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Chapter twelve Govinda, together with other
monks. Govinda used to spend the time

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of rest between pilgrimages in the pleasure
grove, which the courtesan Kamala had given

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to the followers of Gautama for a
gift. He heard talk of an old

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ferryman who lived one day's journey away
by the river, and who was regarded

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as a wise man by many.
When Govinda went back on his way,

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he chose the path to the ferry, eager to see the ferryman because although

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he had lived his entire life by
the rules, though he was also looked

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upon with veneration by the younger monks
on account of his age and modesty,

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the restlessness and the searching still had
not perished from his heart. He came

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to the river and asked the old
man to ferry him over, And when

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they got off the boat on the
other side, he said to the old

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man, you're very good to us
monks and pilgrims. You've already ferried many

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of us across the river, aren't
you, two ferryman? A searcher for

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the right path? Quoth said Arthur, smiling from his old eyes. Do

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you call yourself a searcher, oh
venerable one, though you are already old

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in years and are wearing the robe
of Gautamas monks. It's true, I'm

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old, spoke Govinda. But I
haven't stopped searching. Never I'll stop searching.

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This seems to be my destiny.
You too, so it seems to

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me have been searching. Would you
like to tell me something, oh honorable

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one, quote, said Arthur,
What should I possibly have to tell you,

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oh venerable one, Perhaps that you're
searching far too much, that in

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all that searching, you don't find
the time for finding. How come,

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asked Govinda. When someone is searching, said said Arthur, then it might

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easily happen that the only thing his
eyes still see is that which he searches

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for. That he is unable to
find anything, to let anything enter his

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mind, because he always thinks of
nothing but the object of his search,

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because he has a goal, because
he is obsessed by the goal. Searching

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means having a goal, but finding
means being free, being open, having

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no goal. You, oh venerable
one, are perhaps indeed a searcher,

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because striving for your goal, there
are many things you don't see which are

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directly in front of your eyes.
I don't quite understand yet, said Govinda.

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What do you mean by this,
quoth said Arthur. A long time

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ago, oh venerable one, many
years ago, you've once before been at

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this river and have found a sleeping
man by the river, and have sat

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down with him to guard his sleep. But, oh, Govinda, you

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did not recognize the sleeping man,
Astonished as if he had been the object

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of a magic spell. The monk
looked into the fairyman's eyes. Are you,

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said Arthur, He asked with a
timid voice. I wouldn't have recognized

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you this time as well. From
my heart, I'm greeting you, said

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Arthur. From my heart, I'm
happy to see you once again. You've

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changed a lot, my friend,
and so you've now become a ferryman in

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a friendly manner, said Arthur,
laughed, a fairyman. Yes, many

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people, Govinda, have to change
a lot, have to wear many a

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robe. I am one of those, my dear be welcome Govinda, and

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spend the night in my hut.
Govinda stayed the night in the hut and

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slept on the bed which used to
be Vasadiva's bed. Many questions he posed

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to the friend of his youth,
many things, said Artha had to tell

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him from his life. When in
the next morning the time had come to

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start the day's journey, Govinda said, not without hesitation these words before I'll

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continue my path, said Arthur,
Permit me to ask one more question.

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Do you have a teaching? Do
you have a faith or a knowledge you

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follow which helps you to live and
to do right? Quoth said Arthur.

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You know, my dear, that
I, already, as a young man

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in those days when we lived with
the penitents in the forest, started to

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distrust teachers and teachings and to turn
my back to them. I have stuck

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with this. Nevertheless, I have
had many teachers since then. A beautiful

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courtesan has been my teacher for a
long time, and a rich merchant was

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my teacher. And some gamblers with
dice once. Even a follower of Buddha

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traveling on foot has been my teacher. He sat with me while I had

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fallen asleep in the forest on the
pilgrimage. I've also learned from him.

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I'm also grateful to him, very
grateful. But most of all I've learned

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here from this river and from my
predecessor, the ferryman Vasudeva. He was

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a very simple person. Vasudeva,
he was no thinker, but he knew

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what is necessary just as well as
Gautama. He was a perfect man.

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A saint. Govida said stirl Oh, Siddhartha, you love a bit to

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mock people, as it seems to
me. I believe in you and know

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that you have had followed a teacher. But haven't you found something by yourself?

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Though you found no teachings, you
still found certain thoughts, certain insights,

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which are your own and which help
you to live. If you would

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like to tell me some of these, you would delight my heart, quoth

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said Arthur. I've had thoughts,
yes, and insight, again and again,

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sometimes for an hour or for an
entire day. I have felt knowledge

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in me as one would feel life
in one's heart. There have been many

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thoughts, but it would be hard
for me to convey them to you.

