An opinionated and small-minded cleric was lecturing the people in the 
teahouse where Nasrudin spent so much of his time.
   As the hours went by, Nasrudin realized how this man’s thoughts were
running in patterns, how he was a victim of vanity and pride, how minor 
points of unrealistic intellectualism for its own sake were magnified by
him and applied to every situation.
   Subject after subject was discussed, and every time the intellectual cited
books and precedents, false analogies and extraordinary presumptions 
without intuitive reality.
   At length he produced a book which he had written, and Nasrudin stretched
his hand forth to see it, because he was the only literate man present.
   Holding it in front of his eyes, Nasrudin turned page after page, while the
assembly looked on. After several minutes the itinerant cleric began to fidget:
Then he could not contain himself any longer: ‘You are holding my book
upside down!’ he screamed.
   ‘I know,’ said Nasrudin. ‘Since it is one of the archetypes which seem to have
produced you, it seems to be the only sensible thing to do, if one is to learn
from it.’