Siddartha by Herman Hesse

7/27/2019 Siddartha by Herman Hesse

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At one time, when the boy'sface reminded him very muchof Kamala, Siddharthasuddenly had to think of a linewhich Kamala a long timeago, in the days of their youth,had once said to him. "Youcannot love," she had said tohim, and he had agreed withher and had compared himself with a star, while comparingthe childlike people withfalling leaves, andnevertheless he had alsosensed an accusation in thatline. Indeed, he had never

been able to lose or devotehimself completely to another

person, to forget himself, tocommit foolish acts for thelove of another person; never he had been able to do this,and this was, as it had seemedto him at that time, the great

distinction which set him apartfrom the childlike people. Butnow, since his son was here,now he, Siddhartha, had also

become completely a childlike person, suffering for the sakeof another person, lovinganother person, lost to a love,having become a fool onaccount of love. Now he too

felt, late, once in his lifetime,this strongest and strangest of all passions, suffered from it,suffered miserably, and wasnevertheless in bliss, wasnevertheless renewed in onerespect, enriched by one thing.



He did sense very well thatthis love, this blind love for his son, was a passion,something very human, that itwas Sansara, a murky source,dark waters. Nevertheless, hefelt at the same time, it wasnot worthless, it wasnecessary, came from theessence of his own being. This

pleasure also had to be atonedfor, this pain also had to beendured, these foolish actsalso had to be committed.

Through all this, the son lethim commit his foolish acts,let him court for his affection,let him humiliate himself every day by giving in to hismoods. This father hadnothing which would havedelighted him and nothingwhich he would have feared.He was a good man, thisfather, a good, kind, soft man,

perhaps a very devout man, perhaps a saint, all these thereno attributes which could winthe boy over. He was bored bythis father, who kept him

prisoner here in this miserablehut of his, he was bored byhim, and for him to answer every naughtiness with asmile, every insult withfriendliness, every viciousnesswith kindness, this very thingwas the hated trick of this oldsneak. Much more the boywould have liked it if he had



been threatened by him, if hehad been abused by him.

A day came, when whatyoung Siddhartha had on his

mind came bursting forth, andhe openly turned against hisfather. The latter had givenhim a task, he had told him togather brushwood. But the boydid not leave the hut, instubborn disobedience andrage he stayed where he was,thumped on the ground withhis feet, clenched his fists, and

screamed in a powerfuloutburst his hatred andcontempt into his father's face.

"Get the brushwood for yourself!" he shouted foamingat the mouth, "I'm not your servant. I do know, that youwon't hit me, you don't dare; Ido know, that you constantly

want to punish me and put medown with your religiousdevotion and your indulgence.You want me to become likeyou, just as devout, just assoft, just as wise! But I, listenup, just to make you suffer, Irather want to become ahighway-robber and murderer,and go to hell, than to become

like you! I hate you, you're notmy father, and if you've tentimes been my mother'sfornicator!"

Rage and grief boiled over in him, foamed at the father ina hundred savage and evil



words. Then the boy ran awayand only returned late at night.

But the next morning, hehad disappeared. What had

also disappeared was a small basket, woven out of bast of two colours, in which theferrymen kept those copper and silver coins which theyreceived as a fare. The boathad also disappeared,Siddhartha saw it lying by theopposite bank. The boy hadran away.

"I must follow him," saidSiddhartha, who had beenshivering with grief sincethose ranting speeches, the

boy had made yesterday. "Achild can't go through theforest all alone. He'll perish.We must build a raft,Vasudeva, to get over the

water.""We will build a raft," said

Vasudeva, "to get our boat back, which the boy has takenaway. But him, you shall letrun along, my friend, he is nochild any more, he knows howto get around. He's looking for the path to the city, and he isright, don't forget that. He'sdoing what you've failed to doyourself. He's taking care of himself, he's taking his course.Alas, Siddhartha, I see yousuffering, but you're sufferinga pain at which one would like



to laugh, at which you'll soonlaugh for yourself."

