Books I Have Loved Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

1984 in Lao Tzu House, Rajneeshpuram, Oregon, USA

Be a Junnatha ­ a seeker. The P.S. continues. The first book is Friedrich Nietzsche's WILL TO POWER. He never published it while he was alive. It was published posthumously, and meanwhile, before it was published, many of your so-called great men had already stolen from the manuscript. Alfred Adler was one of the 'greatest' psychologists. He is one of the trinity of psychologists: Freud, Jung and Adler. He is simply a thief. Adler has stolen his whole psychology from Friedrich Nietzsche. Adler says: Man's basic instinct is the 'will to power'. Great! Who was he trying to deceive? Yet millions of fools are deceived. Adler is still counted as a great man. He is just a pygmy, only to be forgiven and forgotten. George Bernard Shaw steals his whole basic philosophy from Nietzsche. Great G.B.S. ­ Nobel prizewinner, George Bernard Shaw. Whatsoever he says is contained in only a few sentences of Nietzsche's WILL TO POWER. Even a so-called great Indian saint was not far behind Adler and Shaw. His name is Shri Aurobindo. He is worshipped by millions all over the world as the greatest sage of the age. He stole his idea of superman from the manuscript of WILL TO POWER. Shri Aurobindo was only a mediocre scholar, nothing much to brag about. Nietzsche's book was not published until many years after his death. His sister prevented it. She was a great businesswoman. She was selling other books which were already published, and waiting for the right moment when WILL TO POWER could best be sold. She was not concerned about Nietzsche, his philosophy, or his contribution to humanity.

Why didn't Nietzsche himself publish the book while he was alive? I know why. It was too much even for him. He was not an enlightened man. He was afraid, afraid of what was going to happen to him if he published. And the book is pure dynamite! He always kept it under his pillow, even while asleep. He was afraid it may fall into the wrong hands. He was not a brave man as people usually think of him, he was a coward. But strange are the ways of existence: sometimes even a coward is showered with stars, and that's what happened to Nietzsche. Adolf Hitler stole his whole philosophy from Nietzsche. Hitler was incapable of doing anything right; he was such an idiot, he should really have been in India, not in Germany, and become a disciple of Muktananda. I can suggest a beautiful name for him: Swami Idiotananda! That's what he was, the suprememost idiot of human history. He thought he understood Nietzsche. It is very difficult to understand Nietzsche; he is so subtle, so deep, and so profound. It is beyond the reach of any idiotananda. Friedrich Nietzsche kept his best book to be published only after his death. I have already counted one of his books, THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, but even that pales before WILL TO POWER. It is not a philosophical treatise, written systematically, it is just maxims, paragraphs. You have to find the connection. It is not there written for you to read. Hence, even though it is published it is not read much. Who bothers! Who wants to make any effort? ­ and WILL TO POWER needs tremendous effort to understand it. It is the very essence of Friedrich Nietzsche's soul. And he was a madman! To understand it is to transcend it too. This is the first book I would like to mention today. Second: Again I am going to mention P.D.Ouspensky. I have already mentioned two of his books: one, TERTIUM ORGANUM, which he wrote before he met his master, Gurdjieff. TERTIUM ORGANUM is well known particularly among mathematicians because Ouspensky was a mathematician when he wrote it. The second book, IN SEARCH OF THE MIRACULOUS, he wrote after he had lived with Gurdjieff for many years. But there is a third book by him which was written in between ­ after TERTIUM ORGANUM and before he met George Gurdjieff. This book is very little known, and its name is A NEW MODEL OF THE UNIVERSE. It is a strange book, very strange. Ouspensky searched for a master all over the world, particularly in India, because people in their foolishness think that masters are only found in India. Ouspensky searched in India and searched for years. Even in Bombay he searched for a master. In those days he wrote this tremendously beautiful book, A NEW MODEL OF THE UNIVERSE. This is a poet's vision, because he knows not what he is talking about. But what he is talking about comes very, very, very close to the truth... but only close, remember, and even a hair's breadth is enough to keep you away. He remained away. He searched and searched.... In this book he describes his search. The book ends strangely, in a cafeteria in Moscow, where he meets Gurdjieff. Gurdjieff was certainly the strangest master who ever lived. He used to write in cafeterias. What a place to write! He would sit in a cafeteria ­ people eating, talking, children running hither and thither, the noise from the street, the honking of horns, and Gurdjieff sitting by the window surrounded by all this nonsense, writing his book ALL AND EVERYTHING. Ouspensky saw this man and fell in love. Who could resist it? It is utterly impossible to see a master and not fall in love, unless you are utterly dead, made of stone, or made of synthetic material ­ a

