Years passed by; surrounded by the good life, Siddhartha hardly felt them fading away. He had become rich, for quite a while he possessed a house of his own and his own servants, and a garden before the city by the river. The people liked him, they came to him, whenever they needed money or advice, but there was nobody close to him, except Kamala.
岁月荏苒，席特哈尔塔置身在安乐中几乎没觉察年华的流逝。他富了，早就拥有了一幢自己的住宅以及自己的仆人，在城郊的河边还另有一个花园。人们都喜欢他，需要钱或忠告时就来找他，可是除了卡玛拉，没有人跟他特别亲近。
For a long time, Siddhartha had lived the life of the world and of lust, though without being a part of it. His senses, which he had killed off in hot years as a Samana, had awoken again, he had tasted riches, had tasted lust, had tasted power; nevertheless he had still remained in his heart for a long time a Samana; Kamala, being smart, had realized this quite right. It was still the art of thinking, of waiting, of fasting, which guided his life; still the people of the world, the childlike people, had remained alien to him as he was alien to them.
席特哈尔塔过了很长时间的世俗生活和性爱生活，却并没有完全属于它。他在狂热的沙门年代里扼杀的性欲又苏醒了，他尝到了财富的滋味，尝到了肉欲的滋味，尝到了权势的滋味，但他心里很长时间仍是个沙门，而聪明的卡玛拉也准确地看清了这一点。仍然是思考、等待和斋戒的艺术引导着他的生活，他对世俗的人们，对那些孩子般的俗人依然生疏，正像他们也不熟悉他一样。
That high, bright state of being awake, which he had experienced that one time at the height of his youth, in those days after Gotama’s sermon, after the separation from Govinda, that tense expectation, that proud state of standing alone without teachings and without teachers, that supple willingness to listen to the divine voice in his own heart, had slowly become a memory, had been fleeting; distant and quiet, the holy source murmured, which used to be near, which used to murmur within himself. Nevertheless, many things he had learned from the Samanas, he had learned from Gotama, he had learned from his father the Brahman, had remained within him for a long time afterwards: moderate living, joy of thinking, hours of meditation, secret knowledge of the self, of his eternal entity, which is neither body nor consciousness. Many a part of this he still had, but one part after another had been submerged and had gathered dust. Just as a potter’s wheel, once it has been set in motion, will keep on turning for a long time and only slowly lose its vigour and come to a stop, thus Siddhartha’s soul had kept on turning the wheel of asceticism, the wheel of thinking, the wheel of differentiation for a long time, still turning, but it turned slowly and hesitantly and was close to coming to a standstill. Slowly, like humidity entering the dying stem of a tree, filling it slowly and making it rot, the world and sloth had entered Siddhartha’s soul, slowly it filled his soul, made it heavy, made it tired, put it to sleep. On the other hand, his senses had become alive, there was much they had learned, much they had experienced.
他以前在青春年代里体验过的那种高度敏锐的清醒，在听戈塔马讲经之后的日子里，在与戈文达分手后的日子里，他体验过的那种高度敏锐的清醒，那种紧张的期待，那种既无学说又无师长的值得自豪的独立，那种准备在自己内心倾听神灵声音的灵活决心，都渐渐变成了回忆，变成了过去；原来离他很近的在他心中流过的圣泉，已经是在远处轻轻地流淌了。他向沙门学到的许多东西，他向戈塔马学到的许多东西，他向婆罗门父亲学到的许多东西，依然长时间地留在他心里：节俭的生活，思考的乐趣，潜修的光阴，还有对自己，即对那个既非肉体又非意识的永恒自我的悄然认知。它们有的确实还留在他心里，但是，毕竟已一个接一个地消失，被尘土掩盖了。就像制陶工匠的圆盘，一旦转动起来就会久久地转个不停，最后才慢慢地减速和停止那样，席特哈尔塔心里的苦修之轮、思考之轮和分辨之轮也是这样久久地转动不已，现在仍在转动，但是已经慢了，晃动了，接近停止了。就像温气渗入正在枯死的树干，慢慢地充满了它并使之腐朽那样，俗气和惰性也侵入了席特哈尔塔的心灵，慢慢地充满了它并使之学生，使之疲乏，使之麻木。而他的情欲却变得活跃起来，学到了很多，也体验了很多。
But still he had felt different from and superior to the others; always he had watched them with some mockery, some mocking disdain, with the same disdain which a Samana constantly feels for the people of the world. When Kamaswami was ailing, when he was annoyed, when he felt insulted, when he was vexed by his worries as a merchant, Siddhartha had always watched it with mockery. Just slowly and imperceptibly, as the harvest seasons and rainy seasons passed by, his mockery had become more tired, his superiority had become more quiet. Just slowly, among his growing riches, Siddhartha had assumed something of the childlike people’s ways for himself, something of their childlikeness and of their fearfulness.