Siddhartha did not answer.He already held the axe in his

hands and began to make a raftof bamboo, and Vasudevahelped him to tied the canestogether with ropes of grass.Then they crossed over,drifted far off their course,

pulled the raft upriver on theopposite bank.

"Why did you take the axe

along?" asked Siddhartha.Vasudeva said: "It might

have been possible that the oar of our boat got lost."

But Siddhartha knew whathis friend was thinking. Hethought, the boy would havethrown away or broken the oar in order to get even and in

order to keep them fromfollowing him. And in fact,there was no oar left in the

boat. Vasudeva pointed to the bottom of the boat and lookedat his friend with a smile, as if he wanted to say: "Don't yousee what your son is trying totell you? Don't you see that hedoesn't want to be followed?"But he did not say this inwords. He started making anew oar. But Siddhartha bidhis farewell, to look for therun-away. Vasudeva did notstop him.





For a long time, he stoodthere, pondering, seeingimages, listening to the storyof his life. For a long time, hestood there, looked at themonks, saw young Siddharthain their place, saw youngKamala walking among thehigh trees. Clearly, he sawhimself being served food anddrink by Kamala, receiving hisfirst kiss from her, looking

proudly and disdainfully back on his Brahmanism, beginning

proudly and full of desire hisworldly life. He sawKamaswami, saw the servants,the orgies, the gamblers withthe dice, the musicians, sawKamala's song-bird in thecage, lived through all thisonce again, breathed Sansara,was once again old and tired,felt once again disgust, felt

once again the wish toannihilate himself, was onceagain healed by the holy Om.

After having been standing by the gate of the garden for along time, Siddhartha realisedthat his desire was foolish,which had made him go up tothis place, that he could nothelp his son, that he was notallowed to cling him. Deeply,he felt the love for the run-away in his heart, like awound, and he felt at the sametime that this wound had not

been given to him in order toturn the knife in it, that it had





Instantly, he recognised thistouch, this tender, bashfultouch, and regained his senses.He rose and greeted Vasudeva,who had followed him. Andwhen he looked intoVasudeva's friendly face, intothe small wrinkles, whichwere as if they were filled withnothing but his smile, into thehappy eyes, then he smiledtoo. Now he saw the bananaslying in front of him, pickedthem up, gave one to theferryman, ate the other onehimself. After this, he silentlywent back into the forest withVasudeva, returned home tothe ferry. Neither one talkedabout what had happenedtoday, neither one mentionedthe boy's name, neither onespoke about him runningaway, neither one spoke about

the wound. In the hut,Siddhartha lay down on his bed, and when after a whileVasudeva came to him, tooffer him a bowl of coconut-milk, he already found himasleep.

OM

For a long time, the woundcontinued to burn. Many atraveller Siddhartha had toferry across the river who was





of veneration to him. The blind love of a mother for her child, the stupid, blind pride of a conceited father for his onlyson, the blind, wild desire of ayoung, vain woman for

jewelry and admiring glancesfrom men, all of these urges,all of this childish stuff, all of these simple, foolish, butimmensely strong, stronglyliving, strongly prevailingurges and desires were now nochildish notions for Siddharthaany more, he saw peopleliving for their sake, saw themachieving infinitely much for their sake, travelling,conducting wars, sufferinginfinitely much, bearinginfinitely much, and he couldlove them for it, he saw life,that what is alive, theindestructible, the Brahman in

each of their passions, each of their acts. Worthy of love andadmiration were these peoplein their blind loyalty, their

blind strength and tenacity.They lacked nothing, therewas nothing theknowledgeable one, thethinker, had to put him abovethem except for one little

thing, a single, tiny, smallthing: the consciousness, theconscious thought of theoneness of all life. AndSiddhartha even doubted inmany an hour, whether thisknowledge, this thought was



to be valued thus highly,whether it might not also

perhaps be a childish idea of the thinking people, of thethinking and childlike people.In all other respects, theworldly people were of equalrank to the wise men, wereoften far superior to them, justas animals too can, after all, insome moments, seem to besuperior to humans in their tough, unrelenting

performance of what isnecessary.

