“And I’d Give It All Away
Just So I Could Say That
I Know I Know I Know I Know
You’re Gonna Be OK Anyway”:
Reflections on Siddhartha, Part II
Feraco
Search for Human Potential
8 October 2013
Until I saw Chardin’s painting, I never
realized how much beauty lay around
me in my parents’ house, in the halfcleared table, in the corner of a
tablecloth left awry, in the knife beside
the empty oyster shell.
Marcel Proust
The first forty years of life give us the text;
the last thirty supply the commentary.
Arthur Schopenhauer
My mother said to me,“If you are a
soldier, you will become a general. If
you are a monk, you will become Pope.”
Instead I became a painter, and became
Picasso.
Pablo Picasso
It’s not that easy to explain what
makes an excellent teacher; if it was, we
wouldn’t misfire on hires, and you guys
would have a lot less to do on Facebook
and Ratemyteachers.
Perfectly solid individuals, people
with good skills and better intentions,
don’t necessarily flourish when
dropped in a classroom filled with
children, and it’s hard to tell in advance
who should and shouldn’t teach.
Similarly, someone who isn’t great at
the job in the beginning may turn out
just fine once they get their feet under
them.
(Basically, I’m glad I’m not the
administrators in charge of figuring out
who to stick in the classroom.)
At the same time, I’m pretty sure I
could get some very specific answers
from you if I asked “What are some
qualities of excellent teaching and
teachers?”
It seems to be one of those things
that’s difficult to explain, but easy to
recognize.
Perhaps you think good teachers pay
attention – to their content, to their
children, to the dynamics and makeup
of their classroom, to the little things.
Perhaps you think good teachers
make connections between topics, or
make what you’re learning more
interesting, or just make an effort.
And the funny thing is that outside of very
job-specific things (“knows the bell
schedule,” etc.), most of the things you’d
praise in teachers are the very qualities we
seek in strong parents – and most of what
you’d criticize with one is what you’d
criticize with the other.
Both occupy weirdly specific and limited
positions of authority: They offer guidance
and experience, but neither can offer
wisdom.
That doesn’t make their information
irrelevant; in fact, their information remains
a necessary evil (you need to be exposed to it
and learn it in order to place your individual
experiences in meaningful context).
And as it so happens, the best teachers in
Siddhartha aren’t the ones who try to force
others to change or follow.
They’re the ones who give Siddhartha new
information, and who provide him with room
to gain experience and learn from it, for
better or worse: the gentle Gotama, the wise
Vasudeva, and the lovely Kamala.
While both Gotama and Vasudeva are
bodhisattvas, the latter has a more
profoundly positive impact on Siddhartha’s
life.
Gotama’s natural instinct is to teach, and
the people most drawn to him are the ones
who crave teachers; this craving, Siddhartha
argues, will prevent them from ever
achieving their goal.
Rather than try to guide Siddhartha
through explicit instructions or
commandments, the ferryman Vasudeva
merely provides him with a space to explore
and experience life in all its forms.
More importantly, Siddhartha badly needs
some of Vasudeva’s perspective; as an
established figure with followers, Gotama
represents something a little more “normal”
for him.
But when Vasudeva gets all reflective (and
figurative) – Yes…it is a very beautiful river. I
love it above everything. I have often listened
to it, gazed at it, and I have always learned
something from it. One can learn much from a
river – we realize that a man in his position
sees the world, sees people from all walks of
life…a direct contrast with the Siddhartha who
leaves his village and family behind.
One is peaceful, kind, and curious towards
the rest of the world; the other rejects it,
scornfully and ignorantly.
During the time that Siddhartha spends living
with him, Vasudeva occasionally offers up some
advice, but doesn’t mind that his younger
companion won’t follow it.
He knows Siddhartha will mess up badly, and
he’s OK with that for two reasons.
Firstly, experience makes things “realer” –
more meaningful to the person. (Flashlight
principle…)
Secondly, one has to have a range of
experiences – good, bad, and everything in
between – in order to truly live; you can’t
understand everything when you only stand on
one side of life’s spectrum.
