Dare I say it, but I have the feeling that
oriental mysticism transposed into Western culture often serves to hide the
(spiritual) emptiness of our society. And Siddahrta,
to me, is to a large extent a reflection of a readership that turns Eastwards to
find a meaning to an otherwise fairly hollow existence.
I am being dreadfully harsh, I know, but I’d
rather leave traditions where they are, without indiscriminately borrowing from
them and watering down their unquestionable meaningfulness.
I am probably questioning the people who love Siddahrta more than the book itself, but
I have the feeling that, in 1922, the novel might have actually had much more literary
weight than it does now.
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