David E. Cooper reads Philip C. Almond’s “The Buddha." 140) Siddhartha 『流浪者之歌』悉達求道記。百年紀念100 years of Hermann Hesse's 'Siddhartha'： 如是說與不可說 林懷民 “Songs of the Wanderers”

140)  Siddhartha 『流浪者之歌』悉達求道記。百年紀念： 如是說與不可說 林懷民 “Songs of the Wanderers”

https://www.facebook.com/hanching.chung/videos/575214331000187

Los Angeles Review of Books (LARB) 
  · 
"No longer the deeply pessimistic and quietistic figure struggling to understand the world’s all-pervasive suffering, today’s bright-sided Buddha is the prototype mindfulness therapist and eco-protester." David E. Cooper reads Philip C. Almond’s “The Buddha." https://lareviewofbooks.org/....../prince-gautamas....../
所有心情：
2323

Hermann Hesse's "Siddhartha," the fable about a young Brahmin's search for wisdom and spiritual peace ...

 the pristine idyll

 the spiritually questing days of youth,

I also loved Hermann Hesse — “Siddhartha,” “The Glass Bead Game.” And I read — of course — “Be Here Now,” by Ram Dass. This was the mid-70s, ..

Toni Morrison's “Song of Solomon” and “Siddhartha,” by Hermann Hesse.



They went to the Banyan tree, they sat down, Siddhartha right here,
Govinda twenty paces away. While putting himself down, ready to speak
the Om, Siddhartha repeated murmuring the verse:

Om is the bow, the arrow is soul, The Brahman is the arrow’s target,
That one should incessantly hit.




100 years of Hermann Hesse's 'Siddhartha'
When the novel about an Indian man's spiritual journey was first published, it barely created a ripple. Decades later, it inspired millions to embark on a voyage of self-discovery.
    
"Siddhartha" is the story of the spiritual journey of a young man, who shares his name with the Buddha.
The novel by Hermann Hesse is set in 6th-century Kapilavastu (now in Nepal), the birthplace of Siddhartha Gautama — better known as the Buddha.
Siddhartha, the story's protagonist, is born into a wealthy family of Hindu priests, or Brahmins. Although the scriptures offer him explanations about the soul and its immortality, Siddhartha is keen on finding people who live this truth. Inspired by Buddha, who relinquished his kingdom, Siddhartha abandons his life of luxury and sets off with his best friend, Govinda, on a mission to find the meaning of life.
Hermann Hesse won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1946
The idea of spiritual India
Hesse's story about the Brahmin boy looking for salvation was based on a perception of India that was popular among Western scholars studying India at the time, known as Indologists. Like them, Hermann Hesse had an idealized image of ancient, spiritual India.
"This was rooted in German Romanticism and the classical India of the 'Vedas' and Romantic Hinduism," says Jyoti Sabharwal, who teaches at the University of Delhi's Department of German Studies and has done extensive research on Hermann Hesse and his books.
Like his protagonist Siddhartha, Hermann Hesse himself was on a spiritual quest when he traveled to India in 1911. Despite his strictly Protestant upbringing in Calw in Baden-Württemberg in southern Germany, India seemed to be a natural choice for him, explains German scholar Martin Kämpchen, who is currently based in Santiniketan, West Bengal, India and has written several books on Hesse and European Indologists.
Hesse's family actually did have ties with India: His mother was born in South India during one of the missions of her father, Hermann Gundert, in Kerala. The Protestant Christian missionary not only learned the Malayalam language, but also wrote a dictionary and a book on Malayalam grammar.
Hesse's book has been translated into many Indian languages, including Tamil
The birth of 'Siddhartha'
Hesse set off on his journey in 1911, expecting to visit Java, Bali and Sri Lanka, followed by a trip to southern India, from where he would sail back home to Europe. But a severe stomach ailment after his trip to the Indonesian islands rendered him immobile, and he had to give up his plans to go to southern India. 
Hesse's journey left him amazed but disappointed, explains Kämpchen, as the author did not find that idealized version of India during his trip to Indonesia or Sri Lanka (which in Hesse's view were part of India).
That feeling wore off slowly, adds Kämpchen.
Hesse ultimately believed that "the real India was in its philosophy, in its asceticism, in its deep thinking about life," Kämpchen says. Like the German Romantics, he believed that Eastern philosophy would resolve the problems of Western society's spiritual degradation.
It was this idea that he wanted to put into his book, which idealized a form of asceticism "within the Hindu and Buddhist mold." This ideal also symbolized Hesse's search for the eternal truth. 
Hermann Hesse's parental home in Calw, Baden-Württemberg
A book of the counterculture
When "Siddhartha" was published in autumn 1922, it was not exactly a failure, but did not immediately become very popular either. Literary circles in Germany partly viewed it as sentimental and kitschy.
It achieved global popularity decades later, after an English translation of the book by Hilda Rosenau was published, says Jyoti Sabharwal. According to her, the book became popular following the 1960s student movement in Europe, which spread to North America and parts of Asia.
It gained cult status with the Woodstock generation, with young people who protested the war in Vietnam and the conservative norms of their parents. "At a global level, it was a kind of a text which became the novel of the counterculture of the '60s and the '70s," she adds.
"Siddhartha" then joined the ranks of other hippy classics, such as "The Psychedelic Experience: A Manual Based on the Tibetan Book of the Dead" (1964) by Timothy Leary, "The Way of Zen" (1957) by Alan Watts or "On the Road" (1957) by Jack Kerouac.






