Czytaj tylko na Litres

Książki nie można pobrać jako pliku, ale można ją czytać w naszej aplikacji lub online na stronie.

Czytaj książkę: «Watching the Tree: A Chinese Daughter Reflects on Happiness, Spiritual Beliefs and Universal Wisdom»

Czcionka:

Watching the Tree to Catch a Hare


A Chinese daughter reflects on happiness,

spiritual beliefs and universal wisdom



ADELINE YEN MAH


DEDICATED TO

MY GRANDFATHER

YEN QIAN LI


(1878–1952)

I wish to thank my Ye Ye and honour him in

Watching the Tree. His memory continues to give me strength. I hope his teaching will be of help to some who are also searching for spiritual tranquillity and solace.

To my husband and best friend, Bob,

without whom this book could not have been written.

To our mentor Mason Wang,

for his help in the Chinese classics.

To our daughter Ann Mah,

for her encouragement.

To Zhang Qing-Ying,

for her beautiful calligraphy.

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

1. Watching the Tree to Catch a Hare SHOU ZHU DAI TU

2. Light at the End of the Tunnel PI JI TAI LAI

3. Hidden and Nameless Tao DAO YIN WU MING

4. Do Not Do to Others What You Do Not Wish Others to Do To You JI SUO BU YU, WU SHI YU REN

5. Look Inwards for Salvation HUI TOU SHI AN

6. Thousands and Tens of Thousands of Varieties of Qi QI XIANG WAN QIAN

7. Let Food be Medicine YI SHI WEI LIAO

8. Know the Opposite Party as Well as You Know Yourself ZHI JI ZHI BI

9. Hidden Logic Within the Shape of Words ZI XING CANG LI

10. The Sight Strikes a Chord in my Heart CHU JING SHENG QING

11. Frog at the Bottom of a Well JING DI ZHI WA

12. The Lessons of Silence BU YAN ZHI JIAO

Author’s note

Index

Also by Adeline Yen Mah

Copyright

About the Publisher

1 Watching the Tree to Catch a Hare
SHOU ZHU DAI TU

My grandfather (Ye Ye) and I shared a rapport that neither of us ever verbalised during his lifetime. He was a businessman but was more interested in books than money. As a little girl in Shanghai, I spent hours playing by myself on the balcony attached to his room. Through the French windows I could see him practising calligraphy, writing letters or consulting the I Ching. Sometimes, he would let me ‘help’ him make fresh ink by grinding the ink-stick on an antique stone slab left to him by his father. I did not inherit Ye Ye’s artistic talent and was in awe of his shu fa (calligraphy).

As the youngest stepdaughter in a Chinese family of seven children, I knew I was unwanted and considered by my family to be the lowest of the low. At home, my misery filled my whole world. It was real and deep and I could see no way out, possessing neither the wisdom nor the cynicism to blunt the cruelty and the constant rejection.

When I was ten, my stepmother Niang separated me from my aunt, whom I dearly loved, and placed me in a succession of Catholic boarding schools. I was unaware that all my mail (both incoming and outgoing) was being sent to my parents for censoring. I only knew that I never heard from my aunt or anyone else for the next four years.

During that time I had nobody but my grandfather. Although I was only allowed ‘home’ on three separate occasions, I treasured those brief visits. I did not know then how vital they were to my emotional and spiritual development.

The Swedish psychologist Eric Ericson wrote of a sense of basic trust, which is instilled in a child by ‘somebody who cares’, without which the child cannot live and dies mentally. This ‘basic trust’ was what my Ye Ye gave to me at that crucial juncture. During the many years when I was isolated in the boarding school in Hong Kong, I was sustained only by my inner conviction that my Ye Ye loved me. At times, things were very bad. My stepmother had a way of making me feel like nothing; a piece of garbage to be thrown away. But, through it all, the thought of my Ye Ye would return and revive my spirits at odd moments. Deep inside, I knew I mattered to him and that he believed in me.

Many decades passed before I came to recognise the depth of his influence. His thoughts were pivotal in shaping me into the person I became. This book is a letter of gratitude to a grandfather who once gave me the most precious of all gifts: my sense of hope.

