Jan 2, 2018
he pondered this transformation, listened to the bird, as it sang of joy. Had not this bird died in him, had he not felt its death? No, something else from within him had died, something which already for a long time had yearned to die. Was it not this what he used to intend to kill in his ardent years as a penitent? Was it not his self, his small, frightened, and proud self, he had wrestled for so many years, which had defeated him again and again, which was back again after every killing, prohibited joy, felt fear? Was is not this, which today had finally come to its death, here in the forest, by this lovely river?
Herman Hesse, in Siddhartha