"Siddhartha (Guo Mai Classics)" Reading Notes

"Siddhartha (Guo Mai Classics)" Reading Notes#

Author: Hermann Hesse
Reading Duration: 5 hours

These are the notes and excerpts I recorded while reading "Siddhartha (Guo Mai Classics)" on WeChat Reading.

The Brahmin's Son#

The source of the inner "I" must possess its own Atman! Everything else is merely seeking, taking detours, and going astray.

The Shaman#

Everything is deception, all exuding a foul stench, the stench of lies. All desires, happiness, and beauty are illusions. Everything is decaying. The world is bitter. Life is torment.

Siddhartha's only goal is to fall into emptiness. No longing, no desires, no dreams. No joy, no sorrow. The "I" is removed, no longer exists. Let the empty soul find peace, and in the deep contemplation of no "I," hear the miracle. This is his goal. When the "I" is completely conquered, when the "I" perishes, when craving and desire extinguish in the heart, that ultimate, deepest non-"I" existence, that great secret, must awaken.

But he always re-emerges, returning to the "I" in sunlight or moonlight, spinning in the cycle of rebirth, becoming aware of desire again. He suppresses desire, yet harvests new desires.

The most annoying enemy of this knowledge is none other than the thirst for knowledge and practice.

With a spirit of deep contemplation, a pure spirit, the person immersed in Atman finds indescribable bliss in their heart.

Everything is deception, all exuding a foul stench, the stench of lies. All desires, happiness, and beauty are illusions. Everything is decaying. The world is bitter. Life is torment.

Siddhartha's only goal is to fall into emptiness. No longing, no desires, no dreams. No joy, no sorrow. The "I" is removed, no longer exists. Let the empty soul find peace, and in the deep contemplation of no "I," hear the miracle. This is his goal. When the "I" is completely conquered, when the "I" perishes, when craving and desire extinguish in the heart, that ultimate, deepest non-"I" existence, that great secret, must awaken.

But he always re-emerges, returning to the "I" in sunlight or moonlight, spinning in the cycle of rebirth, becoming aware of desire again. He suppresses desire, yet harvests new desires.

The most annoying enemy of this knowledge is none other than the thirst for knowledge and practice.

With a spirit of deep contemplation, a pure spirit, the person immersed in Atman finds indescribable bliss in their heart.

Gautama#

The Buddha walks silently, lost in thought. His tranquil face shows neither sadness nor joy, yet seems to bloom with a gentle smile from within. The Buddha walks peacefully and solemnly, with a faint smile, like a healthy child. He strictly adheres to the norms, dressed in the same monk's robes as his disciples, taking the same steps. Only his face, his gait, his peacefully lowered eyelids, his calm and relaxed arms, even every finger on his hand exudes peace, manifesting perfection. He is free from desires, without imitation. In the eternal stillness, in the everlasting radiance, in the inviolable peace, he breathes gently.

He speaks of the truth of suffering, the origin of suffering, and where it leads to cessation. His calm discourse is serene and clear. Suffering is the reality of life, but the path to liberation from suffering has already been discovered; following the Buddha can lead one out of the sea of suffering.

Whether the world is good or evil, whether life itself is suffering or joy—this may be undecided and is not the essence—but the unity of the world, the interconnection of all events, the great and small things swept along in the same current, originating from the same source, following the same laws of generation and extinction, has been elucidated in your complete teachings.

But you, diligent one, must beware of cunning and eloquent arguments. Whether the arguments are beautiful or ugly, wise or foolish, there will always be those who praise and those who despise. The teachings you hear from me are not my arguments. Their purpose is not to explain the world to those who seek knowledge. They have another aim; their purpose is to relieve suffering. This is Gautama's teaching, nothing else.

You attain enlightenment through exploration, seeking the path, through deep observation, meditation, through understanding, awakening, not through the teachings!

The Buddha walks silently, lost in thought. His tranquil face shows neither sadness nor joy, yet seems to bloom with a gentle smile from within. The Buddha walks peacefully and solemnly, with a faint smile, like a healthy child. He strictly adheres to the norms, dressed in the same monk's robes as his disciples, taking the same steps. Only his face, his gait, his peacefully lowered eyelids, his calm and relaxed arms, even every finger on his hand exudes peace, manifesting perfection. He is free from desires, without imitation. In the eternal stillness, in the everlasting radiance, in the inviolable peace, he breathes gently.

He speaks of the truth of suffering, the origin of suffering, and where it leads to cessation. His calm discourse is serene and clear. Suffering is the reality of life, but the path to liberation from suffering has already been discovered; following the Buddha can lead one out of the sea of suffering.

Whether the world is good or evil, whether life itself is suffering or joy—this may be undecided and is not the essence—but the unity of the world, the interconnection of all events, the great and small things swept along in the same current, originating from the same source, following the same laws of generation and extinction, has been elucidated in your complete teachings.

But you, diligent one, must beware of cunning and eloquent arguments. Whether the arguments are beautiful or ugly, wise or foolish, there will always be those who praise and those who despise. The teachings you hear from me are not my arguments. Their purpose is not to explain the world to those who seek knowledge. They have another aim; their purpose is to relieve suffering. This is Gautama's teaching, nothing else.

You attain enlightenment through exploration, seeking the path, through deep observation, meditation, through understanding, awakening, not through the teachings!

Awakening#

To him, understanding the reason is a form of deep contemplation. Through such contemplation, emotions are elevated to understanding, becoming solid; they occupy the heart, shining brightly.

