In this blog post, we will examine Hermann Hesse’s life and major works, focusing on his philosophical background, particularly the unity and Buddhist influences evident in ‘Siddhartha’.

The Path of Solitude and Contemplation: Hermann Hesse

Hermann Hesse (Hermann Karl Hesse, July 2, 1877 – August 9, 1962) was a German-Swiss poet, novelist, and painter.
He was born on July 2, 1877, in Calw, a small town in Württemberg, located in the Swabian region of southern Germany—a land of poets—as the eldest son of Johannes Hesse, a Protestant missionary, and his mother, Marie Gundert (1842–1902). His mother had lost her first husband and remarried Johannes Hesse, a former student of her own father, at the age of 32; she was five years older than him. Johannes Hesse was a missionary of Estonian origin who had served in India, and his maternal uncle, Wilhelm T., was an educator who worked in Japan and was an authority on Buddhist studies. This environment fostered Hesse’s interest in Eastern philosophy. His mother had two sons from her previous marriage, and Hesse’s siblings included his older sister Adele (1875–1949), his younger brother Paul (1878–1878), his younger sister Gertrud (1879–1880), his younger sister Marie (1880–1953), and his younger brother Hans (1882–1935). From 1881 to 1886, he lived with his parents in Basel. In 1883, his father obtained Swiss citizenship, and in 1886 (at age 9), the family returned to Kalf.
He attended a vocational school until 1880 and then went to a Latin school in Göppingen in 1890 to prepare for the theological entrance exam. He passed the Württemberg state exam, clearing the first hurdle on his path to becoming a theologian. To facilitate this, his father obtained Württemberg citizenship. In 1891, at the age of 14, he enrolled at the Maulbronn boarding school, a prestigious Protestant seminary and monastery. In 1892, he ran away from the seminary. His reasons for dropping out were his inability to adapt, the onset of a nervous breakdown, and the conviction that “if I cannot become a poet, I will be nothing.” In June, he attempted suicide due to unrequited love and spent time in a mental health facility; in November, he enrolled at the Cannstatt Gymnasium. His experiences at the seminary were critically depicted in the novel *Under the Wheel*. He discontinued his studies in October 1893.
He quit his job at a bookstore after just two days and worked as an apprentice in a watch parts factory from 1894 to 1895. After two years of wandering, Hermann Hesse finally found stability in life while working as a bookseller in Tübingen and beginning to write.
In 1899, he published his first collection of poems, *Songs of Romance*, and the prose collection *An Hour in the Night*. In the fall, he moved to a bookstore in Basel. In 1901, he traveled to Italy for the first time. His mother died in 1902.
In 1904, Hesse became an overnight sensation in the German-speaking world with ‘Peter Camenzind’ (‘Nostalgia’), and from then on, he embarked on a successful career as a writer. By the time World War I began, *Peter Camenzind* had sold over 60,000 copies. During the war, his anti-war stance and opposition to the far-right’s patriotism led to accusations of treason in Germany. His outspoken stance stemmed from his disappointment with the far-right tendencies of intellectuals at the time, who, far from criticizing the war, actually supported it and even incited hatred toward other nations. While he felt disillusioned by the sight of Asia reduced to a colony, the sense of universal brotherhood he experienced during his travels in Asia (1911) also served as the backdrop for his writings opposing patriotism. The work published during this period was *Demian*. This novel is one of his most successful works.
He acquired Swiss citizenship in 1923, and during World War II, Hermann Hesse’s works were subject to Nazi suppression, with the paper needed for printing being withheld. In 1946, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature for *Glass Bead Game*.
One of the most representative biographies of Hesse is the one written by Hugo Ball in 1927, in which he described Hesse as “the last knight of the brilliant Romantic order.”

