...
Show More
On the surface, this is a harmless fable of a man struggling through life and coming to peace with the universe. Lovely, gentle, comfort food spiced up with mysticism. It's a bedtime read.
The problem is, it's supposed to be a book that explains the origins and teachings of Buddhism. And as Keely points out in his review, when a foreigner tries to write a story about a country and religion he knows very little about, he will always get it wrong.
Everything is so... so posed. So exotified. We are invited to gawk at the characters and how "different" their lives are, as if they were colorful birds in a zoo. The narrative is obsessed with "strange" sights such as mango groves, fig gardens, clay huts, animal sacrifices and meditation, as if Siddhartha were a stranger in his own country. It's like an American driving around his normal world and being amazed by the strip malls, the sizes of the roads, and the plethora of car brands to be seen.
In just the first chapter, a bunch of foreign terms are flung at us like "Semana," "Brahmin," "Atman," "Rig-Veda," and "Om;" however, they are tossed in without any rhyme or reason. It feels as if Hesse was trying to impress us with his research; however, it comes across as flat and immature. For another analogy, it's as realistic as an American wondering about the meaning of life by contemplating the Deceleration of Independence, the Scarlet Letter, and the Twilight Saga.
Also, the character's skin tones are compared to exotic foods.
"He became as pale as a dried banana skin."
This is infinitely annoying. That's like saying:
Rage erupted in her breast, and her face became as red as Kool-Aid."
Just as Americans don't obsess over Pepsi, CNN, or George Washington, a person living in this time period in India wouldn't obsess over mango trees or the Vedas in his daily life.
Furthermore, there is a "simple but noble savage" vibe that undercuts the whole story. The prose is saccharine, simplistic, Winne-the-Pooh-style writing that glosses over any sort of complexity in thoughts or feelings. The characters have superficial emotions and spend the whole book posturing. I cannot count how many times "happiness erupted" or "sadness grew" in someone's heart/breast.
I mean, see for yourself:
"There was happiness in his father's heart because of his son who was intelligent and thirsty for knowledge; he saw him growing up to be a great learned man, a priest, a prince among the Brahmins."
Or this one:
"For a long time Govinda looked doubtfully at the friend of his youth. Then he bowed to him, as one does of a man of rank, and went on his way.
"Smiling, Siddhartha watched him go. He still loved him, this faithful, anxious friend."
This next one made me angry, given how severely it violates the laws of good literature. There is so much name-dropping, it reminds me of Gossip Girls! ("The keys of her Cadillac were in her Gucci purse!") (...not that I ever read more than a few pages of those books...)
"But Siddhartha himself was not happy. Wandering along the rosy paths of the fig garden, sitting in contemplation in the bluish shade of the grove, washing his limbs in the daily bath of atonement, offering sacrifices in the depths of the shady mango wood with complete grace of manner, beloved by all, a joy to all, there was yet no joy in his own heart. Dreams and restless thoughts came flowing to him from the river, from the twinkling stars at night, from the suns melting rays. Dreams and a restlessness of the soul came to him, arising from the smoke of the sacrifices, emanating from the verses of the Rig-Veda, trickling from the teachings of the old Brahmins."
It's as if Hesse was both overly respectful of and scornful towards Buddhist "foreigners" at the same time; shaping his fictional characters into simple-witted people who are nonetheless "uncorrupted by modern society" and at peace with nature. Goodness, Hesse, don't you know humans are all the same? Why can't "foreigners" in literature be as passionate, overwhelmed, manipulative, mirthful, jealous, and egotistical as characters from one's own continent?
I'm sure there are more complex, less exotified portrayals of Buddhism out there. You really won't be missing out on anything if you skip this one.
------------------------------------------------------
If you for some reason DO want to read SIDDHARTHA, find a good translation, because the standard one by Hilda Rosner is terrible. Not only is it filled with messy, convoluted prose, it fails at basic grammar.
Take the opening, for example:
"In the shade of the house, in the sunshine on the river bank by the boats, in the shade of the sallow wood and the fig tree, Siddhartha, the handsome Brahmin's son, grew up with his friend Govinda. The sun browned his slender shoulders on the river bank, while bathing at the holy ablutions, at the holy sacrifices. Shadows passed across his eyes in the mango grove during play, while his mother sang, during his father's teachings, when with the learned men."
The writing is atrocious. I doesn't flow. It's a simple piece of description, yet you have to read it multiple times to make sense of it.
Also, the grammar is horrible. Let's look at a sentence from that paragraph:
"The sun browned his slender shoulders on the river bank, while bathing at the holy ablutions..."
Wait, so the sun is browning his shoulders and bathing at the ablutions? THE SUN IS BATHING???
This is a common grammatical error called a "misplaced modifier," and it is often made by elementary school children. It is a phrase or clause placed incorrectly in a sentence so that it appears to modify an unintended word. In this case, I'm sure Rosner meant that Siddhartha was bathing, but because the sun is the subject of the sentence, it comes across as if it were the one bathing.
Don't waste your money or time on a translation that reads as if it were written by a middleschooler with a thesaurus.