Journey，Process， Pilgrim 活 逆旅 生死輪迴  逃避身相    自我 目標 修行 持戒 觀想 涅槃境界   傳記 

 河  大河 深河  森林 渡  花花世界 浮沉 迷宮 行旅 東方之旅苦行僧  沙門 聖者


雲水僧人 黃色僧袍 靜坐默想  平靜 清靜安詳  圓滿自足人生之苦 苦的緣起 解脫之道

印度 國際  台灣稻穀

如是說與不可說 

以善觀的淨識契入於神我

便知極樂之境不可言宣And Govinda mumbled a verse to himself, a verse from an Upanishad:


He who ponderingly, of a purified spirit, loses himself in the meditation of Atman, unexpressable by words is his blissfulness of his heart.

20歲時(1972)讀本50歲的Siddhartha 『流浪者之歌』

70歲時為它作百年紀念

蘇念秋(孟絕子)

流浪者之歌

徬徨少年時

蘇念秋譯：赫曼赫塞《流浪者之歌》. P1100898. 這本書是1968年「水牛出版社」出版的。

原書的本名 Siddhartha 是佛教釋迦牟尼的名字(佛陀是「釋迦族 Sakya」，姓「喬達摩 Gotama (古譯為『瞿曇』)」，名「悉達多 Siddhartha」，「釋迦牟尼 Sakyamuni」是別人對他的尊稱，意為「來自釋迦族的智者」)寫的是印度悉達多太子從流浪到覺悟的故事，不過，與佛教釋迦牟尼的傳記沒有太大的關係。

Ken Su　蘇錦坤　　　　2010年9月7日 星期二

蘇念秋譯：赫曼赫塞《流浪者之歌》

莊因  艾麗絲夫人七秩壽慶 莊因詩畫 二78

人生一似上山行 遠巒近峰景色佳    清風徐宋歸巢燕 一樹楓紅映晚霞

千辛末如今朝好  燈下小坐一盞茶

人    悉達多Siddhartha   高聞達Govinda  大覺世尊   林懷民 雲門 loosely based on Herman Hesse's novel "Siddhartha" -

1946 1964 (志文版封面諾貝爾......

A man had appeared,  Gotama by name, the exalted one, the Buddha, he had overcome the
suffering of the world in himself and had halted the cycle of rebirths.
He was said to wander through the land, teaching, surrounded by
disciples, without possession, without home, without a wife, in the
yellow cloak of an ascetic, but with a cheerful brow, a man of bliss,
and Brahmans and princes would bow down before him and would become his
students.

And Siddhartha: “He has lived for sixty years and has not reached the
nirvana. He’ll turn seventy and eighty, and you and me, we will grow
just as old and will do our exercises, and will fast, and will
meditate. But we will not reach the nirvana, he won’t and we won’t. Oh
Govinda, I believe out of all the Samanas out there, perhaps not a
single one, not a single one, will reach the nirvana. We find comfort,
we find numbness, we learn feats, to deceive others. But the most
important thing, the path of paths, we will not find.”

***

Cloud Gate Dance Theatre of Taiwan: “Songs of the Wanderers”

預覽

3:35

Inspired by Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha, asceticism and the quest for quietude, Lin Hwai-min transforms ancient rites into

〈雲門舞集-流浪者之歌〉林懷民經典舞作『流浪者之歌』

三噸半的黃金稻穀，構成千變萬化的視覺風景，如雨，如瀑，如山川沙漠。空靈婉轉的喬治亞民謠如水流淌。手執樹杖的舞者擰轉身軀，展開他們的朝聖之旅，而台角一位白色袈裟的僧人自始至終不動如山。舞至終結，一名舞者彎背緩行，把滿台的稻穀耙成一圈圈龐大的同心圓，使人驚顫，感動。 這齣流浪者之歌是林懷民最重要的代表作之一，首演以來，演遍全球，獲得熱烈激賞。2014年，舞作20週年，重訪美、加、和歐洲；200多場的紀錄，成為雲門近年演出場次最多的製作。

Siddhartha (novel)

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Siddhartha

First edition cover
Author	Hermann Hesse
Original title	Siddhartha: Eine Indische Dichtung
Translator	Hilda Rosner
Country	Germany
Language	German
Genre	Philosophical fiction
Publisher	New Directions (U.S.)
Publication date	1922, 1951 (U.S.)
Media type	Print (paperback)
Pages	152
OCLC	9766655
Dewey Decimal	833.912

Siddhartha: An Indian novel (German: Siddhartha: Eine Indische Dichtung; German: [ziˈdaʁta] (listen)) is a 1922 novel by Hermann Hesse that deals with the spiritual journey of self-discovery of a man named Siddhartha during the time of the Gautama Buddha. The book, Hesse's 9th novel, was written in German, in a simple, lyrical style. It was published in the U.S. in 1951 and became influential during the 1960s. Hesse dedicated the first part of it to Romain Rolland^[1] and the second part to Wilhelm Gundert, his cousin.

