siddhartha-2 by Hermann Hesse

Author:Hermann Hesse
Language: eng
Format: epub

BY THE RIVER

Siddhartha walked through the forest, was already far

from the city, and knew nothing but that one thing, that there was no going back for him, that this life, as he had lived it for many years until now, was over and done

away with, and that he had tasted all of it, sucked everything out of it until he was disgusted with it. Dead was the singing bird, he had dreamt of. Dead was the bird in his heart. Deeply, he had been entangled in Sansara, he

had sucked up disgust and death from all sides into his

body, like a sponge sucks up water until it is full. And full he was, full of the feeling of been sick of it, full of misery, full of death, there was nothing left in this world which could have attracted him, given him joy,

given him comfort.

Passionately he wished to know nothing about himself

anymore, to have rest, to be dead. If there only was a

lightning-bolt to strike him dead! If there only was a

tiger a devour him! If there only was a wine, a poison

which would numb his senses, bring him forgetfulness

and sleep, and no awakening from that! Was there still

any kind of filth, he had not soiled himself with, a sin or foolish act he had not committed, a dreariness of the soul he had not brought upon himself? Was it still at

all possible to be alive? Was it possible, to breathe in again and again, to breathe out, to feel hunger, to eat

again, to sleep again, to sleep with a woman again? Was

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SIDDHARTHA

this cycle not exhausted and brought to a conclusion for him?

Siddhartha reached the large river in the forest, the

same river over which a long time ago, when he had

still been a young man and came from the town of Go-

tama, a ferryman had conducted him. By this river he

stopped, hesitantly he stood at the bank. Tiredness and

hunger had weakened him, and whatever for should he

walk on, wherever to, to which goal? No, there were no

more goals, there was nothing left but the deep, painful yearning to shake off this whole desolate dream, to spit out this stale wine, to put an end to this miserable and shameful life.

A hang bent over the bank of the river, a coconut-tree;

Siddhartha leaned against its trunk with his shoulder,

embraced the trunk with one arm, and looked down into

the green water, which ran and ran under him, looked

down and found himself to be entirely filled with the

wish to let go and to drown in these waters. A fright-

ening emptiness was reflected back at him by the water,

answering to the terrible emptiness in his soul. Yes, he had reached the end. There was nothing left for him,

except to annihilate himself, except to smash the failure into which he had shaped his life, to throw it away, before the feet of mockingly laughing gods. This was the

great vomiting he had longed for: death, the smashing

to bits of the form he hated! Let him be food for

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