiter, and shatter the earth into little fragments. It was true this time because even the TV had announced it. It was not just a rumor. There were also some reports, unverified by radio or television, that several - the numbers varied, some said it was seven, others thirty-two thousand - suns would rise after this event.
<br>     Kanchi was just about to go and get some rice from Gopal Bhakta, the shopkeeper who knew her well and let her buy food on credit, when her son arrived, carrying a polythene bag with oranges. "Oranges!" She swiped at the boy, who scrambled nimbly out of her reach. "You're crazy, you father and son. We have no rice in the house and you go and buy oranges. Don't you have any brains in your head!"
<br>     But the huS*and said nothing, and the son said nothing, and since it is useless to keep screaming at people who say nothing, Kanchi left, cursing their stupidity. "May the world really end, so I won't have to worry about having to feed idiots like you again."
<br>     So that night they had meat, alternately burnt and uncooked in parts where the children had roasted it, and perfectly done pieces which Kanchi had stuck through long sticks and cooked over hot coals. Kanchi, reflecting that the end of the world did not come too often, had gone over and picked some green chilies and coriander from the field next door to garnish the meat.
<br>     Afterwards they had the oranges, one for each of them. They were large, the peels coming off and scenting the room with the oil. Inside, they were ripe and juicy, with a taste that they never got in the scrawny sour oranges that grew back in the villages. After they had eaten, Dil said, as an afterthought, "Now make sure the children don't go out tomorrow, whatever you do."
<br>     Later, Kanchi forgot her annoyance as their next door neighbors came over, bringing their madal drum and their three guests who were visiting from the village. They sang the songs that were so familiar, and yet had begun to seem so strange nowadays: songs about planting rice and cutting grass in the forest, a life that to the children was as unknown and faraway as the stories that they heard from the priests during a reading of the holy scriptures of the Purans. Then her son got up and started dancing, and they were all cheering when the landlady popped her head around the door and demanded: "What's all this noise? What's going on here? It sounds like the end of the world!"
<br>     Kanchi dressed carefully for the eventful day. She had on her regular cotton sari, but wrapped over it was the fluffy, baby blue cashmere shawl that Jennifer had brought for her from America. Jennifer, who was long, lugubrious and eternally disgusted with Nepal, worked for some development office, where she made women take injections and told them to save money in banks. She was fond of telling Kanchi that Nepalis were incapable of understanding what was good for them. She would have been proud to see Kanchi putting the blue shawl to such good use on such a momentous day.
<br>     Kanchi worked for Jennifer when she was in town. She cooked her rice and vegetables with no spices, and cut the huge red peppers that Jennifer liked to eat raw while she stood in front of her television in shiny, tight clothes and did her odd dances. Janefonda, Janefonda, she would yell at Kanchi, hopping up and down like a demented, electric green cricket as she munched on the huge peppers. She was not very forthcoming with presents, but once every winter she gave Kanchi a piece of clothing.
<br>     "Why the shawl on this hot day?" inquired Mitthu. She was the old cook of the Sharmas', at whose house Kanchi went to wash the clothes every morning to supplement her uncertain income.
<br>     "Haven't you heard?" Kanchi said to her. "Everybody is talking about it. Today is the end of the world. A big sadhu prophesized it. I won't have my huS*and by me, or my son. At least I can have my shawl."
<br>     "What nonsense." retorted Mitthu. She was a religious woman, with a tendency to be skeptical of people and events that she had not heard of.
<br>     "Well, what if it happens?" Kanchi demanded, and Mitthu replied, just as firmly: "No, it won't."
<br>     "Let's eat rice now, Didi." Kanchi said anxiously, as the sky began to darken for a light rain. The end of the world was supposed to happen at eleven am, and Kanchi wanted to deal with the event on a full stomach. "We might be hungry later."
<br>     "Is this for your body or your soul?" Asked Mitthu as she ladled some rice onto a plate for Kanchi. She had an acerbic tongue.
<br>     "A soul will fly away like a small bird. It'll fly away when it becomes hungry and go and steal from some other people's homes. It's my stomach that will kill me."
<br>     "And is your shawl to keep you warm in heaven or hell?" Mitthu inquired as she dropped a pinch of spicy tomato acchar onto the rice.
