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joemorgue 's review for:
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
by Robert M. Pirsig
I actually tried really, really hard to enjoy this book.
Alright to get the good out of the way, and to be fair there is a not-insignificant amount of good, first. The actual travelogue framing story gets pretty good at times. Pirsig if nothing else is able to really get you into that mental frame of mind you can get into where your thoughts just wander on a long road trip and you can really get into the sort of just... well pardon the vulgarity but "mental masturbation" that forms the bulk of this book and to completely fair the framing device he used really was, I think, responsible for elevating this book to its current classic status. Despite all the nasty things I'm about to say about this particular book if Pirsig ever writes a straight travelogue I'll be all over it. If nothing else no book has ever captured, to say nothing of this well, that "Staring out the car window while your mind just goes where ever it wants to" feeling and I don't mean that as a criticism.
But on to the bad. Dear God the bad. First and foremost the narrator of the story is every pretentious, self important, condescending, coffee shop intellectual rolled into one. He just read the summary of an introductory book on Philosophy and therefore he is the single most insightful and wise sage that is, was or ever will be and by God he will not let you forget it. His entire characterization is nothing but pontificating on how insightful and awesome he is and treating the other characters like idiots because they dare have thoughts and interest or want to discuss topics that aren't "How much of a Wise Old Man on the Mountain I Am."
Which could possibly be forgiven from a character standpoint if he actually said anything deep. But it's just one sad, tired forced metaphor or parable after another of just pure, anti-intellectual drivel. It's like being stuck in the car with your stoned friend that just saw the Matrix for the first time. He spouts off all these sad tired and intellectually vapid little Fortune Cookie cliches then drops the mic like we're all supposed to stand slack jawed in awe of at how he's turned our square drab world views upside down when all he's done is play silly word games.
Alright to get the good out of the way, and to be fair there is a not-insignificant amount of good, first. The actual travelogue framing story gets pretty good at times. Pirsig if nothing else is able to really get you into that mental frame of mind you can get into where your thoughts just wander on a long road trip and you can really get into the sort of just... well pardon the vulgarity but "mental masturbation" that forms the bulk of this book and to completely fair the framing device he used really was, I think, responsible for elevating this book to its current classic status. Despite all the nasty things I'm about to say about this particular book if Pirsig ever writes a straight travelogue I'll be all over it. If nothing else no book has ever captured, to say nothing of this well, that "Staring out the car window while your mind just goes where ever it wants to" feeling and I don't mean that as a criticism.
But on to the bad. Dear God the bad. First and foremost the narrator of the story is every pretentious, self important, condescending, coffee shop intellectual rolled into one. He just read the summary of an introductory book on Philosophy and therefore he is the single most insightful and wise sage that is, was or ever will be and by God he will not let you forget it. His entire characterization is nothing but pontificating on how insightful and awesome he is and treating the other characters like idiots because they dare have thoughts and interest or want to discuss topics that aren't "How much of a Wise Old Man on the Mountain I Am."
Which could possibly be forgiven from a character standpoint if he actually said anything deep. But it's just one sad, tired forced metaphor or parable after another of just pure, anti-intellectual drivel. It's like being stuck in the car with your stoned friend that just saw the Matrix for the first time. He spouts off all these sad tired and intellectually vapid little Fortune Cookie cliches then drops the mic like we're all supposed to stand slack jawed in awe of at how he's turned our square drab world views upside down when all he's done is play silly word games.