Books I Have Loved ch.13

1984 in Lao Tzu House, Rajneeshpuram, Oregon, USA
The first book today is Irving Stone’s LUST FOR LIFE. It is a novel based on the life of Vincent
van Gogh. Stone has done such a tremendous work that I don’t remember anybody else doing the
same. Nobody has written so intimately about somebody else, as if he is writing from his very own
being.
LUST FOR LIFE is not just a novel, it is a spiritual book. It is spiritual in my sense, because to me
all dimensions of life have to be incorporated into a single synthesis; only then one is spiritual. The
book is written so beautifully that the possibility that even Irving Stone will be able to transcend it is
remote.
After that book he wrote many others, and my second book today is also by Irving Stone. I count
it second because it is secondary, not of the quality of LUST FOR LIFE. It is THE AGONY AND
THE ECSTASY, again based on another life in the same way. Perhaps Stone was thinking that he
would be able to create another LUST FOR LIFE, but he failed. Although he failed, the book stands
second – not to any other but to his own. There are hundreds of novels written on the lives of artists,
poets, painters, but none of them reaches even to the height of the second book, what to say of the
first. Both are beautiful, but the first is of transcendental beauty.
The second book is a little lower, but it is not the fault of Irving Stone. When you know that you
have written a book like LUST FOR LIFE, the ordinary human instinct is to imitate oneself, to create
something of the same order, but the moment you imitate it cannot be the same. When he wrote
LUST he was not imitating, he was a virgin island. When he wrote THE AGONY AND THE ECSTASY
he was imitating himself, and that is the worst imitation. Everybody does it in their own bathroom,
looking in the mirror.... That’s what one feels about his second book. But I say even though it is only
a reflection in the mirror, it reflects something of the real; hence I count it.

I was just asking Gudia whose life Irving Stone had written about in THE AGONY AND THE
ECSTASY, because as far as I am concerned I have completely forgotten. That too is very rare;
I don’t forget easily. I forgive easily but I don’t forget easily. Whose life did he write about, do you
know, Devaraj? Was it Gauguin?
”It was Michelangelo, Osho.”
Michelangelo? A great life. Then Stone has missed much. If it had been Gauguin then it would
have been okay, but if it is Michelangelo then I am sorry; even I cannot forgive him. But he writes
beautifully. His prose is like poetry, although the second book is not of the same quality as LUST
FOR LIFE. It cannot be for the simple reason that there has never been a man like Vincent van
Gogh. That Dutch fellow was just inimitable! He stands alone. In the whole sky full of stars he
shines alone, separately, uniquely in his own way. To write a great book on him is easy, and it would
have been so on Michelangelo, but Stone was trying to imitate himself; hence he missed. Never be
an imitator. Do not follow... not even yourself.
Just be
moment to moment
not knowing
who you are...
and where you are.
That’s what it means
to be my people.
Poor Chetana, I have told her that my clothes have to be snow-white. She is my washerwoman. She
does whatsoever she can, whatsoever is possible.
Today I am immeasurably happy finding myself again in the Himalayas. I wanted to die in the
Himalayas just as Lao Tzu did. It is wonderful to be alive in the Himalayas, it is even more wonderful
to die in the Himalayas. The snow, wherever it is, represents the purity of the Himalayas, the
virginity.... Tomorrow never comes, so there is no need to worry. With me it is always today, and this
very moment we are in that world of the Himalayas.
Michelangelo must have liked white marble; he has carved a statue of Jesus out of it. No other man
has carved such beautiful images, so it should not have been difficult for Stone to write a beautiful
story about Michelangelo. But he missed the point only because he was imitating himself. Alas, if
he could have forgotten his first book, he would have produced another LUST FOR LIFE.
Third, Leo Tolstoy’s RESURRECTION. For his whole life, Leo Tolstoy was concerned, immensely
concerned with Jesus; hence the title, RESURRECTION. And Leo Tolstoy has really created a
tremendous work of art. It has been a bible to me. I can still see myself when I was young

continuously carrying Tolstoy’s RESURRECTION with me. Even my father became worried. ”It
is okay to read a book,” he said to me one day, ”but why do you go on carrying this book the whole
day? You have read it.”
I said, ”Yes, I have read it, not only once but many times. But I am going to carry it with me.”
My whole village knew about it, that I was continuously carrying a certain book called
RESURRECTION. They all thought I was mad – and a madman can do anything. But why was
I carrying RESURRECTION the whole day? – and not only during the day, but during the night too.
The book was with me by my bed. I loved it... the way Leo Tolstoy reflects the whole message of
Jesus. He succeeds far more than any of the apostles except Thomas – and about that I am going
to talk just after RESURRECTION.
The four gospels particularly included in The Bible miss the whole spirit of Jesus. RESURRECTION
is far better. Tolstoy really loved Jesus and love is magic, particularly because when you love
someone time disappears. Tolstoy loved Jesus so much that they become contemporaries. The gap
is big, two thousand years, but it disappears between Tolstoy and Jesus. It rarely happens, very
very rarely, that’s why I used to carry that book in my hand. I no longer carry that book in my hand,
but in my heart it is still there.
Fourth, the fifth gospel. It is not recorded in The Bible; it has just been found in Egypt: NOTES ON
JESUS, by Thomas. I have spoken about it because I immediately fell in love with it. Thomas, in his
NOTES ON JESUS, is so simple that he cannot be inaccurate. He is so direct, immediate, that he
is not, only Jesus is.
Do you know that Thomas was the first disciple to reach India? Indian Christianity is the oldest
in the world, older than the Vatican. And the body of Thomas is still preserved in Goa – a strange
place, but beautiful, very beautiful. That’s why all the outsiders called hippies have become attracted
towards Goa. There is no other place... no other beaches so pure and beautiful as in Goa.
The body of Thomas is still preserved, and it is a miracle how it is preserved. Now we know how to
preserve a body, to freeze it, but Thomas’ body is not frozen; some ancient method that was used in
Egypt, in Tibet, has been used in this case too. Scientists have not yet been able to discover – such
chemicals have been used... or even whether any chemicals were used or not. Scientists are great!
They can reach to the moon, but they cannot make a fountain pen which does not leak! About small
things they are failures.
I am not a scientist. Yesterday, even when I said ”Okay,” it was not okay. I simply said it because I
love you and I did not want to cause any trouble. I don’t know anything about machinery or chemistry,
I only know myself. When everything around me is going perfectly there is a transcendence. I know
through that transcendence that everything is going perfectly. If something is wrong, I have to come
down again.
Let me explain to you the whole Eastern concept of coming down. A man is born only if something is
wrong... if something is wrong with him. If nothing is wrong he is not born; he moves to the source,
disappears in the cosmos.

The day before yesterday everything functioned perfectly. It did not happen yesterday. First I said
”Okay”; that was not true. But I can lie because I love – I did not want to disappoint you. At the end
too I said, ”Great, you can end it,” but there was nothing to end because it had not even begun. I
have to tell you this so it is not repeated again. Please don’t force me to lie. I am not British, not
an Englishman; even for etiquette’s sake it is hard for me, really hard to lie. Help me so that I can
say the truth. At this moment things are going really beautifully – and I am not speaking like an
Englishman – really beautifully.... You know me, the seducer.
Fifth – another book by Leo Tolstoy. One of the greatest in all the languages of the world, WAR AND
PEACE. Not only the greatest but also the most voluminous... thousands of pages. I don’t know that
anybody reads such books except myself. They are so big, so vast, they make you afraid.
But Tolstoy’s book has to be vast, it is not his fault. WAR AND PEACE is the whole history of human
consciousness – the whole history; it cannot be written on a few pages. Yes, it is difficult to read
thousands of pages, but if one can one will be transported to another world. One will know the taste
of something classic. Yes, it is a classic.
Sixth. Today it seems I am surrounded by Russians. The sixth is Maxim Gorky’s THE MOTHER. I
don’t like Gorky; he is a communist, and I hate communists. When I hate I simply hate, but the book
THE MOTHER, even though written by Maxim Gorky, I love it. I have loved it my whole life. I had so
many copies of that book that my father used to say, ”Are you mad? One copy of a book is enough,
and you go on ordering more! Again and again I see a postal package and it is nothing but another
copy of THE MOTHER by Maxim Gorky. Are you mad or something?”
I said to him, ”Yes, as far as Gorky’s THE MOTHER is concerned, I am mad, utterly mad.”
When I see my own mother I remember Gorky. Gorky must be counted as the suprememost artist of
the whole world. Particularly in THE MOTHER he reaches to the highest peak of the art of writing.
Nobody before and nobody after.... He is just like a Himalayan peak. THE MOTHER is to be studied,
and studied again and again; only then slowly it seeps through you. Then slowly slowly you start
feeling it. Yes, that’s the word: feeling it – not thinking, not reading, but feeling. You start touching it,
it starts touching you. It becomes alive. Then it is no longer a book, but a person... a person.
The seventh is another Russian, Turgenev, and his book FATHERS AND SONS. This has been one
of my love affairs. I have loved many books, thousands of books, but none like Turgenev’s FATHERS
AND SONS. I used to force my poor father to read it. He is dead; otherwise I would have asked him
to forgive me. Why did I force him to read the book? That was the only way for him to understand
the gap between himself and me. But he was really a wonderful man; he used to read the book
again and again just because I said. It wasn’t once he read it, but many times. And not only did he
read the book, but at least between him and me the gap was bridged. We were no longer father and
son. That ugly relationship of father and son, mother and daughter, and so on... at least with me
my father dropped it, we became friends. It is difficult to be friends with your own father, or your own
son; the whole credit goes to him, not to me.
Turgenev’s book FATHERS AND SONS should be read by everyone, because everyone is entangled
in some kind of relationship – father and son, husband and wife, brother and sister, ad nauseam...
yes, it creates nausea. The whole business of ’family’ in my dictionary should mean ’nausea’. And
yet everybody is pretending, ”How beautiful....” Everybody is pretending to be English, British.

