"Siddhartha (Guo Mai Classics)" Reading Notes#
Author: Hermann Hesse
Reading Duration: 5 hours
These are the notes and excerpts I recorded while reading "Siddhartha (Guo Mai Classics)" on WeChat Reading.
The Brahmin's Son#
The source of the inner "I" must possess its own Atman! Everything else is merely seeking, taking detours, and going astray.
The source of the inner "I" must possess its own Atman! Everything else is merely seeking, taking detours, and going astray.
The Shramana#
Everything is deception, exuding a foul stench, the stench of lies. All desires, happiness, and beauty are illusions. Everything is decaying. The world is bitter. Life is torment.
Siddhartha's only goal is to fall into emptiness. No longing, no desires, no dreams. No joy, no sorrow. The "I" is removed, no longer exists. Let the empty soul seek peace, listening to miracles in deep contemplation without the "I". This is his goal. When the "I" is completely conquered, when the "I" perishes, when craving and desire extinguish in the heart, that ultimate, deepest non-"I" existence, that great secret, must awaken.
But he always returns to the "I", spinning in the cycle of rebirth, becoming aware of desire again. He suppresses desire, yet harvests new desires.
The most annoying enemy of this knowledge is none other than the thirst for knowledge and practice.
With a spirit of deep contemplation, a pure spirit, one immersed in Atman, the bliss in the chest is hard to express.
Everything is deception, exuding a foul stench, the stench of lies. All desires, happiness, and beauty are illusions. Everything is decaying. The world is bitter. Life is torment.
Siddhartha's only goal is to fall into emptiness. No longing, no desires, no dreams. No joy, no sorrow. The "I" is removed, no longer exists. Let the empty soul seek peace, listening to miracles in deep contemplation without the "I". This is his goal. When the "I" is completely conquered, when the "I" perishes, when craving and desire extinguish in the heart, that ultimate, deepest non-"I" existence, that great secret, must awaken.
But he always returns to the "I", spinning in the cycle of rebirth, becoming aware of desire again. He suppresses desire, yet harvests new desires.
The most annoying enemy of this knowledge is none other than the thirst for knowledge and practice.
With a spirit of deep contemplation, a pure spirit, one immersed in Atman, the bliss in the chest is hard to express.
Gautama#
The Buddha walks in silence, lost in thought. His tranquil face shows neither sadness nor joy, yet seems to bloom with a gentle smile from within. The Buddha walks peacefully and quietly, with a faint smile, like a healthy child. He strictly adheres to the norms, dressed in the same monk's robe as his disciples, taking the same steps. Only his face, his gait, his peacefully lowered eyelids, his calm and relaxed arms, even each finger on his hand exudes peace, demonstrating perfection. He is free from desires, without imitation. In the eternal calm, in the everlasting light, in the inviolable peace, he breathes gently.
He speaks of the truth of suffering, the origin of suffering, and where it leads to its cessation. His calm discourse is serene and clear. Suffering is the reality of life, but the path to liberation from suffering has already been discovered; following the Buddha one can escape the sea of suffering.
Whether the world is good or evil, whether life itself is suffering or joy—this may be undecided and not the essence—but the unity of the world, the interconnection of all events, the great and small things swept along in the same current, originating from the same source, following the same laws of birth and death, has been elucidated in your complete teachings.
But you, diligent one, must beware of cunning and eloquent arguments. Whether the arguments are beautiful or ugly, wise or foolish, there will always be those who praise and those who scorn. The teachings you hear from me are not my arguments. Their purpose is not to explain the world to those who seek knowledge. They have another aim; their purpose is to alleviate suffering. This is the essence of Gautama's teachings, nothing else.
You attain enlightenment through exploration, seeking the path, through deep observation, meditation, through cognition, awakening, not through the teachings!
