This is Chapter 7 of Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse. Missed the last chapters? Here are Chapter 6, Chapter 5, Chapter 4, Chapter 3, Chapter 2, Chapter 1, and the announcement. Also, you can find the regularly updated reading schedule here.
Today, I want to do something slightly different. Rather than break down the chapter like disassembling a piece of clockwork, I simply want to share one parabola/tale that came to mind while reading this chapter.
Before we dive into it, here’s a (brief) recap of the chapter.
Sansara: the senseless cycle of suffering
Siddhartha’s life essentially continues where we left it in the last chapter. He works as a merchant, visits Kamala, pursues pleasure. But it’s less and less satisfying. Increasingly, Siddhartha’s life spirals out of control. Increasingly, he loses the sparks of enlightenment and divine skills he gained from his training as Brahmin and Samana (such as, non-attachment, clarity of mind, and sensitivity for beauty). “Slowly, like moisture entering the dying tree trunk,” Hesse writes, “slowly filling and rotting it, so did the world and inertia creep into Siddhartha’s soul.”
On the other hand—and I love that Hesse points this out—Siddhartha’s senses became “more awakened” through the pleasure-led lifestyle. They learned and experienced a “great deal.” I love this because it reminds me of the times when I was overly strict with myself. The times when I applied monk-like discipline and steel-whetted routines to my daily life. After all, that’s what many Gurus told me would be the path to true contentment. Detach. Detox. Do the work. And yet, during these times, I always felt like something was missing. All the strictness felt as if I had switched the display of my life to black and white—like: sure, you save some battery and get less distracted, but then again, you also lose that colorful richness.
But here, of course, it’s the other side of the spectrum. Sensory overwhelm. Siddhartha’s inner screams of agony get louder and louder. Soon, he tries to cope with this how ordinary people would: he distracts himself. He drowns himself in scents, feasts, alcohol, pleasure. He accumulates more money, gambles it all away, and regains it. Only to lose it again. He needs this thrill—the risk of a gamble—to feel something, anything. But ultimately, as Hesse puts it, Siddhartha wears himself out “in this senseless cycle” and becomes “old and sick.”
In the Buddhist tradition, this cycle of suffering, which repeats itself after death and through rebirth, is called Sansara. Which, of course, is this chapter’s title. And sure enough, Hesse references it:
“Were they not playing a game without an end? Was it necessary to live for it? No. This game was called Sansara, a game for children, a game which was perhaps enjoyable played once, twice, ten times — but was it worth playing continually?”
How many years has Siddhartha spent in this senseless cycle of Sansara? We don’t really know. But we do know it has taken its toll on him. Siddhartha feels deeply lonely, worthless, aimless, and “like a shipwrecked man on the shore.”
Hesse again:
“Then Siddhartha knew that the game was finished, that he could play it no longer. A shudder passed through his body; he felt as if something had died.”
From this point on, Siddhartha comes to a realization he’s had many times in his life: he must change something. He must change his life.
On a whim, Siddhartha leaves the city, renouncing everything he meticulously accumulated. No word to Kamaswami. No word to Kamala.
Kamala, upon realizing Siddhartha’s absence, is filled with great pain. Though not disappointment. In a way, she’s known this all along: Siddhartha came to her as a Samana, a wanderer, a nomad. Loyalty or commitment was never part of the game.
And yet, unexpectedly, some time later, Kamala finds herself pregnant—with her and Siddhartha’s child.
That’s how the chapter ends. Now onto the parabola.
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The hole in the road
Actually, it’s not really a parabola but a poem. It’s called Autobiography in Five Short Chapters. Originally authored by Portia Nelson—a US-American singer and actress—the poem has been reprinted in many modern Buddhist writings, recovery texts, and self-help musings.
It goes like this.
Chapter I
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
I am lost… I am hopeless.
It isn’t my fault.
It takes forever to find a way out.Chapter II
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don’t see it.
I fall in again.
I can’t believe I am in this same place.
But it isn’t my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.Chapter III
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it there.
I still fall in… it’s a habit… but,
my eyes are open.
I know where I am.
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.Chapter IV
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.Chapter V
I walk down another street.
Let’s quickly retrace Siddhartha’s life journey using these chapters:
Childhood and Brahmin education: Chapter I
Samana training: Chapter II
Time as merchant: Chapter III
Here’s one question for you. You needn’t answer it right now, not necessarily. The point is to engage with the question, to chew on it, or, as the poet Rilke famously put it, to live the question. The question (or rather the series of questions) is this. What’s your hole in the road? What does it look like? Which chapter do you currently find yourself in?
Thoughts? Feedback? Additions? I’d love to see them in the comments!
I’ll see you in the next one.
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