【征文】我的梦中情人——唐僧！及敦煌情史# LeisureTime - 读书听歌看电影
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和花栗鼠的孙悟空配个戏！昨天说起《西游记》的人物如果上升到政治象征会有压迫和
反抗这样的阶级关系，唐僧基本是个为虎作伥、狐假虎威、压制自由的反面形象，不为
人喜。但还原到个人而言，九死不悔地追求理想是唐僧的主体精神，也是他最吸引孙悟
空等一众徒弟死心塌地跟随他的原因。文学最动人之处不在于政治，在于这样的个人性
及其唤起的人性的共鸣。
从而又想起我读本科时写过一篇关于敦煌创建者的小小说。当时看到史书的短短一段记
载，说乐尊和尚在长安修行多年，突然出走西北，徒步数日，干渴不支。于落日之时突
见三危山上佛光万丈，千佛现身，三危山下现出月牙一泉。乐尊感恩，就此长住，开凿
出第一座敦煌石窟。读毕心有戚戚：长安浮华，庙堂虽安，经书万卷却也语言有限。出
走西北正是合情合理的学者的选择。而人的宗教皈依往往有各种偶然因素的推动：如果
不是干渴欲尽，乐尊未必见到佛光，月牙泉对他不会有那么大的冲击，敦煌会不会出现
石窟也成为悬疑。所以写了个英语小小说，寄托一下追寻理想的共鸣。
上买卖提后发现在这里写的好几篇文章都有朝圣者的影子，从《朝圣者的灵魂》，到
《鸡尾酒会》里的Celia，到支边遇车祸去世的扎马尾辫的诗人，甚至包括最早的《走
出非洲》的Karen Blixen，精神都是相通的。所以把唐僧和乐尊合为一体，叫梦中情人
可能不如叫精神同道更为确切。以下是本科的英语小说，抱歉读起来比中文费力。语言
有点堆砌，见笑；请方家多指点，先谢。
Decision-making for Buddha
It was A. D. 366 in the Sixteen Kingdoms Dynasty. A monk named Yue Zun set out from
Chang’an for the wild, unknown north-west land. He became the pioneer of
the Dunhuang District, and laid foundation for the later renowned Dunhuang
Caves.
He is walking in the Gobi Desert. The sun is burning and scorching the earth
as usual. He has been walking for four days.
In his haversack there is an empty water-bottle, a book of scriptures, and a
piece of bun as hard as stone. The bun can last three more days, for he eats
very little. But even three days is impossible: There is no water. The
biggest threat in a desert comes not so much from hunger as from thirst. He
knows he cannot survive tonight—he will die this very evening, or even dusk.
How he has come to this is all so ridiculous as one might say. He has been
striking the wooden fish for thirty-two years of his life and read all the
scriptures in the temple. By every appearance he is a staunch Buddhist,
praised by the Buddhist abbot and expected to be his successor. But at night
when he lies in bed gazing at the moon and thinking, there always comes a
gnawing feeling of unfulfilment. Books are all very well, but they are not
enough. He still lacks something solid and tangible. When he preaches he
feels an acute lack of confidence as if his sermon were floating and
drifting. Why on earth is there Misery? However can Buddha help? It may be
vague at first, but day by day it clears up, weighs on his mind and twitches
his heart until at last he makes up his mind, packs up his things and sets
out to find a basis for his belief in other than speculative ways.
He has deliberately chosen this land, bare and barren on the map, in order
to experience something intense and extreme. It proves true and worthy in
such a mocking way—that in return for its extreme it demands his life.
All within sight is pure Gobi Desert, a mass of yellowish brown and cracked
soil. It looks the same every day as if he had never moved. Going the west
is like traveling back to the earliest beginnings of the world when there is
no man, no noise, all but a dead tranquility. In the first few days when he
rides on his horse, he who has been accustomed to green trees and colorful
world gets a real shock. Everywhere there is the cracked soil, dry in the
highest degree, which he dare not look at for more than two minutes for his
eyes would ache and seem also cracked in the eye-corners. Now and then he
sees odd patches of green on which a peasant or two are bent at work. That
is a sight, a piece of red cloth (their usual dress) against a vast, filthy
yellow land. They work a whole year hard, sometimes with no single grain
gained in the end, they know it only too well and they accept it and go on
with it, philosophically. He is shaken by the poverty, the evilness of
nature and the subsistence and endurance of man. Which cannot be felt either
in the boisterous city or in the unearthly temple. But that has faded out
of being as he goes further on. The dry yellow swallows everything. His
horse died four days ago of thirst. Now there is no life in sight—except
for bits of weed baked a dingy brown. Camels are said to live on this plant
on their journey through the desert. It is extremely thorny—his finger gets
pricked when he picks the tiny ox-blood berry from its top. It has a bitter
taste with barely any juice that teases rather than quenches the tremendous
thirst. Nonetheless he admires it. It is fighting for survival against such
vicious nature and has succeeded; whereas a piece of mankind, despite being
so well-composed by the Builder of the universe, is frail enough to be
defeated.