但是，他仍然和别人不一样，他感到自己比他们优越，看他们时总是略带嘲讽，略带揶揄的轻蔑，这正是沙门对俗人始终怀有的那种轻蔑。每当卡马斯瓦密身体不舒服，生气发怒，感到受了侮辱，受商人的种种烦恼困扰时，席特哈尔塔总是怀着嘲讽袖手旁观。不过，随着收获季节和雨季过去，他的嘲讽慢慢地不知不觉地减弱了，他的优越感也有所收敛。随着他的财富日益增长，席特哈尔塔本人也染上了那种孩子般俗人的一些特点，染上了他们的孩子气和谨小慎微。
Siddhartha had learned to trade, to use his power over people, to enjoy himself with a woman, he had learned to wear beautiful clothes, to give orders to servants, to bathe in perfumed waters. He had learned to eat tenderly and carefully prepared food, even fish, even meat and poultry, spices and sweets, and to drink wine, which causes sloth and forgetfulness. He had learned to play with dice and on a chess-board, to watch dancing girls, to have himself carried about in a sedan-chair, to sleep on a soft bed.
席特哈尔塔学会了做生意，学会了对人们行使权力，学会了与女人寻欢作乐。他学会了穿华衣美服，使唤奴仆，在香气袭人的水里洗澡。他学会了享用精心烹调的饭菜，烹用鸡鸭鱼肉、调味品和甜点、饮用使人懒散、健忘的酒。他学会了掷骰子、下棋、看舞蹈、坐轿子和睡软床。
And yet, he envied them, envied them just the more, the more similar he became to them. He envied them for the one thing that was missing from him and that they had, the importance they were able to attach to their lives, the amount of passion in their joys and fears, the fearful but sweet happiness of being constantly in love. These people were all of the time in love with themselves, with women, with their children, with honours or money, with plans or hopes. But he did not learn this from them, this out of all things, this joy of a child and this foolishness of a child; he learned from them out of all things the unpleasant ones, which he himself despised. It happened more and more often that, in the morning after having had company the night before, he stayed in bed for a long time, felt unable to think and tired. It happened that he became angry and impatient, when Kamaswami bored him with his worries. It happened that he laughed just too loud, when he lost a game of dice.
而且，他羡慕他们，他跟他们越相像，就越羡慕他们。而他羡慕的正是他自己缺乏而他们却拥有的东西，那就是他们能使他们的生活显得十分重要，他们对欢乐与恐怕的激情，以及他们演变的不安而又甜蜜的幸福。这些人不断地迷恋自己，迷恋女人，迷恋他们的孩子，迷恋名或利，迷恋种种计划或希望。但是有一占他不是向他们学到的，那就是孩子般的快乐和孩子般的愚蠢；他向他们学到的恰恰是他自己很瞧不起的讨厌东西。于是，越来越多地出现这样的情况：他在参加了一个欢乐的晚会之后早上迟迟不起床，感到昏头昏脑和十分困乏。当卡马斯瓦密诉说自己的烦恼而使他感到无聊时，他往往生气发怒和烦躁不安。
His face was still smarter and more spiritual than others, but it rarely laughed, and assumed, one after another, those features which are so often found in the faces of rich people, those features of discontent, of sickliness, of ill-humour, of sloth, of a lack of love. Slowly the disease of the soul, which rich people have, grabbed hold of him. Like a veil, like a thin mist, tiredness came over.
他掷骰子赌输了钱，就十分过分地放声大笑。他的脸仍然比别聪明和精神，但是他笑得少了，接连出现那些只是在有钱人脸上常见的特点，那种不知足、病态、厌烦、懒散和冷酷无情的特点。有钱人的心理疾患慢慢地俘虏了他。
Siddhartha, slowly, getting a bit denser every day, a bit murkier every month, a bit heavier every year. As a new dress becomes old in time, loses its beautiful colour in time, gets stains, gets wrinkles, gets worn off at the seams, and starts to show threadbare spots here and there, thus Siddhartha’s new life, which he had started after his separation from Govinda, had grown old, lost colour and splendour as the years passed by, was gathering wrinkles and stains, and hidden at bottom, already showing its ugliness here and there, disappointment and disgust were waiting. Siddhartha did not notice it. He only noticed that this bright and reliable voice inside of him, which had awoken in him at that time and had ever guided him in his best times, had become silent.
