Osho - Dimensions Beyond the Known
Chapter 1
Question 1
Osho, I have read your literature; I have heard you. Your language has hypnotic charm and is very clear. Sometimes you speak on Mahavira, sometimes on Krishna or Buddha and sometimes you tell about Jesus and Mohammed as well. You divulge the secrets of the gita in a most inspiring manner, you give discourses on the Upanishads and the Vedas, and you would not hesitate to go to temples or churches to give discourses. All the same, you maintain that you are not influenced by any of the personages mentioned above. You say that you have nothing to do with them and you do not agree with them. Continuously, you criticize and shatter to pieces the ancient religious beliefs and scriptures. What is your purpose? Do you want to establish your own religion? Do you want to show that you have limitless knowledge? Or do you want to confuse everyone? You speak and explain in words, but at the same time you say that "you will not reach anywhere by clinging to words." you say, "neither believe me nor cling to me; otherwise you will commit the same mistake." you also say that this negation itself is an invitation. Kindly explain who and what you are and what you want to do and say. What is your intention?
Firstly, I am not influenced by Mahavira, Buddha, Christ or Mohammed. It is the beauty of religion that in one sense it is always old. It is in this sense that religious experiences are known to many persons. No religious experience is such that one can say that "It is mine only."
There are two reasons for this. Firstly, on having a religious experience, the sense of "my-ness" dies. That is why, in this world, a claim of "my-ness" can be made for everything, but not for religious Frexperience. This is the only experience which falls beyond the orbit of "my-ness", because this experience can be had only on the death of "my-ness".
That is why the claim of "my-ness" could be there for everything, but not for a religious experience. Nor can anyone say that such an experience is new, because truth is neither new nor old.
It is in this sense that I speak of Mahavira, Jesus, Krishna, Christ and others: they had religious experiences. When I say that I am not influenced by them, I only mean that what I say comes out of my own experience and knowledge. I speak about them, I use their names, because what I have known tallies with what they have known. But for me the test is my own experience.
On that test I find them right, and that is why I use their names. I am telling what I tell out of my own experience. They also prove right in my experience; therefore, I talk about them. They are my witnesses; they are witnesses of my experience as well. But this experience cannot be called new.
Yet, in another sense, it can be called new. This is the riddle and fundamental mystery of religion.
A religious experience can be called new because to whomsoever this experience dawns it is absolutely new and happening for the first time. It has not occurred before. It may have occurred to someone else, but for the one who has experienced it for the first time it is new. It is so new to him that he cannot conceive that such an experience could have occurred to someone else.
As long as this experience has a relationship with the consciousness of the person, the experience is for the first time. The experience is so novel, so fresh, that whosoever experiences it never feels that it can ever be old. It is like the freshness of a flower opening in the morning, its petals wet with dew, the early rays of the sun falling on them. Looking at this flower, one who may have seen it for the first time cannot say that this flower is old, even though every morning a new flower opens.
Every morning the dew and the rays of the sun fall on new flowers. Someone's eyes may have seen these flowers daily, but whoever has seen the flower for the first time in this setting cannot even think that this flower could have been seen before. It is so new that if he says that truth can never be old, that it is always new and original, he is not wrong.
We say that religion is ancient and eternal because truth is everlasting. But religion is also new, because whenever truth is realized the experience is new, fresh, virginal. If a person believes that religion is old or if he believes that religion is new, he will not be inconsistent with truth. If he says that truth is eternal and maintains that it cannot be new, you will not find him to be inconsistent.
Another person, on the other hand, may hold that truth is always new.
Gurdjieff, if asked, would say that religion is eternal and ancient; Krishnamurti, if asked, would say that it is absolutely new, that it can never be old. But both of them are consistent.
The question that you ask me could not be asked either to Gurdjieff or Krishnamurti. Their answers would only be half-truths. Half-truths can always be consistent, but a total truth is always inconsistent because in a total truth the opposite is also included.
One person may say that light and only light is the truth. He will then ignore darkness and look upon it as false. But just by calling darkness false, the existence of darkness is not denied. He can be consistent because he denies darkness and does not bother about its existence. His philosophy can be clear, straight and consistent like mathematics. In his philosophy there will be no riddles.
However, someone else who says that there is darkness and only darkness everywhere, that light is only an illusion, can also be consistent.
Difficulty arises with a person who says that there is darkness and there is light also. The person who accepts the existence of both accepts the fact that darkness and light are only two extremes of the same thing. If darkness and light are two different things, then by the increase of light darkness should not be reduced, and by the decrease of light darkness should not increase. But it is a fact that by the increase or decrease of light, darkness can be decreased or increased. The meaning is clear: that light is somewhere a part of darkness and vice versa. Both are two ends of one thing.
Therefore, when I try to tell the whole truth, the difficulty is that I seem inconsistent. I am telling at the same time two things that seem contradictory. I say that truth is eternal and it is wrong to call it new; at the same time I also say that truth is always new and there is no sense in calling it old. When I say both of these things together, I am attempting to catch the whole truth at once in its complete fullness.
Whenever truth is told in its fullness, in its multiple meanings, then opposing, inconsistent statements will have to be made. Mahavira's theory of syatavada is only an attempt at balancing the opposing views. Against whatever is said in the first sentence an opposite statement will have to be made in the second sentence. In this way, the opposite, which would otherwise remain unsaid, is also included and comprehended.
If the opposite is left out, the truth will remain incomplete. Therefore, all truths that appear clear and unambiguous are really half-truths. Inconsistency is inherent in truth, and that is its beauty and its complexity. But its power lies in the inclusion of polar opposites.
It is interesting to note that something false cannot include its opposite. That which is false can live only at the opposite pole of a truth, while truth absorbs within itself its own opposite. That is why falsity is not very ambiguous; it is clear.
Life as a whole is founded on polar opposites. In life there is nothing that occurs without the struggle of opposites, but we try with our minds and our reasoning to eliminate the inconsistencies. Our reasoning is an attempt to become consistent while the total will appear inconsistent. In existence, all inconsistencies are there together. Death and life are bound together.
Logic appears neat because it divides things into opposites. For logic, life is life and death is death; both cannot go together. In logic we say that A is A, and it is not B. We say life is life; it is not death.
Similarly, death is death; it is not life. In this way we make our concepts neat and mathematical, but the mystery of life is lost. That is why you cannot arrive at truth by reasoning. One is an attempt to be consistent, and the other, by its very nature, is inconsistent. You can, therefore, achieve consistency by reasoning. You can reason so well, so logically, that you cannot be defeated in argument. But you will miss truth.
I am not a philosopher or a logician, but I always use logic. I am using this only for the purpose of leading your thinking to the point where you can be pushed out of it. If reasoning is not exhausted, one cannot go beyond it. I am climbing on a ladder, but this ladder is not my goal; it has to be given
up. I use reasoning only to know what is beyond it. I do not want to establish anything by reasoning.
