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Chapter 25: The Juice, the Whole Juice, and Nothing but the Juice

The song is not in the words: it is something around the word, between the words, between the lines, but never in the word itself. If it is authentic poetry then there will be a depth where words are lost: you dive into the meaning itself, the pure meaning. It is more sound and silence. The word is left far behind; the word becomes almost transparent.

In the East it was discovered thousands of years ago. In English you have one word for reading, study. For reading, in Sanskrit we have two words - adhyayan, which means study, and path, which is not translatable. Path means reading something again and again, not to understand what it means linguistically - that you can understand by reading one time, or two times; you need not read it thousands of times. And if you cannot understand it reading it five or ten times, then you are not capable of understanding it in reading it a thousand times either. You will still be you.

No, that is not the purpose of reading it a thousand times. The purpose is how to go farther than the word. The only way is to repeat the words so many times that they become absolutely meaningless, irrelevant. And when it becomes irrelevant, only then the vertical dimension opens; you start falling into its depth.

But that is possible only with authentic poetry or authentic music, not with ordinary music or ordinary poetry which is composed by the mind. That is nothing but a play with words; there is nothing to be conveyed. The man has no experience, no juice to pour into those words so those words can become carriers of a message. He knows how to manage a certain rhythm in words, and he composes a song. It is a composition, it is not a creation.

But when a song is created, it means it is not composed by the mind but has arisen out of a certain experience of rhythm, harmony; and you try to express it through the words, because words can reach the other - the pure juice is not transferable. It is as if you write a love letter, and you tie it to a stone and throw the stone through the window of the woman you love.

Your letter cannot be thrown: it won’t reach the window, it is so light; but the stone is heavy. The stone is not the message. The message is on that small piece of paper which is attached, tied with a string to the heavy stone. But if you fall in love with an idiotic woman - which is more possible - the woman may throw the letter away. What message can it have - just a piece of paper? And she may think that the stone, the heavier part, must be the message. And that’s what goes on happening with songs and poetry, and music: you go on holding and collecting the stones, and you go on throwing away the letters.

So after my breakfast, for two or three hours I listen to my chosen songs. I know them perhaps more than the people who wrote them and the people who sang them. I am far more acquainted with them because I have heard them thousands of times. Every day I enter a new depth. It is almost a state of deep silence; and because of the silence, my body relaxes and goes to sleep - I am awake. With the body, the words are connected; with me, the meaning. But this too is another experience of juice.

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