**Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance**

Some may discuss how to improve the fate of humanity. I simply want to talk about how to repair a motorcycle.

Most people who seriously consider whether genius and villainy are compatible will easily agree that brilliance and madness often go hand in hand. Well, perhaps not true genius - after all, a genuine genius is an extremely rare phenomenon in human history. But a high level of talent. Examples? There are countless, from the time of Diogenes, who lived in a barrel and walked around with a lantern during the day. Edison was forgetful and very sloppy in his daily life. And Einstein, why does he stick out his tongue in that famous photo? This stream of unconvincing life examples will dry up, and we can move on to literary ones. Think of the strange Paganel, Nabokov's Luzhin, and Nathan from Styron's "Sophie's Choice". Isn't it crowded? So where does the unwavering belief of ordinary people come from that if someone is a "professor", they must be "eccentric"?

Honestly? I think that we, ordinary and unremarkable people, who earn our bread through hard work, are scared by the ease with which these people achieve brilliant results. It makes us suspect a hidden vice or corruption in them. In what area is a person with superpowers most afraid? To lose them: for a beauty to become ugly, a rich person to become poor, a great athlete to become disabled, a brilliant scientist to become insane. Here there is also a kind of envy that has nothing to do with the worldly goods that talent brings. A high income level and prizes, apartments and cars, membership in the elite - that's not the main thing. Even a relatively free work schedule with a long vacation and the possibility of paid trips invited by the other side. The main difference is the joy they experience from the process of work. Where for the vast majority it's a nine-to-five grind, for these rare lucky ones it's an Edenic garden with the ability to call any creature they meet by its name.

"Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" is an instruction on breaking chains and changing the grind for an Edenic garden, written by a brilliantly talented madman. A book that repeatedly overturns your perception of the text, its author, and, most importantly, of you, the reader of this book. It begins as a simple, slightly pedantic account of the undeniable superiority of one's own approach to motorcycle maintenance over that demonstrated by a companion during a motorcycle trip. It transitions into interesting reflections on the difference in the understanding of technology and the methods of maintaining tools. It continues with a description of a motorcycle journey with a child as a passenger. And you think: what a manly young man. And not such a pedant after all. He just demonstrates a thorough approach to everything in life: he bought a motorcycle, so he learns to service it to always be on the go; he had a son - he doesn't spare time and patience to teach him what he knows himself.

But there's something wrong with them. Don't you think the boy is behaving strangely? Let's say, not quite in line with the expectations of a teenager embarking on an exciting adventure. He is capricious and refuses to do part of the work that his father asks of him. And there's something wrong with the narrator too. What's that ghost of Phaedrus constantly flashing on the periphery? You're still trying to stay on the tilting platform of the novel of education in the cozy genre of a family trip with a side introduction to positive psychology when he knocks it out from under your feet with one blow. The traveling companion, the friend's wife, wonders why Chris's stomach hurts so often and whether he should be shown to a doctor. And the author replies that they have examined him repeatedly with all possible care. Everything is perfect in terms of the internal organs, but this could be, even most likely, the symptoms of a beginning mental illness.

W-what? That's all you can say, but how could they have come up with such a thing? It could. Psychological disorders are often hereditary, and our acquaintance, who is so skillful with technology, it turns out, was treated in a psychiatric hospital and underwent a compulsory course of electroshock. Now he is healthy but has almost completely lost his memories of that part of his personality that he himself calls Phaedrus. Yes, a ghost. And then the memories begin to return, and everything turns out to be even more complicated because in front of you, ladies and gentlemen, is that very eccentric professor whose existence the collective unconscious has long asserted.

Robert Pirsig, the hero-narrator, and "Zen" is an autobiographical book. The son of a professor, who demonstrated an惊人的IQ of 170 at the age of nine and entered the university at fifteen. And promised to become a brilliant young biochemist... until he was expelled for academic failure and ended up in Korea (at that time there was a war). He returned, received a bachelor's degree in philosophy from the University of Seattle, studied Eastern philosophy at Benares University in India, wrote a dissertation on philosophy and journalism at the University of Chicago, but could not defend it because, attention! The approach he proposed to the system of higher education was based on the invaluable method where the measure of effectiveness is not the diploma but the quality of the knowledge possessed by the applicant.