Eighth, D.H. Lawrence. I always wanted to talk about his book, but I was afraid whether my
pronunciation was right or not. Please don’t laugh about it. My whole life I have called it THE
PHONIX because that is how it is spelled. Just this morning I asked Gudia, ”Be good to me Gudia”
– which is rare! ”What is the pronunciation of this word?”
She said, ”Pheenix!”
I said, ”My God! Pheenix? And my whole life I have wasted calling it phonix...!” That is my eighth
book, THE PHOENIX. Okay, I will change my pronunciation at least to make it appear to be English.
THE PHOENIX. This is a wonderful book, one which is written only once in a while... only once after
decades, or even centuries.
Ninth, another book by D.H. Lawrence. THE PHOENIX is great, beautiful, but not my ultimate
choice. My ultimate choice is his book PSYCHOANALYSIS AND THE UNCONSCIOUS, which is
rarely read. Now, who is going to read this book? The people who read novels are not going to read
it, and the people who read psychoanalysis will not read it because they don’t consider Lawrence to
be a psychoanalyst. But I read it. I am neither a fan of novelists, nor mad about psychoanalysts. I
am free from both. I am absolutely free. I love this book.
My eyes are beginning to collect dewdrops. Please don’t interrupt.
PSYCHOANALYSIS AND THE UNCONSCIOUS has been and will be one of my most beloved
and cherished books. Although I don’t read anymore, if I were to read again that would be the
first book that I would read. Not the Vedas, not The Bible, but PSYCHOANALYSIS AND THE
UNCONSCIOUS... and do you know, the book is against psychoanalysis.
D.H. Lawrence was really a revolutionary, a rebel. He was far more revolutionary than Sigmund
Freud. Sigmund Freud is middle class. I will not say more than that, so don’t wait. In saying ’middle
class’ I have said everything mediocre. That is the meaning of middle class: just in the middle.
Sigmund Freud is not a rebel in the real sense; Lawrence is.
Good. Don’t be worried about me and my tears. It is good to have tears once in a while, and I have
not wept for so long.
Tenth: Arnold’s LIGHT OF ASIA. I have to talk about two more books, and even if I die I will complete
my discourse.
Eleventh. My eleventh choice is BIJAK. BIJAK is Kabir’s selection of songs. BIJAK means ’the seed’
– and of course the seed is subtle, very subtle, invisible. You cannot see it unless it sprouts and
becomes a tree.
Don’t interrupt. Do you want to continue? – that’s the question. Never ask me, ask yourself. If you
don’t want to continue, simply inform me, that’s enough. It is really so difficult to ride on two horses,
and that is what I am doing. Moreover one is a mare and one is a stallion. Now what to do – two
different directions....

Twelfth. Because of this situation I choose the book by Herbert Marcuse, ONE DIMENSIONAL
MAN. I am against it, but he has written a beautiful book. I am against it because I know a man is
fulfilled only when he is multidimensional, when he is spread in all dimensions possible, not onedimensional. ONE DIMENSIONAL MAN is the story of modern man; it is my twelfth choice.
The thirteenth book is the mysterious book of the Chinese, I CHING.
Fourteen, and last. This book is a Hindi novel which has not yet been translated into English.
Strange to be mentioned by a man like me, but it is worth mentioning. The Hindi title is NADI KE
DWEEP, which may be translated as ISLANDS OF A RIVER, and it was written by Satchidanand
Vatsyayana. This novel is for those who want to meditate; it is a meditator’s novel. No other novel,
neither by Tolstoy nor Chekhov, can be compared to it. It is unfortunate that it is written in Hindi.
Just wait. It is so beautiful that I want to enjoy rather than say anything. To talk at this height is so
difficult. No interruptions please....

Books I Have Loved ch.12

1984 in Lao Tzu House, Rajneeshpuram, Oregon, USA
Okay, now this is the post-postscript. It is hard to understand my difficulty. As far as I can remember
I have always been reading and doing nothing, day in, day out, for almost half a century. Naturally,
to select is almost an impossible task. But I have undertaken it during these sessions, so the
responsibility is yours.
First, Martin Buber. I would not have been able to forgive myself if Martin Buber was not included.
As a penance I include his two books: first, TALES OF HASSIDISM. What D.T. Suzuki did for Zen,
Buber has done for Hassidism. Both have done a tremendous service for seekers. But Suzuki
became enlightened; sorry to say, Buber could not.
Buber was a great writer, philosopher, thinker, but all those things are toys to play with. Still, I pay my
respects to him by including his name, because without him the world would not have even known
the word Hassid.
Buber was born into a Hassidic family. From his very childhood he was raised among Hassids. It
was in his very blood, bones, in his marrow, so when he relates it it sounds so true, although he is
only describing what he has heard, nothing more. He has heard correctly; that must be on record.
Even to hear correctly is very difficult, and then to report to the world at large is even more difficult,
but he has done it beautifully.
Suzuki is enlightened, Buber is not – but Suzuki is not a great writer, Buber is. Suzuki is an ordinary
writer. Buber towers very high as far as the art of writing is concerned. But Suzuki knows, and
Buber knows not; he is only relating the tradition in which he was brought up... of course, relating
authentically.
TALES OF HASSIDISM should be read by all seekers of truth. These tales, small stories, have such
a flavor. It is different from Zen, it is also different from Sufism. It has its own flavor, unborrowed from

anyone, uncopied, unimitated. The Hassid loves, laughs, dances. His religion is not of celibacy, but
of celebration. That’s why I find a bridge between my people and the Hassids. It is not accidental that
so many Jews have come to me; otherwise, I am always shattering the heads of the Jews as much
as I can... and still they know that I love them. I love the essential in Judaism, that is Hassidism.
Moses had not heard of it of course, but he was a Hassid; whether he knew it or not does not matter.
I declare him to be a Hassid – and so I declare Buddha, Krishna, Nanak and Mohammed. Hassidism
came after Baal Shem. The word does not matter, the spirit matters.
Martin Buber’s second book, I AND THOU, is his most famous work, the book for which he was
given the Nobel prize. Forgive me, but I disagree with it completely. I mention it because it is a
beautiful work, written artistically, with great profundity and sincerity. But still there is no soul in it,
because the soul was missing in Buber himself. How could the poor man manage to bring it into his
book, his masterpiece?
I AND THOU is very much respected by the Jews because they think it represents their religion. It
does not represent any religion at all, neither Jew nor Hindu; it only represents the ignorance of the
man called Martin Buber. But the man was certainly an artist, a great genius. When a genius starts
writing about something of which he knows nothing, he can still produce a masterpiece.
I AND THOU is basically wrong because Buber says it is a dialogue between man and God. I
AND THOU...! Nonsense! There cannot be any dialogue between man and God, there can only be
silence. Dialogue? What will you talk to God about? The devaluation of the dollar? or Ayatollah
Ruhollah Khomeini? What are you going to have a dialogue with God about? There is nothing you
can talk about. You can simply be in a state of awe... utter silence.
There is no ’I’ and there is no ’Thou’ in that silence; hence I refute not only the book but even the
title. I AND THOU...? That means one remains still separate. No, it is like a dewdrop slipping from a
lotus leaf into the ocean. The dewdrop disappears, or in other words becomes the ocean, but there
is no I and Thou. Either there is only I or there is only Thou. But when there is no I, there cannot be
any Thou, it won’t have any meaning. If there is no Thou, there can be no I either, so in fact there is
only silence... this pause.... My being silent for a moment says much more than what Martin Buber
tries to say in I AND THOU, and fails. But even though it is a failure, it is a masterpiece.
Third... Martin Buber was a Jew, and other Jews are standing in the queue. My God, what a long
line, and poor Devageet and Ashu... after all, they have to eat too, they can’t just live on my words.
So I will be quick. I will try to disperse as many as I can. But a few are very stubborn, and I know
they won’t go away unless I say something about them.
The man second to Martin Buber is one of the most stubborn – not more stubborn than me. Perhaps
I was a Jew in one of my past lives; must have been. This man is Karl Marx. The book he is holding
in his hand is DAS KAPITAL.
This is the worst-written book ever. But in a way it is a great book, because it dominates millions of
people. Almost half the world is communist, and the other half you cannot be certain about. Even
people who are not communist, deep down they feel that there is something good in communism.
There is nothing good in it. It is the exploitation of a great dream. Karl Marx was only a dreamer
– not an economist, not at all – just a dreamer; a poet, but a poet of third-rate quality. He is not

