Why do I feel restlessness when listening to a discourse while gazing at the speaker's face?

Osho, when you are giving a discourse, if I gaze at your face the words are not heard; and if I listen to the words, a kind of restlessness is felt. Why is this so?

Words are not of much value. Even if the words are not heard, it is all right; even if they are heard, there is no real gain. If you look toward me, it becomes meditation. If the meditation becomes right, if the wire is connected, the words will stop being heard—because to hear words, a restless mind is needed, an agitated, unquiet mind. In that moment—when the connection is made—the soundless will begin to be heard; that is the real satsang. It is not of much value that you hear what I say. If you can hear what I am, only then does it have value. Speaking is just a pretext; words are only devices. The arrival is into the soundless; the awakening is in silence. If this is happening, then drop all concern for words; just keep looking at me. Let the flame be joined. Forget that I am…

Osho, even though there is so much love for you, why do restlessness and anger sometimes arise while listening to you?

I have heard: a politician died, and his ghost went along with his bier. Another ghost was there at the cremation ground—an old ex-politician. The new politician’s ghost said, “Had I known that in dying such a crowd would gather, I’d have died long ago! Never in my life did such a crowd assemble. If only I had known earlier, I’d have died long ago!” There is a great relish in gathering a crowd. Behind it is a psychological truth. If no other way is found, a person resorts to upside-down means. In the early part of this century, in America, a man wanting to become famous shaved off half his hair and half his beard and mustache. He wandered the streets of New York for three days. Wherever he went, people stared in shock: what happened! His name was in every newspaper. In three days he was on everyone’s…

Osho, when you sit silently, that silence doesn’t come within our grasp. But when you begin to speak, a glimpse of silence appears between two sentences, between two words. Yet in becoming so absorbed in understanding the meaning of your speech, that silence keeps slipping away. So please explain: when we listen, how should we listen to you?

It will be so—naturally. When I sit utterly silent, you are not able to sit silent; inside you the stream of thoughts flows, an undercurrent keeps moving—you start talking to yourself. The habit of inner talking has become so deep, so carved in stone, that not even for a moment do you find rest within. If I sit completely silent, you will simply forget me. Your inner stream becomes active, your old habit seizes you, you get absorbed in inner conversation. It’s a monologue—you speak alone, yet you do speak. Then even my silence is hard for you to see, because we can only see that which has its opposite as a background. A psychologist once did an experiment at a university. On a large black blackboard he drew a tiny white dot and asked the students, “What do you see?” Not one of them saw the big blackboard; all…

Osho, during discourse when I look at you, when I behold you, I hear your voice; but I don’t remain aware of what you are saying. So is this my swooning, unconsciousness? Please guide me.

No, Samadhi! It is not unconsciousness. Now for the first time you have begun to listen to me as one should. What I am saying is only a pretext—to keep you engaged, to keep you sitting here. It is with what I am that you have to connect. What is said in the words is nothing; what flows between the words is everything. The gap between two words—when sometimes I fall silent for a moment—then you will hear; only then is it heard. Forget what I say; don’t bother about that. Don’t forget what I am. It is not stupor. It is like stupor, but it is not stupor. It will feel like stupor. It is ecstasy, self-absorption. But self-absorption, too, seems like faintness; an intoxication descends. “The goblet slips, O saqi, the hands begin to tremble; Seeing your eyes, I fall into intoxication.” Let the intoxication grow. Let the…

Osho, people listen to discourses with their eyes closed. But I’m afraid to close my eyes even for a moment. I want to keep looking at you—only looking. When the light of your eyes enters mine, the divine experience that happens is beyond description. In that experience I can hear only half the discourse. What kind of thirst is this? Can it be quenched?

This is a sacred thirst—the longing of love and devotion. Do not be afraid of it. - Don’t imitate others. If your eyes want to remain open, let them; follow your own truth. - Words are secondary; the essential transmission is silent, through presence and the meeting of eyes. Missing some words is not a loss. - Allow the thirst to deepen; it purifies and burns the ego. When separation drops, the longing transforms. - In one sense, desire is never “quenched” by objects; in another, it fulfills itself when you dissolve into the beloved—the seeker and the sought become one. - Open or closed eyes are not the point; totality is. Let the experience take you beyond seeing the other to simply being. Shanta has asked: There are two kinds of people in the world—those who live through the ear, and those who live through the eye. Everything in…