Siddhartha

by Hermann Hesse

We’re not going in circles; we are going upwards. The circle is a spiral, and we have already climbed several steps.”

There was no one who was alone like he was. There was no nobleman who did not belong among the noblemen, no worker that did not belong with the workers and found refuge among them, shared their life, spoke their language. There was no Brahmin who would not be regarded as a Brahmin and live with them, no ascetic who would not find shelter in the Samana caste, and even the most forlorn hermit in the forest was not alone; he was also surrounded by a place to which he belonged. He also belonged to a caste where he was at home. Govinda had become a monk, and the thousand monks who were his brothers wore the same robe as he did, believed in his faith, spoke his language. But where did Siddhartha belong? With whom would he share his life? Whose language would he speak?

“Writing is good, thinking is better. Intelligence is good, but patience is better.”

And then, for an hour, he became aware of the strange life he was leading. He perceived himself doing lots of things which were only a game; he saw that, although happy and joyous at times, that real life was passing him by without touching him.

And at several times he suddenly became alarmed on account of such thoughts and wanted to be gifted with the ability to participate, with passion and with all his heart, in all of the childish and naïve occupations of the daytime. He really wanted to live, to act, and to enjoy instead of just standing by as a spectator. But again and again, he came back to the beautiful Kamala, learned the art of love, practiced the cult of lust, in which more than in anything else giving and taking becomes one, chatted with her, learned from her, gave her advice, and received advice. She understood him better than Govinda used to understand him; she was more similar to him.

“It’s good,” he thought, “to taste for one’s self all that which one needs to know. The lust for the world and wealth were not among the best things in life; I already learned this as a child. I have known it for a long time, but have only experienced this now. And now I know this, not just in my mind, but in my eyes, my heart, and my stomach. Bravo for me because I know this!”

These are things, and things can be loved. But I cannot love words. Teachings, therefore, are no good to me. They have no hardness or softness, no colors, edges, odor, or taste; they have nothing but words. Perhaps it is these many words which keep you from finding peace.