Suppose a child is born devoid of all senses; he has no sight, no hearing, no touch, no smell, no taste--nothing. There's no way whatsoever for him to receive any sensations from the outside world. And suppose this child is fed intravenously and otherwise attended to and kept alive for eighteen years in this state of existence. The question is then asked: Does this eighteen-year-old person have a thought in his head? If so, where does it come from?
Years ago, well decades ago, I was perusing the bookcases in the E.C. Glass library when I came across a book that looked mildly interesting: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert M Pirsig. I read the jacket cover, picked it up with the intent to check it out but never did. Why? Who knows. Did I see some Shakespeare or John Donne? That sounds like the 17 year old me. So imagine my surprise when, again perusing the stacks of the high school where I became myself, I again found this book. This time, I thought, I take it up. Here and now with all this reading and learning behind me surely the book will resonate.
The excerpt from above is from one of the sections the narrator describes as a Chautauqua, which a quick Google search indicates is a kind of "adult education movement" in the United States some time ago. A scan of its history suggests it was a kind of pseudo-intellectual movement for somewhat non-intellectuals in the country to espouse whatever was on their minds. I'm instantly on my guard: there's way too much anti-intellectualism in this country as it is, if you ask me. "I'm not smart and I'm proud of it" seems to be the new American motto. "Science is for sissies" and so forth.
So the story, such as it is, divides itself between these metaphysical/spiritual ramblings and a loose narrative about a motorcycle ride across the northern states of the country, from Michigan to Montana. The narrator, his son, and a couple of friends. He's aloof in a "I'm thinking about big things" kind of way. And some of the big things are interesting: Kant and the history of empiricism. But for the most part the narrative seems to be a gimmick to hold his dis-separate thoughts together. As such this reminds me of another philosophy book I read a couple of year ago, Sophie's Choice. My response to this book is much my response to that one.
Meh.
I like spilling words as much as the next person but there's something about philosophy books couched in literary traditions that don't sit well with me. Here's an intriguing narrative, the author seems to hold out there. And while you're on this cycle with me let me expostulate what beauty is and the empirical rationale for finding both truth and beauty in the world.
Sigh. Can I get off at the next town?
My 17 year old self was probably wise to take a detour with Shakespeare, whose philosophy is second to his art, as it should be. Hamlet provides us a more complex and powerful world view than any pop-philosophy book ever has. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreampt of in your philosophy, Horatio.
Some of this analysis is not just though. I have to admit to being turned off on page 128; I've never found my way back to the author or narrator after he said: "From that agony [read: ancient man] of bare existence to modern life can be soberly described only as upward progress." Not sure that giant factories that pollute our rivers and deforest our planet, weapons that can annihilate us several times over, and technology that pulls us away from sunlight and fresh air can be described by any rational human being as "progress".
I suspect 50 more pages and I'll be returning to my Thoreau and Whitman as replenishment for my soul.
No comments:
Post a Comment