Siddhartha by Herman Hesse pdf book download

Book: Siddhartha

Author: Herman Hesse

Release Date: February, 2001  [Most recently updated: October

23, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English.

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In This Book_________________________

THE SON OF THE BRAHMAN

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.

Joy leapt in his father’s heart for his son who was quick to learn, thirsty for

knowledge; he saw him growing up to become great wise man and priest, a

prince among the Brahmans.

Bliss leapt in his mother’s breast when she saw him, when she saw him walking,

when she saw him sit down and get up, Siddhartha, strong, handsome, he who

was walking on slender legs, greeting her with perfect respect.

Love touched the hearts of the Brahmans’ young daughters when Siddhartha

walked through the lanes of the town with the luminous forehead, with the eye

of a king, with his slim hips.

But more than all the others he was loved by Govinda, his friend, the son of a

Brahman. He loved Siddhartha’s eye and sweet voice, he loved his walk and the

perfect decency of his movements, he loved everything Siddhartha did and said

and what he loved most was his spirit, his transcendent, fiery thoughts, his ardent

will, his high calling. Govinda knew: he would not become a common Brahman,

not a lazy official in charge of offerings; not a greedy merchant with magic

spells; not a vain, vacuous speaker; not a mean, deceitful priest; and also not a

An allegorical novel that follows the spiritual journey of an Indian man called Siddhartha during the time of Buddha (6th century B.C.). Beginning with the main character's departure from his Brahmin home the search for enlightenment takes Siddhartha through a series of changes and realizations.

ed, unsown cloak. He ate only once a day, and never something cooked. He fasted for fifteen days. He fasted for twenty-eight days. The flesh waned from his thighs and cheeks. Feverish dreams flickered from his enlarged eyes, long nails grew slowly on his parched fingers and a dry, shaggy beard grew on his chin. His glance turned to icy when he encountered women; his mouth 

twitched with contempt, when he walked through a city of nicely dressed people. 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.

A goal stood before Siddhartha, a single goal: to become empty,

decent, stupid sheep in the herd of the many. No, and he, Govinda, as well did

not want to become one of those, not one of those tens of thousands of

Brahmans. He wanted to follow Siddhartha, the beloved, the splendid. And in

days to come, when Siddhartha would become a god, when he would join the

glorious, then Govinda wanted to follow him as his friend, his companion, 

his

servant, his spear-carrier, his shadow.

Siddhartha was thus loved by everyone. He was a source of joy for everybody,

he was a delight for them all.

But he, Siddhartha, was not a source of joy for himself, he found no delight in

himself. Walking the rosy paths of the fig tree garden, sitting in the bluish shade

of the grove of contemplation, washing his limbs daily in the bath of repentance,

sacrificing in the dim shade of the mango forest, his gestures of perfect decency,

everyone’s love and joy, he still lacked all joy in his heart. Dreams and restless

thoughts came into his mind, flowing from the water of the river, sparkling from

the stars of the night, melting from the beams of the sun, dreams came to him

and a restlessness of the soul, fuming from the sacrifices, breathing forth from

the verses of the Rig-Veda, being infused into him, drop by drop, from the

teachings of the old Brahmans.

Siddhartha had started to nurse discontent in himself, he had started to feel that

the love of his father and the love of his mother, and also the love of his friend,

Govinda, would not bring him joy for ever and ever, would not nurse him, feed

him, satisfy him. 

He had started to suspect that his venerable father and his other

teachers, that the wise Brahmans had already revealed to him the most and best

of their wisdom, that they had already filled his expecting vessel with their

richness, and the vessel was not full, the spirit was not content, the soul was not

calm, the heart was not satisfied. The ablutions were good, but they were water,

they did not wash off the sin, they did not heal the spirit’s thirst, they did not

relieve the fear in his heart. The sacrifices and the invocation of the gods were

excellent

—but was that all? Did the sacrifices give a happy fortune? And what

about the gods? Was it really Prajapati who had created the world? Was it not the

Atman, He, the only one, the singular one? Were the gods not creations, created

like me and you, subject to time, mortal? Was it therefore good, was it right, was

it meaningful and the highest occupation to make offerings to the gods? For

whom else were offerings to be made, who else was to be worshipped but Him,

the only one, the Atman? And where was Atman to be found, where did He

reside, where did his eternal heart beat, where else but in one’s own self, in its

innermost part, in its indestructible part, which everyone had in himself? But

where, where was this self, this innermost part, this ultimate part? It was not

flesh and bone, it was neither thought nor consciousness, thus the wisest ones

taught. So, where, where was it? To reach this place, the self, myself, the Atman,

there was another way, which was 

worthwhile looking for? Alas, and nobody

showed this way, nobody knew it, not the father, and not the teachers and wise

men, not the holy sacrificial songs! They knew everything, the Brahmans and

their holy books, they knew everything, they had taken care of everything and of

more than everything, the creation of the world, the origin of speech, of food, of

inhaling, of exhaling, the arrangement of the senses, the acts of the gods, they

knew infinitely much—but was it valuable to know all of this, not knowing that

one and only thing, the most important thing, the solely important thing?

Surely, many verses of the holy books, particularly in the Upanishades of

Samaveda, spoke of this innermost and 

ultimate thing, wonderful verses. “Your

soul is the whole world”, was written there, and it was written that man in his

sleep, in his deep sleep, would meet with his innermost part and would reside in

the Atman. Marvellous wisdom was in these verses, all knowledge of the wisest

ones had been collected here in magic words, pure as honey collected by bees.

No, not to be looked down upon was the tremendous amount of enlightenment

which lay here collected and preserved by innumerable generations of wise

Brahmans.— But where were the Brahmans, where the priests, where the wise

men or penitents, who had succeeded in not just knowing this deepest of all

knowledge but also to live it? 

Where was the knowledgeable one who wove his

spell to bring his familiarity with the Atman out of the sleep into the state of

being awake, into the life, into every step of the way, into word and deed?

Siddhartha knew many venerable Brahmans, chiefly his father, the pure one, the

scholar, the most venerable one. His father was to be admired, quiet and noble

were his manners, pure his life, wise his words, delicate and noble thoughts lived

behind its brow —but even he, who knew so much, did he live in blissfulness,

did he have peace, was he not also just a searching man, a thirsty man? Did he

not, again and again, have to drink from holy sources, as a thirsty man, from the

offerings, from the books, from the disputes of the Brahmans? Why did he, the

irreproachable one, have to wash off sins every day, strive for a cleansing every

day, over and over every day? Was not Atman in him, did not the pristine source

spring from his heart? It had to be found, the pristine source in one’s own self, it

had to be possessed! Everything else was searching, was a detour, was getting

lost.