Siddhartha walked through the forest, was already far from the city, and knew nothing but that one thing, that there was no going back for him, that this life, as he had lived it for many years until now, was over and done away with, and that he had tasted all of it, sucked everything out of it until he was disgusted with it. Dead was the singing bird, he had dreamt of. Dead was the bird in his heart. Deeply, he had been entangled in Sansara, he had sucked up disgust and death from all sides into his body, like a sponge sucks up water until it is full. And full he was, full of the feeling of been sick of it, full of misery, full of death, there was nothing left in this world which could have attracted him, given him joy, given him comfort. 席特哈尔塔在森林里游荡，离开那个城市已经很远了。他只知道他不会再回来，他多年来所过的生活已经一去不复返了。他尝够了这种生活的滋味，已经到了恶心的地步。他梦见过的那只鸣鸟死了，他心中的鸟儿也死了。他深深地纠缠于轮回之中，已经从各方面尝够了厌恶和死亡的滋味。就好像一块海绵吸饱了水。他满怀厌恶，满怀愁闷，满怀死亡之感，世界再没有什么能吸引他，使他高兴，安慰他了。 Passionately he wished to know nothing about himself anymore, to have rest, to be dead. If there only was a lightning-bolt to strike him dead! If there only was a tiger a devour him! If there only was a wine, a poison which would numb his senses, bring him forgetfulness and sleep, and no awakening from that! Was there still any kind of filth, he had not soiled himself with, a sin or foolish act he had not committed, a dreariness of the soul he had not brought upon himself? Was it still at all possible to be alive? Was it possible, to breathe in again and again, to breathe out, to feel hunger, to eat again, to sleep again, to sleep with a woman again? Was this cycle not exhausted and brought to a conclusion for him? 他热切地希望能忘却自己，得到安宁，干脆死掉。但愿来个闪电，劈死他！但愿来一只猛虎，吃掉他！但愿有一杯酒，一杯毒酒，使得他麻木、忘却和沉睡，永远不再醒来！还有哪一种污秽他没有沾染过，还有哪一种罪孽和蠢行他没有干过，还有哪一种心灵的空虚他没有承受过？他还有可能再活下去么？还有可能一而再、再而三地吸气和呼气，感觉到肚子饿，重又进餐，再去睡觉，去和女人睡觉么？这种循环对于他来说不是已经精疲力竭并且结束了么？那天，他一直坐在芒果树下，思念他父亲，思念戈文达，思念戈塔马。要做个卡马斯瓦密就必须离开他们吗？夜色降临时他依然静坐不动。他抬头仰望星星，心想：“我坐在我的芒果树下，坐在我的大花园里。”他微微一笑——他拥有一棵芒果树，拥有一个大花园，可是这有必要吗？这对头吗？这不也是一场愚蠢的游戏吗？