The Buddha walks in silence, lost in thought. His tranquil face shows neither sadness nor joy, yet seems to bloom with a gentle smile from within. The Buddha walks peacefully and quietly, with a faint smile, like a healthy child. He strictly adheres to the norms, dressed in the same monk's robe as his disciples, taking the same steps. Only his face, his gait, his peacefully lowered eyelids, his calm and relaxed arms, even each finger on his hand exudes peace, demonstrating perfection. He is free from desires, without imitation. In the eternal calm, in the everlasting light, in the inviolable peace, he breathes gently.
He speaks of the truth of suffering, the origin of suffering, and where it leads to its cessation. His calm discourse is serene and clear. Suffering is the reality of life, but the path to liberation from suffering has already been discovered; following the Buddha one can escape the sea of suffering.
Whether the world is good or evil, whether life itself is suffering or joy—this may be undecided and not the essence—but the unity of the world, the interconnection of all events, the great and small things swept along in the same current, originating from the same source, following the same laws of birth and death, has been elucidated in your complete teachings.
But you, diligent one, must beware of cunning and eloquent arguments. Whether the arguments are beautiful or ugly, wise or foolish, there will always be those who praise and those who scorn. The teachings you hear from me are not my arguments. Their purpose is not to explain the world to those who seek knowledge. They have another aim; their purpose is to alleviate suffering. This is the essence of Gautama's teachings, nothing else.
You attain enlightenment through exploration, seeking the path, through deep observation, meditation, through cognition, awakening, not through the teachings!
Awakening#
To him, understanding the reason is a form of deep contemplation. Through such contemplation, emotions are elevated to cognition, becoming solid; they reside in the heart, shining brightly.
This wandering thinker asks himself: "What did you originally intend to learn from the teachings, from the master? You have learned much, but what is it that you truly cannot learn?" He ultimately discovers: "The answer is 'I'. What I want to learn is the meaning and essence of 'I'. 'I' is what I want to rid myself of, to conquer. 'I' is something I cannot conquer, can only deceive, escape, and hide. Truly! There is nothing else in the world that perplexes me like my 'I'. It is 'I', this riddle, that keeps me alive, that makes me different from others, that makes me Siddhartha! In the world, what I know the least is 'I', the least is Siddhartha!"
"I know nothing about myself. All along, Siddhartha has been very strange to me. Only because I fear myself, I escape from myself! I seek Atman, seek the great Brahman, I once longed for 'I' to be dismembered and transformed, so that I could discover the core of all things within the unfamiliar inner self, discover Atman, discover life, discover the ultimate divine. But on this path, I lost myself.
"Oh," he takes a deep breath, relieved, "I will no longer let Siddhartha slip away! I will no longer let Atman and worldly suffering become the center of my thoughts and life. I will no longer kill myself, dismember myself in search of the secrets behind the ruins. Whether it is the Yoga Veda, the Adav Veda, or any other doctrine, I will no longer practice. I will no longer practice austerity. I will take myself as my own teacher. I want to know myself, to know the mysterious Siddhartha."
Meaning and essence are not hidden behind things; they are within things, in all things.
"If a person wants to seek meaning in a book, he will read it word by word, study it, love it; he will not overlook every word, every character, treating them as mere appearances, as accidental and worthless skins. But I, I who intentionally study the book of the world, the book of my existence, have prematurely fallen in love with an imagined meaning. I have overlooked the words in the book. I have regarded the phenomenal world as an illusion. I see what my eyes see, what my lips taste, as nothing but accidental and superficial things of no value. No, all this is in the past. I have been reborn. I have truly been reborn. Today is my birthday."
At this moment, the world is hidden around him, he stands alone like a solitary star in the sky. At this moment, Siddhartha is more self, more solid than before. He leaps out of coldness and depression. He feels: this is the last shudder of awakening, the final spasm of birth. He steps forward again, walking briskly. He will never go home again, never return to his father, never go back.
To him, understanding the reason is a form of deep contemplation. Through such contemplation, emotions are elevated to cognition, becoming solid; they reside in the heart, shining brightly.
