Siddhartha

And everything together, all voices, all goals, all yearning, all suffering, all pleasure, all that was good and evil, all of this together was the world. All of it together was the flow of events, was the music of life.

Truly, no thing in this world has kept my thoughts thus busy, as this my very own self, this mystery of me being alive,

The opposite of every truth is just as true! That's like this: any truth can only be expressed and put into words when it is one-sided. Everything is one-sided which can be thought with thoughts and said with words, it's all one-sided, all just one half, all lacks completeness, roundness, oneness.

that the river is everywhere at once, at the source and at the mouth, at the waterfall, at the ferry, at the rapids, in the sea, in the mountains, everywhere at once, and that there is only the present time for it, not the shadow of the past, not the shadow of the future?"

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.

It is not my place to judge another person's life. Only for myself, for myself alone, I must decide, I must chose, I must refuse

What is meditation? What is leaving one's body? What is fasting? What is holding one's breath? It is fleeing from the self, it is a short escape of the agony of being a self, it is a short numbing of the senses against the pain and the pointlessness of life. The same escape, the same short numbing is what the driver of an ox-cart finds in the inn, drinking a few bowls of rice-wine or fermented coconut-milk. Then he won't feel his self any more, then he won't feel the pains of life any more, then he finds a short numbing of the senses. When he falls asleep over his bowl of rice-wine, he'll find the same what Siddhartha and Govinda find when they escape their bodies through long exercises, staying in the non-self. This is how it is, oh Govinda."

Already, he could no longer tell the many voices apart, not the happy ones from the weep­ing ones, not the ones of chil­dren from those of men, they all be­longed to­gether, the lam­ent­a­tion of yearn­ing and the laughter of the know­ledge­able one, the scream of rage and the moan­ing of the dy­ing ones, everything was one, everything was in­ter­twined and con­nec­ted, en­tangled a thou­sand times.

No, some­thing else from within him had died, some­thing which already for a long time had yearned to die.

He killed his senses, he killed his memory, he slipped out of his self into thou­sands of other forms, was an an­imal, was car­rion, was stone, was wood, was wa­ter, and awoke every time to find his old self again, sun or moon shone, was his self again, turned round in the cycle, felt thirst, over­came the thirst, felt new thirst.