May’s book
May’s Book
After the success of April’s meeting where most of us had read a different book (only two of us had read the same book!) we thought we would continue the idea.
The suggested titles are –
Human Traces by Sebastian Faulks (2005)
What is it to be human? This question, as in Birdsong, is at the heart of Human Traces.
The story begins in Brittany where a young, poor boy somehow passes hismedical exams and goes to Paris, where he attends the lectures of Charcot,the Parisian neurologist who set the world on its head in the 1870s. With afriend, he sets up a clinic in the mysterious mountain district ofCarinthia in south-east Austria.
If The Girl at the Lion d’Or was a simple three-movement symphony, Birdsong an opera, Charlotte Gray a complex four-movement symphony and On Green Dolphin Street a concerto, then Human Traces is a Wagnerian grand opera.
The Observations by Jane Harris (2007)
This book is in paper back and has been shortlisted for the Orange Broadband Prize for Fiction.
Synopsis
So there I was with two pens, my two titties, Charles Dickens, two slice of bread and a blank book at the end of my first day in the middle of nowhere. Except as it turned out it wasn’t quite the end …Scotland, 1863. In an attempt to escape her not-so-innocent past in Glasgow, Bessy Buckley the wide-eyed Irish heroine of “The Observations” – takes a job as a maid in a big house outside Edinburgh working for the beautiful Arabella. Bessy is intrigued by her new employer, but puzzled by her increasingly strange requests and her insistence that Bessy keep a journal of her most intimate thoughts. And it seems that Arabella has a few secrets of her own – including her near-obsessive affection for Nora, a former maid who died in mysterious circumstances. Then, a childish prank has drastic consequences, which throw into jeopardy all that Bessy has come to hold dear.
Caught up in a tangle of madness, ghosts, sex and lies, she remains devoted to Arabella. But who is really responsible for what happened to her predecessor Nora? As her past threatens to catch up with her and complicate matters even further, Bessy begins to realise that she has not quite landed on her feet.
Dates for 2007 meetings –
Tuesday 26 June Letter Home Karen Alanizi
Tuesday 31 July
Tuesday 25 September One Good Turn by Kate Atkinson
Tuesday 30 October
Tuesday 27 November
You will notice that there is not a meeting for next August – as we will be busy with the Festival.
General suggestions –
June’s reading
Letter Home Karen Alanizi
The author contacted our blog site, so we thought we should read it….Would your book club members like to read something a little different? My book ‘Letter Home’ is about my experience as a British woman married to a Kuwaiti, during the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait in August 1990. I would love to get any feedback from you and would be happy to answer any questions you may have about the book. You will find more information about the book at the link below. It is also available from major on-line bookstores.
The compelling true story of Karen Alanizi, and her Kuwaiti husband Salem during the 1990 Iraqi invasion of Kuwait. Based on a letter written to her family in England her story reveals the heart-wrenching emotions, fears and the often amusing and sometimes bizarre side of life during the Iraqi occupation. She describes the desperation of their separation, and the journeys that eventually re-unite them in England. As the Gulf War unfolds they fear for their family and friends left behind in Kuwait and wait impatiently for the Liberation of the country that they love so much.
September’s reading
One Good Turn by Kate Atkinson
Synopsis- It is summer, it is the Edinburgh Festival. People queuing for a lunchtime show witness a road-rage incident – an incident which changes the lives of everyone involved. Jackson Brodie, ex-army, ex-police, ex-private detective, is also an innocent bystander – until he becomes a suspect. With “Case Histories”, Kate Atkinson showed how brilliantly she could explore the crime genre and make it her own. In “One Good Turn”, she takes her masterful plotting one step further. Like a set of Russian dolls, each thread of the narrative reveals itself to be related to the last. Her Dickensian cast of characters are all looking for love or money and find it in surprising places. As ever with Atkinson what each one actually discovers is their true self. Unputdownable and triumphant, “One Good Turn” is a sharply intelligent read that is also percipient, funny, and totally satisfying.
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At May’s book club meeting both books were felt to be a success and felt that they covered mental health conditions is a sensitive manner.
June’s choice of books are –
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: 25th Anniversary Edition by Robert M. Pirsig
Book Description
Acclaimed as one of the most exciting books in the history of American letters, this modern epic became an instant bestseller upon publication in 1974, transforming a generation and continuing to inspire millions. A narration of a summer motorcycle trip undertaken by a father and his son, the book becomes a personal and philosophical odyssey into fundamental questions of how to live. Resonant with the confusions of existence, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is a touching and transcendent book of life.
Synopsis
The narration of a summer motorcycle trip undertaken by a father and his son becomes a text which speaks directly to the confusions and agonies of existence, detailing a personal, philosophical odyssey.