Slowly blossomed, slowlyripened in Siddhartha therealisation, the knowledge,what wisdom actually was,what the goal of his longsearch was. It was nothing buta readiness of the soul, anability, a secret art, to think every moment, while livinghis life, the thought of oneness, to be able to feel andinhale the oneness. Slowly this

blossomed in him, was shining back at him from Vasudeva'sold, childlike face: harmony,knowledge of the eternal

perfection of the world,smiling, oneness.

But the wound still burned,longingly and bitterlySiddhartha thought of his son,nurtured his love andtenderness in his heart,allowed the pain to gnaw athim, committed all foolish acts



of love. Not by itself, thisflame would go out.

And one day, when thewound burned violently,

Siddhartha ferried across theriver, driven by a yearning, gotoff the boat and was willing togo to the city and to look for his son. The river flowedsoftly and quietly, it was thedry season, but its voicesounded strange: it laughed! Itlaughed clearly. The river laughed, it laughed brightly

and clearly at the oldferryman. Siddhartha stopped,he bent over the water, inorder to hear even better, andhe saw his face reflected in thequietly moving waters, and inthis reflected face there wassomething, which remindedhim, something he hadforgotten, and as he thoughtabout it, he found it: this faceresembled another face, whichhe used to know and love andalso fear. It resembled hisfather's face, the Brahman.And he remembered how he, along time ago, as a youngman, had forced his father tolet him go to the penitents,how he had bed his farewell tohim, how he had gone and hadnever come back. Had hisfather not also suffered thesame pain for him, which henow suffered for his son? Hadhis father not long since died,alone, without having seen his







was still speaking, stilladmitting and confessing,Siddhartha felt more and morethat this was no longer Vasudeva, no longer a human

being, who was listening tohim, that this motionlesslistener was absorbing hisconfession into himself like atree the rain, that thismotionless man was the river itself, that he was Godhimself, that he was the eternalitself. And while Siddharthastopped thinking of himself and his wound, this realisationof Vasudeva's changedcharacter took possession of him, and the more he felt itand entered into it, the lesswondrous it became, the morehe realised that everything wasin order and natural, thatVasudeva had already been

like this for a long time,almost forever, that only hehad not quite recognised it,yes, that he himself had almostreached the same state. Hefelt, that he was now seeingold Vasudeva as the peoplesee the gods, and that thiscould not last; in his heart, hestarted bidding his farewell to

Vasudeva. Thorough all this,he talked incessantly.

When he had finishedtalking, Vasudeva turned hisfriendly eyes, which hadgrown slightly weak, at him,said nothing, let his silent love



and cheerfulness,understanding and knowledge,shine at him. He took Siddhartha's hand, led him tothe seat by the bank, sat downwith him, smiled at the river.

"You've heard it laugh," hesaid. "But you haven't heardeverything. Let's listen, you'llhear more."

They listened. Softlysounded the river, singing inmany voices. Siddhartha

looked into the water, andimages appeared to him in themoving water: his father appeared, lonely, mourning for his son; he himself appeared,lonely, he also being tied withthe bondage of yearning to hisdistant son; his son appeared,lonely as well, the boy,greedily rushing along the

burning course of his youngwishes, each one heading for his goal, each one obsessed bythe goal, each one suffering.The river sang with a voice of suffering, longingly it sang,longingly, it flowed towardsits goal, lamentingly its voicesang.

"Do you hear?" Vasudeva'smute gaze asked. Siddharthanodded.

"Listen better!" Vasudevawhispered.



