The world believes in divination with shells and weeds. The first class of diviners assert they question heaven; the second, earth—that the weed milfoil has something spiritual, that tortoises are divine, and that omens and signs respond, when asked. Therefore people disregard the advice of their friends, and take to divination: they neglect what is right and wrong, and trust solely to lucky and unlucky portents. They believe heaven and earth really make their wishes known, and that weeds and tortoises truly possess spiritual powers.
In point of fact, diviners do not communicated with heaven and earth, nor do weeds or tortoises have spiritual powers. That they have, and that heaven and earth are being interrogated, is an idea of common scribblers. How can we prove that?
Tse Lu asked Confucius, "A pig's shoulder and a sheep's leg can serve as omens, and from creepers, rushes, straws, and duckweed we can foreknow destiny. What need is there then for milfoil and tortoises?"
"That is not correct," said Confucius, "for their names are essential. The milfoil's name means old, and the tortoise's, aged. In order to elucidate doubtful things, one must ask the old and the aged." According to this reply, milfoil is not spiritual, and the tortoise is not divine. From the fact that importance is attached to their names, it does not follow that they really possess such qualities. Since they do not possess those qualities, we know that they are not gifted with supernatural powers, and, as they do not possess these, it is plain that heaven and earth cannot be asked through their medium. . .
We are living between Heaven and Earth, as lice do on the human body. If those lice, desirous of learning man's opinion, were emitting sounds near his ear, he would not hear them. Why? Because there is such an enormous difference of size, that their utterances would remain inaudible. Now, let us suppose that a pigmy like a man puts questions to Heaven and Earth, which are so immense; how could they understand his words, and how become acquainted with his wishes? . . .
When King Wu of Chou destroyed Chou, the interpreters put a bad construction upon the omens, and spoke of a great calamity. T'ai Kung flung the stalks away, and trampled upon the tortoise saying, "How can dried bones and dead herbs know fate?"
Mostrando postagens com marcador Religion. Mostrar todas as postagens
Mostrando postagens com marcador Religion. Mostrar todas as postagens
segunda-feira, 28 de setembro de 2009
Ghosts
People say that the dead become spirit beings, or ghosts, that they are conscious, and can hurt men. Let us examine this by comparing men with other beings.
The dead do not become ghosts, have no consciousness, and cannot injure others. How do we know this? We know it from other beings. Man is a being, and other creatures are likewise beings. When a creature dies, it does not become a ghost, for what reason then must man alone become a ghost when he expires? In this world you can separate man from other creatures, but not on the ground that he becomes a ghost. The faculty to become a ghost cannot be a distinctive mark. If, on the other hand, there is no difference between man and other creatures, we have no reason either to suppose that man may become a ghost.
Man lives by virtue of his vital force. When he dies, this vital force is exhausted. It resides in the arteries. At death the pulse stops, and the vital force ceases to work; then the body decays, and turns into earth and clay. By what could it become a ghost?
Without ears or eyes men have no perceptions. In this respect the deaf and the blind resemble plants and trees. But are men, whose vital force is gone, merely as if they had no eyes, or no ears? No, their decay means complete dissolution.
When men see ghosts, they appear like living men. Just from the fact that they have the shape of living men we can infer that they cannot be the spirits of the dead, as will be seen from the following.
Fill a bag with rice, and a sack with millet. The rice in the bag is like the millet in the sack. Full, they look strong, stand upright, and can be seen. Looking at them from afar, people know that they are a bag of rice, and a sack of millet, because their forms correspond to their contents, and thus become perceptible. If the bag has a hole, the rice runs out, and if the sack is damaged, the millet is spilt. Then the bag and the sack collapse, and are no more visible, when looked at from afar.
Man's vital force resides in the body, as the millet and rice do in the bag and the sack. At death the body decays, and the vital force disperses, just as the millet and the rice escape from the pierced or damaged bag, or sack. When the millet or the rice are gone, the bag and the sack do not take a form again. How then could there be a visible body again, after the vital force has been scattered and lost?
The nature of heaven and earth is such, that a new fire can be lighted, but a burnt-out fire cannot be set ablaze again. A new man can be born, but a dead one cannot be resurrected. If burnt-out ashes could be kindled again into a blazing fire, I would be very much of opinion that the dead might take a bodily form again. Since, however, a burnt-out fire cannot burn again, we are led to the conclusion that the dead cannot become ghosts. [...]