The word Siddhartha is made up of two words in Sanskrit language, siddha (achieved) + artha (what was searched for), which together means "he who has found meaning (of existence)" or "he who has attained his goals".^[2] In fact, the Buddha's own name, before his renunciation, was Siddhartha Gautama, prince of Kapilavastu. In this book, the Buddha is referred to as "Gotama".^[3]

Contents

• 1Plot
• 2Characters
• 3Major themes
• 4Film versions
• 5English translations
• 6Translations in Indian languages
• 7In popular culture
• 8References
• 9External links

Plot[edit]

The story takes place in the ancient Nepalese kingdom of Kapilavastu. Siddhartha decides to leave his home in the hope of gaining spiritual illumination by becoming an ascetic wandering beggar of the Śamaṇa. Joined by his best friend Govinda, Siddhartha fasts, becomes homeless, renounces all personal possessions, and intensely meditates, eventually seeking and personally speaking with Gautama, the famous Buddha, or Enlightened One. Afterward, both Siddhartha and Govinda acknowledge the elegance of the Buddha's teachings. Although Govinda hastily joins the Buddha's order, Siddhartha does not follow, claiming that the Buddha's philosophy, though supremely wise, does not account for the necessarily distinct experiences of each person. He argues that the individual seeks an absolutely unique, personal meaning that cannot be presented to him by a teacher. He thus resolves to carry on his quest alone.

Siddhartha crosses a river and the generous ferryman, whom Siddhartha is unable to pay, merrily predicts that Siddhartha will return to the river later to compensate him in some way. Venturing onward toward city life, Siddhartha discovers Kamala, the most beautiful woman he has yet seen. Kamala, a courtesan, notes Siddhartha's handsome appearance and fast wit, telling him that he must become wealthy to win her affections so that she may teach him the art of love. Although Siddhartha despised materialistic pursuits as a Śamaṇa, he agrees now to Kamala's suggestions. She directs him to the employ of Kamaswami, a local businessman, and insists that he have Kamaswami treat him as an equal rather than an underling. Siddhartha easily succeeds, providing a voice of patience and tranquility, which Siddhartha learned from his days as an ascetic, against Kamaswami's fits of passion. Thus Siddhartha becomes a rich man and Kamala's lover, though in his middle years he realizes that the luxurious lifestyle he has chosen is merely a game that lacks spiritual fulfillment. Leaving the fast-paced bustle of the city, Siddhartha returns to the river fed up with life and disillusioned, contemplating suicide before falling into a meditative sleep, and is saved only by an internal experience of the holy word, Om. The very next morning, Siddhartha briefly reconnects with Govinda, who is passing through the area as a wandering Buddhist.

Siddhartha decides to live the rest of his life in the presence of the spiritually inspirational river. Siddhartha thus reunites with the ferryman, named Vasudeva, with whom he begins a humbler way of life. Although Vasudeva is a simple man, he understands and relates that the river has many voices and significant messages to divulge to any who might listen.

Some years later, Kamala, now a Buddhist convert, is traveling to see the Buddha at his deathbed, accompanied by her reluctant young son, when she is bitten by a venomous snake near Siddhartha's river. Siddhartha recognizes her and realizes that the boy is his own son. After Kamala's death, Siddhartha attempts to console and raise the furiously resistant boy, until one day the child flees altogether. Although Siddhartha is desperate to find his runaway son, Vasudeva urges him to let the boy find his own path, much like Siddhartha did himself in his youth. Listening to the river with Vasudeva, Siddhartha realizes that time is an illusion and that all of his feelings and experiences, even those of suffering, are part of a great and ultimately jubilant fellowship of all things connected in the cyclical unity of nature. After Siddhartha's moment of illumination, Vasudeva claims that his work is done and he must depart into the woods, leaving Siddhartha peacefully fulfilled and alone once more.

Toward the end of his life, Govinda hears about an enlightened ferryman and travels to Siddhartha, not initially recognizing him as his old childhood friend. Govinda asks the now-elderly Siddhartha to relate his wisdom and Siddhartha replies that for every true statement there is an opposite one that is also true; that language and the confines of time lead people to adhere to one fixed belief that does not account for the fullness of the truth. Because nature works in a self-sustaining cycle, every entity carries in it the potential for its opposite and so the world must always be considered complete. Siddhartha simply urges people to identify and love the world in its completeness. Siddhartha then requests that Govinda kiss his forehead and, when he does, Govinda experiences the visions of timelessness that Siddhartha himself saw with Vasudeva by the river. Govinda bows to his wise friend and Siddhartha smiles radiantly, having found enlightenment. Thus he experiences a whole circle of life. He realizes his father's importance and love when he himself becomes a father and his own son leaves him to explore the outside world.

Characters[edit]

• Siddhartha: The protagonist.
• Govinda: Close friend of Siddhartha and follower of Gotama.
• Siddhartha's Father: A Brahmin who was unable to satisfy Siddhartha's quest for enlightenment.
• The Samanas: Traveling ascetics who tell Siddhartha that deprivation leads to enlightenment.
• Gotama: The Buddha, whose Teachings are rejected but whose power of self-experience and self-wisdom is completely praised by Siddhartha.
• Kamala: A courtesan, Siddhartha's sensual mentor, and mother of Young Siddhartha.
• Kamaswami: A merchant who instructs Siddhartha on business.
• Vasudeva: An enlightened ferryman and spiritual guide of Siddhartha.
• Young Siddhartha: Son of Siddhartha and Kamala. Lives with Siddhartha for a time yet runs away to Adan.

Major themes[edit]

In Hesse's novel, experience, the totality of conscious events of a human life, is shown as the best way to approach understanding of reality and attain enlightenment⁠—⁠Hesse's crafting of Siddhartha's journey shows that understanding is attained not through intellectual methods, nor through immersing oneself in the carnal pleasures of the world and the accompanying pain of samsara; rather, it is the completeness of these experiences that allows Siddhartha to attain understanding.

