I lied.

Yeah, I'm writing something on the day I said I wouldn't. Sue me, I'll lose the case on purpose and we'll split the cash, yeah? I've had all day to ponder things, I will now vomit them in a fashion you philistines are all used to.

As mentioned in yesterday's midget of an entry, I recently finished Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse, an excellent novel that I recommend to all of you, if you're smart enough to read that is. But then again, if you weren't smart enough to read, what the hell are you doing here? Shit.

Anyway.

The eponymous character in Hesse's novel embarks on a spiritual journey to attain Nirvana, true happiness in this world; a trip that spans decades and spawns very little fruit. In his travels, Siddhartha meets Buddha, affluent businessmen, and wise ferrymen who all lead him along their path. Siddhartha experiments with all walks of life. For the most part, Siddhartha becomes an ascetic, one who renounces all worldly belongings and pursues a mostly contemplative and simple existence. For the most part, his ascetic lifestyles afford him several degrees of happiness and when he embarks on a life of material goods, he becomes deeply embroiled in Samsara, the opposite of Nirvana, misery and lameness.

The mark of any good work of art is if it gets you thinking and if it teaches you something, whether it's about yourself or the world. The journey of Siddhartha is really remarkable in that sense then, as it has me pondering about an ascetic's lifestyle.

I'm not thinking of dropping everything in my pathetic life and running off to Yosemite to dance with wolves like Kevin Costner and speaking to birds like Vulcan Raven, but I wonder the merits of the life of an ascetic. It must be comforting, it must be amazing. What isn't appealing about unshackling yourself from this extremely materialistic culture (which I am guilty of perpetuating), this nation that has engulfed itself in idiotic memes, idols, and lies. Why wouldn't you want to spend the rest of your life becoming attuned to the beauty of Mother Nature? You needn't worry about the cell phone bill, car payments, and DVDs you forgot to return, none of that bullshit matters anymore.

In the novel, when Siddhartha pursues the life of a merchant, he becomes extraordinarily wealthy in the process, but at the same time, becomes bored with life, finding that "rush," so to speak only in Samsara, gambling. The life of a rich man, one who has everything and needs nothing is unfulfilling. This is a cruel irony, no doubt. It's been present in all the novels I've read about attaining wealth, to achieve the abstract standard of success. Jay Gatsby was a rich man, but he wanted more and look where that got him. Dead, drifting in a pool of his own blood. The mooks from Cannery Row were bums, sure, but they were happy. They were happy to collect frogs, visit prostitutes, and divide up the shack. When you've reached the top, what else is there to do? Life without a purpose is a life not worth living.

The life of an ascetic, then, would theoretically be ideal. Your purpose can never be fulfilled, you will always have something to do. And you're without a care in the world. And yet, you want to feel like you've achieved something. Is the satisfaction of knowing your way around a national park really that big of a deal? Is it a true mark of success, as opposed to a mansion in Beverly Hills (that's where I wanna be!). Both sides of the coin are equally ugly, but equally pleasing as well.

I hate thinking about paradoxes, they make my head hurt. I suppose I'll end it here, you probably stopped reading like five paragraphs ago anyway.

PS. Siddhartha also has a lot of sex in the book, so he's probably more happy about that than some silly nirvana. They're a shitty, overrated band anyway.