a great writer either. Nobody reads DAS KAPITAL. I have come across many famous communists,
and I have asked them, looking deep into their eyes, ”Have you read DAS KAPITAL?” Not a single
one has said yes.
They said, ”Only a few pages.... We have so many other things to do, we cannot read such a big
book.” Thousands of pages, and all rubbish, written neither logically nor rationally, but as if someone
had gone insane. Karl Marx goes on writing anything that happens in his mind. Sitting in the British
Museum, surrounded by thousands of books, he went on writing and writing. You know, it was
almost an everyday ritual that he had to be dragged out of the museum at closing time. He had to
be forced to leave; otherwise he would not go. Once in a while he was even taken out unconscious.
Now this man has become a god! There is something like an unholy trinity: Karl Marx, Friedrich
Engels, and of course Lenin – these three people have become almost like gods to millions of
people on the earth. It is a calamity, but I still mention the book – not that you should read it, but so
that you do not. Underline what I have said: Do not read it. You are already in a mess. Enough of it.
No need for DAS KAPITAL.
Fourth: Remember that Marx is also a Jew. This is a whole line of Jews. Fourth, Sigmund Freud,
another Jew. His great work is LECTURES ON PSYCHOANALYSIS. I don’t like the word analysis,
nor do I like the man, but he managed to create a great movement just like Karl Marx. He is also
one of the dominant figures of the world.
Jews have always dreamed of dominating the world. They are really dominating. The three most
important men who can be said to be dominating this age are Karl Marx, Sigmund Freud, and Albert
Einstein. All three are Jews. The Jews have achieved their dream, they are dominating. But Marx
is wrong as far as economics is concerned; Freud is wrong because mind is not to be analyzed, but
to be put aside so that you can enter into the world of no-mind.
Albert Einstein is of course right in his theories about relativity, but he proved himself to be utterly
foolish when he wrote a letter to President Roosevelt proposing to make the atom bomb. Hiroshima
and Nagasaki – the thousands of people who died there, burned alive, are all pointing towards Albert
Einstein. It was his letter that started the process of making atom bombs in America. He could never
forgive himself; that is the good part of the man. At least he realized that he had committed one of
the greatest sins possible. He died in utter frustration. Before he died he said, ”I would never, never,
never again like to be born a physicist, but only to be a plumber.”
And he was one of the greatest minds in the whole history of man. Why was he so frustrated with
being a physicist? Why? For the simple reason that he was not conscious of what he was doing. He
became aware only when it was too late.... That is the way of unconscious man: he becomes aware
only when it is too late. The conscious man is aware beforehand.
Fifth... I have so many Jews waiting it is so difficult: whom to choose and whom not to choose? And
you know Jews are not easy people to deal with. I should rather drop the whole line than bother. So
I will start with something else. Be finished with the Jews, at least for the moment. Disperse all of
you! I am talking to the Jews, not to you.
Fifth: I was worried that I may not be able to mention Gurdjieff’s book MEETINGS WITH
REMARKABLE MEN. Thank God for this P.P.S. This is a great work.

Gurdjieff traveled all over the world, particularly in the Middle East and India. He went up to Tibet;
not only that, he was the teacher of the late Dalai Lama... not the present one – he is a fool – but
the previous one. Gurdjieff’s name in Tibetan is written as Dorjeb, and many people thought that
Dorjeb was someone else. He is none other than George Gurdjieff. Because this fact was known
to the British government – that Gurdjieff had been in Tibet for many years; not only there, but had
been living in the palace at Lhasa for many years – they prevented him from staying in England. He
originally wanted to stay in England but was not allowed.
Gurdjieff wrote this book MEETINGS WITH REMARKABLE MEN as a memoir. It is a tremendously
respectful memory to all those strange people he had met in his life – Sufis, Indian mystics, Tibetan
lamas, Japanese Zen monks. I must mention to you that he did not write of them all; he left many
out of the account for the simple reason that the book was going to be in the marketplace and it had
to fulfill the demands of the market.
I don’t have to fulfill anybody’s demands. I am not a man who worries at all about the market,
hence I can say that he left out the really most remarkably significant people from his account. But
whatsoever he wrote is still beautiful. It still brings tears to my eyes. Whenever something is beautiful
my eyes fill with tears; there is no other way to pay homage.
This is a book that should be studied, not just read. In English you don’t have a word for path; it is a
Hindi word which means reading and reading the same thing every day for your whole life. It cannot
be translated as reading, particularly in the West where you read a paperback and once you have
read it you throw it away or leave it on the train. It cannot be translated as study either, because
study is a concentrated effort to understand the meaning of the word, or words. ’Path’ is neither
reading nor study, but something more. It is repeating joyously, so joyously that it penetrates to your
very heart, so it becomes your breathing. It takes a lifetime, and that’s what is needed if you want to
understand real books, books like Gurdjieff’s MEETINGS WITH REMARKABLE MEN.
It is not a fiction like DON JUAN – a fictitious man created by an American fellow, Carlos Castaneda.
This man has done a great disservice to humanity. One should not write spiritual fictions for the
simple reason that people start thinking that spirituality is nothing but a fiction.
MEETINGS WITH REMARKABLE MEN is a real book. A few of the people Gurdjieff mentions are
still alive; I have met a few of them myself. I am a witness to the fact those people are not fictitious,
although I cannot forgive even Gurdjieff for leaving out the most remarkable people he met.
There is no need to compromise with the marketplace; there is no need to compromise at all. He
was such a strong man, I wonder why he compromised, why he omitted the really important people.
I have met a few people that he omitted from the book, who themselves told me that Gurdjieff had
been there. They are very old now. But still the book is good – half, incomplete, but valuable.
Sixth: I have always loved a book whose author is unknown; he is anonymous, although it is known
to have been written by a disciple of Kabir. It does not matter who wrote it, but whoever did so must
have been enlightened; that much can be said without any hesitation.
It is a small book of poems, very poorly written. Maybe the man was not very educated, but that too
does not matter. What matters is the matter in it. Yes, the matter matters – the content. The book is

not even published. The people who have it in their possession are against publishing it, and I can
understand their feelings and completely agree with them. They say that when a book is published
it becomes part of the marketplace, and they do not want it to be published. If anyone wants the
book he can come and write it down in his own handwriting. So there are many handwritten copies
around in India, but they have all promised not to publish it. Publication certainly does something to
a book; it becomes mechanical, it loses something while going through the press. It loses its spirit;
it comes out as a corpse.
There was no name to this book; because it was never published no title was needed. I asked the
people who have the original copy, ”What do you call it?”
They replied, ”THE GRANTHA.”
Now, THE GRANTHA will have to be explained to you. It is an ancient word from when books were
written on leaves, not on paper. Certain leaves can be used for writing and when you tie those
leaves together that is called a GRANTHA. ’Tying down’ is the exact meaning of THE GRANTHA –
’tying down the leaves’.
The book has a few immensely valuable statements. I will just acquaint you with a few. One, it says:
That which can be said, don’t bother about it, it can’t be true. Truth cannot be said. Second: God is
only a word – significant, but not existent. God is only a symbol representing an experience, not an
object. Third: Meditation is not mentation, it is not of the mind. On the contrary, to drop the mind is
to meditate. And so on and so forth.
I wanted to mention THE GRANTHA because it is nowhere mentioned and it has never been
translated.
Seventh... am I still correct in my numbers?
”Yes, Osho.”
I am against Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels but I must appreciate the book by these two men, THE
COMMUNIST MANIFESTO – and remember, I am not a communist! You cannot find a more anticommunist man than me, but still I love this small book, THE COMMUNIST MANIFESTO. I love the
way it is written – not the content but the style.
You know I have multidimensional likes and I will appreciate even style. Buddha would have closed
his eyes and ears, Mahavira would have run away: style...? But I am in my own category. Yes, I love
the style THE COMMUNIST MANIFESTO is written in, and I hate the content. Do you understand
me? One can love the dress and yet hate the person. That’s actually the case with me. The last
sentence in THE COMMUNIST MANIFESTO is: Proletariat of the world unite. You have nothing to
lose but your chains, and you have a world to win.
Do you see the style? The strength of saying the thing: Unite! You have nothing to lose but your
chains, and a world to win. That’s what I say to my sannyasins, though I do not say unite, I say: Just
be – and you have nothing to lose but your chains.

And I don’t say that you have to win the world – who cares, who bothers! Can you persuade me
to become Alexander the Great or Napoleon Bonaparte or Adolph Hitler or Joseph Stalin or Mao
Tse-tung? There is a long line of all these idiots and I don’t want to have anything to do with them.
I don’t say to my sannyasins: Win – there is nothing to win. Just be – that is my manifesto. Be,
because in being you have already achieved all.
Eighth... am I still right?
”Yes, Osho.”
Good. Are you still managing? Have you preplanned? – because I don’t hear you whispering today.
Whisper a little, it feels good.
Eighth, the book by Marcel, THE MYTH OF SISYPHUS. I am not a religious man in the ordinary
sense; I am religious in my own way. So people will wonder why I am including books which are not
religious. They are, but you have to dig deep, and then you will find their religiosity. The myth of
Sisyphus is an ancient myth, and Marcel used it for his book. Let me relate it to you.
Sisyphus, a god, was thrown out of heaven because he disobeyed the supreme God and was
punished. The punishment was that he had to carry a big rock from the valley to the top of a
mountain which was so small at the summit that each time he reached it with the huge rock and
tried to put it down, the rock started rolling down to the valley again. Sisyphus has to go down to
the valley again to carry the rock, huffing and puffing, perspiring.... A meaningless job... knowing
perfectly well it will slip again, but what to do?
This is the whole story of man. That’s why I say if you dig you will find pure religion in it. This is
the situation of man, and has always been so. What are you doing? What is everybody else doing?
Carrying a rock to a point where it always and always slips back to the same valley, perhaps even
a little deeper every time. And next morning, after breakfast of course, you carry it again. And you
know while carrying it what is going to happen. It slips again.
The myth is beautiful. Marcel has introduced it again. He was a very religious person. In fact, he
was the real existentialist, not Jean-Paul Sartre, but he was not a slogan-monger so he never came
to the front. He remained silent, wrote silently, died silently. Many people in the world do not know
that he is no more. He was such a silent man – but what he has written, THE MYTH OF SISYPHUS,
is very eloquent. THE MYTH OF SISYPHUS is one of the greatest works of art ever produced.
Ninth: I am reminded again and again, I don’t know why, that I have to include Bertrand Russell.
I have loved him always, also knowing perfectly well that we are poles apart – in fact diametrically
opposite to each other. Perhaps that’s the reason. Opposite poles attract each other. Do you see
again tears in my eyes? They are for Bertrand Russell – Bertie as he was known to his friends. His
is the ninth book, THE HISTORY OF WESTERN PHILOSOPHY.
Nobody had previously done such a work as far as Western philosophy is concerned. Only a
philosopher could do it. Historians have tried, and there are many histories of philosophy, but none
of the historians was a philosopher. This is the first time a philosopher of the category of Bertrand
Russell has also written a history – THE HISTORY OF WESTERN PHILOSOPHY. And he is so