All this is very difficult to understand, although I hope that I have at least understood the part about quality. Part of Greek philosophy and Plato's dialogues about Aristotle, Socrates, and Phaedrus, I think, cannot be fully grasped without studying the sources, at least in translation. This is very difficult, especially since Pirsig continues to explain Zen, Tao, and Dharma, all based on the same analogies of motorcycle maintenance. And suddenly, such depths of understanding of your own life open up to you, which ensured the book a readership success of a four-million-copy print run. That is, you are not alone like this, but only one of those who have understood a lot thanks to this book. And after growing up in empires and crumbling in the awareness of qualitatively done intellectual work, he splashes cold water on your head with a conversation with Chris at the end of the journey. You are again outside the comfort zone. So far from it as you could not have imagined a minute ago. But that's life.

And also a reason to apply in practice what is now with you - Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance.

I'm convinced this is one of those books that, for some reason, made its way onto the high school syllabus and has just sort of remained there, without anyone ever really questioning its place.

This has then created the unjustified impression that Pirsig's text is a 'classic' or something of great significance. I say this with only a slight hesitation, but I truly don't believe there is any kind of genius, whether misunderstood or not, to be found in this overly verbose and convoluted work.

Pirsig warns in the author's note not to expect an accurate commentary on Zen Buddhism or motorcycle maintenance. What he fails to mention is that you won't learn much of anything else either.

With a title like Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values, perhaps I shouldn't have been too surprised when I found myself slogging through a muddled mess that was like a tortuous jungle covered in the purest bird guano.

In other words, the book takes great pleasure in being tedious, in dissecting tedium into its smallest, most tedious parts. By itself, this wouldn't necessarily be a dealbreaker, but if what is being conveyed tediously (in this case, the intricacies of motorcycle anatomy as a springboard for the unification of Occident-Orient philosophies) isn't worth the intellectual effort, then something has gone wrong. And with this book, something went very, very wrong indeed.

The semi-autobiographical book begins under the guise of a novel, a cross-country father-and-son bike trip, but quickly descends into a jumble of Pirsig's disordered thoughts.

I seriously doubt that any forethought went into this novel; the thoughts are so haphazardly scattered across the pages that you increasingly expect a grand synthesis that surely awaits you at the end. But expect to be disappointed.

Apparently, not even Pirsig could整理 this mess into a coherent philosophical treatise. It's as if a stream of thoughts came to him in the shower, and not knowing what to make of them, he jotted them down in a sloppy manner, hoping that someone would come along later and piece it all together into an integrated, paradigm-shifting, status quo-shattering whole. I, for one, have no desire to be that person.

What you should expect instead are long stretches of motorcycle-speak and mechanic lingo, along with quasi-intellectual discussions of the term 'Quality' - what it is, what it isn't, what it means, how it works, why it matters.

Most of his \\"Chautauquas\\", as he calls them, begin with, \\"Now I want to discuss...\\", such as: \\"I want to talk now about Phaedrus' exploration into the meaning of the term Quality, an exploration of which he saw as a route through the mountains of the spirit.\\" (p. 168).

The mystical undertones annoyed me here and there, but not as much as his bait-and-switch of pretending to tell a story that is really just an open-ended, self-indulgent, coma-inducing lecture.

I should mention at this point that I am a huge fan of philosophy. Much of philosophy is interesting, in a way that is hard to define, and essential for every conscious adult. (For example, you can't have science without philosophy.)

Some of it can even be life-changing and revealing. But you wouldn't know it if this book is your first and only encounter with the discipline. It's books like this that give philosophy a bad reputation and turn people away from the subject.

Anyone looking to dip their toes into philosophy would be better off reading Kant, Camus, Sartre, Nietzsche, Hume, Buber, Locke, Hobbes, Rousseau, Marcus Aurelius, Dogen, Mencius, Spinoza, De Chardin, or Thomas Merton, or exploring Plato and Aristotle online.

