The Prologue
It is winter in Siberia. The year might be 1822 or 1823. Snow covers the taiga. Shallow-rooted larch trees cling desperately to the topsoil. The sun hides like a hermit and the forests are stern, savage, and dark. Silent and somnambulant, the Angara river wends its way beneath a long, winding blade of uninterrupted ice.
Small villages sprawl along the banks. The peat fires burning in their hearths send up black billows of sulfury smelling smoke. A thin, rosy blanket of light warms the horizon. The only sound is the back-break of grass snapping under the weight of a single traveler’s steps.
The wind at the man’s back is inhospitable. He carries nothing but a knapsack, some dried bread, and a single book. Each time he is stopped by a curious villager, he tells them that he is seeking the path toward enlightenment. He tells them that he is on a journey—a long, long journey without any destination on earth—a pilgrim’s journey in which the way itself is the whole point.
Homeless, wandering, restless, the traveler arrives in a secluded provincial town. He has heard that a wise teacher lives in a modest hut near the local monastery. Eager to learn the secret of life’s journey, he petitions the teacher to provide him with counsel. But the wise man offers him no answers, giving the traveler an old and tattered book instead.
Opening it, this is what he read:
When seated at a table, alone or with others, one and the same person—at one and the same time—should do three things: supply your body with food, your ear with reading, and your heart with connection.
In other words:
Eat. Read. Connect.
