In the evening of this day they caught up with the ascetics, the skinny Samanas, and offered them their panionship and--obediehey were accepted.
Siddhartha gave his garments to a poor Brahman ireet. He wore nothing more than the loincloth and the earth-coloured, unsown cloak. He ate only once a day, and never something cooked. He fasted for fifteen days. He fasted for twe days. The flesh waned from his thighs and cheeks. Feverish dreams flickered from his enlarged eyes, long nails grew slowly on his parched fingers and a dry, shaggy beard grew on his . His glauro icy when he entered women; his mouth twitched with pt, when he walked through a city of nicely dressed people. He saw merts trading, princes hunting, mourners wailing for their dead, whores themselves, physis trying to help the sick, priests determining the most suitable day for seeding, lovers loving, mothers nursing their children--and all of this was not worthy of one look from his eye, it all lied, it all stank, it all stank of lies, it all preteo be meaningful and joyful aiful, and it all was just cealed putrefa. The world tasted bitter. Life was torture.
A goal stood before Siddhartha, a single goal: to bee empty, empty of thirst, empty of wishiy of dreams, empty of joy and sorrow. Dead to himself, not to be a self any more, to find tranquility with aied heard, to be open to miracles in unselfish thoughts, that was his goal. Once all of my self was overe and had died, once every desire and every urge was silent in the heart, theimate part of me had to awake, the innermost of my being, which is no longer my self, the great secret.
Silently, Siddhartha exposed himself t rays of the sun directly above, glowing with pain, glowing with thirst, and stood there, until he her felt any pain nor thirst any more. Silently, he stood there in the rainy season, from his hair the water was dripping over freezing shoulders, over freezing hips and legs, and the pe stood there, until he could not feel the cold in his shoulders and legs any more, until they were silent, until they were quiet. Silently, he cowered ihorny bushes, blood dripped from the burning skin, from festering wounds dripped pus, and Siddhartha stayed rigidly, stayed motionless, until no blood flowed any more, until nothing stung any more, until nothing burned any more.
Siddhartha sat upright and learo breathe sparingly, learo get along with only few breathes, learo stop breathing. He learned, beginning with the breath, to calm the beat of his heart, leao reduce the beats of his heart, until they were only a few and almost none.
Instructed by the oldest if the Samanas, Siddhartha practised self-denial, practised meditation, acc to a new Samana rules. A heron flew over the bamboo forest--and Siddhartha accepted the heron into his soul, flew over forest and mountains, was a heron, ate fish, felt the pangs of a herons hunger, spoke the herons croak, died a heroh. A dead jackal was lying on the sandy bank, and Siddharthas soul slipped ihe body, was the dead jackal, lay on the banks, got bloated, stank, decayed, was dismembered by hyaenas, was skinned by vultures, turned into a skeleton, turo dust, was blown across the fields. And Siddharthas soul returned, had died, had decayed, was scattered as dust, had tasted the gloomy intoxication of the cycle, awaited ihirst like a hunter in the gap, where he could escape from the cycle, where the end of the causes, where ay without suffering began. He