Hesse and I

Can literature save the world? When I think about it, this question seems to have lingered in my mind for decades. My decision to major in German literature while attending university in the early 1980s—a time when freedom was being arbitrarily suppressed—my fascination with historical-philosophical genre theory after reading *Theory of the Novel* by the Hungarian literary scholar Georg Lukács, and my choice of Bertolt Brecht as the subject of my dissertation—all of these were influenced by this very question. I was thrilled by the expectation that literature, like stars in the sky, would clearly illuminate the path for me and for us. But the stars did not appear, and I often lost my way in the pitch-black darkness. So I shifted the focus of the question from literature to myself. There was a time when I was deeply absorbed in the question, “What am I?” It was a time when pitch-black darkness enveloped me, and no matter whether I looked back or ahead, I could find no path. I was able to overcome the anxiety of the times by reading Heidegger. Heidegger’s concept of nature offered me solace.
The silent objects of nature bloom and wither of their own accord. Blooming and withering of their own accord is nature, for it refers to “all beings or states that exist in the world without the addition of human power, or that come into being spontaneously in the universe.” The wind blows from an unknown place and vanishes into an unknown place, and the river flows in and out in the same way. The etymology of “nature” comes from the Greek word physis. In *Introduction to Metaphysics*, Heidegger explains it as follows: “Spontaneous blooming (for example, the blooming of a rose), unfolding while opening itself, revealing its form within such unfolding, and pausing and dwelling within it—in short, the ruling (Walten) that both blossoms and dwells.” The nature of physis—revealing itself, maintaining that state for a moment, and then concealing itself again—is, in a sense, the fundamental attribute of all existence.
The essence of nature—coming, dwelling, and vanishing—is presence. Presence is being here and now. Being here and now for a brief moment is the attribute of nature and the fundamental mode of existence. The same must be true for humans. As a being, a human is also present in the sense of being here and now, and is therefore part of nature. This is why humans are like rocks, trees, and birds. In an unfeeling industrial society that reduces all value to material terms, Heidegger’s view of nature became a small star in my sky. For a time, I was able to find peace of mind by regarding myself as part of nature. However, the problem remained: how to overcome a mind that is in a constant state of arising and passing away. Simply accepting anxiety as the fundamental mood of Dasein, in the Heideggerian sense, did not solve the problem.
I had to find another path. That path was Buddhism and Hesse. Philosophy and literature are different windows looking toward the same place. If Buddhism expresses the relationship between the ever-changing mind and its essence in conceptual language, literature conveys it through concrete experience. Since Western language and its cultural framework were already deeply ingrained in me, Hesse’s literature was a far more intense experience.

The Conflict of Duality

From a history of ideas perspective, one of the major currents in German literature is the problem of the conflict and unity of duality. In Goethe’s *Faust*, the division between Faust and Mephisto can, in fact, be read as the conflict of duality between spirit and body. Oppositions such as mind and body, civilization and nature, and consciousness and the unconscious have, in modern times, expanded into a dualism between civic life and artistic life. The conflict experienced by the eponymous protagonist in Thomas Mann’s *Tonio Kröger* falls into this category. Broadly speaking, Hesse’s literary world does not transcend this framework either. In *Demian*, the conflict between the unconscious and the conscious is expressed; in *Narcissus and Goldmund*, an attempt is made to integrate reason and emotion; and in *Steppenwolf*, the protagonist feels torn between the world of animalistic impulses and his moral, civic nature. Viewed in this context, Hesse represents the culmination of the German literary tradition, and this is likely why he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature (1946).
Of course, a closer look at Hesse’s personal history makes it clearer why these conflicts inevitably became such central themes in his work. Hesse attempted suicide twice due to severe depression. This is also why he came to know Jung—who, alongside Freud, shaped the classics of modern psychology—and why he received psychotherapy directly from him. Hesse’s diaries and letters contain numerous passages in which he laments severe headaches, insomnia, and depression caused by his mental illness. The author’s depressive disorder reached its peak between 1916, when he was writing *Demian*, and 1919, when he was conceiving *Siddhartha*. Hesse’s interest in the exploration of the inner self, grounded in duality, is not unrelated to these unfortunate personal experiences.
This exploration of the inner self is nothing other than “the path to oneself” (*Demian*), and Jung’s psychology finds this path in the balance between human consciousness and the unconscious. Jung’s perspective is that the world of the unconscious—which, though hidden like a shadow, constantly influences human consciousness and causes psychological disturbances—can achieve balance with the conscious mind not by being repressed or ignored, but by being actively brought to light and made conscious. This stance extends to *Demian*, arguing that even those aspects suppressed and hidden by the norms of civil society—that is, things deemed “the work of the devil and a crime” (such as the character Sinclair’s sexual desire)—must be fully acknowledged. Whether it be the conscious or the unconscious, when only one aspect is absolutized, it leaves deep inner wounds in humans. This is why the novel *Demian* depicts both the physical, animalistic sexual desire experienced by Sinclair and the spiritual love symbolized by Beatrice as one-sided—and therefore negative.
Humans always live in a dualistic world. The very oppositions of self and other, individual and society, ideal and reality, body and mind, nature and civilization are examples of this. The question of how to reconcile these oppositions forms the central theme of Hesse’s literature; it is precisely where these opposites are unified that true freedom and fulfillment are achieved.

