#philosophy #book I love Hesse way of writing He tell stories of men who fell, got destroyed, reduced to nothing and got closed as ever to un-being: death to finally reborn, redemption ... # Siddhartha <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/52036.Siddhartha" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px"><img border="0" alt="Siddhartha" src="https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1428715580l/52036._SY160_.jpg" /></a><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/52036.Siddhartha">Siddhartha</a> by <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1113469.Hermann_Hesse">Hermann Hesse</a><br/> My rating: <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2986064048">5 of 5 stars</a><br /><br /> One of the greatest book of all time.<br /><br />Siddhartha is a story of trial, error and learning.<br />Learning the most important wisdom of life: materialism doesn't bring fulfillment, truth is a pathless land, (uncontrolled) desire is suffering.<br /><br />Hermann Hesse doesn't need to write hundreds of pages to fuel the most important investigations of life in the mind of the reader. It is, I believe, one of the greatest book of all time. <br/><br/> <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/list/103091881-louis-beaumont">View all my reviews</a> ## GPT3 In this hour, Siddhartha stopped fighting his fate, stopped suffering. On his face flourished the cheerfulness of a knowledge, which is no longer opposed by any will, which knows perfection, which is in agreement with the flow of events, with the current of life, full of sympathy for the pain of others, full of sympathy for the pleasure of others, devoted to the flow, belonging to the oneness. And Siddhartha saw, what is usually seen only by sages and poets. He saw that he could not change the world's fate. It was impossible to change it. Thought he had rejected his own will, thought he had identified himself with the world, thought he had lost his own soul; but in this hour he became free of all personal willing, all personal desire, all personal feeling; he became the inexhaustible light of pure regard which looks at the flow of things, looks into the heart of things, looks through all there is and becomes one with all there is. For it was possible for him to stop loving hisSelf, to love all beings in the world without hate or envy or desire of hisSelf, for it was possible for him to live in the great harmony of Oneness. This wisdom belongs to him who has learned to stop interfering with life. Siddhartha's mind and heart were as harmony with the world as possible. He was only now beginning to understand what the voice of the river was, and to understand what it meant. It was something that called him and pulled him and drew him onward. It seemed to him that he had understood and followed a profound and mysterious voice. It was as if a hand were laid upon his own hand, as if the finger of an authority were touching his finger, an authority which was also himself. It was a great day for Siddhartha, a decisive day: the finding of his destiny. The secret of life," "the secret," "the secret," repeated Siddhartha in a low voice; and his eyes gleamed and his face brightened: for he had found the secret and he knew it. But Siddhartha without knowing it began to take leave of the world. The time was drawing near when he had to go on his long journey, and leave this dear place, where he had seen the light of morning, he had seen the morning of knowledge, he had found the secret of life. This new departure was something that made his heart heavy; it troubled him, for he had still much left to do there in these last hours. He did not want to go away! He did not want to die! But he must go on, he must complete his long journey. His destiny called him and beckoned. And perhaps, who knows? Perhaps all had happened just so that Siddhartha could see the things which he had seen and could remember them. Perhaps all these things had happened, so that this great moment might be given to him - the discovery of the Oneness with all beings, this divine moment of unity with the world's rhythm." "When Siddhartha thought of his word \"Duty\" and of what it meant to him, a great melancholy came over him. Duty - what did it mean? Duty is what I am used to call the will by which I am able to think and will myself into actions in every circumstance. Duty is what determines each one's lot in life, for good or evil. Duty gave form and meaning to my life; it was central in my thoughts every hour of my life. But now I have no will any longer - how can I fulfil my duty? I have no will any longer - what does it mean to have a duty?" Since Siddhartha's arrival at Buddha's shadow tree in Kapilavastu, Govinda had become more distant from his friend. He avoided him more than ever when they met in the temple court or at meal times in either house; for they are eaten up by duties, then they are kept apart even more strictly than before. And yet Siddhartha knew that Govinda knew more about him than any one else did - more than Kamala by far; but even when he knew this he thought nothing of it. He thought nothing at all about it. And sometimes when their eyes met, Siddhartha felt how much he loved Govinda and also liked him very much; but this feeling did not express itself in words because both felt too sacred for speech. Siddhartha thought of his friend more often than before, but he thought of him as a child. His friend's soul had been entrusted to the wisdom and the power of the priests and ascetics, Siddhartha himself had told Govinda so. His friend was not a person, he was a duty. And whenever Siddhartha remembered Govinda, he thought at first of the dark-skinned, dark-eyed child who gave him milk at his father's house. Then he realized how much he had forgotten of that child during the long years, and his love for him changed into a tender feeling of friendship. He