<br>     "I won't need this shawl in heaven or hell. This is if I survive, and there is nobody else on this earth but me. At least I will have my shawl to keep me warm."
<br>     Mitthu, even though she would not acknowledge it, recognized this admirable foresight and common sense. "Humph" she said, turning away to steal a glance at the sun, which did look rather bright. She wondered if she should run in and get a shawl as well, just in case, then decided her pride was more important.
<br>     A rumble of thunder rolled across the clear blue sky, and Kanchi stood up in a panic. "What a darcheruwa I am, I have no guts." she scolded herself.
<br>     "Eat, Kanchi." said Mitthu, rattling the rice ladle over the pot, annoyed at her own fright.
<br>     
<br>"I saw Shanta Bajai storming off to go to office this morning. She said she would go to the office even if nobody else came, and she would die in her chair if she had to."
<br>     "So why is the world going to end?" asks Mitthu cautiously. She did not believe it was going to happen. At the same time, she was curious.
<br>     "It's all because of Girija." explained Kanchi. "It all started happening ever since he became the Prime Minister. Ever since he started going off to America, day after day. I heard he fainted and fell on the ground, and the king of America gave him money for medicine. So this destruction is happening since he returned. Maybe the American king gave him money, and he sold Nepal, maybe that's why. And now maybe the Communists will take over."
<br>     "You know, Kanchi, I almost became a Communist when I was in the village? It sounded good. We would all have to live together, and work together, and there would be no divisions between big or small. Then we could kill all the rich people and there would be peace."
<br>     "And what about eating?" asks Kanchi. "You would also have to eat together, out of the same plate, with everybody else. How would that suit you, you Bahuni? You who won't even eat your food if you suspect somebody has looked at it?" Mitthu, who was a fastidious Brahmin and refused to let people who she suspected of eating buffalo meat into her kitchen, realized she has overlooked this point.
<br>     "And then they make you work until you drop dead." said Kanchi. "Don't tell me I didn't think about it. I would rather prefer to live like this, where at least I can have my son by me at night. I heard the Communists take away your children and make you work in different places. And then they give you work that you cannot fulfill, and if you do not do it, they kill you - Dong! - with one bullet. What's the point of living then?"
<br>     "Well ..." Mitthu does not want to give up her sympathies so easily. Besides, her huS*and had died when she was nine. As a lifelong child widow she had no reason to worry about being separated from her children. "Well, we'll see it when it happens, won't we?"
<br>     "Like the end of the world." said Kanchi, checking out the sky. "I heard that they have taken the big Sadhu who predicted the end of the world and put him in the jail in Hanuman Dhoka. He has said that they can hang him if it doesn't happen. Then some people say that he was performing a Shanti Hom and the fire rose so high he was burnt and had to be taken to the hospital. Who can tell what will happen?"
<br>     Eleven am. There is a sudden shocked silence. The whole world stands still, for once, in anticipation. Then a sudden cacophony shatters the midmorning silence: cows moo tormentedly, dogs howl long and despondently, and people scream all over the tole.
<br>     The sky is flat gunmetal grey. The sun shines brightly.
<br>     A collective sign of relief wafts over the Valley of Kathmandu after the end of the world comes to an end. </font></font></font>
57#
 楼主| 发表于 2006-1-25 17:57:54 | 只看该作者
<font color="chocolate"><font size="4"><font face="verdana">The Hero
<br>
<br>My mother's parents came from Hungary, but my grandfather was educated in Germany. Even though Hungarian was his native language, he preferred German to all the other languages he spoke. It seems he was able to hold a conversation in nine languages, but was most comfortable in German. Every morning, before going to his office, he read the German language newspaper, which was American owned and published in New York.
<br>     My grandfather was the only one in his family to come to the United States. He still had relatives living in Europe. When the first World War broke out, he lamented the fact that if my uncle, his only son had to go, it would be cousin fighting against cousin. In the early days of the war, my grandmother implored him to stop taking the German newspaper and to take an English language paper, instead. He scoffed at the idea, explaining that the fact that it was in German did not make it a German newspaper, but only an American newspaper, printed in German. But my grandmother insisted, if only that the neighbors not see him read it and think he was German. So, under duress, he finally gave up the German newspaper.