Siddhartha made an effort tolisten better. The image of hisfather, his own image, theimage of his son merged,Kamala's image also appearedand was dispersed, and theimage of Govinda, and other images, and they merged witheach other, turned all into theriver, headed all, being theriver, for the goal, longing,desiring, suffering, and theriver's voice sounded full of yearning, full of burning woe,full of unsatisfiable desire. For the goal, the river washeading, Siddhartha saw ithurrying, the river, whichconsisted of him and his lovedones and of all people, he hadever seen, all of these wavesand waters were hurrying,suffering, towards goals, manygoals, the waterfall, the lake,

the rapids, the sea, and allgoals were reached, and everygoal was followed by a newone, and the water turned intovapour and rose to the sky,turned into rain and poureddown from the sky, turned intoa source, a stream, a river,headed forward once again,flowed on once again. But the

longing voice had changed. Itstill resounded, full of suffering, searching, but other voices joined it, voices of joyand of suffering, good and badvoices, laughing and sad ones,



a hundred voices, a thousandvoices.

Siddhartha listened. He wasnow nothing but a listener,

completely concentrated onlistening, completely empty,he felt, that he had nowfinished learning to listen.Often before, he had heard allthis, these many voices in theriver, today it sounded new.Already, he could no longer tell the many voices apart, notthe happy ones from the

weeping ones, not the ones of children from those of men,they all belonged together, thelamentation of yearning andthe laughter of theknowledgeable one, thescream of rage and themoaning of the dying ones,everything was one,everything was intertwinedand connected, entangled athousand times. Andeverything together, all voices,all goals, all yearning, allsuffering, all pleasure, all thatwas good and evil, all of thistogether was the world. All of it together was the flow of events, was the music of life.And when Siddhartha waslistening attentively to thisriver, this song of a thousandvoices, when he neither listened to the suffering nor the laughter, when he did nottie his soul to any particular voice and submerged his self



into it, but when he heardthem all, perceived the whole,the oneness, then the greatsong of the thousand voicesconsisted of a single word,which was Om: the perfection.

"Do you hear," Vasudeva'sgaze asked again.

Brightly, Vasudeva's smilewas shining, floating radiantlyover all the wrinkles of his oldface, as the Om was floating inthe air over all the voices of

the river. Brightly his smilewas shining, when he lookedat his friend, and brightly thesame smile was now startingto shine on Siddhartha's faceas well. His wound blossomed,his suffering was shining, hisself had flown into theoneness.

In this hour, Siddharthastopped fighting his fate,stopped suffering. On his faceflourished the cheerfulness of a knowledge, which is nolonger opposed by any will,which knows perfection,which is in agreement with theflow of events, with thecurrent of life, full of sympathy for the pain of others, full of sympathy for the

pleasure of others, devoted tothe flow, belonging to theoneness.

When Vasudeva rose fromthe seat by the bank, when he



looked into Siddhartha's eyesand saw the cheerfulness of the knowledge shining inthem, he softly touched hisshoulder with his hand, in thiscareful and tender manner, andsaid: "I've been waiting for this hour, my dear. Now that ithas come, let me leave. For along time, I've been waitingfor this hour; for a long time,I've been Vasudeva theferryman. Now it's enough.Farewell, hut, farewell, river,farewell, Siddhartha!"

Siddhartha made a deep bow before him who bid hisfarewell.

"I've known it," he saidquietly. "You'll go into theforests?"

"I'm going into the forests,I'm going into the oneness,"spoke Vasudeva with a brightsmile.

With a bright smile, he left;Siddhartha watched himleaving. With deep joy, withdeep solemnity he watchedhim leave, saw his steps full of

peace, saw his head full of lustre, saw his body full of light.

GOVINDA



Together with other monks,Govinda used to spend thetime of rest between

pilgrimages in the pleasure-grove, which the courtesanKamala had given to thefollowers of Gotama for a gift.He heard talk of an oldferryman, who lived one day's

journey away by the river, andwho was regarded as a wiseman by many. When Govindawent back on his way, hechose the path to the ferry,eager to see the ferryman.Because, though he had livedhis entire life by the rules,though he was also lookedupon with veneration by theyounger monks on account of his age and his modesty, therestlessness and the searchingstill had not perished from hisheart.

He came to the river andasked the old man to ferry himover, and when they got off the boat on the other side, hesaid to the old man: "You'revery good to us monks and

pilgrims, you have alreadyferried many of us across theriver. Aren't you too,ferryman, a searcher for theright path?"