This wandering thinker asks himself: "What did you originally intend to learn from the teachings, from the master? You have learned much, but what is it that you truly cannot learn?" He ultimately discovers: "The answer is 'I'. What I want to learn is the meaning and essence of 'I'. 'I' is what I want to rid myself of, to conquer. 'I' is something I cannot conquer, can only deceive, escape, and hide. Truly! There is nothing else in the world that perplexes me like my 'I'. It is 'I', this riddle, that keeps me alive, that makes me different from others, that makes me Siddhartha! In the world, what I know the least is 'I', the least is Siddhartha!"
"I know nothing about myself. All along, Siddhartha has been very strange to me. Only because I fear myself, I escape from myself! I seek Atman, seek the great Brahman, I once longed for 'I' to be dismembered and transformed, so that I could discover the core of all things within the unfamiliar inner self, discover Atman, discover life, discover the ultimate divine. But on this path, I lost myself.
"Oh," he takes a deep breath, relieved, "I will no longer let Siddhartha slip away! I will no longer let Atman and worldly suffering become the center of my thoughts and life. I will no longer kill myself, dismember myself in search of the secrets behind the ruins. Whether it is the Yoga Veda, the Adav Veda, or any other doctrine, I will no longer practice. I will no longer practice austerity. I will take myself as my own teacher. I want to know myself, to know the mysterious Siddhartha."
Meaning and essence are not hidden behind things; they are within things, in all things.
"If a person wants to seek meaning in a book, he will read it word by word, study it, love it; he will not overlook every word, every character, treating them as mere appearances, as accidental and worthless skins. But I, I who intentionally study the book of the world, the book of my existence, have prematurely fallen in love with an imagined meaning. I have overlooked the words in the book. I have regarded the phenomenal world as an illusion. I see what my eyes see, what my lips taste, as nothing but accidental and superficial things of no value. No, all this is in the past. I have been reborn. I have truly been reborn. Today is my birthday."
At this moment, the world is hidden around him, he stands alone like a solitary star in the sky. At this moment, Siddhartha is more self, more solid than before. He leaps out of coldness and depression. He feels: this is the last shudder of awakening, the final spasm of birth. He steps forward again, walking briskly. He will never go home again, never return to his father, never go back.
The Ferryman#
My life is also a river. This river separates the young Siddhartha, the adult Siddhartha, and the old Siddhartha with illusions, not reality. Siddhartha's past lives are not the past, and death and return to Brahman are not the future. There is no past, no future. Everything is essence and present.
Two situations intertwine within him, becoming eternal. He experiences more profoundly than ever that life is imperishable, that the moment is eternal.
My life is also a river. This river separates the young Siddhartha, the adult Siddhartha, and the old Siddhartha with illusions, not reality. Siddhartha's past lives are not the past, and death and return to Brahman are not the future. There is no past, no future. Everything is essence and present.
Two situations intertwine within him, becoming eternal. He experiences more profoundly than ever that life is imperishable, that the moment is eternal.
The Son#
Siddhartha begins to realize that a child brings not happiness and peace, but pain and worry. Yet he loves him, preferring to endure the pain and worry of love rather than accept happiness and joy without him.
I know. You do not force him, do not hit him, do not control him, because you know that gentleness prevails over hardness, water over stone, love over violence. Very well, I appreciate you. But isn't your stance of not forcing or punishing a kind of fault? Have you not bound him with love? Have you not made him feel ashamed and troubled every day with kindness and patience? Have you not forced this arrogant and unruly child to live in a hut with two old men who regard rice as a delicacy? The thoughts of the elderly will not be the same as those of a child. Their minds are old and calm, even their gait is different from that of a child. Isn't all this a form of coercion and punishment for the child?