What I want instead is to prove its uselessness.
My statements will, therefore, be inconsistent and illogical. As long as they appear to be logical, please understand that I am only using a system that makes them appear so. I am preparing the groundwork for what is to follow. I am tuning up the instruments; the music has not yet started.
Where the line of demarcation between reason and non-reason is lost is where my original, my unique music begins. As soon as the instruments are attuned, the music will start. But do not misunderstand the tuning for the music; otherwise it will create difficulties. You will ask, "What is the matter? Before you were using a hammer for the drum. Why are you no longer using it?" But a hammer is only for tuning the drum, not for playing it. Once the drum is tuned, the hammer is of no use. A drum cannot be played with a hammer.
In the same way, reasoning is only a preparation for what is beyond reasoning. One of the difficulties I have is that those who approve of my reasoning will find after a few moments that I am taking them into an area of darkness. As long as one can see reasoning, there is light and things look bright and clear. But then someone will say that I promised to show him the light and now I am talking about leading him into darkness. He will, therefore, be displeased with me and will tell me, "I like what you have said until now, but I can go no further with you." He trusted me to reason out the truth for him, and then I tell him that he must go beyond reasoning in order to reach it.
Those who believe in trust will also not accept me, not follow me, not walk with me, because they want me to talk only about incomprehensible mysteries. Thus, both types of individuals will have problems with me. Believers in reason will only follow me up to a certain point, while those who believe in trust, who believe in the irrational, will not follow me at all, never understanding that only if they follow past a certain point can I take them into thoughtlessness.
I understand this. Life is like that. Reason can only be an instrument, not the goal. I will, therefore, always make illogical statements after talking about fully logical matters. These statements will appear inconsistent, but they have been well thought out and are not made without a reason. There is a clear reason from my side.
I will say at certain times that I am not influenced by Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna or Christ, that I do not say anything under their influence, that everything I say, I say only after knowing it myself.
Nevertheless, when I came to my own realization, I knew that it was identical to that which had been attained by these others before me. Thus, when I am speaking about them or quoting what they have said, I myself forget that I have been speaking about them. I merge with them so totally that their statements become my own.
In fact, I do not see any difference between my statements and theirs. When I start to speak about them there is the deep realization that I am only speaking about me. Therefore, when I repeat their statements, I make no conditions. I dissolve myself completely in them and in their words. Those who have heard me say that I am not influenced by these others will wonder, "How is it that you become one with them? Even those who are under their complete influence do not do so; they maintain a distance."
Those who are influenced by someone or something will, of necessity, have to maintain a certain distance between themselves and the source of the influence. Those who are influenced are ignorant. We are influenced only in ignorance. With self-knowledge the very word "influence" has no meaning.
In self-knowledge there is no question of influence. Rather, there is a similarity of experience, a similar resonance, the hearing of similar voices. If I am singing and the same tune is coming at the same time from someone else, my rhythm and the rhythm of the other singer are so at one with each other that there is no room between us for being influenced. In order to be influenced, in order to be a disciple, distance is necessary, the other is necessary.
However, as far as I am concerned there is no distance. When I start explaining a statement of Mahavira or when I speak on the Gita of Krishna, I am only more or less explaining my own statements. Krishna or Christ or Mahavira provide an opportunity, an excuse, an occasion to speak, but I soon forget that I was speaking about them. I start with them, but end only on what I have known. I am not even aware of when I cease talking about them and begin to explain my own statements, of when I have merged totally with them.
Perhaps it would interest you to know that I have not read the Gita even once. I have started to read it often, but upon reading eight or ten lines I felt that it was enough and closed the book. When I speak on the Gita, I am really hearing it for the first time as I speak about it. As I have no background in it, I have no way of criticizing it. One who has studied the Gita, who has pondered over and thought deeply about its statements, can only criticize or define what he has read. Not having read the Gita, I can do neither.
Another interesting thing to mention is that when I pick up the Gita to read I put it back after a few moments, but when I come across some very ordinary book I read it through from beginning to end because it is not a part of my experience. This may seem odd to you. I cannot restrain myself from reading through an ordinary book, because it is not within the range of my experience. Yet, when I begin to read the Gita, I put the book back after reading only a few lines of it, since I do not feel that it will open up anything new to me.
If a spy story is given to me, I may go through it fully, because for me it may be something new. But Krishna's Gita seems as if it was written by me. I know it, because whatever is written in it is known to me. Without reading it is known.
Therefore, when I speak on the Gita, I do not actually speak on the Gita; it is only an excuse. I start with the Gita, but I speak only about what I want to speak and only about that which I can speak. If you feel that I have dwelt a great deal on the Gita, it is not because I am influenced by Krishna, but because Krishna said the very same things that I am saying.
Thus, what I am doing is not a commentary on the Gita. What Tilak has said on the Gita, what Gandhi has said on the Gita, was their commentary or explanation of the Gita. They were under the deep influence of the Gita. But what I am saying does not come from the Gita at all. The tunes that are touched upon by the Gita are touched within me as well. They lead me to my own tunes; I begin to explain my own self. The Gita only provides me with an occasion. When I am speaking on Krishna, during those very moments that I am most deeply revealing Krishna you will begin to feel that I am talking about my own self. It is in those moments that I am speaking only about me.
The same thing is true with Mahavira, Christ, Lao Tzu or Mohammed. For me, what differentiates one of them from another is only a difference in name. They are different lamps, but the light that shines within them is the same. Whether that light is burning in the lamp of Mohammed or in the lamp of Mahavira or of Buddha does not make any difference to me.
Many times I speak against Mohammed or Mahavira or Buddha. This creates a problem. I am speaking deeply about them, and yet, at the same time, I am speaking against them as well.
Whenever I seem to be speaking against them, it appears to be so only because the listener is giving importance to the lamp. But for me, when I am revealing something very deep, the emphasis is on the light. So whenever I appear to be speaking against, it is because the emphasis is on the lamp and not the light.
When I see a person enamored of the lamp, of the material with which it is made, I will always speak against the lamp. The person will be confused. It is natural that he will be confused, because for him there is no distinction between Mahavira the lamp and Mahavira the eternal light. For him, the lamp and the light are the same. That is why, when it appears to me that someone is placing too much emphasis on the lamp, I start speaking against it. When I feel that it is light that is discussed, I become one with it. This is the difference.
There is a difference between the lamp of Mahavira and the lamp of Mohammed. It is only due to this difference that there is a difference between a Jaina and a Mohammedan. Lamps are made differently. The lamp of Christ and the lamp of Buddha are also different; they are bound to be so. But these are differences of body, of surroundings and of shape. To those who are fond of shapes and surroundings, that light will not be visible, because whosoever sees the light will forget the lamp. It is impossible that one will still remember the lamp after he has seen the light. The lamp is remembered only after the light is no longer seen.