He drags his feet forward, forcibly. He has chosen it himself, and he never
regrets. He has never been so close to the earth, so firm in his advance and
so calm in his soul. He has learnt to know his people, how they live and
how they endure. His heart craves for Buddha more than ever—but He does not
appear as the scripture says. He will take his defeat as philosophically as
his peasant counterparts, lying in the earth-bed; but he cannot hide the
profound disappointment inside him. While finding his basis he has lost his
Buddha—isn't it another mockery?
Gradually the glare of the desert softens and he knows it is about sunset.
He raises his head, intending to give his last salute to this glorious
killer. All of a sudden he is astounded. He stands petrified and cannot
breathe. What is it before his eyes?
Not far ahead rises a mountain. It is neither high nor steep but clearly
distinguishes itself from the devilish desert. The sun is setting. The mount
stands against the fiery sky, gilded a layer of magnificent golden, and
seems to brighten and radiate by itself. And above all, on its top appears
his Buddha! The image is shining more brightly, cloaking the desert the man
the sky with a beautiful warm hue.
He is instantly melted in that glory. Unconsciously he goes down on his
knees, closes his hands above his head and bows piously. He has been craving
silently and wildly for his Buddha so long and Buddha has at last come to
him before his death. Every hesitation and disappointment is swept away as
he gazes into that familiar, philanthropic countenance. Only Buddha sees his
trouble and misery. Only He is present when he is alone suffering and
struggling. It is Buddha who knows what the wretched heart endures and longs
for. He chokes with passion as he looks. The sun, the mount, Buddha, he
sees it all. It occurs to him to carve all this down, so that everyone can
admire it, be thrilled and enlightened. But he has no time. He will die of
thirst tonight. His Buddha is before him, smiling, sighing, in his air of
mute a whisper, “Come, come to me!”
He stands up and bumps forward. He reaches the foot of the hill and there,
lying serenely and shimmering, is a miraculous crescent-shaped lake. Around
it is soddy, green grass stirring with the warm breeze as if waving and
welcoming him …
The next morning, the first hammering was heard in Sanwei Mount. A month
later the first cave of Buddha’s sculpture was completed. It multiplied
centuries later into 492 namely today the Dunhuang Caves.
反抗这样的阶级关系，唐僧基本是个为虎作伥、狐假虎威、压制自由的反面形象，不为
人喜。但还原到个人而言，九死不悔地追求理想是唐僧的主体精神，也是他最吸引孙悟
空等一众徒弟死心塌地跟随他的原因。文学最动人之处不在于政治，在于这样的个人性
及其唤起的人性的共鸣。
从而又想起我读本科时写过一篇关于敦煌创建者的小小说。当时看到史书的短短一段记
载，说乐尊和尚在长安修行多年，突然出走西北，徒步数日，干渴不支。于落日之时突
见三危山上佛光万丈，千佛现身，三危山下现出月牙一泉。乐尊感恩，就此长住，开凿
出第一座敦煌石窟。读毕心有戚戚：长安浮华，庙堂虽安，经书万卷却也语言有限。出
走西北正是合情合理的学者的选择。而人的宗教皈依往往有各种偶然因素的推动：如果
不是干渴欲尽，乐尊未必见到佛光，月牙泉对他不会有那么大的冲击，敦煌会不会出现
石窟也成为悬疑。所以写了个英语小小说，寄托一下追寻理想的共鸣。
上买卖提后发现在这里写的好几篇文章都有朝圣者的影子，从《朝圣者的灵魂》，到
《鸡尾酒会》里的Celia，到支边遇车祸去世的扎马尾辫的诗人，甚至包括最早的《走
出非洲》的Karen Blixen，精神都是相通的。所以把唐僧和乐尊合为一体，叫梦中情人
可能不如叫精神同道更为确切。以下是本科的英语小说，抱歉读起来比中文费力。语言
有点堆砌，见笑；请方家多指点，先谢。
Decision-making for Buddha
It was A. D. 366 in the Sixteen Kingdoms Dynasty. A monk named Yue Zun set out from
Chang’an for the wild, unknown north-west land. He became the pioneer of
the Dunhuang District, and laid foundation for the later renowned Dunhuang
Caves.
He is walking in the Gobi Desert. The sun is burning and scorching the earth
as usual. He has been walking for four days.
In his haversack there is an empty water-bottle, a book of scriptures, and a
piece of bun as hard as stone. The bun can last three more days, for he eats
very little. But even three days is impossible: There is no water. The
biggest threat in a desert comes not so much from hunger as from thirst. He
knows he cannot survive tonight—he will die this very evening, or even dusk.