At the dawn of our new millennium there is a hunger in people throughout the world to comprehend who we are and how we fit together. As a result, interest in eastern philosophy is growing in the west. One quarter of the world’s population lives in China, eats with chopsticks and speaks Chinese. As products of the oldest living civilisation whose culture and language have survived virtually intact, Chinese philosophy, beliefs and wisdom have much to offer. Watching the Tree is concerned with Chinese thought and the reason why we Chinese think the way we do. In it, I have used many incidents from my life to illustrate certain Chinese concepts and related what I have learnt from them.

In my first book, Falling Leaves, I reported my Aunt Baba’s words when we were reunited after a separation of thirty years.

‘The way I see it [she said], the nineteenth century was a British century. The twentieth century is an American century. I predict that the twenty-first century will be a Chinese century. The pendulum of history will swing from the yin ashes brought by the Cultural Revolution to the yang phoenix arising from its wreckage.’

Having lived and worked as a physician in California for thirty years, I consider myself Chinese-American and am very fond of my adopted country. My aunt, however, was born in 1905 and still saw the world through lenses moulded by China’s humiliations during the two preceding centuries. From the dawn of history, we Chinese had regarded China as the centre of the world, and considered every other nation to be barbaric. In 1842 China lost the Opium War and Hong Kong was ceded to Britain. Subsequently China endured 150 years of foreign exploitation and coastal cities such as Shanghai and Tianjin came under foreign control. My grandparents, parents and aunt were all born in the French Concession of Shanghai, where they were ruled by Frenchmen under French law and lived as second-class citizens in their own native city. Perhaps as a consequence, my grandfather, aunt and father used to view all westerners with a mixture of awe and resentment.

After Sun Yat-sen toppled the imperial Qing dynasty in 1911, China became a republic. The country soon broke up into fiefdoms ruled by warlords, who fought the Japanese as well as each other for control. Chiang Kai-shek, a military general and protege of Sun Yat-sen, united the country after Sun’s death but was forced to escape to Taiwan when he lost the civil war to the Communists under Mao Zedong in 1949. Mao drove out the foreigners along with the Nationalists, proclaimed the founding of the People’s Republic and, on 1 October 1949, declared from the Gate of Heavenly Peace in Beijing that ‘the Chinese people have finally stood up for themselves’, meaning that China was no longer subject to foreign rule.

From 1949 until his death in 1976 Mao was essentially China’s one-man dictator. My aunt compared him to Qin Shi Huang Di, the ‘terracotta army’ emperor who united China in 221 BC and whose power and cruelty were legendary. Under Mao’s reign, love of the motherland was the highest virtue on earth. In its name rested sanctity, salvation and a purpose of life. Nationalism replaced Confucianism, Taoism and Buddhism as the Chinese people worshipped at the altar of Mao. China remained isolated, backward and undeveloped for the twenty-seven years under Mao’s rule. The Cultural Revolution (1966–72) was unleashed by Mao to topple his enemies and to free the country of the ‘four olds’ – habits, customs, ideals and creeds. Instead, it wiped out all traditional codes of beliefs and produced a bewildered generation of Red Guards. Even today, there are those within China who preach xenophobia, isolationism, protectionism and resistance to modern market policy. A case of Maoism versus the Disney-fication of China.

Following the break-up of the Soviet Union, the USA is the only superpower left on the world arena today. The dominance of America stems primarily from a philosophy of private enterprise that underpins its economic, educational and political systems. Although China is the world’s most populous country, with 1.3 billion people, it is only one of many ascending nations jockeying for position. Asian countries such as Japan, Korea, Malaysia, India and Pakistan have all undergone industrialisation and modernisation within the last fifty years. Our whole world is already a fusion of east and west; around the globe we are becoming ever more closely linked by ties of environment, security, trade and information. It is now vital for all our futures that we gain an understanding of each other’s history, language and culture.

When I was thirteen years old, my stepmother informed me that I was to leave my school in Hong Kong the following year and get a job because my father could no longer afford my school fees. Desperate to get further education, I confided to my grandfather Ye Ye that I was considering running away secretly to join my Aunt Baba back in Shanghai. Would he consider lending me the fare?

‘What will you do in Shanghai?’ he asked.

‘Go back to my old school. I can’t wait to see all my old classmates again. When my parents took me away from my Shanghai school three years ago, I had just been elected class president. Do you think they will still let me be class president when I go back?’

