“RainSoft rain, summer rainWhispers from bushes, whispers from trees.Oh, how lovely and full of blessingTo dream and be satisfied.I was so long in the outer brightness,I am not used to this upheaval:Being at home in my own soul,Never to be led elsewhere.I want nothing, I long for nothing,I hum gently the sounds of childhood,And I reach home astoundedIn the warm beauty of dreams.Heart, how torn you are,How blessed to plow down blindly,To think nothing, to know nothing,Only to breathe, only to feel.”

“but what is it you wanted to learn from the teachings and teachers, and those who taught you so much, what could they not teach you?" and he concluded: "it was the i, whose meaning and essence i wanted to learn. it was the i, from which i wanted release, which i wanted to conquer. but i could not conquer it, i could only deceive it, only flee from it, only hide myself from it. truly, nothing in the world has taken up so much of my thinking as this i of mine, this conundrum, that i am alive, that i am one and separate and cut off from everyone else, that i am siddhartha! and about nothing in the world do i know less about than me, about siddhartha!”

“Truly, nothing in the world has so occupied my thoughts as this I, this riddle, the fact I am alive, that I am separated and isolated from all others, that I am Siddhartha! And about nothing in the world do I know less about than me, about Siddhartha!”

“Within Siddhartha there slowly grew and ripened the knowledge of what wisdom really was and the goal of his long seeking. It was nothing but a preparation of the soul, a capacity, a secret art of thinking, feeling and breathing thoughts of unity at every moment of life.”

“Seeking nothing, emulating nothing, breathing gently, he moved in an atmosphere of imperishable calm, impresihable light, inviolable peace.”

“I suddenly saw how sad and artificial my life had been during this period, for the loves, friends, habits and pleasures of these years were discarded like badly fitting clothes. I parted from them without pain and all that remained was to wonder that I could have endured them so long.”

“Was all that we called culture, spirit, soul, all that we called beautiful and sacred, nothing but a ghost long dead, which only a few fools like us took for true and living? Had it perhaps indeed never been true and living? Had all that we poor fools bothered our heads about never been anything but a phantom?”