The master taught many disciples.
All is illusion, he said.
And then one day, the master's son was murdered.
The master retreated into his cave. He would see no one. His followers stood outside and from the dark they heard wailing night and day, day and night.
On the twelfth day the master came to the front of the cave. He was gaunt, his hair matted and rubbed with ashes from the fire, his clothes were torn.
But master, his shaken followers said, did you not say that all was illusion? Is this not true of your son's death?
All is illusion, the master said, and losing one's child is the worst illusion of them all.
Тут можна прочитати ще одну з моїх улюблених притч: "Про трьох монахів і сміх"