At some point, teaching becomes a way of
sheltering others – of preventing mistakes that
would occur otherwise.
Sheltering doesn’t work; it only serves to fight
against the Universal Truths. (The Brahmin tried
sheltering Siddhartha, and how well did that
work? For that matter, Govinda does it to
himself!)
It’s therefore necessary for Siddhartha to strike
off on his own; the epiphany he reaches in
“Awakening” is, in one sense, inevitable.
Still, Siddhartha is impressed by Gotama during
their initial encounter.
It’s the first time he’s met a man who’s achieved
what he aims to achieve.
Remember, it’s not that he doesn’t believe in what
Gotama says – he does, at least to an extent;
Siddhartha believes that no doctrine can exceed
Gotama’s.
But he protests that his counterpart cannot
possibly transfer the understanding he reached
under the bo tree (the “secret of what the Illustrious
One himself experienced – he alone among hundreds
of thousands”).
Since Gotama’s teachings proved insufficient for
him, it stands to reason that “no other teachings will
attract [him], since this man’s teachings have not
done so.”
When Govinda chooses to follow the
Buddha, he renounces human
connections.
This is something Gotama preaches,
and something Siddhartha insists at the
end of the book is inconsistent with how
the Buddha lives his life.
What interests me is that Govinda
doesn’t realize that he’s doing so, nor that
his decision will cost him his companion.
But that’s partly a reflection of
Govinda’s approach: follow others in
search of understanding without
bothering to check for understanding
first.
In fact, Govinda prefers to follow others until
someone/something else convinces him to follow it
instead.
Had he considered his decision more carefully,
not only would he have realized the cost of his choice,
but he’d have heard Gotama say something
significant: The teaching which you have heard,
however, is not my opinion, and its goal is not to
explain the world to those who are thirsty for
knowledge.
Now, there’s nothing remarkable or odd about
Govinda’s approach.
Indeed, it’s how most people approach their lives –
which, in this allegorical and universal novel, was the
reason Hesse portrayed the character this way.
However, such an approach ultimately won’t work
for him, nor does it for Siddhartha.
Notice that Govinda does make decisions; it’s just
that his decisions somehow make him more passive
rather than active.
He is, as Siddhartha describes him, an excellent
shadow for greater men; he just lacks cleverness, or
wisdom, of his own.
Cleverness implies intelligence for
gain, particularly immediate gain:
You’re clever when you can trick
someone into doing your bidding, for
example, or puzzle your way out of a
difficult situation.
Connotatively, wisdom is more
placid, peaceful, and unfocused on gain
– it’s meant to be shared (if not
transferred…if that makes any sense).
It requires a wide, long-term, allencompassing perspective here.
The Buddha warns Siddhartha to “be
on…guard against too much
cleverness,” but Siddhartha doesn’t
heed his advice: His view of the people is
the town bears the mark of a man who
considers himself cleverer, if not wiser,
than all others.
Thus Siddhartha leaves the Jetavana grove
(a special sort of mini-forest, a cultivated
wilderness), initially intending to head back to
the forest, only to realize mid-chapter that he
cannot go home.
He is no longer the person he was when he
left, and nothing waits for him at the other end
of that path.
Indeed, Siddhartha realizes that “he [is] no
longer a youth; he [is] a man. He realize[s] that
something ha[s] left him, like the old skin that
a snake sheds. Something [is] no longer in him,
something that had accompanied him right
through his youth and was part of him: this
was the desire to have teachers and to listen to
their teachings.”
Next, he decides,“I am no longer what I was,
I am no longer an ascetic, no longer a priest, no
longer a Brahmin. What then shall I do at home
with my father? Study? Offer sacrifices?
Practice meditation? All this is over for me
now.”
He realizes that his attempts to
destroy the Self stemmed from his
fear and misunderstanding of it,
and that said attempts had left him
further from enlightenment rather
than closer.
He decides that he is separate
and different from everyone else,
and that he must no longer try to
escape from himself.