Quoth Siddhartha, smilingfrom his old eyes: "Do youcall yourself a searcher, ohvenerable one, though you arealready of an old in years and



are wearing the robe of Gotama's monks?"

"It's true, I'm old," spokeGovinda, "but I haven't

stopped searching. Never I'llstop searching, this seems to

be my destiny. You too, so itseems to me, have beensearching. Would you like totell me something, ohhonourable one?"

Quoth Siddhartha: "Whatshould I possibly have to tell

you, oh venerable one?Perhaps that you're searchingfar too much? That in all thatsearching, you don't find thetime for finding?"

"How come?" askedGovinda.

"When someone issearching," said Siddhartha,

"then it might easily happenthat the only thing his eyesstill see is that what hesearches for, that he is unableto find anything, to letanything enter his mind,

because he always thinks of nothing but the object of hissearch, because he has a goal,

because he is obsessed by thegoal. Searching means: havinga goal. But finding means:

being free, being open, havingno goal. You, oh venerableone, are perhaps indeed asearcher, because, striving for your goal, there are many



things you don't see, which aredirectly in front of your eyes."

"I don't quite understandyet," asked Govinda, "what do

you mean by this?"Quoth Siddhartha: "A long

time ago, oh venerable one,many years ago, you've once

before been at this river andhave found a sleeping man bythe river, and have sat downwith him to guard his sleep.But, oh Govinda, you did not

recognise the sleeping man."Astonished, as if he had

been the object of a magicspell, the monk looked into theferryman's eyes.

"Are you Siddhartha?" heasked with a timid voice. "Iwouldn't have recognised youthis time as well! From my

heart, I'm greeting you,Siddhartha; from my heart, I'mhappy to see you once again!You've changed a lot, myfriend. — And so you've now

become a ferryman?"

In a friendly manner,Siddhartha laughed. "Aferryman, yes. Many people,

Govinda, have to change a lot,have to wear many a robe, Iam one of those, my dear. Bewelcome, Govinda, and spendthe night in my hut."

Govinda stayed the night inthe hut and slept on the bed



which used to be Vasudeva's bed. Many questions he posedto the friend of his youth,many things Siddhartha had totell him from his life.

When in the next morningthe time had come to start theday's journey, Govinda said,not without hesitation, thesewords: "Before I'll continue onmy path, Siddhartha, permitme to ask one more question.Do you have a teaching? Doyou have a faith, or a

knowledge, you follow, whichhelps you to live and to doright?"

Quoth Siddhartha: "Youknow, my dear, that I alreadyas a young man, in those dayswhen we lived with the

penitents in the forest, startedto distrust teachers and

teachings and to turn my back to them. I have stuck with this. Nevertheless, I have had manyteachers since then. A

beautiful courtesan has beenmy teacher for a long time,and a rich merchant was myteacher, and some gamblerswith dice. Once, even afollower of Buddha, travelling

on foot, has been my teacher;he sat with me when I hadfallen asleep in the forest, onthe pilgrimage. I've alsolearned from him, I'm alsograteful to him, very grateful.But most of all, I have learned



here from this river and frommy predecessor, the ferrymanVasudeva. He was a verysimple person, Vasudeva, hewas no thinker, but he knewwhat is necessary just as wellas Gotama, he was a perfectman, a saint."

Govinda said: "Still, ohSiddhartha, you love a bit tomock people, as it seems tome. I believe in you and knowthat you haven't followed ateacher. But haven't you found

something by yourself, thoughyou've found no teachings,you still found certainthoughts, certain insights,which are your own and whichhelp you to live? If you wouldlike to tell me some of these,you would delight my heart."

Quoth Siddhartha: "I've had

thoughts, yes, and insight,again and again. Sometimes,for an hour or for an entireday, I have felt knowledge inme, as one would feel life inone's heart. There have beenmany thoughts, but it would behard for me to convey them toyou. Look, my dear Govinda,this is one of my thoughts,

which I have found: wisdomcannot be passed on. Wisdomwhich a wise man tries to passon to someone always soundslike foolishness."

