Project Gutenberg's English Etext of Siddhartha, by Hermann Hesse #2 in our series by Hesse This is a partial rough translation of the original Siddhartha which was published in German in 1922. This draft will be enhanced and expanded with additional material over time and is a work in progress with many collaborators around the world contributing translation efforts towards it's completion. Stay tuned for more. We desperately need help with this one! If you would be willing to help or proofread, please email: Michael Hart hart@pobox.com and Mike Pullen globaltraveler5565@yahoo.com Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! Please take a look at the important information in this header. We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** **Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** *These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and further information is included below. We need your donations. Title: Siddhartha Author: by Hermann Hesse February, 2000 [Etext #2500] Project Gutenberg's English Etext of Siddhartha, by Hermann Hesse *******This file should be named siddh01.txt or siddh01.zip****** Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, siddh11.txt VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, siddh10a.txt This etext was prepared by Mike Pullen globaltraveler5565@yahoo.com Project Gutenberg Etexts are usually created from multiple editions, all of which are in the Public Domain in the United States, unless a copyright notice is included. Therefore, we usually do NOT keep any of these books in compliance with any particular paper edition. We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing. Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment and editing by those who wish to do so. To be sure you have an up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes in the first week of the next month. Since our ftp program has a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a new copy has at least one byte more or less. Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 million dollars per hour this year as we release thirty-six text files per month, or 432 more Etexts in 1999 for a total of 2000+ If these reach just 10% of the computerized population, then the total should reach over 200 billion Etexts given away this year. The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext Files by December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000 = 1 Trillion] This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, which is only ~5% of the present number of computer users. At our revised rates of production, we will reach only one-third of that goal by the end of 2001, or about 3,333 Etexts unless we manage to get some real funding; currently our funding is mostly from Michael Hart's salary at Carnegie-Mellon University, and an assortment of sporadic gifts; this salary is only good for a few more years, so we are looking for something to replace it, as we don't want Project Gutenberg to be so dependent on one person. We need your donations more than ever! All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/CMU": and are tax deductible to the extent allowable by law. (CMU = Carnegie- Mellon University). For these and other matters, please mail to: Project Gutenberg P. O. Box 2782 Champaign, IL 61825 When all other email fails. . .try our Executive Director: Michael S. Hart hartPOBOX.com forwards to hartPRAIRIENET.org and archive.org if your mail bounces from archive.org, I will still see it, if it bounces from prairienet.org, better resend later on. . . . We would prefer to send you this information by email. ****** To access Project Gutenberg etexts, use any Web browser to view http://promo.net/pg. This site lists Etexts by author and by title, and includes information about how to get involved with Project Gutenberg. You could also download our past Newsletters, or subscribe here. This is one of our major sites, please email hartPOBOX.com, for a more complete list of our various sites. To go directly to the etext collections, use FTP or any Web browser to visit a Project Gutenberg mirror (mirror sites are available on 7 continents; mirrors are listed at http://promo.net/pg). Mac users, do NOT point and click, typing works better. Example FTP session: ftp sunsite.unc.edu login: anonymous password: yourLOGIN cd pub/docs/books/gutenberg cd etext90 through etext99 dir [to see files] get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files] GET GUTINDEX.?? [to get a year's listing of books, e.g., GUTINDEX.99] GET GUTINDEX.ALL [to get a listing of ALL books] *** **Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor** (Three Pages) ***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START*** Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to. *BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG- tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at Carnegie-Mellon University (the "Project"). Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, [1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that time to the person you received it from. If you received it on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement copy. If you received it electronically, such person may choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to receive it electronically. THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A PARTICULAR PURPOSE. Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you may have other legal rights. INDEMNITY You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors, officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause: [1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification, or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect. DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this "Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, or: [1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however, if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, including any form resulting from conversion by word pro- cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as *EITHER*: [*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and does *not* contain characters other than those intended by the author of the work, although tilde (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may be used to convey punctuation intended by the author, and additional characters may be used to indicate hypertext links; OR [*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent form by the program that displays the etext (as is the case, for instance, with most word processors); OR [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC or other equivalent proprietary form). [2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this "Small Print!" statement. [3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the net profits you derive calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon University" within the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg Association / Carnegie-Mellon University". *END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* SIDDHARTHA An Indian Tale by Hermann Hesse FIRST PART To Romain Rolland, my dear friend THE SON OF THE BRAHMAN In the shade of the house, in the sunshine at the riverbank near the boats, in the shade of the ?SALWALD?, in the shade of the fig tree is where Siddhartha grew up, the handsome son of the Brahman, the young falcon, together with his friend Govinda, son of a Brahman. The sun tanned his light shoulders during bathing, the sacred ablutions, the sacred offerings at the banks of the river. In the mango grove, shade poured into his black eyes, when the boys played, when his mother sang, when the sacred offerings were made, when his father, the Scholar, taught him, when the Wise Men talked. For a long time, Siddhartha had been partaking in the discussions of the Wise Men, practicing debate with Govinda, practicing the art of reflection with Govinda, the duty of contemplation. He already knew how to speak the Om silently, the word of words, to speak it silently into himself while inhaling, to speak it silently out of himself while exhaling, with his entire soul, the forehead surrounded by the glow of the clear-thinking spirit. He already knew to feel Atman in the depths of his being, indestructible, one with the universe. Joy leapt in his father's heart for his son who was quick to learn, thirsty for knowledge; he saw the great wise man and priest in him grow, a prince among the Brahmans. Bliss leapt in his mother's breast when she saw him, when she saw him walking, when she saw him sit down and get up, Siddhartha, strong, beautiful, walking on slim legs, greeting her with perfect respect. Love touched the hearts of the Brahmans' young daughters when Siddhartha walked through the lanes of the town with the luminous forehead, with the eye of a king, with his slender hips. Govinda, his friend and a Brahman's son, loved him more than all the others. He loved Siddhartha's eye and sweet voice, he loved his walk and the perfect decency of his movements, he loved everything Siddhartha did and said and what he loved best was his spirit, his transcendent, fiery thoughts, his ardent will, his high calling. Govinda knew: he would not become a common Brahman, not a lazy official making offerings by rote; not a greedy merchant with magic spells; not a vain, vacuous speaker; not a mean, deceitful priest; and also not a decent, dumb sheep in the herd of the many. No, and he, Govinda, as well did not want to become one of those, not one of those tens of thousands of Brahmans. He would follow Siddhartha, the beloved, the splendid. And in days to come, when Siddhartha would become a god, when he would join the Glorious, then Govinda wanted to follow him as his friend, his companion, his servant, his spear-carrier, his shadow. Siddhartha was thus loved by everyone. He was a source of joy for everybody. He, however, was not a source of joy for himself. Despite ?strolling/ambling? on the rosy paths of the fig tree garden, despite sitting in the ?blueish? shadow of the grove of contemplation, despite washing his limbs daily in the bath of repentance, despite sacrificing in the dim shade of the mango forest, his gestures of perfect decency, everyone's love and joy, he lacked any joy in his heart. Dreams and restless thoughts came into his mind, flowing from the water of the river, sparkling from the stars of the night, melting from the beams of the sun, dreams came to him, and a restlessness of his mind, fuming from the sacrifices, aspiring