I began reading Krishnamurti in 1962 when I was living in Paris. I was both intrigued and repelled by his uncompromising vision. I was just a kid of 22, after all. Later I decided I had to meet and talk with him, and managed to track him down at Mary Zimbalist’s house in Malibu. He was not the rational, measured person I expected. He was both hypersensitive and explosive. His energy was immense. I was quite overwhelmed and intimidated, but I persisted. I went to Switzerland to attend his summer talks for several years and began to get an elementary grasp of his message. Sixty years on, I still find him fresh and original.