Urgent for Shi Tiesheng's original "I and Ditan"! Seven should be all!

I have mentioned an abandoned ancient garden in several novels, which is actually an altar. Many years ago, before the development of tourism, the garden was as barren as a wild field, and few people remembered it.

Ditan is close to my home. Or my home is close to the Ditan. In a word, I have to think that this is fate. Ditan was located there more than 400 years before I was born, and since my grandmother came to Beijing with my father when she was young, she has been living near Ditan-she has moved several times in more than 50 years, but she has been around Ditan and is getting closer and closer. I often feel that there is a taste of fate in it: it seems that this ancient garden has been waiting for me for more than 400 years after many vicissitudes.

It waited for me to be born, and then when I lived to the most arrogant age, I suddenly crippled my leg. For more than 400 years, it has eroded the grandiose stained glass at the eaves of the ancient temple, faded the scarlet displayed on the door wall, collapsed sections of high walls and scattered jade carving fences, and the ancient cypress around the altar has become more and more secluded, and weeds and vines can be seen everywhere to flourish freely and openly. I think I should come. One afternoon fifteen years ago, I pushed the wheelchair into the garden. It prepared everything for an irrational person. At that time, the sun grew bigger and redder along the eternal road. In the quiet light of the garden, it is easier for a person to see the time and his own figure clearly.

I haven't left for a long time since I accidentally entered the garden that afternoon. I immediately understood its intention. As I said in a novel: "In a densely populated city, it is like God's painstaking arrangement to have such a quiet place."

In the first few years after my leg was disabled, I couldn't find a job, couldn't find a way, and suddenly I couldn't find anything. I rocked my wheelchair and walked all the way to it, just because there is another world, I can escape from another world. I wrote in that novel: "I have nowhere to go, so I spend all day in this garden." Just like commuting, I always come to work in a wheelchair. The garden is unattended, and some people who cut corners pass by it during commuting hours. The garden was active for a while, and then it was silent. ""The walls of the garden are slanted and covered in the golden air. I put the wheelchair in, put the chair back, sit or lie down, read or think about things, beat the branches left and right, and drive away the little insects who don't understand why I came to this world like me. " "Bees are like a small fog, firmly stopping in mid-air; The ant shook his head, stroked his tentacles, suddenly figured something out, turned around and ran away; The ladybug crawled impatiently. After a tired prayer, it spread its wings and took off in a flash. There is a cicada on the trunk, lonely as an empty house; Dewdrops rolled and gathered on the grass leaves, bending the grass leaves and crashing to the ground, breaking thousands of golden lights. " "The garden is full of the noise of plants and trees competing to grow, and it will continue for some time. "These are real records. The garden is barren but not in decline.

I can't get in except a few temples. I can't go up there except the altar. I can only look at it from all angles. I have been under every tree in the altar, and almost every meter of grass has my wheel marks. No matter what season, weather and time, I am in this garden. Sometimes I go home after a while, and sometimes I stay until the moonlight shines all over the earth. I can't remember all its corners. I spent hours thinking about death, and I used the same patience and way to think about why I was born. After thinking for several years, I finally figured it out: when a person is born, it is no longer a debatable question, but just a fact given to him by God; When God gave us this fact, he has guaranteed its result by the way, so death is not a hurry, and death is a festival that is bound to come. I feel much more at ease after thinking like this, and everything in front of me is no longer so terrible. For example, when you get up early and stay up late to prepare for the exam, it suddenly occurs to you that there is a long holiday waiting for you. Will you feel relaxed? And be grateful for this arrangement?

The rest is the question of how to live, but at a certain moment, I can't fully figure it out and can't solve it at the moment. I'm afraid you have to think about it all your life, just like the devil or lover who will accompany you all your life. So, fifteen years later, I still want to go to that ancient garden, to its old trees or weeds or ruined walls, to sit quietly, to think, to push away the noisy thoughts in my ears and to see my soul. In fifteen years, the shape of this ancient garden has been carved by people who can't understand it. Fortunately, there are some things that no one can change. For example, the sunset in the stone gate of the altar, the moment when the silent lamp is flat, every bump on the ground is reflected brightly; For example, in the most lonely time in the garden, a group of swift will come out and sing loudly, shouting the desolation of the world; For example, the footprints of children in the snow in winter always make people wonder who they are, what they did there, and where they went; For example, those dark Cooper, when you are depressed, they stand there calmly, when you are happy, they still stand there calmly, they stand there day and night, from when you were not born to when you were not in this world; For example, a sudden rainstorm in the garden aroused a burning, pure smell of vegetation and soil, which reminded people of countless summer events; For example, when the autumn wind suddenly rises, there will be the first frost, falling leaves, swaying songs and dancing or lying down calmly, and the garden will smell of intimacy and bitterness. The taste is the least clear. The taste can't be written, only smelled. You have to smell it yourself to understand it. The taste is even harder to remember. Only when you smell it again can you remember all its emotions and meanings. So I often go to that garden.