This wandering thinker asks himself: "What did you originally intend to learn from the teachings, from the master? You have learned a lot, but what is it that you cannot truly learn?" He ultimately discovers: "The answer is 'I'. What I want to learn is the meaning and essence of 'I'. 'I' is what I want to rid myself of, to conquer. 'I' is what I cannot conquer, can only deceive, escape, and hide. Truly! There is nothing else in the world that confuses me like my 'I'. It is 'I', this riddle, that makes me live, that makes me different from others, that makes me Siddhartha! In the world, what I know the least is 'I', the least is Siddhartha!"

"I know nothing about myself. All along, Siddhartha has been very strange to me. It is only because I fear myself, escape from myself! I seek Atman, seek the great Brahman, I once longed for 'I' to be dismembered and transformed, so that I could discover the core of all things within the unfamiliar inner self, discover Atman, discover life, discover the ultimate divine. But on this path, I lost myself.

"Oh," he takes a deep breath, relieved, "I will no longer let Siddhartha slip away! I will no longer let Atman and worldly suffering become the center of my thoughts and life. I will no longer kill myself, dismember myself, in search of the secrets behind the ruins. Whether it is the Yoga Veda, the Atharva Veda, or any other doctrine, I will no longer practice. I will no longer practice austerity. I will take myself as my teacher. I want to know myself, to know the mysterious Siddhartha."

Meaning and essence are not hidden behind things; they are within things, in all things.

"If a person wants to seek meaning in a book, they will read it word by word, study it, love it; they will not overlook every word, every character, treating them as mere appearances, as accidental and worthless skins. But I, I who intentionally study the book of the world, the book of my existence, have prematurely fallen in love with an imagined meaning. I overlooked the words in the book. I regarded the phenomenal world as illusory. I viewed what my eyes see and what my lips taste as merely accidental and superficial, without value. No, all that is past. I have been reborn. I have truly been reborn. Today is my birthday."

At this moment, the world is hidden around him, he stands alone like a solitary star in the sky. At this moment, Siddhartha is more self-aware and more solid than before. He leaps out of coldness and despair. He feels: this is the last shudder of awakening, the final spasm of birth. He steps forward again, walking briskly. He will no longer go home, will no longer return to his father, will not go back.

To him, understanding the reason is a form of deep contemplation. Through such contemplation, emotions are elevated to understanding, becoming solid; they occupy the heart, shining brightly.

This wandering thinker asks himself: "What did you originally intend to learn from the teachings, from the master? You have learned a lot, but what is it that you cannot truly learn?" He ultimately discovers: "The answer is 'I'. What I want to learn is the meaning and essence of 'I'. 'I' is what I want to rid myself of, to conquer. 'I' is what I cannot conquer, can only deceive, escape, and hide. Truly! There is nothing else in the world that confuses me like my 'I'. It is 'I', this riddle, that makes me live, that makes me different from others, that makes me Siddhartha! In the world, what I know the least is 'I', the least is Siddhartha!"

"I know nothing about myself. All along, Siddhartha has been very strange to me. It is only because I fear myself, escape from myself! I seek Atman, seek the great Brahman, I once longed for 'I' to be dismembered and transformed, so that I could discover the core of all things within the unfamiliar inner self, discover Atman, discover life, discover the ultimate divine. But on this path, I lost myself.

"Oh," he takes a deep breath, relieved, "I will no longer let Siddhartha slip away! I will no longer let Atman and worldly suffering become the center of my thoughts and life. I will no longer kill myself, dismember myself, in search of the secrets behind the ruins. Whether it is the Yoga Veda, the Atharva Veda, or any other doctrine, I will no longer practice. I will no longer practice austerity. I will take myself as my teacher. I want to know myself, to know the mysterious Siddhartha."

Meaning and essence are not hidden behind things; they are within things, in all things.

"If a person wants to seek meaning in a book, they will read it word by word, study it, love it; they will not overlook every word, every character, treating them as mere appearances, as accidental and worthless skins. But I, I who intentionally study the book of the world, the book of my existence, have prematurely fallen in love with an imagined meaning. I overlooked the words in the book. I regarded the phenomenal world as illusory. I viewed what my eyes see and what my lips taste as merely accidental and superficial, without value. No, all that is past. I have been reborn. I have truly been reborn. Today is my birthday."

At this moment, the world is hidden around him, he stands alone like a solitary star in the sky. At this moment, Siddhartha is more self-aware and more solid than before. He leaps out of coldness and despair. He feels: this is the last shudder of awakening, the final spasm of birth. He steps forward again, walking briskly. He will no longer go home, will no longer return to his father, will not go back.

Kamala#

But in the eyes of the former Siddhartha, they were merely enchanting, fleeting mists. With skepticism, all this is destined to be perceived by thought, utterly worthless. Because they are not essence. The essence lies on the other side of the visible world. But now, he has gained the freedom to linger in the world, he sees and clearly distinguishes the visible world. He no longer inquires about essence, aiming for the other shore; he seeks his homeland in the world. If one can look at the world without desire, simply and innocently, how beautiful the world is!

All that has existed since ancient times, Siddhartha has always overlooked. He was never present. And now, he belongs to it. The flowing light and shadow shine in his eyes, the stars and moon move in his heart.

The Buddha's enlightenment is the unspeakable, unteachable treasure—this is precisely what he is now to experience, what he has just begun to experience. Naturally, he has always known that his self is Atman. The self exists eternally like the great Brahman. However, because he has always tried to capture the self with the net of thought, the self has never been truly discovered. Naturally, the body is not the self, the play of the senses is not the self. In this way, thought is also not the self. Intelligence is not the self. The wisdom and skills that weave new thoughts from old thoughts are not the self. No, this realm of thought is worldly. If a person kills the accidental self in the sense of the senses, yet nourishes the accidental self in the sense of thought, learned and capable, they will not find the self. Both, thought and senses, are beautiful things; behind both lies ultimate meaning; both are worth listening to, worth participating in; neither should be despised nor overestimated. From both, one can hear the inner voice of secrets.