Worse still, it's not even well-written. I can't recall a single lyrically memorable passage in the entire book. The dialogue sections, aside from being wooden, stodgy, and devoid of life, are completely dispensable as mere transitions between the orations.

And the way Pirsig uses the stuffy, old-fashioned university professor to validate his supposedly earth-shattering ideas is childishly fake. Perhaps Pirsig has a grudge to bear, or perhaps his opinion of himself is higher than it should be.

Closing Thoughts

In the afterword to the 10th anniversary edition, Pirsig reveals that his book was rejected by 121 different publishing houses (a record according to Guinness). I'm not saying this book shouldn't have been published, but I do understand why it almost wasn't.

Pirsig aimed to break through the boundaries of philosophy itself and unify the dualism that pervades modern academia. Instead of achieving this quixotic but admirable goal, he ends up with mostly disjointed, dull ramblings that偶尔 veer into the realms of pseudoscience and New Agey mysticism.

The novelistic elements sprinkled throughout are simply there to make his quasi-arcane discourses more palatable to the reading public.

In my opinion, ZAMM is well-known among pseudo-intellectuals who pretend to have discovered something profound in it. But we must be honest and recognize that not all philosophy is profound.

Some of it is deeply insightful and life-affirming, while some of it is fluffy and, yes, lacking in quality. Whether it's a period piece or not, this is just bad philosophy.

Post-Script

After reading other reactions and takeaways, it does seem that one's impression of this book is largely shaped by the stage of life at which you read it. Art is, by its very nature, subjective, and I think this is especially true in the case of ZAMM.

A person whose life is in chaos and is seeking order may be put off by the scattered thoughts expressed here, while another person may have the opposite experience and find Pirsig's chaotic outpourings cathartic.

I'm aware that many people consider ZAMM an insightful novel and even profound intellectual entertainment. Some have even gone so far as to call it a well-crafted work of fiction. I don't share these views, but I can respect them.

The narrator (father) seemed like a'reflective' man, trying to sort out his personal and professional struggles and understand the nature of 'quality' and how it can be captured, described, or illuminated.

Some readers found this struggle fascinating and thought-provoking. I, however, found it poorly communicated, not only on a conceptual level but also on a literary level.

The use of'motorcycle' is supposed to be an analogy for the romantic (form) and the classical (function). According to the narrator, there are two ways of experiencing a motorcycle: romantically and classically.

The romantic experience of a motorcycle involves riding it down a mountain road, passing a soft meadow or prairie, and being completely immersed in the wind rushing past.

The classical or functional experience of a motorcycle is to understand the inner workings of the machine - how the various mechanical parts work together in harmony, how to tighten a bolt or fix any maintenance problems.

Being romantic is to experience living in the present moment, while being rational or classical is to connect the past to the future and thus continue to accumulate the collective wisdom and knowledge passed down through the generations.

Through this analogy, we are supposed to appreciate both the emotional and logical aspects of our life experience and understand how the two interact and reinforce each other.

Indeed, the narrator's romantic experience of his motorcycle was not only informed but also enhanced and elevated by his classical knowledge of it. The idea that true enlightenment comes from an organic combination of the two is a concept that I can understand has broad appeal.

However, I think there have been far better treatments of this concept (Sophie's World comes to mind, a book that maintained a genuine sense of curiosity throughout but avoided making any grandiose claims).

Most unfortunately, from my perspective, I simply found the book to be particularly unappealing, dull, and completely unremarkable.

Note: This review is republished from my official website.

There is a place where the genres for books simply don't matter - and that place is likely on my bookshelves and yours too.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance took an incredibly long time to get published. The reason? The publishers, perhaps, were all idiots. They wanted it to neatly fit into one of those predefined categories - fiction or fact or philosophy or drama or child raising or mental health or personal bio or some other such category. But this remarkable book is so much more than that! It encompasses all of those aspects and more.