疲乏就像一道纱幕，一层薄薄的雾气，慢慢地降临到席特哈尔塔身上，每天都变厚一点，每月都变混一点，每年都变重一点。就像一件新衣随着时间变旧，随着时间失去鲜艳的色彩，出现斑点，出现皱褶，衣边磨损，有些地方开始出现破绽那样，席特哈尔塔与戈文达分手后开始的新年生活也变旧了，随着流逝的岁月失去了色彩与光泽，积满了皱褶和斑点，失望和厌恶已然产生，藏在心底，有时已经丑恶地露了出来。席特哈尔塔没有察觉。他只是发现，自己内心那种响亮的胸有成竹的声音，那种曾经在他心里苏醒并且在他的光辉岁月里时时引导他的声音，如今变得悄然沉默了。
He had been captured by the world, by lust, covetousness, sloth, and finally also by that vice which he had used to despise and mock the most as the most foolish one of all vices: greed. Property, possessions, and riches also had finally captured him; they were no longer a game and trifles to him, had become a shackle and a burden. On a strange and devious way, Siddhartha had gotten into this final and most base of all dependencies, by means of the game of dice. It was since that time, when he had stopped being a Samana in his heart, that Siddhartha began to play the game for money and precious things, which he at other times only joined with a smile and casually as a custom of the childlike people, with an increasing rage and passion.
世俗俘虏了他，还有享乐、好色和懒散，最后是他始终认为愚蠢透顶的最瞧不起并加以讥诮的恶习——贪婪。财产、家业和富有最终也俘虏了他，对于他不再是游戏和小玩艺，而是变成了锁链和负担。席特哈尔塔是通过一条不寻常的奸诈途径，也就是通过掷骰子赌博，陷入这最后、最可耻的歧途的。从他心里不愿再当沙门的时候起，席特哈尔塔就开始了旨在赢钱赢珠宝的赌博。往常，他只是当作庸人的习俗笑着漫不经心地参与，如今，他玩起来赌瘾越来越大了。
He was a feared gambler, few dared to take him on, so high and audacious were his stakes. He played the game due to a pain of his heart, losing and wasting his wretched money in the game brought him an angry joy, in no other way he could demonstrate his disdain for wealth, the merchants’ false god, more clearly and more mockingly. Thus he gambled with high stakes and mercilessly, hating himself, mocking himself, won thousands, threw away thousands, lost money, lost jewelry, lost a house in the country, won again, lost again. That fear, that terrible and petrifying fear, which he felt while he was rolling the dice, while he was worried about losing high stakes, that fear he loved and sought to always renew it, always increase it, always get it to a slightly higher level, for in this feeling alone he still felt something like happiness, something like an intoxication, something like an elevated form of life in the midst of his saturated, lukewarm, dull life.
他是个令人生畏的赌徒，一般人不大敢跟他赌，因为他下赌注时特别多特别狠。他进行赌博是出于内心的困境，输掉花光那些讨厌的金钱使他得到一种发怒式的快乐，而用别的方式他就不能对商人奉为偶像的财富表示出更清楚更尖刻的蔑视。因此，他毫不可惜地押大注，憎恨自己，嘲讽自己，一赢千金，又千金一掷，输掉钱，输掉首饰，输掉别墅，然后再赢回来，又输掉。他喜欢那种恐怕，那种赌博中因为押上了大注而提心吊担时感到的恐惧，那种可怕的令人窒息的恐惧，并且努力使这种恐惧不断重现，不断增强，被刺激得越来越强，因为只有在这种感觉中他才多少有点儿幸福，有点儿陶醉，在他那百无聊赖的、温吞吞的、单调乏味的生活当中才多少有点儿心安理得。
And after each big loss, his mind was set on new riches, pursued the trade more zealously, forced his debtors more strictly to pay, because he wanted to continue gambling, he wanted to continue squandering, continue demonstrating his disdain of wealth. Siddhartha lost his calmness when losses occurred, lost his patience when he was not payed on time, lost his kindness towards beggars, lost his disposition for giving away and loaning money to those who petitioned him. He, who gambled away tens of thousands at one roll of the dice and laughed at it, became more strict and more petty in his business, occasionally dreaming at night about money! And whenever he woke up from this ugly spell, whenever he found his face in the mirror at the bedroom’s wall to have aged and become more ugly, whenever embarrassment and disgust came over him, he continued fleeing, fleeing into a new game, fleeing into a numbing of his mind brought on by sex, by wine, and from there he fled back into the urge to pile up and obtain possessions. In this pointless cycle he ran, growing tired, growing old, growing ill.
