innermost part and would reside in the Atman. Marvellous wisdom was in
these verses, all knowledge of the wisest ones had been collected here
in magic words, pure as honey collected by bees. No, not to be looked
down upon was the tremendous amount of enlightenment which lay here
collected and preserved by innumerable generations of wise Brahmans.--
But where were the Brahmans, where the priests, where the wise men or
penitents, who had succeeded in not just knowing this deepest of all
knowledge but also to live it? Where was the knowledgeable one who wove
his spell to bring his familiarity with the Atman out of the sleep into
the state of being awake, into the life, into every step of the way,
into word and deed? Siddhartha knew many venerable Brahmans, chiefly
his father, the pure one, the scholar, the most venerable one. His
father was to be admired, quiet and noble were his manners, pure his
life, wise his words, delicate and noble thoughts lived behind its brow
--but even he, who knew so much, did he live in blissfulness, did he
have peace, was he not also just a searching man, a thirsty man? Did he
not, again and again, have to drink from holy sources, as a thirsty man,
from the offerings, from the books, from the disputes of the Brahmans?
Why did he, the irreproachable one, have to wash off sins every day,
strive for a cleansing every day, over and over every day? Was not
Atman in him, did not the pristine source spring from his heart? It had
to be found, the pristine source in one's own self, it had to be
possessed! Everything else was searching, was a detour, was getting
lost.

Thus were Siddhartha's thoughts, this was his thirst, this was his
suffering.

Often he spoke to himself from a Chandogya-Upanishad the words:
"Truly, the name of the Brahman is satyam--verily, he who knows such a