It is also a captivating journey. As you read, you find yourself moving along with the narrator and experiencing his heartbreak. He lost his mind! And now, he is on a desperate quest to find it again. With his young son sitting behind him on a motorcycle, the story unfolds. And then, the truth reveals itself to be sadder than any fiction. For Pirsig's son was brutally murdered a few years after the book was published. That kind of tragedy would surely make anyone lose their mind. It might even make one want to write about it. Or perhaps, like the narrator, get back on the motorcycle and head west again, but this time, never stop.

This is truly an amazing book that defies categorization and leaves a lasting impact on the reader.

Plato's Phaedrus said, "

And what is written well and what is written badly...need we ask Lysias or any other poet or orator who ever wrote or will write either a political or other work, in meter or out of meter, poet or prose writer, to teach us this?

"

Modern Phaedrus said, “And what is good, Phaedrus,

And what is not good—

Need we ask anyone to tell us these things?”

I keep re-reading passages from Zen and the Art and Tao of Pooh and Siddhartha. I strive to make sense of them in the context of everyday life. After all, I firmly believe that any philosophical questions need to be answered in this context. If a philosophy is not applicable in your kitchen, it is not real philosophy. Strangely enough, the answers seem to come from integrating the learning from these metaphysical and spiritual works with a book like The Story of Stuff. It's not a great book, nor a literary achievement or a leap in thinking. But when I read it in parallel with the others, it helped me understand the real meaning of the word'materialism'. I will soon try to give an expanded review as a blog post at my blog.

And Then? "I am Phædrus, that is who I am, and they are going to destroy me for speaking the Truth."

You can sort of tell these things...

The author begins by quoting Robert M. Pirsig's statement about analytic thought killing something in the process of being applied to experience.

The author then expresses both enjoyment and irritation with this type of book, specifically mentioning Ken Wilber and his works.

Despite loving Greek philosophy and Zen Buddhism, the author feels that these pop-Philosophy/pop-Zen/grand theory of everything books promise more than they deliver.

However, the author acknowledges that some people are seduced by these books and even admits to buying into a part of it.

After reading the book, the author feels like they've been given a light mental laxative and doesn't want to read Pirsig's "Lila."

The author also wonders why they're not as critical of Matthiessen's "The Snow Leopard" and speculates that it may be due to the writing or its less pop nature.

Finally, the author concludes that they're not sorry they read the book but wants a different sort of quality in the future.

“When analytic thought, the knife, is applied to experience, something is always killed in the process.”
― Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

I'm not entirely certain about my stance regarding the philosophy presented in the book. In the initial stages, I suspected that my negative reaction to the philosophical meditations might be due to the book being somewhat outdated, as it was written over 40 years ago. However, as I delved deeper into the author's Chautauquas, I began to understand the philosophy as an integral part of a narrative that is not quite a traditional narrative. It consists of artifacts from a damaged psyche and the routine of a father concerned about his son. Subsequently, I realized that this might be something more profound. It could be more than just philosophy or a travel narrative; perhaps it is a new form of practical reflective writing.

There are small lapses in the narrative that make it less of a pretentious philosophy lesson and more of what it truly is - a groping in the dark, a desperate attempt to understand something. It almost gives the impression that the book was composed as one extended exploratory essay during a bike trip, rather than something written after the fact or painstakingly refined through eight or nine drafts. The first-draft quality of the book is invigorating!

As a work of philosophy, the book might not be of the first rank. As travel writing, perhaps it is a bit lacking. But as something entirely different, as a Chautauqua, it is in a class of its own. As an exploratory piece of writing on a cross-country bike trip, it holds more significance than a mere philosophical treatise. The philosophy also reveals that there is a central character who thinks deeply, and indeed, the very act of thinking could be a villain, a barrier, something to be overcome.

At times, I wondered why the author didn't write more extensively about his son. Why not write passionately about the other individuals on the trip? Why did the author focus so much on Phaedrus, this other self that had been shattered? Of course, this question is crucial for the sake of his son - understanding his own madness might bring him closer to comprehending what is happening with his son. But then one realizes that there might be something amiss with the act of philosophy itself. That the author must embrace another "quality" or risk being destroyed.