The dead do not become ghosts, have no consciousness, and cannot injure others. How do we know this? We know it from other beings. Man is a being, and other creatures are likewise beings. When a creature dies, it does not become a ghost, for what reason then must man alone become a ghost when he expires? In this world you can separate man from other creatures, but not on the ground that he becomes a ghost. The faculty to become a ghost cannot be a distinctive mark. If, on the other hand, there is no difference between man and other creatures, we have no reason either to suppose that man may become a ghost.
Man lives by virtue of his vital force. When he dies, this vital force is exhausted. It resides in the arteries. At death the pulse stops, and the vital force ceases to work; then the body decays, and turns into earth and clay. By what could it become a ghost?
Without ears or eyes men have no perceptions. In this respect the deaf and the blind resemble plants and trees. But are men, whose vital force is gone, merely as if they had no eyes, or no ears? No, their decay means complete dissolution.
When men see ghosts, they appear like living men. Just from the fact that they have the shape of living men we can infer that they cannot be the spirits of the dead, as will be seen from the following.
Fill a bag with rice, and a sack with millet. The rice in the bag is like the millet in the sack. Full, they look strong, stand upright, and can be seen. Looking at them from afar, people know that they are a bag of rice, and a sack of millet, because their forms correspond to their contents, and thus become perceptible. If the bag has a hole, the rice runs out, and if the sack is damaged, the millet is spilt. Then the bag and the sack collapse, and are no more visible, when looked at from afar.
Man's vital force resides in the body, as the millet and rice do in the bag and the sack. At death the body decays, and the vital force disperses, just as the millet and the rice escape from the pierced or damaged bag, or sack. When the millet or the rice are gone, the bag and the sack do not take a form again. How then could there be a visible body again, after the vital force has been scattered and lost?
The nature of heaven and earth is such, that a new fire can be lighted, but a burnt-out fire cannot be set ablaze again. A new man can be born, but a dead one cannot be resurrected. If burnt-out ashes could be kindled again into a blazing fire, I would be very much of opinion that the dead might take a bodily form again. Since, however, a burnt-out fire cannot burn again, we are led to the conclusion that the dead cannot become ghosts. [...]
Immortality
Joy and anger, sorrow and happiness, caution and remorse, come upon us by turns, with ever changing mood. They come like music from hollowness, like mushrooms from damp. Day and night they alternate within us, but we cannot tell whence they spring. How can we hope in the spur of the moment to lay our finger upon their true cause?
Without these emotions I would not be. Without me, they would not exist. So far we can go. But we do not know what brings these emotions into play. It would seem to be something in charge, but the clue to its existence is wanting. That something is actively in charge is credible enough, though we cannot see its form. Perhaps it has functions without form.
Think of the human body with all its manifold divisions. Which part of it does a man love best? Does he treat them all with equal affection, or does he have favorites? Don’t they all serve him equally? And do these servants then govern themselves, or are they subdivided into rulers and subjects? Surely there is some thing in charge that rules them all.
But whether or not we ascertain its functions matters little to the thing itself. For coming into existence with my mortal body, its mandate will also terminate with the exhaustion of my body. To be harassed by the wear and tear of life, and to pass rapidly through it without possibility of arresting one’s course—is not this pitiful indeed? To labor without ceasing, and then, worn out and not living to enjoy the fruit, to depart, suddenly, to one knows not where—is not that a just cause for grief?
What advantage is there in what men call immortality? The body decomposes, and the mind goes with it. This is our real cause for sorrow. Can the world be so dull as not to see this? Or is it I alone who am dull, and others not so?
Without these emotions I would not be. Without me, they would not exist. So far we can go. But we do not know what brings these emotions into play. It would seem to be something in charge, but the clue to its existence is wanting. That something is actively in charge is credible enough, though we cannot see its form. Perhaps it has functions without form.
Think of the human body with all its manifold divisions. Which part of it does a man love best? Does he treat them all with equal affection, or does he have favorites? Don’t they all serve him equally? And do these servants then govern themselves, or are they subdivided into rulers and subjects? Surely there is some thing in charge that rules them all.
But whether or not we ascertain its functions matters little to the thing itself. For coming into existence with my mortal body, its mandate will also terminate with the exhaustion of my body. To be harassed by the wear and tear of life, and to pass rapidly through it without possibility of arresting one’s course—is not this pitiful indeed? To labor without ceasing, and then, worn out and not living to enjoy the fruit, to depart, suddenly, to one knows not where—is not that a just cause for grief?
What advantage is there in what men call immortality? The body decomposes, and the mind goes with it. This is our real cause for sorrow. Can the world be so dull as not to see this? Or is it I alone who am dull, and others not so?
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