<br>     One day, the inevitable happened and my Uncle Milton received his draft notice. My Grandparents were very upset, but my mother, his little sister was ecstatic. Now she could brag about her soldier brother going off to war. She was ten years old and my uncle, realizing how he was regarded by his little sister and all of her friends, went out and bought them all service pins, which meant that they had a loved one in the service. All the little girls were delighted. When the day came for him to leave, his whole regiment, in their uniforms, left together from the same train station. There was a band playing and my mother and her friends came to see him off. Each one wore her service pin and waved a small American flag, cheering the boys, as they left.
<br>     The moment came and the soldiers, all rookies, none of whom had had any training, but who had nevertheless all been issued, uniforms, boarded the train. The band played and the crowd cheered. Although no one noticed, I'm sure my grandmother had a tear in her eye for the only son, going off to war. The train groaned as if it knew the destiny to which it was taking its passengers, but it soon it began to move. Still cheering and waving their flags, the band still playing, the train slowly departed the station.
<br>    It had gone about a thousand yards when it suddenly ground to a halt. The band stopped playing, the crowd stopped cheering. Everyone gazed in wonder as the train slowly backed up and returned to the station. It seemed an eternity until the doors opened and the men started to file out. Someone shouted, "It's the armistice. The war is over." For a moment, nobody moved, but then the people heard someone bark orders at the soldiers. The men lined up formed into two lines, walked down the steps and, with the band in tow, playing a Sousa march, paraded down the street, as returning heroes, to be welcomed home by the assembled throng. As soon as the parade ended they were, immediately, mustered out of the army. My mother said it was a great day, but she was just a little disappointed that it didn't last a tiny bit longer. The next day my uncle returned to his job, and my grandfather resumed reading the German newspaper, which he read until the day he died. </font></font></font>
58#
 楼主| 发表于 2006-1-25 17:59:23 | 只看该作者
<font color="chocolate"><font size="4"><font face="verdana">Butterflies
<br>
<br>There was a time in my life when beauty meant something special to me. I guess that would have been when I was about six or seven years old, just several weeks or maybe a month before the orphanage turned me into an old man.
<br>     I would get up every morning at the orphanage, make my bed just like the little soldier that I had become and then I would get into one of the two straight lines and march to breakfast with the other twenty or thirty boys who also lived in my dormitory.
<br>     After breakfast one Saturday morning I returned to the dormitory and saw the house parent chasing the beautiful monarch butterflies who lived by the hundreds in the azalea bushes strewn around the orphanage.
<br>     I carefully watched as he caught these beautiful creatures, one after the other, and then took them from the net and then stuck straight pins through their head and wings, pinning them onto a heavy cardboard sheet.
<br>     How cruel it was to kill something of such beauty. I had walked many times out into the bushes, all by myself, just so the butterflies could land on my head, face and hands so I could look at them up close.
<br>     When the telephone rang the house parent laid the large cardboard paper down on the back cement step and went inside to answer the phone. I walked up to the cardboard and looked at the one butterfly who he had just pinned to the large paper. It was still moving about so I reached down and touched it on the wing causing one of the pins to fall out. It started flying around and around trying to get away but it was still pinned by the one wing with the other straight pin. Finally it's wing broke off and the butterfly fell to the ground and just quivered.
<br>     I picked up the torn wing and the butterfly and I spat on it's wing and tried to get it to stick back on so it could fly away and be free before the house parent came back. But it would not stay on him.
<br>     The next thing I knew the house parent came walking back out of the back door by the garbage room and started yelling at me. I told him that I did not do anything but he did not believe me. He picked up the cardboard paper and started hitting me on the top of the head. There were all kinds of butterfly pieces going everywhere. He threw the cardboard down on the ground and told me to pick it up and put it in the garbage can inside the back room of the dormitory and then he left.
<br>     I sat there in the dirt, by that big old tree, for the longest time trying to fit all the butterfly pieces back together so I could bury them whole, but it was too hard to do. So I prayed for them and then I put them in an old torn up shoe box and I buried them in the bottom of the fort that I had built in the ground, out by the large bamboos, near the blackberry bushes.
<br>     Every year when the butterflies would return to the orphanage and try to land on me I would try and shoo them away because they did not know that the orphanage was a bad place to live and a very bad place to die.</font></font></font>
59#
 楼主| 发表于 2006-1-25 18:03:14 | 只看该作者
<font size="3"><font color="chocolate"><font size="1"><font face="verdana">The Nicht Afore Christmas
<br>
<br>The Christmas party had been sillier than usual, and I felt some satisfaction that it would be my last. In September Joe and I'd come to the parting of the ways, at least temporarily, as he strode off with all the confidence in the world to the school on the hill.
