“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.”

“A goal stood before Siddhartha, a single goal: to become empty, empty of thirst, 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 an emptied heard, to be open to miracles in unselfish thoughts, that was his goal. Once all of my self was overcome and had died, once every desire and every urge was silent in the heart, then the ultimate part of me had to awake, the innermost of my being, which is no longer my self, the great secret.”

“He saw merchants trading, princes hunting, mourners wailing for their dead, whores offering themselves, physicians trying to help the sick, priests determining the most suitable day for seeding, lovers loving, mothers nursing their children—and all of this was 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 and beautiful, and it all was just concealed putrefaction. The world tasted bitter. Life was torture”

“Siddhartha has one single goal-to become empty, to become empty of thirst, desire, dreams, pleasure and sorrow-to let the Self die. No longer to be Self, to experience the peace of an emptied heart, to experience pure thought-that was his goal.”

“When you throw a rock into the water, it will speed on the fastest course to the bottom of the water. This is how it is when Siddhartha has a goal, a resolution. Siddhartha does nothing, he waits, he thinks, he fasts, but he passes through the things of the world like a rock through water, without doing anything, without stirring; he is drawn, he lets himself fall. His goal attracts him, because he doesn't let anything enter his soul which might oppose the goal. This is what Siddhartha has learned among the Samanas. This is what fools call magic and which they think is effected by demons. Nothing is effected by demons, there are no demons. Everyone can perform magic, everyone can reach his goals, if he is able to think, if he is able to wait, if he is able to fast.”

“On a strange and devious way, Siddhartha had gotten into this final and most base of all dependencies, by means of the game of dice. It was since that time, when he had stopped being a Samana in his heart, that Siddhartha began to play the game for money and precious things, which he at other times only joined with a smile and casually as a custom of the childlike people, with an increasing rage and passion. He was a feared gambler, few dared to take him on, so high and audacious were his stakes. He played the game due to a pain of his heart, losing and wasting his wretched money in the game brought him an angry joy, in no other way he could demonstrate his disdain for wealth, the merchants' false god, more clearly and more mockingly.”

“When someone is searching," said Siddhartha, "then it might easily happen that the only thing his eyes still see is that what he searches for, that he is unable to find anything, to let anything enter his mind, because he always thinks of nothing but the object of his search, because he has a goal, because he is obsessed by the goal. Searching means: having a goal. But finding means: being free, being open, having no goal. You, oh venerable one, are perhaps indeed a searcher, because, striving for your goal, there are many things you don't see, which are directly in front of your eyes.”