Siddhartha (Dover Thrift Editions: Classic Novels)

I just finished reading Siddhartha, and I can safely say without a shadow of a doubt, that it is now my favourite book. It's simply amazing that this was published in 1922, it is a timeless breath of simplicity and creativity. Herman Hesse was known for writing semi autobiographical novels, and this one is no exception; the character Siddhartha is even recognised for his writing ability at one stage of the novel. Siddhartha is heavily influenced by Hesse's close relationship with the great Swisse psychologist Carl Jung, and it is a treat to experience the archetypal imagery that Hesse manages to bring to life with sheer mastery. The novel reads like an old mythic tale, told with simple descriptive prose, and playful dialogue: the characters even refer to themselves in the third person! While reading Siddhartha, I couldn't help but picture the novel's world as being hand drawn, like the old drawings of the Buddha and the Hindu and Buddhist mythologies of old. The book is divided into three parts, which symbolically follow Siddhartha's birth, death, and rebirth. The Siddhartha in the novel is not related to the Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha), but he exists in the same time as him, and the two cross paths in the book. Even though they are unrelated, and the story hasn't much to do with the Buddha, the novel implies that the Buddha exists everywhere and in everyone and is merely a representation of the enlightenment available to anyone, at any moment. Whether it be at the moment of physical death, sickness, wealth, sadness, or simply holding and looking at a rock, one is capable of `waking up' and seeing the inter connectedness of everything.I won't elaborate any further on the book, I would hate to subtract any of your enjoyment out of reading it yourself, and if you haven't, I urge you to. One important thing to consider before reading it however, (it is a fairly short read - roughly 80 pages) is the translation. The original was written in German, so the translation of the book can make or break it. Some translations are really poor, while others capture the essence of the novel beautifully and gracefully, like a net catches a butterfly before releasing it into the wind. Below is a extract of the book, spanning all (or at least most) of the English translations available to you, to help you choose the right version for you. I've ordered them in order of best to worst, though you might have a different opinion to me.SIDDHARTHA ENGLISH TRANSLATION COMPARISON:Dover Thrift, introduction, translation and glossary of Indian terms by Stanley Appelbaum (1998)Instructed by the samana elder, Siddhartha practiced denial of self; he practiced concentration in accordance with new samana rules. A heron flew over the bamboo forest - and Siddhartha absorbed the heron into his soul; he flew over forest and mountain, he was the heron, he ate fish, he hungered with a heron's hunger, he spoke with a heron's croaking, he died a heron's death. A dead jackal lay on the sandy riverbank, and Siddhartha's soul slipped into the carcass; he was a dead jackal, he lay on the sand, he swelled up, stank, rotted, was torn apart by hyenas, was skinned by vultures, became a skeleton, turned to dust, blew away into the fields. And Siddhartha's soul returned; it had died, it had rotted, it had fallen into dust, it had tasted the dismal intoxication of the cycle of existences; filled with fresh thirst, like a hunter it was awaiting the gap through which it might escape the cycle, where causation would come to an end, where sorrowless eternity began. He mortified his senses, he mortified his power to remember, he stole out of his ego and into a thousand unfamiliar forms of creation; he was an animal, he was a carcass, he was stone, he was wood, he was water, and each time, upon awakening, he found himself again; the sun or the moon was shining; he was himself once again, he was moving through the cycle; he felt thirst, overcame his thirst, felt fresh thirst.Modern Library, a translation by Susan Bernofsky, foreword by Tom Robbins, translator's preface (2006)Instructed by the eldest of the Samanas, Siddhartha practiced the eradication of ego, practiced samadhi according to new Samana rules. A heron flew over the bamboo forest--and Siddhartha received the heron into his soul, flew over forests and mountains, was heron, ate fish, felt the pangs of heron hunger, spoke in heron squawks, died heron death. A dead jackal lay on the sandy bank, and Siddhartha's soul slipped into the corpse, was dead jackal, lay on the beach, grew bloated, stank, decayed, was torn apart by hyenas and flayed by vultures, became a skeleton, became dust, blew into the fields. And Siddhartha's soul returned, it had died, had decayed, become dust, it had tasted the bleak euphoria of the cyclical journey, and then, freshly thirsty, it waited crouching like a hunter for the gap in the cycle where escape was possible, where the end of causality began, an eternity free of sorrow. He killed off his senses, he killed off his memory, he slipped from his Self to enter a thousand new shapes, was animal, was cadaver, was stone, was wood, was water, and each time he awakened he found himself once more, the sun would be shining, or else the moon, and he