在每一次大输之后，他都设法积累新年的财富，更热心地做买卖，更严厉地逼迫债户还帐，因为他要继续赌，继续挥霍，继续对财富表示他的轻蔑。席特哈尔塔在输钱时失去了从容镇定，对拖欠的债户失去了耐心，对乞丐失去了同情，对施舍失去了兴趣，也不再借钱给求贷者。他在豪赌中可以一掷万金并且付之一笑，可是做起生意却越发严厉，越发小气，夜里做梦有时也梦到钱！他常常从这种可憎的迷醉中醒来，常常从卧室墙上的镜子里照见自己的脸变老变丑了，羞愧和恶心常常袭扰他，于是他继续逃避，逃到新的赌博之中，逃到肉欲和酗酒的麻醉之中，再从那儿回到攒钱和赚钱的本能之中。在这种毫无意义的循环中他疲于奔命，日渐衰老，病魔缠身。
Then the time came when a dream warned him. He had spend the hours of the evening with Kamala, in her beautiful pleasure-garden. They had been sitting under the trees, talking, and Kamala had said thoughtful words, words behind which a sadness and tiredness lay hidden. She had asked him to tell her about Gotama, and could not hear enough of him, how clear his eyes, how still and beautiful his mouth, how kind his smile, how peaceful his walk had been. For a long time, he had to tell her about the exalted Buddha, and Kamala had sighed and had said: “One day, perhaps soon, I’ll also follow that Buddha. I’ll give him my pleasure-garden for a gift and take my refuge in his teachings.” But after this, she had aroused him, and had tied him to her in the act of making love with painful fervour, biting and in tears, as if, once more, she wanted to squeeze the last sweet drop out of this vain, fleeting pleasure. Never before, it had become so strangely clear to Siddhartha, how closely lust was akin to death. Then he had lain by her side, and Kamala’s face had been close to him, and under her eyes and next to the corners of her mouth he had, as clearly as never before, read a fearful inscription, an inscription of small lines, of slight grooves, an inscription reminiscent of autumn and old age, just as Siddhartha himself, who was only in his forties, had already noticed, here and there, gray hairs among his black ones. Tiredness was written on Kamala’s beautiful face, tiredness from walking a long path, which has no happy destination, tiredness and the beginning of withering, and concealed, still unsaid, perhaps not even conscious anxiety: fear of old age, fear of the autumn, fear of having to die. With a sigh, he had bid his farewell to her, the soul full of reluctance, and full of concealed anxiety.
