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the only perfect thing in existence.

The village where I was born was exactly eighteen miles from the highway. It was a poor village, could not afford rich hills. It had a small pond. Frogs must have jumped in, but I was not aware of Basho then. Now I can see the point. I can see the ripples in the pond, and the silence... utter silence. That is rare on the earth.

I have stopped speaking to the masses because to speak to the crowd means to come down. Now I can only speak to the individual, to those who are close to me. And words are only gestures. Ordinarily words become things -- even God becomes a thing. Thousands worship things. But God is not a thing; you cannot make an image of God. God is all things together. He is the very togetherness. He is apart from this, but in it.

The god of the philosophers is certainly dead forever. Churches, mosques, temples are empty... that god is dead. But the real God is not dead. So Nietszche is also not true, nor Russell, nor Sartre. The real God is the Real, the very essence, the togetherness.

From the smallest to the biggest,

from the meaningless

to the meaningful,

from the cry of a child

to the verses of Kabir,

from doodling to painting,

from those who know

to those who don't know,

He is the bridging.

At this moment, at this very moment, I am simply aware of this. It is worship, but one can love it... one can touch it... one can hold it in one's hands, one can feel its texture.

It is beautiful that the god of the philosophers is dead. I am a brigand. To be with me is to be a brigand, to be a Zorba and a Buddha at the same time. My vision is the vision of the ultimate unity between the Epicurean and the ascetic, between the materialist and the spiritualist. I do not belong to any category, I am a class unto myself.

This is so beautiful, and I mean so prayerful, so worshipful. When I say it is beautiful I am saying that nothing can be said about it. I am just pointing my finger to the moon, but my finger is not the moon.

There are moments when one cannot remain silent. One cannot say much, but one wants to share

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