Siddhartha

I was never fond of novels growing up. I loved reading—so much so that I would even read the backs of snack packages, hoping to find something interesting. But when it came to books, my interests leaned more toward science and current affairs. Despite novels being printed on the same white paper in black ink, I found myself avoiding them. I think it was because I believed that “novels are fiction.” I couldn’t understand why I should spend my time reading something that wasn’t even true.

As I’ve grown older, however, I’ve come to see fiction in a different light. Now in my 40s, I think I’m beginning to understand why people say life is captured in novels. These days, I’m reading fiction again—especially timeless classics—as if each book is a destination I must visit before I die. That’s how I ended up reading Siddhartha.

Since Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse is such a widely known work, I’ll skip the usual author bio or plot summary. Not because everyone is already familiar with it—I myself only knew the title until recently—but because a quick online search will provide more than enough information. Instead, I want to share what I felt, from my own perspective.

The part of the novel that struck me most deeply was the conflict between Siddhartha and his son. That scene mirrored my relationship with my own daughter. Like Siddhartha with his son, I want my daughter to live a better life. I try to pass on what I’ve learned and provide her with the best possible environment and support—believing that’s my duty as a parent. But observing Siddhartha’s struggle from a third-person view made me realize that my excessive concern and protection may not actually be for her benefit.

Come to think of it, I grew stronger by falling and getting back up. My daughter, too, can handle things on her own. Siddhartha says, “You can communicate knowledge, but not wisdom. Wisdom can be found, lived, and carried, but it cannot be expressed or taught.” (“Wissen kann man mitteilen, Weisheit aber nicht.”) The idea that I can teach her and lead her where I think she should go is just my own illusion. In the end, everyone has their own life path to walk, and the unforeseen hardships along the way are not only unavoidable but essential to growth. In fact, whether necessary or not, those experiences are life itself—something no one else can live for you. It’s only now that I’ve come to understand that.

Siddhartha’s journey toward enlightenment reminds me that life never unfolds according to plan. He left a noble life as a Brahmin, became an ascetic wanderer, returned to the world, and eventually found peace as a ferryman. Nothing in his life went as originally intended—it simply flowed that way, and he lived it. Similarly, the fact that my life has gone relatively smoothly so far is thanks to countless coincidences. When I reflect objectively on the things I’ve achieved, many of them happened despite, not because of, my intentions. Just because I set a goal didn’t mean I reached it. And failing to reach it never meant life was over.

One final thought I’d like to share: given enough time, everything fades. Conflict, joy, even the enlightenment Siddhartha longed for. All of it will eventually vanish and be forgotten. If you’ve seen Carl Sagan’s Pale Blue Dot, you’ll know what I mean—the Earth is nothing more than a speck of dust floating in the vastness of space. We live out fleeting moments on that dust. In that tiny space, in that blink of time. And it’s precisely because of that, paradoxically, that life is so precious.

Let me not view my daughter through the lens of my own standards. Let me not cling to the illusion of “goals.” Let me simply live each moment with gratitude. These are the three insights I gained from reading Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha.