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Chapter 32: God: The Need of the Old Man

The Christian community or the Christian country cannot prohibit it. Prohibiting it, making it illegal, means you are raising questions against Christ and his behavior, you are doubting the great twelve apostles. And if Jesus can drink wine - not only that, if he changed water into wine - how can you say wine is illegal? If wine is illegal, then Christ was not doing a miracle but was committing a crime by turning water into wine.

Christians accept alcohol - it is strange - and they deny LSD, for the simple reason that LSD was not available to Jesus Christ. Otherwise, I can say with certainty that Jesus Christ and all his apostles would have been taking LSD and real grass. They had to confine themselves only to alcohol; that was the only drug available.

You ask me what went wrong with your parents? Everything. First, they got married. If they were not married, at least they would have saved you from this life! And they were so much involved with painting, poetry, dances.. I have never heard their name as a great painter, or as a great poet, or as a great dancer. But in youth the balloon of the ego is big. You write a third-rate letter and you call it a love letter. Most probably you have copied it from a third-rate novel, or from a movie.

You perform the act of love - it is some kind of exercise, it is not love. Real love is possible only to the meditator, that is his reward. A man who does not know himself, a woman who does not know herself - these two ignorant people fall in love with each other, and out of this ignorance you are born. And sooner or later, those two ignorant people become fed up with each other.

Now your parents are living separately, alone, in despair, in desperation. What is their desperation? Now your father knows that his paintings are just stupid, these same paintings that looked as if a new Picasso is born. His poems look like rubbish. There is nothing in them, he was just putting words together in a certain order. These poems are created, composed, they have not been given birth.

The real poet gives birth to his poetry. He breathes it, his heart beats in it. In the moment he is pouring forth his poetry, his music, his dance, he is not there. If he is there, then the poetry and the dance and the music will remain mediocre. One has to disappear, one has to disappear in the act so totally that nothing is left behind.

One of the great poets, Coleridge, was asked by a professor, “I want to come and see you, because I am in trouble. Your poetry I have to teach to the students. There are a few lines, statements in your poetry, which I find difficult to explain. And the students are asking me. I feel embarrassed to say that I don’t know, and I am a D.Litt in literature! I thought it better I come to you and ask the meaning of those lines.”

Coleridge said, “You can come, but remember, I am also in great difficulty.”

The professor said, “About your poetry you are in difficulty?”

He said, “Yes. When I wrote them, two persons knew the meaning of what I was writing: God and I. Now only God knows! I cannot figure out myself what the hell I have done.”

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