Grandfather looked at me with a peculiar expression. ‘So you think everything in Shanghai will be exactly the same as when you left? How childish you are! Have you forgotten again what it says over and over in the I Ching? The only thing that does not change is that everything changes.

‘Let me tell you a story that I hope you’ll never forget. Once there was a boy who was told by his master to catch a hare. He went into the woods and looked around. Lo and behold, at that very moment, he saw a hare running along at full speed. As he watched in astonishment, the hare ran smack into a tree and knocked itself unconscious. All he had to do was to pick it up. For the rest of his life the boy waited behind the same tree in the hope that more hares would do the same thing.

‘That boy is like you, expecting the same conditions to be waiting when you return to your school in Shanghai. Watching the tree to catch a hare ( sho zhu dai tu)!’

That was one of the last conversations I had with my grandfather. He died a few months later.


Did my grandfather make up this story? No. Who wrote it? A philosopher named Han Fei Tzu . When did he live? Over 2000 years ago. He died in 233 BC.

After the publication of Falling Leaves many readers wrote to ask me: ‘Given the fact that China was so much more advanced than other civilisations up to the time of Marco Polo (Yuan dynasty – 1260–1368), why did it fall behind the west from then on?’

There are many theories put forward to explain China’s decline. Mine is very simple and is based on one word: education. In the chapter on Confucius I discuss how, for over 2000 years, the sole purpose of education in China was to study the works of Confucius so as to pass the imperial civil examinations and become a magistrate. The study of astronomy (tian wen ) by the general public was restricted because only the emperor (and his appointees at the Bureau of Astronomy) had the right to study the stars. The importance of mathematics in the study of science was never recognised in Imperial China. Mathematics was considered a waste of time since it did not help one to pass the examinations. Potential Chinese Keplers, Galileos and Newtons were busy memorising Confucian texts. Mathematical language based on the Hindu-Arabic numerical system was not generally adopted until the twentieth century. During my father’s youth in the twenties and thirties calculations were still being carried out on the abacus because Chinese numbers (like Roman numerals) lack two essential elements: zero and position, both of which are implied on the abacus but become invisible when the numbers are transcribed on to paper in Chinese characters. Without an adequate numerical alphabet, mathematical thought could not advance and science could not develop.

During the nineteenth century, the Industrial Revolution freed man from the drudgery of manual labor, but the information revolution taking place now will cause far more radical revisions, because it is unleashing the power and expanding the dimension of man’s minds.

In terms of material wealth and scientific progress, achievements in the west have been undisputedly awesome in the last two hundred years. But, has western prosperity brought westerners inner contentment and genuine satisfaction? When desire for money takes precedence over human relationships, can one be truly happy?

Throughout the world people are yearning for spiritual inspiration as well as for a purpose to their lives. Nowhere is this search more urgent than in China where, since the death of Mao, people have become increasingly desperate to find religious meaning and substance. The success of cults such as Falun Gong reflects this hunger. Many are seeking alternatives to materialism, science, Communism and the institutional religions.


When I was eleven years old my parents placed me in a Catholic convent in Hong Kong as a boarder. Soon I came under the influence of Catholic nuns and was quoting the Bible. During one of my rare visits home I discussed my newfound faith with my grandfather (Ye Ye) and he compared our respective beliefs.

‘As a Chinese from the old school, I have always had difficulty sticking to any one religion,’ Ye Ye said. ‘Even though I believe in reincarnation because I am a Buddhist, I honour my ancestors and read the I Ching and the Tao Te Ching . All my educated friends behave similarly.

‘Unlike Muhammadans or Christians, we Chinese have trouble with the western view that there is only one true God. Why can’t Muhammad be accepted as a prophet as well as Moses? Why does one belief have to exclude another? Why can’t all the religions merge together and become one?

‘As a boy, your father got into big trouble with an American firm once because he wrote on his job application form next to “Religion?”: “Catholic, but willing to become Methodist as well, if necessary.” The manager summoned him into his office and called him a “rice Christian”, ready to turn his back on Catholicism for a job with a Protestant firm.

‘ “Why must there be only one true sect?” your father protested. “Why can’t I be a Catholic as well as a Methodist? Why can’t I be both?”

‘But the American manager was angry and your father didn’t get the job. So he moved to Tianjin and worked for me instead.’


