अस्तमिते आदित्ये याज्ञवल्क्य चन्द्रमस्य् अस्तमिते शान्ते अग्नौ किंज्योतिः एव अयं पुरुषः इति वाक् एव अस्य ज्योतिर् भवति इति वाचैवायं ज्योतिषास्ते पल्ययते कर्म कुरुते विपल्येति तस्मात् वै संराट् अपि यत्र स्वः पाणिर् न विनिर्ज्ञायते अथ यत्र वाक् उच्चरत्य् उपैव तत्र न्येति इति एवम् एव एतद् याज्ञवल्क्य
astamite āditye yājñavalkya candramasy astamite śānte agnau kiṃjyotiḥ eva ayaṃ puruṣaḥ iti vāk eva asya jyotir bhavati iti vācaivāyaṃ jyotiṣāste palyayate karma kurute vipalyeti tasmāt vai saṃrāṭ api yatra svaḥ pāṇir na vinirjñāyate atha yatra vāk uccaraty upaiva tatra nyeti iti evam eva etad yājñavalkya
"And when the sun has set, the moon has set and the fire has gone out, by what light does this man live?" — "Speech becomes his light: by the light of speech he sits, goes out, works and returns. That is why, your majesty, where one cannot make out even one's own hand, men go toward wherever a voice is raised." — "Just so, Yājñavalkya."
d257789c794b · 发布于 2026年7月27日 01:11:14 UTC
可用语言RUEN用方向键翻颂
The fire too is out — and in the impenetrable dark an unexpected light remains: speech. The proof comes from the living experience of anyone who has wandered in the dark: "where one cannot make out even one's own hand, men go toward wherever a voice is raised": a call in the darkness is a real lamp; people come to a voice as to a little fire.
Speech-as-light is deeper than a metaphor: sound leads, orients and outlines the world when the eye is blind. The blind live by this light constantly; the sighted on every dark night. But a voice too can fall silent — and Janaka puts the last question, four times earned.