Siddhartha: A Yoga Therapy Perspective, Quotes on Listening

Listening is the essence of yoga therapy. Siddhartha contains many beautiful excerpts on the art of listening. Note and mark sections related to listening as you read the book. 


from the Chapter: With the Samanas

a) Everywhere where the rumour of Buddha was heard, everywhere in the lands of India, the young men listened up, felt a longing, felt hope, and among the Brahmans' sons of the towns and villages every pilgrim and stranger was welcome. . .

b)  I have grown distrustful and tired against teachings and learning, and that my faith in words, which are brought to us by teachers, is small. But let's do it, my dear, I am willing to listen to these teachings — though in my heart I believe that we've already tasted the best fruit of these teachings." brought news of him, the exalted one, the Sakyamuni.

c) "Oh Siddhartha," Govinda spoke one day to his friend. "Today, I was in the village, and a Brahman invited me into his house, and in his house, there was the son of a Brahman from Magadha, who has seen the Buddha with his own eyes and has heard him teach. Verily, this made my chest ache when I breathed, and thought to myself: If only I would too, if only we both would too, Siddhartha and me, live to see the hour when we will hear the teachings from the mouth of this perfected man! Speak, friend, wouldn't we want to go there too and listen to the teachings from the Buddha's mouth?"


from the Chapter: Gotama

d) Delightedly, Govinda listened and wanted to ask and hear much more. But Siddhartha urged him to walk on.

from the Chapter: Awakening

e) Slowly walking along, Siddhartha pondered.  He realized that he was no youth any more, but had turned into a man.  He realized that one thing had left him, as a snake is left by its old skin, that one thing no longer existed in him, which had accompanied him throughout his youth and used to be a part of him: the wish to have teachers and to listen to teachings.  He had also left the last teacher who had appeared on his path, even him, the highest and wisest teacher, the most holy one,
Buddha, he had left him, had to part with him, was not able to accept his teachings.

Chapter: With the Child People

f) He soon saw that Siddhartha knew little about rice and wool,shipping and trade, but that he acted in a fortunate manner, and that Siddhartha surpassed him, the merchant, in calmness and equanimity, and in the art of listening and deeply understanding previously unknown people.  "This Brahman," he said to a friend, "is no proper merchant and will never be one, there is never any passion in his soul when he conducts our business.  But he has that mysterious quality of those people to whom success comes all by itself, whether this may be a good star of his birth, magic, or something he has learned among Samanas.He always seems to be merely playing with out business-affairs, they
never fully become a part of him, they never rule over him, he is never afraid of failure, he is never upset by a loss."

g) When Kamaswami came to him, to complain about his worries or to reproach him concerning his
business, he listened curiously and happily, was puzzled by him, tried to understand him, consented that he was a little bit right, only as much as he considered indispensable, and turned away from him, towards the next person who would ask for him.  And there were many who came to him, many to do business with him, many to cheat him, many to draw some secret out of him, many to appeal to his sympathy, many to get his advice.  He gave advice, he pitied, he made gifts, he let them cheat him
a bit, and this entire game and the passion with which all people played this game occupied his thoughts just as much as the gods and Brahmans used to occupy them.

h) Most people, Kamala, are like a falling leaf, which is blown and is turning around through the
air, and wavers, and tumbles to the ground.  But others, a few, are like stars, they go on a fixed course, no wind reaches them, in themselves they have their law and their course.  Among all the learned men and Samanas, of which I knew many, there was one of this kind, a perfected one, I'll never be able to forget him.  It is that Gotama, the exalted one, who is spreading that teachings.  Thousands of followers are listening to his teachings every day, follow his instructions every hour, but they are all falling leaves, not in themselves they have teachings and a law."


