Siddhartha stood still and for a moment an icy chill stole over him.
He shivered inwardly like a small animal, like a bird or a hare, when he realized how alone he was. He had been homeless for years and had not felt like this. Now he did feel it. Previously, when in deepest meditation, he was still his father's on, he was a Brahmin of high standing, a religious man. Now he was only Siddhartha, the awakened; otherwise nothing else.
He breathed in deeply and for a moment he shuddered. Nobody was so alone as he. He was no nobleman, belonging to any aristocracy, no artisan belonging to any guild and finding refuge in it, sharing its life and language. He was no Brahmin, sharing the life of the Brahmins, no ascetic belonging to the Samanas. Even the most secluded hermit in the woods was not alone; he also belonged to a class of people.
At that moment, when the world around him melted away, when he stood alone like a star in the heavens, he was overwhelmed by a feeling of icy despair, but he was more firmly himself than ever.
That was the last shudder of his awakening, the last pains of birth. Immediatly he moved on again and began to walk quickly and impatiently, no longer homewards, no longer to his father, no longer looking backwards.
- Siddhartha, Part One, Chapter 4
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