SANSARA
百度搜索 SIDDHARTHA: An Indian Tale 天涯 或 SIDDHARTHA: An Indian Tale 天涯在线书库 即可找到本书最新章节.
For a lo<bdo>9９ｌｉb?</bdo>ng time, Siddhartha had lived the life of the world and of lust, though without being a part of it. His senses, which he had killed off in hot years as a Samana, had awoken again, he had tasted riches, had tasted lust, had tasted power; heless he had still remained in his heart for a long time a Samana; Kamala, being smart, had realized this quite right. It was still the art of thinking, of waiting, of fasting, which guided his life; still the people of the world, the childlike people, had remained alien to him as he was alien to them.Years passed by; surrounded by the good life, Siddhartha hardly felt them fading away. He had bee rich, for quite a while he possessed a house of his own and his own servants, and a garden before the city by the river. The people liked him, they came to him, whehey needed money or advice, but there was nobody close to him, except Kamala.
That high, bright state of being awake, which he had experiehat oime at the height of his youth, in those days after Gotamas sermon, after the separatiovinda, that tense expectation, that proud state of standing alohout teags and without teachers, that supple willio listen to the divine voi his ow, had slowly bee a memory, had beeing; distant and quiet, the holy source murmured, which used to be near, which used to murmur within himself. heless, many things he had learned from the Samanas, he had learned from Gotama, he had learned from his father the Brahman, had remained within him for a long time afterwards: moderate living, joy of thinking, hours of meditatio knowledge of the self, of his etery, which is her body nor sciousness. Many a part of this he still had, but one part after another had been submerged and had gathered dust. Just as a potters wheel, o has bee in motion, will keep on turning for a long time and only slowly lose its vigour and e to a stop, thus Siddharthas soul had kept on turning the wheel of asceticism, the wheel of thinking, the wheel of differentiation for a long time, still turning, but it turned slowly aantly and was close to ing to a standstill. Slowly, like humidity entering the dying stem of a tree, filling it slowly and making it rot, the world and sloth had entered Siddharthas soul, slowly it filled his soul, made it heavy, made it tired, put it to sleep. Oher hand, his senses had bee alive, there was much they had learned, much they had experienced.
Siddhartha had learo trade, to use his power over people, to enjoy himself with a woman, he had learo wear beautiful clothes, to give orders to servants, to bathe in perfumed waters. He had learo eat tenderly and carefully prepared food, even fish, eve and poultry, spices and sweets, and to drink wine, which causes sloth and fetfulness. He had learo play with dic his heart and horror in his chest, sat and sensed how everything died in him, withered in him, came to an end in him. By and by, he gathered his thoughts, and in his mind, he once agaihe eh of his life, starting with the first days he could remember. When was there ever a time when he had experienced happiness, felt a true bliss? Oh yes, several times he had experienced such a thing. In his years as a boy, he has had a taste of it, when he had obtained praise from the Brahmans, he had felt it in his heart: "There is a path in front of the one who has distinguished himself in the recitation of the holy verses, in the dispute with the learned ones, as an assistant in the s." Then, he had felt it in his heart: "There is a path in front of you, you are destined for, the gods are awaiting you." And again, as a young man, when the ever rising, upward fleeing, goal of all thinking had ripped him out of and up from the multitude of those seeking the same goal, when he wrestled in pain for the purpose of Brahman, when every obtained knowledge only kindled hirst in him, then again he had, in the midst of the thirst, in the midst of the paihis very same thing: "Go on! Go on! You are called upon!" He had heard this voice when he had left his home and had chosen the life of a Samana, and again when he had gone away from the Samanas to that perfected one, and also when he had gone away from him to the uain. For how long had he not heard this voiy more, for how long had he reached any more, how even and dull was the manner in which his path had passed through life, for many long years, without a high goal, without thirst, without elevation, tent with small lustful pleasures a never satisfied! For all of these many years, without knowing it himself, he had tried hard and loo bee a man like those many, like those children, and in all this, his life had been muiserable and poorer than theirs, and their goals were not his, nor their worries; after all, that entire world of the Kamaseople had only been a game to him, a dance he would watch, a edy. Only Kamala had been dear, had been valuable to him--but was she still thus? Did he still need her, or she him? Did they not play a game without an ending? Was it necessary to live for this? No, it was not necessary! The name of this game was Sansara, a game for children, a game which erhaps enjoyable to play owice, ten times--but for ever and ever ain?
Then, Siddhartha khat the game was over, that he could not play it any more. Shivers ran over his body, inside of him, so he felt, something had died.
That entire day, he sat uhe mango-tree, thinking of his father, thinking of Govinda, thinking of Gotama. Did he have to leave them to bee a Kamaswami? He still sat there, when the night had fallen. When, looking up, he caught sight of the stars, he thought: "Here Im sitting under my mango-tree, in my pleasure-garden." He smiled a little --was it really necessary, was it right, was it not as foolish game, that he owned a mango-tree, that he owned a garden?
He also put ao this, this also died in him. He rose, bid his farewell to the mango-tree, his farewell to the pleasure-garden. Since he had been without food this day, he felt strong hunger, and <samp>９9ｌｉb?</samp>thought of his house iy, of his chamber and bed, of the table with the meals on it. He smiled tiredly, shook himself, and bid his farewell to these things.
In the same hour of the night, Siddhartha left his gardehe city, and never came back. For a long time, Kamaswami had people look for him, thinking that he had fallen into the hands of robbers. Kamala had no one look for him. When she was told that Siddhartha had disappeared, she was not astonished. Did she not always expect it? Was he not a Samana, a man who was at home nowhere, a pilgrim? And most of all, she had felt this the last time they had been together, and she was happy, in spite of all the pain of the loss, that she had pulled him so affeately to her heart for this last time, that she had felt one more time to be so pletely possessed arated by him.
When she received the first news of Siddharthas disappearance, she went to the window, where she held a rare singing bird captive in a golden cage. She opehe door of the cage, took the bird out a fly. For a long time, she gazed after it, the flying bird. From this day on, she received no more visitors a her house locked. But after some time, she became aware that she regnant from the last time she was together with Siddhartha.
百度搜索 SIDDHARTHA: An Indian Tale 天涯 或 SIDDHARTHA: An Indian Tale 天涯在线书库 即可找到本书最新章节.