two

Now I realize that I always go to the altar alone, and what a problem I have given my mother.

She is not the kind of mother who loves her son but doesn't understand him. She knows the anguish in my heart and should not stop me from going out for a walk. She knows that if I stay at home all the time, the result will be worse, but she is worried about what I think all day in that lonely garden. At that time, I was very bad-tempered. I often ran away from home like a madman and came back from the garden like a demon without saying anything. Mother knew that there were some things she shouldn't ask, so she hesitated to ask, and finally dared not ask because she didn't have an answer in her heart. She expected that I wouldn't ask her to go with me, so she never asked. She knows I have to be alone for a while. She just doesn't know how long this process will take and what the outcome of this process is. Every time I want to leave, she silently helps me prepare, helps me get into a wheelchair and watches me swing out of the yard; What will happen to her after this? I never thought about it at that time.

Once, I staggered out of the yard, remembered something, and then came back. I saw my mother still standing in the same place, still seeing me off, watching me turn out of the corner of the yard, but she didn't respond to my return for a while. When she sent me out again, she said, "Go out for activities and read in the Ditan. I said it was good. " Many years later, I gradually realized that my mother's words were actually self-consolation, a secret prayer, a reminder, a plea and an instruction. Only after her sudden death did I have the leisure to imagine how restless she was in those hours when I left home, with pain and panic, and a mother's minimum prayers. Now I can conclude that with her wisdom and perseverance, on the night after those empty days, the day after that sleepless night, she must finally say to herself, "I can't stop him from going out anyway." The future is his own. If something really happens to him in that garden, I have to bear the pain. " During that time-it was a long time, I thought I must have prepared for the worst, but she never said "miss me." Actually, I really didn't think about her. At that time, her son was too young to miss his mother. He was stunned by fate and thought he was the most unfortunate person in the world. He doesn't know that his son's misfortune is always doubled with his mother. She had a son who was suddenly paraplegic at the age of twenty. This is her only son. She would rather have her son paraplegic, but this is irreplaceable; She thinks that as long as her son can live, even if he dies, she is convinced that a person can't just live, and his son must have a way to make himself happy. And this road, no one can guarantee that her son will finally find it. -such a mother is destined to be the mother who lives the hardest.

Once I was chatting with a writer friend, I asked him what was his initial motivation for learning to write. He thought for a moment and said, "It's for my mother. Make her proud. " I was shocked and silent for a long time. Looking back on my motivation for writing novels, although it is not as simple as this friend's, I have the same desire as him, and once I think about it carefully, I find that this desire also accounts for a large proportion of all motives. The friend said, "Is my motivation too vulgar?" I just shook my head, thinking that vulgarity is not necessarily vulgar. Maybe this wish is too naive. He added: "I really wanted to be famous at that time. I was famous to make others envy my mother." I think he is more frank than me. I think he is happier than me because his mother is still alive. I think his mother is luckier than mine. His mother doesn't have a lame son, otherwise it wouldn't be so simple.

When my first novel was published, in those days when my novel won the first prize, I really wish my mother was still alive. I can't stay at home anymore. I go to Ditan alone all day. My heart is full of depression and sadness. I have traveled all over the garden, but I don't understand why my mother can't live for another two years. Why can't she stand it all of a sudden when her son is on the road? Did she come to this world just to worry about her son, but shouldn't she share my little happiness? She was only forty-nine when she left me in a hurry! For a moment, I even hated and hated the world and God. Later, I wrote in an article entitled "Acacia Tree": "I sat in a quiet forest in a small park, closed my eyes and thought, why did God call my mother back early? For a long time, I vaguely heard the answer:' Her heart was too bitter, and God saw that she couldn't stand it, so he called her back.' I seemed to get a little comfort. I opened my eyes and saw the wind passing through the Woods. "Small park refers to the Ditan.