"Are you kidding?" askedGovinda.



"I'm not kidding. I'm tellingyou what I've found.Knowledge can be conveyed,

but not wisdom. It can befound, it can be lived, it is

possible to be carried by it,miracles can be performedwith it, but it cannot beexpressed in words and taught.This was what I, even as ayoung man, sometimessuspected, what has driven meaway from the teachers. I havefound a thought, Govinda,which you'll again regard as a

joke or foolishness, but whichis my best thought. It says:The opposite of every truth is

just as true! That's like this:any truth can only beexpressed and put into wordswhen it is one-sided.Everything is one-sided whichcan be thought with thoughts

and said with words, it's allone-sided, all just one half, alllacks completeness,roundness, oneness. When theexalted Gotama spoke in histeachings of the world, he hadto divide it into Sansara and

Nirvana, into deception andtruth, into suffering andsalvation. It cannot be done

differently, there is no other way for him who wants toteach. But the world itself,what exists around us andinside of us, is never one-sided. A person or an act isnever entirely Sansara or



entirely Nirvana, a person isnever entirely holy or entirelysinful. It does really seem likethis, because we are subject todeception, as if time wassomething real. Time is notreal, Govinda, I haveexperienced this often andoften again. And if time is notreal, then the gap which seemsto be between the world andthe eternity, between sufferingand blissfulness, between eviland good, is also a deception."

"How come?" askedGovinda timidly.

"Listen well, my dear, listenwell! The sinner, which I amand which you are, is a sinner,

but in times to come he will beBrahma again, he will reachthe Nirvana, will be Buddha — and now see: these 'times to

come' are a deception, are onlya parable! The sinner is not onhis way to become a Buddha,he is not in the process of developing, though our capacity for thinking does notknow how else to picture thesethings. No, within the sinner isnow and today already thefuture Buddha, his future is

already all there, you have toworship in him, in you, ineveryone the Buddha which iscoming into being, the

possible, the hidden Buddha.The world, my friendGovinda, is not imperfect, or



on a slow path towards perfection: no, it is perfect inevery moment, all sin alreadycarries the divine forgivenessin itself, all small childrenalready have the old person inthemselves, all infants alreadyhave death, all dying peoplethe eternal life. It is not

possible for any person to seehow far another one hasalready progressed on his path;in the robber and dice-gambler, the Buddha iswaiting; in the Brahman, therobber is waiting. In deepmeditation, there is the

possibility to put time out of existence, to see all life whichwas, is, and will be as if it wassimultaneous, and thereeverything is good, everythingis perfect, everything isBrahman. Therefore, I see

whatever exists as good, deathis to me like life, sin likeholiness, wisdom likefoolishness, everything has to

be as it is, everything onlyrequires my consent, only mywillingness, my lovingagreement, to be good for me,to do nothing but work for my

benefit, to be unable to ever

harm me. I have experiencedon my body and on my soulthat I needed sin very much, Ineeded lust, the desire for

possessions, vanity, andneeded the most shamefuldespair, in order to learn how



to give up all resistance, inorder to learn how to love theworld, in order to stopcomparing it to some world Iwished, I imagined, some kindof perfection I had made up,

but to leave it as it is and tolove it and to enjoy being a

part of it. — These, ohGovinda, are some of thethoughts which have comeinto my mind."

Siddhartha bent down, picked up a stone from the

ground, and weighed it in hishand.

