Chapter 4: The Drunken Dancer
I have nothing to convey to you except myself. I am not giving you a doctrine. I am not a teacher. Remember me as a singer, as a poet, as a dancer - that will be truer.
The last question:
A love letter. You talk too much.
Since I became enlightened I have not uttered a single word. You must have been listening to somebody else, not to me. I am keeping silence. Try to listen again and you will not find a single word uttered. Somewhere there has been a mistake. In your dream you may have heard me talking. I have not talked.
When you are unconscious you talk. When you become conscious you become silent.
George Johnson, a hard-bitten man of early middle age, had evaded many a marital trap, but was now helplessly in love with a pretty young girl. Finally he said, “Will you marry me, Nancy?”
She smiled and said, “Oh yes, George.” There followed a long silence until Nancy said, “Well, say something more, George.”
And Johnson said hollowly, “I think I have said too much as it is.”
In your unconsciousness, even if you don’t say much, you say much. And you are caught in whatsoever you say. If people who are unconscious remain silent, the world will be very much better.
When you become conscious, you can go on saying - it is never enough. And people who have attained, if they remain silent, the world will be very much poorer.
Enough for today.