thought no more about how Govinda spent his time because he knew that all those years the child had been learning to work and to grow up, to do his father's work and to help his mother; all that had been incumbent upon him; all that would continue to be incumbent upon him; he felt it like a debt which someday would have to be paid. No, more than with Govinda, he did not think anything about what he owed him; it seemed to him like an external thing which could not change without changing his own destiny. "Why do I think about him?" he asked himself. "Why go on thinking about him? What is it I want to learn from him? Why am I hanging on to this bond with my brother? "If it were possible for me to speak with him alone - just one word - if I were able to tell him everything, everything! If only I knew what he thinks about me! Does he still love me? Does he still love me? "The world is so strange - so very strange! The day will come when Govinda will also grow up - who knows? perhaps even now while I am talking with him in my thoughts - perhaps even now my mother has told him everything about me. And perhaps she has shown him my books or something else of mine which is particularly dear to me - perhaps she has laid my clothes on his bed; perhaps even my sandal lies there under his pillow. Perhaps then there will be nothing left belonging to me which is not in his possession." And then Siddhartha grew very silent and began to think again. "He too must have had moments when he would like to speak out," said one of his thoughts, "when he would like best of all of them the words: 'I love you!' But they are too sacred, too intimate, too much part of themselves - they will never come out unless I make myself free and quite alone, naked of my duties." And once more Siddhartha grew sad. But this thought also passed away quickly. For what matters most are words at the moment when one first sees another human being for the first time in one's life, feels someone looking at oneself for the first time in one's life." One morning - it was on a day when the heat had grown so intense that even the flies no longer sat on the leaves outside the window frame or on the empty sugar bowl - Siddhartha woke early from some dreamless sleep. He looked out of the window, towards the river which shimmered in all its brilliance between green banks far behind them - even farther back lay the shadow of the forest primeval. It was one of those May mornings when early risers still feel a slight chill in their skin when they arise from bed. There was a faint sweet scent from the flowers down below where bees were busy in their honeycombs; in front there rose white clouds in endless rows from beyond overlong distances from village and river onto heaven itself lies transparency. The river glittered in one great gleam where the reflection of the white clouds shone. "Govinda still sleeps," thought Siddhartha, "he has not even opened his eyes, poor child. I am afraid he had only dreams for his pillow. I had strange dreams last night too, but it is no matter, let him sleep. A great transformation has taken place during my slumber, a great change has come over me while he was sleeping - it is something which I am unable to understand." He looked out towards the river, far away beyond the green banks and the wooded islands could see the gleam of its endless waves on which perhaps ships were sailing. Then he looked at his own hand, so brown and hard and sinewy with work, with callouses ofߞߞߞߞߞߞߞߞߞߞߞߞߞthe skin and with strong muscles capable of labour and which knew how to take hold of things and bend them to his will; he looked at the coarse brown arm covered with hair and at the smooth fingers; it was a hand which was familiar to him, which knew well how to work and what was expected from such a hand. And when he remembered that this rough brown hand was his hand, that this body also was his body, that there were many like it in the whole world - then he felt like laughing outloud: That all this had happened simply in order that he should be able to watch himself and know who he was and what was happening to him! He laughed so loud that the birds in their nest in front of the window awoke and flew off into the forest in fright. Yes, it is as easy as all this! He laughed again - there is nothing mysterious about it. If others could do it, why not I? If Kamala could do it so easily, why not I? Why should not I perform magic tricks just like she does? My father says magic is an art like any other. Yes, yes! It can be learnt even like an art! There are whole schools of workers in magic! It's something one can learn! He did a few experiments with a few words - now I know a little more than before!" At these words a bird singing on a bush outside suddenly fluttered away in fright because Siddhartha spoke so loud. But Siddhartha paid no attention to that: he had tried out by means of experiments certain words which might produce miracles if one spoke them rightly. He had learned them from a wise old hermit who lived alone near a big round lake under an oak-tree on whose mossy trunk an ape sat sunning himself from time to time. Whenever Siddhartha spoke aloud to thatape these words came from his own lips: "Monkey," said Siddhartha. "Are you there?" But whenever the ape gave a loud cry in response to some other word or some other call from Siddhartha - for instance when he called out "Come here," or "Here!" or "Get up here by the tree," or whatever it might be - then Siddhartha saw clearly that monkey would not be able to help him even if he wanted to because monkeys did not understand human language. He understood this too well; so much did he understand it that he did not even have any wish any longer after this discovery that he too might become an ascetic like his friend Govinda. What gave him joy now was just talking alone with Govinda alone - talking through pictures which expressed things better