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Look, my dear Govinda, this
is one of my thoughts which I have

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found. Wisdom cannot be passed on. Wisdom which a wise man tries to

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pass on to someone always sounds like
foolishness. Are you kidding, asked Govinda.

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I'm not kidding. I'm telling you
what I've found. Knowledge can be

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conveyed, but not wisdom. It
can be found, it can be lived,

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It is possible to be carried by
it. Miracles can be performed with

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it. But it cannot be expressed
in words and taught. This was what

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I, even as a young man, sometimes suspected what has driven me away

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from the teachers. I have found
a thought, Govinda, which you'll again

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regard as a joke or foolishness,
but which is my best thought. It

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says, the opposite of every truth
is just as true. That's like this.

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Every truth can only be expressed and
put into words when it is one

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sided. Everything is one sided,
which can be thought with thoughts and said

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with words. It's all one sided, All just one half. All lacks

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completeness, roundness, oneness. When
the exalted Gautama spoke in his teachings of

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the world, he had to divide
it into sansara and nirvana, into deception

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and truth, into suffering and salvation. It cannot be done differently. There

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is no other way for him who
wants to teach. But the world itself,

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what exists around us, in inside
of us, is never one sided.

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A person or an act is never
entirely sansara or entirely nirvana. A

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person is never entirely holy or entirely
sinful. It does really seem like this

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because we are subject to deception,
as if time were something real. Time

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is not real, Govinda. I
have experienced this often and often again.

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And if time is not real,
then the gap which seems to be between

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the world and the eternity, between
suffering and blissfulness, between good and evil

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is also a deception. How come, asked Govinda timidly, listen well,

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my dear, listen well. The
sinner which I am and which you are,

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is a sinner. But in times
to come he will be Brahma again.

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He will reach the nirvana, will
be Buddha. And now see these

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times to come, our a deception
are only a parable. The sinner is

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not on his way to become a
Buddha. He is not in the process

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of developing, though our capacity for
thinking does not know how else to picture

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these things. No, within the
sinner is now and today already the future

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Buddha. His future is already all
there. You have to worship in him,

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in you, in every one,
the Buddha which is coming into being,

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the possible, the hidden Buddha.
The world, my friend Govinda,

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is not imperfect or on a slow
path towards perfection. No, it is

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perfect in every moment. All sin
already carries the divine forgiveness in itself.

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All small children already have the old
person in themselves, All infants already have

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death, all dying people the eternal
life. It is not possible for any

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person to see how far another one
has already progressed on his path. In

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the Robber and the dice Gambler,
the Buddha is waiting. In the Brahman,

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the robber is waiting. In deep
meditation, there is the possibility to

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put time out of existence, to
see all life which was, is and

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will be, as if it were
simultaneous. And there everything is good,

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everything is perfect, Every thing is
Brahman. Therefore I see whatever exists as

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good. Death is to me like
life, sin, like holiness, wisdom,

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like foolishness. Everything has to be
as it is. Everything only requires

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my consent, only my willingness,
my loving agreement to be good for me

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to do nothing but work for my
benefit, to be unable to ever harm

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me. I have experienced on my
body and on my soul that I needed

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sin very much. I needed lust, the desire for possessions, vanity,

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and needed the most shameful despair in
order to learn how to give up all

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resistance, in order to learn how
to love the world, in order to

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stop comparing it to some world I
wished I imagined some kind of perfection I

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had made up. But to leave
it as it is, and to love

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it, and to enjoy being a
part of it. These, oh,

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Govinda, are some of the thoughts
which have come into my mind, said

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Arthur bent down picked up a stone
from the ground and weighed it in his

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hand. This, here, he
said, playing with it, is a

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stone, and will after a certain
time perhaps turn into soil, and will

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turn from soil into a plant or
an animal or human being. In the

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past, I would have said,
this stone is just a stone, It

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is worthless. It belongs to the
world of the Maya. But because it

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might be able to become also a
human being and a spirit in the cycle

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of transformations, therefore I also grant
it importance. Thus I would perhaps have

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thought in the past, But today
I think this stone is a stone,

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it is also animal, It is
also God. It is also, Buddha,

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I do not venerate and love it
because it could turn into this or

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that, but rather because it is
already and always everything. And it is

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this very fact that it is a
stone, that it appears to me now

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and today as a stone. This
is why I love it and see worth

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and purpose in each of its veins
and cavities, in the yellow, in

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the gray, in the hardness,
in the sound it makes when I knock

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at it, in the dryness or
wetness of its surface. There are stones

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which feel like oil or soap,
and others like leaves, others like sand.

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And everyone is special, and praise
the Olm in its own way.