sincere that he does not call it THE HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY, because he knows perfectly well
that he knows nothing of Eastern philosophy. He simply, humbly states what he knows, also stating
that it is not the whole history of philosophy but only the Western part, from Aristotle to Bertrand
Russell.
I don’t love philosophy, but Russell’s book is not only a history but a work of art. It is so systematic,
so aesthetic, such a beautiful creation, perhaps because basically Russell was a mathematician.
India still needs a Bertrand Russell to write of Indian philosophy and its history. There are many
histories, but they are written by historians, not philosophers, and obviously a historian is only
a historian; he cannot understand the profundity and the inner rhythm of the moving thought.
Radhakrishna has written a HISTORY OF INDIAN PHILOSOPHY, perhaps hoping it will become
something like Bertrand Russell’s book, but it is a theft. The book was not written by Radhakrishna,
it was the thesis of a poor student of whom, he, Radhakrishna, was the examiner, and he stole the
whole thesis. There was a case against him in the court, but the student was so poor that he could
not fight the case. He was given enough money by Radhakrishna to be hushed up.
Now, such people cannot do justice to Indian philosophy. A Bertrand Russell is needed by India,
by China... particularly these two countries. The West is fortunate to have a revolutionary thinker
like Bertrand Russell, who could and did write the most beautiful narrative describing the whole
progression of Western thought from Aristotle to himself.
Tenth. The tenth book that I am going to talk about now is again not a so-called religious book. It is
religious only if you meditate over it... if you don’t read it, but meditate over it. It is as yet untranslated
being still in the original Hindi, THE SONGS OF DAYABAI.
I was feeling a little guilty because I had mentioned Rabiya, Meera, Lalla, Sahajo, and I have left
only one more woman worth mentioning: Daya. Now I feel relieved.
THE SONGS OF DAYA. She was a contemporary of Meera and Sahajo, but she is far more profound
than either of them. She is really beyond numbers. Daya is a little cuckoo – but don’t be worried....
In fact in India the cuckoo is called koyal, and it does not have the meaning of being nuts. Daya is
really a cuckoo – not nuts, but a sweet singer like the Indian koyal. On an Indian summer night, the
distant call of the cuckoo; that’s what Daya is... a distant call in the hot summer of this world.
I have spoken on her; perhaps someday it will be possible to translate it. But I am afraid it may not
be possible, because how can one translate these poets and singers? The East is pure poetry, and
the West and all its languages are all prose, pure prose. I have never come across real poetry in
English. Sometimes I listen to the great classical Western musicians... the other day I was listening
to Beethoven, but I had to stop in the middle. Once you have known Eastern music then there is
nothing comparable to it. Once you have heard the Indian bamboo flute then everything else is just
ordinary.
So I don’t know whether these singers, poets and madmen of whom I have spoken in Hindi will ever
be translated, but I cannot resist mentioning their names. Perhaps the very mentioning will create
the situation for their being translated

Books I Have Loved ch.11

1984 in Lao Tzu House, Rajneeshpuram, Oregon, USA
Okay. How many books have I referred to in the P.S. up to now?
”There have been forty books in the P.S., Osho.”
Good. I am a stubborn man.
First, Colin Wilson’s THE OUTSIDER. It is one of the most influential books of this century – but the
man is ordinary. He is a scholar of tremendous capacity, and yes, there are a few insights here and
there – but the book is beautiful.
As far as Colin Wilson is concerned, he himself is not an outsider; he is a worldly man. I am an
outsider, that’s why I love the book. I love it because although he is not part of the dimension that
he talks about, he writes very very close to the truth. But remember, even if you are close to truth
you are still untrue. You are either true or untrue, there is nothing in between.
The book, THE OUTSIDER, represents a great effort on the part of Wilson to understand from the
outside the world of the outsider; from the outside to look into the outsider, just as if someone is
peeping through your keyhole. He can see a little bit – and Colin Wilson has seen. The book is
worth reading – just reading, not studying. Read it and throw it into the dustbin, because unless
a book comes from a real outsider it is going to be just a far, far away echo... echo of the echo,
reflection of the reflection.
The second, THE ANALECTS OF CONFUCIUS. I don’t like Confucius at all, and I don’t feel any
guilt about not liking him. I feel really relieved that it is now on record. Confucius and Lao Tzu were
contemporaries. Lao Tzu was a little older; Confucius had even gone to see Lao Tzu and came

back trembling, shaken to the very roots, perspiring. His disciples asked, ”What happened in the
cave? ... Because you were both there and nobody else.”
Confucius said, ”It is good that nobody witnessed it. That man, my God, he is a dragon! He would
have killed me, but I escaped. He is truly dangerous.”
Confucius is reporting truly. A man like Lao Tzu can kill you just to resurrect you; and unless one is
ready to die one cannot be reborn. Confucius escaped from his own rebirth.
I have already chosen Lao Tzu, and forever. Confucius belonged to the very ordinary, mundane
world. But let it be noted that I don’t like him; he is a snob. It is strange he was not born in England.
But anyway, China in those days WAS England. In those days England was just barbarious, there
was nothing of value there.
Confucius was a politician, cunning, clever, but not really intelligent; otherwise he would have fallen
at the feet of Lao Tzu, he would not have escaped. He was not only afraid of Lao Tzu, he was afraid
of silence... because Lao Tzu and silence are the same.
But I wanted to include one of Confucius’ most famous books, just to be fair. ANALECTS is his most
important book. To me it is just like the roots of a tree, ugly but very essential – what you call a
necessary evil. ANALECTS is a necessary evil. In it he talks about the world and worldly matters,
politics and all. One disciple asked him, ”Master, what about silence?”
Confucius was irritated, annoyed. He shouted at the disciple and said, ”Shut up! Silence? – silence
you will have in your grave. In life there is no need for it, there are many much more important things
to do.”
This was his attitude. You can understand why I don’t like him. I pity him. He was a good man. Alas,
he came so close to one of the greatest, Lao Tzu, and yet missed! I can only shed a tear for him.
Third: Kahlil Gibran wrote many books in his mother tongue. Those that he wrote in English are
well known: the most famous, THE PROPHET and THE MADMAN... and there are many others.
But he wrote many in his own language, few of which are translated. Of course translations cannot
be the same, but Kahlil Gibran is so great that even in translation you can find something valuable.
I am going to refer to a few translations today. The third is Kahlil Gibran’s THE GARDEN OF THE
PROPHET. It is a translation, but it reminds me of the great Epicurus.
I don’t know that anybody except me has ever called Epicurus great. He has been condemned down
the ages. But I know that when the masses condemn a man there is bound to be something great
in him. Kahlil Gibran’s book, THE GARDEN OF THE PROPHET reminds me of Epicurus because
he used to call his commune The Garden. Everything a person does represents him. Plato called
his commune The Academy – naturally; he was an academician, a great intellectual philosopher.
Epicurus called his commune The Garden. They lived under the trees, under the stars. Once the
king came to see Epicurus because he had heard how these people are immensely happy. He
wanted to know, he was curious as to why these people were so happy: What could be the cause?
– because they didn’t have anything. He was puzzled, because they were really happy, they were
singing and dancing.