The condition of a follower is such that he can only remain in the dark shadow of the lamp and look out from there. From there he cannot see the light; only the bottom of the lamp is seen. The bottoms of all lamps are different, and there is deep darkness under them. Their followers stand quarreling over the bottoms. Therefore, whenever I see someone standing in someone's shadow, I speak against this rather harshly.
That is why I always say that a follower can never understand. To become a follower, he has to stand in the shadow, in the darkness, beneath the lamp. The more one is a follower, the more he is in the density of the shadow. Followers who are standing on the shadow's periphery can understand others a little, but those who are directly in the shadow's density can never understand. However, if someone really wants to see the light, he will have to go completely out of the shadow's periphery.
Once he sees the light, the controversy over lamps no longer has any meaning for him.
Thus, for me, there is no difference whether I speak on Christ or Krishna or Buddha. I am talking about the same light - a light which has illuminated many lamps. But I am not influenced by the lamps. I am speaking only about that which I know. Whenever I feel a certain resonance, whenever I feel that the same note is vibrating, I am not able to deny it, because to deny it would be equally wrong. It would be like standing with my back to the light. The follower commits the error of sitting under the bottom of the lamp. Turning one's back or sitting in the shadow are both similar errors.
But if you ask Krishnamurti, he will not accept this resonance. He will not accept that whatever has
happened to him could also have happened to Krishna. He will not accept that what has happened to him could have happened to others as well. He will not discuss this.
This is wrong because truth is totally impersonal. The greatness of truth does not diminish if one accepts that it was also revealed to someone else. On the contrary, its greatness is enhanced; it does not diminish. Truth is not so weak that it becomes stale simply because it has also been experienced by someone else. Therefore, the temptation to deny that truth could be shared is also wrong.
My difficulty, therefore, is this: that WHEREVER I see truth, I will accept it. I am not influenced at all. But wherever I see that in the name of truth people are changing to something that is not truth I shall deny it and oppose it. Whatever I do, I do totally. That is why I become difficult to understand.
I am against compromises because by compromise nobody can ever reach truth.
It is my nature to say whatever I say with the full force of my vital being. So if someone is talking about the light, I will say that Mahavira is God, Krishna is an incarnation of God and Jesus is the son of God. But if someone who is only talking about the lamps says these things, then I say that the speaker is guilty of a criminal act. In both these cases, whatever I assert, whenever I assert it, I shall stand fully for what I have said.
When I am making a statement about something, I do not ever remember my previous statements on the subject. But the statements are true and complete and do not negate each other. If I am speaking about your body my statement will be death-oriented, but if I am talking about you I will say that you are immortal. Do not think that these two statements are in opposition, however; they do not negate each other. There is no necessity for any compromise between them. Your body is bound to die; it is death-oriented.
If you believe that you are the body, then I will state with full force that you will die. I will not allow even for a slight chance of your being saved. If the discussion is about the soul, then I will say that you have never been born at all. Then you are unborn and immortal; the question of death does not arise. These two statements are complete in themselves; they do not cancel each other. Their dimensions are different, so this always creates difficulties.
The difficulty becomes even more confusing because all my statements are spoken and not written.
In statements that are written down there is a sort of indifference. They are not addressed to anyone.
The listener or the reader is not sitting opposite while it is written down. The listener or the reader is out of the picture. But when something is spoken, the listener is present and he is also taken into consideration. Thus, whenever I speak about something, I alone am not responsible for the statements. The listener is also responsible.
Responsibility, therefore, is shared. I am definitely responsible for the statements, but the listener is also responsible for creating a situation that called for the statements being made in a particular manner. If another listener had been there, my statements might have been different; in the presence of a third one, they might have again been different; if my statements were unaddressed to anyone, they might have been different again.
All my statements are addressed, and all spoken words are more alive. They receive life from the speaker as well as the listener. When there is no listener, then the speaker is making a sort of bridge
toward something that is not there. There is no other bank for the bridge to reach across to. But how can there be a bridge without two banks? There cannot be. A bridge standing on one bank is bound to fall.
Therefore, in this world, all the significant statements about truth are spoken and not written. If I write anything, I write letters, because a letter is as good as something that is spoken. It is addressed. I have not written anything except letters, because to me they are a manner of speaking. The other is always there before me when I write a letter.
Thus, when I speak before thousands of people at a time, then the statements are multiplied in thousands. When these are reproduced by someone, he also includes himself in the statements he reproduces. This creates more and more difficulties, but that is as it is and I am not interested in making any attempt to do something about it. I am interested that you too fully understand the difficulty. If you understand the complexity of a revealed truth, only then will you grow.
I am, therefore, not interested in reducing this complexity, because in attempting to do so the wholeness of the truth is destroyed. It can be simplified, but then a few of its limbs may be severed.
Then it will be as good as dead. So I am not in the least interested in reducing its complexity. My only interest is that you should find the simplicity right in the heart of the complexity. Then you will grow.
If I want, I can make the complexity appear simple. There is no difficulty in that. Then my statements will become clear and mathematical and then my difficulties will be over. But I am not worried about my difficulties; they are not difficulties at all. But if you can see simplicity in complexity, if you can see the truth with its contradictions, if you can see the consistency in inconsistencies, then there is growth and your vision will be raised. And only if your vision is raised will you see it. Then only will the complexity become simple for you.
While climbing a mountain, we see several paths on the way up - difficult, steep paths, cutting through each other. But upon reaching the top, the same paths appear easy. When you can see everything in its totality, in one expanse, you see that all the paths are running toward the peak.
Neither do they cut each other off, nor do they run against each other. When someone is climbing up, all other paths except his seem to be going the wrong way. But when one who is looking down from the top of the mountain says that all paths are leading to the top, or when he tells one person that this path is right and another person that it is wrong, then it creates confusion.
All my statements are addressed to someone; each of my statements has its proper address. Such statements are for the benefit of a particular person in terms of his particular circumstances. If I see a person with a divided mind on a certain path, and I tell him that this path is right and that other paths are wrong, then that statement is only for his benefit. After reaching the top, he will also know and will laugh upon seeing that other paths are also coming up.
However, if after reaching half way to the top he finds by his side another path ascending and begins to walk upon it, and if a little later he finds a third path ascending and attempts to go on that as well, he may not reach the top at all with such an uncertain, divided mind. To such a person I will have to say, "You are on the right path. Keep on going; other paths are wrong." But if another person on a nearby path is also in a similar situation, is also of a divided mind, I will tell him the same thing: that
his path is the right one. If these two persons ever happen to meet and compare these two different statements, it will create difficulties.
Buddha and Mahavira did not have to face a situation like this. Their statements were not recorded in their presence. And after five hundred years their followers were in trouble because of this. The question which you are asking of me could not be asked of Buddha.
