"Oh how incomprehensible everything was, and actually sad, although it was also beautiful. One knew nothing. One lived and ran about the earth and rode through forests, and certain things looked so challenging and promising and nostalgic: a star in the evening, a blue harebell, a reed-green pond, the eye of a person or of a cow. And sometimes it seemed that something never seen yet long desired was about to happen, that a veil would drop from it all; but then it passed, nothing happened, the riddle remained unsolved, the secret spell unbroken, and in the end one grew old and cunning like Father Anselm or wise like Abbot Daniel, and still one knew nothing perhaps, was still waiting and listening."
Hermann Hesse. I've read Siddhartha a couple times already, now delving into his other works. He has a way with reverence and asceticism that implies a connection to the earth, to life. So many spiritual authors are so vague and ungrounded, so self-righteous, but not Hesse. It's inspiring.