Siddhartha

by Hermann Hesse

Understanding is comprehension and internalization.

Thus, the individual events are meaningless when considered by themselves

Peter Camenzind won literary success. The book reflected Hesse’s disgust with the educational system.

Joy sprang up in his father’s heart over the son who was so apt to learn and so thirsty after knowledge; he saw growing within him a great sage and priest, a prince among the Brahmins.

Siddhartha’s mind, his sublime and fiery thoughts, his blazing will, and Siddhartha’s high calling.

However, Siddhartha didn’t bring himself joy; he didn’t please himself. He strolled on the rosy paths of the fig gardens, sat in the blue shadows of the grove of meditation, washed his limbs daily in baths of atonement, and sacrificed in the deep shadows of the mango forest. Everyone loved him; he was joyous to them, and yet he carried no joy in his own heart. Dreams and restless thoughts came flowing to him out of the river’s water, twinkled to him from the stars of the night, melted out of the sunbeams. Dreams and anxiety came billowing out of the sacrificial smoke, whispering from the verses of the Rig-Veda or trickling out of the old Brahmin’s teachings.

He had started to feel like his father’s love, his mother’s love, and the love of his friend Govinda wouldn’t make him happy forever, wouldn’t bring him peace, satisfy him, and be sufficient for all time.

The purifications were nice, but they were just water, and didn’t wash away sins; they didn’t cure the mental thirst or allay his heart’s anxiety.

They knew everything, they had concerned themselves with everything and with more than everything: the creation of the world, the origins of language, of foods, of inhalation and exhalation, the institution of the senses, the deeds of the gods—they knew an inordinate amount, and yet was it worthwhile to know everything like this when one didn’t know the one and only thing that was most important—that which alone was important?

But where were the Brahmins, where were the priests, the wise ones and the penitents—those who were successful not only in knowing this deepest wisdom but also in living it?

but did he who possessed so much wisdom live a blessed life?

Everything was a lie, everything stank, everything stank of lies, everything feigned meaning and happiness and beauty, and yet everything was decaying while nobody acknowledged the fact. The world tested bitter; life was agony.