<br>     You could see Ancrum Road Primary School if you stood on the wall outside St Mary's Catholic Church where the High Street became the Lochee Road. I had no idea what Alcatraz was then, but if I had, I would certainly have named that institution of junior learning 'Alcatraz on the Hill'.
<br>     Party hats, home-made, crackers, home-made, and lumpy jelly, home-made, whistles, clackers, rattles, xylophones, tin drums, and abortive attempts at carol singing accompanied by the up-right, out-of-tune piano produced scenes of frenzied, frantic mayhem across the main hall of the nursery. Snowballs sneaked in under pinafores had reduced the wooden floor to a soggy, slippery mess, unimproved by the urine of several little girls taken short by the excitement of it all. The tree tipped over at an unlikely angle, bulbs exploding at the rate of one every five minutes, chocolate novelties long since ripped off, and the fairy looking as bedraggled as the nurses who fought half-heartedly for control of their pinafored charges.
<br>     All other doors were locked against us, including, outrageously, the door to the Quiet Room where I could have found solace in a Wizard or Hotspur, or even in these desperate circumstances a Dandy or Beano though my contempt for Dennis the Menace and Desperate Dan were legendary. Little surprise then that my participation in the Hokey Cokey ended after I'd three times put the boot, or at least the sandal into three toddlers who had the temerity to shake their limbs at me. Thrown across the room, I slid arse-first into the Christmas tree and was rewarded by the sound of three bulbs exploding simultaneously and the fairy falling into my lap. I would have left there and then, but the presents were still to come.
<br>     "Ho ho ho!"
<br>     If the voice hadn't given it away, the streaky moustache and the gin-tainted breath did. Santa was Matron. Santa was always Matron, I hadn't needed Joe to tell me that. But was I the only one who recognised her? The others, even my fellow five-year-olds screeched in delight and were only hindered from mauling Santa by the serried ranks of nurses who secured her path to the Christmas tree where Santa, as God is my witness, kicked me out of her way.
<br>     Santa's armchair was hauled into place. She dropped her Christmas sack with a thud and dropped herself into the chair which sagged beneath her not inconsiderable bulk, none of which was made up of pillows.
<br>     "Line up. Sparrows first. Then seagulls. Now you blackbirds, and then the tits." Nurses smiled, screamed and herded us into some semblance of order. I was four years old and therefore a tit. At the time I did not understood why mum laughed when I told her.
<br>     In the prescribed order infants, toddlers and juniors mounted Matron, were breathed upon, exchanged whispers, and given their Christmas present. They scrambled down and were led away by nurses who then man-handled the presents from them and piled them on a table near the door. As usual we were not to be allowed to open our presents until going-home time; previous experiments at letting the children open their presents had led to jealousy, bickering, arguments, fighting and worse. All of the infants, most of the toddlers and several of the juniors burst into inconsolable tears, not that anyone tried to console them, the piano just got louder.
<br>     My turn came. I looked up into Matron's eyes. Little black raisins embedded in a purple pudding. I wanted to put a match to her. Did gin burn like brandy? Never mind. That ratty beard would do.
<br>     "Get up here, Paul."
<br>     "My mother says you have to call me Jean-Paul."
<br>     "Get up here, Jean-Paul." I could feel the hostility, the gin must be wearing off.
<br>     "I don't answer to Jean-Paul."
<br>     "Get up here, you."
<br>     Immovable object met irresistible force.
<br>     "Here, take it." She thrust a small parcel into my chest.
<br>     "What about my Christmas wish?"
<br>     She snorted like the walrus in the nature film we'd watched the day before and stuck her ear into my face. I whispered my Christmas wish.
<br>     "No."
<br>     "What do you mean 'no'?"
<br>     "I mean 'no'. Now go and play."
<br>     I stood my ground until I was hauled away by a nurse. I hardly felt my present slip out of my arms. I was in a state of shock and did not come to until I found myself in a conga that twisted, turned and staggered its away around the hall, children slipping, sliding and falling on the treacherous linoleum. I disengaged myself from this travesty and returned to the tree. Santa had gone. I scrambled onto the armchair, slung my legs over the side and looked up into the tattered branches. I had some thinking to do. Above my head another bulb exploded.
