Warm summer day; just a slight breeze; one fly with not enough to occupy its time, but nothing you can’t shoo away without looking. Vacation still a few weeks off on the hazy horizon…
Time for a road trip book!
Coincidentally, Mark has asked me to review Robert M. Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance for you this week – and there’s a road trip book if ever I read one (eight times).
Do I love this book?
Hell, no.
I don’t even understand it.
Yet, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance has travelled with me for years now: in knapsacks and suitcases and pockets and cardboard packing boxes; to two colleges; across five provinces; on a half-dozen road trips, at least one of them by motorcycle; and through almost as many changes in domicile as Pirsig drops references to Aristotelian dualism in its pages.
And I keep re-reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance in part for the same reason I waded with grim determination through Tariq Ramadan’s brilliant but weighty Western Muslims and the Future of Islam: it’s not gonna win!
Plus, it’s got thoughts to be wrestled.
Robert M. Pirsig’s story of a 1968 road trip was published in 1974 – after rejection by no less than 121 publishers – and it sold about a kabillion copies right out of the gate.
Subtitled “An Inquiry into Values,” a point the unwary reader should be warned to take seriously, this book is what you’d call a “cult classic.” Translation: either you’ll be fascinated by where it takes you, or you’ll wonder why so many trees were killed to keep the wretched thing in print for more than 35 years.
Here are the crib notes:
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance begins with a note from the author, for those of us who like to know where we stand on the fiction-to-nonfiction continuum:
“What follows is based on actual occurrences. Although much has been changed for rhetorical purposes, it must be regarded in its essence as fact. However, it should in no way be associated with that great body of factual information relating to orthodox Zen Buddhist practice. It’s not very factual on motorcycles, either.”
Full points for honesty.
The Narrator (Pirsig, though he’s never named) sets off on a road trip by motorcycle with his deeply troubled eleven-year-old son, Chris, and, for a while, a couple named Sutherland. They’re riding from Minneapolis to Montana “and maybe farther than that. Plans are deliberately indefinite, more to travel than to arrive anywhere.”
“[T]o arrive in the Rocky Mountains by plane would be to see them in one kind of context, as pretty scenery. But to arrive after days of hard travel across the prairies would be to see them in another way, as a goal, a promised land.”
So far, so good.
Father is obviously hoping to reconnect with his difficult, silent child on this vague pilgrimage to old haunts. (God only knows what young Chris was feeling.) But you can’t talk much on a moving motorcycle – or you couldn’t back in 1968, anyway, in the days before helmet-to-helmet radio systems – so Deep Thinking is pretty much inevitable.
Oh, sure, there are the requisite scenic vistas and encounters with quaint local characters in whistlestop diners and bad weather and engine problems and testy moments between travelling companions, as this strange Chatauqua progresses. But before too many miles of blacktop roll under the wheels of the old Honda Superhawk CB77 – at about page 57 in my dog-eared 1984 paperback edition – you start to sense that:
- There’ll be disappointingly little practical advice on motorcycle maintenance; and
- This is one dangerous road trip:
“I’ve decided … to explore Phaedrus’ world. It was intended earlier simply to restate some of his ideas that relate to technology and human values and make no reference to him personally, but the pattern of thought and memory that occurred last night has indicated this is not the way to go. To omit him now would be to run from something that should not be run from.”
See, the rubber-to-road route is all but incidental to this story. The real journey is an internal one, and Phaedrus is the Narrator’s name for himself as he once was – on the far side of the electroshock treatments from which he has clearly not recovered – a heretic lecturer in philosophy, spiralling into madness in his quest to understand Quality. Very much as the reader may feel, grappling with some of the heavier passages on the nature of reality and the hierarchal structure of western knowledge and the irreconcilabity of classic and romantic understanding and…
Well, you get the gist.
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is, most definitely, one of the all-time-great definitive road trip books. All the elements are there, beneath the long-winded philosophy: One strong central character on a quest; the journey as much an internal one as on the road; the whole a metaphor for something much larger and oddly compelling; and a sense of important lessons to be learned.
