Robert Pirsig - Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Pans we’ve set outside the tent begin to fill up with rainwater, and later, when we have enough, we pour it all together in a pot and add some cubes of chicken bouillon and heat it over a small Sterno stove. Like any food or drink after a hard climb in the mountains, it tastes good.

Chris says, “I like camping with you better than with the Sutherlands.”

“The circumstances are different”, I say.

When the bouillon is gone I get out a can of pork and beans and empty it into the pot. It takes a long time to heat up, but we’re in no hurry.

“It smells good”, Chris says.

The rain has stopped and just occasional drops pat down on the tent.

“I think tomorrow’ll be sunny”, I say.

We pass the pot of pork and beans back and forth, eating from opposite sides.

“Dad, what do you think about all the time? You’re always thinking all the time.”

“Ohhhhhh — all kinds of things.”

“What about?”

“Oh, about the rain, and about troubles that can happen and about things in general.”

“What things?”

“Oh, about what it’s going to be like for you when you grow up.”

He’s interested. “What’s it going to be like?”

But there’s a slight ego gleam in his eyes as he asks this and the answer as a result comes out masked. “I don’t know”, I say, “it’s just what I think about.”

“Do you think we’ll get to the top of this canyon by tomorrow?”

“Oh yes, we’re not far from the top.”

“In the morning?”

“I think so.”

Later he is asleep, and a damp night wind comes down from the ridge causing a sighing sound from the pines. The silhouettes of the treetops move gently with the wind. They yield and then return, then with a sigh yield and return again, restless from forces that are not part of their nature. The wind causes a flutter of one side of the tent. I get up and peg it down, then walk on the damp spongy grass of the knoll for a while, then crawl back into the tent and wait for sleep.

A mat of sunlit pine needles by my face slowly tells me where I am and helps dispel a dream.

In the dream I was standing in a white-painted room looking at a glass door. On the other side was Chris and his brother and mother. Chris was waving at me from the other side of the door and his brother was smiling, but his mother had tears in her eyes. Then I saw that Chris’s smile was fixed and artificial and actually there was deep fear.

I moved toward the door and his smile became better. He motioned for me to open it. I was about to open it, but then didn’t. His fear came back but I turned and walked away.

It’s a dream that has occurred often before. Its meaning is obvious and fits some thoughts of last night. He’s trying to relate to me and is afraid he never will. Things are getting clearer up here.

Beyond the flap of the tent now the needles on the ground send vapors of mist up toward the sun. The air feels moist and cool, and while Chris still sleeps I get out of the tent carefully, stand up and stretch.

My legs and back are stiff but not painful. I do calisthenics for a few minutes to loosen them up, then sprint from the knoll into the pines. That feels better.

The pine odor is heavy and moist this morning. I squat and look down at the morning mists in the canyon below.

Later I return to the tent where a noise indicates that Chris is awake, and when I look inside I see his face stare around silently. He’s a slow waker and it’ll be five minutes before his mind warms up to the point where he can speak. Now he squints into the light.

“Good morning”, I say.

No answer. A few raindrops fall down from the pines.

“Did you sleep well?”

“No.”

“That’s too bad.”

“How come you’re up so early?” he asks.

“It’s not early.”

“What time is it?”

“Nine o’clock”, I say.

“I bet we didn’t go to sleep until three.”

Three? If he stayed awake he’s going to pay for it today.

“Well, I got to sleep”, I say.

He looks at me strangely. “You kept me awake.”

“Me?”

“Talking.”

“In my sleep, you mean.”

“No, about the mountain ”

Something is odd here. “I don’t know anything about a mountain, Chris.”

“Well, you talked all night about it. You said at the top of the mountain we’d see everything. You said you were going to meet me there.”

I think he’s been dreaming. “How could I meet you there when I’m already with you?”

“I don’t know. You said it.” He looks upset. “You sounded like you were drunk or something.”

He’s still half asleep. I’d better let him wake up peacefully. But I’m thirsty and remember I left the canteen behind, thinking we’d find enough water as we traveled. Dumb. There’ll be no breakfast now until we’re up over the ridge and far enough down to the other side where we can find a spring. “We’d better pack up and go”, I say, “if we’re going to get some water for breakfast.” It’s already warm out and probably will be hot this afternoon.

The tent comes down easily and I’m pleased to see that everything stayed dry. In a half-hour we’re packed. Now except for beaten-down grass the area looks as if no one had been here.

We still have a lot of climbing to do, but on the trail we discover it’s easier than yesterday. We’re getting to the rounded upper portion of the ridge and the slope isn’t as steep. It looks as though the pines have never been cut here. All direct light is shut out from the forest floor and there’s no underbrush at all. Just a springy floor of needles that’s open and spacious and easy hiking.

Time to get on with the Chautauqua and the second wave of crystallization, the metaphysical one.

This was brought about in response to Phædrus’ wild meanderings about Quality when the English faculty at Bozeman, informed of their squareness, presented him with a reasonable question: “Does this undefined ‘quality’ of yours exist in the things we observe?” they asked. “Or is it subjective, existing only in the observer?” It was a simple, normal enough question, and there was no hurry for an answer.

Hah. There was no need for hurry. It was a finisher-offer, a knockdown question, a haymaker, a Saturday-night special… the kind you don’t recover from.

Because if Quality exists in the object, then you must explain just why scientific instruments are unable to detect it. You must suggest instruments that will detect it, or live with the explanation that instruments don’t detect it because your whole Quality concept, to put it politely, is a large pile of nonsense.

On the other hand, if Quality is subjective, existing only in the observer, then this Quality that you make so much of is just a fancy name for whatever you like.

What Phædrus had been presented with by the faculty of the English department of Montana State College was an ancient logical construct known as a dilemma. A dilemma, which is Greek for “two premises”, has been likened to the front end of an angry and charging bull.

If he accepted the premise that Quality was objective, he was impaled on one horn of the dilemma. If he accepted the other premise that Quality was subjective, he was impaled on the other horn. Either Quality is objective or subjective, therefore he was impaled no matter how he answered.

He noticed that from a number of faculty members he was receiving some good-natured smiles.

Phædrus, however, because of his training in logic, was aware that every dilemma affords not two but three classic refutations, and he also knew of a few that weren’t so classic, so he smiled back. He could take the left horn and refute the idea that objectivity implied scientific detectability. Or, he could take the right horn, and refute the idea that subjectivity implies “anything you like.” Or he could go between the horns and deny that subjectivity and objectivity are the only choices. You may be sure he tested out all three.