And I am not interested in the masses, because if you are interested in the masses you have to be manipulated by the masses. I am not in any way a mass man, because I am very individual. I have my own way, my own life, my own style, and I don’t allow anybody to interfere with it. If you want to become a man of the masses, the whole mass interferes with you. They teach you how you should sit and how you should stand, and what you should say and what you should not say, and what you should eat and what you should not eat, and when you should go to bed and when you should get up. They teach you everything.
It is very ironical that the people who think they are leaders of the masses and gurus of the masses in fact are the slaves of the masses. The masses teach them how to be. They don’t have any freedom. And the masses go on looking from everywhere: “Are you really following what the masses want to be followed? Are you really following the idea of the masses, what a saint should be like?” Or if you are not following it, then you become a fallen saint, then you are a sinner.
I don’t allow anybody to dictate my life. I don’t allow anybody’s life to be dictated by me. That’s why I don’t give any discipline to my people. I simply confer freedom on them and the responsibility to be free. Never interfere with anybody’s life, and don’t allow anybody to interfere with your life. Be individualistic. I am not a socialist, I am not a communist. I believe in the individual. I am absolutely an unashamed individualist.
I was moving around the country, I was moving among the masses for many years, but I was surprised to see the fact that the masses try to manipulate you. Rather than learning anything from you, rather than taking anything from you, they try to manipulate you.
Let me tell you one story I was just reading the other day:
Farmer Jones, of Clinton, New Jersey, made history at the State Fair one day when he bought a prize rooster for the highest price ever paid in the history of the poultry trade. When he got it home, however, he found he simply could not control the rooster’s romantic tendencies. Not only the hens, but the ducks, geese, and swans, not to mention a few stray nanny goats and sows, fled before the rooster’s tireless onslaughts.
Farmer Jones finally collared his bird and grumbled, “I did not pay a record price for you to waste your energies on every form of animal life in New Jersey. You are henceforth to confine your activities exclusively to the hens. Keep on the way you are going, and you will die of exhaustion.”
The rooster made light of his owner’s fears, but sure enough, Farmer Jones found him a few mornings later flat on his back, his eyes glazed, his legs straight up in the air, with a couple of buzzards ominously circling closer and closer above him.
“What did I tell you, you darn fool?” roared the farmer. “I knew the life you were leading would get you sooner or later!”
But then, to his amazement, the supposedly expired rooster opened one eye and whispered hoarsely, “Pipe down, will you? When you are trying to romance a buzzard, you have got to play it their way!”