Chapter 37: A Dewdrop Cannot Offend the Ocean
They live only in fear, in trembling.
But even in their foregoing is their pleasure.
There is a psychological disease called masochism. No ancient scripture has even an idea of it; not that the disease was not existent then - it was more existent than it is now - but they had a different name for it. They used to call it “saintliness.” Masochism is derived from a man’s name, Masoch. He used to beat himself, torture himself. Unless there is some pleasure in it, why should one do it?
There is also a contrary disease which balances masochism, and that is sadism. That, too, comes from the name of a man, de Sade. Sadism means enjoying torturing others. By the way, if a sadist and a masochist get married, that will be the best couple in the world. They will be absolutely happy because both are enjoying - one is enjoying being tortured, one is enjoying torturing. If you are getting married don’t ask the astrologer, go to a psychoanalyst and find out to which class you belong. If you are a sadist, then getting married to a sadist is a misfortune; if you are a masochist, then getting married to a masochist means you will suffer your whole life and will never get any pleasure. Find out to which class you belong, sadist or masochist, and always marry the opposite one - just as a man marries a woman.
People who are continually repenting about the sins that they committed in drunkenness, in their youth - watch their faces; they enjoy it.
A woman was confessing in a Catholic confession booth. The priest was tired of the woman because she went into such detail that even he himself started feeling a sexual urge. She used to say, “Father, forgive me, I made love. And ask God also to forgive me.” And then she would go into the detail of how it happened, step-by-step. The first time it was okay, the second time. The third time it was too much - because it was the same details, the same man.
The priest asked, “If you regret it so much, then why do you go on making love to that man?”
She said, “Who is making love to that man? It happened only once, but just to remember it gives me so much pleasure. It is such a pleasant memory, and whom to tell it to? This confession is the only place. I wait seven days - think of me! - so that when Sunday comes I can go again. And I go into the whole detail, again and again.”
The priest said, “Listen, the first time the details were not so great, the second time they became greater, and the third time they became even greater.”