Chapter: Sansara

i) That high, bright state of being awake, which he had experienced that one time at the height of his youth, in those days after Gotama's sermon, after the separation from Govinda, that tense expectation, that proud state of standing alone without teachings and without teachers, that supple willingness to listen to the divine voice in his own heart, had slowly become a memory, had been fleeting; distant and quiet, the holy source murmured, which used to be near, which used to murmur within
himself.

from the Chapter: By the River

j) 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.

k) 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?

l) He thought these thoughts, listened with a smile to his stomach,listened gratefully to a buzzing bee.  Cheerfully, he looked into the rushing river, never before he had like a water so well as this one,

never before he had perceived the voice and the parable of the moving water thus strongly and beautifully.  It seemed to him, as if the river had something special to tell him, something he did not know yet, which was still awaiting him.  In this river, Siddhartha had intended to drown himself, in it the old, tired, desperate Siddhartha had drowned today.  But the new Siddhartha felt a deep love for this rushing water, and decided for himself, not to leave it very soon.

from the Chapter: The Ferryman

m) Tenderly, he looked into the rushing water, into the transparent green, into the crystal lines of its drawing, so rich in secrets.  Bright pearls he saw rising from the deep, quiet bubbles of air floating on

the reflecting surface, the blue of the sky being depicted in it.  With a thousand eyes, the river looked at him, with green ones, with white ones, with crystal ones, with sky-blue ones.  How did he love this

water, how did it delight him, how grateful was he to it!  In his heart he heard the voice talking, which was newly awaking, and it told him: Love this water!  Stay near it!  Learn from it!  Oh yes, he wanted to learn from it, he wanted to listen to it.  He who would understand this water and its secrets, so it seemed to him, would also understand many other things, many secrets, all secrets.

n) Siddhartha rose, the workings of hunger in his body became unbearable. In a daze he walked on, up the path by the bank, upriver, listened to the current, listened to the rumbling hunger in his body.

o) Vasudeva listened with great attention.  Listening carefully, he let everything enter his mind, birthplace and childhood, all that learning, all that searching, all joy, all distress.  This was among the

ferryman's virtues one of the greatest:  like only a few, he knew how to listen.  Without him having spoken a word, the speaker sensed how Vasudeva let his words enter his mind, quiet, open, waiting, how he did not lose a single one, awaited not a single one with impatience,

did not add his praise or rebuke, was just listening.  Siddhartha felt, what a happy fortune it is, to confess to such a listener, to bury in his heart his own life, his own search, his own suffering.

p) Vasudeva rose.  "It is late," he said, "let's go to sleep.  I can't tell you that other thing, oh friend.  You'll learn it, or perhaps you know it already.  See, I'm no learned man, I have no special skill in

speaking, I also have no special skill in thinking.  All I'm able to do is to listen and to be godly, I have learned nothing else.  If I was able to say and teach it, I might be a wise man, but like this I am only

a ferryman, and it is my task to ferry people across the river.  I have transported many, thousands; and to all of them, my river has been nothing but an obstacle on their travels.  They travelled to seek money and business, and for weddings, and on pilgrimages, and the river was obstructing their path, and the ferryman's job was to get them quickly across that obstacle.  But for some among thousands, a few, four or five, the river has stopped being an obstacle, they have heard its voice, they have listened to it, and the river has become sacred to them, as it has become sacred to me.  Let's rest now, Siddhartha.

q) But more than Vasudeva could teach him, he was taught by the river.  Incessantly, he learned from it.  Most of all, he learned from it to listen, to pay close attention with a quiet heart, with a waiting, opened soul, without passion, without a wish, without judgement, without an opinion.

r)And time after time, his smile became more similar to the ferryman's, became almost just as bright, almost just as throughly glowing with bliss, just as shining out of thousand small wrinkles, just as alike to a child's, just as alike to an old man's.  Many travellers, seeing the two ferrymen, thought they were brothers.  Often, they sat in the evening together by the bank on the log, said nothing and both listened to the water, which was no water to them, but the voice of life, the voice of what exists, of what is eternally taking shape.  And it happened from time to time that both, when listening to the river, thought of the same things, of a conversation from the day before yesterday, of one of their travellers, the face and fate of whom had occupied their thoughts, of death, of their childhood, and that they both in the same moment, when the river had been saying something good to them, looked at each other, both thinking precisely the same thing, both delighted about the same answer to the same question.

