俄国思想家经典读后感有感( 十 ) 俄国思想家|读后感「问人人知识网」

Unlike Tolstoy or Joseph de Maistre, my yearning for the transcendent is not brewed in the dinky altar of the Church. Nor is it a product of an overarching nationality, which seemingly explains away all the uneven pattern of habits of a people. I was born and raised in the way of nature, and desire to live in accordance with it. I do not abide by preaching, nor do I have the taste for moral didactics. All that I could remember about my early moral teaching is the handfuls of dawn and dusk spent in the balcony with flora and fauna, all of which started to bear the veil of anthropos for me, a fragile and friendless little soul. I came to understand men through seeds, leaves, bugs and birds. I wrote them tributes and elegies, as if all those I observed in these quiet and almost slothful beings were just as real and intimate as those in my fellow beings and me, if not more. The seedling spring, the velvety morning glories reaching up high towards the sky, the ladybugs and fireflies that would not risk stealing one extra second of life at the price of dignity, the yams and potatoes I lost to my dear old neighbors after seasons of labor. These lives made me. The minute yet miraculous signs of budding in deep fall, the struggle of lives against nature upon rocks and beneath as fierce as the struggle between themselves, the migration of childhood memory from one green corner of an open balcony to the solitary aquarium on the other end of the bridge—these pictures have convinced me that the reality of life, despite the creatures’ common struggle towards survival, is full of surprising strife. Yet the tragic striving of all beings against the tide of time is not futile, as at some point, nature always seasons the bitterness with comedies and hits me at moments of epiphany with the hidden connections among them all. I am reluctant to abandon any details of reality or any potential associations breeding from the present in pursuit of a morbid and monistic picture, yet the contrasting details within the reality, however stark, would not prevent me from seeking a unifying principle that explains them all.
I try to grasp in Tolstoy a wisp of hope, the hope for him as a belletrist to come to term with his heart torn between the urge to belong to the multiplicity on earth and the yearning to pilot the flight for the otherworldly simplicity. All I have found is his tragic yet heroic failure, one which that is meant to be, and perfectly realizes the truth as he claims. Should I am fortunate enough to continue with my journey towards Athens/Arcadia/Syracuse, it is destined to be one with puzzle and pain, both of which I have vowed to befriend as I embarked on the journey. It is through Berlin, however, that I sensed a kind of hope, the hope that a man of letter can still persist in his inquiry by dissipating the myth about truth and even by denying its previously ascertainable existence. Perhaps it is only when the tempting glory of truth vanishes that its essence starts to emerge. I wonder whether it is Tolstoy or Berlin who is actually closer to truth. I wonder if it is by surrendering to the truth's disappearance that you finally become part of it. I wonder if it is really as they say, that the greatest conquest is humility, and that the greatest strength lies in gentleness.