The Apologist by Jay Rayner
The Apologist of Jay Rayner’s novel is Marc Basset, a restaurant critic known for his scathing reviews. When his review of one establishment leads the chef to commit suicide, Basset finds himself apologising to the chef’s family. They took his apology so well and he felt so grand about it, that he begins to apologise to everyone he’s ever wronged. This leads to a job as Chief Apologist for the United Nations, and he travels the world apologising for everything from slavery to colonialism to the Holocaust. This gathers his own fame and celebrity, but perhaps Basset will be forced to apologise for his apologies. Jay Rayner’s satire has received positive reviews with the Observer saying, “Rayner has taken an impossible synopsis and somehow turned it into something funny, clever and ever so slightly chilling.”
We are hoping that we can entice Mary Porter as a special guest to June’s meeting as The Apologist is one of her favourite books.
It was decided that we would not read the book “Letter Home” by Karen Alanizi. I have a copy of the book and have read it, so if anyone wishes to borrow it please let me know and I will bring it to the next meeting.
For those of us who are reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, it thought you would be interested in this article.
The interview: Robert Pirsig
The Seventies bestseller Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance was the biggest-selling philosophy book ever. But for the reclusive author life was bitter-sweet. Here, he talks frankly about anxiety, depression, the death of his son and the road trip that inspired a classic.
Tim Adams
Sunday November 19, 2006
The Observer
At 78, Robert Pirsig, probably the most widely read philosopher alive, can look back on many ideas of himself. There is the nine-year-old-boy with the off-the-scale IQ of 170, trying to work out how to connect with his classmates in Minnesota. There is the young GI in Korea picking up a curiosity for Buddhism while helping the locals with their English. There is the radical, manic teacher in Montana making his freshmen sweat over a definition of ‘quality’. There is the homicidal husband sectioned into a course of electric-shock treatment designed to remove all traces of his past. There is the broken-down father trying to bond with his son on a road trip. There is the best-selling author of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, offering solutions to the anxieties of a generation. And there is, for a good many years, the reclusive yachtsman, trying to steer a course away from cultish fame.
Pirsig doesn’t do interviews, as a rule; he claims this one will be his last. He got spooked early on. ‘In the first week after I wrote Zen I gave maybe 35,’ he says, in his low, quick-fire Midwestern voice, from behind his sailor’s beard. ‘I found it very unsettling. I was walking by the post office near home and I thought I could hear voices, including my own. I had a history of mental illness, and I thought: it’s happening again. Then I realised it was the radio broadcast of an interview I’d done. At that point I took a camper van up into the mountains and started to write Lila, my second book.’
It is that second book, recently republished, that has prompted him to talk to me now. He sits in a hotel room in Boston and tries, not for the first time, to make some sense of his life. He is, he suggests, always in a double bind. ‘It is not good to talk about Zen because Zen is nothingness … If you talk about it you are always lying, and if you don’t talk about it no one knows it is there.’ Generally, rather than analysing, he says, he would rather ‘just enjoy watching the wind blow through the trees’. Reclusion has its discontents, however. ‘In this country someone who sits around and does that is at the bottom of the ladder, but in Japan, say, someone who goes up into the mountains is accorded great respect.’ He pauses, laughs. ‘I guess I fall somewhere in between.’
Ever since I first read Pirsig’s motorbike quest for meaning, when I was about 14, I’ve been curious to imagine its author. Part of the compulsion of that book, which has sold more than five million copies, is the sense of autobiographical mysteries that remain unexplained. While Pirsig’s narrator tries to marry the spirit of the Buddha with western consumerism, discovers the godhead in his toolkit, and intuits a sense of purposive quality independent of subjects and objects, he also constructs a fragmentary picture of his own past. His pre-shock-treatment former self, the ghostly Phaedrus, haunts his travels across the Midwest.
‘What I am,’ he writes at one point, ‘is a heretic who’s recanted and thereby in everyone’s eyes saved his soul. Everyone’s eyes but one, who knows deep down inside that all he has saved is his skin.’ My 14-year-old self double-underlined this and put two Biro exclamation marks in the margin. Twenty-six years, and several revisionist readings of the book later, I’m still wondering what Pirsig thinks of when he thinks of himself.
He suggests a lot of that idea still goes back to his childhood as a disaffected prodigy. He says that ever since he could think he had an overwhelming desire to have a theory that explained everything. As a young man – he was at university at 15 studying chemistry – he thought the answer might lie in science, but he quickly lost that faith. ‘Science could not teach me how to understand girls sitting in my class, even.’