In the following chapters I shall outline the differences between east and west on a number of fundamental topics. Because some Chinese words are non-existent in English, just as various English words are absent in Chinese, the only way in which to grasp certain concepts that are unique to China is by leaping across national barriers and allowing for the possibility that truth may be reached in a language other than one’s own.

One Chinese book which will open realms of thought beyond the usual western parameters of perception is the I Ching. Other ideas that play dominant roles in Chinese thinking are Confucianism, Taoism and Zen Buddhism. I illustrate traditional concepts such as qi, feng shui and yin/yang with incidents from my personal life. In each case I hope to bridge the cultural divide between east and west, so that westerners will be able to understand the Chinese way of thinking, discover its roots and see how they resemble or differ from their own. Having spent my first fourteen years in China, and the rest of my life in England and America, I can understand the mind set of both world views.

When my father sent me to study in England in the 1950s, there were few Chinese students in Europe or America. Nowadays, more and more are migrating to the west in search of education, freedom, prosperity and happiness. Deregulation of telecommunications, growth of international trade, ease of air travel and the Internet will ensure increasing contact between east and west. Many childless would-be parents from America are adopting unwanted Chinese baby girls. Intermarriage is also on the rise. My own son married a Brazilian woman whose parents came from Austria and they have an adorable baby boy. The destiny of such infants will write a new chapter in the future relationship between China and the west.

What will that destiny be? The proverb shou zhu dai tu teaches us that change is the only constant. To that, I will add also the universal human yearning for truth and wisdom. For me, this yearning has no borders; it is as urgent a need in America as in China. Given that, and my spiritual and emotional citizenship in both countries, I have written Watching the Tree to present many traditional Chinese beliefs to my fellow constituents: the students of the world.

Religion and spirituality are ambiguous words with widely differing interpretations. Watching the Tree attempts to deal with these terms on a scientific and rational basis, without dogma or superstition. The great German philosopher Martin Heidegger once wrote, ‘Whatever and however we may try to think, we think within the sphere of tradition.’ But what if I were to introduce to western readers a new and entirely different tradition? Could their thoughts become transformed and undergo fresh and radical change?

Philosophy starts with wonder and knowledge is power. Aristotle said, ‘All men by nature desire to know.’ Indeed, Chinese and Westerners alike are all searching for rational and intelligent answers. Somewhere it is written that every Chinese wears a Confucian thinking-cap, Taoist robe and Buddhist sandals. Like my two previous books, Watching the Tree is autobiographical and gives you a glimpse into a Chinese mind. You can see the basis of my personal philosophy and the reason why I think the way I do. I hope it will provide you with an introduction to eastern thought, one that you can use as a stepping stone on your individual path towards the development of your own beliefs.

Enjoy! I wish you happiness.

2 Light at the End of the Tunnel
PI JI TAI LAI

Like many Chinese scholars, my grandfather (Ye Ye) was an ardent follower of the I Ching. He viewed it as his Bible: a book of wisdom as well as a book of divination. A few months after his death from diabetes, I came across his copy of the I Ching and a small bundle of sticks wrapped together in a piece of red silk. At first I thought the sticks were chopsticks but they were too thin even though they were all of equal length. Later I discovered that they were stalks from the yarrow plant.

We were living in Hong Kong and I had been allowed to come home from boarding school to prepare for my forthcoming education in England. It was the first time I had been home since Ye Ye’s funeral. I was sleeping in his old room and it was still full of his belongings and the odour of his cigars. Although I was euphoric at the imminent prospect of going away to a new school in a foreign land far from my stepmother, I missed my grandfather. The sight of his much-thumbed copy of the I Ching, yellow with age, brought a sudden pang that caused the tears to course down my cheeks. On opening its cover, I saw his name, Yen Qian Li , and the year Guang Xu 21 (1896) written with brush and ink. He was then eighteen years old and his calligraphy seemed to shimmer with all the hope and joy of youth. Knowing that my stepmother planned to discard his books and redecorate his room, I packed the tattered volume into my trunk and took it to Oxford with me.

Ten years passed. I graduated from medical school in London and was mired in a tormented relationship with my tutor, Professor Decker. Karl was a bachelor, sixteen years older than I, and already established in his scientific career. It was an impossible affair: Karl would vacillate from day to day between commitment and escape. Although he had warned me about his emotional instability, I was convinced I could weather his depressions and make him happy. He was terrified of marriage but tempted by my youthful optimism. His rejections were invariably followed by lengthy poetic letters tinged with love and regret – letters that bound me to him even as he verbally protested that we had to part.