Intending to learn how to
understand himself better, he
decides to leave the natural/semicultivated world behind in favor of
something new – which, as it so
happens, is the town across the
river.
He heads there with new purpose, marveling at
the sight of the very things which had always lain
within his vision yet never been seen for what they
were.
He resolves to see the beauty in things, and to
gain experience for himself; now that he has
forsaken teachings, it’s the only kind of educator
he can tolerate.
As he thinks to himself:“Both thought and
senses were fine things, behind both of them lay
hidden the last meaning; it was worthwhile
listening to them both, to play with both, neither to
despise nor overrate either of them, but to listen
intently to both voices. He would only strive after
whatever the inward voice commanded him, not
tarry anywhere but where the voice advised
him…To obey no other external command, only the
voice, to be prepared – that was good, that was
necessary. Nothing else was necessary.”
Be careful! To follow the inner voice is good…as
long as your inner voice doesn’t betray you.
(Siddhartha’s has been good to him…for now.)
While it occurs during one of the
most awkwardly written sex scenes ever
committed to print – and the fact that
it’s being translated from another
language surely doesn’t help – notice
that Siddhartha controls himself when
he meets the River Girl.
If Kamala symbolizes desire and
passion, she does so while mixed with
intelligence.
The River Girl, on the other hand,
represents wanton lust – unfocused fire
that’s only enjoyable in the here and
now, the ultimate form of sufferingcausing desire.
One cannot live as children do and
hope to reach enlightenment; one
cannot follow one’s impulses blindly
and not be blinded by them.
Thus Siddhartha sizes up the River Girl and
quickly casts her aside, choosing to pursue
Kamala instead; he can resist desire, but
decides to become its student instead.
Whether this is ultimately a mistake is
something you can consider while writing your
lecture!
Now, Kamala isn’t a prostitute – really,
there’s nothing in Western culture that’s
analogous to the powerful, respected role she
plays here – but she represents a central
problem: the conflation of desire with love.
Desire is one of love’s components, but it’s
not an adequate substitute, even the adult
version of desire and passion that Kamala
embodies: Controlled, thoughtful, studied, and
technical.
Kamala herself bears this out, as she forms
an emotional bond with Siddhartha (albeit one
that’s insufficiently reciprocated); when it
stops being a game, the consequences matter
far more than she anticipates.
Kamala’s also noteworthy
because she essentially goes toe-totoe with Siddhartha in their initial
conversation.
Very few have ever carried
themselves as Siddhartha’s equal,
and this boldness piques his
interest.
Soon, he’s messing with his
identity Star Point while trying to
impress her – his hair, his clothes,
etc. – and she’s intrigued not just by
his pursuit’s single-mindedness, but
also by his ability to read and write
(marketable skills in the town, and
something very important – we’ll
cover this again shortly).
Success is within Siddhartha’s
grasp, as shown by the kiss Kamala
gives him.
Now he just needs to take it, and he
tells her he intends to in his “stone
through the water” speech I quoted
in Will the Future Blame Us?; he’s
essentially made his own luck thus
far because he knows how to “think,
wait, and fast.”
These are, of course, the three
skills he’ll forget by the time he
reaches middle age (the “Samsara”
chapter).
But there’s more to the kiss than
meets the eye: Kamala transmits
pleasure with it, but not love.
Her kiss, like Siddhartha’s name, is
an incomplete thing.
As Kamala says, her kiss is “the
reason [she is] not lacking in clothes,
shoes, bangles, and other pretty
things”: she’s mastered one aspect of
the material world, and in return she’s
been granted access to the rest of it.
It’s the immaterial world that poses
the challenge – a challenge that
Kamala ultimately proves she isn’t
ready to handle.
Right now, Siddhartha just needs to
master the material world to win her
heart – and for that, he’ll have
Kamaswami: “Soon I will be a merchant
and have money and all those things
which you value…May my glance always
please you, may good fortune always
come to me from you!”