than words could do; talking about books or flowers or ideas or how good everything was now that they had stopped striving for useless things; talking about their love for each other; talking about Kamala who sat somewhere behind them; chatting about this thing and that thing until dawn came slowly with its light - slowly as if slowly sliding back into sleep after having been awake all night long - chatting until finally they both fell asleep again under the big tree where they lay side by side on their arms intertwined together; then they woke up late in the morning because there were many things they still had to talk about. It was a strange day. The air was still, the sun was strong and hot as it has been that day. The birds sang as they had sung on the previous day, or at least the same thrush sang again. Siddhartha looked out of his window and saw, as he had seen on many mornings, the globes of countless stars dotted across the sky like little round windows where the heavenly beings peeped out and down into him, and he thought: "They are like dots for me: I am a dot on earth and a dot in the universe. The stars and I: I am one. If my father were here he would say: 'Go to sleep, you little fool! You do not know what you are doing.' But my heart is full of questions which no one can answer." The sun was very warm. Its beams now reached Siddhartha's body through the open window and touched his arm with its light. It touched his head lightly. Siddhartha saw his arms and legs in the light of the sun; he ran his hands over his head - yes, he had definitely a head; it was not nothingness, no empty space. This body existed, it existed very definitely; it was something one could see with one's eyes, it was something real! He thought about these things while watching how the stripes which moved slowly across his body merged into each other again and disappeared when he walked in front of the mirror - there were also other things which happened when he walked in front of the mirror - but that was another story! For now he stood still before the mirror, with both arms raised slightly, for hours long; it didn't matter what he looked at or who or what or where. But when he remembered how Govinda had woken up at this precise moment of these precise minutes when night becomes morning - why exactly this? - when Govinda woke up just at this moment when Siddhartha stood before the mirror doing nothing but seeing himself being able to see - then he jumped up from his chair in order to find out whether Govinda had woken up too, whether Govinda had really seen what Siddhartha had seen. He went immediately to Govinda's room where he found him sitting up in bed (he had heard him get up because of the other man sleeping behind him), turning his face towards the door; he was looking intently at it because he expected to see Siddhartha standing there; yes, there he stood - Siddhartha! And something brightened in Govinda's eyes as soon as he saw him; brightened like lightning because everything around him was dark and quiet and only here in front of him was light and movement. "He is here!" thought Govinda; "he is alive!" And then again there were tears over his cheeks. Siddhartha stood before the mirror longer than usual that day. He stood there thinking about himself, about Govinda, about all that would happen after his departure - what would become of them all? If only Kamala were not so beautiful! How terrible it would be if she too should have to live like this after she had readjusted herself to her lover's strength! Then she would have to spend long years in pain until death took her away from him! She would die first perhaps - that would be best for both of them! Or perhaps she would simply go away by herself one day without taking her love with her into death - that might be best for her if she loved him truly!" And seeing these terrible thoughts in himself he smiled gently to himself: "After all I am only a man," thought Siddhartha," my feet are tied to stones and my hands are tied with threads that they can't move. However much I may want to do good, what good must come of it in the end? My friend Govinda is a child yet, who can't understand anything yet - after a little more time will pass for him tooo...." And suddenly Siddhartha saw himself reflected in Govinda's eyes as if in a mirror and thought: "I have been seeking my own image in another's eyes for so many years until now I have completely forgotten myself." # Steppenwolf ![[DALL·E 2022-06-19 11.20.54 - A man, half human and half wolf, the Steppenwolf in all his splendor, by Picasso..png]] <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/16631.Steppenwolf" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px"><img border="0" alt="Steppenwolf" src="https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1389332672l/16631._SY160_.jpg" /></a><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/16631.Steppenwolf">Steppenwolf</a> by <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1113469.Hermann_Hesse">Hermann Hesse</a><br/> My rating: <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2986063885">5 of 5 stars</a><br /><br /> Once again, I have no word to describe how hypnotizing Herman Hesse's way of writing is.<br />It plunges us into the world of a man who is extremely withdrawn and different from society.<br />This man, educated by the greatest names in music, poetry and art, lives a life on the edge of the abyss until he meets a mysterious woman who brings him back to life and introduces him to a completely different world that he once hated.<br />This book is perfect for people who relate to this kind of man <br/><br/> <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/list/103091881-louis-beaumont">View all my reviews</a> ![[DALL·E 2022-06-19 11.24.01 - A man, half human and half wolf, the Steppenwolf in all his splendor, by Picasso..png]] ## Ideas ![[The Thousand Pieces Soul]]