from the verses of the Rig-Veda, ?dripping/trickling? from the ?doctrine/teaching? of the old Brahmans. Siddhartha had started to nurse discontent in himself, he had started to feel that his father's and mother's love, and also the love of his friend, Govinda, would not please him for ever and ever, would not nurse him, feed him, satisfy him. He had started to anticipate that his venerable father and his other teachers, the wise Brahmans had already passed to him the most and best of their wisdom, that they had already filled his expecting vessel with their richness, and the vessel was not full, the spirit was not content, the mind was not calm, the heart was not satisfied. The ablutions were good, but they were of water, they did not wash off the sin, they did not heal the spirit's thirst, they did not untie an anxious heart. The sacrifices and the invocation of the gods were excellent--but was that all? Did the sacrifices give luck? And how were those received by the gods? Was it really ?Prajapati? who had ?erschaffen? the world? Was it not the Atman, Him, the One, the Alone? Goods not the Gods. Organizations, create as I and you, the time subject, passing? Was it thus good, was correct it, was it meaningful and highest doing to sacrifice the Gods? Whom differently was to be sacrificed, whom different was admiration to bring than it, the only one, the Atman? And where was Atman to find, where he lived, where its eternal heart struck, where differently than in the own Self, in the internal one, in the indestructible one, which everyone carried in itself? But where, where this was I, this internal, this the latter? It was not meat and leg, it was not thinking still consciousness, then the wisest ones taught. Where, where thus was it? There to penetrate, to I, TO me, to the Atman, gave it another way, which to look up was worthwhile oneself? Oh, and nobody did not show this way, anybody knew it, not the father, not the teachers and ways, not the holy victim singing! Everything knew they, the Brahman and its holy books, everything knew them, over everything them had worried and about more than everything, they knew the ?erschaffung? of the world, developing the speech, the meal, the inhalation, breathing out, the orders of the senses, the acts of the Gods infinitely much--however was it valuable to know all of this if one did not know and only ones, the most important, the alone important? Certainly, many verses of the holy books, particularly in the ?Upanishaden? of the ?Samaveda?, spoke of this internal one and the latter, wonderful verses. " your soul is the whole world ", was there written, and written that humans sleep in, in the deep sleep, to its internal one be received and in the Atman live. Marvelous wisdom was in these verses, all knowledge of the wisest ones was here in magic words collected, purely as from bees collected honey. No to live small not to note was the tremendous at realization, which retains here from innumerable ?geschlechterfolgen? of wise Brahman collected and was situated--however where was the Brahman, where the priests, where the ways or ?Buesser?, which had succeeded to not only know this deepest knowledge but? Where was the ?Kundige?, that the home its in the Atman from sleeps ?herueberzauberte? in ?Wachsein?, into the life, in step and footstep, in word and act? Siddhartha, his father before everything, the pure one, the scholar, the most venerable one knew many venerable Brahman. To admire his father was, quietly and nobly was pure its ?Gehaben?, its life, points his word, purifies and noble thoughts lived in its forehead--in addition, he, the so much knowing, lived he in blessedness, had he peace, was he not also only a look-up, a ?Duerstender? Did it have not always and again and again at holy sources, ?Durstender?, does drink, at the victim, at the books, at the change speech of the Brahman? Why did it, which irreproachable ones, each day sin to wash off, each day around cleaning strive themselves, each day of new, have? Wasn't Atman in it, flowed not in its own heart of the ?Urquell? It one had to find, to the ?Urquell? in the own Self, him must one to own have! All others were searches, were detours, were erring Like that Siddharthas thoughts were, this were its thirst, this its suffering. Often he pronounced himself from a ?Chandogya Upanishad? the words: "?Fuerwahr?, which is name of the Brahman ?satyam?--indeed, who knows such, goes daily into the heavenly world." Often it seemed close, which heavenly world, but never had he her completely achieved, never the last thirst deleted. And of all ways and wisest ones. Which it could do and whose instruction it enjoyed, from them all was none, which had achieved her completely, the heavenly world, which had deleted him completely, that eternal thirst. "Govinda," Siddhartha said to his friends, "Govinda, dear one, come with me under the Banyan tree, we will recite our Verses." They went to the Banyan tree, they sat beneath the tree, Govinda twenty steps away. After putting himself down, ready, to speak the Om Siddhartha repeated murmuring the verse: Om is elbow, the arrow is soul, The Brahman is the arrow's target, That one should incessantly hit. When the allotted time of the Verse recitation exercise was finished, Govinda