Chapter 1: Session 1
The guest, the host, the white chrysanthemum.these are the moments, the white roses, when no one should speak.
Neither the guest,
nor the host.
But silence speaks in its own way, sings its own song of joy, of peace, of beauty and blessings; otherwise there would not have been a Tao Te Ching, nor would there have been a Sermon on the Mount. I consider these to be the real poetries although they are not compiled in any poetic way. They are outsiders. They are kept out. This is true in a way: they don’t belong to the norm, to the standard, they don’t belong to any measurements; they are beyond all of them, hence they are brushed over.
A few pieces in Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Brothers Karamazov are pure poetry, and so are even a few pieces from that mad-man Friedrich Nietzsche’s book, Thus Spake Zarathustra. Even if Nietzsche had not written anything else but Thus Spake Zarathustra, he would have served humanity immensely, profoundly - more cannot be expected from any man - because Zarathustra had been almost forgotten. It was Nietzsche who brought him back, who again gave him birth, a resurrection. Thus Spake Zarathustra is going to be the Bible of the future.
It is said that Zarathustra laughed when he was born. It is very difficult to imagine a new-born baby laughing. Okay, smiling - but laughing? One wonders at what, because laughter needs a context. At what joke was the baby Zarathustra laughing? The cosmic joke, at the joke this whole existence is.
Yes, write in your notes the cosmic joke and underline it. That’s good. I can even hear you underline it. That’s beautiful. Do you see how good my hearing is? When I want to I can hear even the sound of drawing a sketch, a leaf. When I want to see I can see in darkness, utter darkness. But when I don’t want to hear, I pretend not to hear, just to give you the good feeling that everything is going good.
Zarathustra at his birth, laughing! And that was only a begining. He laughed throughout his whole life. His whole life was a laughter. Even so people have forgotten him. The English have even changed his name, they called him “Zoroaster.” What a monstrosity! “Zarathustra” has the softness of a rose petal, and “Zoroaster” sounds like a huge mechanical disaster. Zarathustra must be laughing at his name being changed to Zoroaster. But before Friedrich Nietzsche, he was forgotten. He was bound to be.