After five hundred years, therefore, different sects came into being. Statements had been spoken but were not recorded, so there was no way of comparing them. One thing was told to one person, another thing to another, a third thing to a third, but none of the three recorded anything. Therefore, there was no opportunity to find out by comparing that one person was told this, another was told that and a third was told something altogether different. These statements were made to three different people privately, for their personal benefit. But when they were written down, problems began cropping up.
That is why, for a long time, old religions insisted upon not preparing any scriptures. When things are recorded, the contradictions become clear. As soon as they are written down, questioning will start. At first the statements are personal. Immediately after they are written down, they cease to be personal.
So the difficulty which I am facing was not faced by Buddha and Mahavira. But now there is no way out. Now, whatever is spoken will be recorded, even though it was addressed to a particular person. After it is recorded, it will become the property of the society. Then all those statements made at different times to different people will be gathered together, and it will be difficult to find a single thread of consistency.
Now, this is how it must happen; there is no other way. And I think it is good. If statements were recorded in Buddha's presence, he could have replied to them. But they were written down only after five hundred years. Then, when questions arose, there was no Buddha to reply. The result was that one person who believed one statement to be true founded his own sect, while another who believed that the contradictory statement was true established another sect. Whoever had a statement established a sect. All sects are born in this manner.
With me there is no possibility of any sect being born. I can be asked directly for clarification. There is no necessity to wait until tomorrow; it can be cleared up today.
You have also asked me to clarify why, though I speak in words, I still maintain that nothing can be conveyed by words. For those who want to speak, there is no other way except by using words.
Ordinarily, I can express what I want to say only in words, but it is also true that what has to be said cannot be conveyed by words. Both of these things are true. Our situation is such that we can speak only with words. There is no other way for a dialogue.
We should try to change this situation. For those who can go into deep meditation, dialogue is possible even without words. But to take them into deep meditation, first I will have to use words.
A time will come, after a long continued effort, when communication will be possible without words.
But until that time comes, I will have to express through words.
To carry you into the wordless world, I will have to use words; this is the situation. But it is full of danger also. I will have to speak in words, knowing full well that if you cling to the words, if you believe in them as they are, then all the trouble we are taking will become useless. We are trying to reach the wordless, but we must speak in words. It is sheer helplessness; there is no other alternative. If you cling to the words, the whole effort becomes useless because the purpose is to take you into wordlessness. While speaking only in words we will have to speak against words, and in that speaking against we will also have to use words. There is no other way.
One can become silent; there is no difficulty. There are those who became silent because of this difficulty. They avoided complications, but they knew that what they had to tell could not be communicated.
I have no difficulty in becoming silent. I can become silent, and it will not be surprising if I become so because what I am trying to do seems to be a nearly impossible effort. I am trying to make the impossible possible. But by my becoming silent nothing can be achieved, nothing can be communicated to you. The danger is the same.
If I speak, you will cling to the words. The danger is that if you cling to the words, what I want to communicate and achieve will not happen. But if I become silent, there is no question of communicating anything. In the first instance, if I talk, there is the possibility that what I have said will reach some people. If I talk to a hundred persons, there will be at least one who may perhaps receive what I have said without clinging to the words. For the other ninety-nine, the effort will be useless. Let it be so! This way at least something can be communicated to one, but if I become silent even that one possibility is not there. Therefore, my effort continues.
It is interesting to note that one who believes that things can be communicated by words does not speak much. He speaks a little, and that is the end of it. But one who believes that things cannot be expressed in words will speak much, because howsoever much he may speak, he knows that what he has to say has not yet been communicated. He will speak again and again and again.
This speaking by Buddha over a long period, morning and evening daily for forty years, was not because he thought that by words things can be expressed or communicated. It was because every time, after speaking, he felt that what had to be said had still not been communicated. So Buddha would speak again. He would speak in some different way, in some different manner, in different words. That is why forty years were passed in speaking.
But then the fear remains that if I speak for so long a period as forty years, it may happen that people will hold onto my words only. Because for forty years my method of giving is through words, I have to go on shouting, "Do not cling to my words!" This is a peculiar situation. However, there is no way out of it.
For taking one beyond words, words will have to be used, there is no other way. The situation is something like this: there is a room, and in order to go out of this room, five to ten steps will have to be taken within the room itself. From where we are sitting, five or ten steps have to be taken to go out. Someone may ask, "By walking within the room, how can one go out of it?" Everything depends on how you walk in the room.
If a person walks around and around in the room, he may walk for miles and he will not come out of the room. But a person can walk directly toward the door also - not in a circle, but in a straight line.
If while walking he walks in a circle, he will merely walk around the room. If he walks in a straight line toward the door, he can walk out through the door also. But in both of these cases he will be walking only in the room.
If I tell a person who has taken many rounds in the room that he can take just ten steps and he will be out of the room, he will immediately ask me whether I have gone mad. He will say, "You are talking of taking only ten steps, but I have been walking for miles and I have not yet come out of the room." He is not saying anything false, but he has simply been going around and around.
It is interesting to note that in this world everything is going around and around. Our movement is circular. All movement is circular. Unless you make an effort, things will move circularly. To walk straight requires considerable effort.
In this world, all movement is circular. Whether it is an atom or a room or the life of a man or a thought, everything moves around and around in this world. Walking straight requires an effort; walking straight is itself a great achievement.
You do not realize at what moment you begin to walk in a circle. That is why geometry says that a straight line cannot be drawn. All straight lines are only parts of a big circle. We have an illusion of lines being straight, but there is no such thing as a straight line in this world. A straight line cannot be drawn; it is only a definition. Euclid said that the straight line is just a definition. It is imaginary; it cannot be drawn. Howsoever straight a line we may draw, we can only draw it on the earth. As the earth is round, the line will also be round. We can draw a straight line in this room, but it is only a part of a larger circle of the earth.
Question 2
Is it a curve?
It is such a small curve that we cannot see it. But if we go on extending it on either end, we will find that it is really a circle that goes around the world. We will find that the straight line has become round; that is why it is impossible to draw a straight line.
When we think about it deeply, the greatest problem in meditation is that all thinking is circular.
Even our consciousness moves in a circle. What is most arduous, what is the greatest tapascharya, austerity, is to take a jump out of this circular movement. But there seems no way out.
Words also move in a circle. We never have any idea about how words can be circular, but words are circular. When you define a word, you make use of other words. If you open a dictionary and see the word "man", you will find the meaning is "human being". If you then look for the word "human", the meaning is "having the qualities of man". What is all this? It is a great madness. We do not know how to define man or human being. What does this mean?