rose. The evening had come, it was time to take the evening hour bath. He called Siddhartha's name. Siddhartha did not give response. Siddhartha sat sunken, his eyes was rigidly focused toward a very far target, the tip of his tongue was protruding a little between the teeth, he seemed not to breathe. Thus sat he, wrapped up in his thoughts of Om, his soul sent after the Brahman straight as an arrow. Once Samanas had been pulled through Siddhartha's city, Ascetics pilgrimed there three dry, ?lost? men, neither old nor still young, with dusty and bloody shoulders, almost naked from the sun ?versengt?, surrounded by isolation, ?fremd? and enemy of the world, ?Fremdlinge? and ?hagere? jackal in the realm of humans. Behind them a smell of quiet passion blew hotly, of destructive service, of compassionless ?Entselbstung?. In the evening, after the hour of the view, Siddhartha spoke to Govinda: "in the early morning, my friend, Siddhartha will go to the Samanas. He will become a Samana." Govinda paled, there he heard the words and in the motionless face of his friend the resolution loosely, ?unablenkbar? like the arrow loose-snapped by the elbow. Immediately and with the first glance Govinda knew: Now, now Siddhartha is starting on his way, now his fate begins to sprout, and with his, my own. And he would bleach like a dry banana bowl. "O Siddhartha," he called, "will your father permit you to do that?" Siddhartha looked over like an awakening. Arrow-fast he read in Govindas soul, read the fear, read the ?Ergebung?. "O Govinda," he spoke quietly, "we will not waste words. Tomorrow with daybreak I will begin the life of the Samanas. Speak no more of it." Siddhartha entered the chamber, where his father was sitting on a velvet mat, stood behind his father and remained standing until his father felt that someone was standing behind him. Spoke the Brahmane: "Is that you, Siddhartha? Then say what you came to say." Spoke Siddhartha: "With your permission, my father. I came to tell you that it is my longing to leave your house tomorrow and go to the ascetic. My desire is to become a Samana. May my father not oppose this." The Brahmane fell silent, and remained silent so long that the stars in the small window wandered and changed their shape, 'ere the silence was broken. Dumb and motionless stood the son with his arms folded, dumb and motionless sat the father on the mat, and the stars traced their paths in the sky. Then spoke the father: "Not proper it is for a Brahmane to speak hefty and thorny words. But indignation my heart. I wish not to hear this request for a second time from your mouth." Slowly, the Brahmane arose; Siddhartha stood dumb, his arms folded. "What are you waiting for?" - asked the father. Spoke Siddhartha: "You know what." Indignant, the father left the chamber; indignant, went he to his bed and lay down. After an hour, when sleep still had not come to him, the Brahmane stood up, paced to and fro, and left the house. Through the small window he looked back inside, and saw Siddhartha standing, motionless, his arms folded. Pale shimmered his robe. With anxiety in his heart returned the father to his bed. After another hour, when sleep had still not come to him, the Brahmane stood up again, paced to and fro, walked out of the house and saw that the moon had risen. Through the window looked he inside the chamber; there stood Siddhartha, motionless, his arms folded, moonlight reflecting from his bare shins. With concern in his heart the father went back to bed. He came again after an hour, he came again after two hours and looked through the small window, saw Siddhartha, in the moon light, in the half-darkness. And again his heart filled with anger, his heart filled with unrest, filled his heart with Zagen, filled it with sadness. And in the night's last hour, before the day began, he returned, stepped into the room, saw the young man, who appeared tall and alien. "Siddhartha," he said, "on what await you?" "You know what." "You will be always stand that way and wait, till it becomes morning, noon, and evening?" "I will stand and wait. "You will become tired and sleepy." "I will become tired." "You will fall asleep, Siddhartha." "I will not fall asleep." "You will die, Siddhartha." "I will die." "And would you rather die, than obey your father?" "Siddhartha has always obeyed his father." "So will you abandon your plan?" "Siddhartha will do what his father tells him to do." The first light of day shown into the room. The Brahman saw that Siddhartha was trembled softly on his knees. In Siddhartha's face he saw no trembling, absently blinking his eyes. Then his father realized that Siddhartha no longer dwelt with him in his home, that he had already lost him. Father touched Siddhartha's shoulder. "You will go into the forest" he said, "and a become a Samana. When you find salvation in the forest, then come back and teach me. If you find disappointment, then return to me and let us worship again to the common Gods. Go now and kiss your mother, tell her where you are going. For me it is time to go to the river and take the first washing. He took his hand from the shoulder of his son and left. Siddhartha wavered to the side, as he sought to go. He restrained his limbs, bowed to his father, then went to his mother to do as his