“Siddhartha”

The novel *Siddhartha* (1922) depicts the various paths of spiritual quest undertaken by Siddhartha, a young man from the Indian Brahmin caste, as he walks alongside his friend Govinda in search of enlightenment. Siddhartha’s first experience is the traditional ritual of the Indian Brahmin caste. This involves washing his body meticulously every day, offering sacrifices to the gods, praying, and reciting the Vedas; however, Siddhartha realizes that this method cannot break the cycle of the mind’s birth and death. Subsequently, Siddhartha leaves his father’s home and, together with Govinda, seeks out ascetic monks, hoping to attain enlightenment through austerities and a life of self-denial; however, this too ends in failure. Siddhartha becomes convinced that enlightenment is never attained through physical suffering. It was then that he heard news of the Buddha, who had attained complete enlightenment, and set out with Govinda to find him. Through his conversation with the Buddha, Siddhartha became convinced that the Buddha had attained enlightenment; however, knowing that enlightenment can never be conveyed through words or teachings, he ultimately had no choice but to leave him. In Buddhism, this is called “not relying on words” (不立文字), meaning that a practitioner must attain enlightenment through their own practice and can never reach it by relying on a teacher’s teachings or written texts. His friend Govinda decides to remain as the Buddha’s disciple, but Siddhartha leaves and returns to the secular world. The various forms of spiritual practice Siddhartha encountered on his journey from his father’s home back to the secular world—such as the rituals of the Brahmins, the asceticism and alms-seeking of the ascetics, and the Buddha’s enlightenment—reflect the diverse religious practices prevalent in India. While there are some differences in meaning depending on the stage of practice, the core of all these practices is the search for the true self (Atman).
The True Self is a concept derived from Indian philosophy, sometimes referred to as the “soul”; it denotes the ultimate, indestructible, and eternal spirit that constitutes the self. In Indian Upanishadic philosophy, Brahman—the soul of the world—and the True Self—the soul of the individual—are regarded as essentially identical, thereby identifying the self with the universe. Upanishadic philosophy reflects the belief that while the self—as body and mind—is constantly subject to birth and death, the True Self neither changes nor is destroyed, but remains eternally as it is. In this sense, the True Self is similar to the Buddha-nature discussed in Mahayana Buddhism. It could also correspond to the concept of “emptiness” (śūnyatā) in the phrase “form is emptiness, emptiness is form” from the Heart Sutra. Siddhartha, seeking the true self, says this:
To whom, other than the One—that is, the true self—should one offer sacrifices or pay homage? Where can the true self be found? Where does the true self dwell? Where does the eternal heart of the true self beat? Who, and where, can find the true self other than within oneself—in that innermost, indestructible place? The wisest of sages have taught that the true self is neither flesh nor bone, nor thought nor consciousness. But where, exactly where, does the true self exist? How can one penetrate there—that is, into the self, into me, into the true self? Was there another path worth exploring? Alas, no one taught this path. No one knew anything about this path—not my father, nor the teachers and sages, nor even the sacred hymns chanted during sacrificial offerings! The Brahman and their sacred texts knew everything. The Brahman and their sacred texts explained everything in minute detail. They explained the creation of the world, the origin of language, food, inhalation, and exhalation, the order of the senses, and the feats of the gods. They knew an infinite number of things. But what is the meaning of knowing all these trivial matters when they do not know the One—the most important and the only thing that truly matters?
Upon returning to the secular world, Siddhartha falls in love with Kamala, a prostitute of unparalleled beauty, and enters the service of Kamasvami, a merchant who has become a tycoon, devoting himself to amassing wealth as a merchant. Indulging in the two worldly desires—sexual pleasure and material wealth—he loses his dignity and the life of an ascetic. As Siddhartha associates with people steeped in worldly pleasures and afflictions (described in the work as “childlike people”), he becomes increasingly immersed in their lives. Then, in a dream, he realizes that this worldly life is not pleasure but suffering, that this suffering repeats endlessly (“reincarnation”), and that humans can never escape it. Tormented by worldly life, Siddhartha cannot overcome his revulsion and leaves Kamala, determined to commit suicide. However, just before jumping into the river, he senses that death is not the end—that after death comes rebirth, and that this cycle of reincarnation will repeat endlessly.