A person walks through life alone, suffering stains, bearing sins, drinking bitter wine, seeking a way out. Has anyone ever been sheltered by a father or teacher all the way? Dear one, do you believe anyone can avoid this path? Perhaps little Siddhartha can, because you love him, you wish to protect him from suffering and disappointment? But even if you sacrificed your life for him ten times, it is unlikely to change a bit of his fate!
He compares himself to a solitary star, comparing the childlike people to fallen leaves. Although he hears blame in her words. Indeed, he has never lost himself in a passionate love for someone. He has never completely forgotten himself to do foolish things for love. He has never loved. He believes this is the fundamental difference between him and childlike people. But since the appearance of his son, Siddhartha has become a complete worldly person. Suffering in love, lost in love; becoming a fool because of love. And now, he feels this late, intense, and strange passion in life, suffering, torment, yet filled with joy, gaining new life, becoming rich.
His desire to enter the city is foolish. He cannot help his son, nor should he entangle him. He loves the fleeing child deeply. His love is like a wound. He feels that the existence of the wound should not only rot in the heart; it should weather and shine.
Siddhartha begins to realize that a child brings not happiness and peace, but pain and worry. Yet he loves him, preferring to endure the pain and worry of love rather than accept happiness and joy without him.
I know. You do not force him, do not hit him, do not control him, because you know that gentleness prevails over hardness, water over stone, love over violence. Very well, I appreciate you. But isn't your stance of not forcing or punishing a kind of fault? Have you not bound him with love? Have you not made him feel ashamed and troubled every day with kindness and patience? Have you not forced this arrogant and unruly child to live in a hut with two old men who regard rice as a delicacy? The thoughts of the elderly will not be the same as those of a child. Their minds are old and calm, even their gait is different from that of a child. Isn't all this a form of coercion and punishment for the child?
A person walks through life alone, suffering stains, bearing sins, drinking bitter wine, seeking a way out. Has anyone ever been sheltered by a father or teacher all the way? Dear one, do you believe anyone can avoid this path? Perhaps little Siddhartha can, because you love him, you wish to protect him from suffering and disappointment? But even if you sacrificed your life for him ten times, it is unlikely to change a bit of his fate!
He compares himself to a solitary star, comparing the childlike people to fallen leaves. Although he hears blame in her words. Indeed, he has never lost himself in a passionate love for someone. He has never completely forgotten himself to do foolish things for love. He has never loved. He believes this is the fundamental difference between him and childlike people. But since the appearance of his son, Siddhartha has become a complete worldly person. Suffering in love, lost in love; becoming a fool because of love. And now, he feels this late, intense, and strange passion in life, suffering, torment, yet filled with joy, gaining new life, becoming rich.
His desire to enter the city is foolish. He cannot help his son, nor should he entangle him. He loves the fleeing child deeply. His love is like a wound. He feels that the existence of the wound should not only rot in the heart; it should weather and shine.
Om#
He understands them. Understanding and sympathizing with them is not governed by thought and reason, but by impulse and desire. He empathizes. Although he is almost perfect, only bearing the last pain, he sees the world as his brothers. He no longer mocks their vanity, desires, and absurdity; instead, he understands them, loves and respects them. The mother's blind love for her child, the father's foolish pride in his only son, the young woman's blind and wild pursuit of jewelry and the gaze of men—these instinctive, simple, foolish yet extremely strong and vivid desires are no longer childish to the current Siddhartha. He sees people living for desire, constantly creating, traveling, waging wars, and suffering because of desire. He loves them. In every passion and action of theirs, he sees life, vitality, sees the indestructible and Brahman. He sees the loveliness and respect in their blind loyalty, blind strength, and resilience.
A kind of cognition gradually grows and matures in Siddhartha's mind. What is wisdom? What is his goal? It is merely the ability to think harmoniously and integratively in every moment of life, to feel and integrate into this unified soul, a preparation, a secret art. This cognition flourishes in Siddhartha's mind, reflecting on the youthful face of Vasudeva: harmony, joy, unity, knowledge of the eternally harmonious world.
