मंगलवार, 18 फ़रवरी 2014

Books I Have Loved


1984 in Lao Tzu House, Rajneeshpuram, Oregon, USA

The guest, the host, the white chrysanthemum... these are the moments, the white roses, when no
one should speak.
Neither the guest,
nor the host...
only silence.
But silence speaks in its own way, sings its own song of joy, of peace, of beauty and blessings;
otherwise there would not have been a TAO TE CHING, nor would there have been a SERMON ON
THE MOUNT. I consider these to be the real poetries although they are not compiled in any poetic
way. They are outsiders. They are kept out. This is true in a way: they don’t belong to the norm, to
the standard, they don’t belong to any measurements; they are beyond all of them, hence they are
brushed over.
A few pieces in Fyodor Dostoevsky’s BROTHERS KARAMAZOV are pure poetry, and so are even
a few pieces from that madman Friedrich Nietzsche’s book, THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA. Even if
Nietzsche had not written anything else but THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA he would have served
humanity immensely, profoundly – more cannot be expected from any man – because Zarathustra
had been almost forgotten. It was Nietzsche who brought him back, who again gave him birth, a
resurrection. THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA is going to be the bible of the future.
It is said that Zarathustra laughed when he was born. It is very difficult to imagine a new-born baby
laughing. Okay, smiling – but laughing? One wonders at what, because laughter needs a context. At what joke was the baby Zarathustra laughing? The cosmic joke, at the joke this whole existence

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