Jharat Dashahun Dis Moti #13

We shall walk even without support, but—
How far? We cannot say!
How far? We cannot say!
Again those same droplets of honey will fall,
They will quicken night and day—
Again the sweet lord of seasons will grace the earth—
He will fill her with flower and fruit;
But you—no longer will you heal the sorrow,
No longer make the mind-blossom tremble with joy;
We shall still live on even in ruin, but—
How far? We cannot say!

Again the same scales will be arrayed,
Anklets, musical with rāga, will ring;
Again, in the wakeful heart-strings—
The sevenfold octave will ripen into song;
But you—no longer will you resound,
Be adorned, verse upon verse;
We shall still melt into silence, but—
How far? We cannot say!

Again the same lamps will be lit,
Fairs of light will be gathered;
Again the graceful valleys—
Will be dyed with golden rays;
But you—no longer will you awaken,
Coloring life itself as light;
We shall still burn even through the smoke, but—
How far? We cannot say!

What we call life is a queue standing at the door of death. One goes today, another tomorrow. It is only a matter of sooner or later. Spring will keep coming like this, the earth will keep becoming a bride in the same way, birds will go on singing, flowers will bloom, the sun will rise, the moon and stars will move—but you? You will not be. You will have mingled with dust. Not a trace of you will be found even if one searches. Nowhere will any footprint be discovered. What are we? Lines drawn upon water—hardly made before they are erased.
Whether one lives seventy years or seven hundred, it makes no difference; death stands waiting at the end. And when death stands at the end like a vast question mark, you should live life with a little thoughtfulness. Live in such a way that you can conquer death. Live so that death cannot erase you. Live so that something within you comes into experience which is amrita. Then you are religious. But if you live such that whatever you earned, death snatched away; whatever you saved, death plundered—then you are worldly.
People ask me: What is the definition of worldly and of sannyasin? It is simple, plain. The worldly is one whose entire wealth death will take away—after death, nothing remains. And a sannyasin is one from whom, however much death may snatch, it cannot seize what is real, what is precious. He has experienced the eternal within.
But we are running outward; how then will the inner be experienced! We are gathering the useless; how then will there be a taste of the meaningful! We are being buried under mountains of the trivial, therefore vivek does not take birth within us. We remain entangled in thought; where is the opportunity for discernment to be born! Our energy is lost in the traffic of thoughts; nothing remains over—so vivek lies asleep within us. And the awakening of vivek is the true beginning of life.
Vivek means: the arising of consciousness within you—the felt recognition of who I am. The Upanishads say: not that; what I say—no; what Gulal says—no; your own experience, the intimate experience of who I am—on the day that burns within like a lamp, that day death is defeated. On that day your victory-march is complete. On that day you have reached a throne from which you cannot be displaced.
Today’s sutras can be great companions on this inner journey. Let each sutra settle attentively into the heart.

Nirmal Hari ko naam—tāhi nahin mānahin.
The matter of Paramatma is simple, straight, plain. A stainless mind can quickly understand it—it is like that. But our minds are great tricksters; our minds are great counterfeiters; our minds are utterly upside-down—innocence has not even touched us.
Jesus said: unless you become like a little child, there will be no meeting with God. Once again, one must become like a little child. Do not suppose that all children are experiencing God—no child is. Only when someone becomes a child again is the experience. Children are ignorant; they still have to pass through all the wanderings, they still have to make many mistakes, they still have to be lost in swoons, they will still run the race of position, prestige, ambition—this going is necessary. But when someone, tired of all this, returns, then he is no longer ignorant. Then his simplicity is saintliness. Then there is a pristine feeling within him. No dust remains on the mirror of consciousness. He has seen the world and found there is nothing there.
How will children believe that there is nothing there? They will run; only by running will they know. They will fall; by falling they will know. If they know even after falling again and again—even that is great fortune. How many are there who keep falling and never know! The one who truly comes of age is the one who again becomes simple like a child. The circle of his life is complete. The journey began like a child; the journey is completed like a child. When an old man is simple like a child—that state is called sainthood. That is the supreme state of the rishi. From there flow the Upanishads, the Gita, the Koran—from that very Gangotri, from that crystal spring.