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Each one is Brahman. But simultaneously
and just as much it is a stone,

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it is oily or juicy. And
this is this very fact which I

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like and regard as wonderful and worthy
of worship. But let me speak no

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more of this. The words are
not good for the secret meaning. Everything

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always becomes a bit different as soon
as this is put into words gets distorted,

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a bit, a bit silly.
Yes, and this is also very

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good, and I like it a
lot. I also very much agree with

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this that this what is one man's
treasure and wisdom always sounds like foolishness to

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another person. Govinda listened silently.
Why have you told me this about the

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stone, he asked hesitantly, after
a pause. I did it without a

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specific intention. Or perhaps what I
meant was that love this very stone and

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the river and all these things we
are looking at and from and which we

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can learn. I can love a
stone, Govinda, and also a tree

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or a piece of bark. These
are things, and things can be loved.

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But I cannot love words. Therefore
teachings are no good for me.

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They have no hardness, no softness, no colors, no edges, no

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smell, no taste. They have
nothing but words. Perhaps it is these

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which keep you from finding peace.
Perhaps it is the many words, because

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salvation and virtue, as well sansara
and nirvana as well are mere words,

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Govinda. There is no thing which
would be nirvana. There is just the

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word nirvana, quoth Govinda. Not
just a word, my friend, is

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nirvana? It is a thought,
said Arthur. Continued, I thought it

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might be. So I must confess
to you, my dear, I don't

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differentiate much between thoughts and words.
To be honest, I also have no

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high opinion of thoughts. I have
a better opinion of things here on this

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ferry boat. For instance, a
man has been my predecessor and teacher,

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a holy man who has for many
years simply believed in the river, nothing

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else. He had noticed that the
river spoke to him, He learned from

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it, It educated and taught him. The river seemed to be a god

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to him. For many years he
did not know that every wind, every

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cloud, every bird, every beetle
was just as divine and knows just as

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much and can teach just as much
as the worshiped river. But when this

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holy man went into the forests,
he knew everything, knew more than you

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and me, without teachers, without
books, only because he had believed in

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the river. Govinda said, but
is that which you call things actually something

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real, something which has existence?
Isn't it just a de say option of

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the maya, just an image and
illusion? Your stone, your tree,

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your river? Are they actually a
reality? This too, spoke said Arthur.

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I do not care very much about
let the things be illusions or not.

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After all, I would then also
be an illusion. And thus they

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are always like me. This is
what makes them so dear and worthy.

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A veneration for me, they are
like me. Therefore I can love them.

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And this is now a teaching.
You will laugh about love, oh,

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Govinda, seems to me the most
important thing of all to thoroughly understand

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the world, to explain it,
to despise it. Maybe the thing great

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thinkers do. But I'm only interested
in being able to love the world,

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not to despise it, not to
hate it, and me to be able

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to look upon it and me and
all beings with love and admiration and great

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respect. Act this, I understand, spoke Govinda. But this very thing

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was discovered by the Exalted One to
be a deception. He commands benevolence,

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clemency, sympathy, tolerance, but
not love. He forbade us to tie

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our heart in love to earthly things. I know it, said said Arthur.

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His smile shone golden. I know
it, Govinda. And behold with

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this, we are right in the
middle of the thicket of opinions in the

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dispute about words. For I cannot
deny my words of love are in a

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contradiction, a seeming contradiction, with
Gautama's words. For this very reason I

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distrust in words so much, For
I know this contradiction is a deception.

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I know that I am in agreement
with Gautama. How should he not know

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love? He who has discovered all
elements of human existence in their t storinus,

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in their meaninglessness, and yet loved
people thus much to use a long

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laborious life only to help them,
to teach them. Even with him,

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even with your great teacher, I
prefer the thing over the words. Place

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more importance on his acts and life
than on his speeches, more on the

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gestures of his hand than his opinions, not his speech, not in his

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thoughts. I see his greatness only
in his actions, in his life.

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For a long time, the two
old men said nothing. Then spoke Govinda,

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while bowing from a farewell, I
thank you, sir Arthur, for

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telling me some of your thoughts.
They are partially strange thoughts, not all

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have been instantly understandable to me.
This being as it may, I thank

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you and wish you to have calm
days. But secret le he thought to

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himself, this Siddhartha is a bizarre
person. He expresses bizarre thoughts. His

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teachings sound foolish. How differently sound
the exalted One's pure teachings clearer, purer,

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more comprehensible, nothing strange, foolish
or silly as contain'd in them.

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But different from his thoughts, seemed
to me, said d'arthur's hands and feet,

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his eyes, his forehead, his
breath, his smile, his greeting,

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his walk. Never again, after
our exalted Gautama has become one with

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the nirvana. Never since then have
I met a person of whom I felt

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this is a holy man. Only
him, this Siddhartha, I have found

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to be like this. May his
teachings be strange, may his words sound

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foolish. Out of his gaze and
his hand, his skin, and his

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hair, out of every part of
him shines a purity, shines, a

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calmness, shines a cheerfulness and mildness
and holiness, which I have seen in

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no other person since the final death
of our exalted teacher. As Govinda thought

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like this, and there was a
conflict in his heart, he once again

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bowed to sid Arthur. Drawn by
love deeply, he bowed to him who

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was calmly sitting sid Arthur, he
spoke, we have become old men.