Siddhartha overcomes his urge to die and becomes the assistant to the boatman Vasudeva, living with him. Vasudeva, who has already attained enlightenment, advises Siddhartha to listen to the sound of the river. While living an ordinary yet simple life as a boatman alongside Vasudeva, Siddhartha happens to reunite with his former lover, Kamala. Now an older woman, she was on a pilgrimage to witness the Buddha’s parinirvana, accompanied by Siddhartha’s son, when she is bitten by a snake and dies. The son is entrusted to Siddhartha. Recalling his own past, which was plagued by suffering, Siddhartha resolves to sever his son from worldly life, raising him as he did, and guiding him along the path of spiritual enlightenment. Vasudeva advises Siddhartha that forcing such a path upon a son who has already adapted to city life would be meaningless. As expected, the son flees from Siddhartha to the city, and though Siddhartha sets out to find him, he eventually gives up. In his despair, Siddhartha listens to the sound of the river, and in that moment, he finally attains enlightenment. In the flowing river, the passage of time had come to a standstill; thus, there was no distinction between past, present, and future. The sound of the river integrated all things: good and evil, suffering and joy, laughter and anger, life and death. When time disappears, anxiety disappears, and such dichotomies vanish as well. The novel describes this scene as follows:
The figures of his father, himself, and his son flowed by, intermingled. Kamala’s figure also appeared, then flowed by and shattered. Gobinda’s form, and the forms of others, also flowed by, mingling with one another. Everyone became the river. Everyone became the river and flowed toward their destination—longing, craving, suffering. The sound of the river was filled with longing, burning pain, and unquenchable desire. The river sought to rush toward its destination. Siddhartha watched the river rush by. The river was made up of Siddhartha himself, his family, and everyone else he had ever met. All these waves, all these rivers, rushed by. Suffering, toward their destination. There were countless destinations: waterfalls, lakes, swift-flowing straits, the sea. Even when it reached a destination, a new one would appear. The river rose into the sky as mist, then poured down again from the heavens as rain. Becoming a spring, a stream, a river, it flowed on, constantly seeking something new. But the sound of the river, filled with longing, had changed. Though it still wandered, filled with suffering, other sounds had mingled with it. Sounds of joy, sounds of pain, good sounds, bad sounds, sounds of laughter, sounds of sorrow—hundreds of sounds, thousands of sounds—all mingled together.
When time disappears, the world becomes the Avatamsaka world, where there is no distinction. Every sin already contains within it the seed of grace; a child already holds within the image of a white-haired old man; and life is just like death. Siddhartha reaches the realization in the river that good and evil, life and death, the present and the future, suffering and joy are, in fact, one—in other words, the realization of unity. In Buddhism, this is expressed as the doctrine of non-duality (不二), which holds that defilements and Buddha-nature, the mundane and the sacred, the phenomenal world and truth, you and I, and falsehood and truth are not two. Buddha-nature is not something that lies behind defilements; rather, defilements themselves are Buddha-nature, and Buddha-nature is defilements. Just as a lotus blooms from muddy water, and just as the waves that rise in the ocean are ultimately seawater, defilements and Buddha-nature are not two separate things. Siddhartha reaches true enlightenment by passing through the stages of asceticism and worldly pleasures. The enlightenment Siddhartha attained is ultimately the realization that life and mind—or body and mind—are not two separate things. If the first stage was one in which he turned away from life and the body to focus solely on the mind, the second stage was the opposite, and the third stage is one in which he is open to both of these elements. These stages are akin to the protagonist in *Demian* arguing that one must accept both God and the devil.

