Siddhartha

eople, a friendly ferryman had guided me then, he is the one I want to go to, starting out from his hut, my path had led me at tha

it. With a thousand eyes, the river looked at him, with green ones, with white ones, with crystal ones, with sky-blue ones. How did he love this water, how did it delight him, how grateful was he to it! In his heart he heard the voice talking, which was newly awaking

y it ran, and was nevertheless always there, was always at all times the same and yet new in every moment! Great be he who would

ble. In a daze he walked on, up the path by the bank, upriver, lis

yman who had once transported the young Samana across the river, stoo

e to ferry me

elegant man walking along and on foot, took

f," the passenger spoke. "It must be beautiful to

to side: "It is beautiful, sir, it is as you say.

ue. But I envy

ying it. This is nothing for

ave been looked upon with distrust. Wouldn't you, ferryman, like to accept these clothes,

, sir," the fe

across this water in your boat for the immaterial reward of a goo

ent to continue trave

like you, ferryman, to give me an old loincloth and kept me with you as your assista

ferryman looked at th

me ago, possibly more than twenty years ago, and you've been ferried across the river by me, and

and I was a Samana, wh

e my guest today as well and sleep in my hut, and tell me, where you're

tched him, and remembered, how once before, on that last day of his time as a Samana, love for this man had stirred in his heart. Gratefully, he accepted Vasudeva's invitation. When they had reached the bank, he helped him to

rtha told the ferryman about where he originally came from and about his life, as he had se

of the greatest: like only a few, he knew how to listen. Without him having spoken a word, the speaker sensed how Vasudeva let his words enter his mind, quiet, open, waiting, how he did not lose a single one, awaited not a si

l, of the holy Om, and how he had felt such a love for the river after his slumber, the ferryman

friend as well, it speaks to you as well. That is good, that is very good. Stay with me, Siddhartha, my friend. I used to have a wife, her bed was

eva, for listening to me so well! These people are rare who know how to listen. And I did not

be learned from it. See, you've already learned this from the water too, that it is good to strive downwards, to sink, to seek depth. The rich and elegant Siddhartha is b

a long pause: "What o

able to say and teach it, I might be a wise man, but like this I am only a ferryman, and it is my task to ferry people across the river. I have transported many, thousands; and to all of them, my river has been nothing but an obstacle on their travels. They travelled to seek money and business, and for weddings, and on pilgrimages, and the ri

d to build an oar, and learned to mend the boat, and to weave baskets, and was joyful because of everything he learned, and the days and months passed quickly. But more than Vasudeva could teach him, he was taught by the ri

hey exchanged some words, few and at length thought about words. Vasudeva was

me, "did you too learn that secret f

was filled wit

urce and at the mouth, at the waterfall, at the ferry, at the rapids, in the sea, in the mountains, everywhere at

ated from the man Siddhartha and from the old man Siddhartha by a shadow, not by something real. Also, Siddhartha's previous births were no pa

everything hard, everything hostile in the world gone and overcome as soon as one had overcome time, as soon as time would have been put out of existence by one's thoughts? In ecsta

a: "Isn't it so, oh friend, the river has many voices, very many voices? Hasn't it the voice of a king, and of a warrior, and

ed, "all voices of the cr

hat word it speaks, when you succeed in hea

dhartha and spoke the holy Om into his ear. And this had

the evening together by the bank on the log, said nothing and both listened to the water, which was no water to them, but the voice of life, the voice of what exists, of what is eternally taking shape. And it happened from time to time that both, when listening to the river, thought of the same things, of a conversation from the day befo

r comfort and advice. It happened occasionally that someone asked for permission to stay for a night with them to listen to the river. It also happened that curious people came, who had been told that there were two wise men, or sorcerers, or holy men living by that ferry. The curious people asked many questions

on die his last human death, in order to become one with the salvation. It was not long, until a new flock of monks came along on their pilgrimage, and another one, and the monks as well as most of the other travellers and people walking through the land spoke of nothing else than of Gotama and his impending death. And as people are flocking fro

red with a smile those words which he had once, as a young man, said to him, the exalted one. They had been, so it seemed to him, proud and precocious words; with a smile, he remembered them. For a long time he knew that there was nothing standing between Gotama and him any more, though he was still unable to accept his tea

rden to the monks of Gotama as a gift, had taken her refuge in the teachings, was among the friends and benefactors of the pilgrims. Together with Siddhartha the boy, her son, she had gone on her way due to the news of the near

omfort him, had to scold him. He did not comprehend why he had to go on this exhausting and sad pilgrimage with his moth

and while the boy was chewing a banana, she crouched down on the ground, closed her eyes a bit, and rested. But suddenly, she uttered a wailing scream, the

ached Vasudeva's ears, who stood at the ferry. Quickly, he came walking, took the woman on his arms, carried her into the boat, the boy ran along, and soon they all reached the hut, were Siddhartha stood by the stove and was just lighting the fire. He looked up and first saw the boy's face, which wondrously r

returned, she lay on Siddhartha's bed in the hut and bent over her stood Siddhartha, who used to love her so much. It seemed like a dream to

don't worry,"

are like the young Samana, who at one time came without clothes, with dusty feet, to me into the garden. You are much more like him, than you were like hi

stantly, I recognised

d said: "Did you recognise h

rned a long time ago, when he had been a little boy himself. Slowly, with a singing voice, he started to speak; from his past and childhood, the words came flowing to him. And with that singsong, the boy beca

" Siddhartha

s friendly face ran the

read the suffering on her mouth, on her pale cheeks. Quietly, he read it, attentively, wa

as well. They've become completely different. By what do I stil

hing, quietly his e

it?" she asked. "Yo

d placed his

aid, "I'm seeing it. I

t," Siddhartha sp

t she had now found him in his place, and that it was good, just as good, as if she had seen the other one. She wanted to tell this to him, but the tongue no longer obeyed her will. Without speaking

fig. For a long time, he sat, read in the pale face, in the tired wrinkles, filled himself with this sight, saw his own face lying in the same manner, just as white, just as quenched out, and saw at the same time his face and hers being young, with red lips, with fiery

mselves, and Vasudeva lay himself down to sleep. But Siddhartha went outside and sat this night before the hut, listening to the river, surrounded by the past, tou

un could be seen, Vasudeva came out of

n't slept

ver. A lot it has told me, deeply it has filled me w

, Siddhartha, but I see: no s

been rich and happy, have become even richer

o be done. Kamala has died on the same bed, on which my wife had died a long time ago. Let us als

sleep, they built the fun