Then there’s the Govinda dream – one
of the odder parts of the text, but just a
way of marking the way that everything
Siddhartha has ever known has already
subtly begun changing.
He’s no longer as opposed to the
sensory world (maya! desire!) as he
once was.
Note again that he’s still in control –
he’s a long way from losing himself in
these things.
Here, as elsewhere, there’s a rudimentary
recognition of the interconnectedness of
everything –“it tasted of woman and man, of
sun and forest, of animal and flower, of every
fruit, of every pleasure.
As for why it’s Govinda in the dream
(besides the fact that he’s the most powerful
figure in Siddhartha’s life), there’s a
foreshadowing justification.
Siddhartha will “nurse” Govinda’s quest
for enlightenment someday, just as Govinda
will “midwife” his rebirth in “By the River.”
Govinda comes back, over and over again;
Vasudeva references the cycle motif
explicitly when he tells Siddhartha that he
can learn everything by studying the river –
and that “everything comes back.You, too,
will come back.”
Siddhartha fundamentally misjudges
Vasudeva when he compares him to
Govinda, and in turn all of the others:
“All are subservient, all wish to be my
friend, to obey and to think little. People
are children.”
It’s one of the most egregious
misreads he could have possibly made,
and it conveniently indicates just how
little Siddhartha really understands at
this point of his life…which is fine.
(Progress awaits!)
But it’s also why “Amongst the
People” is ironically named: Siddhartha
is among them, but he never allows
himself to be part of them (even as he
increasingly becomes one of them, he
remains steadfastly in denial).
The chapter begins with a
description of Kamaswami that fits well
with what Kamala has said about him:
he’s the picture of decaying wealth,
graying hair paired with clever eyes.
He’s confused by Siddhartha’s
statement about not being in need; as a
creature of desire, Kamaswami literally
cannot comprehend such a thing.
“How will you live if you are without
possessions?”
This gives Kamaswami and
Siddhartha the chance to learn about
one another via a dialogue about the
giving and taking that’s omnipresent in
human life.
Once again, Kamaswami cannot
understand how Siddhartha lives as he
does, for he doesn’t believe Siddhartha has
anything to offer if he can only use his skills
(rather than possessions) in an exchange.
The language of exchange is really the
only language Kamaswami speaks.
Once Siddhartha convinces him that his
skills are useful in an exchange,
Kamaswami respects him – particularly
once he learns Siddhartha can write.
Both what Siddhartha writes and that
Siddhartha writes prove important.
His saying –“Writing is good, thinking is
better. Cleverness is good, patience is
better” – has poignancy when we consider
where he ends up, trapped by his own
“cleverness” and attention to the bottom
line.
Moreover, the fact that
Siddhartha can read, write, and
speak is very noteworthy.
Once we acquire language, we
lose the ability to think without
words – to come up with thoughts
that no words can describe.
Indeed, our thoughts express
themselves in sensory terms.
Thus our thoughts become part
of our reality, and our command of
language therefore dictates the
depth of the reality we perceive
(maya!).
Kamala’s reality is therefore
incomplete – she cannot read or
write, and by lacking language, she
lacks connection to the world…she
lacks reality.
The less you understand about
the veil, the harder it proves to
pierce.
This is why Siddhartha chooses
to study the Self rather than hide
from it, and why our bodhisattvas
finally reach enlightenment.
Once Siddhartha is accepted into
Kamaswami’s service, he retains some
of his old habits; he doesn’t become
entirely like the man for another
chapter/decade or so:“Kamaswami
conducted his business with care and
often with passion, but Siddhartha
regarded it all as a game, the rules of
which he endeavored to learn well, but
did not stir his heart.”
His approach to business frustrates
and even infuriates the old merchant,
for the younger man’s lackadaisical
approach to profit and loss increases
the elder man’s risk. (Quit messing with
my coin!)
Siddhartha, on the other hand, seems interested
in making human connections – a noble (and, for
Kamaswami, novel) sentiment, but one we quickly
see isn’t entirely accurate.