Only at this time, all kinds of past events became clear before my eyes, and my mother's suffering and greatness deeply penetrated into my heart. God's consideration may be right.

Walking slowly in the garden in a wheelchair is a foggy morning and a sunny day. I only think about one thing: my mother is gone. I stopped by the old cypress tree and the decaying wall on the grass. It was the afternoon when insects were everywhere and the dusk when birds returned to their nests. I only said to myself: but my mother is gone. Put down the back of the chair, lie down, as if sleeping until the sun is gone, sit up, in a trance, and just sit there until the ancient altar is full of darkness, and then the moonlight gradually comes, and then I realize that my mother can never come to this garden again.

Many times, I stayed in this garden for too long, and my mother came to see me. She came to me and didn't want me to find out. As long as she sees me still in this garden, she will turn back quietly. I met her several times. I saw her looking around several times. Her eyesight is poor, and wearing glasses looks like looking for a boat at sea. I saw her when she didn't see me. Seeing her and me, I won't go to see her. After a while, I will look up at her and see the back of her slowly leaving. I just don't know how many times she hasn't found me. Once I was sitting in the bushes, which were dense, and I saw that she didn't find me; She walked alone in the garden, walked past me, walked past some places where I often stayed, and walked blankly and eagerly. I don't know how long she has been looking for it and how long she will look for it. I don't know why I decided not to call her-but this is by no means hide-and-seek as a child. Maybe it's because an adult boy is stubborn or shy? But this stubbornness only left me with regret and no pride at all. I really want to warn all adult boys not to be stubborn to their mothers, let alone be shy. I see, but it's too late.

The son wants to make his mother proud. After all, this emotion is so real that the notorious idea of "wanting to be famous" has changed his image a little. This is a complicated problem, leave it alone. As the excitement of winning the novel faded, I began to believe that at least I was wrong: the road where I collided with paper and pen in the newspaper was not the one my mother expected me to find. I come to this garden year after year, and year after year, I want to think about what my mother wants me to find. My mother didn't leave me any meaningful philosophical words or teachings that I should abide by, but after her death, her hard fate, unyielding will and unobtrusive love became more and more vivid and profound in my impression as time went on.

One year, the October wind raised the quiet leaves again. I was reading in the garden and heard two old people walking say, "I didn't expect this garden to be so big." I put down my book and thought, how many anxious roads did my mother take in such a big garden before she found her son. For the first time in many years, I realized that this garden is not only full of my ruts, but also full of my mother's footprints.

three

If the time of day corresponds to the four seasons, of course, spring is morning, summer is noon, autumn is dusk and winter is night. If musical instruments are used to correspond to the four seasons, I think spring should be trumpet, summer should be timpani, autumn should be cello, and winter should be horn and flute. What if the sounds in this garden correspond to the four seasons? Then, spring is the whisper of pigeons floating above the altar, summer is the long cicada chirp and poplar leaves make fun of cicada chirp, autumn is the wind chime under the eaves of the ancient temple, and winter is the random and empty pecking of woodpeckers. Corresponding to the four seasons in the garden, spring is a path that is sometimes pale and sometimes dark, and sometimes a bunch of poplars sway in the sky that is sometimes clear and sometimes gloomy; Summer is a dazzling and hot stone bench, or a cool and moss-covered stone step with a peel under it and half a crumpled newspaper on it; Autumn is a bronze clock. In the northwest corner of the garden, a huge bronze clock was discarded. The bronze bell is the same age as this garden. It is covered with green rust and the words are not clear. In winter, it is a few furry old sparrows on the ground in the forest. What about the four seasons in the mood? Spring is the season of illness, otherwise people will not easily find the cruelty and longing of spring; In summer, lovers should be lovelorn in this season, otherwise they will be sorry for love; Autumn is the time to buy a pot of flowers from outside and go home, put the flowers in the long-lost home, open the window and put the sunshine in the house, and slowly recall and sort out some moldy things; In winter, accompanied by stoves and books, I decided to become an immortal again and again and wrote some letters that I didn't send. You can also use art forms to correspond to the four seasons, so that spring is a painting, summer is a novel, autumn is a short song or poem, and winter is a group of sculptures. What about dreams? What about the four seasons with dreams? Spring is the weeping on the treetops, summer is the drizzle in weeping, autumn is the land in the drizzle, and winter is the lonely pipe on the clean land.