father had said. As he slowly left on numb legs in the first light of day in the quiet city, a shutter tentatively opened at the last hut, and closed itself on the pilgrim--Govinda. "You have come," said Siddhartha and laughed. "I am here," replied Govinda. WITH THE SAMANAS In the evening of this day they brought him to the Acsetic, the (parched/dry?) barren Samanas, and offered them his companionship and--obedience. They accepted him. Siddhartha gave his garments to one of the poor Brahmans in the street. He carried only the badge of shame and the earth colored, unclaimed discards. He ate only once a day, and never cooked. He fasted fifteen days. He fasted twenty-eight days. The flesh shrank from his thighs and cheeks. Troubling dreams floated before his enlarged eyes, long nails grew on his parched fingers and a shaggy beard grew on his chin. His glance was icy when he encountered women; his mouth breed contempt from the nicely dressed people when he went through the city. He saw dealers trading, princes going on hunting trips, bereaved wailing for their dead, whores offering themselves, doctors trying to help the sick, priests tending the lepers, lovers loving, mothers calming their children--and none of this was the vision in his eyes, everything registered, everything smelled, everything stank of lies, everything deceived the senses and joy and beauty, and everything was unconfessed decay. The world tasted bitter. Life was a struggle. A goal stood before Siddhartha, a single-mindedness: become empty, empty of thirst, empty of wishing, empty of dreams, empty of joy and sorrow. Divorced from himself, no more be an "I", to find an emptied heart's tranquility, to stand open to the self-absorbed thoughts of wonder, that was his goal. If I were to overcome everything, if every desire and every urge of the heart was silent, then the latter had to awake, the internal in the nature, which is no more I, the large secret. Being silent, Siddhartha positioned himself perpendicular to the sun's rays, glowing with pain, glowing with thirst, until he did not feel pain or thirst any more. Being silent it was in the rain time, from his hair dripped the water over freezing shoulders, over freezing hips and legs, and the ?Buesser?, until shoulders and legs did not freeze any longer, until they were silent, until they were quiet. Being silent he cowered in the thorny bushes, blood dripped from the burning skin, from ?Schwaeren? of pus, and Siddhartha stayed rigidly, stayed rainless, until no more blood flowed, until nothing more stung, until nothing more burned. Siddhartha sat upright and learned to breathe sparingly, learned to get along with only few breathes, learned to store the breath. He learned, with the beginning breath, to calm the beat of his heart, his heart's beat to slow down, until few and almost none was present. Siddhartha practiced ?Entselbstung? with the oldest of the Samanas, practiced sublimation, according to a new Samana regimen. A heron flew over the bamboo forest--and Siddhartha assumed the heron soul, flew over forest and mountain, was heron, ate fish, felt the pangs of heron hunger, cawed the heron call, died a heron death. A dead jackal was lying on the sandy bank, and Siddhartha's soul slipped inside the body and became the dead jackal, was because of the beach, blew themselves, stank, decayed, was dismembered by hyeana's, was skinned by vultures, was ?stripped to the bone?, was dust, and blew in the ?Gefild?. And Siddharthas soul returned, had died, had decayed, was sputtered, had tasted the gloomy intoxication of the cycle, awaited in new thirst like a hunter in the gap, where would be to be escaped from the cycle, where the end of the causes, where sadless eternity began. It killed its senses, it killed its memory, it slipped out of its Self into thousands other organizations, was animal, was carrion, was stone, was wood, was water, and appeared each time, sun seemed awaking or moon, was again Self, vogue in the cycle, felt thirst, overcame the thirst, felt new thirst. Much learned Siddhartha with the Samanas, many ways of I away learned it to go. It went the way of the ?Entselbstung? through the pain, through freely suffering and overcoming the pain, hunger, the thirst, to the tiredness. It went the way of the ?Entselbstung? through Meditation, through the empty thinking of the sense of all conceptions. He learned these and other ways to go, a thousand times left he his Self, grants long and several-day-long remained he into not None-Self. But whether also the ways of Self led away, its end nevertheless always led back to Self. Whether Siddhartha a thousand times which I escaped, in nothing stayed, in the animal, in the stone stayed, inevitably was the return, ?unentrinn? without the hour, since he appeared, in the sunshine or in the moonlight, in the shadow or in the rain, and again I and Siddhartha were, and again the agony on hunted cycle felt. Beside him lived Govinda, his shadow, went the same ways, undertook the same efforts. They rarely spoke to one another, than the service and the exercises required. Occasionally they went to... {The remainder of this text is under construction and will be released as it is completed.} End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of "Siddhartha" by Hesse