Those who refer to dictionaries do not have any idea that dictionaries are circular. One word is used to define a second word and the second word is used to define the first. A man is a human being
and a human being is a man. Where is the definition of man? Thus, all definitions are circular; all principles are circular. To explain one principle you use another, and to explain the other you use the first. Our consciousness is circular. That is why in old age we behave like children. The circle is complete.
No matter how much words may be spoken, they move only in a circle. Words go around; they cannot walk straight. If you walk straight, you will walk out of them into wordlessness. But because we are living in words, if I have something to say against words I will have to use words to say it.
This is a type of madness, but I am not at fault. I speak in the knowledge that without words you cannot understand, and then I speak against words in the hope that you will not cling to them. If this happens, then only will I be able to convey what I want.
If you understand only my words, you will miss what I have said. You will have to understand my words, but along with this, whatever is indicated by them about the wordless world will also have to be understood. Therefore, I will go on speaking against the scriptures even though what I am saying may itself become a scripture. All scriptures are made like that. There is not a single valuable scripture in which you will not find statements against words. That means there is no scripture which doesn't contain statements against scriptures themselves, whether it is the Gita or the Koran or the Bible, or even with Mahavira or Buddha.
There is no reason to believe that something different will happen with me. The same impossible effect will continue. While speaking over and over again against words, I will have spoken many words. Someone or other may catch hold of them and make scriptures out of them. But I cannot stop speaking because there is one chance in a hundred of them becoming a scripture. Only if I stop speaking will there be a safeguard against this one chance. However, there is no basis for this fear, because someone will come along after a while who will speak against my words and the scriptures that will have been made from them. There need be no fear!
But a strange thing happens here and that is this: In the future, my work in this world will be furthered by the very person who speaks against me. Today it is like this: if one wants to work in favor of Buddha, he will have to speak against Buddha. Buddha's words have been picked up by many like old stones, and these stones cannot be removed until Buddha is removed. With the deification of Buddha, these stones have lodged themselves inside the chests of the people who have picked them up. If the stones are to be removed, Buddha will also have to be pulled down; otherwise the stones will remain.
Now you can understand my helplessness. You can understand why I have to speak against Buddha, even though I know full well that I am doing his work. But how else can those who cling to the name of Buddha or the words of Buddha be moved? Until Buddha is moved they cannot be moved. In order to move them we have to take the trouble of disturbing Buddha unnecessarily.
As long as the Vedas are not cast off, there is no way of moving such people. They cling to the Vedas. As long as a man is not convinced that the Vedas are useless, he will not drop them. If for once and for all the mind can be emptied, something further can be done.
But after this emptying process I will say the same things that the Vedas have said. Then the difficulties increase further. False friends and false enemies unnecessarily come into being. As
things are, ninety-nine times out of a hundred one meets false friends and false enemies. A false friend is one who will take what I speak to be scriptures, and the false enemy is one who believes that what I speak is against the scriptures and that I am an enemy of the scriptures. But things are like this, it will inevitably happen like this, and there is no need to worry about it. Such is the situation.
Question 3
So you do not want to write?
No, I do not want to write. There are many reasons why I do not want to write. For one thing, it is absurd and useless to write. It is useless because for whom shall I write? To me, writing appears to be like writing a letter without knowing the address. How can I enclose it in an envelope and dispatch it when I do not know the address?
A statement is always addressed. Those who want to address the masses write. This is the way they address the unknown crowd. But the more unknown the crowd, the fewer are the things that can be said. And the nearer or more known the individual addressed is, the deeper can be the dialogue.
Deeper truths can only be told to a particular person. To a crowd, only temporary, simple things can be told. The bigger the crowd, the lesser the understanding, and the more unknown the crowd, the more one has to proceed with a presumption that there will be no understanding. Thus, the more literature is meant for the masses, the more down to earth and simple it will be. Flying in the skies is not possible with this kind of literature.
If you find delicate nuances of meaning in the poetry of Kalidas and you do not find them in the poetry of modern poets, it is not due to any difference between Kalidas and the modern poet. It is because Kalidas' poetry is addressed and recited in the presence of an emperor or a few selected persons, while the modern poem is printed in a newspaper. The newspaper may be read while taking tea in a tea shop, while eating peanuts, while smoking. The poem may just be glanced at. Who then is it being written for? The modern poet does not care to know. He must write for everyman, for the lowest common denominator. He must keep everyman in view while writing.
My difficulty is that even to those who are the best amongst us, it is difficult to relate truth. To those who are less than the best, to the common man, the question of relating truth does not arise. Only those of us who are among the chosen few can understand the deepest matters. But even among this chosen few, ninety-nine out of a hundred will miss what I have said. So there is no meaning in telling such things to a crowd, and writing is done only for a crowd.
There are also other reasons for not writing. I believe that as the medium one uses changes, the content also changes. With the change of medium, the subject matter does not remain the same.
The medium poses its own conditions and changes what is said.
This is not easily understandable. When I am speaking, this is one type of medium. The whole line of communication is alive. The listener is living and I am also living. When I am speaking the listener not only listens: he also sees. The changing expressions of my face, the minute changes reflected in my eyes, the raising and falling of my finger, are all seen by him. Not only does he listen to my
words: he also sees the movement of my lips. It is not only my words that speak, it is also my lips that speak. My eyes also say something. All of this is taken in by the listener. The content of what I have said will be different in a listener's mind than in a reader's mind because all of this will have become a part of it.
When someone reads a book, then in place of me there are only black letters and black ink, nothing else. I and the black ink are not equivalents. There is no give and take. In the type, no gestures or changes of expression ever appear, no scenes or pictures are ever created. There is no life; it is a dead message. When one is reading a book, a very significant part of the message which remains alive while I am speaking is lost. In the reader's hands there are only dead statements.
It is interesting to note that a reader can be less attentive than a listener has to be. When a person listens, the degree of attention he is paying is far greater than when he reads. While listening one must give full attention and concentration, because what has been already spoken will not be repeated. You cannot revive parts not understood or partly understood; they are lost. Every moment that I am speaking, that which is spoken becomes lost in a bottomless abyss. If you have caught it, you have caught it. Otherwise it flows away and it will not return.
While reading a book there is no such fear, because you can re-read the same pages over and over again. There is no necessity, therefore, to be very attentive while reading a book. That is why the day words began to be written down was the day attention became lessened. It was bound to be so.
With a book, if you have not understood something you can turn back the page and read it again.
But with my speaking it is not possible to go back. What is missed is lost. The knowledge of what is spoken is lost forever if missed and cannot be repeated. This keeps your attention at a full peak. It helps to keep your consciousness at its maximum alertness. When you read at leisure, if something is missed there is no harm; you can read it again. With a book, understanding is less and the need for repetition increases. As attention decreases, understanding also decreases.
Therefore, it is not without reason that Buddha, Mahavira and Jesus all selected speech as the medium for the transmission of their message. They could have written, but they selected this medium. They did it for two reasons: One, because the spoken word is a more all-encompassing medium; more can be said. There are many things attached to words which are lost in writing.
