There was a tree on the river bank, a coconut tree. Siddhartha leaned over her, wrapped his arm around her torso and then looked at the greenish water flowing beneath him. He looked down and was filled with the desire to lower himself into the water. The terrible emptiness in the water reflected a terrifying emptiness in his soul. Yes. He was at his end. There was nothing left but to remove himself. This was the work he longed to do, to destroy the formula he hated! May the fish devour this heart of Siddhartha, this imbecile, this corrupt and worn-out body, this dull, consuming soul! May the fish and crocodiles devour him and the demons tear him apart. With convulsive features, he stared at the water and saw his face and spat on it. He moved his arms away from the tree trunk and turned slightly, hoping to fall on his head and dive. With his eyes closed, he leaned toward death.