“In the shade of the house, in the sunshine of the riverbank near the boats, in the shade of the Sal-wood forest, 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 by the banks of the river when bathing, performing the sacred ablutions, the sacred offerings. In the mango grove, shade poured into his black eyes, when playing as a boy, 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, practising debate with Govinda, practising with Govinda the art of reflection, the service of meditation. 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 all the concentration of his 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.”

“In the mango grove, shade poured into his black eyes, when playing as a boy, 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, practising debate with Govinda, practising with Govinda the art of reflection, the service of meditation. 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 all the concentration of his 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.”

“Govinda was standing in front of him, dressed in the yellow robe of an ascetic. Sad was how Govinda looked like, sadly he asked: Why have you forsaken me? At this, he embraced Govinda, wrapped his arms around him, and as he was pulling him close to his chest and kissed him, it was not Govinda any more, but a woman, and a full breast popped out of the woman's dress, at which Siddhartha lay and drank, sweetly and strongly tasted the milk from this breast.”

“He sat thus, lost in meditation, thinking Om, his soul as the arrow directed at Brahman.”

“Slowly blossomed, slowly ripened in Siddhartha the realisation, the knowledge, what wisdom actually was, what the goal of his long search was. It was nothing but a readiness of the soul, an ability, a secret art, to think every moment, while living his life, the thought of oneness, to be able to feel and inhale the oneness.”

“And when I had learned it, I looked atmy life, and it was also a river, and the boy Siddhartha was onlyseparated from the man Siddhartha and from the old man Siddhartha by ashadow, not by something real. Also, Siddhartha's previous births wereno past, and his death and his return to Brahma was no future. Nothingwas, nothing will be; everything is, everything has existence and ispresent.”

“Siddhartha gave his garments to a poor Brahman in the street. He worenothing more than the loincloth and the earth-coloured, unsown cloak.He ate only once a day, and never something cooked. He fasted forfifteen days. He fasted for twenty-eight days. The flesh waned fromhis thighs and cheeks. Feverish dreams flickered from his enlargedeyes, long nails grew slowly on his parched fingers and a dry, shaggybeard grew on his chin. His glance turned to icy when he encounteredwomen; his mouth twitched with contempt, when he walked through a cityof nicely dressed people. He saw merchants trading, princes hunting,mourners wailing for their dead, whores offering themselves, physicianstrying to help the sick, priests determining the most suitable day forseeding, lovers loving, mothers nursing their children--and all of thiswas not worthy of one look from his eye, it all lied, it all stank,it all stank of lies, it all pretended to be meaningful and joyful andbeautiful, and it all was just concealed putrefaction. The world tastedbitter. Life was torture.A goal stood before Siddhartha, a single goal: to become empty, empty ofthirst, empty of wishing, empty of dreams, empty of joy and sorrow.Dead to himself, not to be a self any more, to find tranquility with anemptied heard, to be open to miracles in unselfish thoughts, that washis goal. Once all of my self was overcome and had died, once everydesire and every urge was silent in the heart, then the ultimate partof me had to awake, the innermost of my being, which is no longer myself, the great secret.”