Nirmal Hari ko naam…
The talk of Ishwar is so simple, even the simplest can grasp it—but we are contrary.
…tāhi nahin mānahin.
But our mind does not want to accept what is simple.
Understand this truth well: our mind believes in the complex. Our mind relishes complication. People solve riddles. If someone hands you a riddle—useless—you still go on trying to solve it. You even know that solving it will yield nothing, yet no; your skull gets busy. Because it has challenged your ego. Until your ego has solved it you will remain restless; you won’t sleep well—at night the riddle will float around you, peeping into your dreams. The more difficult a thing, the more it draws us. That is why offices attract—because they are hard to obtain. Millions are running, a fierce competition—throat-cutting—where all are ready to chop one another’s necks. You too set out, bow and arrow in hand! You too became eager! You swore you would show them!
Saintliness is simple. The very word sadhu means: simple. Sadhu means: immaculate. Saintliness attracts no one. What is there in being simple! Why, plants are simple, animals are simple, birds are simple. The fun, you think, lies in being complicated. And if you peer into your mind you will find how many tangles you have nurtured—what varieties of complication! And how many riddles you have amassed, which you could not unravel. They are all pricking your chest like arrows and making wounds. Then, with such a complicated mind, solving what is simplest becomes difficult—because it is trained to untie the complex. The simple does not even strike up a conversation with it. It cannot see what is straight. It sees only when things are slanted and crooked; its way of seeing, its stance, has become like that.
Someone saw Mulla Nasruddin walking in the market: on one foot a black shoe, on the other a red. “Brother, is this a new fashion? One shoe red, one black!” Mulla said, “No, no fashion—this is that damned shopkeeper’s doing. I bought two pairs and in both boxes he tied them like this—one black, one red.”
A plain thing. But for a mind of complexities, hard to see. And we can forgive Mulla; that tale may be imagined—but such things happen.
Great scientist—Newton. He kept two cats. Great mathematician. But he was vexed—sometimes the cats would return late at night—cats are cats—so he had to stay awake waiting for them. When they came, he would put them to sleep, then he would sleep. Someone advised, “Why not make a hole in the door? When they come, they’ll slip in through their hole and sleep; you’ll be spared the bother.” “Why yes… sometimes you sit till midnight; the cat hasn’t come!” He said, “That idea fits.”
Next day the friend saw something odd: Newton had made two holes. “Two? What for?” “One for the big cat, one for the little.”
Now this is a great mathematician. It did not occur to him that both could pass through the same hole—one after the other. There was no need for both at once! But mathematics is mathematics. Two cats—two holes; a larger for the big, a smaller for the little. The friend banged his head: “What mathematics do you understand!”
But Newton understands mathematics. For that very reason this tiny matter of life escapes him. Mathematics handles grave distances, far-flung reaches…!
Albert Einstein solved the toughest mathematical questions of this century; yet in the small matters of life he got into tangles. He would sit in the bathroom and not come out for hours—six hours! The wife distraught, the whole house upset. Ask him and he would say, “I forget time.” And regarding time, no one in this century knew more than he did. His entire life’s exploration was time and space.
One day a friend had invited him to dinner. It got late. The friend kept looking at the clock—now he’ll go, now he’ll go. He wouldn’t go! They yawned; they both kept looking at the clock. Finally it became unbearable for the host—you cannot bluntly say to a great man, “Now go home!” When two o’clock struck, the host thought, something must be done or this man will keep me up all night! There was nothing to talk about—both were yawning, both were watching the clock, and sitting, gazing at each other’s faces!
At last the friend said, “Your wife must be waiting.” Einstein said, “My wife? Then why don’t you go home?” “Me? I am at home!” “Then man, why didn’t you say earlier this is your house! I’m the one who kept watching the clock thinking, ‘Brother, when will he go so I can sleep!’ He is glued here; it doesn’t seem proper to tell a guest to leave—so I kept thinking and stayed. When the town clock struck two, my patience too was exhausted. If you hadn’t said it, I would have—I was just about to.”
Only when it was certain that he himself was the guest and the other the host, did he get up.
In solving the great riddles of life Einstein’s genius has no rival. But small matters! Often it happens: the instrument that sees afar cannot see the near. The telescope is not a microscope. Don’t take a telescope around the house to look for your wife—you won’t find her. With it you can search for the moon and stars that the naked eye cannot see; how will it reveal your wife?
The mind too has two modes: one to see the distant, telescopic; the other, to see the near. Paramatma is near. Not distant like moon and stars. He is everywhere. And we have forgotten how to see the near. Go ask an eye-doctor—two kinds of patients come: those who see well at a distance but not near; and those who see near but not far. And some have difficulty with both—near and far—so their glasses are made twofold: different lenses above and below. They read through the lower lens; they look far through the upper. The mind has these two states as well. Paramatma is near—nearer than the near, closer than you are to yourself. To know That, no heavy mathematics, no logic, no complex thought-process is needed. What is needed is simplicity, attention, purity, a state of no-thought. To be like a small child is essential.
Gulal says it right:
Nirmal Hari ko naam—tāhi nahin mānahin.
But you will not accept it—because the matter is so simple. You will demand proof, you will ask for logic, foundation. For Paramatma no logic can be given. Paramatma is the very foundation of all logic, therefore none can be offered for That. Paramatma is beyond all arguments; therefore none apply. What proof will there be—for That which gives the proof, for That which asks for proof? How will there be proof? That within you which sees—that is Paramatma. How will you see Paramatma?
Mark this well. People say, “We want to see God.” The journey started wrong! The very first step is a mistake—to see God. Paramatma is that which sees within you. The capacity to see, your power of vision is Paramatma. Your drashta-bhava, your witness-consciousness, is Paramatma. How will you see the witness? There is no way to see It. You can see everything—how will you see your own seeing? There is no means.
Had Paramatma been outside, we would have found him—long ago. We can reach the stars, reach the moon, climb Everest—would we not have found God? But Paramatma sits in the heartbeat of your heart; where the life of your life is—there. He sits so close that you cannot figure how to go there. No train goes there, no airplane flies there; not even a foot-journey is possible—else you would go on foot. There no journey is possible at all. There you must drop all journeys and sit.
There are things obtained by running—all things of the world are got by running. He who is skilled in running succeeds. But Paramatma is found by sitting, by stopping. Those who know the art of stopping, of just sitting… what is dhyana but this? The art of sitting in quietude for a while: no running, no hustle—dropping all journeys; for a while becoming as if you are not. This is innocence. To be nobody is innocence. And Paramatma is available to the immaculate.
Thought is stain, rubbish, litter. The more filled you are with thought, the more you are filled with useless clutter.

