The book.
I finally finished reading ‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance’ by Robert Pirsig. I heard a discussion about it on Radio 4 one evening and bought a second hand copy.
It takes place with a father and son embarking on a motorcycle road trip across the US along with his life long friend and his wife. All is not right and he is on a mental journey revisiting distant memories that are centred around him going mad while wrestling to discover new concepts and definitions.
The concepts I cannot really describe in words, as I read the book some things made perfect sense, particularly when this is related to the mechanics of the motorcycle. There were concepts that come from other cultures that resonated with me, particularly as I have been exposed to them in my working life. Other things I got fleeting glimpses of comprehension that would quickly evaporate.
I felt like the book was dancing around the fringes of my intelligence and so my pace of reading slowed right down. As result the book started to play on my mind particularly the haunting sections of his life but his failure to connect his son I found particularly disturbing. Perhaps in part because I feel like I should have be better emotional connections with my family. Do they really know me? Do I really know them?
The book began to disturb me in the ways another book has never done. It gave me broken sleep and periodically I would reflect on the book in the days I had deliberately put it down.
On finishing the book, I realised how unique it was. A one of a kind that I have never experienced before and one I will remember for a long time.
I hope you are resting in peace Mr Pirsig, and thank you from the bottom of my heart.
I've often thought that certain books like, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, act as initiations of sorts--guiding us through a maze of thoughts and feelings, only to leave us changed in ways we might not have anticipated.
ReplyDeleteYour phrase, "dancing around the fringes of your intelligence," caught my attention. It made me think of trying to grasp water--fluid, elusive, and yet utterly transformative. There's something deeply Zen about that, like a koan we're not meant to solve, but to experience.
Some ideas aren't meant to be pinned down or understood by the mind alone. Sometimes we have to let a book's message seep deep into our soul, where reason mingles with intuition, allowing the deeper currents of meaning to take hold.
As for your thoughts about your relationship with your family, I felt the weight of what you shared. Failing to bridge the space between self and other can cut deeply. It reminds me of how we often travel side by side with those we love, yet never fully know them. As Graham Greene hinted in The Heart of the Matter we can never truly know another person.
It's not easy when a book unsettles you like that, but it seems to have also invited you into a deeper reflection on yourself, your family, and even the way you experience the world.
It sounds like you're standing at the crossroads between classical and romantic thinking. From what I've gathered, classical thinking--analytical, logical reasoning--has been the foundation of your life, and now the romantic side--intuitive, emotional--wants to exert itself. Jung would say you're on the path to individuation, the journey toward wholeness, where both classical and romantic thinking come into balance.
(I'm thinking my next post will be on classical versus romantic thinking.)
It can be unsettling because it feels like a challenge to the "you" you've always known. I think that's part of what Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance does--it asks you to sit with the discomfort, to wrestle with questions, and to remain open to the possibility that these questions may guide you toward a new truth.