昨日下午回家路上，恰巧听见每天回家会路过的教堂里传来的管风琴的声音。彼时思绪混杂、内部的不和谐感十分抽象，但又确实存在。于是我踏进了教堂，坐在礼拜长椅上，写下了这些文字。在书写的时候，我进入了极其忘我的状态。精神与肉体的二元已不存在，因为肉体已经被遗忘在物质的世界。而我的精神归回了漫漫的历史长河之中，去往那些如歌德、黑塞般的伟人们都时常造访的地方。在短暂的两个小时内，我体验了何为真正的纯一。当我回看我写下的文字的时候，发现有些混乱，甚至词不达意，而我却能精确的回忆起当时的体验。这样的体验无法用语言表达，但是若是有着类似体验的人，在看到下面的文字的时候或许也能超脱于语言的限制，窥到我所拜访的田园。 翻译：管风琴的声音弥漫，阳光穿过有色的玻璃，把它的印象带到了旧建筑上。一只燕子飘过宣讲台，中世纪的精神不再显得华而不实和奢华。我把它放在我存在的中心;我清楚地看到了被唤醒的精神的发展来自人类最深层的无意识这导致了他们不可阻挡的虔诚对着这些雕刻在石墙上的形象。庄严的种子已经发芽，其形态变得更清晰可辨。整天折磨着我的那种说不出的、几乎无法表达的不满，现在融入了这种敏锐的精神，回响在我在脑海中重新创造的那片古老的土地上。它们在那里找到了自己的位置，而我发现自己融入了它们。 我的心灵在错误设想的荒芜中找到了栖身之所，每个人都听说过，看到过一瞥，正如我们精明的发现所指引的那样，但却不敢涉足，也不知道通往那里的道路。模糊的，纠缠的情感是我的指南针。大多数人都无可救药地迷失了方向，误入歧途，因为他们不知道口袋里藏着的指南针。庄严的纯洁已永远地过时，因为外在的不和谐已经变得如此明显。它对每个人都施加了它的咒语。人们再也不能在他们虚假的世界表象中寻求庇护，以保持精神的和谐。它的欺骗性本质被舒适地隐藏着，无知的面纱使人们有理由在他们的潜力允许的范围内，充分利用他们的想象力。昔日的美好时光一去不复返了，内在的暴风雨现在迫在眉睫。我在那些肩膀上站着暹罗猫的人所称的不安中找到了住所。然而，我是一个旅行者，而不是一个居民。灵魂的永恒流动警告我不要在它的任何表象中寻求安慰和安全。这些形式的众多性、多元性和流动性都显得同样诱人。他们都觊觎我，想把我拴在他们的结构里，用他们的爱来控制我，把我比作他们，以便占有我，同化我。他们用如此狡猾的诡计接近我，企图迷惑我，使我心甘情愿地向他们投降。他们是多么狡猾和有效，我一次又一次地被他们的诱惑所迷惑，把那些狡猾的煽动当作我的使命。我错误的重复一直隐藏在我意识的阴影里。但在我灵魂的种子里，我知道这是我怯懦和恐惧的产物。正是这种怯懦和恐惧，才发现自己最容易与自大和傲慢联系在一起。我们倾向于认为，在发现了笼罩着他们肉体的不和谐后，没有人会蠢到继续忍受它。但是我们的自满使我们低估了习惯和风俗的力量，而不是低估了精神的力量。这种可鄙的懒散表现了对恒常欲望的惰性，这种惰性是如此根深蒂固，以致于人类自身的任何方面都无法战胜。人类的习惯应该而且只能被人类的意志所摧毁。任何能够做到这一点的人都将被冠以“超人”的称号。谁拥有坚定的意志，保护自己的精神不受任何僵化的企图——迷信、宗教、伴侣、知识、语言……——的侵害，谁就配得上这个称号。——在布里斯托尔的一座教堂里，在一个陌生人庄严的管风琴演奏中。 原文：The voice of organ pervades,Sunlight streams through the colour-tainted pane, Carries its impression unto the old structure.A swallow wafts across the podiumThe medieval spirit no longer appears gaudy and sumptuous.I place it in the centre of my being;I see so clearly the developmentOf vocations of the deepest human unconsciousThat leads to their inexorable devoutnessTo these images I now see wrought in the stone wall.The seed of solemnity that has sprouted,Now seems to take a more discernible form. The unutterable, almost formless discontents that afflicted me throughout the day now merges into this penetrating spirit, echoes in the ancient land I have recreated in my mind. They find their place there, and I find myself wrought into them. My mind finds its accommodation in the falsely conceived blight where everyone has heard, has seen glimpse of, as directed by our shrewd discoveries, but dare not to tread, nor knowing the path to. The vague, indistinct, entangled affect is what I take to be my compass. The majority of men are irrevocably lost and led astray, for they know not the compass hidden in their pockets. The solemn purity is permanently archaic, for the external dissonance has grown overtly powerful to cast its incantation to every man. Men can no longer take shelter in their spurious representation of the world to retain the harmony of the spirit. Its deceitful nature was comfortably latent, and that veil-of-ignorance legitimises men to exploit their imaginative ability to the fullest, as far as their potential allows. The good old days are nevermore, and the immanent tempest is now imminent.I find abode in the unsettlement as called by those who carry a Siamese cat on their shoulder at all times. Yet, I am a traveller, not a resident. The eternal flow of spirit warns me against seeking comfort and security in any of its manifestations. The multitude, plurality, fluidity of these forms all appear equally enticing. They all covet me, trying to tether me to their structure, bridle with their lore, liken me to them so as to possess me and assimilate me. They approach me with such shrewd ruses that attempt to bewitch me to surrender myself willingly to them. How cunning and effective they are, that I have fallen for their lure over and over and treat those sly instigations as my vocation. My fallacious repetition kept itself in the shadow of my consciousness. Yet in the seed of my soul, I know it is the product of my cowardice and fear. It is precisely such cowardice and fear that find themselves most comfortably affiliated with pretence and haughtiness. …It is tempting to think that no man is gullible and merely stupid enough to endure the dissonance they find that have permeated their body once they arrive at this enlightening observation. But our complacency bounds us, not to underestimate the power of spirit, but to underestimate the power of habit and custom. The despicable languidness as the representation of the inertia of the desire for constancy is so immanent that no aspect for men themselves will trump. The habit of men shall and can only be destroyed by the will of men. Anyone who is able to accomplish this shall be crowned the name “superman”. He who possesses the resounding will to safeguard the spirit himself from any attempt to fossilise — superstition, religion, companion, knowledge, language… will be deserving of this name. — in a Bristol church under the solemnity of organ played by a stranger.
