Thus he praised himself, found joy in himself, listened curiously to his stomach, which was rumbling with hunger.  He had now, so he felt, in these recent times and days, completely tasted and spit out, devoured up to the point of desperation and death, a piece of suffering, a piece of misery.  Like this, it was good.  For much longer, he could have stayed with Kamaswami, made money, wasted money, filled his stomach, and let his soul die of thirst; for much longer he could have lived in this soft, well upholstered hell, if this had not happened:  the moment of complete hopelessness and despair, that most extreme moment, when he hang over the rushing waters and was ready to destroy himself.  That he had felt this despair, this deep disgust, and that he had not succumbed to it, that the bird, the joyful source and voice in him was still alive after all, this was why he felt joy, this was why he laughed, this was why his face was smiling brightly under his hair which had turned gray.

“It is good,” he thought, “to get a taste of everything for oneself, which one needs to know.  That lust for the world and riches do not belong to the good things, I have already learned as a child.  I have known it for a long time, but I have experienced only now.  And now I know it, don’t just know it in my memory, but in my eyes, in my heart, in my stomach.  Good for me, to know this!”

For a long time, he pondered his transformation, listened to the bird, as it sang for 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 this not his self, his small, frightened, and proud self, he had wrestled with for so many years, which had defeated him again and again, which was back again after every killing, prohibited joy, felt fear?  Was it not this, which today had finally come to its death, here in the forest, by this lovely river?  Was it not due to this death, that he was now like a child, so full of trust, so without fear, so full of joy?

Now Siddhartha also got some idea of why he had fought this self in vain as a Brahman, as a penitent.  Too much knowledge had held him back, too many holy verses, too many sacrificial rules, to much self-castigation, so much doing and striving for that goal!  Full of arrogance, he had been, always the smartest, always working the most, always one step ahead of all others, always the knowing and spiritual one, always the priest or wise one.  Into being a priest, into this arrogance, into this spirituality, his self had retreated, there it sat firmly and grew, while he thought he would kill it by fasting and penance.  Now he saw it and saw that the secret voice had been right, that no teacher would ever have been able to bring about his salvation.  Therefore, he had to go out into the world, lose himself to lust and power,