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It is unlikely for one of us
to see the other again. In this

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incarnation. I see, beloved,
that you have found peace. I confess

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that I haven't found it. Tell
me, oh, honorable, one one

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more word. Give me something on
my way which I can grasp, which

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I can understand. Give me something
to be with me on my path.

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It is often hard, my path, often dark, said Arthur. Sir

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Arthur said nothing and looked at him
with the ever unchanged quiet smile. Govinda

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stared at his face with fear,
with yearning, suffering, and the eternal

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search was visible in his look,
eternal not finding. Sir Arthur saw it

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and smiled. Bend down to me, he whispered quietly in Govinda's ear.

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Bend down to me like this,
even closer, very closer, kiss my

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forehead, Govinda. But while Govinda, with astonishment and yet drawn by great

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love and expectation, obeyed his words, bent down closely to him and touched

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his forehead with his lips. Something
miraculous happened to him while his thoughts were

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still dwelling on Sid Arthur's wondrous words, while he was still struggling in vain

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and with reluctance to think away,
time to ignore Nirvana and send Sarah as

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one while even a certain contempt for
the words of his friend was fighting in

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him against an immense love and veneration. This happened to him. He no

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longer saw the face of his friend, said Arthur. Instead he saw other

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faces, many a long sequence,
a flowing river of faces, of hundreds

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of thousands, which all came and
disappeared, and yet all seemed to be

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there simultaneously, which all constantly changed
and renewed themselves, and which was still

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all, said Arthur. He saw
the face of a fish, a carp

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with infinitely painful opened mouth, the
face of a dying fish with fading eyes.

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He saw the face of a newborn
child, red and full of wrinkles,

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distorted from crying. He saw the
face of a murderer. He saw

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him plunging a knife into the body
of another person. He saw in the

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same second this criminal in bondage,
kneeling and his head being chopped off by

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the executioner with one blow of his
sword. He saw the bodies of men

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and women naked in positions and cramps
of frenzied love. He saw corpses stretched

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out, motionless, cold void.
He saw the heads of animals, of

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boars, of crocodiles, of elephants, of bulls, of birds. He

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saw gods, he saw Krishna,
he saw Agne. He saw all of

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these figures and faces in a thousand
relationships with one another, each one helping

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the other, loving it, hating
it, destroying it, giving rebirth to

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it. Each one was a will
to die, a passionate, painful confession

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of transitoriness. And yet none of
them died. Each one only transformed,

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was always reborne, received evermore a
new face, without any time having passed

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between the one and the other face. And all of these figures and faces

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rested, flowed, generated themselves,
floated along and merged with each other,

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and they were all constantly covered by
something thin, without individuality of its own,

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but yet existing, like a thin
glass or ice, like a transparent

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skin, a shell or mold,
or mask of water. And this mask

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was smiling, And this mask was
sad Arthur's smiling face, which he Govinda,

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in this very same moment touched with
his lips. And Govinda saw it

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like this, this smile of the
mask, this smile of oneness, above

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the flowing forms, this smile of
simultaneousness, above the thousand births and deaths,

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this smile of Siddhartha was precisely the
same, was precisely of the same

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kind as the quiet, delicate,
impenetrable, perhaps benevolent, perhaps mocking wise,

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thousandfold smile of Gautama, the Buddha, as he had seen it himself

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with great respect a hundred times like
this, Govinda knew, the perfected ones

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are smiling, not knowing any more
where the time existed, whether the vision

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had lasted a second or a hundred
years, not knowing any more whether there

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existed a Siddhartha, a Gautama,
a Me, and a yew feeling in

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his innermost self, as if he
had been wounded by a divine arrow,

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the injury of which tasted sweet.
Being enchanted and dissolved in his innermost self,

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Govinder stood still for a little while, bent over sid Arthur's quiet face,

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which he had just kissed, which
had just been the scene of all

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manifestations, all transformations, all existence. The face was unchanged, after under

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its surface the depth of the thousandfoldness
had closed up again. He smiled sweetly,

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smiled quietly and softly, perhaps benevolently, perhaps very mockingly, precisely as

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he used to smile the exalted One. Deeply Govinder bowed. Tears he knew

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nothing of ran down his old face
like a fire burnt the feeling of the

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most intimate love, the humblest veneration
in his heart. Deeply he bowed,

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touching the ground before him, who
was sitting motionlessly, whose smile reminded him

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of everything he had ever loved in
his life, what had ever been valuable

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and wholly to him in his life. End of Chapter twelve and end of

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Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse