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Chapter eight, By the River,
said Arthur walked through the forest, was

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already far from the city, and
knew nothing but that one thing, that

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there was no going back for him, that this life as he had lived

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it for many years until now was
over and done away with. And then

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he had tasted all of it,
sucked everything out of it, until he

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was disgusted with it. Dead was
the singing bird he had dreamt of.

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Dead was the bird in his heart. Deeply he had been entangled in Sansara.

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He had sucked up disgust and death
from all sides into his body,

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like a sponge that sucks up water
until it is full and full. He

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was full of the feeling of being
sick of it, full of misery,

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full of death. There was nothing
left in this world which could have attracted

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him, given him joy, given
him comfort. Passionately, he wished to

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know nothing about himself anymore, to
have rest, to be dead. If

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there was only a lightning bolt to
strike him dead, if there was only

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a tiger to devour him, if
there was only a wine, a poison

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which could numb his senses, bring
him forgetfulness and sleep, and no awakening

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from that? Was there still any
kind of filth. He had not soiled

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himself with a sin or foolish act. He had not committed a dreariness of

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the soul. He had not brought
upon himself. Was it still at all

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possible to be alive? Was it
possible to breathe in again and again,

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to breathe out, to feel hunger, to eat again, to sleep again,

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to sleep with a woman again?
Was this cycle not exhausted and brought

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to a conclusion for him? Saddartha
reached the large river in the forest,

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the same river over which, a
long time ago, when he had still

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been a young man and came from
the town of Gautama, the ferryman had

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conducted him by this river. He
stopped hesitatingly. He stood at the bank.

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Tiredness and hunger had weakened him.
And whatever he should walk on,

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wherever, two to whichever goal.
No, there were no more goals.

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There was nothing left but the deep, painful yearning to shake off this whole

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desolate dream, to spit out this
stale wine, to put an end to

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this miserable and shameful life. A
hang bent over the bank of the river,

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a cocoanut tree. Siddartha leaned against
its trunk with his shoulder, embraced

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the trunk with one and looked down
into the green water which ran and ran

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under him. Looked down and found
himself to be entirely filled with the wish

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to go and to drown in these
waters. A frightening emptiness was reflected back

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at him by the water, answering
to the terrible emptiness in his soul.

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Yes, he had reached the end. There was nothing left for him except

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to annihilate himself, except to smash
the failure into which he had shaped his

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life, to throw it away before
the feet of mockingly laughing gods. This

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was the great vomiting he had longed
for, death, the smashing to bits

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of the form he hated. Let
him be food for fishes, this dog,

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said Arthur, this lunatic, this
depraved and rotten body, this weakened

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and abused soul. Let him be
food for fishes and crocodiles. Let him

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be chopped to bits by the demons. With a distorted face, he stared

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into the water, saw the reflection
of his face, and spit at it.

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In deep tiredness. He took his
arm away from the trunk of the

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tree and turned a bit in order
to let himself fall straight down, in

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order to finally drown. With his
eyes closed, he slipped towards death.

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Then, out of remote areas of
his soul, out of past times of

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his now weary life, a sound
stirred up. It was a word,

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a syllable, which he, without
thinking, with a slurred voice, spoke

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to himself, the old word,
which is the beginning and the end of

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all prayers of the Brahmans, the
Holy Om, which roughly means that what

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is perfect or the completion. And
in the moment when the sound of Om

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touched SidD Arthur's ear, his dormant
spirit suddenly woke up and realized the foolishness

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of his actions, said Arthur.
Was deeply shocked. So this was how

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things were with him? So doomed
was he, so much? Had he

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lost his way and was forsaken by
all knowledge? That he had been able

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to seek death, That this wish, this wish of a child, had

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been able to grow up in him, to find rest by annihilating his body.

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What all agony of these recent times, all sobering realizations, all desperation,

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had not brought about. This was
brought on by this moment, when

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the Om entered his consciousness, he
became aware of himself, in his misery

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and in his error, Olm.
He spoke to himself Olm, and again

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he knew about Brahman, knew about
the indestructibility of life, knew about all

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that is divine, which he had
forgotten. But this was only a moment

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flash. By the foot of the
cocoanut tree, Siddarthur collapsed, struck down

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by tiredness, mumbling Om placed his
head on the roots of the tree and

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fell into a deep sleep. Deep
was his sleep, and without dreams.

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For a long time, he had
not known such a sleep any more.

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When he woke up after many hours, he felt as if ten years had

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passed. He heard the water quietly
flowing, did not know where he was

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and who had brought him there.
Opened his eyes, saw with astonishment that

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there were trees and the sky above
him, and he remembered where he was

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and how he got there. But
it took him a long while for this,

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and the past seemed to him as
if it had been covered by a

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veil. Infinitely distant, infinitely far
away, infinitely meaningless. He only knew

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that his previous life. In the
first moment when he thought about it,

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this past life seemed to him like
a very old previous incarnation, like an

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early pre birth of his present self. That this previous life had been abandoned

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by him, that full of disgust
and wretchedness, he had even intended to

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throw his life away. But that
by a river under a cocoa nut tree,

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he has come to his senses the
holy word Om on his lips,

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that he had fallen asleep and had
now woken up and was looking at the

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world as a new man. Quietly
he spoke the word Om to himself,

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speaking which he had fallen asleep.
And it seemed to him as if his

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entire long sleep had been nothing but
a long meditative recitation of Om, a

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thinking of Om, a submergence and
complete entering into Olm, into the nameless,

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the perfected. What a wonderful sleep? Had this been? Never before?

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By sleep? He had been thus
refreshed, thus renewed, thus rejuvenated.

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Perhaps he had really died, had
drowned, and was reborn in a

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new body. But no, he
knew himself. He knew his hand at

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his feet, knew the place where
he lay, knew this self in his

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chest. This Siddhartha, the eccentric, the weird one. But this Siddartha

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was nevertheless transformed, warmed, was
renewed, was strangely well rested, strangely

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awake, joyful, and curious.
SidD Arthur straightened up. Then he saw

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a person sitting opposite to him,
an unknown man, a monk in a

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yellow robe with a shaven head,
sitting in the position of pondering. He

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observed the man who had neither hair
on his head nor a beard, and

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he had not observed him for long
when he recognized this monk as Govinda,

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the friend of his youth, Govinda, who had taken his refuge with the

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exalted Buddha. Govinda had aged he
too, but still his face bore the

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same features expressed zeal, faithfulness,
searching, timidness. But when Govinda,

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now sensing his gaze, opened his
eyes and looked at him, SidD Arthur

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saw that Govinda did not recogniz eyes
him. Govinda was happy to find him

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awake. Apparently he had been sitting
here for a long time and had been

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waiting for him to wake up,
though he did not know him. I

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have been sleeping, said said Arthur. However did you get here You have

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been sleeping, answered Govinda. It
is not good to be sleeping in such

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places where snakes often are and the
animals of the forest have their paths.

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I, oh, sir, am
a follower of the Exalted Gautama, the

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Buddha, the Sakya Mundi, and
have been on a pilgrimage together with several

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of us on this path. When
I saw you lying and sleeping in a

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place where it is dangerous to sleep. Therefore, I sought to wake you

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up, oh sir, And since
I saw that your sleep was very deep,

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I strayed behind from my group and
sat with you. And then so

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it seems I have fallen asleep myself, I who wanted to guard your sleep

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badly, I have served you.
Tiredness has overwhelmed me. And now that

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you are awake, let me go
catch up with my brothers. I thank

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you Samana for watching out over my
sleep, spoke sid Arthur. You're friendly,

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you followers of the Exalted One.
Now you may go. Then I

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am going, sir. May you, sir, always be in good health.

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I thank you Samana. Govinda made
the gesture of a salutation and said

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farewell. Farewell, Govinda, said
Sir Arthur. The monk stopped. Permit

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me to ask, Sir, from
where do you know my name? Now?

