Chapter twelve 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 Gautama 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 although 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 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've already ferried many of us across the river, aren't you, two ferryman? A searcher for the right path? Quoth said Arthur, smiling from his old eyes. Do you call yourself a searcher, oh venerable one, though you are already old in years and are wearing the robe of Gautamas 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 honorable one, quote, said Arthur, 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 said Arthur, then it might easily happen that the only thing his eyes still see is that which 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, said Govinda.
What do you mean by this, quoth said Arthur. 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 recognize the sleeping man, Astonished as if he had been the object of a magic spell. The monk looked into the fairyman's eyes. Are you, said Arthur, He asked with a timid voice. I wouldn't have recognized
you this time as well. From my heart, I'm greeting you, said Arthur. 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, said Arthur, laughed, a fairyman. 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 Vasadiva's bed. Many questions he posed to the friend of his youth, many things, said Artha 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 my path, said Arthur, 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 said Arthur.
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 traveling on foot has been my teacher. He sat with me while 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've 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 Gautama. He was a perfect man. A saint. Govida said stirl Oh, Siddhartha, you love a bit to mock people, as it seems to me. I believe in you and know
that you have had followed a teacher. But haven't you found something by yourself? Though you 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 said Arthur. 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. Every 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 Gautama 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, in 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 were 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 good and evil
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, our 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 every one, 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 the 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 were simultaneous. And there everything is good, everything is perfect, Every thing 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, said Arthur 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 an 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 everyone is special, and praise the Olm in its own way. Each one is Brahman. But simultaneously and just as much it is a stone, it is oily or juicy. And this is this 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 this 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 a specific intention. Or perhaps what I meant was that love this very stone and the river and all these things we are looking at and from and 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 colors, 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, said Arthur. Continued, I 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 worshiped 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 which you call things actually something real, something which has existence? Isn't it just a de say option of the maya, just an image and illusion? Your stone, your tree, your river? Are they actually a reality? This too, spoke said Arthur. 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.
A 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 the most important thing of all to thoroughly understand the world, to explain it, to despise it. Maybe 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. Act 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 said Arthur. 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 Gautama'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 Gautama. How should he not know love? He who has discovered all elements of human existence in their t storinus, 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 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 from a farewell, I thank you, sir Arthur, 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 wish you to have calm days. But secret le he thought to himself, this Siddhartha is a bizarre person. He expresses bizarre thoughts. His teachings sound foolish. How differently sound the exalted One's pure teachings clearer, purer, more comprehensible, nothing strange, foolish or silly as contain'd in them.
But different from his thoughts, seemed to me, said d'arthur's hands and feet, his eyes, his forehead, his breath, his smile, his greeting, his walk. Never again, after our exalted Gautama 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 sid Arthur. Drawn by love deeply, he bowed to him who was calmly sitting sid Arthur, 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, honorable, 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, said Arthur. Sir
Arthur 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. Sir Arthur saw it and smiled. Bend down to me, he whispered quietly in Govinda's ear. Bend down to me like this, even closer, very closer, 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 Sid Arthur's wondrous words, while he was still struggling in vain and with reluctance to think away, time to ignore Nirvana and send Sarah 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, said Arthur. 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 was still
all, said Arthur. He saw the face of a fish, a carp with infinitely painful opened mouth, the face of a dying fish with fading eyes. He saw the face of a newborn 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, he saw Krishna, he saw Agne. 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 rebirth to it. Each one was a will to die, a passionate, painful confession
of transitoriness. And yet none of them died. Each one only transformed, was always reborne, 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 sad Arthur'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, thousandfold smile of Gautama, 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 where the time existed, whether the vision had lasted a second or a hundred years, not knowing any more whether there existed a Siddhartha, a Gautama, a Me, and a yew 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, Govinder stood still for a little while, bent over sid Arthur'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 thousandfoldness had closed up again. He smiled sweetly, smiled quietly and softly, perhaps benevolently, perhaps very mockingly, precisely as
he used to smile the exalted One. Deeply Govinder bowed. Tears he knew nothing of ran down his old face like a fire burnt 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 wholly to him in his life. End of Chapter twelve and end of Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse