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Siddhartha (Barnes & Noble Classics), by Hermann Hesse

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From Robert A. F. Thurman’s Introduction to Siddhartha  I first read Siddhartha at the very start of the 1960s, and I can still remember the powerful inspiration it gave me. Why would a young person seeking to escape from wasp-hood at Harvard turn to India as the mother of inner exploration, when nothing in Western education would indicate that India was a source of great explorations in the quest for some transcendent truth? Clearly, Siddhartha was a model for my own journeys, for my own development of his vaunted skills at “fasting—waiting—thinking.”Looking into Hesse’s personal life, I was astonished to discover many parallels between the troubled youth of this great psychic explorer, poet, critic, novelist, painter, and gardener who wandered the world before World War I and finally fled from the Rhineland down to southern Switzerland, and that of my own more humble and less accomplished self, hailing from Manhattan and traveling more or less on foot to India my first time out in 1961. At fifteen Hesse began to rebel against his strict Pietistic father and mother and the mission school they placed him in; he never felt comfortable in conventional German society of the time. Some of us—certainly myself, and I think Hesse, too—though born in the West, tend to wander as if doomed to exile and always feel like “a stranger in a strange land.” For both of us, forty-plus years and another World War apart, “Mother India” was a salve, a home, for our wandering spirits. Why? Is it because India’s civilization alone has had the wisdom to open itself up truly to embrace the naturally homeless? Hesse himself had this to say about India: For example, with my Indian journey I had an unforgettable experience. At first it was a real disappointment, I returned completely downcast. But almost ten years later, as I was writing Siddhartha, suddenly the Indian memories were extremely precious and positive, and the little disappointment of earlier on was extinguished.1 Siddhartha was published in German in 1922. Its first English translation was published in 1951. Siddhartha’s quest was an important model for the whole postwar generation’s seeking of “Enlightenment in the East.” For Hesse himself, the book articulates a complex of strands in his character. It shows his rich appreciation for India conceived in a specific Western way, inherited from his missionary grandfather and parents. He says: And this learned and wise grandfather had not only Indian books and scrolls, but also shelves full of exotic wonders, not only coconut shells and strange birds’ eggs, but also wooden and bronze idols and animals, silken paintings and a whole cabinet stuffed with Indian cloths and robes in all materials and colors. . . . All this was part of my childhood, not less than the fir-trees of the Black Forest, the Nagold river, or the Gothic chapel on the bridge. Siddhartha is distinguished by Hesse’s consummate artistic, spiritual, and poetic sense of the high transcendent experiences and values accessible through the Indian “inner sciences” and “mind yogas.” At the same time, the book contains a certain European, world-weary cynicism and a sense of the inevitable faultiness of all religious paths. Hesse again: “At the age of thirty, I was a Buddhist, of course not in the church-sense of the word.” The book hums with Hesse’s pursuit of Christian, Tolstoyan nonviolence and the inner kingdom, all the while roiled from within by its opposite: his own driving inner violence, his volcanic sensuality, and his deep despair of fulfilling human relations—a despair that stemmed from his ambivalent struggles with his parents and his ups and downs with his first wife and three sons. Rereading Siddhartha now, I can clearly see its influence on my decision at twenty to leave college and the study of Western literature, philosophy, and psychology, and seek a higher enlightenment in India. More than forty years later, I have gone back and forth from “the West” to “the East” so many times I can hardly tell the difference anymore, though I observe certain groups still struggling to maintain the “never the twain shall meet” sort of attitude. Having trod a little bit in both of the Siddharthas’ footprints in my own small way, I appreciate the book even more. I can now unravel the tangled threads of Hesse’s mixing of Hindu and Buddhist worldviews, his entrapment in some of the stereotyped views of “the East” that were almost inescapable for a man of his time and culture, and his romantic depiction of Buddhist/Hindu enlightenment as a kind of return to nature, a resignation to the flow of the great river of life. In spite of this creative Hindu/Buddhist mixing, I enjoy the book much more now than I ever could have in my youth. Hesse seems to have been haunted by a keen insight into the human condition, and his work seems to mark a great turning point in the growth of a genuine European respect for the civilization of enlightenment that developed in ancient India. He himself loved nothing more than to leave hearth and home and wander south to Italy with artistic friends, the European version of a sadhu (Hindu ascetic). He slept in bed-and-breakfasts or camped alfresco, contemplated nature and art, and took a break from the routine chores of householding in northern Europe (very likely overburdening his high-strung wife with their three sons). But it was hard to wander with open mind and heart and intellect in the Europe of that time, so he also went to India and southeast Asia. His keen artist’s perception saw there that the complex fabric of the culture of India was rich enough and its weave loose enough to accommodate all manner of eccentrics, wandering here and there, always on some spiritual pilgrimage or other, seeking beauty or peace, magical energy or complete transcendence.At this moment in my journey, I am very pleased to have the chance to introduce Siddhartha to a new generation, since I think it still has the power to inspire the seeker of higher truth. I do not pretend to evaluate Hesse’s great achievement from some higher vantage of supposed enlightenment, which I do not claim for myself. But I have put in a bit of study of enlightenment’s various forms and levels, the institutions and cultural orientations it has supported in various countries, and the high civilizations it ultimately created. And following Siddhartha’s inspiration more than forty years ago, I did make a bit of progress—just enough to know that, as elusive as it continues to be, enlightenment is still highly worth pursuing.