Nirmal Hari ko naam—tāhi nahin mānahin.
Bharamat phirain sab thāñv—kapaṭ man ṭānahin.
All over the world you roam—harboring great deceits—busy deceiving others; and you forget one thing: in deceiving others you are cheating yourself most of all. You are picking everyone’s pocket—and forget that meanwhile your own pocket has been picked.
Two pickpockets were released from jail together. So both kept patting their own pockets again and again. At last one could not resist and asked, “Why keep feeling your pocket?” He said, “What else can I do? I cannot check yours—you are skilled in the art; and you cannot check mine—I am skilled in the art; but who knows who is more skilled! I don’t want the hassle with you; I want to save my own. I might start worrying about your pocket and mine gets cut! So I keep checking whether it’s still there or gone.”
Feel your own pocket once! You are in a marketplace of pickpockets—walk carefully! But where do you have the leisure to check your own pocket? Other people’s pockets attract you so much that from one pocket you move to another, and another, and in the meantime when yours gets cut, you do not even notice. When the kite is cut, then you know—but by then, nothing can be done. A whole life passes cheating others; in the end it is discovered: you cheated yourself. The pits you dug for others—you fell into them yourself. The snares you set to trap others—became a noose for you. This is discovered very late, at the final moment. That is why people die weeping. Not from fear of death. What fear of death! Death is a rest, a long sleep. No one fears death. They fear and weep because the opportunity of life slipped away; we were busy with others, and we ourselves were deceived—bitterly deceived!

Bharamat phirain sab thāñv—kapaṭ man ṭānahin.
Wandering everywhere! After office, after wealth, after prestige. What don’t you do! You are ready to do anything—ready to curry favor, to flatter—anything. Ready to be dishonest, to slit throats, to be violent—if only steps can be made, somehow you can reach position, prestige, gather some shards around you!