Thus, listening to the call of the heart rather than obeying external commands is good. Besides always waiting for the call of this voice, no other action is necessary.

The people I meet on the road are all like Govinda. They are all grateful, even though they are all deserving of others' gratitude. They are all humble, kind, obedient, and think little. They all have a childlike heart.

Diligent Siddhartha, you must understand: love can be begged for, can be bought, can be given as a gift, and can be found in a shabby alley, but it cannot be forcibly taken.

If you throw a pebble into the water, the pebble will sink to the bottom along the shortest path. Just like Siddhartha has a goal and is determined. Siddhartha does nothing; he waits, thinks, fasts. He moves through the world like a pebble flying to the bottom of the water—without effort, without struggle; he will be guided, he lets himself sink. The goal will guide him because he forbids anything that interferes with the goal from entering his soul.

But in the eyes of the former Siddhartha, they were merely enchanting, fleeting mists. With skepticism, all this is destined to be perceived by thought, utterly worthless. Because they are not essence. The essence lies on the other side of the visible world. But now, he has gained the freedom to linger in the world, he sees and clearly distinguishes the visible world. He no longer inquires about essence, aiming for the other shore; he seeks his homeland in the world. If one can look at the world without desire, simply and innocently, how beautiful the world is!

All that has existed since ancient times, Siddhartha has always overlooked. He was never present. And now, he belongs to it. The flowing light and shadow shine in his eyes, the stars and moon move in his heart.

The Buddha's enlightenment is the unspeakable, unteachable treasure—this is precisely what he is now to experience, what he has just begun to experience. Naturally, he has always known that his self is Atman. The self exists eternally like the great Brahman. However, because he has always tried to capture the self with the net of thought, the self has never been truly discovered. Naturally, the body is not the self, the play of the senses is not the self. In this way, thought is also not the self. Intelligence is not the self. The wisdom and skills that weave new thoughts from old thoughts are not the self. No, this realm of thought is worldly. If a person kills the accidental self in the sense of the senses, yet nourishes the accidental self in the sense of thought, learned and capable, they will not find the self. Both, thought and senses, are beautiful things; behind both lies ultimate meaning; both are worth listening to, worth participating in; neither should be despised nor overestimated. From both, one can hear the inner voice of secrets.

Thus, listening to the call of the heart rather than obeying external commands is good. Besides always waiting for the call of this voice, no other action is necessary.

The people I meet on the road are all like Govinda. They are all grateful, even though they are all deserving of others' gratitude. They are all humble, kind, obedient, and think little. They all have a childlike heart.

Diligent Siddhartha, you must understand: love can be begged for, can be bought, can be given as a gift, and can be found in a shabby alley, but it cannot be forcibly taken.

If you throw a pebble into the water, the pebble will sink to the bottom along the shortest path. Just like Siddhartha has a goal and is determined. Siddhartha does nothing; he waits, thinks, fasts. He moves through the world like a pebble flying to the bottom of the water—without effort, without struggle; he will be guided, he lets himself sink. The goal will guide him because he forbids anything that interferes with the goal from entering his soul.

In the World#

The affairs of the world seem to be like this. Each has something to gain, each has something to give. This is life.

Siddhartha sees everything as a game. He strives to learn the rules, but he does not care about the content.

He is not a true merchant, nor will he become one. In business, he has never invested passion. But he has grasped the secrets of those who succeed effortlessly. Perhaps he is favored by fortune, perhaps he will cast spells, perhaps he has learned something from the shamans. He seems to always play in business, never fully invested, and business can never restrain him. He never worries about failure, never frets over loss.

Often, he feels a faint voice deep within reminding him softly, complaining softly. So faint that it is almost impossible to catch. He begins to realize at certain moments that he is living an absurd life. All these things he does are merely games. This game makes him happy, occasionally brings him joy. But real life slips by, unreachable. Like a person playing ball, he plays with his business and the people around him. He observes coldly, seeking happiness. Yet his heart, the source of his existence, is not there. That source is very distant, gradually disappearing from sight, unrelated to his life. A few times, he felt terrified by all that he realized. He wishes he could also be passionate, wholeheartedly participate in childish daily activities. To truly live, to work, to enjoy, and not just be a bystander.

Most people, Kamala, are like fallen leaves, rolling and swaying in the air, finally stumbling back to the dust. Some, very few, are like stars in the sky, moving along fixed trajectories. No wind can shake them; they have their own laws and orbits within.

"Perhaps," Siddhartha said tiredly, "I am like you. You do not love anyone—otherwise, how could you manage love as an art? People like you and me probably do not love. Only the childlike world can love. That is their secret."

The affairs of the world seem to be like this. Each has something to gain, each has something to give. This is life.

Siddhartha sees everything as a game. He strives to learn the rules, but he does not care about the content.

He is not a true merchant, nor will he become one. In business, he has never invested passion. But he has grasped the secrets of those who succeed effortlessly. Perhaps he is favored by fortune, perhaps he will cast spells, perhaps he has learned something from the shamans. He seems to always play in business, never fully invested, and business can never restrain him. He never worries about failure, never frets over loss.

Often, he feels a faint voice deep within reminding him softly, complaining softly. So faint that it is almost impossible to catch. He begins to realize at certain moments that he is living an absurd life. All these things he does are merely games. This game makes him happy, occasionally brings him joy. But real life slips by, unreachable. Like a person playing ball, he plays with his business and the people around him. He observes coldly, seeking happiness. Yet his heart, the source of his existence, is not there. That source is very distant, gradually disappearing from sight, unrelated to his life. A few times, he felt terrified by all that he realized. He wishes he could also be passionate, wholeheartedly participate in childish daily activities. To truly live, to work, to enjoy, and not just be a bystander.

Most people, Kamala, are like fallen leaves, rolling and swaying in the air, finally stumbling back to the dust. Some, very few, are like stars in the sky, moving along fixed trajectories. No wind can shake them; they have their own laws and orbits within.

"Perhaps," Siddhartha said tiredly, "I am like you. You do not love anyone—otherwise, how could you manage love as an art? People like you and me probably do not love. Only the childlike world can love. That is their secret."

Rebirth#

What has guided his life has always been the art of thinking, waiting, and fasting. He remains unfamiliar with the childlike people.

As he grows wealthy, he also becomes tainted by the childishness and timidity of the world. And he envies the world. The more he resembles them, the more he envies them. He envies their emphasis on personal life, which he lacks, envies their intense joy and fear, envies their constant falling in love for the sweet yet unsettling happiness, envies their relentless love for themselves, for women, for their children, for fame and wealth, envies their enthusiasm for various calculations and hopes. He cannot imitate this childlike joy and foolishness. What he has learned is precisely what he finds hardest to accept and most scornful.

The world has imprisoned him. Lust, greed, and laziness, as well as the profit-driven mindset he scorns, often mocks, and sees as the most foolish, have captured him.

Awakened, he feels himself surrounded by deep sorrow. Worthless, he lives a life that is both worthless and meaningless. Lifeless, he has not gained anything precious or worth keeping. He stands alone, as hollow as a shipwrecked vessel on the shore.

How many mediocre, desolate paths has he walked? For years, he has had no lofty goals, no desires, no ambition. He has been greedy and insatiable, indulging in pitiful pleasures! For years, he has been unconsciously trying and hoping to become one of the people. But his life, because he harbors different goals and worries, is far more unfortunate and impoverished than those childlike people. The world composed of people like Kamala is merely a game to him, a dance for others to watch, a farce. The only thing he cherishes is Kamala. He cherishes her—but does he still cherish her? Does he still need her, or does she still need him? Are they not playing in an endless game? Is it necessary to live for this game? No, it is not necessary! This game is called rebirth, a childlike game, a game that may be lovable. Once, twice, ten times—must it continue endlessly?

What has guided his life has always been the art of thinking, waiting, and fasting. He remains unfamiliar with the childlike people.

As he grows wealthy, he also becomes tainted by the childishness and timidity of the world. And he envies the world. The more he resembles them, the more he envies them. He envies their emphasis on personal life, which he lacks, envies their intense joy and fear, envies their constant falling in love for the sweet yet unsettling happiness, envies their relentless love for themselves, for women, for their children, for fame and wealth, envies their enthusiasm for various calculations and hopes. He cannot imitate this childlike joy and foolishness. What he has learned is precisely what he finds hardest to accept and most scornful.

The world has imprisoned him. Lust, greed, and laziness, as well as the profit-driven mindset he scorns, often mocks, and sees as the most foolish, have captured him.

Awakened, he feels himself surrounded by deep sorrow. Worthless, he lives a life that is both worthless and meaningless. Lifeless, he has not gained anything precious or worth keeping. He stands alone, as hollow as a shipwrecked vessel on the shore.

How many mediocre, desolate paths has he walked? For years, he has had no lofty goals, no desires, no ambition. He has been greedy and insatiable, indulging in pitiful pleasures! For years, he has been unconsciously trying and hoping to become one of the people. But his life, because he harbors different goals and worries, is far more unfortunate and impoverished than those childlike people. The world composed of people like Kamala is merely a game to him, a dance for others to watch, a farce. The only thing he cherishes is Kamala. He cherishes her—but does he still cherish her? Does he still need her, or does she still need him? Are they not playing in an endless game? Is it necessary to live for this game? No, it is not necessary! This game is called rebirth, a childlike game, a game that may be lovable. Once, twice, ten times—must it continue endlessly?

By the River#

This is precisely his situation: despair, walking into a dead end, abandoning wisdom, even seeking death. This childish desire for death continues to grow, even to the point of wanting to escape the body, seeking peace! The word "Om" penetrates the will, far stronger than the recent torment of regret and death. This moment prompts him to recognize himself in misfortune, in madness.

To become a child again, to start anew, I must become foolish, learn evil, and make mistakes. I must experience disgust, disappointment, and pain. Yet my heart approves of this path, my eyes rejoice in it. To gain grace, to hear "Om" again, to sleep soundly again, to wake up at the right time, I must reach a dead end, fall into the abyss, until I am moved by foolish thoughts of life. To rediscover the inner Atman, I must first become a fool. To live again, I must commit sins. Where will this path lead me? It is so strange, muddy, perhaps a cycle. Let it be; I am willing to follow it.

It is good to taste everything in the world firsthand. Although I knew as a child that indulgence and wealth do not belong to goodness. I have known it for a long time, yet I have just experienced it, not only with thought but also with my eyes, heart, and body. I am glad I experienced it!

His "I" hides in his saintly qualities, arrogance, and spirituality. When he thought he could kill the "I" with fasting and repentance, the "I" was growing and thriving. Thus, he finally realizes that no knowledge can grant him salvation; he must listen to the secret voice of his heart. For this, he must step into the world, lost in desires and power, women and money, becoming a merchant, gambler, drunkard, and miser, until the saint and the shaman die in his heart. He must continue those unbearable years, endure disgust, emptiness, endure a dull and meaningless life, until he ultimately falls into bitter despair, until the debauched and greedy Siddhartha dies. He died. A new Siddhartha awakens from sleep. This newly born Siddhartha will also age and die. Siddhartha will vanish. Everything tangible will vanish. But today he is still young, still a child. Today, he is the joyful, brand-new Siddhartha.

This is precisely his situation: despair, walking into a dead end, abandoning wisdom, even seeking death. This childish desire for death continues to grow, even to the point of wanting to escape the body, seeking peace! The word "Om" penetrates the will, far stronger than the recent torment of regret and death. This moment prompts him to recognize himself in misfortune, in madness.

To become a child again, to start anew, I must become foolish, learn evil, and make mistakes. I must experience disgust, disappointment, and pain. Yet my heart approves of this path, my eyes rejoice in it. To gain grace, to hear "Om" again, to sleep soundly again, to wake up at the right time, I must reach a dead end, fall into the abyss, until I am moved by foolish thoughts of life. To rediscover the inner Atman, I must first become a fool. To live again, I must commit sins. Where will this path lead me? It is so strange, muddy, perhaps a cycle. Let it be; I am willing to follow it.

It is good to taste everything in the world firsthand. Although I knew as a child that indulgence and wealth do not belong to goodness. I have known it for a long time, yet I have just experienced it, not only with thought but also with my eyes, heart, and body. I am glad I experienced it!

His "I" hides in his saintly qualities, arrogance, and spirituality. When he thought he could kill the "I" with fasting and repentance, the "I" was growing and thriving. Thus, he finally realizes that no knowledge can grant him salvation; he must listen to the secret voice of his heart. For this, he must step into the world, lost in desires and power, women and money, becoming a merchant, gambler, drunkard, and miser, until the saint and the shaman die in his heart. He must continue those unbearable years, endure disgust, emptiness, endure a dull and meaningless life, until he ultimately falls into bitter despair, until the debauched and greedy Siddhartha dies. He died. A new Siddhartha awakens from sleep. This newly born Siddhartha will also age and die. Siddhartha will vanish. Everything tangible will vanish. But today he is still young, still a child. Today, he is the joyful, brand-new Siddhartha.

The Ferryman#

My life is also a river. This river separates the young Siddhartha, the adult Siddhartha, and the old Siddhartha with illusions, not reality. Siddhartha's past lives are not the past, nor is death and return to Brahman the future. There is no past, no future. Everything is essence and the present."

Two situations intertwine within him, becoming eternal. He deeply realizes that life is imperishable, that the moment is eternity.

My life is also a river. This river separates the young Siddhartha, the adult Siddhartha, and the old Siddhartha with illusions, not reality. Siddhartha's past lives are not the past, nor is death and return to Brahman the future. There is no past, no future. Everything is essence and the present."

Two situations intertwine within him, becoming eternal. He deeply realizes that life is imperishable, that the moment is eternity.

The Son#

Siddhartha begins to realize that a child brings not happiness and peace, but pain and worry. Yet he loves him, preferring to endure the pain and worry of love rather than accept happiness and joy without him.

I know. You do not force him, do not hit him, do not control him, because you know that gentleness prevails over harshness, water prevails over stone, and love prevails over violence. Very well, I appreciate you. But is your principle of not forcing or punishing not a fault? Have you not bound him with love? Have you not made him ashamed and troubled every day with kindness and patience? Have you not forced this arrogant and unruly child to live in a hut with two old men who consider rice a delicacy? The thoughts of the elderly will not be the same as those of a child. Their minds are old and calm, even their gait is different from that of a child. Is all this not a form of coercion and punishment for the child?

A person walks through life alone, suffering defilement, bearing sins, drinking bitter wine, seeking a way out. Has anyone ever been sheltered by a father or teacher along the way? Dear one, do you believe anyone can avoid this path? Perhaps little Siddhartha can, because you love him, you are willing to protect him from suffering and disappointment? But even if you sacrificed your life for him ten times, I fear it would not change his fate by a hair's breadth!

He compares himself to a solitary star, comparing the childlike people to fallen leaves. Although he hears reproach in her words. Indeed, he has never lost himself in love for someone. He has never completely forgotten himself to do foolish things for love. He has never loved. He believes this is his fundamental difference from the childlike people. But since the appearance of his son, Siddhartha has become a complete worldly person. He suffers in love, lost in love; because of love, he has become a fool. And now, he feels this late, intense, and strange passion in life, suffering, being tormented, yet filled with joy, gaining new life, becoming rich.

His desire to enter the city is foolish. He cannot help his son, nor should he bind him. He loves the runaway child deeply. His love is like a wound. He feels that the existence of the wound should not only rot in his heart; it should weather and shine.

Siddhartha begins to realize that a child brings not happiness and peace, but pain and worry. Yet he loves him, preferring to endure the pain and worry of love rather than accept happiness and joy without him.

I know. You do not force him, do not hit him, do not control him, because you know that gentleness prevails over harshness, water prevails over stone, and love prevails over violence. Very well, I appreciate you. But is your principle of not forcing or punishing not a fault? Have you not bound him with love? Have you not made him ashamed and troubled every day with kindness and patience? Have you not forced this arrogant and unruly child to live in a hut with two old men who consider rice a delicacy? The thoughts of the elderly will not be the same as those of a child. Their minds are old and calm, even their gait is different from that of a child. Is all this not a form of coercion and punishment for the child?