这时，一个梦提醒了他。那天晚间，他在卡玛拉那儿，在她那美丽的大花园里。他们俩坐在树下交谈，卡玛拉说了些引人深思的话，话背后隐含着某种悲伤和倦乏。她请求他讲述戈塔马，而且老是听不够，戈塔马的眼睛如何纯洁，他的嘴如何文静优美，他的笑容如何亲切，他的步态如何平稳。他不得不把这个活佛的事儿向她讲了好久，然后卡玛拉叹了口气，说道：“将来，或许要不了多久，我也会去追随这位活佛。我要把我的大花园送给他，信奉他的学说。”可是接着，她又挑逗他，在爱情游戏中怀着痛苦的热情箍紧他，咬他，淌着泪，仿佛要从这空虚而短暂的情欲中再一次挤出最后一滴甜蜜来。席特哈尔塔忽然明白了，淫欲和死亡是多么接受。然后，他躺在她身边，卡玛拉的脸紧挨着他，从她的眼睛下面和嘴角旁边，他清晰地读到了一种令人不安的文字，一种由细线和浅纹构成的文字，让人联想到秋天与老年，就像席特哈尔塔自己，年方四十，黑发间却已经出现了花白的头发。在卡玛拉俊俏的脸上记得写着疲倦，疲倦和业已开始的憔悴，以及有意掩饰的、还没有说出的、也许还没有意识到的不安：害怕衰老，害怕秋天，害怕不可避免的死亡。他叹息着向她告别，心里充满了不快，充满了隐秘的不安。
Then, Siddhartha had spent the night in his house with dancing girls and wine, had acted as if he was superior to them towards the fellow-members of his caste, though this was no longer true, had drunk much wine and gone to bed a long time after midnight, being tired and yet excited, close to weeping and despair, and had for a long time sought to sleep in vain, his heart full of misery which he thought he could not bear any longer, full of a disgust which he felt penetrating his entire body like the lukewarm, repulsive taste of the wine, the just too sweet, dull music, the just too soft smile of the dancing girls, the just too sweet scent of their hair and breasts. But more than by anything else, he was disgusted by himself, by his perfumed hair, by the smell of wine from his mouth, by the flabby tiredness and listlessness of his skin. Like when someone, who has eaten and drunk far too much, vomits it back up again with agonising pain and is nevertheless glad about the relief, thus this sleepless man wished to free himself of these pleasures, these habits and all of this pointless life and himself, in an immense burst of disgust. Not until the light of the morning and the beginning of the first activities in the street before his city-house, he had slightly fallen asleep, had found for a few moments a half unconsciousness, a hint of sleep. In those moments, he had a dream:
然后，席特哈尔塔回到自己家里和舞女们饮酒消磨长夜，对与他同等地位的人摆出轻蔑的样子，其实他已经没什么可自负的了。他喝了好多酒，午夜之后很晚才摸上床，虽然疲倦却很激动，真想大哭，几乎绝望，想睡而又久不成寐，心里充满了一种他以为无法再忍受的愁苦，充满了一种他感到浑身难受的恶主，就像酒的那种温吞吞的讨厌味道，就像过分甜腻而单调的音乐，就像舞女们那过分柔媚的笑容，就像她们的秀发和乳房那过分甜腻的芳香。但是，最让他恶心的是他自己，是他的香气扑鼻的头发，是他嘴里的酒味，是他的皮肤的疲沓与不适。就好像一个人吃得太多或者喝得太多，难受得呕吐出来，然后由于一身轻松而感到高兴那样，这个失眠者也希望能在一阵呕吐之后摆脱这些享乐，摆脱这些习惯，摆脱这种毫无意义的生活，摆脱自己。直到天光大亮，他的住所门前大街上开始了喧闹忙碌时，他才迷迷糊糊地睡着了，陷入一种半麻木的状态，一种睡意蒙笼。就在这片刻之中他做了一个梦。
Starting up from this dream, he felt encompassed by a deep sadness. Worthless, so it seemed to him, worthless and pointless was the way he had been going through life; nothing which was alive, nothing which was in some way delicious or worth keeping he had left in his hands. Alone he stood there and empty like a castaway on the shore.
从这个梦中惊醒后，他感到自己被深沉的悲哀包围着。毫无价值，他觉得自己过的生活真是既无价值又无意义，并没有留下什么生动的东西，也没有留下珍贵的或者值得保存的东西。他孑然孤立，空落落的，就像岸边的一只破船。
Kamala owned a small, rare singing bird in a golden cage. Of this bird, he dreamt. He dreamt: this bird had become mute, who at other times always used to sing in the morning, and since this arose his attention, he stepped in front of the cage and looked inside; there the small bird was dead and lay stiff on the ground. He took it out, weighed it for a moment in his hand, and then threw it away, out in the street, and in the same moment, he felt terribly shocked, and his heart hurt, as if he had thrown away from himself all value and everything good by throwing out this dead bird.
卡玛拉养了一只奇异的小鸟，关在一个金鸟笼里。他梦见了这只小鸟。他梦见这只鸟儿变哑巴了，而平时早上它总是鸣啭不已。他发现了这点，就走到鸟笼前往里瞅，小鸟已经死了，直挺挺地躺在笼子底。他取出死鸟，在手里掂了掂，就把它扔了，扔到街上。他感到很害怕，心里很难受，就好像他把一切价值和一切美好都跟这只死鸟一起扔掉了。
Then, Siddhartha knew that the game was over, that he could not play it any more. Shivers ran over his body, inside of him, so he felt, something had died.