<br>     At five o'clock I stood at the entrance to the nursery waiting for my grandmother to take my home. Light snow was falling. It spun and swirled through the lamplight. Although I was not cold, I shivered and pulled the canvas bag that held the history of my three nursery years closer to me.
<br>     Gran came zigzagging down Flight's Lane in that curiously distracted way that suggested her mind was not entirely at one with her body. She began several possible conversations before hitting upon one that continued long enough to make some sense. I thrust one rope handle of the bag towards her, kept a tight grip on the other and dragged her up the lane.
<br>     "Dae you no want tae say cheerio tae the nurses?"
<br>     "No, come on."
<br>     "Did you ha'e a guid perty?"
<br>     "No."
<br>     Disappointment flitted across her ruddy cheeks, but Gran could never be unhappy for more than a moment. A lady of the old school, she was born to serve and please others, especially menfolk. Her misery melted like an ice cream cone at the Ferry in August.
<br>     "We'd better get hame quick. It's Christmas eve, ye ken, an' yer ma's probably goin' oot fur some last minute shoppin'. We'd better no be late." My mother was not of the old school, and my grandmother was terrified of her. She pulled on the canvas bag and almost dragged me under a tramcar. I doubt she even saw it. We passed one of my grandfather's public houses. The stink was intoxicating. Gran shuddered and pulled me past its seductive double swing doors.
<br>     Joe'd been home for an hour. The room was snug and cosy. Gran attempted fitful conversation. She'd no takers and left with a promise to visit on Christmas Day. We made no move and she did not kiss us good-bye. There were conventions in the family we did not understand, but which we respected. I got on with my reading and Joe continued to build his version of a better mousetrap. We'd already got mum's present, wrapped it and hidden it in the bedpan. Our Christmas preparations were done.
<br>     Just after six mum came home and collapsed into the armchair hacking like a tubercular cat. My mother suffered from pleurisy. Neither Joe nor I had any idea what pleurisy was, but we recognised its painful symphony and hated it. Mum sat in the chair, bent double, fighting for breath. Joe sat on an arm of the chair, leaning over, her massaging her back, digging deep with his thumbs. When his thumbs were aching, I took over, not nearly so effectively, but I was learning.
<br>     Sometimes I would hold her shoulders and rub my face into her back. It probably didn't help her, but it helped me. Later mother would make a kaolin poultice of hot china clay smeared on a thick bandage. We would tenderly apply the hot sludge to her bare back and freckled shoulders, swapping stories about our day.
<br>     Many of my stories were embroidered, exaggerated or wholly invented. I loved to make mum laugh though laughter had its price in further fits of coughing and pain. A dig in the ribs from my puritanical brother told me when I was going too far. That night the laugh was on me.
<br>     A sharp series of knocks rattled the door in its frame. Joe answered the call, his high but even voice counter-pointing a deep rumble like thunder over Balgay Hill. He came back and spoke to mum, a quizzical look running across his thin frenchified features.
<br>     "The polis is at the door. I think he's looking for Paul."
<br>     I started like a guilty thing. My mother pinned me to the wall with a look. Was my hair standing on end? I resisted the urge to turn and look in the wardrobe mirror. Lucky arched her back and hissed in sympathy.
<br>     "You, wait there," she said, adding superfluously, "don't move."
<br>     Thunder rumbled behind the door again. The words made no sense. My mother had pronounced a sentence of immobility upon my brain as well as my body. Her words came to me in fragments.
<br>     "Good idea not to come in... terrified of men... scream his head off... always been like that... the doctor says..."
<br>     I risked a glance at Joe. He was still working on his mousetrap. He was smiling, but it was a smile I did not like, it was the smile he wore when he caught a mouse in one his traps. I'd seen one before, its wee heid snapped clean from its body, its incisors embedded in the cheddar that had lured it to its doom. I'd like to see his head... No, mustn't think like that. God's listening, God's watching, God sees all. Doesn't He ever take time off or is He too busy keeping an eye on the mousetraps He has built for all of us?
<br>     "Jean-Paul Bosquet."
