Siddhartha was thus loved by everyone. He was a source of joy by everyone. He was a source of joy for everybody, he was a delight for them all. But he Siddhartha was not a source of joy for himself, he found no delight in himself. Walking the rosy paths of the fig tree gardens, sitting in the bluish shade of the grove of contemplation, washing his limbs daily in the bath of repentence, sacrificing in the dim shade of the mango forest, his gestures of perfect decency, everyone's love and joy, he still lacked all joy in his heart. Dreams and restless thoughts came into his mind, flowing from the water of the river, sparkling from the stars of the night, melting from the beams of the sun, dreams came to him and a restlessness of the soul, fuming from the sacrifices, breathing forth from the verses of the Rig Veda, being infused into him, drop by drop, from the Old Brahmans.
Herman Hesse, Siddhartha, page ? no page numbers lol
How beautiful is that writing!!! Man.
All is well
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