Every time when people ask me, “What is Osho in your life?” – I answer that you are my master. But the people don’t understand, even if I try to explain. What is the reason for it? Why can’t I explain it with success?
Life is beautiful because there is so much which cannot be explained. It would have been a disaster if life consisted only of things which can be explained. Just think for a moment, if everything could be explained, then there would be no mystery, then there would be no poetry, then there would be no secret. Then everything would be utterly flat and boring. Life is not boredom because there are dimensions in it that you can go on exploring, yet you can never come to explanations. You can experience much, yet that which you have experienced cannot be translated into words.
You fall in love. Since the very first man, millions of people must have fallen in love, yet love is still a mystery, you cannot reduce it to knowledge. The moment you try to reduce it to knowledge, it slips out of your hands. And it is good that it is so miraculous that generation after generation, millions of people go through the experience; they know what it is yet they cannot say what it is.
All that can be experienced is not necessarily explainable, and all that can be explained is not necessarily experienceable. Mathematics can be explained easily, but there is no corresponding experience. Science can be explained easily, but even the greatest scientist is not transformed by his knowledge. But an anonymous poet not only gives birth to poetry, he also goes through a deep revolution, a rebirth. His poetry is not just a composition of words; it is the juice of his very life. The greatest poets have not been able to explain their own poetry.
Once Coleridge was asked by a professor of literature… The professor was teaching at the university and he came across a point in one of Coleridge’s poems where he was doubtful about the meaning. He was a sincere man. He told the students, “You will have to wait at least one day. Coleridge lives in my neighborhood; I can ask him exactly what he means.”
The professor went to Coleridge that evening. Coleridge said, “You have come a little late.”
He said, “What do you mean – a little late? You are still alive.”
Coleridge said, “It is not a question of my being alive or not. When I wrote these lines, two persons knew the meaning; now only one knows.”
Naturally, the professor inferred that the one person could not be anyone else but Coleridge. He said, “So I have not come too late. Tell me what the meaning is.”
Coleridge said, “You have not yet got the point. When I wrote those lines, two persons knew the meaning: Coleridge and God. Now only God knows!