Certainly, this is a book that I cannot truly evaluate until I have read it again. But the point is, at least upon a first reading, that this is a book that I am eager to read a second time!

And what can authors learn from this book? Perhaps this: the Chautauqua is clearly a new genre (although it has precursors in Walden). If you are tired of losing in a game constructed by others (a genre or discipline), then perhaps it is time to create your own game.

Today, as I was engrossed in reading Orhan Pamuk's "By the Book" interview in the NYT, I was truly delighted by his recommendation for Obama.

He said, "To him or to any American president, I would like to recommend a book that I sometimes give as a gift to friends, hoping they read it and ask me, “Why this book, Orhan?” “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values” is a great American book based on the vastness of America and the individual search for values and meaning in life. This highly romantic book is not a novel, but does something every serious novel should do, and does it better than many great novels: making philosophy out of the little details of daily life."

Browsing Goodreads tonight, I was surprised to find that I had never added my two cents in praise of Pirsig. (Actually, I had, but only by way of reviewing Mark Richardson's "Zen and Now.)

No doubt my 5-star rating reflects the nostalgic glow of reading Pirsig's book when it first appeared. I was a dream- and philosophy-haunted college student living in Berkeley with a direct view of the Golden Gate Bridge, where Pirsig's epic journey concludes. Pirsig's book was also my pathway drug to FSC Northrop's nonpareil "Meeting of East and West", published in response to the colossal carnage of World War II. In ZMM, Pirsig's alter-ego Phaedrus describes this book as "a text on Oriental philosophy and it’s the most difficult book he’s ever read." Northrop is indeed demanding but not exceptionally difficult. Anyone willing to invest the hours required to read it will be rewarded by an intoxicating, integrated vision of global culture. Probably Northrop's analysis would be faulted on many points by contemporary theorists, but in 1946 his book was authentically visionary. Pirsig's novel translates this vision into the classic American idiom of the road trip, the quest to find oneself – and is itself perhaps the most marvelous instance of that myth.

________________

* There are plenty of 1 and 2-star reviews here. Obviously, the magic doesn't work for everyone.

There are three distinct threads that are intricately woven throughout this book. As is cheerfully confessed within the text, none of these threads have a great deal to do with eastern philosophy or motorcycle maintenance. (And I, for one, have no issue with that intentional irony.)

The first thread presents a straightforward narration by a man who is embarking on a cross-country journey with his young son and two friends, a married couple. This travelogue is truly evocative and engaging, and by far the most enjoyable aspect of the novel. It had me daydreaming about purchasing a Harley and cruising down Route 66.

The second element is a mystery story. It is gradually disclosed that the narrator is grappling with amnesia. His road trip is not only an attempt to flee from something dreadful in his past but also, ironically, to stimulate his memory and recall that past.

So far, everything seems to be going well.

However, a sigh escapes when we reach the last thread. It is here that the book unfortunately falls apart. Through the narrator's dialogue with himself, Pirsig advances his "philosophy of quality," which essentially posits that "quality," whatever that may be, is somehow the fundamental essence of Reality. Uhm. What? The only part of the Universe that isn't instantaneously lethal is a thin film on the surface of an infinitesimal pebble, yet Reality exists to appeal to the sensibilities of the apes residing on that pebble? Once again, what?

Anyway, when we ultimately discover the reason why the narrator had initially lost his memory, the answers are simply... disappointing.

When I was in high school, my physics teacher, Mr. Bunday, walked into the classroom one day.

He announced that he had just finished reading this remarkable book, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

So deeply moved was he by it that he offered an enticing deal to us, his students.

If we read the book and then came to have a talk with him about it, he would give us an 'A' on our next report card.

Now, let's face it, physics was no easy feat. The texts were hard to understand, and the concepts were extremely challenging.

So, without hesitation, I immediately signed up for this opportunity.

A few weeks later, I had a conversation with Mr. Bunday about the concepts of ethics and quality, as well as the various issues of life that were explored in the book.

True to his word, he gave me an A.