pre-fab man! The moment he looked at Gurdjieff... strange: he saw that these were the eyes that he had been looking for all over the earth, on the dusty, dirty roads of India, and this cafeteria was just beside his house in Moscow! Sometimes you may find what you are seeking just nearby. A NEW MODEL OF THE UNIVERSE is poetic, but comes very close to my vision; that is why I include it. Third: Sanai, and his beautiful statements. People like Sanai don't argue, they only state. They need not argue, their very existence is the proof; no other argument is needed. Come, look into my eyes, and you will know that there is no argument, only a statement. A statement is always true. An argument can be clever but is rarely true. Sanai is one of my love affairs. I cannot, even though I would like to, exaggerate him. It is impossible. Sanai is the very essence of Sufism. Sufism is an English word for tasawuf. Tasawuf means 'pure love'. 'Sufism' comes from suf, meaning wool, and a Sufi means a person wearing a woolen robe. Sanai used to wear a black cap ­ a white robe and a black cap. No logic, no reason, just a mad person like me. But what can you do, these people have to be accepted as they are. Either you love them or hate them. Love or hate, they don't give you any alternative. You can be for them or against them, but you cannot be indifferent to them. That's the miracle of mystics. Being close to me you know perfectly well that one who comes to me becomes either a friend or a foe. Nobody can come to me and go without becoming a friend or a foe. Look! I can also compose poetry sometimes. A madman is capable of doing anything. Sanai only states without arguing about it. He simply says it is so. You cannot ask why; he will say, "Shut up! There is no why!" You don't ask a roseflower, "Why?" You don't ask the snow, "Why?" You don't ask the stars, "Why?" Then why do you ask people like Sanai? They are of the world of stars, flowers, snow. They don't argue. I love Sanai. I had not forgotten him; I was not going to mention him just because I wanted to keep him only for myself, in my heart. But in a postscript you can even pour out your heart. That is the way my father used to write me letters. The letter would be very short ­ there was nothing much to write ­ then he would write a P.S. Again I would wonder what he had left out of the letter, and he would say something really significant. Then the P.S. would not be enough. There would be another P.P.S. "My God," I would think, "what has he forgotten?" Again there would be something really beautiful that could not have been written in the letter. A P.S. is a more intimate phenomenon, and a P.P.S. even more so.

My father is no more, but I remember him in such moments, when I suddenly see that I am behaving just like him. When I see his picture, I know that when I too am seventy-five, God willing, then I will look just like him. And it is so good to feel that I will not betray him, that I will represent him even to my very last breath. Devaraj ­ I am not mistakenly saying Devaraj for Devageet; I mean Devaraj ­ you should remember it. My body functions exactly like my father's even in its illnesses. I am proud of it. My father suffered from asthma, so when I suffer from asthma I know this body comes from my father, with all its faults, flaws and errors. He was a diabetic, so am I. He loved to talk, and I have done nothing else all my life than talk. In every way I have been his son. He was a great father ­ not just because he was my father but because even though he was a father, he touched the feet of his son and became his disciple. That was his greatness. No father has done it before, and I don't think it is going to happen again on this rotten earth. It seems impossible. The father becoming the disciple of the son? Buddha's father hesitated; my father never hesitated for a moment. Now it would have been very easy for Buddha's father to become his disciple, because Buddha was what the so-called religions expect, a saint. It is very difficult for any father to become a disciple of a man like me. I am not a saint by any accepted criteria, and I am happy about it because I hate to be categorized. I will turn away from heaven itself if I see the so-called saints there. I have seen enough of them on the earth itself. I am not a saint. I am a totally different kind of man ­ what I call Zorba the Buddha. Yet, knowing my notoriety, knowing perfectly well all the condemnation being thrown at me from all the so-called respectable places, he became my disciple. That is courage, immense courage. Even I was surprised when he touched my feet for the first time. I wept ­ in my room of course, so nobody could see it. I feel those tears still in my eyes. When he asked to be initiated I could not believe it. At that moment I was just silent. I could not say yes or no, I was simply silent, shocked, surprised. Yes, you have the right expression in your language: 'taken by surprise' ­ and taken so powerfully. What was the number? Not you Ashu; you go beyond numbers. Let me linger a little more on the numbers. "The next one is number four, Osho." Next one is number four ­ good. You are clever. You did not say third, you said, "The next one is number four." You know you cannot cheat me. You understand perfectly that if you say third then I will continue with the third next. Okay, once in a while I allow my disciples to have their own way. Fourth: The fourth name is Dionysius. I have spoken about his statements, which are only fragments noted down by his disciples, but I have spoken on him only to make it known to the world that people like Dionysius should not be forgotten. They are the real people. The real people can be counted on your fingers. The real person is one who has encountered the real, not only from the outside as an object, but as his own subjectivity. Dionysius belongs to the great world of the buddhas. I refer again to his few statements ­ I cannot call it a book; a book needs to be a little more than just fragments.

Fifth... I come to one of the strangest moments in this series. There is a book called AT THE FEET OF THE MASTER. The name of the author as given is Jiddhu Krishnamurti, but Krishnamurti says he does not even remember having written it. It was written long, long ago, back when Krishnamurti was only somewhere between nine and ten years old. How can he remember all that time ago when it was published? But it is a great work. I want to disclose for the first time to the world who the real author is: Annie Besant! Annie Besant wrote the book, not Krishnamurti. Then why did she not call it her own work? There was a reason behind it. She wanted Krishnamurti to be known to the world as a master. It was just a mother's ambition. She had brought up Krishnamurti, and she loved him just as any mother loves her own child. Her only desire in her old age was that Krishnamurti become a world teacher, jagatguru. Now, how could Krishnamurti be declared a world teacher if he has nothing to say to the world? In this book, AT THE FEET OF THE MASTER, she tried to fulfill that demand. Krishnamurti is not the author of that book. He himself says he does not remember ever having written it. He is a sincere man, true and honest, but the book is still being sold in his name. He should prevent it. He should make it clear to the publishers of the book that he is not the author of it. If they want to publish it, then publish it anonymously. But he has not done that. That's what makes me say he is still in the ninth picture of the ten cards of Zen, the Ten Zen Bulls. He cannot deny it, he simply says he cannot remember. Deny it! Say it is not your work. But the book is beautiful. In fact anybody would be proud to have written it. Those who want to travel the path and be in tune with a master must study AT THE FEET OF THE MASTER. I say study, not read, because one reads fiction, or spiritual fictions like Lobsang Rampa and his dozens of books, or the books of so many fictitious people. There are many around today, because there is a need, a market. Anybody can be a master now.... Baba Freejohn... I laugh. What a degradation! Even Freejohn, who has now changed not himself, only his name.... He no longer calls himself baba. He used to call himself baba because he was a disciple of Baba Muktananda. In India, out of love a master is called baba, so he started calling himself baba. But then, realizing that it was imitative, he dropped it. He now calls himself Dada Freejohn. It is the same; whether dada or baba, it is all nonsense. But these people are all around. Beware of them. Unless you are totally clear, there is every possibility of being caught in somebody's net. Sixth, by another Sufi mystic, Junnaid, the master of al-Hillaj Mansoor.... Al-Hillaj became world famous because he was murdered; hence Junnaid fell into shadow. But the few sentences, fragments, that have survived from Junnaid are really great. Otherwise how could he have produced a disciple like al-Hillaj Mansoor? Only a few stories, verses and statements remain, all of them fragmentary. That is the way of the mystic: he does not even bother to connect them into a whole. He does not make a garland of flowers, but only heaps them. It is up to you to choose. Junnaid said to al-Hillaj Mansoor, "What you have known, keep it to yourself. Do not shout ana'l haq! so loudly. If you say it, you will say it in such a way that nobody can hear you." Everybody has been unjust to Junnaid. They thought he was a little afraid. It is not so. It is easy to know the truth, it is easy to declare it; it is immensely difficult to keep it in your heart undeclared, unpronounced. Let those who want come to the well of your being, to your silence.

Seventh is a book by a man Junnaid would have loved: Meher Baba. He was silent for thirty years. Nobody has been silent for so long. Mahavira was silent for only twelve years, that was the record. Meher Baba broke all records. Thirty years of silence! He used to make gestures with his hands, as I do when I speak, because there are a few things which can only be said through gestures. Meher Baba dropped the words, but he could not drop the gestures. We are fortunate that he did not drop gestures too. The intimate ones who lived with him started writing notes through his gestures, and the book that was published after thirty years of Meher Baba's silence has a strange title, as it should have. The title of the book is GOD SPEAKS. Meher Baba lived in silence and died in silence. He never spoke, but his silence was itself his statement, his expression, his song. So it is not really strange to title the book GOD SPEAKS. There is a Zen book which says: The flower does not speak. It is wrong, absolutely wrong. The flower speaks too. Of course it does not speak in English or Japanese or Sanskrit; it speaks in the language of flowers. It speaks through its perfume. I know it well because I am allergic to perfume. I can hear a flower speaking from miles away, so I am speaking from my own experience. It is not a metaphor. I say again, a flower speaks too, but its language is that of flowers. GOD SPEAKS, however it sounds, is true about Meher Baba. He spoke without speaking at all. Number please, Devageet? "Number eight, Osho." We have traveled long; just a little more patience. Eighth is a very unknown book. It should not be unknown because it was written by George Bernard Shaw. The book is called MAXIMS FOR A REVOLUTIONARY. All his other books are well known except for MAXIMS FOR A REVOLUTIONARY. Only an insane man like me can choose it. I have forgotten everything else he has written ­ it is all rubbish, just garbage. By the way, one of my sannyasins here is called Bodhigarbha. Garbha means pregnant; the name means 'pregnant with a buddha, ready to be born as a buddha'. Some people call him Bodhi Garbage ­ I love it. It is far truer: Bodhi Garbage ­ yes, if you can attain to buddhahood, to bodhi, even garbage will become divine; otherwise everything is garbage already. I love George Bernard Shaw's small book MAXIMS FOR A REVOLUTIONARY ­ forgotten by all, but not by me. I choose strange things, strange people, strange places. MAXIMS FOR A REVOLUTIONARY seems to have descended on George Bernard Shaw... because otherwise he was just a skeptic. He was not even a saint, not enlightened nor even thinking about enlightenment. He may not have even heard the word; he belonged to a totally different world. By the way, I can tell you that he loved a girl. He fell in love and wanted to marry her, but the girl wanted to become enlightened. She wanted to seek the truth, so she went away to India. That woman was none other than Annie Besant. Thank God G.B.S. could not persuade her to become his wife; otherwise we would have missed a tremendously powerful woman. Her insight, her love, her wisdom... yes, she was a witch. I really mean she was a witch. I don't mean bitch, I mean witch. 'Witch' is really a beautiful word; it means wise.