s) When he rose, Vasudeva had prepared rice for him.  But Siddhartha did not eat.  In the stable, where their goat stood, the two old men prepared beds of straw for themselves, and Vasudeva lay himself down to sleep.  But Siddhartha went outside and sat this night before the hut, listening to the river, surrounded by the past, touched and encircled by all times of his life at the same time.  But occasionally, he rose, stepped to the door of the hut and listened, whether the boy was sleeping.

from the Chapter: The Son

t)  Timid and weeping, the boy had attended his mother's funeral; gloomy and shy, he had listened to Siddhartha, who greeted him as his son and welcomed him at his place in Vasudeva's hut.  Pale, he sat for many days by the hill of the dead, did not want to eat, gave no open look, did not open his heart, met his fate with resistance and denial.

u)That  young bird is accustomed to a different life, to a different nest.  He has not, like you, ran away from riches and the city, being disgusted and fed up with it; against his will, he had to leave all this behind. I asked the river, oh friend, many times I have asked it.  But the river laughs, it laughs at me, it laughs at you and me, and is shaking with laughter at out foolishness.  Water wants to join water, youth wants to join youth, your son is not in the place where he can prosper.  You too should ask the river; you too should listen to it!"

v) "Get the brushwood for yourself!" he shouted foaming at the mouth, "I'm not your servant.  I do know, that you won't hit me, you don't dare; I do know, that you constantly want to punish me and put me down with your religious devotion and your indulgence.  You want me to become like

you, just as devout, just as soft, just as wise!  But I, listen up, just to make you suffer, I rather want to become a highway-robber and murderer, and go to hell, than to become like you!  I hate you, you're

not my father, and if you've ten times been my mother's fornicator!"

w) For a long time, he stood there, pondering, seeing images, listening to the story of his life.  For a long time, he stood there, looked at the monks, saw young Siddhartha in their place, saw young Kamala walking among the high trees.  Clearly, he saw himself being served food and

drink by Kamala, receiving his first kiss from her, looking proudly and disdainfully back on his Brahmanism, beginning proudly and full of desire his worldly life.  He saw Kamaswami, saw the servants, the orgies, the gamblers with the dice, the musicians, saw Kamala's song-bird in the cage, lived through all this once again, breathed Sansara, was once again old and tired, felt once again disgust, felt once again the wish to annihilate himself, was once again healed by the holy Om.

x)That this wound did not blossom yet, did not shine yet, at this hour, made him sad.  Instead of the desired goal, which had drawn him here following the runaway son, there was now emptiness.  Sadly, he sat down, felt something dying in his heart, experienced emptiness, saw no joy any

more, no goal.  He sat lost in thought and waited.  This he had learned by the river, this one thing: waiting, having patience, listening attentively.  And he sat and listened, in the dust of the road, listened  to his heart, beating tiredly and sadly, waited for a voice.  Many an

hour he crouched, listening, saw no images any more, fell into emptiness, let himself fall, without seeing a path.  And when he felt the wound burning, he silently spoke the Om, filled himself with Om. The monks in the garden saw him, and since he crouched for many hours, and dust was gathering on his gray hair, one of them came to him and placed two bananas in front of him.  The old man did not see him.

from the Chapter: OM

y) Alas, the wound was not blossoming yet, his heart was still fighting his fate, cheerfulness and victory were not yet shining from his suffering. Nevertheless, he felt hope, and once he had returned to the hut, he felt an undefeatable desire to open up to Vasudeva, to show him everything, the master of listening, to say everything.

