It is amusing to think that I was probably the first to use “delirious morbidity of a fakir”—that is what I wrote!—referring to Nagarjuna’s greatest work. Nagarjuna, a saint, always rated with superlatives and very precious adjectives. What can I do? Blame my indomitable mind? I try hard to imagine a reality far, far away, the silence of meditation for years, but still I cannot admit the contradiction of much of the argumentation in the work. I want to convince myself that I have not risen high enough, that Nagarjuna reasons from heights unreachable to my spirit. I want to think that the lapse in time, the discrepant reality, and the translation have made the work incomprehensible to me. But I remember some of the syllogisms, and… well, let the future come, and I sincerely hope to be taken by a new impression.
The “Delirious Morbidity of a Fakir”