Sūjhat nāhin—andh, ḍhūñdhat jag sānahin.
Nothing dawns on you—you are utterly blind—yet with great swagger you set out to seek wealth, position, prestige! In great style.
Sūjhat nāhin—andh, ḍhūñdhat jag sānahin.
You set out with great pomp, great arrogance—no concern that you are blind. Where will you go! First fix the eyes, first learn to see—first become a seer, then go to seek! Religion says the simple thing: first learn to see! Even if truth comes to you and you have no eyes to see, what will you do?
You have heard the story of the blind men who went to see the elephant. They set out to see the elephant without caring that they were blind. Even if the elephant is found—how will they see? Then, as they “saw,” only the blind can see so! One felt the leg, “Here is the elephant”; another felt the ear, “Here is the elephant”; another stroked the back, “Here is the elephant!” Then a heavy dispute: an argument among the blind. Each said, “I am not blind—you are. I saw clearly: the elephant is like a temple pillar.” He had touched the leg. The second: “Lie—utter lie; you are blind; the eye is mine. I examined it—it was like a wall. Believe experience!” The third: “Pure falsehood, a hundred percent. You are blind too. I too examined, again and again—I felt the ear—an elephant is like a winnowing fan.”
The five called one another blind, and each tried to prove, “I am the one with eyes.” Before you set out in search of truth or bliss, at least make an eye—at least open an eye!

Sūjhat nāhin—andh, ḍhūñdhat jag sānahin.
Kah Gulal: nar mūḍh—sāñch nahin jānahin.
Says Gulal: such foolish men will never know truth—because they have laid a wrong foundation. This temple will never rise. The foundation must be laid with the purity of vision. The art of seeing must be learned first. Before the blind went to the elephant, they should have gone to a physician—to a Buddha. A Buddha is a physician—he purifies the inner eye, removes its veil. They should have gone to someone who would cut the film across the eyes so that you can see—but they went to the elephant!
This whole world is filled with blind men going to elephants. Rarely does someone care first to heal his eye, then go; to steady the trembling voice, then sing; to learn how to lift his feet, then run. First let the happening happen within—then outside it happens by itself.