“Siddhartha’s sympathy and curiosity lay only
with people, whose work, troubles, pleasures, and
follies were more unknown and remote from him
than the moon. Although he found it so easy to
speak to everyone, to live with everyone, to learn
from everyone, he was very conscious of the fact
that there was something which separated him
from them…”
However, he increasingly devotes himself to
Kamala, which is in keeping with his singleminded/obsessive approach to his pursuits; he even
convinces himself that Kamala understands him
better than Govinda did.
“He spent wonderful hours with the clever,
beautiful courtesan and became her pupil, her
lover, her friend. Here with Kamala lay the value
and meaning of his present life, not in
Kamaswami’s business.”
In other words, the embodiment of desire
understands him better than the searcher.
His conversation with her about
leaves and stars is sad, in a way.
Even though Hesse only says it
outright at the end, the tone of
Siddhartha’s dialogue is weary and
regretful, the pitch of a man who
knows he’s letting his life slip away
yet refuses to stop it.
The seeds of Siddhartha’s fall
are sown here:
…He occupied his thoughts with all this game and
the passion with which all men play it, as much
as he had previously occupied his thoughts with
the gods and Brahman. At times he heard within
him a soft, gentle voice, which reminded him
quietly, complained quietly, so that he could
hardly hear it. Then he suddenly saw clearly that
he was leading a strange life, that he was doing
many thing that were only a game, that he was
quite cheerful and sometimes experienced
pleasure, but that real life was flowing past him
and did not touch him. Like a player who plays
with his ball, he played with his business, with
the people around him, watched them, derived
amusement from them; but with his heart, with
his real nature, he was not there. His real self
wandered elsewhere, far away, wandered on and
on invisibly and had nothing to do with his life.
He was sometimes afraid of these thoughts and
wished that he could also share their childish
daily affairs with intensity, truly to take part in
them, to enjoy and live their lives instead of only
being there as an onlooker.
There’s a reason he ends the
chapter by confessing he
cannot love:“Ordinary people
can – that is their secret.”
Rather than becoming
extraordinary, Siddhartha
finds himself envious of the
aggressively ordinary.
And thus we hit the book’s
midpoint, standing at the
precipice of something more…
At times he heard within him a soft, gentle voice,
which reminded him quietly, complained
quietly, so that he could hardly hear it. Then he
suddenly saw clearly that he was leading a
strange life, that he was doing many things
that were only a game, that he was quite
cheerful and sometimes experienced pleasure,
but that real life was flowing past him and did
not touch him. Like a player who plays with his
ball, he played with his business, with the
people around him, watched them, derived
amusement from them; but with his heart, with
his real nature, he was not there. His real self
wandered elsewhere, far away, wandered on
and on invisibly and had nothing to do with his
life. He was sometimes afraid of these thoughts
and wished that he could also share their
childish daily affairs with intensity, truly to
take part in them, to enjoy and live their lives
instead of only being there as an onlooker.
You are like me; you are
different from other people.
You are Kamala and no one
else, and within you there is a
stillness and sanctuary to
which you can retreat at any
time and be yourself, just as I
can. Few people have that
capacity and yet everyone
could have it.
Not all people are clever.
Most people, Kamala, are like a falling
leaf that drifts and turns in the air,
flutters, and falls to the ground. But a
few others are like stars which travel
one defined path: no wind reaches
them, they have within themselves their
guide and path. Among all the wise men,
of whom I knew many, there was one
who was perfect in this respect. I can
never forget him. He is Gotama, the
Illustrious One, who preaches this
gospel. Thousands of young men hear
his teachings every day and follow his
instructions every hour, but they are all
falling leaves; they have not the wisdom
and guide within themselves.
You are the best lover that I have
had.You are stronger than others,
more supple, more willing.You
have learned my art well,
Siddhartha. Some day, when I am
older, I will have a child by you. And
yet, my dear, you have remained a
Samana.You do not really love me –
you love nobody. Is that not true?
Maybe. I am like you.You cannot love
either, otherwise how could you
practice love as an art? Perhaps
people like us cannot love.