He went to search elsewhere. After the army he majored in philosophy and persuaded his tutor to help him get a place on a course in Indian mysticism at Benares, where he found more questions than answers. He wound up back home, married, drifting between Mexico and the States, writing technical manuals and ads for the mortuary cosmetics industry. It was when he picked up philosophy again in Montana, and started teaching, that Phaedrus and his desire for truth overtook Pirsig once more.
At that time, he recalls, in his early thirties, he was so full of anxiety that he would often be physically sick before each class he taught. He used his students to help him discover some of the ideas that make up what he calls the ‘metaphysics of quality’ in his books, the ideas that led him to believe that he had bridged the chasm between Eastern and Western thought. No two classes were the same. He made his students crazy by refusing to grade them, then he had them grade each other. He suggests that by the end of each term they were so euphoric that if he had told them to jump out of the window they would have done. The president of the university gave a speech, and he contradicted him in the middle of it by shouting: ‘This school has no quality.’ He saw clearly how American society was disconnected from life and he believed he could help it connect. He was reading Kerouac, and trying to live in truth.
Alongside that, I say, as he describes that time with some fervour, I guess there was some depression setting in? ‘Well,’ he says, ‘there was fear. All these ideas were coming in to me too fast. There are crackpots with crazy ideas all over the world, and what evidence was I giving that I was not one of them?’
Such evidence proved harder and harder to present. One day in the car with his six-year-old son Chris, his mind buzzing, Pirsig stopped at a junction and literally did not know which way to turn. He had to ask his son to guide him home. What followed was the point where he either found enlightenment, or went insane, depending on how you look at it (really the root of all the questions in his first book).
‘I could not sleep and I could not stay awake,’ he recalls. ‘I just sat there cross-legged in the room for three days. All sorts of volitions started to go away. My wife started getting upset at me sitting there, got a little insulting. Pain disappeared, cigarettes burned down in my fingers …’
It was like a monastic experience?
‘Yes, but then a kind of chaos set in. Suddenly I realised that the person who had come this far was about to expire. I was terrified, and curious as to what was coming. I felt so sorry for this guy I was leaving behind. It was a separation. This is described in the psychiatric canon as catatonic schizophrenia. It is cited in the Zen Buddhist canon as hard enlightenment. I have never insisted on either – in fact I switch back and forth depending on who I am talking to.’
Midwestern American society of 1960 took the psychiatrist’s view. Pirsig was treated at a mental institution, the first of many visits. Looking back, he suggests he was just a man outside his time. ‘It was a contest, I believe, between these ideas I had and what I see as the cultural immune system. When somebody goes outside the cultural norms, the culture has to protect itself.’
That immune system left him with no job and no future in philosophy; his wife was mad at him, they had two small kids, he was 34 and in tears all day. Did he think of it at the time as a Zen experience?
‘Not really. Though the meditation I have done since takes you to a similar place. If you stare at a wall from four in the morning till nine at night and you do that for a week, you are getting pretty close to nothingness. And you get a lot of opportunities for staring in an asylum.’
When he was released, it only got worse. He was crazier; he pointed a gun at someone, he won’t say who. He was committed by a court and underwent comprehensive shock treatment of the kind described by Ken Kesey in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
I wonder if he remembers the mechanics of it?
‘Well they put a little rubber thing in your mouth and then they gave a drug like curare, used by South American Indians in their darts. It stops your lungs before it stops your mind. Before you go under you had a feeling like you were drowning. I woke up one time and I thought: where the hell am I? I had a feeling I was in my Aunt Flossie’s house, which I had liked as a child. I thought I must have passed out drunk.’ He laughs. ‘This was after the 14th treatment I think.’
When his wife came to see him he knew something was wrong but he did not know what it was. A nurse started to cry because she knew that his wife had divorced him while he had been in hospital. ‘The funny thing about insane people,’ he says, ‘is that it is kind of the opposite of being a celebrity. Nobody envies you.’
Pirsig was able to keep a tenuous grip on his former self, despite the treatment. He figured that if he told anyone he was in fact an enlightened Zen disciple, they would lock him up for 50 years. So he worked out a new strategy of getting his ideas across. He embarked on a book based on a motorcycle ride he made with his son, Chris, from Minnesota to the Dakotas in 1968. ‘It was a compulsive thing. It started out of a little essay. I wanted to write about motorcycling because I was having such fun doing it, and it grew organically from there.’
When the book came out, in 1974, edited down from 800,000 words, and having been turned down by 121 publishers, it seemed immediately to catch the need of the time. George Steiner in the New Yorker likened it to Moby Dick. Robert Redford tried to buy the film rights (Pirsig refused). It has since taken on a life of its own, and though parts feel dated, its quest for meaning still seems urgent. For Pirsig, however, it has become a tragic book in some ways. At the heart of it was his relationship with his son, Chris, then 12, who himself, unsettled by his father’s mania, seemed close to a breakdown. In 1979, aged 22, Chris was stabbed and killed by a mugger as he came out of the Zen Centre in San Francisco. Subsequent copies of the book have carried a moving afterword by Pirsig. ‘I think about him, have dreams about him, miss him still,’ he says now. ‘He wasn’t a perfect kid, he did a lot of things wrong, but he was my son …’
I ask what Chris thought of the book, and Pirsig’s face strains a little.
