By Osamu Tezuka
The Eisner and Harvey WinnerThe 3rd quantity of this epic photo novel ship Siddhartha additional right into a global mired in ache and ache. the adventure to peace and enlightenment looms a long way yet bright.Prince Siddhartha quick learns that the monk's course is roofed in thorns and self-abuses even more profound than shaving your head. His new partners Dhepa and Assaji accompany him to plague-ridden city, governed by way of the ravashing Visakha. On a special course packed with as many vararies is Devadatta, an orphan who learns basically that undesirable generally will get worse.To unusual towns, and dire prophecies...
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Extra info for Buddha, Vol. 3: Devadatta
The window on Lennie's side was down and the wind blasted into the backseat, blowing tendrils of Chato's hair across his face, but the slight coolness of the air felt good. He could feel the sweat staining under his arms, trickling down his back. Not all of it was from the heat. The sheriff drove without great speed, cutting in front of station wagons and semi-trailer rigs, and cursing under his breath from time to time when someone darted in front of him. They were soon at the cutoff to Sandia Crest.
He had seen plenty of her type in his day. They drifted from wealthy man to wealthy man and left when the money went or they got bored, and generally both did pretty fast. Sometimes, when the women like her had been around for a long time, they looked tired and were tired, and weren't particularly choosy about their men. He had seen some of the big Chicano studs with women like this. Castoffs from the Anglos. Always the castoffs, man, the very dregs. He licked his lips. He wouldn't mind a dreg like this.
With only himself and his thoughts . . and his desires. A sudden gust of wind sent the leaves on the patio skittering past him. One caught on his pants cuff and he bent to remove it. It felt almost leathery between his fingers and he stared at its thin veins. Another gust of wind tore it from his fingers. He grimaced. The wind always blew. He didn't think there was a day since he'd come that the wind hadn't been blowing. It was the way of the mountains, so he'd been told by some insufferable wind-blown native, and he laughed soundlessly, bitterly.