Robert Pirsig - Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

It was intellectual primarily, but it wasn’t just intelligence that was fundamental. It was a certain basic attitude about the way the world was, a presumptive vision that it ran according to laws… reason… and that man’s improvement lay chiefly through the discovery of these laws of reason and application of them toward satisfaction of his own desires. It was this faith that held everything together. He squinted at this vision of a Qualityless world for a while, conjured up more details, thought about it, and then squinted some more and thought some more and then finally circled back to where he was before.

Squareness.

That’s the look. That sums it. Squareness. When you subtract quality you get squareness. Absence of Quality is the essence of squareness.

Some artist friends with whom he had once traveled across the United States came to mind. They were Negroes, who had always been complaining about just this Qualitylessness he was describing. Square. That was their word for it. Way back long ago before the mass media had picked it up and given it national white usage they had called all that intellectual stuff square and had wanted nothing to do with it. And there had been a fantastic mismeshing of conversations and attitudes between him and them because he was such a prime example of the squareness they were talking about. The more he had tried to pin them down on what they were talking about the vaguer they had gotten. Now with this Quality he seemed to say the same thing and talk as vaguely as they did, even though what he talked about was as hard and clear and solid as any rationally defined entity he’d ever dealt with.

Quality. That’s what they’d been talking about all the time. “Man, will you just please, kindly dig it”, he remembered one of them saying, “and hold up on all those wonderful seven-dollar questions? If you got to ask what is it all the time, you’ll never get time to know.” Soul. Quality. The same?

The wave of crystallization rolled ahead. He was seeing two worlds, simultaneously. On the intellectual side, the square side, he saw now that Quality was a cleavage term. What every intellectual analyst looks for. You take your analytic knife, put the point directly on the term Quality and just tap, not hard, gently, and the whole world splits, cleaves, right in two… hip and square, classic and romantic, technological and humanistic… and the split is clean. There’s no mess. No slop. No little items that could be one way or the other. Not just a skilled break but a very lucky break. Sometimes the best analysts, working with the most obvious lines of cleavage, can tap and get nothing but a pile of trash. And yet here was Quality; a tiny, almost unnoticeable fault line; a line of illogic in our concept of the universe; and you tapped it, and the whole universe came apart, so neatly it was almost unbelievable. He wished Kant were alive. Kant would have appreciated it. That master diamond cutter. He would see. Hold Quality undefined. That was the secret.

Phædrus wrote, with some beginning awareness that he was involved in a strange kind of intellectual suicide, “Squareness may be succinctly and yet thoroughly defined as an inability to see quality before it’s been intellectually defined, that is, before it gets all chopped up into words. We have proved that quality, though undefined, exists. Its existence can be seen empirically in the classroom, and can be demonstrated logically by showing that a world without it cannot exist as we know it. What remains to be seen, the thing to be analyzed, is not quality, but those peculiar habits of thought called ‘squareness’ that sometimes prevent us from seeing it.”

Thus did he seek to turn the attack. The subject for analysis, the patient on the table, was no longer Quality, but analysis itself. Quality was healthy and in good shape. Analysis, however, seemed to have something wrong with it that prevented it from seeing the obvious.

I look back and see Chris is way behind. “Come on!” I shout.

He doesn’t answer.

“Come on!” I shout again.

Then I see him fall sideways and sit in the grass on the side of the mountain. I leave my pack and go back down to him. The slope is so steep I have to dig my feet in sideways. When I get there he’s crying.

“I hurt my ankle”, he says, and doesn’t look at me.

When an ego-climber has an image of himself to protect he naturally lies to protect this image. But it’s disgusting to see and I’m ashamed of myself for letting this happen. Now my own willingness to continue becomes eroded by his tears and his inner sense of defeat passes to me. I sit down, live with this for a while, then, without turning away from it, pick up his backpack and say to him, “I’ll carry the packs in relays. I’ll take this one up to where mine is and then you stop and wait with it so we don’t lose it. Then I’ll take mine up farther and then come back for yours. That way you can get plenty of rest. It’ll be slower, but we’ll get there.”

But I’ve done this too soon. There’s still disgust and resentment in my voice which he hears and is shamed by. He shows anger, but says nothing, for fear he’ll have to carry the pack again, just frowns and ignores me while I relay the packs upward. I work off the resentment at having to do this by realizing that it isn’t any more work for me, actually, than the other way. It’s more work in terms of reaching the top of the mountain, but that’s only the nominal goal. In terms of the real goal, putting in good minutes, one after the other, it comes out the same; in fact, better. We climb slowly upward and the resentment leaves.

For the next hour we move slowly upward, I carrying the packs in relays, to where I locate the beginning trickle of a stream. I send Chris down for water in one of the pans, which he gets. When he comes back he says, “Why are we stopping here? Let’s keep going.”

“This is probably the last stream we’ll see for a long time, Chris, and I’m tired.”

“Why are you so tired?”

Is he trying to infuriate me? He’s succeeding.

“I’m tired, Chris, because I’m carrying the packs. If you’re in a hurry take your pack and go on up ahead. I’ll catch up with you.”

He looks at me with another flick of fear, then sits down. “I don’t like this”, he says, almost in tears. “I hate this! I’m sorry I came. Why did we come here?” He’s crying again, hard.

I reply, “You make me very sorry too. You better have something for lunch.”

“I don’t want anything. My stomach hurts.”

“Suit yourself.”

He goes off a distance and picks a stem of grass and puts it in his mouth. Then he buries his face in his hands. I make lunch for myself and have a short rest.

When I wake up again he’s still crying. There’s nowhere for either of us to go. Nothing to do but face up to the existing situation, but I really don’t know what the existing situation is.

“Chris”, I say finally.

He doesn’t answer.

“Chris”, I repeat.

Still no answer. He finally says, belligerently, “What?”

“I was going to say, Chris, that you don’t have to prove anything to me. Do you understand that?”

A real flash of terror hits his face. He jerks his head away violently.

I say, “You don’t understand what I mean by that, do you?”

He continues to look away and doesn’t answer. The wind moans through the pines.

I just don’t know. I just don’t know what it is. It isn’t just YMCA egotism that’s making him this upset. Some minor thing reflects badly on him and it’s the end of the world. When he tries to do something and doesn’t get it just right he blows up or goes into tears.

I settle back in the grass and rest again. Maybe it’s not having answers that’s defeating both of us. I don’t want to go ahead because it doesn’t look like any answers ahead. None behind either. Just lateral drift. That’s what it is between me and him. Lateral drift, waiting for something.