Siddhartha

by Hermann Hesse

This he had learned by the river, this one thing: waiting, having patience, listening attentively. And he sat and listened, in the dust of the road, listened to his heart, beating tiredly and sadly, waited for a voice.

When he ferried travellers of the ordinary kind, childlike people, businessmen, warriors, women, these people did not seem alien to him as they used to: he understood them, he understood and shared their life, which was not guided by thoughts and insight, but solely by urges and wishes, he felt like them. Though he was near perfection and was bearing his final wound, it still seemed to him as if those childlike people were his brothers, their vanities, desires for possession, and ridiculous aspects were no longer ridiculous to him, became understandable, became lovable, even became worthy of veneration to him. The blind love of a mother for her child, the stupid, blind pride of a conceited father for his only son, the blind, wild desire of a young, vain woman for jewelry and admiring glances from men, all of these urges, all of this childish stuff, all of these simple, foolish, but immensely strong, strongly living, strongly prevailing urges and desires were now no childish notions for Siddhartha anymore, he saw people living for their sake, saw them achieving infinitely much for their sake, travelling, conducting wars, suffering infinitely much, bearing infinitely much, and he could love them for it, he saw life, that what is alive, the indestructible, the Brahman in each of their passions, each of their acts. Worthy of love and admiration were these people in their blind loyalty, their blind strength and tenacity. They lacked nothing, there was nothing the knowledgeable ...

In all other respects, the worldly people were of equal rank to the wise men, were often far superior to them,

Slowly blossomed, slowly ripened in Siddhartha the realisation, the knowledge, what wisdom actually was, what the goal of his long search was.

It was nothing but a readiness of the soul, an ability, a secret art, to think every moment, while living his life, the thought of oneness, to be able to feel and inhale the oneness.

harmony, knowledge of the eternal perfection of the world...

Had his father not also suffered the same pain for him, which he now suffered for his son?

Had his father not long since died, alone, without having seen his son again? Did he not have to expect the same fate for himself?

Vasudeva’s listening gave Siddhartha a stronger sensation than ever before, he sensed how his pain, his fears flowed over to him, how his secret hope flowed over, came back at him from his counterpart.

To show his wound to this listener was the same as bathing it in the river, until it had cooled and become one with the river.

While he was still speaking, still admitting ...

Siddhartha felt more and more that this was no longer Vasudeva, no longer a human being, who was listening to him, that this motionless listener was absorbing his confession into himself like a tree the rain, that this motionless man was the river itself, that he was God himself, that he was the eternal itself. And while Siddhartha stopped thinking of himself and his wound, this realisation of Vasudeva’s changed character took possession of him, and the more he felt it and entered into it, the less wondrous it became, the more he realised that everything was in order and natural, that Vasudeva ha...

“You’ve heard it laugh,” he said. “But you haven’t heard everything. Let’s listen, you’ll hear more.”

Siddhartha listened. He was now nothing but a listener, completely concentrated on listening, completely empty, he felt, that he had now finished learning to listen.

everything was intertwined and connected,

And everything together, all voices, all goals, all yearning, all suffering, all pleasure, all that was good and evil, all of this together was the world.

when he neither listened to the suffering nor the laughter, when he did not tie his soul to any particular voice and submerged his self into it, but when he heard them all, perceived the whole, the oneness, then the great song of the thousand voices consisted

of a single word, which was Om: the perfection.

In this hour, Siddhartha stopped fighting his fate, stopped suffering.

which is in agreement with the flow of events,

with the current of life, full of sympathy for the pain of others, full of sympathy for the pleasure of others, devoted to the flow, belonging to the oneness.

With a bright smile, he left; Siddhartha watched him leaving. With deep joy, with deep solemnity he watched him leave, saw his steps full of peace, saw his head full of lustre, saw his body full of light.

Searching means: having a goal. But finding means: being free, being open, having no goal.

You, oh venerable one, are perhaps indeed a searcher, because, striving for your goal, there are many things you don’t see, which are directly in front of your eyes.”

wisdom cannot be passed on. Wisdom which a wise man tries to pass on to someone always sounds like foolishness.”

Knowledge can be conveyed, but not wisdom. It can be found, it can be lived, it is possible to be carried by it, miracles can be performed with it, but it cannot be expressed in words and taught.

The opposite of every truth is just as true!

a person is never entirely holy or entirely sinful.

Time is not real,

And if time is not real, then the gap which seems to be

between the world and the eternity, between suffering and blissfulness, between evil and ...

within the sinner is now and today already the future Buddha, his future is already all there, you have to worship in him, in you, in everyone the Buddha which is coming into being, the possible, the hidden Buddha.

The world, my friend Govinda, is not imperfect, or on a slow path towards perfection: no, it is perfect in every moment,

in the robber and dice-gambler, the Buddha is waiting; in the Brahman, the robber is waiting.

In deep meditation, there is the possibility to put time out of existence, to see all life which was, is, and will be as if it was simultaneous,

and there everything is good, everything is perfect, ever...

I...

whatever exists ...

death is to me like life, sin like holiness, wisdom like foolishness, everyth...

everything only requires my consent, only my willingness, my loving agreement, to be good for me, to do nothing but work for my b...

in order to learn how to give up all resistance, in order to learn how to love the world, in order to stop comparing it to some world I wished, I imagined, some kind of perfection I had made up, but to leave it as it is and to love it and to enjoy being a part of it.—

this stone is a stone, it is also animal, it is also god, it is also Buddha, I do not venerate and love it because it could turn into this or that, but rather because it is already and always everything—and it is this very fact, that it is a stone, that it appears to me now and today as a stone, this is why I love it and see worth and purpose in each of its veins and cavities,

everything always becomes a bit different, as soon as it is put into words,

There is nothing which would be Nirvana; there is just the word Nirvana.”

“Not just a word, my friend, is Nirvana. It is a thought.”

I don’t differentiate much between thoughts and words. To be honest, I also have no high opinion of thoughts. I have a better opinion of things.

“But is that what you call `things’, actually something real, something which has existence? Isn’t it just a deception of the Maja, just an image and illusion? Your stone, your tree, your river—are they actually a reality?”

This is what makes them so dear and worthy of veneration for me: they are like me. Therefore, I can love them.

And this is now a teaching you will laugh about: love, oh Govinda, seems to me to be the most important thing of all.

But I’m only interested in being able to love the world, not to despise it, not to hate it and me, to be able to look upon it and me and all beings with love and admiration and great respect.”