The king said, ”I feel very pleased with you and your people, Epicurus. Would you like a gift from
me?”
Epicurus said to the king, ”If you come again, you could bring a little butter, because for many years
my people have not known butter. They are eating just bread without butter. And one thing more: if
you come again please don’t stand like an outsider; at least for the time you are here become part
of us. Participate, be one of us. Dance, sing. We don’t have anything else to offer you.”
Kahlil Gibran’s book reminds me of Epicurus. I am sorry that I have not mentioned Epicurus, but I
am not responsible for it. His book was burned, destroyed by the Christians. All the copies that were
available were destroyed hundreds of years ago. So I cannot mention his book, but I have brought
him in through Kahlil Gibran and his THE GARDEN OF THE PROPHET.
Fourth... good... another translation of Kahlil Gibran, THE VOICE OF THE MASTER. It must have
been a very beautiful book in the original, because even in translation here and there are traces of
beauty, footprints. But that is bound to be so. The language that Kahlil Gibran spoke is very close
to the language of Jesus. They are neighbors. Kahlil Gibran’s home was Lebanon. He was born in
the hills of Lebanon, under the cedars. They are the greatest trees in the world. Looking at a cedar
of Lebanon you can believe van Gogh, that trees are the desire of the earth to reach the stars. They
are hundreds of feet high and thousands of years old.
Kahlil Gibran represents Jesus in some way; he belongs to the same dimension, although he was
not a christ. He could have been. Just like Confucius, he also missed. There were people alive in
Gibran’s lifetime to whom he could have gone, but the poor fellow was roaming in the dirty streets
of New York. He should have gone to Maharshi Ramana, who was still alive, who was a christ, a
buddha.
Fifth is Maharshi Ramana’s book. It is not much of a book, just a small pamphlet titled WHO AM I?
Ramana was neither a scholar nor was he educated very much. He left home when he was only
seventeen and never returned. Who returns to the ordinary home when one has found the real
home? His method is a simple inquiry into your innermost core by asking, ”Who am I?” He is really
the founder of the enlightenment intensive, not some American fellow – or fella – who pretends to
be the inventor of it.
I have said it is not a great book, but the man is great. Sometimes I mention books which are great,
written by a little man, very mediocre. Now I am mentioning a really great man who wrote a very
small book, just a few pages, a pamphlet. Otherwise he was always silent; he spoke very little, just
once in a while. Kahlil Gibran would have been immensely benefited if he had gone to Maharshi
Ramana. Then he would have heard THE VOICE OF THE MASTER. Maharshi Ramana would also
have been benefited by Kahlil Gibran, because he could write like nobody else. Ramana was a poor
writer; Kahlil Gibran was a poor man but a great writer. Both together would have been a blessing
to the world.
Sixth, THE MIND OF INDIA, by Moorehead and Radhakrishnan. Moorehead knew nothing of India,
neither did Radhakrishnan, but strangely they wrote a beautiful book, very representative of the
whole Indian heritage. Just the peaks are missing, as if a bulldozer had been going on and on

destroying all the peaks of the Himalayas and making a plain. Yes, both of these fellows have done
the work of a bulldozer. If somebody knows the spirit of India – I cannot call it the mind – then the
title of the book should be THE NO-MIND OF INDIA.
But although the book does not represent the highest, it still represents the lowest, and the lowest is
the majority, ninety-nine point nine percent. So it really represents almost all of India. It is beautifully
written but it is only guesswork. One was an Englishman, the other an Indian politician – a great
combination! And both together they wrote this book THE MIND OF INDIA.
Seventh. Now at the very end of our long list I introduce you to two books of which I think you must
have already tasted: Lewis Carroll’s ALICE IN WONDERLAND, and the eighth is ALICE THROUGH
THE LOOKING GLASS. Both are nonserious, that’s why I love them. Both are written for children,
that’s why I immensely respect them. Both are full of beauty, grandeur, mystery and small parables
which can be understood on many many levels. I have always loved one parable, for example....
Alice comes to the King – or perhaps it was the Queen, it does not matter – and the King asks Alice,
”Did you meet my messenger coming towards me on the way?”
Alice says, ”I met nobody, sir.”
The King then says, ”Then he must have reached here by now.”
Alice could not believe her ears, but just out of respect, amazed, Alice still remained silent, quite an
English lady.
Gudia, are you there? Just the other day you were asking me, ”Is there still an English lady in me,
Osho?” Just a little bit, nothing much – nothing to worry about. And a little bit is good.
Alice must have been a perfect English lady. Out of formality she did not even giggle. She had said
that she had met nobody, and the King thinks that she had met somebody called Nobody. My God,
he thinks that Nobody is a man, that Nobody is somebody...! Again Alice says, ”Sir, did I not tell you
that I met nobody? Nobody is nobody!”
The King laughed and said, ”Yes, of course nobody is nobody, but why has he not arrived yet?”
Such beautiful small parables in both the books, ALICE IN WONDERLAND and ALICE THROUGH
THE LOOKING GLASS. And the most strange fact to remember is that Lewis Carroll was not the
real name... because he was a mathematician and a schoolmaster; hence he used a pseudo-name.
But what a calamity, the pseudonym has become a reality to the whole world and the real man is
completely forgotten. It is strange that a mathematician and schoolmaster could write such beautiful
books.
You will wonder why I am including them. I am including them because I want to say to the
world that to me, Jean-Paul Sartre’s BEING AND NOTHINGNESS and Lewis Carroll’s ALICE IN
WONDERLAND are all the same. It does not matter. In fact, if I have to choose between the two I
will choose ALICE IN WONDERLAND and throw BEING AND NOTHINGNESS in the ocean, so far
away in the Pacific that nobody will find it again. To me these two small books have great spiritual
value. Yes, I’m not joking... I mean it.

Ninth... again and again I come back to Kahlil Gibran. I have loved him and would have liked to help
him. I have even waited for him, but he is not born yet. He will have to seek for some other master
in the future. THE WANDERER is my choice for this number.
THE WANDERER, by Kahlil Gibran, is a collection of parables. The parable is the oldest method
of saying that which is profound; that which cannot be said can always be said in a parable. It is a
beautiful collection of small stories.
What a con-man I am! Even with closed eyes I am watching Devageet not only trying to say things
– he is even using his leg, which is not very gentlemanly, and behind the back of a master...! What
to do, this is how the world is.
This is beautiful, Ashu. Just remind me of the number.
”We were talking about number nine, Osho.”
Tenth: Another book by Kahlil Gibran, THE SPIRITUAL SAYINGS. Now I must object, even though
the objection is against Kahlil Gibran whom I love. He cannot be allowed to write ’spiritual sayings’.
Spiritual? – although the book is beautiful it would have been better if he had called it BEAUTIFUL
SAYINGS. Beautiful, not spiritual. To call it spiritual is just absurd. But still I love the book, just as I
love all absurdities.
I am reminded of Tertullian, whose book – forgive me – I have not included. It was impossible for
me to include them all, but at least I can mention his name. Tertullian’s famous saying is: credo quia
absurdum – I believe because it is absurd. I don’t think there is another saying in all the languages
of the world which is more pregnant than this one. And Tertullian is a Christian saint! Yes, when I
see beauty I appreciate it – even in a Christian saint.
Credo quia absurdum – this should be written in diamonds, not even in golden letters. Gold is too
cheap. This saying: I believe because it is absurd, is so valuable. Tertullian could have written a
book entitled SPIRITUAL SAYINGS but not Kahlil Gibran.
Kahlil Gibran should meditate. It is time for him to meditate, as it is time for me to stop speaking...
but I cannot for the simple reason that I have to complete the number fifty.
Tenth... am I right, Devageet?
”Actually we’ve done fifty. That was number ten, Osho.”
Then I will do fifty-one, because I cannot leave this one out. It is impossible, number or no number.
You can do the same as I did: do a misnumbering somewhere, and come to the same number as I
am coming to.
Eleven, Samuel Beckett’s WAITING FOR GODOT. Now nobody knows what ’Godot’ means, just
as nobody knows what ’God’ means. In fact Beckett did a great job inventing the word Godot for
God. Everybody is waiting for nothing because God does not exist. Everybody is waiting, waiting,
waiting... and waiting for nothing. That’s why even though the number was complete I wanted to
include this book WAITING FOR GODOT.

Now wait just for two minutes.... Thank you.

Books I Have Loved ch.10

1984 in Lao Tzu House, Rajneeshpuram, Oregon, USA
Okay, how many books have I talked about in the postscript – forty?
”Thirty, I think, Osho.”
Thirty? Good. Such a relief, because so many books are still waiting. You could understand my
relief only if you had to choose one book out of a thousand, and that’s exactly what I am doing. The
postscript continues.
The first book, Jean-Paul Sartre’s BEING AND NOTHINGNESS. First I must mention that I don’t
like the man. I don’t like him because he is a snob. He is one of the most snobbish people of this
century. I call him a snob because he has become the leader of Existentialism without knowing at
all what it means to be existential. But the book is good – not for my disciples but for those who have
gone a little bit nuts, just a little bit. It is unreadable.
If you are a little bit nuts it will bring you to your senses. It is a great work in that sense – medicinal.
Devaraj, note it: medicinal. It should be prescribed in all mad asylums. Each madman should be
forced to read it, study it. If it cannot bring you to sanity nothing can. But only to first-degree nuts,
like philosophers, professors, mathematicians, scientists – but only the first degree, not those very
advanced in madness.
The existentialism of which Jean-Paul Sartre is the representative is a mockery. Without ever
knowing anything of meditation he talks about ’being’, and he talks about ’nothingness’. Alas, they
are not two: being is no-thingness; that is why Buddha has called being, anatta – no-self. Gautama
the Buddha is the only man in history to call self ’no-self’. I love Buddha for a thousand and one
reasons; this is only one of the reasons. The thousand I cannot count because of the shortage of
time. Perhaps one day I may start talking about those one thousand reasons too....

