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Chapter 2: The Poetry of Tears

But it is not only you. There are many very sincere people, very honest, who commit the same mistake. Just the other day I saw a review of my two books, The Rebellious Spirit and The New Man, by one of the best and the most honest, sincere and courageous journalists of India, M.V. Kamath. And he says the same thing you are saying: that I am the greatest intellectual of the second part of the twentieth century. He thinks he is praising me - and he has an honest intention. But he does not understand me.

As I looked at his review, things became more and more clear. He is an intellectual and naturally that is his only measure. He knows nothing of mysticism and he commits the fallacy of all the intellectuals. With all good intentions he says in his review that if I were not a controversial man, always surrounded by controversies, I would have had many more admirers in the world.

Now, he does not understand a simple thing: that no great intellectual has ever existed in the world without controversy. Intellect is intrinsically controversial. Only idiots are not controversial.

And secondly, he says I would have had many admirers.. He says that with great love, but the misunderstanding is there - with all the good intentions and love and respect. The intellectual likes admirers; the mystic does not care at all. The intellectual, the artist, the showman, the politician all exist on the admiration of people. Their whole life is how to get more and more admiration. That is their nourishment. That’s how they go on inflating their egos.

The mystic has no concern at all about admiration. He is so fulfilled, so contented, that there is no need for any other nourishment. His nourishment showers over him from the beyond. He has found the very life source: he does not live upon the opinions of others. He can stand alone against the whole world.

And that’s what I have been doing all my life: standing all alone - the majority of one against the whole world. And the reason why I can manage to be against the whole world is because I have found my own life source. I don’t depend on anyone. I don’t need any admiration, any compliments, any rewards, any Nobel Prizes. I am enough unto myself.

I am not an intellectual, I am not a giant. I am a simple person who is utterly lost into the beauty of this glorious existence. I have disappeared into the whole. I don’t exist separately.

If the outsiders think like this.. And M.V. Kamath is an outsider and perhaps deep down afraid of coming closer to me - because he ends his review by saying, “Osho needs to be read. You don’t have to listen to him and you don’t have to see him. You have just to read him. He is the master of words. He brings magic to ordinary words.”

Now, he does not know that I am not a master of words, I am not a poet, I am not a creative artist. I use words just out of sheer necessity, always feeling guilty because no word is big enough to convey what I want to say. Every moment I utter a word I am committing a certain crime against truth, because no word is capable of bringing truth to you. But it is perfectly okay for an outsider.

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