This situation continued for seven years. I took a job in Edinburgh to distance myself physically from him. His letters followed and I began to live for them. One Sunday morning, as I lay in bed listening to the church bells ringing and feeling forlorn, I glanced up at my bookshelf and saw my Ye Ye’s copy of the I Ching leaning against the cardboard box in which I stored Karl’s letters. In the ten years since I had left Hong Kong I had never once opened the ragged tome. Under Karl’s influence, I now considered myself a westernised intellectual and had nothing but contempt for ancient Chinese books of divination.

I took the book down and saw with it the bundle of sticks neatly bound with a cord. They were stored in a special pouch sewn ingeniously on to the book’s cloth binding. On the back cover was a list of instructions on how to use the I Ching. The reader was informed that within the bundle there were fifty yarrow stalks as well as two sticks of incense. Yarrow, or milfoil, was a common plant in China and its stalks had been used since ancient times for purposes of divination. The incense was to be replaced after each reading.

Randomly, I flipped through the pages: the book consisted of sixty-four hexagrams ( gua), the margins of which were annotated in many places by my grandfather’s familiar handwriting. Next to no. 29 ( kan), he had written ‘pi ji tai lai’ (light at the end of the tunnel).

Curious and excited, I began to read:

The hexagram kan consists of two identical trigrams also named kan , one on top and one at the bottom. A yang line (continuous line) lies between two yin lines (interrupted lines) . Kan represents the heart locked within the body. Because kan is repeated twice in this hexagram, it means ‘repetition of danger’.

The word kan denotes ‘plunging in’. A yang line has plunged in and is enclosed by two yin lines like water in a ravine. This hexagram represents an objective situation that is very dangerous. It is a situation in which one is trapped as water is trapped in a ravine. Like water, a person can escape only if he behaves resolutely and with appropriate caution.

Thoroughly intrigued, I turned to the beginning. ‘This ancient book of wisdom,’ I read, ‘may be of help at moments of indecision. Treat it with reverence. Follow the directions meticulously. Phrase your question carefully. Receive the answer respectfully. Ponder its significance and act according to its guidance.’

For some reason, at that moment, the words seemed momentous: like a message sent by my grandfather from beyond his grave, delivered at that instant for a particular purpose. After studying the instructions, I followed them scrupulously. I bathed and dressed as if I was going to church, then made my bed, cleaned the room, locked my door and unplugged my telephone. Feeling somewhat foolish, I placed my bedspread on the floor, arranged the I Ching, a piece of paper and pen, a vase of flowers (brought by Karl on his recent visit) and the fifty yarrow stalks neatly next to each other.

I lit the incense and sat cross-legged on a cushion facing the bedspread. Then I closed my eyes and thought of the last seven years with Karl, remembering the sweetness as well as the pain. After much deliberation, I wrote my question. ‘Will you please give me guidance as to how I should behave in my relationship with Karl?’

Next I started dividing the yarrow stalks exactly as instructed. Though simple, it was a protracted process that took almost an hour. During that time many thoughts went through my mind. Did my Ye Ye ever have such a relationship? Was he at times also unhappy? Why did he write the words ‘pi ji tai la’ next to hexagram no. 29? Will I be able to survive without Karl? Or will I be happier alone?

I found myself talking to my dead grandfather and imagining his answers. Am I going crazy? I thought. What would Karl say if he saw me now – his pupil (the would-be scientist) burning incense and having a dialogue with an ancient book purported to possess spiritual authority! Am I performing an act of ancestor-worship?

Finally, I completed the procedure: having manipulated the stalks I came up with six lines of numbers. After consulting the chart at the back of the book, I found gua no. 44 ( kou). ‘The hexagram kou,’ I read, ‘denotes a predicament in which darkness creeps back furtively after being eliminated. Of its own volition, the female arrives to meet the male. It is highly unlucky and dangerous and one must act promptly to prevent possible disaster.’

I wrote the answer next to my question to the I Ching. I felt the hair rising at the back of my neck as I read and re-read the phrases interpreting the hexagram kou. In all sincerity, I had asked my question and the answer was unequivocal. I must resolve to destroy Karl’s love letters and leave England as soon as possible. I must act promptly to prevent disaster and never go back. There was no doubt in my mind that the I Ching’s advice was sound.