But Jean-Paul Sartre I dislike – just dislike, not even hate, because hate is a strong word; I save it
for the second book. Jean-Paul Sartre knows nothing of existence, but he has created a jargon, a
philosophical jargon, intellectual gymnastics. And it really is gymnastics. If you can read ten pages
of BEING AND NOTHINGNESS, either you will become sane or insane. But to read ten pages is a
difficult task. When I was a professor I gave it to many of my students, but nobody ever completed
it. Nobody could even read ten pages – one page was too much; in fact one paragraph itself was
too much. You cannot make any head or tail of it. And there are a thousand pages or more. It is a
big book.
I remember it in my postscript because though I dislike the man, I may dislike his philosophy... yes,
I will call it philosophy, even though he wanted it to be called anti-philosophy. I cannot call it antiphilosophy for the simple reason that every anti-philosophy ultimately proves to be only another
philosophy. Existence is neither philosophical nor anti-philosophical. It is.
I include the book because he has done such a tremendous task. It is one of the most monumental
books ever written, with such skill, such logic. And yet the man was just ordinary, a communist
– that’s another reason why I dislike him. A man who knows existence cannot be a communist,
because he will know that equality is impossible. Inequality is the way things are. Nothing is equal
and nothing can ever be equal. Equality is only a dream, a dream of stupid people. Existence is
multidimensional inequality.
Second: I will wait... Devageet’s ink has run out. What a fountain pen you have! My God, it seems
it must have belonged to Adam and Eve! What a noise it makes! But one cannot expect anything
else in this Noah’s Ark.
The second – because the noise has stopped – the second is Martin Heidegger, TIME AND BEING.
I hate this man. He was not only a communist, but a fascist too, a follower of Adolf Hitler. I cannot
believe what the Germans can do! He was such a talented man, a genius, and yet a supporter
of that retarded imbecile Adolf Hitler. I am simply amazed. But the book is good – again not for
my disciples, but for those who are very advanced in their madness. If you are really advanced in
madness, read TIME AND BEING. It is absolutely un-understandable. It will hit you like a hammer
on the head. But there are a few beautiful glimpses in it. Yes, when somebody hits you on the head
with a hammer, even during the day you start seeing stars. This book is just like that: there are a
few stars in it.
The book is not complete. Martin Heidegger had promised to bring out a second part. He continued
to promise again and again throughout his whole life, but he never produced the second part, thank
God! I think he himself could not understand what he had written, so how to continue it? How to
bring out the second part? And the second part was going to be the culmination of his philosophy.
It was better not to produce it, and not to become a laughingstock. He died without producing the
second part. But even the first part is good for advanced insane people – and there are many; that
is why I am talking about these books and including them in my list.
Third: This is for the real adepts in madness, who have gone beyond all psychiatry, psychoanalysis,
who are unhelpable. This third book is again the work of a German, Ludwig Wittgenstein. Just listen
to its title: TRACTATUS LOGICO PHILOSOPHICUS. We will just call it TRACTATUS. It is one of
the most difficult books in existence. Even a man like G.E.Moore, a great English philosopher, and

Bertrand Russell, another great philosopher – not only English but a philosopher of the whole world
– both agreed that this man Wittgenstein was far superior to them both.
Ludwig Wittgenstein was really a lovable man. I don’t hate him, but I don’t dislike him. I like him
and I love him, but not his book. His book is only gymnastics. Only once in a while after pages and
pages you may come across a sentence which is luminous. For example: That which cannot be
spoken should not be spoken; one should be silent about it. Now this is a beautiful statement. Even
saints, mystics, poets, can learn much from this sentence. That which cannot be spoken must not
be spoken of.
Wittgenstein writes in a mathematical way, small sentences, not even paragraphs – sutras. But for
the very advanced insane man this book can be of immense help. It can hit him exactly in his soul,
not only in the head. Just like a nail it can penetrate into his very being. That may wake him from
his nightmare.
Ludwig Wittgenstein was a lovable man. He was offered one of the most cherished chairs of
philosophy at Oxford. He declined. That’s what I love in him. He went to become a farmer and
fisherman. This is lovable in the man. This is more existential than Jean-Paul Sartre, although
Wittgenstein never talked of existentialism. Existentialism, by the way, cannot be talked about; you
have to live it, there is no other way.
This book was written when Wittgenstein was studying under G.E.Moore and Bertrand Russell.
Two great philosophers of Britain, and a German... it was enough to create TRACTATUS LOGICO
PHILOSOPHICUS. Translated it means Wittgenstein, Moore and Russell. I, on my part, would rather
have seen Wittgenstein sitting at the feet of Gurdjieff than studying with Moore and Russell. That
was the right place for him, but he missed. Perhaps next time, I mean next life... for him, not for
me. For me this is enough, this is the last. But for him, at least once he needs to be in the company
of a man like Gurdjieff or Chuang Tzu, Bodhidharma – but not Moore, Russell, not Whitehead. He
was associating with these people, the wrong people. A right man in the company of wrong people,
that’s what destroyed him.
My experience is, in the right company even a wrong person becomes right, and vice-versa: in a
wrong company, even a right person becomes wrong. But this only applies to unenlightened men,
right or wrong, both. An enlightened person cannot be influenced. He can associate with anyone
– Jesus with Magdalena, a prostitute; Buddha with a murderer, a murderer who had killed nine
hundred and ninety-nine people. He had taken a vow to kill one thousand people, and he was going
to kill Buddha too; that’s how he came into contact with Buddha.
The murderer’s name is not known. The name people gave to him was Angulimala, which means
’the man who wears a garland of fingers’. That was his way. He would kill a man, cut off his fingers
and put them on his garland, just to keep count of the number of people he had killed. Only ten
fingers were missing to make up the thousand; in other words only one man more.... Then Buddha
appeared. He was just moving on that road from one village to another. Angulimala shouted, ”Stop!”
Buddha said, ”Great. That’s what I have been telling people: Stop! But, my friend, who listens?”
Angulimala looked amazed: Is this man insane? And Buddha continued walking towards
Angulimala. Angulimala again shouted, ”Stop! It seems you don’t know that I am a murderer,

and I have taken a vow to kill one thousand people. Even my own mother has stopped seeing me,
because only one person is missing.... I will kill you... but you look so beautiful that if you stop and
turn back I may not kill you.”
Buddha said, ”Forget about it. I have never turned back in my life, and as far as stopping is
concerned, I stopped forty years ago; since then there is nobody left to move. And as far as killing
me is concerned, you can do it anyway. Everything born is going to die.”
Angulimala saw the man, fell at his feet, and was transformed. Angulimala could not change Buddha,
Buddha changed Angulimala. Magdalena the prostitute could not change Jesus, but Jesus changed
the woman.
So what I said is only applicable to so-called ordinary humanity, it is not applicable to those who are
awakened. Wittgenstein can become awakened; he could have become awakened even in this life.
Alas, he associated with wrong company. But his book can be of great help to those who are really
third-degree insane. If they can make any sense out of it, they will come back to sanity.
Fourth: Before I utter the name of the fourth, I feel tremendously thankful to existence.... Now I am
going to talk about a man who was beyond numbers, Vimalkirti. The name of his book is NIRDESH
SUTRA. Our Vimalkirti was not the only Vimalkirti; in fact I had given him the name because of
this Vimalkirti of whom I am going to talk to you. His statements are called VIMALKIRTI NIRDESH
SUTRA. NIRDESH SUTRA means ’guidelines.’
Vimalkirti was one of the most wonderful men; even a Buddha could be jealous of this man. He
was a disciple of Buddha, but never became a disciple formally, he was never initiated by Buddha
outwardly. And he was such a terrible man that all Buddha’s disciples were afraid of him. They never
wanted him to become a disciple. Just to see him on the way, or to greet him, was enough for him to
say something shocking. To shock was his method. Gurdjieff would have loved him – or who knows,
even Gurdjieff may have been shocked. The man was really terrible, a real man.
It is said he was sick and Buddha asked Sariputta to go and see the old man and ask about his
health. Sariputta said, ”I have never said no to you, but this time I say it, and I say it emphatically:
No! I don’t want to go. Send somebody else. That man is really terrible. Even on his deathbed he
will create trouble for me. I don’t want to go.”
Buddha asked everybody, and nobody was ready to go except one man, Manjushree, the first of
Buddha’s disciples to become enlightened. He went, and that is how this book came to be created.
It is a dialogue. Our Vimalkirti was given the name because of this man. The original Vimalkirti was
dying on his bed, and Manjushree was asking him questions, or rather answering his questions.
That’s how the VIMALKIRTI NIRDESH SUTRA was born – a really great work.
Nobody seems bothered about it because it is not a book of any particular religion. It is not even
a book of the Buddhists, because he was never a formal disciple of Buddha. People pay so much
respect to the form that they forget the spirit. I recommend the book to all true seekers. They will
find a mine of diamonds.
Fifth, I want to bring J.Krishnamurti back to your notice again. The name of the book is
COMMENTARIES ON LIVING. There are many volumes of it. It is made of the same stuff stars
are made from.