was once more a Self oscillating in the cycle, he felt thirst, overcame the thirst, felt new thirst.Shambhala Classics, a translation by Sherab Chödzin Kohn, introduction by Paul W. Morris, translator's preface (1998).Taught by the eldest shramana, Siddhartha practiced self-abnegation, practiced meditative absorption according to the new instructions of the shramanas. A heron flew over the bamboo grove, and Siddhartha became one with the heron in his mind, flew over forest and mountain, became a heron, ate fish, hungered with a heron's hunger, spoke a heron's croaking languages, died a heron's death. There was a dead jackal lying on the sandy bank, and Siddhartha's mind slipped into the carcass, became a dead jackal, lay on the shore, swelled up, stank, rotted, was torn to pieces by hyenas, flayed by vultures, became a skeleton, became dust, blew about in the fields. And Siddhartha's mind returned, dead, rotten, reduced to dust, having tasted the dark drunkenness of the cycle of existence. With a new craving it lay in wait like a hunter for the gap where that cycle could be escaped, where the end of causation could begin, eternity without suffering. He slipped out of his ego into a thousand alien forms, became a beast, carrion, became stone, wood, water--yet each time when he awoke he found himself there again. By sunshine or by moonlight, he was once again ego, was pressed back into the cycle, felt craving, overcame the craving, felt craving anew.Bantam Books, a translation by Hilda Rosner (1951). This translation is also available in a number of different editions from other publishers.Instructed by the eldest of the Samanas, Siddhartha practiced self-denial and meditation according to the Samana rules. A heron flew over the bamboo wood and Siddhartha took the heron into his soul, flew over forest and mountains, became a heron, ate fishes, suffered heron hunger, used heron language, died a heron's death. A dead jackal lay on the sandy shore and Siddhartha's soul slipped into its corpse; he became a dead jackal, lay on the shore, swelled, stank, decayed, was dismembered by hyenas, was picked at by vultures, became a skeleton, became dust, mingled with the atmosphere. And Siddhartha's soul returned, died, decayed, turned into dust, experienced the troubled course of the life cycle. He waited with new thirst like a hunter at a chasm where the life cycle ends, where there is an end to causes, where painless eternity begins. He killed his senses, he killed his memory, he slipped out of his Self in a thousand different forms. He was animal, carcass, stone, wood, water, and each time he reawakened. The sun or moon shone, he was again Self, swung into the life cycle, felt thirst, conquered thirst, felt new thirst.Penguin, a translation by Joachim Neugroschel, introduction by Ralph Freedman, translator's note (2002).Taught by the eldest of the samanas, Siddhartha practiced unselfing, practiced meditation, according to the samana rules. A heron flew over the bamboo forest--and Siddhartha took the heron into his soul, flew over forests and mountains, was a heron, ate fish, hungered heron hunger, spoke heron croaking, died heron death. A dead jackal lay on the sandy bank, and Siddhartha's soul slipped into the cadaver, was a dead jackal, lay on the shore, swelled, stank, rotted, was shredded by hyenas, was skinned by vultures, became a skeleton, became dust, wafted into the fields. And Siddhartha's soul returned, was dead, was rotted, was dispersed, had tasted the dismal drunkenness of the cycle of life, waited in new thirst like a hunter, waited for the gap through which he could escape the cycle, where the end of causes came, where painless eternity began. He killed his senses, he killed his memory, he slipped from his ego into a thousand different formations. He was animal, was carcass, was rock, was wood, was water, and he always found himself again upon awakening. Sun was shining or moon, he was self again, swinging in the cycle, felt thirst, overcame thirst, felt new thirst.Barnes & Noble Classics, a translation by Rika Lesser, introduction and notes by Robert A.F. Thurman (2007)Instructed by the eldest of the shramanas, Siddhartha practiced moving away from the self, practiced meditation, following new rules, the shramanas' rules. A heron flew over the bamboo forest--and Siddhartha took the heron into his soul, flew over the forest and the mountains, was the heron, gobbled fish, hungered as a heron hungers, spoke heron croak, died the death of a heron. A dead jackal lay on the sandy shore, and Siddhartha's soul slid inside its corpse, became the dead jackal, lay on the strand, swelled up, stank, putrefied, was dismembered by the hyenas, skinned by vultures, became bones, dust, blew in open country. And Siddhartha's soul died, decayed, turned to dust, tasted the muddy rush of the cycle, waiting in new thirst like a hunter for the gap where the cycle would be escaped, where the end of causes, where eternity free of suffering would begin. He mortified his senses, he slew his memory, he slid out of his I into a thousand alien shapes, became beast, carrion, stone, wood, water, and found himself every time awakening again, in the light of the sun or the moon, again he was I, whirling around in the round, he felt thirst, conquered thirst, felt thirst anew.