That is why, if you think about it, you will notice that the day films began, novels lost their importance.
This is because films made things alive again. Who will read a novel? It is a dead thing. The novel cannot live much longer. It may become lost as an art form because we now have mediums that are more living, what McLuhan calls "hot" mediums. Television and films are live mediums, hot mediums. There is heat in their blood.
But the written word is a cold medium, dead cold. There is no life in it; no blood flows in it. Even your telephone may become outdated as soon as phonovision comes, just as radio began to become outdated with the coming of television. Radio has become a comparatively colder medium while television is a hot medium. And to me speaking is a hot medium; there is blood and heat in it.
So far we have not been able to find enough ways to add emphasis to words that are written. If I want to emphasize something when I am speaking, I can speak a little louder. I can change the
nuances in my voice, my voice rhythm; then emphasis is conveyed. But in the words of a book there is no such way. The words are just dead. In a book, the word love is love whether it was written by a person making love or by one not making love, or by one living in love or by one who does not know what love is. There are no nuances, no rhythm, no waves, no vibrations. It is dead.
When Jesus says the word prayer, its meaning is not the same as when someone writes the same word in a book. The whole life of Jesus is a prayer, from beginning to end. Every particle of him is prayer; every inch of his body is filled with it. Thus, what Jesus conveys when he says the word prayer is very different from what is conveyed by the word in a dictionary.
Whenever one speaks, it immediately creates a sort of tuning in, a getting in touch with the listener.
The soul of the speaker soon approaches that of the listener. Doors open up; the listener's defenses begin to give way.
When you are listening, if you are fully attentive your thinking has to stop. The more attentive you are as you listen, the less you will think. Your doors open; you become more receptive to the other.
Now something can enter in directly without being hindered; you and the speaker become known to each other. In a very deep sense, a harmonious relationship is established. The speaking comes from without, yet it echoes deep within the listener.
Such a relationship cannot be established when one is reading, because the writer is absent. When you are reading, if you do not automatically understand something you have to make an attempt to understand it. But when listening you will understand without effort.
If you are reading a book based on my speaking that has been reported verbatim, then you will forget that you are reading because you know me. After a few moments, you feel that you are not reading - that you are listening. But if the wording is changed or the style is changed slightly in the reporting, the rhythm and the attunement will break. When those who have listened to me once read my spoken words, reading becomes as good as listening to me. But there are differences because, still, a change in medium changes the intent of what is said.
The difficulty is that what I am trying to tell will change in accordance with the form of expression.
If I use poetry, it will impose its own conditions: a particular arrangement of words, the rejection or selection of particular subject matter, the breaking off or cutting out of particular things. If it is necessary to express the same thing in prose, the content will be entirely different.
That is why, for the most part, all of the great books in the world have been written in the form of poetry. What was being told was so beyond logic that it was difficult to express it in prose form.
Prose is very logical; poetry is very illogical. Lack of logic is permitted and forgiven in poetry, but not in prose. In poetry, if you go a little beyond the logical understanding in places, you have license to do so. Not so in prose.
Because depth poetry is illogical, depth prose has to be logical. If you try to write the Upanishads or the Gita in prose, you will find that that which makes them alive is lost. The medium has changed, and what was beautiful as poetry will be awkward and bothersome as prose. They are not logical, but prose will try to make them so because prose is an arrangement of logic.
The Upanishads were recited in the form of poetry; so was the Gita. But Buddha and Mahavira did not speak in the form of poetry. There was a reason for this change. Since the time the Upanishads and the Gita were written, the world had changed. The period when they were written was, in one sense, poetical. People were simple and straightforward; there was no demand for logic. If they were told, "God is," they simply said yes; they did not turn around and ask, "What is God? How does he look?"
If you look at the way children are, you will have an idea of what type of people there must have been in those days. A child may ask a very difficult question, yet he will be pleased by a simple answer. The child may ask from where his small sister or brother came. You answer that he or she was brought by a stork and he is satisfied. Then he runs away to play. He had asked a very difficult question to which even the highly intelligent are not able to give a correct answer. The child asked a most basic, ultimate question: "From where do children come?" You answered that the stork brings them, and by the time you have said it the child is already gone. He is pleased with a very simple answer. And the more poetical the answer, the more pleased he will be. That is why in books for small children we have to use poetry. Poetry reaches the child's heart very quickly. There is a rhythm and a melody in it that reaches his mind quickly. A child lives in the world of rhythm and melody.
Buddha and Mahavira used prose because in the time period that they were living people were accustomed to doing a lot of logical thinking. Minute questions were asked, but even with long intricate answers people were not satisfied. Then they would ask twenty-five more questions. That is why Buddha and Mahavira had to speak in prose.
Now it is not possible to speak in poetry any more. Now poetry is written for entertainment. Once all fundamental, serious matters were told only in the form of poetry. But now serious matters cannot be told in poetic form. Those few people who have some leisure and the desire to entertain you still write poetry, but all matters of value will be told in prose only. Man is no longer like a child; he has become an adult. He thinks logically on all matters. Only prose can be used logically.
Each medium changes the content. To my mind, as methods of communication develop, the conveying of thought through speech will return again. For a while the printed word was the most important, but now technological advances are leading us back to the possibility of direct communication through a living medium, through television.
After a while, nobody will be willing to read a book anymore. I can speak to the whole world on a television network. All can listen directly. Therefore, the future of the book is not very good. Now, in a way, a book will not be read; it will be seen. This will have to be made popular; the book will have to be transformed. Now microfilms have developed, so it is possible to see the book on a screen.
Words will very soon be changed to pictures.
In my view writing developed out of helplessness. There was no other way. Even now, those who want to convey something that is very important use the medium of speech. I do not know for whom I would write. As long as there is no one in front of me, no desire arises within me to speak. The pleasure of speaking for the sake of speaking is not there in me.
This is the difference between a writer and one who is enlightened. The litterateur has a sort of interest in just expressing something. He is pleased if he can do so. A big burden seems to drop from his shoulders when he does so.
In me there is no such burden. When I am speaking to you I am not receiving pleasure just because I am telling you something. In telling something, there is no feeling of being relieved of a burden. My telling, in a sense, is less an expression and more a response.
There is no feeling in me that I have to tell you something. If you want to know something, only then will it occur to me to say something. The condition of my mind is such that if you throw a bucket in my well something will emerge from it. It is gradually becoming difficult for me to speak unless a question has been asked. In the future, it is going to be more and more difficult for me just to speak.
Therefore, I have to find excuses.
I need an excuse if I am to speak on the Gita. If you create such an excuse, then I will speak. But it is becoming difficult for me to speak if you do not provide the excuse. If there is no nail or peg on which to hang something, on what to hang it and why I should hang it is a problem. I remain silent - empty. You go out of this room and I become empty.
