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Updated: May 28, 2025
They were identical; there was not a line or curve or tint of difference. He returned to his chair and rested his head on his hand. Was he this man re-born? Did the dead come back and live again? Was it a dream, or had he actually lived over a chapter from a past existence?
Again I burned through Keats' life as if remembering that it was what I had myself suffered ... as if suddenly I awoke to the realisation that I was Keats, re-born in America, a tramp-student in Kansas....
They sat in the alcove; never a word was said. Her pillow was wet with tears. Kind Mr. Bowley and dear Rose Shaw marvelled and deplored. Bowley had rooms in the Albany. Rose was re-born every evening precisely as the clock struck eight.
"If he says anything to me I'll kill him. "I'm a man now. "I'll fight him or anybody you want me to." These were the words we said, or left unsaid. I am even yet too confused to remember the exact details of that memorable time. For I was re-born then, into another life. Is there anyone who can remember his birth? I returned to my tent in a blissful daze.
What is that which is re-born after its birth? What is the remedy against cold? And what is the largest field? Yudhishthira answered, 'The sun sojourneth alone; the moon takes birth anew; fire is the remedy against cold; and the Earth is the largest field. The Yaksha asked, 'What is the highest refuge of virtue? What of fame? What of heaven?
He saw the face of a fish, a carp, with an infinitely painfully opened mouth, the face of a dying fish, with fading eyes he saw the face of a new-born child, red and full of wrinkles, distorted from crying he saw the face of a murderer, he saw him plunging a knife into the body of another person he saw, in the same second, this criminal in bondage, kneeling and his head being chopped off by the executioner with one blow of his sword he saw the bodies of men and women, naked in positions and cramps of frenzied love he saw corpses stretched out, motionless, cold, void he saw the heads of animals, of boars, of crocodiles, of elephants, of bulls, of birds he saw gods, saw Krishna, saw Agni he saw all of these figures and faces in a thousand relationships with one another, each one helping the other, loving it, hating it, destroying it, giving re-birth to it, each one was a will to die, a passionately painful confession of transitoriness, and yet none of them died, each one only transformed, was always re-born, received evermore a new face, without any time having passed between the one and the other face and all of these figures and faces rested, flowed, generated themselves, floated along and merged with each other, and they were all constantly covered by something thin, without individuality of its own, but yet existing, like a thin glass or ice, like a transparent skin, a shell or mold or mask of water, and this mask was smiling, and this mask was Siddhartha's smiling face, which he, Govinda, in this very same moment touched with his lips.
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