Because of this garden, I am often grateful for fate.

I can even see clearly now how much I will miss it, how much I will miss it, how much I will dream of it, how much I will never dream of it, because I dare not miss it.

four

Now let me see, who have been coming to this garden for fifteen years? It seems that it's just me and an old couple.

15 years ago, the old couple were only middle-aged couples, and I was a real young man. They always come for a walk in the garden at dusk. I'm not sure which door they came in from. Generally speaking, they walk around the garden counterclockwise. The man is very tall, with wide shoulders and long legs. He walks with his eyes open, above his hips until his neck is straight. His wife climbed his arm, but didn't let his upper body relax a little. Women are short and not beautiful. I have no reason to believe that she must come from a wealthy family with a poor family. She clung to her husband's arm like a delicate child. When she looks around, she always has fear. She spoke softly to her husband, and when someone approached, she stopped timidly. I sometimes think of them because of Jean Valjean and Cosette, but this idea is not solid. They knew at a glance that it was an old couple. Both of them are well dressed, but due to the evolution of the times, their clothes can be called simple. Like me, they came to the garden almost rain or shine, but they were more punctual than me. I can come at any time, but they must come at dawn When it is windy, they wear beige trench coats, and when it rains, they wear black umbrellas. In summer, their shirts are white, their trousers are black or beige, and in winter, their wool coats are all black. Presumably they only like these three colors. They circled the garden counterclockwise and left. When they passed me, only men's footsteps sounded, and women seemed to stick to tall husbands and go with the flow. I'm sure they must remember me, but we didn't talk, and neither of us wanted to be near each other. Fifteen years later, they may have noticed that a young man has entered middle age, but I watched an enviable middle-aged couple unconsciously become two old people.

Once upon a time there was a young man who liked singing. He also came to this garden to sing every day for many years, and then he disappeared. His age is similar to mine. He usually comes in the morning and sings for half an hour or all morning. I guess he'll have to go to work another time. We often meet on the path east of the altar. I know he is singing under the high wall in the southeast corner. He must have guessed what I was doing in the Woods in the northeast corner. I found my place, smoked a few cigarettes and heard him carefully tidy up his voice. He sang those songs over and over again. Before the Cultural Revolution, he sang "White clouds float in the blue sky, horses run under white clouds ..." I always can't remember the name of this song. After the Cultural Revolution, he sang the most popular aria in Salesmen and Ladies. "Selling cloth-selling cloth, selling cloth-selling cloth!" I remember the first sentence he sang loudly. In the fresh morning air, vendors ran around the garden to pay their respects to the young lady. "I'm lucky, I'm lucky, I sing for happiness ..." Then he sang again and again to keep the vendor's enthusiasm from fading. Personally, his technique is not perfect, and he often makes mistakes in key places, but his voice is not bad, and he can't hear any fatigue after singing all morning. The sun is tireless, shrinking the shadow of the big tree into a ball and basking in the neglected earthworms on the path. Near noon, we met again on the east side of the altar. He looked at me and I looked at him. He goes north and I go south. After a long time, I think we all have the desire to get to know each other, but we don't seem to know how to speak, so we look at each other, and then look away and pass by; It's happened so many times that I don't know how to say it. Finally, one day-a nondescript day-we nodded to each other. He said, "Hello." I said, "Hello." He said, "Go back?" I said, "Yes, and you?" He said, "I should go back, too." We all slowed down (actually, I slowed down) to say a few more words, but we still didn't know where to start, so that we all passed each other and turned to face each other. He said, "Goodbye then." I said, "OK, bye." They smiled at each other and parted ways. But we never met again. Since then, there has been no singing in the garden. I thought that he might want to say goodbye to me that day. Maybe he was admitted to a professional art troupe or a song and dance troupe. I really hope he has made good luck, as he sang in the song.