"This here," he said playingwith it, "is a stone, and will,after a certain time, perhapsturn into soil, and will turnfrom soil into a plant or animalor human being. In the past, Iwould have said: This stone is

just a stone, it is worthless, it belongs to the world of theMaja; but because it might beable to become also a human

being and a spirit in the cycleof transformations, therefore Ialso grant it importance. Thus,I would perhaps have thoughtin the past. But today I think:this stone is a stone, it is also

animal, it is also god, it is alsoBuddha, I do not venerate andlove it because it could turninto this or that, but rather

because it is already andalways everything — and it isthis very fact, that it is a stone,



that it appears to me now andtoday as a stone, this is why Ilove it and see worth and

purpose in each of its veinsand cavities, in the yellow, inthe gray, in the hardness, inthe sound it makes when Iknock at it, in the dryness or wetness of its surface. Thereare stones which feel like oilor soap, and others like leaves,others like sand, and every oneis special and prays the Om inits own way, each one isBrahman, but simultaneouslyand just as much it is a stone,is oily or juicy, and this is thisvery fact which I like andregard as wonderful andworthy of worship. — But letme speak no more of this. Thewords are not good for thesecret meaning, everythingalways becomes a bit

different, as soon as it is putinto words, gets distorted a bit,a bit silly — yes, and this isalso very good, and I like it alot, I also very much agreewith this, that this what is oneman's treasure and wisdomalways sounds like foolishnessto another person."

Govinda listened silently.

"Why have you told me thisabout the stone?" he askedhesitantly after a pause.

"I did it without any specificintention. Or perhaps what Imeant was, that love this very



stone, and the river, and allthese things we are looking atand from which we can learn.I can love a stone, Govinda,and also a tree or a piece of

bark. This are things, andthings can be loved. But Icannot love words. Therefore,teachings are no good for me,they have no hardness, nosoftness, no colours, no edges,no smell, no taste, they havenothing but words. Perhaps itare these which keep you fromfinding peace, perhaps it arethe many words. Becausesalvation and virtue as well,Sansara and Nirvana as well,are mere words, Govinda.There is no thing which would

be Nirvana; there is just theword Nirvana."

Quoth Govinda: "Not just aword, my friend, is Nirvana. Itis a thought."

Siddhartha continued: "Athought, it might be so. I mustconfess to you, my dear: Idon't differentiate much

between thoughts and words.To be honest, I also have nohigh opinion of thoughts. Ihave a better opinion of things.

Here on this ferry-boat, for instance, a man has been my

predecessor and teacher, aholy man, who has for manyyears simply believed in theriver, nothing else. He hadnoticed that the river's spoke





explain it, to despise it, may bethe thing great thinkers do. ButI'm only interested in beingable to love the world, not todespise it, not to hate it andme, to be able to look upon itand me and all beings withlove and admiration and greatrespect."

"This I understand," spokeGovinda. "But this very thingwas discovered by the exaltedone to be a deception. Hecommands benevolence,

clemency, sympathy,tolerance, but not love; heforbade us to tie our heart inlove to earthly things."

"I know it," said Siddhartha;his smile shone golden. "Iknow it, Govinda. And behold,with this we are right in themiddle of the thicket of

opinions, in the dispute aboutwords. For I cannot deny, mywords of love are in acontradiction, a seemingcontradiction with Gotama'swords. For this very reason, Idistrust in words so much, for I know, this contradiction is adeception. I know that I am inagreement with Gotama. How

should he not know love, he,who has discovered allelements of human existencein their transitoriness, in their meaninglessness, and yetloved people thus much, to usea long, laborious life only to



help them, to teach them!Even with him, even with your great teacher, I prefer the thingover the words, place moreimportance on his acts and lifethan on his speeches, more onthe gestures of his hand thanhis opinions. Not in hisspeech, not in his thoughts, Isee his greatness, only in hisactions, in his life."

For a long time, the two oldmen said nothing. Then spokeGovinda, while bowing for a

farewell: "I thank you,Siddhartha, for telling mesome of your thoughts. Theyare partially strange thoughts,not all have been instantlyunderstandable to me. This

being as it may, I thank you,and I wish you to have calmdays."