A person walks through life alone, suffering defilement, bearing sins, drinking bitter wine, seeking a way out. Has anyone ever been sheltered by a father or teacher along the way? Dear one, do you believe anyone can avoid this path? Perhaps little Siddhartha can, because you love him, you are willing to protect him from suffering and disappointment? But even if you sacrificed your life for him ten times, I fear it would not change his fate by a hair's breadth!

He compares himself to a solitary star, comparing the childlike people to fallen leaves. Although he hears reproach in her words. Indeed, he has never lost himself in love for someone. He has never completely forgotten himself to do foolish things for love. He has never loved. He believes this is his fundamental difference from the childlike people. But since the appearance of his son, Siddhartha has become a complete worldly person. He suffers in love, lost in love; because of love, he has become a fool. And now, he feels this late, intense, and strange passion in life, suffering, being tormented, yet filled with joy, gaining new life, becoming rich.

His desire to enter the city is foolish. He cannot help his son, nor should he bind him. He loves the runaway child deeply. His love is like a wound. He feels that the existence of the wound should not only rot in his heart; it should weather and shine.

Om#

He understands them. Understanding and sympathizing with them is not governed by thought and reason, but by impulse and desire. He empathizes. Although he is almost perfect, only bearing the last pain, he sees the world as brothers. He no longer mocks their vanity, desires, and absurdities; instead, he understands them, loves, and respects them. The mother's blind love for her child, the father's foolish pride in his only son, the young woman's blind and wild pursuit of jewels and the gaze of men—these instinctive, simple, foolish yet intensely vivid desires are no longer childish to the current Siddhartha. He sees people living for desire, constantly creating, traveling, waging war for desire, constantly suffering. He loves them. He sees life and vitality in every passion and action of theirs, sees the indestructible and the Brahman. He sees the loveliness and respect in their blind loyalty, blind strength, and resilience.

A realization gradually grows and matures in Siddhartha's mind. What is wisdom? What is his goal? It is merely the ability to think harmoniously and unified in every moment of life, to feel and integrate into this unified soul, a preparation, a capacity, a secret art. This realization flourishes in Siddhartha's mind and is reflected in the youthful face of Vasudeva: harmony, joy, unity, knowledge of the eternally harmonious world.

All the suffering yet to be endured, all the redemption yet to be gained will return. Suffering has never changed.

In the continuous narration, confession, and repentance, Siddhartha increasingly feels that the listener is no longer Vasudeva, no longer a person. This silent listener accepts his confession, just as trees accept rain. He is the embodiment of the divine, the embodiment of eternity. Siddhartha no longer licks his wounds; the change in his understanding of Vasudeva occupies him. The deeper he understands, the less he is surprised, the clearer he sees. Everything is natural, orderly. Vasudeva has always been like this; he just did not know it. Even he himself has hardly changed. He feels he looks at Vasudeva as the world looks at the gods. This will not last long. While he narrates, he bids farewell to Vasudeva in his heart.

Siddhartha doubles his focus on listening. The images of the father, himself, and the son converge. There are also Kamala, Govinda, and others, their images converging and merging into the river, eagerly and painfully rushing toward the goal. The river sings, laden with desire, filled with burning pain and unfulfilled longing, rushing toward the goal. Siddhartha sees the river composed of himself, of those he loves, of all people, surging, waves rolling, painfully rushing toward multiple goals, rushing toward waterfalls, lakes, rapids, the sea; reaching goals, then rushing toward new goals. The water evaporates, rises, turns into rain, falls from the sky, then becomes springs, streams, rivers, merging again, surging again. Yet the sound of longing changes, still howling, still laden with pain and seeking, other voices, the sounds of joy and sorrow, good and evil, laughter and weeping, thousands of voices join in.

He no longer distinguishes between the sounds of laughter and weeping, the innocent and the powerful. These sounds are one. The laughter of the wise, the shouts of the angry, the laments of the longing, the groans of the dying, intertwine and merge into one. All sounds, goals, desires, pains, cravings, all good and evil merge into one, forming the world, forming the river of events, the music of life. When he focuses on the symphony of the roaring river, when he no longer hears weeping, hears laughter, when his soul no longer clings to a single sound, the self is no longer occupied, but listens to everything, listens to the whole and the unity, this great symphony condenses into a word, this word is "Om," meaning completeness.

At this moment, Siddhartha no longer fights against fate, no longer opposes will. His pain has ceased, and joy blooms on his face. He recognizes completeness, agrees with the river of events, agrees with the flow of life, filled with compassion, filled with joy, flowing downstream, merging into unity.

"I will go to the forest, to merge into unity." Vasudeva shines brightly. Siddhartha watches him leave with deep joy and sincerity. He walks peacefully, filled with brilliance, filled with light.

He understands them. Understanding and sympathizing with them is not governed by thought and reason, but by impulse and desire. He empathizes. Although he is almost perfect, only bearing the last pain, he sees the world as brothers. He no longer mocks their vanity, desires, and absurdities; instead, he understands them, loves, and respects them. The mother's blind love for her child, the father's foolish pride in his only son, the young woman's blind and wild pursuit of jewels and the gaze of men—these instinctive, simple, foolish yet intensely vivid desires are no longer childish to the current Siddhartha. He sees people living for desire, constantly creating, traveling, waging war for desire, constantly suffering. He loves them. He sees life and vitality in every passion and action of theirs, sees the indestructible and the Brahman. He sees the loveliness and respect in their blind loyalty, blind strength, and resilience.