<br>     I was startled to hear my name pronounced in full. My mother might as well have worn a piece of black cloth on the top of her Christmas perm.
<br>     "Jean-Paul Bosquet. Hand them over."
<br>     For an instant I was tempted to play dumb, tempted to commit instant suicide. I resisted the temptation and lived.
<br>     Scrambling under the bed, I hauled out the bulging canvas bag and dragged it to my mother's feet. I knelt down and pulled out one wrapped gift at a time handing them up to my mother who placed each one ceremoniously on the table. "four... five... six..." Would these poisonous parcels never end? "eight... nine... ten..." The final parcel tugged at my heartstrings. I gave my mother a look that would melt an iceberg. She must have known it was mine. She was implacable, taking my parcel between finger and thumb - green holly paper, red berries, laughing snowmen - she dropped it like a dog turd onto the pile.
<br>     A policeman stepped into the room. My heart or some other organ leapt into my mouth. I could not make a sound. I froze. I could feel my tiny scrotum tighten. I tried to fix my gaze on the floor. My eyes betrayed me. I looked up. It was a man, a very big man, with big yellow teeth, a moustache thicker even than matron's, and a flat policeman's cap supported by big ears on either side of his big head. My eyes widened. My chest began to heave. A strangled sob forced its way past my constricted throat muscles. A cold chill blew in through the open door annihilating Christmas.
<br>     The man swept all the parcels up into his big arms, nodded a cheery "Merry Christmas" to my mother and disappeared into the night. I could see him striding across the wasteland to the Lochee Road towards the railway bridge at Muirton Road. My imagination pulled down the shutters. I knew the Lochee Road led to Dundee, the big city. As far as I knew, I'd never been there. But it was obvious. The big city was where the big men lived, and I wanted nothing to do with that or them.
<br>     "Take three big breaths. Remember how Dr Heinreich showed you."
<br>     I took the breaths, the biggest and deepest I could manage. They almost blew my head off.
<br>     "Come here."
<br>     I came there. Mum sitting in the armchair. Me standing in front of her. Joe sitting on the rug in front of the fire. Lucky stretched out on the bed.
<br>     "Why did you take the presents?"
<br>     Another deep breath.
<br>     "It was Matron's fault."
<br>     "Why did you take the presents?"
<br>     "She widnae give me one for Joe."
<br>     "Go on."
<br>     "You said me and Joe had to be the same."
<br>     "Go on."
<br>     I was annoyed now. I could feel my neck redden. It was not my fault.
<br>     "I asked her... for a present... for Joe. I asked nicely, honest, mum. She said no, not nicely. So I put them in the bag when everybody was changing. And Gran helped me carry them up the road. They were really heavy, and a tram nearly..."
<br>     "That was wrong. The presents didn't belong to you, so you had no right to take them. What you did was wrong."
<br>     The room went silent. Joe sat still. The fire ceased to spit shale. Lucky stopped purring. I was drowning in the silence, thick heavy fluid clogging my nose and my brain, running down my back, pouring down my legs into my grey nursery socks. Mum had said the word we never wanted to hear: wrong. It rang like a huge gong banging relentlessly into the silence. Anything but that word. That word put distance between us and this woman, that word sliced into the umbilical cord that nourished us, that word made her turn her face away from us, that word cost us her love, and without that love we could not survive.
<br>     "You did the wrong thing for the right reason. Now what are you going to do about it?"
<br>     Never ask a four year old that question. It isn't fair. It's too harsh. Because a four year old will always come up with the right answer, and the answer will hurt.
<br>     I racked by brains for a way out. I looked at Joe. He shrugged at me with his lips. He knew the answer, too. And he knew there was no way out.
<br>     "Bed."
<br>     "When?"
<br>     "Now."
<br>     "How long?"
<br>     "Morning."
<br>     "Comics?"
<br>     "No comics."
<br>     "Good night, son."
<br>     My mind chased a little tail in circles. There had to be something. There was. But play it carefully. I looked mum full in the face.
<br>     "Eh hivnae had meh tea."
<br>     "What?"
<br>     "Eh hivnae had meh tea. Eh'm sterving."
<br>     Even Lucky held her breath. Fire danced in my mother's eyes.
<br>     "It's Christmas Eve, and eh hivnae had eny tea."  </font></font></font></font>
60#
 楼主| 发表于 2006-1-25 18:04:32 | 只看该作者
<font color="chocolate"><font size="3"><font face="verdana">The Nicht Afore Christmas
<br>
<br>Part 2
<br>
<br>    Something like contempt flickered in my mother's smile.
<br>     "Right, boys, what'll we have for tea tonight?"
<br>     "Macaroni on toast."
<br>     "No, we had that last night."
<br>     "Scrambled eggs on toast."
<br>     "No, that's for breakfast."
<br>     "What day is it, mum?"
<br>     "It's Thursday."
<br>     "Bread and chips. Right?"
<br>     "Right."
<br>     Paul recognises the note of despondency in Joe's voice. He cannot understand why his brother fails to appreciate the joys of bread and chips, teeth sinking into the fleshy fried potato, greasy margarine sliding down the throat, lips worth licking again and again, and hot sweet tea washing down the whole sloppy mess.
<br>     On good nights you can have as much bread as you want, including the ends of the sliced white loaf, the 'heelies', which are always reserved for Paul since nobody else wants them. You can curl up on the big double bed that dominates the single room, chew on the crusts and get lost in the Rover, the Hotspur, the Wizard for hour after hour.
<br>     How can Joe sound so despondent every Thursday night about such prospects as these? Even Kathleen, the new baby, lies gurgling happily, but then Kathleen lies gurgling happily most of the time, kicking her feet against the sides of the tin bath that serves as her crib.
<br>     "Who wants to put the kettle on?"
<br>     "Eh'll dae it."
<br>     "Joseph, speak properly when you're in this house. Put the kettle on. Jean-Paul will go for the chips. Get your coat on and your wellies. You're not going out in sandshoes on a night like this. And come straight back. No wandering."
<br>     Paul clambers into a heavy bottle-green overcoat and ties the belt around his middle, the buckle is long gone. Reluctantly he pulls on the heavy Wellington boots. He stands beside mum's armchair. She is absorbed in the Evening Telegraph, smoke curls up from her cigarette. Paul stands and waits. She turns her head to him, blue-grey eyes meet. She has that far away look. Paul knows she hasn't been reading the newspaper, only looking at the words.
<br>     "Money, mum. For the chippie. I'm ready."
<br>     She reaches for her purse. She takes out a sixpenny piece and presses it into his warm little palm closing her fingers over the money, her fingers over his. He swells with pride. He is a knight-errant setting out on a perilous mission. He knows he may meet dragons, monsters, wizards and bogeymen out there, but he will overcome them all, he will wade knee-deep through blood, guts and slaughter, but he will get there, and he will return with the holy grail, the sixpence worth of hot steaming chips to lay at her feet or at least on the stove until the bread is margarined.
<br>     Outside it is dark, cold and bitter, and the boy is not so sure. There is neither wind nor cloud. Winter stars sparkle overhead. Frost and rime sparkle below his feet. The gas lamps hiss and sputter. Shadows are blackly frozen. Paul remembers he is only four, nearly five, but by the calendar still only four.
<br>     He will gallop and sing his way to Delanzo's. It is not far, only half a mile. The boy hasn't the faintest idea what half a mile is, but it doesn't sound too far. Across the 'Greenie', singing and galloping he will go. What to sing? That new one they learned in school at Christmas. He has only the vaguest idea what the words might mean. Something about the last time good King Wences looked out, looking for Stephen or someone like that, and Stephen arrived but he was only a kid, but the king decided to take him anyway. Get on with it.
<br>     His high treble rises into the frozen night air. "Good King Wences last looked out, he was looking for Stephen, when the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even." He likes the sound of that, deep and crisp and even, as he slides and slithers across the freezing mush, slush and mud of the 'green'. He's got quite a good gallop going now. He can make out the Cally fence. Can't be too far now.
<br>     The boy is gripped by the windpipe. His voice cut off in mid note. There is a searing pain across his throat. He is thrown backwards, his arms fly up, hands extended like a child crucified. He lands on his back with a thud even the slush cannot muffle. He lies there, arms and legs akimbo, too stunned to move, to think, to cry. He waits for another blow. It does not come. He feels the pain now, the hot searing pain across his windpipe.
