When I read, I work hard at it,
but that makes me tired and dizzy;
so I put my book down and meditate–
then the book and I both forget about words.
When I feel like it, I flip the book open–
suddenly I’ve come to the Source of the Sages:
if I say this is enlightenment–
basically there is no enlightenment;
if I say this is the Mystery–
there has never been a Mystery.
It’s just a moment of happiness
when I find a passage in harmony with my mind.
But who creates this happiness?
It isn’t me, and it isn’t Nature…
What a laugh! All my theories are wrong!
I throw the book down beside my pillow.
by Yang Wan-li (Chinese poet, 1127-1206), Heaven My Blanket, Earth My Pillow