Nothing in particular.

Siddhartha is an interesting look at the practices of Buddhism. Siddhartha follows his own path even when an authentic true teacher is walking in his midst. He recognizes the truth of that teacher but also sees the limitations of that teaching for him. Ultimately each person needs to find his own path . The character of Sidhartha falls in the category of silent Buddhas. There is also a lesson to taken from this book about sons and daughters. One cannot shield them the world. They must released to make their own choices and mistakes in order to learn their own lessons.

this is not a biography of the Buddha Siddhartha Gautama.but the story is nevertheless profound.it attempts to personalize the Buddha's teachings.you may see yourself in Siddhartha.you may find a sense of peace, and acceptance.you may get a peek at the true nature of reality.

With some exposure to Eastern/Hindu philosophy, I had nursed misgivings of ‘Siddhartha’, the book, and was to an extent even dismissive of it. I had thought, here was another book trying to interpret eastern philosophy as seen from a Western lens. On hindsight, I gathered it was my own shortsightedness that made me think so. The slim volume enticed me one evening to take the plunge and read it for what it was worth. I learnt from its back cover that Siddhartha was a novel. This time I cursed my own frivolity, for I had assumed the book was some kind of a treatise on Buddhism, or at the very least an account of Buddha’s early life, going by its title.The first few pages seemed a bit dry. It was only when the narration assumed a fictional tone, which by the way happens very early in the book, that it started to get very engaging. ‘Siddhartha’ can be considered a fictionalized story of Gautama Buddha. If you ever imagined, The Buddha having become one by taking the route of a commoner, here is the story for you. It is ironical that Siddhartha does meet the Buddha and is highly inspired by him. His (Siddhartha’s) bosom friend enters the Buddha’s monastical order but Siddhartha himself fails to be drawn into the order. In fact he challenges the Buddha and provides justifications for plowing his own furrow in his pursuit of truth.Although this is a work of fiction, it does not seem like one. It is heavy philosophical stuff. It is a man’s quest to understand himself. Although the book is themed on Indian and Hindu philosophy (references to ‘Om’ among other things) it is Siddhartha’s self discovery that carries the day. The experience felt by him is so basic, so visceral that you never get the feeling that there is reliance on any specific faith or religious order. Of course if you have known The Buddha's life story, you cannot miss seeing parallels.The book appeals to anybody who is spiritual yet impious, for that is what Siddhartha is. There are many takeaways from the book. For one, it reaffirmed my conviction that there is no pre ordained path to self realization. Adherence to any given religion or order to the point of losing one’s self is in itself dogma. The path that gives you peace is the one that you have carved for yourself and by you. This does not mean that you shut yourself off to any external input. On the other hand you should be open to anything, as long as you don’t blindly imbibe those tenets and without a thorough personal scrutiny. Siddhartha thought he had achieved the pinnacle in philosophical pursuits via self mortification. He had conquered hunger, thirst, sleep, patience and what not. This may sound fictitious as it is humanly impossible to go without food or breath (although we hear ‘yogis’ did that in days of yore). However,all this needs to be seen in a metaphorical sense to appreciate what the author is trying to convey, which is, conquering your body alone does not guarantee deliverance. Yielding to the senses is fine, which is what Siddhartha does. Yet he is spiritual. This is the beauty of it all. The spiritual ‘overlay’ guards you from excesses, prevents you from being amoral. It never makes you sway from the path of righteousness. This is a subtle endorsement of Gautama Buddha’s ‘Middle Path’.Finally, Siddhartha’s companionship with a ferryman makes one wonder whether Siddhartha salvaged the friendship left behind in Govinda during his younger days. The ferryman’s simple life makes one realize that people leading very elemental, mundane lives can live those wonderfully well, with the utmost contentment. They can disarm the most well read philosophers.

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