How he has come to this is all so ridiculous as one might say. He has been
striking the wooden fish for thirty-two years of his life and read all the
scriptures in the temple. By every appearance he is a staunch Buddhist,
praised by the Buddhist abbot and expected to be his successor. But at night
when he lies in bed gazing at the moon and thinking, there always comes a
gnawing feeling of unfulfilment. Books are all very well, but they are not
enough. He still lacks something solid and tangible. When he preaches he
feels an acute lack of confidence as if his sermon were floating and
drifting. Why on earth is there Misery? However can Buddha help? It may be
vague at first, but day by day it clears up, weighs on his mind and twitches
his heart until at last he makes up his mind, packs up his things and sets
out to find a basis for his belief in other than speculative ways.
He has deliberately chosen this land, bare and barren on the map, in order
to experience something intense and extreme. It proves true and worthy in
such a mocking way—that in return for its extreme it demands his life.
All within sight is pure Gobi Desert, a mass of yellowish brown and cracked
soil. It looks the same every day as if he had never moved. Going the west
is like traveling back to the earliest beginnings of the world when there is
no man, no noise, all but a dead tranquility. In the first few days when he
rides on his horse, he who has been accustomed to green trees and colorful
world gets a real shock. Everywhere there is the cracked soil, dry in the
highest degree, which he dare not look at for more than two minutes for his
eyes would ache and seem also cracked in the eye-corners. Now and then he
sees odd patches of green on which a peasant or two are bent at work. That
is a sight, a piece of red cloth (their usual dress) against a vast, filthy
yellow land. They work a whole year hard, sometimes with no single grain
gained in the end, they know it only too well and they accept it and go on
with it, philosophically. He is shaken by the poverty, the evilness of
nature and the subsistence and endurance of man. Which cannot be felt either
in the boisterous city or in the unearthly temple. But that has faded out
of being as he goes further on. The dry yellow swallows everything. His
horse died four days ago of thirst. Now there is no life in sight—except
for bits of weed baked a dingy brown. Camels are said to live on this plant
on their journey through the desert. It is extremely thorny—his finger gets
pricked when he picks the tiny ox-blood berry from its top. It has a bitter
taste with barely any juice that teases rather than quenches the tremendous
thirst. Nonetheless he admires it. It is fighting for survival against such
vicious nature and has succeeded; whereas a piece of mankind, despite being
so well-composed by the Builder of the universe, is frail enough to be
defeated.
He drags his feet forward, forcibly. He has chosen it himself, and he never
regrets. He has never been so close to the earth, so firm in his advance and
so calm in his soul. He has learnt to know his people, how they live and
how they endure. His heart craves for Buddha more than ever—but He does not
appear as the scripture says. He will take his defeat as philosophically as
his peasant counterparts, lying in the earth-bed; but he cannot hide the
profound disappointment inside him. While finding his basis he has lost his
Buddha—isn't it another mockery?
Gradually the glare of the desert softens and he knows it is about sunset.
He raises his head, intending to give his last salute to this glorious
killer. All of a sudden he is astounded. He stands petrified and cannot
breathe. What is it before his eyes?
Not far ahead rises a mountain. It is neither high nor steep but clearly
distinguishes itself from the devilish desert. The sun is setting. The mount
stands against the fiery sky, gilded a layer of magnificent golden, and
seems to brighten and radiate by itself. And above all, on its top appears
his Buddha! The image is shining more brightly, cloaking the desert the man
the sky with a beautiful warm hue.
He is instantly melted in that glory. Unconsciously he goes down on his
knees, closes his hands above his head and bows piously. He has been craving
silently and wildly for his Buddha so long and Buddha has at last come to
him before his death. Every hesitation and disappointment is swept away as
he gazes into that familiar, philanthropic countenance. Only Buddha sees his
trouble and misery. Only He is present when he is alone suffering and
struggling. It is Buddha who knows what the wretched heart endures and longs
for. He chokes with passion as he looks. The sun, the mount, Buddha, he
sees it all. It occurs to him to carve all this down, so that everyone can
admire it, be thrilled and enlightened. But he has no time. He will die of
thirst tonight. His Buddha is before him, smiling, sighing, in his air of
mute a whisper, “Come, come to me!”
He stands up and bumps forward. He reaches the foot of the hill and there,
lying serenely and shimmering, is a miraculous crescent-shaped lake. Around
it is soddy, green grass stirring with the warm breeze as if waving and
welcoming him …
The next morning, the first hammering was heard in Sanwei Mount. A month
later the first cave of Buddha’s sculpture was completed. It multiplied
centuries later into 492 namely today the Dunhuang Caves.