All unexperienced suffering, all unachieved redemption will return. Suffering has never changed.
In the continuous narration, confession, and repentance, Siddhartha increasingly feels that the listener is no longer Vasudeva, no longer a person. This silent listener accepts his confession, just as trees accept rain. He is the embodiment of God, the embodiment of eternity. Siddhartha no longer licks his wounds; the change in his understanding of Vasudeva occupies him. The deeper he understands, the less he is surprised, the clearer he sees. Everything is natural, orderly. Vasudeva has always been this way, just unknown to him. Even he himself has hardly changed. He feels he looks at Vasudeva as the world looks at the gods. This will not last long. While narrating, he bids farewell to Vasudeva in his heart.
Siddhartha doubles his focus on listening. The images of father, himself, and son converge. There are also Kamala, Govinda, and others, their images merging and flowing into the river, eagerly and painfully rushing towards their goals. The river sings, laden with desire, filled with burning pain and unfulfilled longing, rushing towards its goal. Siddhartha sees the river rushing, composed of himself, of those he loves and knows, of all people, surging, waves rolling, painfully rushing towards multiple goals, towards waterfalls, lakes, rapids, the sea; reaching one goal, then rushing towards new goals. The water evaporates, rises, turns into rain, falls from the sky, then becomes springs, streams, rivers, merging again, surging again. However, the sound of longing changes, still howling, still laden with pain and seeking, other voices, the sounds of joy and sorrow, good and evil, laughter and weeping, thousands of voices join in.
He no longer distinguishes between the sounds of laughter and weeping, the innocent and the powerful. These sounds are one. The laughter of the wise, the shouts of the angry, the lamentations of the longing, the groans of the dying, intertwining and merging into one. All sounds, goals, desires, pains, cravings, all good and evil merge into one, forming the world, forming the river of events, the music of life. When he focuses on the symphony of the roaring river, when he no longer hears weeping or laughter, when his soul no longer clings to a single sound, when the self is no longer occupied but listens to everything, listens to the whole and the unity, this great symphony condenses into a word, this word is "Om", meaning completeness.
At this moment, Siddhartha no longer struggles against fate, no longer opposes will. His pain has ceased, and joy blooms on his face. He recognizes completeness, agrees with the river of events, agrees with the flow of life, filled with compassion, filled with joy, flowing downstream, merging into unity.
"I will go to the forest, to merge into unity." Vasudeva shines brightly. Siddhartha watches him leave with deep joy and sincerity. He walks peacefully, filled with splendor, filled with light.
He understands them. Understanding and sympathizing with them is not governed by thought and reason, but by impulse and desire. He empathizes. Although he is almost perfect, only bearing the last pain, he sees the world as his brothers. He no longer mocks their vanity, desires, and absurdity; instead, he understands them, loves and respects them. The mother's blind love for her child, the father's foolish pride in his only son, the young woman's blind and wild pursuit of jewelry and the gaze of men—these instinctive, simple, foolish yet extremely strong and vivid desires are no longer childish to the current Siddhartha. He sees people living for desire, constantly creating, traveling, waging wars, and suffering because of desire. He loves them. In every passion and action of theirs, he sees life, vitality, sees the indestructible and Brahman. He sees the loveliness and respect in their blind loyalty, blind strength, and resilience.
A kind of cognition gradually grows and matures in Siddhartha's mind. What is wisdom? What is his goal? It is merely the ability to think harmoniously and integratively in every moment of life, to feel and integrate into this unified soul, a preparation, a secret art. This cognition flourishes in Siddhartha's mind, reflecting on the youthful face of Vasudeva: harmony, joy, unity, knowledge of the eternally harmonious world.
All unexperienced suffering, all unachieved redemption will return. Suffering has never changed.