Māyā-moha ke sāth sadā nar soiyā.
Man is asleep, in sleep—that is his blindness. He is asleep in māyā, asleep in attachment.
Māyā means: the net of projections you throw over the world. Do not take māyā to mean what so-called mahatmas tell you—that the whole world is illusory. Slap one and see—he will at once raise a stick! Then tell him: “All māyā, Mahatmaji! What slap? How are you so angry!” But the slap is not māyā; the whole world is māyā—and the stick is not? Just test those who say such things—you will know they speak nonsense. If the world is māyā, what is this talk of renunciation? “We left the world”—if it is māyā, what will you leave? If it does not exist, what will you renounce? If you had nothing to begin with, what can you give up? No one renounces his shadow.
Māyā is not the world. The world is true—just as true as Paramatma—because the world is Paramatma. But yes, upon the screen of the world you weave many webs of imagination—that weaving is yours. Your mind is the source of māyā, not the world.
A tale from Mulla Nasruddin’s youth—
At last, after much consideration, his parents and relatives decided to marry him to the beautiful Guljaan, daughter of Sheikh Niyaz. Father said, “Son, sit with the girl and talk for an hour. After all, you will live together for life. Get to know each other well now.”
Nasruddin in those days was very moral and religious. His first question: “O Guljaan, doe-eyed, with lips like rose petals—can you swear by God that you have never committed any sin?”
Guljaan replied, “O youth whose brilliance eclipses the sun’s—truly, in this short life of seventeen years I have committed only one sin—that I stand for hours before the mirror and gaze at my own image. I am proud of my beauty, and I hold that in this world none is more beautiful than I.”
Nasruddin, angry: “Answer what I asked! I inquired about sin—and you tell me of your delusions.”
When you stand before the mirror, what you see is not necessarily only your face; much of your beliefs and imaginations are mixed in. You do not allow the mirror to reflect simply what you are—you add much, you smear many colors. The stupidest man in the world believes he is wise. The more foolish, the more he takes himself to be wise. The wise begin to understand, “I know nothing.”
Socrates said: I know only one thing—that I know nothing. Such is the statement of the wise. Ask the foolish: they know everything. Whatever you ask, they know. There is no thing they do not know. Before you ask, their answers are ready. Fools are full of delusions. None is more knowledgeable than they, more beautiful, more intelligent, more capable—in any field. Whether or not they say it, they carry these delusions within. And they project them upon the screen of life. That is why flattery thrives. Otherwise, flattery could not exist.
How are there so many sycophants in the world? From where do they come? No factory makes such big spoons! There is a reason: people live in delusions. If you support their delusions, they are pleased with you. Tell them lies, layer lie upon lie—they accept. To deny becomes difficult. You are propping up their delusion.
Nasruddin once borrowed a bowl from the wealthy neighbor: “Guests are at home; I am poor, have no bowl; I’ll return it in the morning.” The seth was miserly but thought, what harm—he’ll return it; he’s not one to run away. He gave the bowl.
In the morning Nasruddin returned the bowl—with a small bowl alongside. The seth asked, “And this small bowl? What for?” “At night your bowl gave birth to this little one. Your bowl was pregnant.” “Outrageous!” The seth didn’t feel like believing—but he liked it. The tale was sheer falsehood—but the small bowl was of silver; better not to refuse. He kept it with joy.
Five or seven days later, Nasruddin came: “Guests are at home; I need a kadhai to make kheer.” The seth was delighted. “Be careful taking it—the kadhai is pregnant.” “That I have seen twice—your utensils are not ordinary; I know from experience.” That night the seth could not sleep—for tomorrow?
And tomorrow it happened: Nasruddin came with a small kadhai. The seth was startled. “This is the limit! I never imagined—but there must be some secret.” “You were right,” said Nasruddin. “The kadhai was pregnant; this is the baby. Your property—take care.” He kept that too.
A month later, Nasruddin came: “Great need has arisen; I have invited many—so I need platters, bowls, pots, kadhais.” The seth said, “Take whatever you want—but remember, all are pregnant.” “That I have seen—I need no telling.” That night the seth did not sleep at all.
But on the next day Nasruddin did not come. He worried. On the third day—no. On the fourth he sent a servant. Nasruddin was sitting and weeping. “What happened?” “All died. Food poisoning—or who knows what—but all died. For three days I have mourned. Today I was just coming; you needn’t have sent for me.”
The servant ran back: “Sahib, the man is mad—he says all the utensils died. Utensils don’t die!” Now the seth understood he was caught. He rushed: “Rascal, hand over my utensils!” “Master, all died!” “Utensils don’t die!” “When they bear children, will they not die? Sweet—sweet we swallow; bitter—bitter we spit? You gulped the sweet, now swallow the bitter too! What can I do? I have buried them.”
When someone tells you a lie about yourself that is pleasing, you accept it. If it fattens your ego, you embrace it. Hence flattery is an art: to discern a person’s delusions is no small feat—and to inflate them, to exaggerate them! A reed-thin fellow—tell him, “What is Muhammad Ali before you!” and he will puff his chest, “Yes, what could Muhammad Ali do!” You see he is a reed of a wrestler—one slap and he will never rise again—still tell him, “Muhammad Ali is nothing next to you,” and his ego agrees. Tell the most homely woman, “You are beautiful—who is more beautiful than you?” and she too will agree.
This very woman Mulla Nasruddin married. Among Muslims there is a custom: when the wife arrives she asks, “Before whom may I lift my veil?” Nasruddin said, “Before everyone except me. Scare whomever you want—just have mercy on me! I hardly come home in the day; at night, as soon as I arrive, I will put out the lamp—the very first thing. No reed, no flute. If you can’t be seen, then in the dark everyone is beautiful!”