Thus, individual events are meaningless when considered by themselves—⁠Siddhartha's stay with the Shramanas and his immersion in the worlds of love and business do not ipso facto lead to nirvana, yet they cannot be considered distractions, for every action and event gives Siddhartha experience, which in turn leads to understanding.

A major preoccupation of Hesse in writing Siddhartha was to cure his "sickness with life" (Lebenskrankheit) by immersing himself in Indian philosophy such as that expounded in the Upanishads and the Bhagavad Gita.^[4] The reason the second half of the book took so long to write was that Hesse "had not experienced that transcendental state of unity to which Siddhartha aspires. In an attempt to do so, Hesse lived as a virtual semi-recluse and became totally immersed in the sacred teachings of both Hindu and Buddhist scriptures. His intention was to attain to that 'completeness' which, in the novel, is the Buddha's badge of distinction."^[5] The novel is structured on three of the traditional stages of life for Hindu males (student (brahmacharin), householder (grihastha) and recluse/renunciate (vanaprastha)) as well as the Buddha's four noble truths (Part One) and eight-fold path (Part Two) which form twelve chapters, the number in the novel.^[6] Ralph Freedman mentions how Hesse commented in a letter "[my] Siddhartha does not, in the end, learn true wisdom from any teacher, but from a river that roars in a funny way and from a kindly old fool who always smiles and is secretly a saint."^[7] In a lecture about Siddhartha, Hesse claimed "Buddha's way to salvation has often been criticized and doubted, because it is thought to be wholly grounded in cognition. True, but it's not just intellectual cognition, not just learning and knowing, but spiritual experience that can be earned only through strict discipline in a selfless life".^[7] Freedman also points out how Siddhartha described Hesse's interior dialectic: "All of the contrasting poles of his life were sharply etched: the restless departures and the search for stillness at home; the diversity of experience and the harmony of a unifying spirit; the security of religious dogma and the anxiety of freedom."^[8] Eberhard Ostermann has shown how Hesse, while mixing the religious genre of the legend with that of the modern novel, seeks to reconcile with the double-edged effects of modernization such as individualization, pluralism or self-disciplining.^[9]

The character Siddhartha honors the character Gotama (Gautama Buddha) by not following him in person, but by following Gotama's example. This is an example of the Theravada tradition evolving later, but modeled by the Buddha's philosophy and values. This tradition holds that the path to enlightenment is a solitary one and that no person can lead another person to enlightenment. The codification of the Buddha's philosophy such as the Four Noble Truths and The Eight-Fold path and the Pali canon are helpful guides. The path of each person is unknowable, and it's up to each person to discover the way.^[10] The irony is that the fictional character Siddhartha, who seemingly disrespects the Gotama, is the only follower of Gotama that achieves enlightenment because he does not worship him like a god, which is the Theravada tradition.^[10]

English translations[edit]

Several American publishers have commissioned new translations of the novel since it left US copyright in 1998. In addition to these newer translations, Hilda Rosner's original 1951 translation is still being sold in a number of reprint editions put out by various publishers. The newest translations include:

• 1951: Hilda Rosner
• 1998: Sherab Chödzin Kohn, for Shambhala Classics, introduction by Paul W. Morris and translator's preface
• 1999: Joachim Neugroschel, for Penguin, introduction by Ralph Freedman and translator's note
• 1999: Stanley Applebaum, for Dover Thrift Edition, introduction and glossary anon.
• 2006: Susan Bernofsky, for Modern Library, foreword by Tom Robbins and translator's preface
• 2007: Rika Lesser, for Barnes & Noble, introduction by Robert A. Thurman

《流浪者之歌》（Siddhartha），又譯《悉達多》、《悉達求道記》，德國小說家赫塞在1922年所著的三部式文學作品，也是其第九部作品，描寫主人公悉達多在古老的印度追求他自己的三個重要歷程的過程。從自覺的禁欲主義，通過自我放逐和視覺感官享受，最終知識及和平成為他追求生命的最終目標。用一種簡單，詩意化的語言寫就。赫塞將書的第一章獻給了羅曼羅蘭，第二章獻給了他的表兄，威廉·貢德特。

流浪者之歌 Siddhartha
初版封面
副標題	Eine indische Dichtung
作者	赫曼·赫塞
類型	哲學虛構（英語：Philosophical fiction）
語言	德語
故事背景地	印度
發行情況
出版機構	S. Fischer Verlag
出版時間	1922年10月
出版地	德國
頁數	152
上一部作品	克林索爾的最後夏天
規範控制
ISBN	978-2-253-00848-4
OCLC	9766655
杜威分類法	833.912

Siddhartha是由兩個梵語中的詞組成：Siddha（意為已獲得）+artha（尋求之物）。而這兩個詞連接在一起的意思即時「已找尋到（存在的）意義之人」或「已完成目標之人」、「修行圓滿之人」。

情節編輯

故事 發生在尼泊爾的迦毗羅衛：悉達多為獲得覺悟，決然離開了家，並成為苦行僧。在他最好朋友喬文達（英語：Govinda）加入後，悉達多開始禁食，放棄所有財產，並且近乎狂熱地冥想。最終找到並和喬達摩──已覺悟之人，進行私人對話。後來，悉達多、喬文達都認識到喬達摩教義中優雅之處。但喬文達匆忙地加入了喬達摩的教義，悉達多卻沒跟從。悉達多聲稱，儘管喬達摩哲學理論甚具智慧，但不能解釋人存在的意義。他認為個人所尋求的獨特「意義」，是不能被老師傳授的，智慧或真正的悟道，並不能通過所謂的教義或者言語來實現。他於是獨自進行他的征程。