<br>     He feels the pain and he is glad he can feel the pain. It allows him to move, to think, to cry. But he won't cry yet. He rolls onto his front. If another blow is to come, he does not want it in the face or in the stomach. He knows that would really hurt. He can take it across the back or across the backside, but not across his front. So get on with it. If there's to be more pain, get on with it.
<br>     Nothing. Only the hot slash across his windpipe. He staggers to his feet, slipping and sliding in the slush, he is breathing heavily, fighting for breath at times. The six times table helps a lot. He might even try the seven but he has trouble with seven times six. He turns to face his assailant.
<br>     Nothing. There is nothing there. Except a washing line. Hanging low. Swinging gently. If the seven times table presents problems, the answer to two and two is immediate. He has galloped into the washing line. It has caught him round the neck and thrown him into the sludge. Paul's cheeks blaze and burn, and not only from the bitter chill. He is embarrassed, and the embarrassment sears him worse then the rope burn across his neck. Tears spring to his eyes at last. Never mind. Get on with it. He's late enough.
<br>     He brushes the muddy slush from his hands. They have been grazed by the gravel beneath the snow. His overcoat has saved his knees. His fingers tingle but he cannot tell if they are burning or freezing. He opens his left palm, then his right. He jams his right hand into his coat pocket, then his left into the left. He fumbles in the pockets of his corduroy shorts. He is fighting for breath again, his chest heaving in great gulps. He drops to his knees, the slush splashes around him. He scrabbles wildly in the snow, in the mud, careless of his corduroys. His fingers are frozen, he cannot feel his knees, slush turns to icy water in his wellies.
<br>     "Our Father which art in heaven where's mum's money?" What can he promise this God who remains so stubbornly silent? I'll never steal presents again, just let me find the money. It's Christmas tomorrow, you'd think He'd be listening.
<br>     The tears are running down his face, the snot down his nose, water into his wellies. His scrabbling has grown more frantic. He has covered a wide circle. How far can a silver sixpence roll in snow? Should he scrabble backwards towards the house? What did the wise men bring to the baby Jesus - gold, frankincense and mirth? What is mirth anyway? Must remember to ask mum. Please God, I'll do anything, anything.
<br>     "What are you doin' doon there, you wee shite?"
<br>     Paul looks up. Tears and snot run into his mouth. He gathers them in with his tongue. He blinks to clear his eyes. It's Joe. God couldn't make it, so He sent His representative on earth. Lochee's answer to Herod.
<br>     "Ah drapped the sixpence, Joe. Ah didnae mean it. Honest. Ah ran intae the washing line. Sumbody's left it hinging afae low. Help is, Joe, go on, help is find it."
<br>     "Stop bubblin'. Gie's yer hand. We're no gonna find it the nicht."
<br>     Joe reaches for Paul's hand and pulls him to his feet. Using the back of his hand, he wipes the teary snot away from his little brother's face as best he can, then wipes his hand in the snow. He pulls the overcoat tight around the smaller boy and still holding his hand leads him back to the house. On the stairs leading to the attic, he gently eases off the overcoat and hangs it up on a wooden peg. Then he helps Paul off with his Wellington boots and wet socks. He dumps them on the stairs.
<br>     "Wait there."
<br>     Joe slips into the attic room. Paul stand and waits, cheeks ablaze, teeth chattering, wet corduroys clinging, the dirty tears stain his face. The door opens.
<br>     "Come in."
<br>     Paul steps into the room. His mother is standing by the open fire. He can hardly raise his head to look at her. When he does, the familiar blue-grey eyes meet. His mother is smiling. Then she is laughing. "C'mere, son."
<br>     He runs to her and throws himself into those strong familiar arms. He is crying again, sobbing and heaving against her stomach, drowning himself in that familiar warmth, that familiar smell.
<br>     "You know what this means," he hears her say. "It's toast and dripping tonight. We haven't had that for ages. Now come on, get these things off, you're soaked through. It looks like the Steamie on Saturday."
<br>     "Tea's nearly ready, mum. Will I start on the toast?"
<br>     "Let me get this boy's backside warmed up first. Then we'll all make the toast together. Save the heelies for Jean-Paul."
<br>     In the grate the fire hisses and spits out tiny pieces of shale. The kettle whistles, the gas lamp flickers, the woman hums and towels the boy vigorously.
<br>     In her tin basin the baby lies gurgling happily as she watches the shadows dance on the ceiling. </font></font></font>
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