There are others. I can think of some people who often come to this garden. There was an old man who was a real drinker; He has a flat porcelain bottle hanging around his waist. Of course, the bottle is full of wine, and he often comes to this garden to spend the afternoon. He strolled in the garden. If you don't pay attention, you will think there are several such old people in the garden. When you have seen his outstanding drinking, you will believe that this is a unique old man. His clothes are too casual and he walks carelessly. After walking fifty or sixty meters, he chose a place, put one foot on a stone bench or a ridge or a stump, and took off the bottle at his waist. When he took off the bottle, he carefully looked at the scenery from the perspective of 180 degrees with wide eyes, then poured a big mouthful of wine into his stomach in lightning speed, shook the bottle around his waist and thought calmly for a while. There is also a bird catcher. In those days, there were almost no people in the garden, but there were many birds. He pulled a net in the bushes in the northwest corner, and the bird hit it. His feathers were trapped in the net and could not extricate themselves. He waited for a bird that was once rare now, and when other birds went online, he picked them up and let them go. He said that he had been waiting for the rare bird for many years. He said that he would wait for another year to see if there was such a bird, but he waited for many years. You can see a middle-aged female engineer in this garden sooner or later; In the morning, she goes to work through the garden from north to south, and in the evening, she goes home through the garden from south to north. Actually, I don't know her occupation and education, but I think she must be an intellectual studying science and engineering. It is difficult for others to be as simple and elegant as her. When she walked through the garden, the surrounding Woods seemed quieter, and there seemed to be a distant piano sound in the faint sunlight, such as the song "For Alice". I have never seen her husband, and I have never seen what that lucky man looks like. I have imagined it, but I can't imagine it. Then I suddenly realized that it was better not to imagine. That man had better not show up. She walked out of the north gate and went home. I'm a little worried that she will fall into the kitchen. However, maybe the scene where she works in the kitchen has another beauty. Of course it can't be "dedicated to Alice". What is this? There is another person who is my friend. He was the most talented long-distance runner, but he was buried. He spent several years in prison for his careless remarks during the Cultural Revolution. After he came out, he finally found a job pulling carts, and everything was unequal to others. He was depressed enough to practice long-distance running. At that time, he always came to run in this garden, and I timed him with my watch. Every time he runs around greeting me, I write down a time. Every time he runs around the garden twenty times, about twenty thousand meters. He hopes to achieve real political liberation with his long-distance running achievements, and he thinks that the reporter's lens and words can help him do this. In the first year, he ran 15 in the Spring Festival Championship. He was confident when he saw the photos of the top ten hanging in the news window of Chang 'an Avenue. The next year, he ran fourth, but only the photos of the top three were hung in the news window. He was not discouraged. In the third year, he ran the seventh place and hung the photos of the top six in the window. He felt a little guilty. In the fourth year, he ran third, but only the photo of the first place was hung in the window. In the fifth year, he ran the first place-he was almost desperate, and there was only one photo of the crowd scene in the window. In those years, the two of us used to stay in this garden until it was dark, have a good scolding, go home silently after scolding, and then tell each other when we parted: don't die first, then try to live. Now he doesn't run. He is too old to run so fast. At the age of 38, he won the first place in the last city competition and broke the record. The coach of a professional team said to him, "I wish I had found you ten years ago." He gave a wry smile and said nothing. He only came to the garden at night and told me the story calmly. I haven't seen him for years, and now he lives far away with his wife and son.

These people don't come to the garden now, and the garden is almost full of newcomers. Fifteen years ago, it was just me and the old couple. For a while, one of the old ladies suddenly didn't come. At dusk, only a man came for a walk, and his gait was obviously much slower. I was worried for a long time, afraid that something would happen to that woman. Fortunately, after a winter, the woman came again, and the two men still turned around the garden counterclockwise. A long figure and a short figure are like two hands of a clock. The woman's hair is much whiter, but she still crawls on her husband's arm and walks like a child. The word "climbing" is not appropriate. Maybe we can use "mixed". I wonder if there is a word that has both meanings.