悉達多渡過了一條河，但並沒錢付給擺渡人。擺渡人預測說悉達多以後一定會回到這條河來，來補償他。悉達多到了一個城市，遇見了他此生所見最美麗的女子──伽摩拉，當地的名妓。悉達多要求伽摩拉教導他愛的藝術。伽摩拉則告訴悉達多他要變得更富有，來獲取她的注意，來讓她教導他愛的藝術。儘管悉達多作為沙門一直禁慾，但也動搖了念頭。伽摩拉帶悉達多去見一位當地富商，並要求富商以平起平坐的態度對待他。悉達多運用他作為苦行僧時所習得的耐性和技藝，很快獲得成功。悉達多成為一名富人，和伽摩拉的愛人。多年後，悉達多認識到這種奢華生活，並非他所追求，且這樣生活只是一種遊戲。他回到了那條河，想要投河自盡。在那時，「唵」字給他帶來了一種神聖的內在體驗，而那種體驗救贖了他。

悉達多決定在這條河流旁度過餘生，並因此與擺渡人──維蘇德瓦，再聚。悉達多開始了一種低調、卑微的生活。儘管維蘇德瓦普通人一個，但他能聽出這河有無數聲音處其中，並給那些願意傾聽之人，帶來個中含義。

數年後，成為了喬達摩的子弟的伽摩拉，帶著她年幼兒子，去瞻仰喬達摩的圓寂。路上，到了悉達多所在的河旁。伽摩拉被一條蛇咬傷。悉達多認出了是伽摩拉。在伽摩拉因蛇傷死後，悉達多試圖去撫養他孩子，直到有一天，孩子卻逃走了。悉達多渴望找回兒子，但維蘇德瓦敦促他，讓男孩去找自己的路，就像悉達多年青時那樣。在傾聽河流的聲音時，悉達多意識到，時間是一種幻覺。他所有的感受和經歷，即使是痛苦，都只是自然輪迴一部分。在悉達多功成圓滿之後，維蘇德瓦聲稱他的使命已經完成，要離開他。維蘇德瓦獨自走進樹林，留下悉達多一人，繼續受用圓滿後帶來的感覺。

在悉達多逝世前，喬文達聽說河流旁住著一位已經覺悟的擺渡人。喬文達找到了來，並認出了那是悉達多。喬文達向悉達多詢問如何做到這一切。悉達多說，每個人堅持地信仰，並不能解釋世間真相。只因自然界有著自己一種輪迴，而每個實物，都有其潛力和使命，因此人必須以一個整體來看待世界。悉達多敦促人們去體認到愛，並要求喬文達親吻他前額。在喬文達親吻那一刻，他體驗到了永恆。而悉達多也看到了站在河邊的維蘇德瓦。喬文達向悉達多鞠了一躬，獲得了覺悟。

人物編輯

• 悉達多：主角。
• 喬文達：悉達多的朋友，喬達摩的跟隨者。
• 悉達多的父親：一位不能滿足悉達多對覺悟的渴求的婆羅門。
• 喬達摩：釋迦摩尼。教義為悉達多所拒絕，但為悉達多所崇敬。
• 伽摩拉：名妓，教導悉達多性與愛的導師。
• 維蘇德瓦：一位覺悟的擺渡人，並給悉達多帶來精神上的指導，也是印度教神話裡黑天的父親，有衍生為包含宇宙一切本質之意。
• 婆羅門：悉達多和伽摩拉的兒子。和悉達多生活了一段時間後逃離。

影視作品編輯

康納德•魯克斯（英語：Conrad Rooks）導演的悉達多（英語：Siddhartha (1972 film)）於1972年上映。

GOVINDA


Together with other monks, Govinda used to spend the time of rest
between pilgrimages in the pleasure-grove, which the courtesan Kamala
had given to the followers of Gotama for a gift. He heard talk of an
old ferryman, who lived one day’s journey away by the river, and who
was regarded as a wise man by many. When Govinda went back on his way,
he chose the path to the ferry, eager to see the ferryman. Because,
though he had lived his entire life by the rules, though he was also
looked upon with veneration by the younger monks on account of his age
and his modesty, the restlessness and the searching still had not
perished from his heart.

He came to the river and asked the old man to ferry him over, and when
they got off the boat on the other side, he said to the old man:
“You’re very good to us monks and pilgrims, you have already ferried
many of us across the river. Aren’t you too, ferryman, a searcher for
the right path?”

Quoth Siddhartha, smiling from his old eyes: “Do you call yourself a
searcher, oh venerable one, though you are already well on in years and
are wearing the robe of Gotama’s monks?”

“It’s true, I’m old,” spoke Govinda, “but I haven’t stopped searching.
Never I’ll stop searching, this seems to be my destiny. You too, so it
seems to me, have been searching. Would you like to tell me something,
oh honourable one?”

Quoth Siddhartha: “What should I possibly have to tell you, oh
venerable one? Perhaps that you’re searching far too much? That in all
that searching, you don’t find the time for finding?”

“How come?” asked Govinda.

“When someone is searching,” said Siddhartha, “then it might easily
happen that the only thing his eyes still see is that what he searches
for, that he is unable to find anything, to let anything enter his
mind, because he always thinks of nothing but the object of his search,
because he has a goal, because he is obsessed by the goal. Searching
means: having a goal. But finding means: being free, being open, having
no goal. You, oh venerable one, are perhaps indeed a searcher, because,
striving for your goal, there are many things you don’t see, which are
directly in front of your eyes.”

