December 22, 2009
In the autumn two years ago, during a party at a friend’s house, I picked up a book and started reading in a room filled with green plants and yellow light while the party hovered somewhere above me. I was lost in the words only to be brought back occasionally by the unnatural laughter of uneasy people upstairs. I did not finish the story that night as the party eventually tumbled downstairs with all the subtlety of a crashing elephant. Little did I know the effect that the book would have on me – my ongoing search for recreating that moment that I lived in the book and the story flowed in me.
“Om is the bow, the arrow is the soul,
Brahman is the arrow’s goal
At which one aims unflinchingly.”
“Siddhartha” by Hermann Hesse is a wonderful story about the self-discovering journey of a young man. I was mesmerized by the river of words and its currents that swept me from bank to bank – sometimes gently and other times with a ferocity that jarred me. It had everything to do with the moment I was in – the room, the light, the smell, the fragments of music flitting down, the contrast of being alone in a crowded house. I have attempted several times to start the book again and to finish it in a moment where I am lost until the end. Maybe this holiday I will find that time again.