Love. Truth is never second-hand.
It can not be transferred.
One has to know it and be it oneself.
That is why all tradition falsifies it.
And all scriptures.
And all words.
And in the end it is nothing but the soup of Mulla Nasrudin .
But first I must tell you the story.
A kinsman came to see Nasrudin from the country and
brought a duck. Nasrudin was grateful, had the bird cooked
and shared it with the guest.
Presently another visitor arrived. "I am a friend," he said,
"of the man who gave you the duck." Nasrudin fed him as well.
This happened several times. Nasrudin's house had become
like a restaurant for out-of-town visitors. Everyone was a friend
at some removes, of the original donor of the duck.
Finally Nasrudin was exaperated. One day there was a
knock at the door and a stranger appeared. "I am the friend
of the friend of the friend of the man who brought you the duck
from the country," he said.
"Come in," said Nasrudin.
They seated themselves at the table, and Nasrudin asked
his wife to bring the soup.
When the guest tasted it, it seemed to be nothing more than
warm water. "What sort of soup is this?" he asked the Mulla
"That," said Nasrudin, "is the soup of the soup of the soup
of the soup of the duck."