“I don’t quite understand yet,” asked Govinda, “what do you mean by
this?”

Quoth Siddhartha: “A long time ago, oh venerable one, many years ago,
you’ve once before been at this river and have found a sleeping man by
the river, and have sat down with him to guard his sleep. But, oh
Govinda, you did not recognise the sleeping man.”

Astonished, as if he had been the object of a magic spell, the monk
looked into the ferryman’s eyes.

“Are you Siddhartha?” he asked with a timid voice. “I wouldn’t have
recognised you this time as well! From my heart, I’m greeting you,
Siddhartha; from my heart, I’m happy to see you once again! You’ve
changed a lot, my friend.—And so you’ve now become a ferryman?”

In a friendly manner, Siddhartha laughed. “A ferryman, yes. Many
people, Govinda, have to change a lot, have to wear many a robe, I am
one of those, my dear. Be welcome, Govinda, and spend the night in my
hut.”

Govinda stayed the night in the hut and slept on the bed which used to
be Vasudeva’s bed. Many questions he posed to the friend of his youth,
many things Siddhartha had to tell him from his life.

When in the next morning the time had come to start the day’s journey,
Govinda said, not without hesitation, these words: “Before I’ll
continue on my path, Siddhartha, permit me to ask one more question. Do
you have a teaching? Do you have a faith or a knowledge you follow,
which helps you to live and to do right?”

Quoth Siddhartha: “You know, my dear, that I already as a young man, in
those days when we lived with the penitents in the forest, started to
distrust teachers and teachings and to turn my back to them. I have
stuck with this. Nevertheless, I have had many teachers since then. A
beautiful courtesan has been my teacher for a long time, and a rich
merchant was my teacher, and some gamblers with dice. Once, even a
follower of Buddha, travelling on foot, has been my teacher; he sat
with me when I had fallen asleep in the forest, on the pilgrimage. I’ve
also learned from him, I’m also grateful to him, very grateful. But
most of all, I have learned here from this river and from my
predecessor, the ferryman Vasudeva. He was a very simple person,
Vasudeva, he was no thinker, but he knew what is necessary just as well
as Gotama, he was a perfect man, a saint.”

Govinda said: “Still, oh Siddhartha, you love a bit to mock people, as
it seems to me. I believe in you and know that you haven’t followed a
teacher. But haven’t you found something by yourself, though you’ve
found no teachings, you still found certain thoughts, certain insights,
which are your own and which help you to live? If you would like to
tell me some of these, you would delight my heart.”

Quoth Siddhartha: “I’ve had thoughts, yes, and insight, again and
again. Sometimes, for an hour or for an entire day, I have felt
knowledge in me, as one would feel life in one’s heart. There have been
many thoughts, but it would be hard for me to convey them to you. Look,
my dear Govinda, this is one of my thoughts, which I have found: wisdom
cannot be passed on. Wisdom which a wise man tries to pass on to
someone always sounds like foolishness.”

“Are you kidding?” asked Govinda.

“I’m not kidding. I’m telling you what I’ve found. Knowledge can be
conveyed, but not wisdom. It can be found, it can be lived, it is
possible to be carried by it, miracles can be performed with it, but it
cannot be expressed in words and taught. This was what I, even as a
young man, sometimes suspected, what has driven me away from the
teachers. I have found a thought, Govinda, which you’ll again regard as
a joke or foolishness, but which is my best thought. It says: The
opposite of every truth is just as true! That’s like this: any truth
can only be expressed and put into words when it is one-sided.
Everything is one-sided which can be thought with thoughts and said
with words, it’s all one-sided, all just one half, all lacks
completeness, roundness, oneness. When the exalted Gotama spoke in his
teachings of the world, he had to divide it into Sansara and Nirvana,
into deception and truth, into suffering and salvation. It cannot be
done differently, there is no other way for him who wants to teach. But
the world itself, what exists around us and inside of us, is never
one-sided. A person or an act is never entirely Sansara or entirely
Nirvana, a person is never entirely holy or entirely sinful. It does
really seem like this, because we are subject to deception, as if time
was something real. Time is not real, Govinda, I have experienced this
often and often again. And if time is not real, then the gap which
seems to be between the world and the eternity, between suffering and
blissfulness, between evil and good, is also a deception.”

“How come?” asked Govinda timidly.

“Listen well, my dear, listen well! The sinner, which I am and which
you are, is a sinner, but in times to come he will be Brahma again, he
will reach the Nirvana, will be Buddha—and now see: these ‘times to
come’ are a deception, are only a parable! The sinner is not on his way
to become a Buddha, he is not in the process of developing, though our
capacity for thinking does not know how else to picture these things.
No, within the sinner is now and today already the future Buddha, his
future is already all there, you have to worship in him, in you, in
everyone the Buddha which is coming into being, the possible, the
hidden Buddha. The world, my friend Govinda, is not imperfect, or on a
slow path towards perfection: no, it is perfect in every moment, all
sin already carries the divine forgiveness in itself, all small
children already have the old person in themselves, all infants already
have death, all dying people the eternal life. It is not possible for
any person to see how far another one has already progressed on his
path; in the robber and dice-gambler, the Buddha is waiting; in the
Brahman, the robber is waiting. In deep meditation, there is the
possibility to put time out of existence, to see all life which was,
is, and will be as if it was simultaneous, and there everything is
good, everything is perfect, everything is Brahman. Therefore, I see
whatever exists as good, death is to me like life, sin like holiness,
wisdom like foolishness, everything has to be as it is, everything only
requires my consent, only my willingness, my loving agreement, to be
good for me, to do nothing but work for my benefit, to be unable to
ever harm me. I have experienced on my body and on my soul that I
needed sin very much, I needed lust, the desire for possessions,
vanity, and needed the most shameful despair, in order to learn how to
give up all resistance, in order to learn how to love the world, in
order to stop comparing it to some world I wished, I imagined, some
kind of perfection I had made up, but to leave it as it is and to love
it and to enjoy being a part of it.—These, oh Govinda, are some of the
thoughts which have come into my mind.”