In the continuous narration, confession, and repentance, Siddhartha increasingly feels that the listener is no longer Vasudeva, no longer a person. This silent listener accepts his confession, just as trees accept rain. He is the embodiment of God, the embodiment of eternity. Siddhartha no longer licks his wounds; the change in his understanding of Vasudeva occupies him. The deeper he understands, the less he is surprised, the clearer he sees. Everything is natural, orderly. Vasudeva has always been this way, just unknown to him. Even he himself has hardly changed. He feels he looks at Vasudeva as the world looks at the gods. This will not last long. While narrating, he bids farewell to Vasudeva in his heart.
Siddhartha doubles his focus on listening. The images of father, himself, and son converge. There are also Kamala, Govinda, and others, their images merging and flowing into the river, eagerly and painfully rushing towards their goals. The river sings, laden with desire, filled with burning pain and unfulfilled longing, rushing towards its goal. Siddhartha sees the river rushing, composed of himself, of those he loves and knows, of all people, surging, waves rolling, painfully rushing towards multiple goals, towards waterfalls, lakes, rapids, the sea; reaching one goal, then rushing towards new goals. The water evaporates, rises, turns into rain, falls from the sky, then becomes springs, streams, rivers, merging again, surging again. However, the sound of longing changes, still howling, still laden with pain and seeking, other voices, the sounds of joy and sorrow, good and evil, laughter and weeping, thousands of voices join in.
He no longer distinguishes between the sounds of laughter and weeping, the innocent and the powerful. These sounds are one. The laughter of the wise, the shouts of the angry, the lamentations of the longing, the groans of the dying, intertwining and merging into one. All sounds, goals, desires, pains, cravings, all good and evil merge into one, forming the world, forming the river of events, the music of life. When he focuses on the symphony of the roaring river, when he no longer hears weeping or laughter, when his soul no longer clings to a single sound, when the self is no longer occupied but listens to everything, listens to the whole and the unity, this great symphony condenses into a word, this word is "Om", meaning completeness.
At this moment, Siddhartha no longer struggles against fate, no longer opposes will. His pain has ceased, and joy blooms on his face. He recognizes completeness, agrees with the river of events, agrees with the flow of life, filled with compassion, filled with joy, flowing downstream, merging into unity.
"I will go to the forest, to merge into unity." Vasudeva shines brightly. Siddhartha watches him leave with deep joy and sincerity. He walks peacefully, filled with splendor, filled with light.
Afterword#
Accompanying Hesse's writing, I also experienced Siddhartha's farewells: farewell to parents and home, farewell to friends and teachers, farewell to the Buddha, farewell to loved ones, farewell to the old self. These cruel farewells may be the truth of life, perhaps the necessary path to attain the divine self, to gain greater tolerance and love for all things, for people, for the world. I see the Buddha. He is bright and complete, divine and gentle. I see his solemn, eternal, and charming smile. When Siddhartha gloomily walks into the mango grove, feeling the pain and death in his chest, I see Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane drinking the last cup of sorrow, almost dying, longing for a touch of human awareness and companionship in loneliness and fear. In the singing of the river, I hear a Bach Mass, hear the death and resurrection of the Most High, hear a person's love and the suffering of a lifetime...
Accompanying Hesse's writing, I also experienced Siddhartha's farewells: farewell to parents and home, farewell to friends and teachers, farewell to the Buddha, farewell to loved ones, farewell to the old self. These cruel farewells may be the truth of life, perhaps the necessary path to attain the divine self, to gain greater tolerance and love for all things, for people, for the world. I see the Buddha. He is bright and complete, divine and gentle. I see his solemn, eternal, and charming smile. When Siddhartha gloomily walks into the mango grove, feeling the pain and death in his chest, I see Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane drinking the last cup of sorrow, almost dying, longing for a touch of human awareness and companionship in loneliness and fear. In the singing of the river, I hear a Bach Mass, hear the death and resurrection of the Most High, hear a person's love and the suffering of a lifetime...