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Said Arthur smiled. I know you, oh Govinda, from your father's

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heart, and from the school of
the Brahmans, and from the offerings,

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and from our walk to the samanas, and from that hour when you took

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your refuge with the Exalted One in
the grove Jetavana, your Sidartha, Govinda

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exclaimed loudly. Now I'm recognizing you, and don't comprehend any more how I

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couldn't recognize you right away. Be
welcome, said Arthur. My joy is

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great to see you again. It
also gives me joy to see you again.

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You've been the guard of my sleep
again. I thank you for this,

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though I wouldn't have required any guard. Where are you going to,

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oh friend, I am going nowhere. We monks are always traveling, whenever

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it is not the rainy season.
We always move from one place to another,

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live according to the rules of the
teachings passed on to us, except

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alms move on. It is always
like this, But you said Arthur,

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where are you going to? Quoth
said Arthur. It is as it is

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with you. I am going nowhere. I'm just traveling. I'm on a

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pilgrimage, Govinda spoke. You're saying
you're on a pilgrimage, and I believe

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in you. But forgive me,
oh, said Arthur, you do not

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look like a pilgrim. You're wearing
a rich man's garments. You're wearing the

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shoes of a distinguished gentleman. And
your hair and the fragrance of perfume is

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not a pilgrim's hair, nor the
hair of a samana. Right, So,

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my dear, you have observed,
well, your keen eyes see everything.

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But I haven't said to you that
I was a samana. I said,

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I'm on a pilgrimage, and so
it is. I'm on a pilgrimage.

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You're on a pilgrimage, said Govinda. But few would go on a

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pilgrimage in such clothes, few in
such shoes, few with such hair.

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Never I have met such a pilgrim, being a pilgrim myself for many years.

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I believe you, my dear Govinda. But now today you've met a

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pilgrim just like this, wearing such
shoes, such a garment. Remember,

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my dear, not eternal is the
world of appearances, not eternal anything but

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eternal our garments and the style of
our hair, and our hair and our

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bodies themselves. I'm wearing a rich
man's clothes. You've seen this, quite

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right. I'm wearing them because I
have been a rich man. And I'm

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wearing my hair like the worldly and
lustful people, because I have been one

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of them. And now, said
Arthur, what are you now? I

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don't know it. I don't know
it, just like you, I'm traveling.

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I was a rich man and am
no rich man anymore. And what

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i'll be tomorrow, I don't.
You've lost your riches. I've lost them,

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or they me, They somehow happened
to slip away from me. The

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wheel of physical manifestations is turning quickly, Govinda. Where is Siddhartha the Brahman?

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Where is Siddatha the Samana? Where
is Sadatha the rich man? Non

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eternal? Things changed quickly, Govinda, you know it. Govinda looked at

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the friend of his youth for a
long time with doubt in his eyes.

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After that, he gave him the
salutation which one would use on a gentleman,

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and went on his way with a
smiling face. Siddhartha watched him leave.

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He loved him still, this faithful
man, this fearful man, And

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how could he not have loved everybody
and everything in this moment, in the

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glorious hour, after his wonderful sleep, filled with om, the enchantment which

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had happened inside of him in his
sleep, and by means of the om

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was this very thing that he loved
everything, that he was full of joyful

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love for everything he saw. And
it was this very thing, so it

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seemed to him now, which had
been his sickness before, that he was

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not able to love anybody or anything. With a smiling face, said Arthur

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watched the leaving monk. The sleep
had strengthened him much, but hunger gave

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him much pain. For now he
had not eaten for two days, and

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the times were long past when he
had been tough against hunger. With sadness,

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and yet also with a smile,
he thought of that time in those

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days, so he remembered. He
had boasted of three things to Kamala,

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had been able to do three noble
and undefeatable feats, fasting waiting, thinking

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these had been his possession, his
power and strength, his solid staff in

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the busy, laborious years of his
youth, he had learned these three feats

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nothing else, and now they had
abandoned him. None of them was his

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any more, neither fasting nor waiting
nor thinking for the most wretched things.