这时席特哈尔塔已明白，这游戏已玩到了头，他不能再玩下去了。一阵寒战传遍他全身，他感觉到，内心深处有什么死去了。
With a gloomy mind, Siddhartha went to the pleasure-garden he owned, locked the gate, sat down under a mango-tree, felt death in his heart and horror in his chest, sat and sensed how everything died in him, withered in him, came to an end in him. By and by, he gathered his thoughts, and in his mind, he once again went the entire path of his life, starting with the first days he could remember. When was there ever a time when he had experienced happiness, felt a true bliss? Oh yes, several times he had experienced such a thing. In his years as a boy, he has had a taste of it, when he had obtained praise from the Brahmans, he had felt it in his heart: “There is a path in front of the one who has distinguished himself in the recitation of the holy verses, in the dispute with the learned ones, as an assistant in the offerings.” Then, he had felt it in his heart: “There is a path in front of you, you are destined for, the gods are awaiting you.” And again, as a young man, when the ever rising, upward fleeing, goalof all thinking had ripped him out of and up from the multitude of those seeking the same goal, when he wrestled in pain for the purpose of Brahman, when every obtained knowledge only kindled new thirst in him, then again he had, in the midst of the thirst, in the midst of the pain felt this very same thing: “Go on! Go on! You are called upon!” He had heard this voice when he had left his home and had chosen the life of a Samana, and again when he had gone away from the Samanas to that perfected one, and also when he had gone away from him to the uncertain. For how long had he not heard this voice any more, for how long had he reached no height any more, how even and dull was the manner in which his path had passed through life, for many long years, without a high goal, without thirst, without elevation, content with small lustful pleasures and yet never satisfied! For all of these many years, without knowing it himself, he had tried hard and longed to become a man like those many, like those children, and inall this, his life had been much more miserable and poorer than theirs, and their goals were not his, nor their worries; after all, that entire world of the Kamaswami-people had only been a game to him, a dance he would watch, a comedy. Only Kamala had been dear, had been valuable to him-but was she still thus? Did he still need her, or she him? Did they not play a game without an ending? Was it necessary to live for this? No, it was not necessary! The name of this game was Sansara, a game for children, a game which was perhaps enjoyable to play once, twice, ten times-but for ever and ever over again?
席特哈尔塔阴郁地走进了一个属于他自己的花园，锁好小门，坐到一棵芒果树下，感受到心中的死亡和胸中的恐惧。他坐在那儿感受到了自己心中如何在衰亡，如何在枯萎，如何在完结。他渐渐地集中了心思，在脑子里再一次回顾了他这辈子走过的路，从他能够想起的最早的日子开始。他什么时候曾体验到一种幸福，感受到一种真正的狂喜呢？噢，对，他也有过好几次这样的经历。在少年时代他就品味过这种欢乐，当他受到婆罗门夸奖时，当他远远超过同龄人，在背诵诗书、与学才辩论以及当祭祀助手都表现得出类拔萃时。那时他心里就感觉到：“一条路摆在你面前，你的使命就是走这条路，神灵在等着你。”到了青年时代，思索的目标不断向上，这使得他从一大群有同样追求的人当中脱颖而出。他在痛苦中思索婆罗门的真谛，每次得到的真知都只是在他心里激起新的渴求，而在渴求当中，在痛苦当中，他又总是听到这个声音：“继续！向前！这就是对你的召唤！！当他离开故乡，选择沙门生活时听见了这声音；当他离开沙门，投奔那位活佛时听见了这声音；当他离开活佛，走进昏沌之中时还是听到了这声音。他已有多久没听见这声音了？他已有多久没有再攀上高峰了？他走过的路是多么平坦和荒凉！好多个漫长的年头，没有崇高的目标，没有渴求，没有提高，满足于小小的欢娱，却又从来没有知足过！这些年，他一直努力和渴望成为一个跟许多人同样的人，跟那些孩子同样的人，可是他自己却不知道，他的生活比他们远为不幸和可怜，因为他们的目标跟也不同，他们的忧虑也跟他不同。像卡马斯瓦密这类人的整个世界对于他只是一场游戏，一场供人观赏的舞蹈，一场悲剧。只有卡玛拉是他真心喜爱的，是他珍惜的——但她还是那样吗？他还需要她呈，还是她需要他？他们不也是在玩一场没完没了的游戏？为这个而活着可有必要？不，没有必要！这游戏叫轮回，是一种儿童玩的游戏，玩起来也许很有趣，一遍，两遍，十遍——可是，就永远这样玩下去么？
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