That Sunday morning in Edinburgh was the only occasion I ever consulted the I Ching. After lunch I spent the day in bed reading the rest of the book. As I read, I remember being astonished by the many astute, profound and noble ideas conceived thousands of years ago. For a few hours that day, the book came alive and spoke to me personally. I could almost hear my grandfather exhorting me to continue searching for guidance from his favourite book.

Afterwards, all through the agony of breaking free, I would re-read my hexagram every time I wavered. Not only did it point to a course of action I needed to follow, it sustained me throughout the ordeal. At our final parting Karl asked for a token by which to remember our years together. I rewrapped my grandfather’s I Ching in its original silk and mailed it to him. For me, Ye Ye’s book had become a symbol of deliverance. By giving it to Karl I was declaring my independence … but I never did tell him what happened that morning in Edinburgh between the I Ching and me.

In China the I Ching has long been considered to be the oldest book in the world and a great classic, as well as the foundation of Chinese scholarship. Indeed, it seems to transcend time and national boundaries, providing perennial significance and solace. The ideas it contains have continued to play a dominant role in Chinese thinking from ancient times to the present. It is thought to have been written over 4000 years ago, but its exact age is unknown. The great seventeenth-century German mathematician Gottfried von Leibniz called it ‘the oldest monument of scholarship’. To Carl Jung, it was ‘the experimental foundation of classical Chinese philosophy’.

Legend attributes the authorship to Fu Xi* (2953–2838 BC), an ancient and mythical king of China who supposedly led his people into the age of agriculture. In ancient times the book was used for the purposes of divination: words from the I Ching were inscribed on bones known as ‘oracle bones’, some of which were discovered at the turn of the twentieth century.

Much later, around 1150 BC, King Wen , the founder of the Chou dynasty, rearranged the hexagrams (more on this later). He also wrote the judgements (or commentaries) known as Gua T’uan on the hexagrams. One of King Wen’s sons, the Duke of Chou , composed the Hsiao T’uan to expand these judgements.

The title, I Ching, is known in English as The Book of Changes. The word I , pronounced yi, means ‘changes’. This may have arisen from the ancient Chinese character for the lizard or chameleon, , which is known for changing its colour. A lizard can also drop its tail and grow another. The second word, Ching (pronounced jing), means ‘classic’ or ‘book’.

Divination was practised in ancient China for thousands of years. Initially, it was done by incising a tortoise shell with a red-hot stylus until the shell cracked. The diviner then foretold the future by reading the cracked lines. Later, the ancient rulers consulted the I Ching by clustering and dividing yarrow stalks.

The use of the I Ching for such occult purposes aroused suspicion and scorn in many scholars, including Confucius (born 551 BC), who had nothing but contempt for the practice. Having studied the book carefully for many years, Confucius said as he neared the end of his life, ‘If my life were to be prolonged, I would use fifty years to study the I Ching; so that I might escape falling into grave errors.’ He and his disciples subsequently wrote ten appendices ( shi yi) to interpret and clarify the main text of the I Ching. These appendices were strongly influenced by Taoism and expressed sentiments similar to those contained in Lao Zi’s Book of Tao.

Darmowy fragment się skończył.

Ograniczenie wiekowe:
0+
Data wydania na Litres:
29 czerwca 2019
Objętość:
440 str. 318 ilustracji
ISBN:
9780007386888
Właściciel praw:
HarperCollins
Audio
Средний рейтинг 4,1 на основе 1120 оценок
Audio
Средний рейтинг 4,8 на основе 194 оценок
Tekst
Средний рейтинг 4,9 на основе 1744 оценок
Audio
Средний рейтинг 4,8 на основе 3014 оценок
Audio
Средний рейтинг 4,8 на основе 5343 оценок
Tekst, format audio dostępny
Средний рейтинг 4,3 на основе 791 оценок
18+
Tekst
Средний рейтинг 4,7 на основе 811 оценок
Tekst, format audio dostępny
Средний рейтинг 4,7 на основе 2017 оценок
Tekst, format audio dostępny
Средний рейтинг 4,2 на основе 200 оценок
Tekst
Средний рейтинг 0 на основе 0 оценок