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He had given them up for what
fades most quickly, for sensual lust,

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for the good life, for riches. His life had indeed been strange,

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and now so it seemed, now
he had really become a childlike person.

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Sir Arthur thought about his situation.
Thinking was hard on him. He did

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not really feel like it, but
he forced himself. Now, he thought,

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since all these most easily perishing things
have slipped from me again. Now

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I'm standing here under the sun again, just as I have been standing here

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a little child. Nothing is mine. I have no abilities, there is

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nothing I could bring about. I
have learned nothing. How wondrous is this

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now that I am no longer young, that my hair is already half gray,

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that my strength is fading. Now
I'm starting again at the beginning,

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and as a child again. He
had to smile. Yes, his fate

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had been strange. Things were going
downhill with him, and now he was

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again facing the world, void and
naked, and stupid. But he could

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not feel sad about this. No, he even felt a great urge to

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laugh, to laugh about himself,
to laugh about this strange, foolish world.

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Things going downhill with you, he
said to himself, and laughed about

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it. And as he was saying
it, he happened to glance at the

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river, and he also saw the
river was going downhill. All was moving

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on downhill, and singing and being
happy through it all. He liked this

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well. Kindly, he smiled at
the river. Was this not the river

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in which he had intended to drown
himself in past times a hundred years ago?

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Or had he dreamed? This?
Wondrous? Indeed was my life,

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so he thought, wondrous detours as
it taken. As a boy, I

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had only to do with gods and
offerings. As a youth I had only

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to do with asceticism, with thinking
a meditation, was searching for Brahman,

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worshiped the eternal in the atman.
But as a young man I followed the

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penitents, lived in the forest,
suffered of heat and frost, learned to

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hunger, taught my body to become
dead. Wonderfully, Soon afterwards insight came

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towards me in the form of the
great Buddhist teachings. I felt the knowledge

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of the oneness of the world circling
in me like my own blood. But

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I also had to leave Buddha and
the great knowledge. I went and learned

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the art of love with Kamala,
learned trading with Kamaswami, piled up money,

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wasted money, Learned to love my
stomach, learned to please my senses.

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I had to spend many years losing
my spirit to unlearned thinking again,

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to forget the oneness. Isn't it
just as if I had turned slowly and

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on a long detour from a man
into a child, from a thinker into

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a childlike person. And yet this
path has been very good, and yet

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the bird in my chest has not
died. But what a path has this

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been? I had to pass through
so much stupidity, through so much vices,

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through so many errors, through so
much disgust and disappointments and woe,

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just to become a child again,
and to be able to start over that

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it was right. So my heart
says yes to it, my eyes smile

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to it. I've had to experience
despair, I've had to sink down to

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the most foolish one of all thoughts, to the thought of suicide. In

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order to be able to experience divine
grace, to hear olm again, to

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be able to sleep properly and to
awake properly again, I had to become

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a fool to find utman in me
again. I had to sin to be

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able to live again. Where else
might my path lead me to? It

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is foolish, this path. It
moves in loops. Perhaps it is going

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around in a circle. Let it
go as it likes. I want to

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take it wonderfully. He felt joy
rolling like waves in his chest. Where

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ever, from, he asked his
heart, Where did you get this happiness?

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Might it come from that long good
sleep which has done me so good?

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Or from the word om which I
said, Or from the fact that

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I have escaped, that I have
completely fled, that I am finally free

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again, and am standing like a
child under the sky. Oh, how

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good it is to have fled,
to have become free. How clean and

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beautiful is the air here? How
good to breathe there? Where I ran

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away from there, everything smelled of
ointment, of spices, of wine,

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of excess of sloth. How did
I hate this world of the rich,

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of those who revel in fine food, of the gamblers. How did I

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hate myself for staying in this terrible
world for so long? How did I

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hate myself? Have deprived, poisoned, tortured myself, have made myself old

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and evil? No, never again
I will, as I used to like,

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doing so much, delude myself into
thinking that Siddhartha was wise. But

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this one thing I have done well. This I like. This, I

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must praise. But there is now
an end to that hatred against myself,

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to that foolish and dreary life.
I praise you, Siddartha, after so

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many years of foolishness, you have
once again had an idea, have done

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something, have heard the bird in
your chest singing, and have followed it.