Siddhartha bent down, picked up a stone from the ground, and weighed it
in his hand.

“This here,” he said playing with it, “is a stone, and will, after a
certain time, perhaps turn into soil, and will turn from soil into a
plant or animal or human being. In the past, I would have said: This
stone is just a stone, it is worthless, it belongs to the world of the
Maya; but because it might be able to become also a human being and a
spirit in the cycle of transformations, therefore I also grant it
importance. Thus, I would perhaps have thought in the past. But today I
think: this stone is a stone, it is also animal, it is also god, it is
also Buddha, I do not venerate and love it because it could turn into
this or that, but rather because it is already and always
everything—and it is this very fact, that it is a stone, that it
appears to me now and today as a stone, this is why I love it and see
worth and purpose in each of its veins and cavities, in the yellow, in
the gray, in the hardness, in the sound it makes when I knock at it, in
the dryness or wetness of its surface. There are stones which feel like
oil or soap, and others like leaves, others like sand, and every one is
special and prays the Om in its own way, each one is Brahman, but
simultaneously and just as much it is a stone, is oily or juicy, and
this is the very fact which I like and regard as wonderful and worthy
of worship.—But let me speak no more of this. The words are not good
for the secret meaning, everything always becomes a bit different, as
soon as it is put into words, gets distorted a bit, a bit silly—yes,
and this is also very good, and I like it a lot, I also very much agree
with this, that this what is one man’s treasure and wisdom always
sounds like foolishness to another person.”

Govinda listened silently.

“Why have you told me this about the stone?” he asked hesitantly after
a pause.

“I did it without any specific intention. Or perhaps what I meant was,
that I love this very stone, and the river, and all these things we are
looking at and from which we can learn. I can love a stone, Govinda,
and also a tree or a piece of bark. These are things, and things can be
loved. But I cannot love words. Therefore, teachings are no good for
me, they have no hardness, no softness, no colours, no edges, no smell,
no taste, they have nothing but words. Perhaps it is these which keep
you from finding peace, perhaps it is the many words. Because
salvation and virtue as well, Sansara and Nirvana as well, are mere
words, Govinda. There is no thing which would be Nirvana; there is just
the word Nirvana.”

Quoth Govinda: “Not just a word, my friend, is Nirvana. It is a
thought.”

Siddhartha continued: “A thought, it might be so. I must confess to
you, my dear: I don’t differentiate much between thoughts and words. To
be honest, I also have no high opinion of thoughts. I have a better
opinion of things. Here on this ferry-boat, for instance, a man has
been my predecessor and teacher, a holy man, who has for many years
simply believed in the river, nothing else. He had noticed that the
river spoke to him, he learned from it, it educated and taught him,
the river seemed to be a god to him, for many years he did not know
that every wind, every cloud, every bird, every beetle was just as
divine and knows just as much and can teach just as much as the
worshipped river. But when this holy man went into the forests, he knew
everything, knew more than you and me, without teachers, without books,
only because he had believed in the river.”

Govinda said: “But is that what you call ‘things’, actually something
real, something which has existence? Isn’t it just a deception of the
Maya, just an image and illusion? Your stone, your tree, your river—are
they actually a reality?”

“This too,” spoke Siddhartha, “I do not care very much about. Let the
things be illusions or not, after all I would then also be an illusion,
and thus they are always like me. This is what makes them so dear and
worthy of veneration for me: they are like me. Therefore, I can love
them. And this is now a teaching you will laugh about: love, oh
Govinda, seems to me to be the most important thing of all. To
thoroughly understand the world, to explain it, to despise it, may be
the thing great thinkers do. But I’m only interested in being able to
love the world, not to despise it, not to hate it and me, to be able to
look upon it and me and all beings with love and admiration and great
respect.”

“This I understand,” spoke Govinda. “But this very thing was discovered
by the exalted one to be a deception. He commands benevolence,
clemency, sympathy, tolerance, but not love; he forbade us to tie our
heart in love to earthly things.”

“I know it,” said Siddhartha; his smile shone golden. “I know it,
Govinda. And behold, with this we are right in the middle of the
thicket of opinions, in the dispute about words. For I cannot deny, my
words of love are in a contradiction, a seeming contradiction with
Gotama’s words. For this very reason, I distrust in words so much, for
I know, this contradiction is a deception. I know that I am in
agreement with Gotama. How should he not know love, he, who has
discovered all elements of human existence in their transitoriness, in
their meaninglessness, and yet loved people thus much, to use a long,
laborious life only to help them, to teach them! Even with him, even
with your great teacher, I prefer the thing over the words, place more
importance on his acts and life than on his speeches, more on the
gestures of his hand than his opinions. Not in his speech, not in his
thoughts, I see his greatness, only in his actions, in his life.”