Hesse and Buddhism

Hesse’s works cannot be evaluated solely as reflections of Buddhist thought. As Hesse himself stated, his works are a blend of elements from Christian mysticism, Jung’s theory of wholeness, and Buddhist and philosophical ideas from India and China. Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that the concept of unity presented in Hesse’s works comes closest to Buddhist doctrine. Siddhartha’s experience of the dissolution of all oppositions in the river can be seen as a reflection of the Buddhist perspective on the relationship between defilements and Buddha-nature.
In Buddhism, the relationship between defilements and Buddha-nature is explained through various metaphors, one of which is the lotus flower. The lotus grows not in clear water, but in murky ponds such as swamps or muddy waters. While humans are constantly plagued by all manner of defilements, Buddha-nature remains ever pure. Just as dirty muddy water lies beneath the surface, yet beautiful lotus flowers always bloom above it. A similar metaphor is the relationship between seawater and waves. When the wind blows over the sea, the water ripples and waves of all sizes rise, yet the water in the depths remains unchanged. The Yogācāra theory of Great Master Wonhyo, epitomized by the phrase “All things arise from the mind,” shares this same context.
Since everything is a manifestation of consciousness, it is all ignorance (avijja). The manifestation of ignorance does not depart from consciousness; thus, it is neither destroyed nor indestructible. Just as with the water of the great ocean, when waves crash due to the wind, the form of the water and the form of the wind are inextricably linked—they cannot abandon or separate from one another. Since the nature of water is still, if the wind ceases, the appearance of the water’s movement immediately vanishes. Just as the permeable nature of water is not destroyed, so too is the true nature of sentient beings a pure mind. Due to ignorance, the wind arises; since both the mind and ignorance are formless, they cannot be cast aside or separated from one another. However, since the mind is not inherently of a moving nature, if ignorance ceases, the appearance of birth and extinction also vanishes—this is because the nature of wisdom is indestructible.
If we expand the relationship between defilements and Buddha-nature, we can say that the phenomena we encounter also fundamentally arise from emptiness (sunyata). In Buddhist terminology, phenomena are called “form” (色), but this is ultimately empty, and phenomena are created from emptiness. This is ultimately the meaning of “form is emptiness, emptiness is form,” the core passage of the *Heart Sutra*.
He looked around him. It was as if he were seeing the world for the first time. The world was beautiful. The world was colorful. The world was wondrous and enigmatic. It was blue, then yellow, then green. The sky flowed, while the rivers and forests stood still. The mountains—the mountains were utterly beautiful. Everything was enigmatic and magical. Within it, the awakened one, Siddhartha, was walking the path toward himself. All of this—all the yellow and blue, the rivers and forests—entered Siddhartha’s eyes for the first time. They were no longer Mara’s magic. They were not Maya’s veil. They were not the meaningless and random diversity of the phenomenal world—the very diversity that Brahmanic meditators, in their pursuit of unity, despised. Blue was blue, and the river was the river.
“Blue is blue, and the river is the river.” This realization is possible from the seat of Buddha-nature, bringing to mind Ven. Seongcheol’s teaching: “A mountain is a mountain, and water is water.” If literature were like this, it could save the world.