A realization gradually grows and matures in Siddhartha's mind. What is wisdom? What is his goal? It is merely the ability to think harmoniously and unified in every moment of life, to feel and integrate into this unified soul, a preparation, a capacity, a secret art. This realization flourishes in Siddhartha's mind and is reflected in the youthful face of Vasudeva: harmony, joy, unity, knowledge of the eternally harmonious world.

All the suffering yet to be endured, all the redemption yet to be gained will return. Suffering has never changed.

In the continuous narration, confession, and repentance, Siddhartha increasingly feels that the listener is no longer Vasudeva, no longer a person. This silent listener accepts his confession, just as trees accept rain. He is the embodiment of the divine, the embodiment of eternity. Siddhartha no longer licks his wounds; the change in his understanding of Vasudeva occupies him. The deeper he understands, the less he is surprised, the clearer he sees. Everything is natural, orderly. Vasudeva has always been like this; he just did not know it. Even he himself has hardly changed. He feels he looks at Vasudeva as the world looks at the gods. This will not last long. While he narrates, he bids farewell to Vasudeva in his heart.

Siddhartha doubles his focus on listening. The images of the father, himself, and the son converge. There are also Kamala, Govinda, and others, their images converging and merging into the river, eagerly and painfully rushing toward the goal. The river sings, laden with desire, filled with burning pain and unfulfilled longing, rushing toward the goal. Siddhartha sees the river composed of himself, of those he loves, of all people, surging, waves rolling, painfully rushing toward multiple goals, rushing toward waterfalls, lakes, rapids, the sea; reaching goals, then rushing toward new goals. The water evaporates, rises, turns into rain, falls from the sky, then becomes springs, streams, rivers, merging again, surging again. Yet the sound of longing changes, still howling, still laden with pain and seeking, other voices, the sounds of joy and sorrow, good and evil, laughter and weeping, thousands of voices join in.

He no longer distinguishes between the sounds of laughter and weeping, the innocent and the powerful. These sounds are one. The laughter of the wise, the shouts of the angry, the laments of the longing, the groans of the dying, intertwine and merge into one. All sounds, goals, desires, pains, cravings, all good and evil merge into one, forming the world, forming the river of events, the music of life. When he focuses on the symphony of the roaring river, when he no longer hears weeping, hears laughter, when his soul no longer clings to a single sound, the self is no longer occupied, but listens to everything, listens to the whole and the unity, this great symphony condenses into a word, this word is "Om," meaning completeness.

At this moment, Siddhartha no longer fights against fate, no longer opposes will. His pain has ceased, and joy blooms on his face. He recognizes completeness, agrees with the river of events, agrees with the flow of life, filled with compassion, filled with joy, flowing downstream, merging into unity.

"I will go to the forest, to merge into unity." Vasudeva shines brightly. Siddhartha watches him leave with deep joy and sincerity. He walks peacefully, filled with brilliance, filled with light.

Govinda#

"A seeker," Siddhartha said, "often only focuses on the sought-after. He gains nothing, possesses nothing. Because he is solely thinking of seeking, swayed by the goal. Seeking implies having a target. Discovery, however, means freedom, openness, and no purpose. Respectable one, you may indeed be an explorer. But you have missed some things in front of you by striving for goals."

I have had thoughts, yes, I have had understanding. Sometimes, for an hour or a day, I am filled with understanding, just as people perceive life in their hearts. Some understandings are difficult to share with you. You see, my Govinda, this is my understanding: wisdom cannot be expressed in words. The wise attempt to impart wisdom, always like a fool dreaming.

But it is my best consideration: the true opposite is equally real! That is to say, only partial truths can be expressed in words. Everything that can be thought and spoken is partial, is local, lacking the whole, the complete, the unified. The World-Honored Gautama, when proclaiming the teachings and discussing the world, must divide the world into samsara and nirvana, illusion and reality, suffering and redemption. The one who proclaims the teachings has no other way, yet the world around us and within us has never fallen into partiality. No one, no thing, is entirely in samsara or entirely in nirvana. No one is absolutely holy or absolutely sinful. This is because we are constrained by illusions, believing that time truly exists. Time does not truly exist, Govinda, I sometimes feel. And if time does not exist, the boundaries between the world and eternity, suffering and bliss, good and evil are also illusions.

The world is not imperfect. The world does not slowly progress on the path to perfection: no, every moment in the world is perfect. All sins carry forgiveness, every child harbors an old person, every newborn harbors the dead, every dying person nurtures eternal life. No one can see the path of another. The path of a thief and a gambler may lead to the Buddha, while the path of a Brahmin may lead to a thief. In the deepest meditation, there exists this possibility: time is ended, and people view past, present, and future lives as simultaneous. At this moment, everything is good, perfect, and Brahman. Therefore, in my view, everything that exists in the world is good. In my view, death is like life, sin is like holiness, intelligence is equal to foolishness. Everything has its fate; everything only requires my appreciation, obedience, and the consent of love. This benefits me, only promotes me, never harms me. I listen to the arrangements of soul and body, to experience sin, to pursue lust and wealth, to crave vanity, to fall into the most shameful despair, to learn to give up struggle, to learn to love the world. I no longer compare this world with the perfect world I expect and shape, but accept this world, love it, belong to it. — Oh, Govinda, these are some of my thoughts and insights."

But I do not love words; learning has no value for me. They have no strength, no softness, no color, no edges, no smell, and no taste. As words, they have nothing. Perhaps it is words that hinder you from gaining peace. Because redemption and virtue, samsara and nirvana are also just words. There is no nirvana in the world; nirvana is just a word.