If someone has the desire to speak, the need to speak, then he will make himself ready to speak even when you are not in the room. His mind will prepare what to say even though there is no one present. When enough material accumulates in him, he will be impelled to speak.
For me this is not true. I am completely empty. If you raise a question and make me speak, only then will I speak. That is why writing is difficult. Writing is easier for those who are full.
Question 4
Why do you not write your autobiography?
This can also be asked - why I do not write my autobiography. It may seem very interesting, but truly speaking after self-knowledge there is no autobiography. All autobiographies are ego-biographies.
What we call an autobiography is not the story of the soul. As long as you do not know what soul is, whatever you write is ego-biography.
It is interesting to note that neither Jesus, nor Krishna, nor Buddha have written their autobiographies. They neither told them nor wrote them. Writing or speaking about oneself has not been possible for those who have known themselves, because after knowing the person changes into something so formless that what we call the facts of his life - facts like the date he was born, the date a particular event happened - dissolve. What happens is that all these facts cease to have any meaning. The awakening of a soul is so cataclysmic that after it occurs, when one opens his eyes he finds that everything is lost. Nothing is left; no one remains to talk about what has happened.
After one has known one's soul, an autobiography seems to be a dreamlike version of oneself. It is as if one were writing an account of his dreams: One day he saw this dream, the next day that dream, and the day after that a third dream. Such an autobiography has no more value than a fantasy, a fairy tale.
That is why it is difficult for an awakened person to write. On becoming awakened and aware, he finds that there is nothing worth writing. It was all a dream. The matter of the experience of becoming aware remains, but what is known through the experience cannot be written down. This
is so because reducing such an experience to words makes it seem insipid and absurd. Even so, there is always the attempt to tell about the experience in different ways through different methods.
My whole life I shall go on telling what has happened. There is nothing else to tell except this. But this also cannot be written down. As soon as it is written, it is felt that it was not worth talking about.
What is there to write? One may write, "I have had an experience of the soul. I am full of joy and peace." It looks absurd - mere words.
Buddha, Mahavira and Christ went on telling their whole lives in many different ways what they had known. They never became tired. They always felt that there was still something left out, so they would speak again in a different way. It is never finished. Buddha and Mahavira may finish, but what they have to tell remains incomplete.
The problem is twofold: what can be told seems like a dream and only what cannot be told seems worth saying. There always remains lurking in the mind the feeling that if I tell you what has happened to me it is of no use. My purpose is to take you on that path that may lead you to the experience itself. Only then can you someday understand what has happened to me. Before that you cannot understand it, and my telling you what has happened to me directly serves no purpose.
I don't think you will believe what I say. And what is the use of my making you suspicious? It will be harmful. The best way is to take you on that path, to that bank from which you can be pushed to where someday you yourself may have the experience. On that day you will be able to trust. You will know the way it happens. Otherwise there is no way to trust.
At the time of the death of Buddha people asked, "Where will you go after death?" What does Buddha reply? He says, "I have been nowhere, so where can I go after death? I have never gone anywhere and have never been anywhere." Even after this people still asked him where he would go, but he had told the truth because the meaning of buddhahood is nowhereness. In that state one is nowhere, so the question of being somewhere does not arise.
If you can be quiet and silent, what remains except breathing? Only breathing remains; nothing else. Like the air inside a bubble, breathing remains. If you can be silent at least once for a few moments, then you will realize that when there are not thoughts there is nothing but breathing. The inhaling and exhaling of air is nothing more than the going out and coming in of air in a bubble or a balloon. So Buddha says, "I was only a bubble. Where was I? A bubble has burst and you are asking where it has gone." If someone like Buddha knows that he is like a bubble, how can he write his autobiography or tell about his experience? Whatever he might say will be misunderstood.
In Japan there was one saint called Lin Chi. One day Lin Chi ordered the removal of all the idols of Buddha. There had never been a man like him. Only just before he had been worshipping those very idols of Buddha, and now he was ordering them to be removed. Someone stood up and asked, "Are you in your right mind? Do you know what you are saying?"
Lin Chi answered, "As long as I was thinking that I am, I believed that Buddha was. But when I myself am not there, when I am only an air bubble, then I know that someone like Buddha also could not have been there."
In the evening Lin Chi was again worshipping Buddha. People again asked him what he was doing.
He said, "I was helped in my own non-being by Buddha's non-being. That is why I have been giving
thanks. It was a thanksgiving from one bubble to another, nothing more." But these statements could not be properly understood. People thought that there was something wrong with this man and that he had gone against Buddha.
Autobiography does not survive. Deeply speaking, the soul itself does not survive. So far, we understand only that the ego does not survive. For thousands of years, we have been told that the ego does not survive when one attains self-knowledge. But to put it correctly, the soul itself does not survive.
In understanding this one is filled with fear. That is why we could not understand Buddha. He said, "The soul also does not survive; we become non-soul." It becomes very difficult to understand Buddha in this world.
Mahavira talked only of the death of the ego; that much could be understood. It is not that Mahavira did not know that even the soul does not survive, but he had in mind our limited understanding.
Therefore, he spoke only of giving up the ego, knowing that the soul would automatically dissolve.
Buddha, for the first time, made a statement which had been a secret. The Upanishads also knew, Mahavira also knew, that the soul does not survive in the end, because the idea of the soul is a projection of the ego. But Buddha revealed the secret which had been closely guarded for so long.
That created difficulties. Those who themselves believed that the ego does not survive started the quarrel. If the soul does not survive either, they said, then everything is useless. Where are we?
Buddha was right. How could there be an autobiography then? Everything is like a dream sequence, like the rainbow colors formed on a bubble. The colors die when the bubble bursts. That is a very obvious result.
Question 5
Will the processes and experiences through which a person has passed be of any use to others if they are written down?
It may be useful for the seeker, but it is very difficult for the enlightened one to write it. The difficulties of the siddha, the enlightened one, are different from those of the sadhak, the seeker. The difficulty is that for the enlightened one there are no spirits in this room, but for you there are. The siddha knows that the spirits do not exist, but at one time he too had a spirit which he exorcised with the help of a technique. Now he knows that both the spirit and the technique were false.
Knowing this, how can he say that he had driven away the spirit with the help of the technique? Do you follow me? This is a problem for the master. He knows that the spirit was false and that the technique was just a help in the darkness. The spirit was false and so also was the technique that drove it away. So how can he say that he drove away the spirit with the technique? To say so now is meaningless. But if he could say that he drove away the spirit with the technique, it would be a help to you.
The master will not say that he drove away the spirit by the power of the technique. Rather, he will say that "spirits can be made to disappear by the use of certain techniques. If the seeker uses such
and such a technique the spirit will go." The master will not say that he drove away the spirit with a technique because it would be a false statement. Now he knows that the technique was as false as the spirit.