This is a man's world. When a man becomes wise he is called a buddha, a christ, a prophet; when a woman becomes wise she is called a witch. Look at the unfairness of it. But the original meaning of the word is beautiful. MAXIMS FOR A REVOLUTIONARY begins... the first maxim is: There are no golden rules, this is the first rule. Now, even this small statement is of tremendous beauty. There are no golden rules.... Yes, there are none; this is the only golden rule. For the remainder you will have to study the book. Remember, whenever I say study I mean meditate over it. Whenever I say read it, meditation is not required. Only acquaintance with the language will do. NINTH... am I right, Devageet? "Yes, Osho." So good to hear once in a while that I am right. I have not heard it for at least forty years. Nobody in my family ever said it. I was always wrong. And I thank God that I was wrong, not 'right' according to them, but wrong according to myself. None of my teachers ever said I was right. I was always wrong. It was a daily routine, almost the usual practice, that I was sent to the headmaster to be punished. The captain of the class would take me to the headmaster, who used to then ask me what I had done that day. But by and by the headmaster stopped asking. I would go there and he would punish me, slap me on the face, and that was all. He did not even ask what wrong I had done. Once it happened ­ and still I laugh at the incident ­ that the captain of the class did something wrong. My teacher jokingly sent the captain to the headmaster with me. I had to take the captain to the headmaster for him to be punished, but before I could say anything he had already punished me! I laughed, and he said, "What is the matter?" I said, "Today you were meant to punish the other fellow. I have come with him. He did not bring me, I have brought him, and you have already slapped my face!" The headmaster said, "Sorry." I said, "I don't believe in words. Let me slap you!" ­ and I really slapped him. Now the old man is in his grave. I feel sorry that I slapped him, but I didn't slap him too hard... just very softly, just like a breeze passing through the pine trees. It is so good to hear just once that I am right. Just to hear it again.... Is it the eighth number? Now you must be in difficulty. No, I know already it is the ninth. Okay. Ninth. My choice for the ninth is Hui Neng, the Chinese successor to Bodhidharma. TEACHINGS OF HUI NENG are as yet unknown, and untranslated outside Japan. THE

Hui Neng is one of the pinnacles, the very crescendo a man can rise to. Hui Neng does not say much; he only gives hints, just a few hints. But they are enough. Like footprints, if you can follow

you will reach. What he says is essentially not different from Buddha or Jesus, but the way he says it is his own, authentically original. He says it in his own way, and that proves he is not a parrot, not a pope or a priest. Hui Neng can be summarized very easily, but can only be realized by those who can risk all. He can be summarized very easily because all that he says is: Do not think; be. But to realize it one will need many lives, unless one is utterly intelligent; then, this very moment, herenow, it can become a reality in you. It is already a reality in me, why can't it become a reality in you? Except you, nobody is preventing it. Tenth, and at last the last. I am afraid ­ that's why I remained a little bit hesitant, to say or not to say ­ Mulla Nasruddin! He is not a fictitious figure, he was a Sufi and his grave still exists. But he was such a man that he could not resist even to joke from his grave. He made a will that his gravestone will be nothing but a door, locked, and the keys thrown away into the ocean. Now this is strange! People go to see his grave: they can go round and round the door because there are no walls, there is just a door standing there, no walls at all! ­ and the door is locked. The man Mulla Nasruddin must be laughing in his grave. I have loved no one as I have loved Nasruddin. He is one of the men who has brought religion and laughter together; otherwise they have always stood back to back. Nasruddin forced them to drop their old enmity and become friends, and when religion and laughter meet, when meditation laughs, and when laughter meditates, the miracle happens... the miracle of all miracles. Just two minutes for me. I always love to stop when things are at their climax.

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