But even the homeliest woman will not wish to hear this. Tell the oldest of old women, “Your age must be around forty,” and she instantly, delighted, accepts—“You are the first to say so!”
I once had to enroll in a college. I had been expelled from one; no other would take me. Only one was left. In that town there were twenty colleges, but none wanted the hassle. The trouble had happened in one; they feared it would erupt here too. For I would get into disputes with every professor; until a decision came, I would keep the debate alive—and decisions never come—so months would pass! Sometimes it would be such that none came to class—only I and the professor. He had to come to draw his salary; I had to come to bring the argument to its conclusion. In private the professor would plead, “We fold our hands—won’t you just sit quietly?” I said, “Why sit quietly? We came to study, not to sit quietly. If quiet sitting was the point, I would sit at home. We will sit quietly after studying. For now, the study goes on.”
Seeing no way, I went to the principal of that college. I had heard stories—slightly eccentric. I thought perhaps we’d get along. At his house I found him thoroughly eccentric: huge, robust, pitch-black—he looked like Yama’s messenger—only the buffalo was missing! Wearing only a small loincloth, he was worshiping Kali—“Jai Kali, Jai Kali!” I thought, “I can work with this one.” When he came out I too said, “Jai Kali!” He stared; I said, “I have seen many mahatmas, but none like you. In this dark age—such a devotee! What chanting you were doing!” He embraced me at once: “You are the first who recognized me. My neighbors think I am mad!”
Then he gave me admission, waived my fees, gave me a scholarship; and he went about saying, “If anyone has recognized me, this man has.” Whenever we met, I had only to say, “Jai Kali!”—and he was delighted. I was feeding his delusion—everything was fine.
There is no Kali anywhere—nothing—he was cracking his head for nothing! But I told him that later. Since then he has been very angry with me: “Had you said it earlier, I would never have let you step into the college.” I said, “That is precisely why I did not say it earlier. I had to step into the college—somewhere I had to!”
The day I left the college I said, “Now I can tell you the secret of this Jai Kali.” “What secret?” I told the whole story: “When I was sitting outside I thought, this man is truly eccentric—worse than people say—doing supremely foolish things; what sort of work is this! From then on, whenever I said ‘Jai Kali’ to you, inwardly I laughed—O world! Support the folly of fools and they are pleased!”
He became so angry that if ever we met on the road, he would change his path from afar. I would call out, “Listen—Jai Kali! Where are you going?”
One day he said, “Stop saying Jai Kali. Since you have no faith in Kali, why do you say it?” I said, “Only to remind you that I flattered your delusion a little—and you were pleased! When will you wake up?”
No one wants to wake up. People sleep and dream. Whether the dream is of Kali or of Ram or of Krishna or of Buddha—what difference does it make? Until you are awake, whatever you see is a dream. Religious or irreligious—no difference; atheist or theist—no difference.
Māyā means: the webs of your projected imaginations. The world is only a screen—you can project what you will upon it.
Māyā-moha ke sāth—sadā nar soiyā.
And moha means: the insistence that the webs you have cast, your imaginative overlays, should not be broken; to preserve them at any cost—even if I myself break, I will save them. People are ready to die, but not ready to abandon their delusions. And all around, people say, “Yes, yes—these are the marks of the brave… on the pyres of martyrs, fairs will gather every year!” Fools are helping fools; “Do not fear—die without worry; there will be a fair upon your pyre.” All his life no fair gathered—he thinks, “Well, at least after death it will—but it must!” The fair must gather. Your mark will remain, your memory will remain—your name will be written in letters of gold in the pages of history!
People are ready to die for their delusions. A Muslim is ready to die if Islam is in danger—raise a hue and cry, enough! He has no desire to live Islam—who wants the bother of living! Living is a long affair; dying is easy—done in a moment. A single fit of passion—and death happens. People are ready to die for Hindu dharma. They come to me.
Recently a gentleman said, “Your words have struck home; I am ready to die for them.” I said, “Wait. There is no need to die for my words. Say that you are ready to live by them. Many fools may be ready to die. Living is the real issue. Living is a long matter—twenty-four hours of alertness, years of cultivating awareness. What is there in dying? Go lie beneath a train—you will die. Then die shouting, ‘Jai Kali, Jai Kali’—whatever you wish.”
Dying is easy—remember. There are people with a bent toward self-destruction—sick people. They are feverish to become martyrs. They must be martyrs—at any cost. Whatever you do, they will find a way to die for a cause. For the nation—what nation? All lines are drawn on maps. They will die for flags—all flags are imaginary, symbolic. Someone breaks an idol—they will die. Someone plays a band in front of the mosque—they will die. Strange people! A band was played before a mosque!
I was in a village. A Hindu-Muslim riot broke out. I asked, “What happened?” “Nothing—people passed in front of the mosque playing music.” Let them pass! The mosque is not harmed. And anyway they will play somewhere—and Paramatma is everywhere—no less outside than inside the mosque. If the music disturbs God, He will be disturbed anywhere—they will play anyway! Just stop them ten steps before the mosque—then it’s fine. Otherwise a riot—people were cut down. Fifteen killed; many houses burned.
Man is eager—restless—to become a martyr. You do not recognize these pathologies—you do not realize that behind many fine slogans there lurk mental diseases and nothing more.