‘Once there was a man who had much of the mind, but less of the heart. Being, as such, top heavy, and with little support between his head and his legs, he fell while climbing some stairs and died.’ The old monk chortled, then coughed, then told the junior disciples to consider it while he was meditating. So saying, he entered his chambers.

The junior disciples tittered for awhile, then fell silent, for none of them wanted to admit they did not know what the old monk meant. And so one of the more outspoken (but no less clueless) of them ventured to wake their master. Upon reaching the door of the senior monk’s abode, he paused, for he thought he could hear a rhythmic droning. Surely the master was chanting some scripture.

Overcoming his trepidation at disturbing his teacher during such a holy act, he pushed the door open a crack, so he might have a glimpse of what sacred text the master might be perusing. However all he saw through the crack was the steady rise and fall of an old man’s chest. Smiling to himself, he gently closed the door and retreated to the hall of juniors. His colleagues gathered around him, eager to learn what knowledge the master had bestowed upon him.

Clearing his throat, he told them that their teacher had forbade him to tell them that knowledge, because it was sacred knowledge, which grew less holy with each telling.

And so they regarded him highly from then on, and eventually he himself became an old monk and a teacher, and whenever his disciples badgered him about his considerable wisdom (such did they flatter him), he would gruffly brush them off, and emphasize the importance of sleep in the life of a man.