Ordinary people can – that is their
secret.
In “Samsara,” everything falls apart: the
center cannot hold.
Everyone has grown miserable, shallow,
and exhausted by the book’s midpoint.
The years pass without Siddhartha noticing
(Kierkegaard!!!), his senses and perceptions
grow muted, and he lacks real human
connections: Kamala is his only friend, and
even that’s grown complicated and tiring.
He remembers some of what he learned as a
youth, but much of it has fallen away, much as
an abandoned bicycle rusts past the point of
usefulness.
Decades have passed since his
“awakening,” and he’s made no progress in
virtually every way that matters.
He’s now learned the ways of the world, a
world he never had to grapple with while living
in his forest village.
Hesse hammers Siddhartha’s decline
home with blunt, brutal efficiency.
Whereas “Amongst the People”
merely hinted that Siddhartha had lost
his way,“Samsara” shows just how
meaningless his existence has become.
Siddhartha’s soul grows weary and
numb, while his senses drive and
dominate his actions.
He’s addicted to vice, burdened by
things that don’t even interest him.
The dice games he plays merely
reflect the attitudes of a man who
treated life itself as a game for too long,
holding himself apart from everyone in
that life until he found himself removed
from everything in it.
He’s silenced his inner voice, he veers
between feeling sick and feeling nothing
with little adrenal spikes in between –“his
heart full of misery and secret fear” – and
he’s no longer kind to strangers, no
longer willing to reflect on
himself…nothing works.
He’s not trying to pierce the veil; how
can he when he’s scared to look in the
mirror?
He still clings to the last vestiges of his
old life.
His misplaced sense of superiority, his
disdain for possessions – that’s what he’s
kept.
But he’s thoroughly disgusted with
himself, wishing he could purge himself
and completely clueless as to how he can.
When the Songbird Dream happens,
Siddhartha’s “misery and secret fear” – that
he’s wasted a shot at a brilliant existence – has
a metaphorical outlet.
Siddhartha’s potential, the best part of his
soul, has been snuffed out; just as the little
golden bird lies dead in its cage, Siddhartha’s
blackened heart lies, choked out and still,
within his ribcage.
When had he really been happy? When had
he really experienced joy?...He had felt in his
heart:“A path lies before you which you are
called to follow.”…How long was it now since
he had heard this voice, since he had soared to
any heights? How flat and desolate his path
had been! How many long years he had spent
without any lofty goal, without any thirst,
without any exaltation, content with small
pleasures and yet never really satisfied!
He feels himself die in this moment, the
moment he realizes that he and Kamala are
simply clinging to each other as they plummet
towards the bottom.
He sits under his tree, as Gotama once did,
and rather than reach enlightenment,
Siddhartha simply gives up and leaves.
When he does, Kamala does not follow him;
she understands that he never cared for her the
way she cared for him, and that image of her
clutching him during their final encounter is
almost unbearably sad.
That’s the most incredible thing about this
chapter: it makes you feel completely lonely and
miserable.
It makes you want to go find someone and
hug them!
It’s a structural trick that reinforces one of
Hesse’s pet themes: we all need someone, for a
life without connection is one that’s untethered
from the larger world and universe.
Kamala will eventually follow up
on her stated desire to follow
Gotama, but it will cost her dearly.
Kamala tends to get the short
shrift from a lot of readers, but
she’s one of my favorite
characters.
True, she’s trapped by who she
is, but her eyes are straining
towards what she wants to become,
and I have a soft spot for people
who yearn to be something more
than they already are.
Kamala lets the songbird fly away
before she discovers her pregnancy,
closing her door to all visitors and living
alone.
For all intents and purposes, her old
life – and Siddhartha’s old life – ends
here.
“Samsara” thus ends on a weird note,
a fusion of life and loss that’s perfectly
in keeping with its focus on cycles and
the dualistic nature of existence; if you
want to have fun, re-read the book and
look for all of the pairings and binaries!
And so we head down to the river to
escape a cycle…or so we think.