z)While he spoke, spoke for a long time, while Vasudeva was listening with a quiet face, Vasudeva's listening gave Siddhartha a stronger sensation than ever before, he sensed how his pain, his fears flowed over to him, how his secret hope flowed over, came back at him from his counterpart.  To show his wound to this listener was the same as bathing it in the river, until it had cooled and become one with the river.  While he was still speaking, still admitting and confessing, Siddhartha felt more and more that this was no longer Vasudeva, no longer a human being, who was listening to him, that this motionless listener was absorbing his confession into himself like a tree the rain,

that this motionless man was the river itself, that he was God himself, that he was the eternal itself

aa) When he had finished talking, Vasudeva turned his friendly eyes, which had grown slightly weak, at him, said nothing, let his silent love and cheerfulness, understanding and knowledge, shine at him.  He took Siddhartha's hand, led him to the seat by the bank, sat down with him, smiled at the river.

"You've heard it laugh," he said.  "But you haven't heard everything. Let's listen, you'll hear more."

They listened.  Softly sounded the river, singing in many voices. Siddhartha looked into the water, and images appeared to him in the moving water: his father appeared, lonely, mourning for his son; he himself appeared, lonely, he also being tied with the bondage of yearning to his distant son; his son appeared, lonely as well, the boy, greedily rushing along the burning course of his young wishes, each one heading for his goal, each one obsessed by the goal, each one suffering.  The river sang with a voice of suffering, longingly it sang, longingly, it flowed towards its goal, lamentingly its voice sang.

"Do you hear?" Vasudeva's mute gaze asked.  Siddhartha nodded.

"Listen better!" Vasudeva whispered.

Siddhartha made an effort to listen better.  The image of his father, his own image, the image of his son merged, Kamala's image also appeared and was dispersed, and the image of Govinda, and other images, and they merged with each other, turned all into the river, headed all, being the river, for the goal, longing, desiring, suffering, and the river's voice sounded full of yearning, full of burning woe, full of unsatisfiable desire.  For the goal, the river was heading, Siddhartha saw it hurrying, the river, which consisted of him and his loved ones and of all people, he had ever seen, all of these waves and waters were hurrying, suffering, towards goals, many goals, the waterfall, the lake, the rapids, the sea, and all goals were reached, and every goal was followed by a new one, and the water turned into vapour and rose to the sky, turned into rain and poured down from the sky, turned into a source, a stream, a river, headed forward once again, flowed on once again.  But the longing voice had changed.  It still resounded, full of suffering, searching, but other voices joined it, voices of joy and of suffering, good and bad voices, laughing and sad ones, a hundred voices, a thousand voices.

Siddhartha listened.  He was now nothing but a listener, completely concentrated on listening, completely empty, he felt, that he had now finished learning to listen.  Often before, he had heard all this, these many voices in the river, today it sounded new.  Already, he could no longer tell the many voices apart, not the happy ones from the weeping ones, not the ones of children from those of men, they all belonged together, the lamentation of yearning and the laughter of the knowledgeable one, the scream of rage and the moaning of the dying ones, everything was one, everything was intertwined and connected, entangled a thousand times.  And everything together, all voices, all goals, all yearning, all suffering, all pleasure, all that was good and evil, all of this together was the world.  All of it together was the flow of events, was the music of life.  And when Siddhartha was listening

attentively to this river, this song of a thousand voices, when he neither listened to the suffering nor the laughter, when he did not tie his soul to any particular voice and submerged his self into it, but

when he heard them all, perceived the whole, the oneness, then the great song of the thousand voices consisted of a single word, which was Om: the perfection.

"Do you hear," Vasudeva's gaze asked again.

Brightly, Vasudeva's smile was shining, floating radiantly over all the wrinkles of his old face, as the Om was floating in the air over all the voices of the river.  Brightly his smile was shining, when he looked at his friend, and brightly the same smile was now starting to shine on Siddhartha's face as well.  His wound blossomed, his suffering was shining, his self had flown into the oneness.

from the Chapter: Govinda

bb) "Listen well, my dear, listen well!  The sinner, which I am and which you are, is a sinner, but in times to come he will be Brahma again, he will reach the Nirvana, will be Buddha--and now see: these 'times to come' are a deception, are only a parable!