And no doubt at all – I will pick up the book again, open its battered pink cover, and dig in, hoping that this ninth time through will be the charm and I’ll finally understand every idea that Pirsig expounds.
But not this summer.
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I’ve read this twice, at least, and with this reminder I may read it again. There is something oddly compelling about a book you really like but never feel you fully get. I love books like that!
Let me add that this is one of the books in the drawer of the table beside my bed.
Oh man oh man oh MAN.
I am *so* not your typical disagreeable blog commenter, so accept my apologies in advance. (I guess the idea around here is to wrestle, though, so here goes.)
That being said:
“Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” isn’t a road trip book any more than “The Old Man and the Sea” is a “fishing” book.
I love that you’ve read it eight times; my copy is always within easy reach as well.
However, I’m so bothered with the flippancy shown here in regards to one of the seminal texts on Quality; it’s pretty ironic to write an essay about about Zen/Maintenance and gloss over the actual meaning and intention of the book.
Zen/Maintenance is one of the greatest explorations of “why we should give a rat’s ass” in modern literature. Pirsig argues that “…real ugliness lies in the relationship between the people who produce the technology and the things they produce, which results in a similar relationship between the people who use the technology and the things they use.” This is all about Stuff– why we have it, why we use it, our relationship to it, and how it affects our understanding or connection with ourselves and the world around us. It’s about a culture and lifestyle that revolves around laziness and Junk.
It’s about an ugly culture that’s growing uglier.
When this was written Pirsig’s context was motorcycle maintenance because it was a great example of a machine that one could, if one chose to, figure out how to fix for oneself– or, if one preferred, drop it off at the shop and leave it in the hands of a mechanic who, arguably, may not care about the integrity of the machine. But this ain’t “why you should learn to fix your own motorcycle;” in 2010 Zen/Motorcycle’s ideas address our obsession with speed (fat fast food consumers, anyway?), disposability (nothing from diapers to your iphone to your vehicle is made to last), and disconnect from our environments by way of television and other distracting false realities.
Anyway, I could go on and on here (this book is obviously near and dear to my heart and my first reading of it was both vindicating and thrilling), but this ain’t my blog. I just don’t want the one or two sentences in here where you mention that the road trip elements are actually utterly incidental to get lost. This isn’t a road trip book; it’s a book that challenges the reader to explore his or her own life, perspectives, expectations, and behaviors (which, frankly, I think is a far more worthwhile trip).
If there were ever a time when everyone needed to read Pirsig, I think here in the wake of monumental economic and environmental disaster, this is it.
Hi Elizabeth. It seems quite clear that Pirsig’s book has resonated quite strongly with you. I think Rebecca has indicated that it hasn’t resonated with her, at least not yet.
As she pointed out above: “See, the rubber-to-road route is all but incidental to this story. The real journey is an internal one…” So I think she gets the idea that it’s intended to be more than a story of father/son traveling on a motorcycle. However, let’s face it, that’s the plot of a book: a road trip and what happens to the characters during the road trip, much like Hemmingway’s book is about a fishing trip. The message and themes of the books transcend the basic story, like in many good books.
Personally, I wouldn’t get too hung up on a label, but we’re all different, right?
I read Pirsig’s book once, either in my late teens or early 20s. I remember being profoundly moved by it at the time; it was mesmerizing to my younger self and it even made me anxious. I might try reading it again in the near future to see if it still has the same impact on me.
I appreciate the fact that you were moved to comment at length and you’ve certainly raised some appropriate thoughts for thoughtwrestlers! Thanks!
I did see that she said that– that’s why I included “I just don’t want the one or two sentences in here where you mention that the road trip elements are actually utterly incidental to get lost.”
I’m not hung up on the label; I’m hung up on glossing over and potentially overlooking what this book is really about. If I read this review I’d never pick up the book, which is bothering me because I don’t want folks to overlook it. Getting hung up on the label would probably sound more like “On The Road! THAT’s a road trip book!”– but again, the label is also incidental.
Anyway, this is fun. Thanks to all of you.
Solid (which I should never use because it’s a line from a blaxploitation parody film, but nonetheless it sounds a bit less insipid to me that saying “It’s all good!” in this context).