I do not worry about whether 'things' are illusory; I too may just be an illusion. Therefore, I am no different from 'things.' I thus feel they are worthy of love and respect—we are no different. I therefore love them. You must laugh at my saying this, Govinda; for me, love is the foremost priority. To examine the world, to explain the world, or to despise the world may be the work of thinkers. My only task is to love this world. Not to despise the world, not to hate the world and myself, but to embrace love, to marvel at and revere all existence and myself.

He is familiar with the impermanence and emptiness of human nature, yet still loves and dedicates his life to helping and teaching the world. In my view, in the heart of this great teacher, love for things surpasses love for words. His actions and life outweigh his teachings. His demeanor is more significant than his words. I believe his greatness lies not in his teachings or thoughts, but in his life.

Govinda bows deeply. Tears flow unknowingly down his aged face. Like flames igniting the deepest love and humblest respect in his heart. He bows deeply to the ground, paying homage to Siddhartha, who sits upright. Siddhartha's smile reminds him of everything he has loved in his life, reminds him of everything precious and sacred in his life.

"A seeker," Siddhartha said, "often only focuses on the sought-after. He gains nothing, possesses nothing. Because he is solely thinking of seeking, swayed by the goal. Seeking implies having a target. Discovery, however, means freedom, openness, and no purpose. Respectable one, you may indeed be an explorer. But you have missed some things in front of you by striving for goals."

I have had thoughts, yes, I have had understanding. Sometimes, for an hour or a day, I am filled with understanding, just as people perceive life in their hearts. Some understandings are difficult to share with you. You see, my Govinda, this is my understanding: wisdom cannot be expressed in words. The wise attempt to impart wisdom, always like a fool dreaming.

But it is my best consideration: the true opposite is equally real! That is to say, only partial truths can be expressed in words. Everything that can be thought and spoken is partial, is local, lacking the whole, the complete, the unified. The World-Honored Gautama, when proclaiming the teachings and discussing the world, must divide the world into samsara and nirvana, illusion and reality, suffering and redemption. The one who proclaims the teachings has no other way, yet the world around us and within us has never fallen into partiality. No one, no thing, is entirely in samsara or entirely in nirvana. No one is absolutely holy or absolutely sinful. This is because we are constrained by illusions, believing that time truly exists. Time does not truly exist, Govinda, I sometimes feel. And if time does not exist, the boundaries between the world and eternity, suffering and bliss, good and evil are also illusions.

The world is not imperfect. The world does not slowly progress on the path to perfection: no, every moment in the world is perfect. All sins carry forgiveness, every child harbors an old person, every newborn harbors the dead, every dying person nurtures eternal life. No one can see the path of another. The path of a thief and a gambler may lead to the Buddha, while the path of a Brahmin may lead to a thief. In the deepest meditation, there exists this possibility: time is ended, and people view past, present, and future lives as simultaneous. At this moment, everything is good, perfect, and Brahman. Therefore, in my view, everything that exists in the world is good. In my view, death is like life, sin is like holiness, intelligence is equal to foolishness. Everything has its fate; everything only requires my appreciation, obedience, and the consent of love. This benefits me, only promotes me, never harms me. I listen to the arrangements of soul and body, to experience sin, to pursue lust and wealth, to crave vanity, to fall into the most shameful despair, to learn to give up struggle, to learn to love the world. I no longer compare this world with the perfect world I expect and shape, but accept this world, love it, belong to it. — Oh, Govinda, these are some of my thoughts and insights."

But I do not love words; learning has no value for me. They have no strength, no softness, no color, no edges, no smell, and no taste. As words, they have nothing. Perhaps it is words that hinder you from gaining peace. Because redemption and virtue, samsara and nirvana are also just words. There is no nirvana in the world; nirvana is just a word.

I do not worry about whether 'things' are illusory; I too may just be an illusion. Therefore, I am no different from 'things.' I thus feel they are worthy of love and respect—we are no different. I therefore love them. You must laugh at my saying this, Govinda; for me, love is the foremost priority. To examine the world, to explain the world, or to despise the world may be the work of thinkers. My only task is to love this world. Not to despise the world, not to hate the world and myself, but to embrace love, to marvel at and revere all existence and myself.

He is familiar with the impermanence and emptiness of human nature, yet still loves and dedicates his life to helping and teaching the world. In my view, in the heart of this great teacher, love for things surpasses love for words. His actions and life outweigh his teachings. His demeanor is more significant than his words. I believe his greatness lies not in his teachings or thoughts, but in his life.

Govinda bows deeply. Tears flow unknowingly down his aged face. Like flames igniting the deepest love and humblest respect in his heart. He bows deeply to the ground, paying homage to Siddhartha, who sits upright. Siddhartha's smile reminds him of everything he has loved in his life, reminds him of everything precious and sacred in his life.

Postscript#

Accompanying Hesse's writing, I also experience Siddhartha's farewells in his footsteps: farewell to parents and home, farewell to friends and teachers, farewell to the Buddha, farewell to loved ones, farewell to the old self. These cruel farewells may be the truth of life, perhaps the necessary path to gaining the divine self, to gaining a broader tolerance and love for all things, for people, for the world. I see the Buddha. He is bright and complete, divine and gentle. I see his solemn, eternal, and charming smile. When Siddhartha gloomily walks into the mango grove, feeling the pain and death in his chest, I see Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane drinking the last sorrowful cup, almost dying, longing for a moment of human awakening and companionship in loneliness and fear. In the singing of the river, I hear a Bach mass, hear the death and resurrection of the Most High, hear a person's love and the suffering of a lifetime...

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