Misunderstood Siddhartha

There is something sexy about having heated conversation about a book.

That is until someone starts shitting on my favorite book. Then it’s all over. It’s ironic because my favorite book is about peace and harmony, so it is hard to preach the sanctity of the inner mind while throwing punches at someone’s throat.

Siddhartha by Herman Hesse is the story of–you guessed it–Siddhartha, a Brahmin boy who leaves his home to find spiritual enlightenment and goes on a journey of ups and downs. That’s it. That’s the premise.

I read this book when I was a sophomore in high school, and everyone else hated it. It was the rock metaphor. It fucked them over.

“It’s a rock.”

“What, I’m suppose to believe it’s alive or something?”

No, you motherfucking walnut! The point of the rock metaphor is fulfillment isn’t always achieves from doing, talking, arguing, buying, etc. Sometimes it’s just being. The rock, by just being, transforms from magma to sand to solid granite over millenniums. We may not recognize that it has life, but it is living by the second.

*chirp* *chirp*

I’m done.

I’m no one to force a book down someone’s throat. Life is too short to read books that one doesn’t care for. But the thrill in reading Siddhartha is understanding the journey. Theoretically, being a Brahmin, the highest caste in the Hindu religion, should give you enlightenment. But it doesn’t. He had to leave it all before achieving the state of Buddha. Hell, he had gamble and sleep around before achieving the state of Buddha. The narrative that we are usually told was questioned. The moral status-quo is questioned, and that is what literature is about.

Okay, where did I lose you?

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