Demian on Faust: “"Can you imagine Faust as a regular in some bar night after night?" ... "Yes, well, we can't all be Faust," I said curtly.”
Demian on Pollen (Blütenstaub): “It was a book by Novalis, with letters and aphorisms ... "Fate and character are different names for the same idea."”
Demian on A Treatise on Painting: “Only several years later did I find this observation confirmed in a book, by Leonardo da Vinci, who spoke of how good and deeply moving it is to look at a wall that many people have spit on.”
Demian on The Divine Comedy: “I named her Beatrice, because without having read Dante I already knew about Beatrice from an English painting I had a reproduction of.”
Siddhartha on Rig Veda: “Dreams and restless thoughts came into his mind, flowing from the water of the river, sparkling from the stars of the night, melting from the beams of the sun, dreams came to him and a restlessness of the soul, fuming from the sacrifices, breathing forth from the verses of the Rig-Veda, being infused into him, drop by drop, from the…”
Siddhartha on Atharva Veda: “Neither Yoga-Veda shall teach me any more, nor Atharva-Veda, nor the ascetics, nor any kind of teachings. I want to learn from myself, want to be my student, want to get to know myself, the secret of Siddhartha.”
Siddhartha on Chandogya Upanishad: “Often he spoke to himself from a Chandogya-Upanishad the words: "Truly, the name of the Brahman is satyam--verily, he who knows such a thing, will enter the heavenly world every day."”
Wandering on Heimweh: “I think about songs by Eichendorff that I know by heart... I say the songs over, half singing to the melodies of Hugo Wolf and Othmar Schoeck. 'Whoever longs to wander in strange lands' and 'O beloved, faithful lute' are the loveliest.”
Wandering on Nachruf: “quoted alongside Heimweh as one of the loveliest songs: '...and "O beloved, faithful lute" are the loveliest.'”
Wandering on In der Fremde: “I think of another bit of Eichendorff, and I sing it on my knees: 'Soon, oh how soon the still time will come. When I too will rest, and over me / Will rustle the lovely loneliness of trees. / And, even here, no one will know me.'”