COMMENTARIES ON LIVING is his diary. Once in a while he writes something in his diary... a
beautiful sunset, an ancient tree, or just the evening... birds coming back home... anything... a river
rushing to the ocean... whatever he feels, he sometimes notes it down. That’s how this book was
born. It is not written systematically, it is a diary. Yet to just read it is enough to transport you to
another world – the world of beauty, or far better, beautitude. Can you see my tears?
I have not read for some time, but just the mention of this book is enough to bring tears to my eyes.
I love the book. It is one of the greatest books ever written. I have said before that Krishnamurti’s
FIRST AND LAST FREEDOM is his best book, which he has not been able to transcend – of course
not as a book, because COMMENTARIES is only a diary, not a book in the real sense, but all the
same I include it.
Sixth... is my number correct?
”Yes, Osho.”
So good to hear ”Yes, Osho.” Just to hear yes is so good, so nourishing, so vitalizing. I cannot be
thankful enough for it. And I have thousands of sannyasins around the world singing ”Yes, Osho,
yes!” I must consider myself the most fortunate man who has ever been on the earth, or any other
planet.
Sixth... the sixth book is again called COMMENTARIES, an immense work of five volumes by
Maurice Nicoll. Remember, I have always pronounced his name Morris Nickoal. Just this evening I
asked Gudia what is the real, exact, proper English pronunciation – because he was an Englishman.
She said, ”Nickle.”
I said, ”My God! My whole life I have been calling him Nickoal, just because of the spelling: N-i-c-ol-l. I wonder how it can be pronounced Nickle. Nickoal seems to be just the right pronunciation. But
right or wrong, if Gudia says so – she is properly English – then I will say okay. I will call him Morris
Nickle... and his COMMENTARIES.
Nicoll was a disciple of Gurdjieff, and unlike Ouspensky, he never betrayed, he was not a Judas. A
true disciple to the very last breath and beyond it too. The commentaries of Nicoll are vast – I don’t
think anybody reads them – thousands and thousands of pages. But if one takes the trouble one is
immensely benefited. In my opinion Nicoll’s COMMENTARIES should be considered as one of the
best books in the world.
Seventh: Again a book by another disciple of Gurdjieff, Hartmann. The book is OUR LIFE WITH
GURDJIEFF. Hartmann – I don’t know the exact pronunciation... because I can hear a little giggle
somewhere. But don’t be bothered about the pronunciation. Hartmann and his wife were both
disciples of Gurdjieff. Hartmann was a musician and played for Gurdjieff’s dances. Gurdjieff used
dances as meditations, not only for the disciples but even for the people who saw the disciples
dancing.
In New York, when he performed for the first time, Hartmann was playing the piano, the disciples
were dancing, and the moment when Gurdjieff shouted ”Stop!” – it was a stop exercise. Not you
Devageet, you go on writing. When Gurdjieff shouted ”Stop!” the dancers really stopped, in the

middle of a dance! They were just on the edge of the stage. They all fell on top of one another on
the floor, but still nobody moved! The audience was awestruck. They could not believe that people
could be so obedient. Hartmann wrote the book OUR LIFE WITH GURDJIEFF and it is a beautiful
description by a disciple. It will be helpful to anyone who is on the way.
What is the number?
”That was number seven, Osho.”
Good, you are hearing.
Eighth... and do you see my way of teaching? And do you see that even when I try to annoy you it
is just to teach you something of which you may not be aware right now? But someday you will feel
grateful.
Seventh... is that right?
”It is number eight, Osho.”
So good to be corrected by a disciple, immensely good. A master always feels blessed if a disciple
corrects him. And it is only a question of numbers. When I am trying to correct you all, at least I can
allow you to have a little pleasure as far as numbers are concerned. So what is the number now?
”It is number eight, Osho.”
Good. Sometimes I want to laugh.... Eighth? Good.
The eighth book I am going to talk about is written by Ramanuja, a Hindu mystic. It is called SHREE
PASHA. It is a commentary on BRAHMAN SUTRAS. There are many commentaries on BRAHMAN
SUTRAS – I have already talked about Badrayana’s BRAHMAN SUTRAS. Ramanuja comments on
him in a way which is unique.
The original book is very dry, absolutely desertlike. Of course the desert also has its beauty and its
truth, but Ramanuja in his SHREE PASHA makes it a garden, an oasis. He makes it juicy. I love the
book Ramanuja has written. I don’t like Ramanuja himself because he was a traditionalist. I hate
the traditionalists, the orthodox, from my guts. I consider them to be fanatics – but what can I do,
the book is beautiful; once in a while even a fanatic can do something beautiful. So forgive me for
including it.
Ninth. I have always loved the books of P.D. Ouspensky, though I have never loved the man himself.
He looked like a schoolmaster, not like a master, and can you love a schoolmaster? I tried while
I was in school and failed; in college, and failed; in university, and failed. I could not do it, and I
don’t think anybody can love a schoolmaster – particularly if the schoolmaster is a woman; then it
is impossible! There are a few fools who even marry women who are schoolmasters! They must
be suffering from the disease called by the psychologists ’masochism’; they must be searching for
someone to torture them.

I don’t like Ouspensky. He was exactly the schoolmaster, even when he was lecturing on the
teachings of Gurdjieff. He would stand before a blackboard with a chalk in his hand, with a table and
chair in front, exactly like a schoolteacher, with specs and all, nothing was missing. And the way he
taught! – I can see why so few people ever became attracted to him, although he was bringing a
golden message.
Secondly, I hate him because he was a Judas. I cannot love anybody who betrays. To betray is to
commit suicide, spiritual suicide. Even Judas had to commit suicide just within twenty-four hours
of Jesus being crucified. Ouspensky is not my love affair, but what can I do? – he was a capable
writer, talented, a genius. This book I am going to mention was a posthumous publication. He never
wanted it to be published during his lifetime. Maybe he was afraid. Maybe he thought it may not
prove up to his expectations.
It is a small book, and its name is THE FUTURE PSYCHOLOGY OF MAN. He wrote in his will that
the book should only be published when he was no more. I don’t like the man, but I must say, in
spite of myself, that in this book he almost predicted me and my sannyasins. He predicted the future
psychology, and that is what I am doing here – the future man, the New Man. This small book must
become a necessary study for all sannyasins.
Tenth... am I still right?
”Yes, Osho.”
Good.
The book I am going to talk about is a Sufi one, THE BOOK OF BAHAUDDIN. The original Sufi
mystic, Bahauddin created the tradition of Sufism. In his small book everything is contained. It is
like a seed. Love, meditation, life, death... he has not left anything out whatsoever. Meditate over it.
Enough for today

Books I Have Loved ch.9

1984 in Lao Tzu House, Rajneeshpuram, Oregon, USA
Now is my time. I don’t think anybody has spoken in a dentist’s chair. I feel privileged. I see buddhas
envious of me.
The P.S. continues....
The first book today: THE DESTINY OF THE MIND by Haas. I don’t know how his name is
pronounced: h-a-a-s – I pronounce it Haas. The book is not very well known for the simple reason
that it is so profound. I think this fellow Haas must be a German; even so he has created a book of
immense significance. He is not a poet, he writes like a mathematician. He is the man who gave me
the word philosia.
Philosophy means ’love of wisdom’; philo is love, and sophia is wisdom, but it cannot be applicable
to darshan, the Eastern way of looking at the whole. Philosophy is harsh.
In his book DESTINY OF THE MIND, Haas uses for darshan not the word philosophy but philosia.
Philo still means love, but osia means truth, the real, the ultimately real – not love of knowledge or
wisdom, but love for the truth, palatable or unpalatable, it does not matter.
This is one of those books which has brought East and West closer – but just closer, books cannot
do anything more. For the meeting to happen a man is needed, not a book, and Haas was not
that man. His book is beautiful, but he himself is just ordinary. For the real meeting a Buddha, a
Bodhidharma, a Jesus, a Mohammed or a Baal Shem is needed. In short, meditation is needed, and
I don’t think that this man Haas ever meditated. He may have concentrated – Germans know much
about concentration, concentration camps... great! I have been holding meditation camps and they
have been holding concentration camps! Concentration is German, meditation is not. Yes, once in

a while even in Germany a meditator has happened, but that is not the rule, only the exception, and
the exception always proves the rule. I know Eckhart, and I know Boehme....
My second name today is Eckhart. I would have loved for him to have been born in the East. To
be born among Germans and then to write or speak about the ultimate is a difficult job. But the
poor man did it, and did it perfectly. Germans are Germans; whatsoever they do, they do it perfectly.
Even today it seems one German sannyasin is still knocking. Perfection! Listen to his knocks, how
beautiful they sound amidst all this silence.
Eckhart was uneducated. It is strange that many of the mystics are uneducated. There must
be something wrong with education. Why are there not so many educated mystics? Education
must be destroying something, and that prevents people from becoming mystics. Yes, education
destroys. Twenty-five years continuously, from the kindergarten to the postgraduate courses in
university, it goes on destroying in you whatsoever is beautiful and aesthetic. The lotus is crushed
under scholarship, the rose is murdered by the so-called professors, teachers, vice-chancellors,
chancellors. What beautiful names they have chosen for themselves.
The real education has not begun yet. It has to begin. It will be the education of the heart, not of the
head; of the feminine in you, not the masculine.
It is a wonder that Eckhart, among the Germans, the most male chauvinist race in the world,
remained yet in his heart, and spoke from there. Uneducated, poor, of no political status, of no
economic status, of no status at all – just a beggar, but so rich. Very few people have been so rich.
Rich in his being – his BEING.
Write BEING in capital letters.
These two words, being and becoming, have to be understood. Becoming is a process with no
beginning and no end, a continuum. But being is not a process at all, it simply is. Call it is-ness, and
you will be very close to it.
Being is neither of time nor of space, it is a transcendence. Transcendence – again, write
TRANSCENDENCE in capital letters. Alas that you cannot write it in golden letters. It is a word
that should be written in gold, pure gold – not eighteen carat but twenty-four carat, one hundred
percent gold.
Eckhart said only a few things, but even those were enough to irritate the ugly priesthood, the pope
and the devils that surround him. They immediately stopped Eckhart. They told him what to say and
what not to say. It needs a madman like me not to listen to these fools. But Eckhart was a simple
man; he listened, listened to authority. A German is after all a German. When you say ”Left turn” he
turns left; when you say ”Right turn” he turns right.
I was expelled from army training at the university because when they said ”Right turn” I would think
it over. Everybody would immediately turn except me. The military officer was puzzled. He said,
”What’s the matter with you? Can’t you hear? Is something wrong with your ears?”
I said, ”No, something is wrong with me. I don’t see the point. Why should I turn left or right? There
is no necessity, no reason. And these poor fools who have turned to the right and then to the left will
come to the same position that I am in already.”