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Thus he praised himself, found joy
in himself, listened curiously to his

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stomach, which was rumbling with hunger. He had now so he felt,

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in those recent times and days,
completely tasted and spit out, devoured up

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to the point of desperation and death. A piece of suffering, a piece

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of misery like this, It was
good for much longer he could have stayed

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with Kamaswami, made money, wasted
money filled his stomach and let his soul

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die of thirst for much longer he
could have lived in this soft, well

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upholstered hell if this had not happened, the moment of complete hopelessness and despair,

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that most extreme moment, when he
hung over the rushing waters and was

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ready to destroy himself. That he
had felt this despair, this deep disgust,

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that he had not succumbed to it. That the bird, the joyful

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source and voice in him, was
still alive. After all, This was

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why he felt joy, This was
why he laughed, This was why his

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face was smiling brightly under his hair, which had turned gray. It is

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good, he thought, to get
a taste of everything for oneself, which

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one needs to know. That lust
for the world and riches do not belong

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to the good things I have already
learned as a child. I have known

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it for a long time, but
I have experienced only now, And now

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I know it. Don't just know
it in my memory, but in my

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eyes, in my art, in
my stomach. Good from me to know

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this. For a long time,
he pondered his transformation, listened to the

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bird as it sang for joy.
Had not this bird died in him.

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Had he not felt his death?
No, something else from within him had

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died, something which already for a
long time had yearned to die. Was

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it not this what he intended to
kill in his ardent years as a penitent.

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Was it not his self, his
small, frightened and proud self he

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had wrestled with for so many years, which had defeated him again and again,

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which was back again after every killing, prohibited joy felt fear. Was

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it not this which to day had
finally come to its death here in the

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forest, by this lovely river.
Was not due to this death that he

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was now like a child, so
full of trust, so without fear,

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so full of joy. Now Siddartha
also got some idea of why he had

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fought this self in vain as a
Brahman, as a penitent. Too much

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knowledge had held him back, too
many holy verses, too many sacrificial rules,

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too much self castigation, so much
doing and striving for that goal.

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Full of arrogance, he had been. All was the smartest, always working

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the most, always one step ahead
of all others. All was the knowing

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and spiritual one. All was the
priest or wise one into being a priest

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into this arrogance into this spirituality his
self had retreated. There it sat firmly

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and grew. While he thought he
would kill it by fasting and penance.

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Now he saw it, and saw
the secret voice had been right, that

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no teacher would ever have been able
to bring about his salvation. Therefore he

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had to go out into the world, lose himself to lust and power to

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women and money. Had to become
a merchant, a dice gambler, a

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drinker, and a greedy person until
the priest and Sir Maana in him was

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dead. Therefore he had to continue
bearing these ugly years, bearing the disgust,

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the teachings, the pointlessness of a
dreary and wasted life up to the

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end, up to bitter despair,
until Siddartha the lustful, Siddartha the greedy,

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could also die. He had died, and knew Siddartha had woken up

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from the sleep. He would also
grow old. He would also eventually have

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to die. Mortal, was said
Arthur. Mortal was every physical form.

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But today he was young, was
a child the new, said Arthur,

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and was full of joy. He
thought these thoughts, listened with a smile

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to his stomach, listened gratefully to
a buzzing bee. Cheerfully, he looked

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into the rushing river. Never before
he had liked a water so well as

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this one. Never before he had
perceived the voice and the parable of the

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moving water thus strongly and beautifully.
It seemed to him as if the river

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had something special to tell him,
something he did not know yet, which

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was still awaiting him. In this
river, said Arthur had intended to drown

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himself in it. The old,
tired, desperate, said Arthur, had

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sound to day. But the new, said Arthur, felt a deep love

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for this rushing water, and decided
for himself not to leave it very soon

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end of chapter eight