‘He didn’t like it. He said, “Dad, I had a good time on that trip. It was all false.” It threw him terribly. There is stuff I can’t talk about still. Katagiri Roshi, who helped me set up the Zen Centre in Minnesota, took him in hand in San Francisco. When Katagiri gave Chris’s funeral address tears were just running down his face. He suffered almost more than I did.’
When his son died, Pirsig was in England. He had sailed across the Atlantic with his second wife, Wendy Kimball, 22 years his junior, whom he had met when she had come to interview him on his boat. She has never disembarked. He was working at the time on Lila, the sequel to his first book, which further examines Phaedrus’s ideas in the context of a voyage along the Hudson, with Lila, a raddled Siren, as crew.
The book is bleaker, messier than Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, though it carries a lot of the charge of Pirsig’s restless mind. ‘If I wrote it today,’ he says, ‘it would be a much more cheerful book. But I was resolving things in Lila; the sadness of the past, and particularly Chris’s death, is there. Zen was quite an inspiring book, I think, but I wanted to go in the other direction with Lila and do something that explored a more sordid, depressing life …’
He hoped Lila would force the ‘metaphysics of quality’ from the New Age shelves to the philosophy ones, but that has not happened. Though a website dedicated to his ideas boasts 50,000 posts, and there have been outposts of academic interest, he is disappointed that his books have not had more mainstream attention. ‘Most academic philosophers ignore it, or badmouth it quietly, and I wondered why that was. I suspect it may have something to do with my insistence that “quality” can not be defined,’ he says.
This desire to be incorporated in a philosophy canon seems odd anyhow, since the power of Pirsig’s books lie in their dynamic personal quest for value, rather than any fixed statement of it. But maybe eventually every iconoclast wants to be accepted.
He still sails. He lives in rural New England and has just been up to the islands of Maine with his wife on the same boat that he describes in Lila – perfectly maintained, of course. He lives these days in cyberspace, he says, where his ideas circulate. He plans to learn to tango, and visit Buenos Aires. He’s just discovered YouTube. He doesn’t write any more, though, and he hardly reads. I wonder if that old depression ever returns?
‘I’ve been hit with it lately,’ he says. ‘It did not seem related to my life in any way. I have money, fame, a happy wife, our daughter Nell. But I did for the first time go to a psychiatrist. He said it’s a chemical imbalance and he prescribed some pills and the depression has gone.’
Otherwise, he says, he tries to live as best he can to the dictates of ‘his dharma’: to stay centred. I ask if he fears death.
‘I’m not depressed about it,’ he says. ‘If you read the 101 Zen Stories you will see that is characteristic. I really don’t mind dying because I figure I haven’t wasted this life. Up until my first book was published I had all this potential, people would say, and I screwed up. After it, I could say: No, I didn’t screw up.’
He smiles. ‘It was just that I was listening to a different drummer all along.’
Pirsig’s pearls
• The Buddha resides as comfortably in the circuits of a digital computer or the gears of a cycle transmission as he does at the top of a mountain.
• Metaphysics is a restaurant where they give you a 30,000 page menu and no food.
• Traditional scientific method has always been, at the very best, 20-20 hindsight. It’s good for seeing where you’ve been. It’s good for testing the truth of what you think you know, but it can’t tell you where you ought to go.
• Why, for example, should a group of simple, stable compounds of carbon, hydrogen, oxygen and nitrogen struggle for billions of years to organise themselves into a professor of chemistry? What’s the motive?
• The only Zen you find on the tops of mountains is the Zen you bring up there.
Now and Zen
Born 6 September 1928, Minneapolis.
Family Father was a law lecturer and mother was Swedish-born. Pirsig married Nancy Ann James in 1954. They had two sons: Chris, and Ted, now 48. Now married to journalist Wendy Kimball, with whom he has a 25-year-old daughter, Nell.
Education Judged to have an IQ of 170 at age nine. Went to University of Minneapolis at 15, but joined the army in 1946, serving in Korea before returning to the university to study philosophy. Then studied at Benares in India.
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance Appears in Guinness Book of Records as the bestselling book rejected by the largest number of publishers (121). Sold 5m copies worldwide.
• Lila is published by Alma Books (£7.99). A slipcased, signed limited edition is available at selected Waterstone’s (£45)