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Paperback: 160 pages

Publisher: Barnes & Noble Classics; 10th edition (November 1, 2007)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 1593083793

ISBN-13: 978-1593083793

Product Dimensions:

5.2 x 0.5 x 8.2 inches

Shipping Weight: 5.6 ounces (View shipping rates and policies)

Average Customer Review:

4.4 out of 5 stars

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If only this Kindle Edition preserved the translation enjoyed in print edition, it would be a wonderful read. But, it has been badly conveyed with phrasing that destroys much of the beauty of this classic work. An excellent author's turn of phrase, is preserved by an accomplished translator; this 'rendition' does not improve the text by its use of English simplifications and re-phrasings of the original literature. It is a disservice to anyone whom thinks they are reading Hesse.Object lesson: you get what you pay for -- I wish I'd gotten the (Buddha cover art) version, that appears to be same as paperback I've well read for decades: that superior version is also available as Kindle Edition, by Hermann Hesse (Author), Hilda Rosner (Translator). Next time I'll compare 'sample' with a known edition to avoid spending even very little money on something with damaged literary quality.Siddhartha

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.

Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha is an absolutely amazing and engrossing tale of one man’s journey to find that all-elusive idea of enlightenment. The book’s title may suggest that it is simply a story that would have value only for people of the Buddhist persuasion, but this simply is not true. The work is well written and thought out, and it does a terrific job of showing us as human beings that often times what we are looking for is with us all along.Hesse’s book follows a young man named Siddhartha on his journey to find the true meaning of life and peace. The young man leaves his family of Brahman priests believing that they have spiritually achieved all that they ever will, and embarks with his friend Govinda down the path of a contemplative and restrictive existence. The young man soon realizes that these religious men (Samanas) also are lacking, to Siddhartha, what the path to true enlightenment really is. He continues on his journey coming by entering the company of the real Buddha—Gatama, but soon comes into contradictions with the Buddha’s teaching of removing oneself from the world. This leaves the man frustrated and lost, and eschews him down another path that is quite opposite of the one he originally intended to take.Siddhartha has now become rather restless with his pursuit of happiness, so he soon discards it for one of sexuality, greed and total reliance on the flesh. He falls in love with Kamala—a beautiful courtesan woman—and embraces the life of a merchant that furthers his greed and lustful desires. Siddhartha and Kamala conceive a son soon after their affair, but after a dream leaves Siddhartha puzzled, he becomes bored and sickened by his lust and greed, and decides to move on to find his enlightened path. With total despair encompassing his heart and soul, Siddhartha comes to a river where he soon hears a unique sound that will change his life forever. This sound signals the true beginning of his new and fulfilled life--the beginning of earthly suffering, human rejection and inner peace, and, finally, ultimate wisdom and enlightenment.The book is a harrowing tale of man’s lust for greed, power, sex and material gain; however, its ultimate purpose is to show that often times what we are looking for is in the simplest places imaginable. Hesse’s work craftily explains (through Buddhist and Hindu philosophies) that life is an all-encompassing journey that will eventually show all mankind what it is looking for. We suffer and struggle mightily through banal everyday tasks, but perhaps this daily grind of being in a symbiotic relationship with other life is what inner peace really is.

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