Mark, when you say “I think Rebecca has indicated that it hasn’t resonated with her, at least not yet,” that’s one-third accurate.
I read ZMM as three interwoven threads, in the main:
1. Pirsig’s personal journey of recovery/relationship/redemption – remember, the electroshock treatments that had all but destroyed Pirsig/Phaedrus were involuntary(would be illegal today) and devastating (he is literally in search of Self on this road trip);
2. The fabulous “why we should give a rat’s ass” message that Elizabeth so rightly highlights above – the one riding on the device of motorcycle maintenance (John Sutherland’s “romantic” approach vs. the “classic” of the author, and hope, at the end, of resolving the apparent irreconcilability of the two – as I see it – in Chris’s wish to have the right “attitudes” to maintain his own bike);
and
3. What I think of as the “academic philosophy” section – as they get into Montana, as the Phaedrus retrospective plotline edges closer to the point where he “lost his mind” in the contemplation of Quality – where Pirsig talks about the tracing of western thought from the ancient Greeks to pre-and post-war European scientists and philosphers, with some great leaps of logic that leave me gaping in the dust, wishing I’d taken more than that one undergrad course in philosophy…
It’s that third part that binds me in a love/hate relationship with this book.
I don’t like feeling stupid.
Some of the more complex concepts are pretty tough going – at least they are for me – and especially towards the end. I’m not satisfied with partially understanding what Hegel and Kant and Einstein et all were getting at, and how it all fits in with Pirsig’s own philosophical framework. And sometimes I fear that I understood some of the more complex philosophical concepts when I first read the book, in my twenties, and my understanding grows less every time I read it again!
Make sense?
Gotcha, I shouldn’t have attempted to write on your behalf anyway.
Great conversation!
I don’t agree with you on the tone; honestly, a lot of people struggle with understanding this book and I think the tone reflects this as well as the sense people get that they have missed something important, which is why they return to it.
You bring up an important point though: the relevancy of the book today – probably more so than when it came out. The road trip is a conceit; an excuse to write about what Pirsig is really interested in: values (quality). He looks at how we relate to technology, something we’re so immersed in now it’s sometimes hard to even realize it’s technology.
The context of the times is also worth remembering: it came out in 1974, a period when many arts were exploring new approaches (like 20 minute guitar solos! And then punk …). Here, to make his book more approachable, Pirsig tries using a road trip to write about philosophy.
The period was also one of great skepticism about commercialism. 1974 was the year science fiction author John Brunner published, “The Sheep Look Up,” a kind of eco cautionary tale. The title comes from John Milton, “The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed, But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread …”
“Zen” echoes some of this skepticism.
With iPhones coming out with new versions every other day, iPads on the market now and islands in southeast Asia buried under discarded technology, how we relate to technology is vital today and as much as we love it, to not question it is dangerous. That’s what Pirsig is getting at, I think. How do we relate to technology (and why)? And how do we relate to our world?
You remind me, Bill, there’s a line in ZMM where Pirsig comes right out and tells people – I’m paraphrasing wildly here, and too lazy to look it up – to get out and look at the world (road trip!) instead of experiencing it through a television screen.
Tip of the iceberg, back then, eh?
In 1974, around here, I recall a heated debate about whether “personal calculators” should be allowed in the classroom – although it was at least another few years before they had dropped in price enough to be widely accessible.
I remember being taught how to do square roots by hand in school… fat chance of that happening again!
Elizabeth, thank you – I LOVE your comment!
Yes, thoughtwrestling is what we’re all about, and if this post has managed to provoke a healthy debate, well, a Friday night spent writing it was time well spent.
When I started thinking about this post, and what on earth one could possibly say about ZMM (other than, “Just go read it!”), I called on Twitter and Facebook and among IRL friends for their favourite “road trip books” – I’ll post the list of suggestions elsewhere. But here’s the thing: what emerged was a remarkable grab-bag of books ranging from Pilgrim’s Progress to Kerouac to Fodor’s travel guides! Obviously, the term means many different things to many people.
So I wrote the word-count equivalent of a whole other post on the end of this one, exploring what a “road trip book” is in my lexicon… but it got to be midnight, and it was still all wrong. So I tossed all that out, and settled for a brief, very provisional, very unsatisfying list of essential elements:
One strong central character on a quest; the journey as much an internal one as on the road; the whole a metaphor for something much larger and oddly compelling; and a sense of important lessons to be learned.
“Road trip book” is far from a flippant term of dismissal for me: I’m of the hitchhiking generation, remember, to whom a road trip (done right) is more of a vision quest. That’s why I do believe there’s no better example than Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, trumping even Kerouac’s On The Road.
Hmm, that still didn’t come out right.
“Vision quest” gets close to it, though, maybe… no wonder that cultural appropriation can be so tempting, when our own culture(s) have gaps. Let’s try this:
A road trip is most definitely not a family trip in the Airstream to Niagara Falls; it’s an individual search for Quality and meaning and self and direction. That’s why it is important (in my definition) that the physical journey in a road trip book should take place by road: travel without an itinerary, progress without a schedule, ample time to think and observe, an openness to serendipity…
You know, when I’m writing at StayOutOfSchool.com, sometimes I chew a lot on what to include and what to ditch, how deep and philosophical I ought to be without alienating a large portion of readers I’d really like to engage/cultivate…. for me, that’s a large part of the thought wrestling of writing blogs like these. I thought your 3-part breakdown of the book is spot on and I would have loved to have seen it in the original review. Likewise on all counts re: travel/road trip materials, too.
But again, “what would Elizabeth like to read” probably isn’t going to be the greatest litmus test around here. ::grin::
Thanks for the thoughtful engagement!
Now I have an old Bob Seger song in my head:
Well those drifter’s days are past me now
I’ve got so much more to think about
Deadlines and commitments
What to leave in, what to leave out
The quandary of the rewrite.
Just as an epilogue: I got The Old Man And The Sea from my local library and read it today. Beautiful book. Sad, too.
What to leave in, what to ditch… that’s the single biggest trick of writing anything, isn’t it? I must confess, Elizabth, I was secretly hoping for comments such as yours: this is a book that deserves a lively discussion, not merely one person’s pontification.
I desperately want to jump into this conversation, but (A) I’ve never read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and (B) when Rebecca mentioned “vision quest” it immediately conjured the Madonna song “Crazy for You” in my head. Thus thoroughly proving that I am far out of my depth and not really smart enough to participate in this conversation.
But for the record, I really enjoyed reading the conversation.
Nonsense, Kat – there’s a place for everyone in a good book talk. So you haven’t read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (yet)? No problem! That still leaves oodles of room for participation: a scathing critique of my writing style, for example; or your thoughts on whether you are tempted to read ZMM on the heels of this discussion; or your own definition of “road trip book” and whether that differs from other kinds of “travel books”; or your reminiscenses of books that have both frustrated and fascinated you in this way, or other books you have read on a similar theme… why, the possibilities are endless! Just have a nice glass of wine and pretend we’re all at a cosy book club meeting.
Interesting conversation and blog post, everyone. I have nothing to add to the conversation thread except my own journey with ZMM. I have had mixed feelings about this book at certain times in my life. Love and indifference. ZMM meant different things to me when I read it the summer before attending college than it did when I read it a few years later on a bus trip to B.C. with my toddler. ZMM will stick with you forever. I did not “get it” the first time I read it. I’ll be honest, it was kind of a chore to read. I have gone back to it many times over the years and it has resonated with me in a different way every time. I have recommended it to countless friends and their opinions of ZMM have run the whole gamut. Some didn’t get it. Some loved it and found it life changing. Everyone has a different story about where they were when they read this book. I think those are the real road stories, I think of ZMM as a kind of highway for the reader to map out their own journey on. A sentimental thought but, I believe it to be true. For me, it is, anyway.
“Everyone has a different story about where they were when they read this book. I think those are the real road stories, I think of ZMM as a kind of highway for the reader to map out their own journey on.”
Sabrina, I love that thought!
Hear, hear!
Ditto.
[...] down, the best set of comments we’ve had to date on Thoughtwrestling came from Rebecca Leaman’s discussion about Robert Pirsig’s Zen and The Art of Motorcycle [...]