Therefore, the statements of such a person will be least self-centered. He will hardly ever speak about himself. He talks about you and what is relevant to your situation, so it is his problem that in order to help you he will have to make a false statement.
Question 6
Do you mean that the whole sadhana process, the process of spiritual practice, is as unreal as a ghost?
Yes, it is, because what you ultimately achieve has always been with you and that from which you are freed has never bound you. But this presents a difficulty for the master; that is why I say that the master has his own difficulties. If he says that the whole sadhana process is false, then he will put you in difficulty, because for you the process becomes false while the spirit remains real. Even a false process is meaningful if it serves the purpose of making the spirit false. Do you follow me?
A spirit does not become false just by calling it false. It is interesting to note that a wrong thing does not cease to be wrong just by calling it right, but when something that is right is called wrong we immediately accept it. No matter how much one says that anger is wrong, that does not make it wrong.
On the other hand, if someone says meditation is wrong, you immediately feel that it may be so; it does not even take a second to become wrong. You do not immediately agree when it is claimed that a particular person is a saint, but if you are told that someone is a thief you immediately accept it as the truth.
Before you are willing to believe that a person is a saint, you will try to test him, you will try to prove in various ways whether this is so. The reason you are so cautious is that it makes you uneasy if someone else is said to be a saint. Your ego is hurt. You will try to prove that he is no more a saint than you are. When you are told that someone else is a thief, you do not bother to test it; you believe it immediately because believing it makes you happy. It assures you that you are not the only thief, that someone else is at least as bad as you are.
Slander and condemnation of another are easily accepted, but not so with praise. Even when you accept someone as being praiseworthy, even if you yourself really know that he is so, the acceptance is still conditional. You accept it for the time being because you have no other choice, but you continue to look for an opportunity to change your opinion. Only condemnation is absolute. Even if something happens to make you change a negative opinion, you will not bother to do so.
This happens all the time in life. When something is claimed to be wrong, we immediately believe it because this saves us from doing what is right. One must be very determined if he is going to continue to do what is right. Anger is spontaneous; we continue to express it even if we have been told it is wrong. But meditation must be practiced, and this is much more difficult. So if someone says that meditation is something bogus, we feel relieved at being saved from doing something arduous.
Question 7
You have described meditation not as an action, but as a state of being. Will you explain this?
The difficulty for the enlightened person is that if he tells you everything he has experienced, you will lose the path forever because what he says will be so far removed from your experience. For example, I have described meditation as a state of being. What I say is true, and yet for you meditation can only be an activity, not a state. If you believe it is a state of being, you will feel that there is nothing you can do to achieve it. If it is an activity, then you are required to do something; if it is merely a state of consciousness, then you are relieved of the need to act.
You will think, "Perhaps it is a state of being. Then there is nothing that I can do about it." Then your anger will continue and you will not do any meditation. Your sex, your greed will continue.
If I tell the truth, you are not helped by me. The difficulty is that if I say something keeping you in mind, I have to take recourse to telling what is not entirely true. But if I say something keeping myself in mind, it is useless for you. It is not only useless; it is also dangerous because you happen to be the listener. Deep down it will be a hindrance to you if I tell you the complete truth exactly as I see it.
That is why, if I say exactly what I feel, I cannot be of any help to you. On the contrary, what I would say would be a hindrance to you, like Krishnamurti's talks which hinder people's progress more than they help it. The deeper I look, the more I feel that such talks are harmful. What he is saying is the inner truth, but for you it is not helpful. For you it is only an excuse to stop doing anything.
Question 8
Is silence very powerful, and if so, then why should anybody speak in words?
Yes, silence is very powerful, but first there must be people who can hear what is conveyed in silence.
Why is it necessary to make people listen?
It is necessary to me because I see that you are moving unknowingly toward a deep pit, and it is clear to me that you will fall into the pit and break your hands or feet. I can convey this fact to you in silence. But your ears cannot hear my silent message, so I have to shout at you to warn you, "Be careful! You will fall into the pit."
Question 9
Do you lose any energy by doing so?
No, no! No energy is lost. One who has known the source of energy does not lose energy. Only one who does not know the source can lose.
If I write anything like an autobiography, it may be either truth or untruth. If it is truth, it may harm you. If it is untruth, I would not want to write it. If it is completely truthful, it will cause you harm because I will have to say that whatever you are doing now is useless. You will readily agree with me that it is so.
One day an individual came to me. He said, "Because Krishnamurti said that meditation is useless, I have stopped doing meditation."
I said, "You have done a good thing. But what did you gain from it? You did not gain anything. Why did you start doing meditation in the first place? You wanted to conquer your anger and ignorance.
Did you accomplish that by giving up meditation? No! Then why did you stop? Because Krishnamurti said that it is useless!"
You feel, "When a realized person says it is useless, why should I continue to do it?" This is the difficulty: I also know that it is useless; I also tell this to some, that it is useless. But I will only say this to a person who has done meditation for a long time and who can now understand its uselessness. Such a person has reached a stage where meditation must also be given up.
But to say in the marketplace that meditation is useless is dangerous. The listeners may have never done any meditation. Those ignorant people have never done it. If you tell them that meditation is useless, they will never do it. They will feel very much relieved. For forty years people are listening to Krishnamurti, and they are sitting around foolishly doing nothing just because Krishnamurti said that meditation is useless. Krishnamurti is not wrong when he says so. He has been saying it for his whole life. But I would say he is wrong because he is not keeping you and your capacity in mind. He is only talking about his own experiences.
It is because of this that I am always very careful, that I do not project myself and do not say anything about myself. If I talk about myself and only say the truth, it will be of no use to you. It is strange that if I talk about you, keeping you in mind, then you will come back to me and ask, "Why did you tell such things?" Then there comes opposition. I can say things which can never be opposed, but these things will be of no use to you. They may give you an excuse to stop where you are.
The difficulty of the enlightened one is that he is not able to tell what he knows. Therefore, in one way, old tradition was much more correct and went much deeper. You were told something according to where you were at the time. All information was tentative; nothing was ultimate. As you made progress the master would give you new things; as you progressed further, it would be said, "Now give up this, give up that. It has become useless."
When you reached the appropriate state, you were told that God is useless, the soul is useless, meditation is useless - but just on that day, not before. But this can be told only at that moment when these things become useless; then nothing is really useless. Then you just laugh and you know.
If I say meditation is useless and you still continue to do meditation, then I will feel that you were the right person to be told - that it was good that I told you. If I say sannyas is useless - that taking sannyas is useless - and still you become initiated into it, I will understand that you were the right sort of person to be told. It was good.
So these things which I have spoken about are the sort of difficulties I face. All this will be understood slowly and gradually.
