Thus he praised himself, found joy in himself, listened curiously to his stomach, which was rumbling with hunger. He had now, so he felt, in these recent times and days, completely tasted and spit out, devoured up to the point of desperation and death, a piece of suffering, a piece of misery. Like this, it was good. For much longer, he could have stayed with Kamaswami, made money, wasted money, filled his stomach, and let his soul die of thirst; for much longer he could have lived in this soft, well upholstered hell, if this had not happened: the moment of complete hopelessness and despair, that most extreme moment, when he hang over the rushing waters and was ready to destroy himself. That he had felt this despair, this deep disgust, and that he had not succumbed to it, that the bird, the joyful source and voice in him was still alive after all, this was why he felt joy, this was why he laughed, this was why his face was smiling brightly under his hair which had turned gray.
"It is good," he thought, "to get a taste of everything for oneself, which one needs to know. That lust for the world and riches do not belong to the good things, I have already learned as a child. I have known it for a long time, but I have experienced only now. And now I know it, don't just know it in my memory, but in my eyes, in my heart, in my stomach. Good for me, to know this!"
For a long time, he pondered his transformation, listened to the bird, as it sang for joy. Had not this bird died in him, had he not felt its death? No, something else from within him had died, something which already for a long time had yearned to die. Was it not this what he used to intend to kill in his ardent years as a penitent? Was this not his self, his small, frightened, and proud self, he had wrestled with for so many years, which had defeated him again and again, which was back again after every killing, prohibited joy, felt fear? Was it not this, which today had finally come to its death, here in the forest, by this lovely river? Was it not due to this death, that he was now like a child, so full of trust, so without fear, so full of joy?
Now Siddhartha also got some idea of why he had fought this self in vain as a Brahman, as a penitent. Too much knowledge had held him back, too many holy verses, too many sacrificial rules, to much self-castigation, so much doing and striving for that goal! Full of arrogance, he had been, always the smartest, always working the most, always one step ahead of all others, always the knowing and spiritual one, always the priest or wise one. Into being a priest, into this arrogance, into this spirituality, his self had retreated, there it sat firmly and grew, while he thought he would kill it by fasting and penance. Now he saw it and saw that the secret voice had been right, that no teacher would ever have been able to bring about his salvation. Therefore, he had to go out into the world, lose himself to lust and power, to woman and money, had to become a merchant, a dice-gambler, a drinker, and a greedy person, until the priest and Samana in him was dead. Therefore, he had to continue bearing these ugly years, bearing the disgust, the teachings, the pointlessness of a dreary and wasted life up to the end, up to bitter despair, until Siddhartha the lustful, Siddhartha the greedy could also die. He had died, a new Siddhartha had woken up from the sleep. He would also grow old, he would also eventually have to die, mortal was Siddhartha, mortal was every physical form. But today he was young, was a child, the new Siddhartha, and was full of joy.
He thought these thoughts, listened with a smile to his stomach, listened gratefully to a buzzing bee. Cheerfully, he looked into the rushing river, never before he had like a water so well as this one, never before he had perceived the voice and the parable of the moving water thus strongly and beautifully. It seemed to him, as if the river had something special to tell him, something he did not know yet, which was still awaiting him. In this river, Siddhartha had intended to drown himself, in it the old, tired, desperate Siddhartha had drowned today. But the new Siddhartha felt a deep love for this rushing water, and decided for himself, not to leave it very soon.
他就这样赞美着自己，对自己很满意，并且好奇地听着肚子里咕咕直叫。他觉得，在最近的时日里，他已尝够了痛苦与烦恼，一直至绝望得要死。这样也好。不然他还会在卡马斯瓦密那儿待很久，赚钱，挥霍钱，填饱肚子，却让心灵焦渴难忍。不然他还会在那个温柔的、软绵绵的地狱里住很久，那也就不会发生今天的事了：那个彻底失望和绝望的时刻，他悬在滚滚流淌的河面上，准备自尽的那个极端的时刻。他感受到了这种绝望，这种极深的厌恶，但是他没有被压倒。那只鸟儿，那快乐的源泉和声音，依然活跃在他心里。他为此而深感快乐，为此而欢笑，花白头发下的脸为此而容光焕发。
“这很好，”他想，“把应当知道的一切都亲自尝尝。世俗的欢娱和财富并不是什么好东西，这我从小就学过。我早就知道，可是现在才算是亲身体会到。现在我明白了，不仅是脑子记住了，而且是亲眼目睹，心知肚明。好极了，我总算明白了！”
他久久地思索着自己的转变，细听鸟儿欢快的鸣啭。这只鸟儿不是已在他心中死去，他不是感觉到鸟儿已经死了吗？不，是别的什么在他心中死去了，是某种早就渴望死去的东西。那不就是他以前在狂热的忏悔年代里想扼杀的东西吗？那不就是他的自我，他的渺小、不安而又自负的自我，他曾与之搏斗了多年却总是失败的自我，在每次抑制之后又再次出现、弃绝欢乐和带来恐惧的自我吗？那不就是今天终于在这河边树林里死去的东西吗？不正是由于这一死亡，他现在才像个孩子，满怀信心，无所畏惧，充满了欢乐吗？
席特哈尔塔还明白了，当年他作为婆罗门，作为忏悔者，在与自我的斗争中为什么会白费力气。是太多的知识阻碍了他，太多的圣诗，太多的祭祀规矩，太多的苦修，太多的行动与追求！他原来十分高傲，自以为总是最聪明，总是最热诚，总是比所有人先行一步，总是博学和多思，永远是僧侣或智者。他的自我就潜藏在这种僧侣气质、这种高傲和这种睿智里，在那儿扎根、生长，他还以为能用斋戒和忏悔来抑制呢。现在他明白了，明白好秘密的声音是对的，没有任何老师能解救他。因此，他只好进入世俗世界，迷失在情欲和权力、女人和金钱之中，成为一个商人、赌徒、酒鬼和财迷，直到僧侣和沙门在他心中死去。因此，他只好继续忍受丑恶的岁月，忍受恶心，忍受空虚，忍受一种无聊的不可救药的生活的荒唐无稽，直到结束，直到苦涩的绝望，直到荒浮选之徒席特哈尔塔、贪婪之徒席特哈尔塔能够死去。他死去了，一个新的席特哈尔塔已从酣睡中醒来。他会衰老，将来有一天他也会死去，席特哈尔塔不是永恒的，任何生命都是短暂的。但今天他年轻，是个孩子，这个新的席特哈尔塔充满了欢乐。
他思索着这些想法，含笑倾听着肚子里的声响，心怀感激地听到了一只蜜蜂的嗡嗡声。他愉快地望着滚滚流淌的河水，从没有哪条河像这样使他欢迎，他从没听过流水的声音是这么有力和悦耳。他觉得河水似乎想对他诉说什么特别的东西，诉说什么他还不知道、有待他领会的东西。席特哈尔塔曾想在这条河里自溺，原来那个疲乏和绝望的席特哈尔塔今天已在这里淹死了。而新的席特哈尔塔对这奔涌的河水感到一种深深的爱，心里暗自决定，不再很快地离开它。