Naturally I was expelled – and I was immensely happy. Everybody thought it was bad luck, and I
thought it was good luck. They whispered that something must be wrong with me: ”He was expelled
and yet he is enjoying....” I threw a party with wine and all.
Eckhart listened. A German cannot be really enlightened, it will be very difficult. Vimalkirti may be
the first German who became enlightened. But Eckhart was very close; one step more and the
world will end... and the opening, the opening of the doors, the opening to the beyond. But he said
– even though he was a German, and even under pressure from the pope – he said beautiful things.
Just a little bit of truth has entered into his sayings, hence I include him.
Third, another German: Boehme. I don’t know how to pronounce his name, but who cares! That is
how it is written: B-o-e-h-m-e. Germans must pronounce it differently, that much I am certain. But
I am not a German. I don’t have to compromise with anyone in any way. I have always called him
”Boomay.” Even if he comes to me and says, ”That’s not exactly my name,” I will say, ”Get lost! To
me this is your name, and this is going to be your name, Boomay.”
Strangely, whenever Arpita comes into my room I smell Boehme, I suddenly remember Boehme.
Maybe it’s just an association, because he was a shoemaker and Arpita is my shoemaker. But
Arpita, you are blessed that you remind me of Boehme, one of the most beautiful Germans ever.
Again, he was utterly poor. It seems one has to be poor to be wise; that has been the case up to
now. But not after me. After me you have to be rich to be enlightened. Let me repeat it: you have to
be rich to be enlightened.
Jesus says the rich will not enter into his kingdom of God. He was talking in the old way. I say
emphatically that only the richest will enter into the kingdom of God. And remember, what I am
saying is the same as what Jesus was saying, it is not contradictory. The ’poor’ in Jesus’ terminology
and the ’rich’ in my terminology mean exactly the same. He calls a man poor who has lost himself,
his ego, and that is the man I call rich. The more egoless you are the richer you are. But in the past,
very rarely was a man like Boehme born into a rich family, particularly in the West.
It is not so in the East. Buddha was a prince, Mahavira was a prince; the twenty-four tirthankaras of
the Jainas were all kings. Krishna was a king, Rama was a king. All were rich, immensely rich. It
signifies something; it signifies the richness I am talking about. A man is rich when his ego is lost.
When he is no more, he is.
Boehme says a few things, just a few. He could not say many things, so don’t be afraid. The one
thing I would like to mention is: The heart is the temple of God. Yes, Boehme, it is the heart not the
head.
Fourth: A man, Idries Shah. I will not mention any of his books because all of them are beautiful. I
recommend every one of this man’s books.
Don’t be afraid, I am still insane. Nothing can make me sane. But one book by Idries Shah towers
above all the others. All are beautiful, I would like to mention them all, but the book THE SUFIS is
just a diamond. The value of what he has done in THE SUFIS is immeasurable.
Don’t interrupt, this is going beautifully.

Talking, for me, is so easy. I can even talk while asleep, and very rationally too. Good. Whenever
I recognize something like this I always appreciate it. And this is beautiful – this is what you will
understand if you can understand Idries Shah’s book THE SUFIS. He is the man who introduced
Mulla Nasruddin to the West, and he has done an incredible service. He cannot be repaid. The West
has to remain obliged to him forever. Idries Shah has made just the small anecdotes of Nasruddin
even more beautiful. This man not only has the capacity to exactly translate the parables, but even
to beautify them, to make them more poignant, sharper. I include all of his books.
Is my number right?
”Yes, Osho.”
Fifth, I am going to include another man, Alan Watts, with all his books. I have loved this man
immensely. I have loved Buddha for different reasons; I have loved Solomon for a different reason.
They are enlightened, Alan Watts is not. He is an American... not a born American, that’s his only
hope; he just emigrated there. But he has written tremendously valuable books. THE WAY OF ZEN
should be counted as one of the most important; THIS IS IT is a tremendous work of beauty and
understanding – and from a man who is yet unenlightened; hence it is more appreciable.
When you are enlightened, whatsoever you say is beautiful; it has to be. But when you are not
enlightened and groping in the dark, and yet can find a small window of light, that’s tremendous,
fantastic. Alan Watts was a drunkard, but still he was very close.
He was once an ordained Christian priest – what a misfortune! – but he renounced it. Very
few people have the guts to renounce the priesthood, because it provides so many things of the
world. He renounced all that and became almost a hobo. But what a hobo! – it reminds one of
Bodhidharma, Basho, or Rinzai. Alan Watts cannot remain long without becoming a buddha. He
died long ago; by this time he must be leaving school... must be ready to come to me! I am waiting
for all these people. Alan Watts is one of them – I am waiting for him.
Sixth.... Just now, by the way, I mentioned the name Rinzai. My sixth is his SAYINGS, the collection
of his sayings. Is my number correct?
”Yes, Osho.”
That’s good. You whispered something to Ashu, so I wondered. Excuse me for interrupting you. You
are concentrating so much on your notes.
Rinzai... his Chinese name is Lin Chi; in Japanese it is Rinzai. I choose the Japanese, Rinzai.
Rinzai looks more beautiful, more aesthetic.
THE SAYINGS of Rinzai are just dynamite. For instance he says: You fools, you followers of Buddha,
renounce him! Unless you renounce him you will not find him. Rinzai loved Buddha that’s why he
said this. He also said: Before you use the name Gautam Buddha, remember that that name is not
the reality. The buddha outside in the pagoda is not the real buddha. It is within you... of whom you
are completely unaware, of whom you have never heard. That is the real buddha. Get rid of the
outer buddha so you can get the inner. Rinzai says: There is no doctrine, no teaching, no Buddha.
And remember, he was not an enemy of Buddha but a follower, a disciple.

It was Rinzai who took the flower of Zen away from China to Japan. He transmitted the spirit of Zen to
the Japanese language, and not only to the language but to the culture itself, to flower arrangement,
to pottery, to gardening and whatnot. One man, one single man, transformed the whole life of a
nation.
Seventh: The seventh is not an enlightened man like Rinzai, but very close. Hazrat Inayat Khan,
the man who introduced Sufism to the West. He did not write a book, but all his lectures have been
collected into twelve volumes. Here and there they are beautiful. Forgive me, I cannot say they are
all beautiful, but here and there, once in a while, particularly when he is talking about a Sufi story,
he is beautiful.
He was also a musician; in that way he was really a maestro. He was not a master in the spiritual
world, but in the world of music he certainly was. But once in a while he flew to the spiritual, he rose
beyond the clouds... to fall back with a thud, of course. He must have suffered from... Devaraj, what
do you call it? Multi-fracture? Multiple fractures, perhaps that’s the right word.
Eighth: The son of Hazrat Inayat Khan. His name is well known to the seekers in the West: Hazrat
Vilayat Ali Khan. He is a beautiful man. He is still living. The father is dead, Vilayat is alive, and
when I say alive I really mean it – not only breathing... breathing of course, but not only breathing.
All his books are also included hereby. Vilayat Ali Khan is also a musician, just like his father, only of
a higher quality, of a greater depth. He is more profound... and – listen to this pause – more silent
too.
Ninth: Again I want to include another book by Kahlil Gibran, JESUS, THE SON OF MAN. It is one
of the books which is almost ignored. Christians ignore it because it calls Jesus the son of man.
They not only ignore it, they condemn it. And of course, who else cares about Jesus? If Christians
themselves are condemning him, then nobody else cares about it.
Kahlil Gibran is a Syrian from very close to Jerusalem. In fact in the hills of Syria, people – a few
people at least – still speak Aramaic, the language of Jesus. Amid those high- reaching cedars,
anyone, even a fool, is bound to be amazed, mystified. Kahlil Gibran was born in Syria under the
cedars reaching towards the stars. He comes very close in representing the real man Jesus – closer
than the four so-called disciples who wrote the gospels. They are more gossips than gospels. Kahlil
Gibran is closer, but Christians were angry because he calls Jesus the son of man. I loved the book.
The book related different people’s stories about Jesus: a laborer, a farmer, a fisherman, a taxcollector – yes, even a tax-collector – a man, a woman, all possibilities. It is as if Kahlil Gibran is
asking many people about Jesus – the real Jesus, not the Christian Jesus; the real Jesus, made of
flesh... and the stories are so beautiful. Each story needs to be meditated upon. JESUS, THE SON
OF MAN is my ninth selection for today.
Tenth: Another book by Kahlil Gibran, THE MADMAN. I cannot leave it out, although I confess I
wanted to. I wanted to leave it out because I am that madman about whom he is talking. But I
cannot leave it out. He talks so meaningfully, so authentically about the very innermost core of the
madman. And this madman is no ordinary madman, but a Buddha, a Rinzai, a Kabir. I wonder – I
have always wondered – how Kahlil Gibran could manage it. He himself was not the madman, he
himself was not the enlightened one. He was born in Syria, but lived unfortunately in America.

But there are wonders and wonders, questions without answers. How did he manage? Perhaps he
did not manage it himself... perhaps something, someone – what Sufis call Khidr, and Theosophists
call K.H., Koothumi – must have taken possession of him. He was possessed, but not always. When
he was not writing he was a very ordinary man, in fact more ordinary than the so-called ordinary man:
full of jealousy, anger, passions of all kinds. But once in a while he became possessed, possessed
from above, and then something started pouring through him... paintings, poetry, parables.

Books I Have Loved ch.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. THE
TEACHINGS OF HUI NENG are as yet unknown, and untranslated outside Japan.
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.