five

I haven't forgotten a child-a beautiful and unfortunate little girl. I saw her when I first came to this garden that afternoon fifteen years ago. At that time, she was about three years old, squatting on the path to the west of Zhan Mu Palace to pick up "little lanterns" falling from trees. There are several big Luan trees there. In spring, clusters of tiny and dense yellow flowers bloom. When the flowers fall, countless small lanterns are produced, like three leaves stacked together. The little lantern turns green first, then white, then yellow, and falls to the ground when it matures. Small lanterns are exquisite and precious, and adults can't help but pick them up one after another. The little girl babbled and picked up a small lantern; Her voice is very good, not as shrill as a person of her age, but very round and even rich, perhaps because the garden was too quiet that afternoon. I wonder why such a small child came to this garden alone. I asked her where she lived. She casually pointed to it and called her brother. A boy of seven or eight years old stood in the grass by the wall. He looked at me and thought I didn't look like a bad person. He said to his sister, "I'm here" and bent down again. He is catching some bugs. He caught mantis, grasshopper, cicada and dragonfly to please his sister. For two or three years, I often saw them under those big Luan trees, and my brothers and sisters always played together, playing in harmony and growing up. I haven't seen them for many years since then. I think they are all at school and the little girl is old enough to go to school. She must have bid farewell to her childhood and won't have many opportunities to play here. This is normal, there is no reason to take it too seriously. If I don't see them in the garden for one year, I will gradually forget them.

It was a Sunday morning. It was a sunny and heartbreaking morning. Many years later, I found that the beautiful little girl turned out to be a mentally retarded child. I rocked my car to those big Luan trees, which was the season when small lanterns were everywhere; At that time, I was suffering from the ending of a novel. I don't know why I gave it such an ending, and I don't know why I suddenly didn't want it to have such an ending. So I ran out of the house, trying to rely on the peace in the garden to see if I should give up the novel. As soon as I stopped the car, I saw a few people playing with a young girl not far ahead, making strange gestures to scare her, running after her, and intercepting her while shouting and laughing. The girl ran around several big trees in horror, but she didn't let go of the skirt rolled in her arms. Her legs were bare and she seemed unconscious. I can see that the girl has some mental defects, but I haven't seen who she is yet. I was about to drive to clear the way for the girl, when I suddenly saw a young man riding a bike quickly in the distance, so all the guys playing with the girl ran away. The young man put his bike near the girl, glared at the scattered young men, panting silently, and his face was as white as the sky before the rainstorm. At this moment, I recognized them. This young man and this young girl are little brothers and sisters. I almost exclaimed or wailed in my mind. Things in the world often make God's intentions suspicious. The young man walked towards his sister. The girl let go of her hand, her skirt hung down, and many small lanterns she picked up spilled all over the floor and scattered at her feet. She is still beautiful, but her eyes are dull and dull. She just looked at the scattered guys and looked at the farthest emptiness. It is impossible for her intelligence to understand the world, right? Under the big tree, the broken sunshine adorns it, and the wind blows small lanterns everywhere, as if silently ringing countless small bells. My brother helped my sister to the back seat of the bike and took her home without saying anything.

Silence is right. If God gave the little girl both beauty and mental retardation, it would be right to go home speechless.

Who can figure out the world? Many things in the world are unspeakable. You can complain about why God has brought so much suffering to this world, and you can also struggle to eliminate all kinds of suffering and enjoy loftiness and pride, but if you think about it one step further, you will fall into deep confusion: if there is no suffering in the world, can the world still exist? If there is no stupidity, where is the glory of wisdom? If there is no ugliness and beauty, how can we maintain luck? Without meanness and meanness, how will kindness and nobility define themselves and become virtues? If there is no disability, will the voice become boring because of its platitudes? I often dream of completely eliminating disability in the world, but I believe that by then, patients will suffer the same pain instead of disabled people. If the disease can be completely eliminated, then the pain will be borne by people who are ugly, for example. Even if we can eliminate ugliness, ignorance and meanness, and all things and behaviors we don't like, all people are equally healthy, beautiful, intelligent and noble. What will happen? I'm afraid all the plays on the earth will come to an end. A world without difference will be a stagnant pool, a desert without feeling and fertility.

There always seems to be disagreement. It seems that we have to accept suffering-all human dramas need suffering, and existence itself needs suffering. Looks like God was right again.

So there is a most desperate conclusion waiting here: who will play those who suffer? Who will embody the happiness, pride and happiness in this world? It is unreasonable to leave things to chance.

As far as fate is concerned, don't talk about justice.

So, where is the road to redemption for all unfortunate fates?

If wisdom and understanding can lead us to the road of redemption, can all people get such wisdom and understanding?

I often think that ugly women make beautiful women. I often think that fools lead to wisdom. I often think that cowards set off heroes. I often think that all beings have become Buddhas.

This word is too long. Go to Baidu to find it yourself.