(But secretly he thought tohimself: This Siddhartha is a bizarre person, he expresses bizarre thoughts, his teachingssound foolish. So differentlysound the exalted one's pureteachings, clearer, purer, morecomprehensible, nothingstrange, foolish, or silly iscontained in them. But

different from his thoughtsseemed to me Siddhartha'shands and feet, his eyes, hisforehead, his breath, his smile,his greeting, his walk. Never again, after our exaltedGotama has become one with



the Nirvana, never since thenhave I met a person of whom Ifelt: this is a holy man! Onlyhim, this Siddhartha, I havefound to be like this. May histeachings be strange, may hiswords sound foolish; out of hisgaze and his hand, his skin andhis hair, out of every part of him shines a purity, shines acalmness, shines acheerfulness and mildness andholiness, which I have seen inno other person since the finaldeath of our exalted teacher.)

As Govinda thought likethis, and there was a conflictin his heart, he once again

bowed to Siddhartha, drawn by love. Deeply he bowed tohim who was calmly sitting.

"Siddhartha," he spoke, "wehave become old men. It is

unlikely for one of us to seethe other again in thisincarnation. I see, beloved,that you have found peace. Iconfess that I haven't found it.Tell me, oh honourable one,one more word, give mesomething on my way which Ican grasp, which I canunderstand! Give me

something to be with me onmy path. It is often hard, my

path, often dark, Siddhartha."

Siddhartha said nothing andlooked at him with the ever unchanged, quiet smile.Govinda stared at his face,



with fear, with yearning,suffering, and the eternalsearch was visible in his look,eternal not-finding.

Siddhartha saw it andsmiled.

"Bent down to me!" hewhispered quietly in Govinda'sear. "Bend down to me! Likethis, even closer! Very close!Kiss my forehead, Govinda!"

But while Govinda withastonishment, and yet drawn

by great love and expectation,obeyed his words, bent downclosely to him and touched hisforehead with his lips,something miraculoushappened to him. While histhoughts were still dwelling onSiddhartha's wondrous words,while he was still struggling invain and with reluctance tothink away time, to imagine

Nirvana and Sansara as one,while even a certain contemptfor the words of his friend wasfighting in him against animmense love and veneration,this happened to him:

He no longer saw the face of his friend Siddhartha, insteadhe saw other faces, many, along sequence, a flowing river of faces, of hundreds, of thousands, which all came anddisappeared, and yet allseemed to be theresimultaneously, which all





any time having passed between the one and the other face — and all of these figuresand faces rested, flowed,generated themselves, floatedalong and merged with eachother, and they were allconstantly covered bysomething thin, withoutindividuality of its own, butyet existing, like a thin glassor ice, like a transparent skin,a shell or mold or mask of water, and this mask wassmiling, and this mask wasSiddhartha's smiling face,which he, Govinda, in thisvery same moment touchedwith his lips. And, Govindasaw it like this, this smile of the mask, this smile of onenessabove the flowing forms, thissmile of simultaneousnessabove the thousand births and

deaths, this smile of Siddhartha was precisely thesame, was precisely of thesame kind as the quiet,delicate, impenetrable, perhaps

benevolent, perhaps mocking,wise, thousand-fold smile of Gotama, the Buddha, as hehad seen it himself with greatrespect a hundred times. Like

this, Govinda knew, the perfected ones are smiling.

Not knowing any morewhether time existed, whether the vision had lasted a secondor a hundred years, notknowing any more whether



there existed a Siddhartha, aGotama, a me and a you,feeling in his innermost self asif he had been wounded by adivine arrow, the injury of which tasted sweet, beingenchanted and dissolved in hisinnermost self, Govinda stillstood for a little while bentover Siddhartha's quiet face,which he had just kissed,which had just been the sceneof all manifestations, alltransformations, all existence.The face was unchanged, after under its surface the depth of the thousandfoldness hadclosed up again, he smiledsilently, smiled quietly andsoftly, perhaps very

benevolently, perhaps verymockingly, precisely as heused to smile, the exalted one.

Deeply, Govinda bowed;tears he knew nothing of, randown his old face; like a fire

burnt the feeling of the mostintimate love, the humblestveneration in his heart.Deeply, he bowed, touchingthe ground, before him whowas sitting motionlessly,whose smile reminded him of everything he had ever lovedin his life, what had ever beenvaluable and holy to him in hislife.



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Siddartha by Herman Hesse