And I have carried with me the memory of that book, that talk, and yes, even the physics.

I was in and out of school at that time, mostly out.

Little did I know when I was reading the book that shortly after, I would leave home for good and embark on my years of aimless drifting, which would eventually lead me to Montana.

Interestingly, that's where a significant portion of the action in Zen and the Art... takes place.

This book is truly phenomenal on multiple levels. The writing is engaging, the story is captivating, the challenges it presents are thought-provoking, the events are thrilling, the concepts are profound, and the tragedy is heart-wrenching.

How does one rate such a masterpiece? I would start with a resounding 5 stars and go from there.

It is a book that has left an indelible mark on my life and continues to influence my perspective to this day.

Reading, to me, is often like astrology when it comes to certain books. It's not merely the combination of the reader and the book.

Just as the planets need to be in the right aspect and the moon in its appropriate quarter, so too must the circumstances be just right for a book to have a profound impact.

I've noticed how people can be completely wowed and hugely excited when they read a particular book at a certain time.

Conversely, at other times, one might read a book with a sense of disappointment, realizing that it would have had more of an effect if it had been presented differently.

My memories of reading this particular book are along the lines of "author, why are you telling me this?" and "ok, this might be moderately interesting, but... are we there yet, and if not, can I have an ice cream?"

Naturally, I feel like a literary vandal or Hun, perhaps even a Visigoth of books, for not fully appreciating it or being greatly moved by it.

But sometimes, you have to face the facts and embrace your own inner barbarian, have a drink with him (or her), and complain about the unreasonably high levels of wergild these days.

It wasn't the issues of motorbike repair and the tidiness of the workshop, nor philosophy, nor quality, or even surviving a mental breakdown that brought this experience back to me.

It was dogs. In the USA, they do things differently on a grand scale.

While in Britain, tea time involves putting a teabag in a mug and pouring boiling water over it, in America, they dump a shipload of tea in the ocean and wait for the seas to warm up.

Similarly, in Britain, to study for a PhD, you need to study in near isolation for three years, while in the USA, they have seminars and such.

At one such seminar, the author observes a poor soul who was allegedly bounced off the course for being insufficiently Aristotelian.

This brings the author back to the realization that a dog, at its core, is always a wolf.

The alignment of the stars only has to be correct for the teeth to grip the hand that fed it.

Before the author swiftly turns the philosophical table on the academic supervisor and watches him being eaten alive by the dark side of the Enlightenment, metaphorically speaking.

Anyway, this book sold a lot of copies back in the day.

Sometimes it truly appears as if a book has a way of seeking you out.

And there are occasions when you choose to ignore that particular book, only to have it resurface time and time again.

Finally, you cave in. I have this distinct feeling that this book crossed my path dozens of times, and I now regret having given in at last.

It might not have held all the answers to the mysteries of the universe, and I wasn't naïve enough to expect that.

I did take pleasure in the journey (the actual trip they took was enjoyable enough, yet it wasn't described in sufficient detail).

Moreover, I even bought into some of the far-fetched explanations, but not a great number of them.

I truly wish I could claim to understand the excessive praise and excitement surrounding this book, but unfortunately, I don't.

Perhaps there are aspects that I'm simply overlooking, or maybe my expectations were too high from the start.

Nonetheless, it remains a mystery to me why this book has received such widespread acclaim.

Maybe with further reflection or a second reading, I might gain a better understanding.

For now, however, I'm left with a sense of confusion and disappointment.

This is my all-time favorite book, and one of the few that I have read multiple times.

Each time I pick it up, I gain a deeper understanding of the profound philosophy it holds.

I constantly discover new perspectives from which to appreciate its beauty and wisdom.

This remarkable book has truly transformed the way I think about the world.

Even after 40 years, the insights it contains remain as relevant and thought-provoking as ever.

It is a timeless classic that continues to inspire and enlighten me with each reading.

Whether I am facing challenges or seeking inspiration, I can always turn to this book for guidance and a fresh outlook on life.

It has become an integral part of my personal growth and development, and I will cherish it forever.