For a long time, the two old men said nothing. Then spoke Govinda,
while bowing for a farewell: “I thank you, Siddhartha, for telling me
some of your thoughts. They are partially strange thoughts, not all
have been instantly understandable to me. This being as it may, I thank
you, and I wish you to have calm days.”

(But secretly he thought to himself: This Siddhartha is a bizarre
person, he expresses bizarre thoughts, his teachings sound foolish. So
differently sound the exalted one’s pure teachings, clearer, purer,
more comprehensible, nothing strange, foolish, or silly is contained in
them. But different from his thoughts seemed to me Siddhartha’s hands
and feet, his eyes, his forehead, his breath, his smile, his greeting,
his walk. Never again, after our exalted Gotama has become one with the
Nirvana, never since then have I met a person of whom I felt: this is a
holy man! Only him, this Siddhartha, I have found to be like this. May
his teachings be strange, may his words sound foolish; out of his gaze
and his hand, his skin and his hair, out of every part of him shines a
purity, shines a calmness, shines a cheerfulness and mildness and
holiness, which I have seen in no other person since the final death of
our exalted teacher.)

As Govinda thought like this, and there was a conflict in his heart, he
once again bowed to Siddhartha, drawn by love. Deeply he bowed to him
who was calmly sitting.

“Siddhartha,” he spoke, “we have become old men. It is unlikely for one
of us to see the other again in this incarnation. I see, beloved, that
you have found peace. I confess that I haven’t found it. Tell me, oh
honourable one, one more word, give me something on my way which I can
grasp, which I can understand! Give me something to be with me on my
path. It is often hard, my path, often dark, Siddhartha.”

Siddhartha said nothing and looked at him with the ever unchanged,
quiet smile. Govinda stared at his face, with fear, with yearning,
suffering, and the eternal search was visible in his look, eternal
not-finding.

Siddhartha saw it and smiled.

“Bend down to me!” he whispered quietly in Govinda’s ear. “Bend down to
me! Like this, even closer! Very close! Kiss my forehead, Govinda!”

But while Govinda with astonishment, and yet drawn by great love and
expectation, obeyed his words, bent down closely to him and touched his
forehead with his lips, something miraculous happened to him. While his
thoughts were still dwelling on Siddhartha’s wondrous words, while he
was still struggling in vain and with reluctance to think away time, to
imagine Nirvana and Sansara as one, while even a certain contempt for
the words of his friend was fighting in him against an immense love and
veneration, this happened to him:

He no longer saw the face of his friend Siddhartha, instead he saw
other faces, many, a long sequence, a flowing river of faces, of
hundreds, of thousands, which all came and disappeared, and yet all
seemed to be there simultaneously, which all constantly changed and
renewed themselves, and which were still all Siddhartha. He saw the
face of a fish, a carp, with an infinitely painfully opened mouth, the
face of a dying fish, with fading eyes—he saw the face of a new-born
child, red and full of wrinkles, distorted from crying—he saw the face
of a murderer, he saw him plunging a knife into the body of another
person—he saw, in the same second, this criminal in bondage, kneeling
and his head being chopped off by the executioner with one blow of his
sword—he saw the bodies of men and women, naked in positions and cramps
of frenzied love—he saw corpses stretched out, motionless, cold, void—he
saw the heads of animals, of boars, of crocodiles, of elephants, of
bulls, of birds—he saw gods, saw Krishna, saw Agni—he saw all of these
figures and faces in a thousand relationships with one another, each
one helping the other, loving it, hating it, destroying it, giving
re-birth to it, each one was a will to die, a passionately painful
confession of transitoriness, and yet none of them died, each one only
transformed, was always reborn, received evermore a new face, without
any time having passed between the one and the other face—and all of
these figures and faces rested, flowed, generated themselves, floated
along and merged with each other, and they were all constantly covered
by something thin, without individuality of its own, but yet existing,
like a thin glass or ice, like a transparent skin, a shell or mold or
mask of water, and this mask was smiling, and this mask was
Siddhartha’s smiling face, which he, Govinda, in this very same moment
touched with his lips. And, Govinda saw it like this, this smile of the
mask, this smile of oneness above the flowing forms, this smile of
simultaneousness above the thousand births and deaths, this smile of
Siddhartha was precisely the same, was precisely of the same kind as
the quiet, delicate, impenetrable, perhaps benevolent, perhaps mocking,
wise, thousand-fold smile of Gotama, the Buddha, as he had seen it
himself with great respect a hundred times. Like this, Govinda knew,
the perfected ones are smiling.

Not knowing any more whether time existed, whether the vision had
lasted a second or a hundred years, not knowing any more whether there
existed a Siddhartha, a Gotama, a me and a you, feeling in his
innermost self as if he had been wounded by a divine arrow, the injury
of which tasted sweet, being enchanted and dissolved in his innermost
self, Govinda still stood for a little while bent over Siddhartha’s
quiet face, which he had just kissed, which had just been the scene of
all manifestations, all transformations, all existence. The face was
unchanged, after under its surface the depth of the thousand-foldness
had closed up again, he smiled silently, smiled quietly and softly,
perhaps very benevolently, perhaps very mockingly, precisely as he used
to smile, the exalted one.

Deeply, Govinda bowed; tears he knew nothing of, ran down his old face;
like a fire burned the feeling of the most intimate love, the humblest
veneration in his heart. Deeply, he bowed, touching the ground, before
him who was sitting motionlessly, whose smile reminded him of
everything he had ever loved in his life, what had ever been valuable
and holy to him in his life.



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