While I figured Zen would continue to develop as per the
motorcycle maintenance metaphor discussed from part one, I feel like I may not
be able to handle Pirsig’s next infusion of information. Part two kept the wheels turning and the audience
following what I counted at least three subject-centric story lines. We’ve got the our narrator, John, and Sylvia
traveling cross country, stories about Phaedrus, and a number of general
histories of things like institutional education and the differences between
Taoism and Buddhism. It’s interesting to
see just how much can be packed into a few short pages.
The first thing that jumped out at
me was the discussion of inductive and deductive logic. The text reads, “[i]nductive inferences start
with observations of the machine [subject] and arrive at general
conclusions. […] Deductive inferences do
the reverse. They start with general
knowledge and predict a specific observation” (107). While the narrator did a nice job with the
motorcycle examples, I instantly applied this to education—a trend I cannot
seem to shake. I feel like we as
students use far more inductive logic than deductive, but we came into our
freshman courses relying on the latter.
We started with this general knowledge of how to learn, how to accept
being taught, how to critically analyze the new information we were being
fed. As the semesters passed, we shed
our former inclinations in adoption of fresher ones that better fit our new
educational surroundings. As we have
gotten older and put more under our belts, we’ve steadily started to rely more
on experience than general knowledge.
Sure, both play a role in furthering our education so it’s kind of a
mixed bag in that sense. I feel like we
are students with enough experience to elevate us from general knowledge to a
mastery of knowledge.
As an extension of this logic, the
text referred to Phaedrus’ lateral knowledge as a means of further
explanation. The text reads, “[l]ateral
knowledge is knowledge that’s from a wholly unexpected direction, from a
direction that’s not even understood as a direction until the knowledge forces
itself upon one” (121-2). This seems to
refer to the need to broaden one’s focus to understand something specific as to
understand it in context rather than by its simple definition. Maybe this was not exactly what the narrator
was going for, but I think back to vocabulary tests from middle and high school
(and even some college courses). Sure
you can memorize a term and its definition, but it will be rendered useless
outside of that classroom if it is not applied appropriately. These terms and other subjects need to be
contextually defined and cannot be limited to understanding through a single
lens. People need understand in their
own way using the lateral knowledge described in Zen—though it may not be so easily activated and comes often
without prior planning or notice.
The narrator made an interesting
point about dedication in regard to something one has confidence in. “When people are fanatically dedicated,” the
text reads, “to political or religious faiths or any other kinds of dogmas or
goals, it’s always because these dogmas or goals are in doubt” (152). Once again I considered our educations when
reading this. None of us seem to have to
emphatically state graduation is our ultimate goal—something that will make all
these man-hours of education worthwhile.
I suppose it could be argued there is still a benefit to taking courses
even if no degree awaits its completion, but that seems like a fanciful
argument. I’m all but certain I’ll be at
commencement and really don’t have to think twice about it, otherwise I would
not be here. So does this mean I am not dedicated to my sure-to-graduate
education? That’s a hard sell.
The last chapter of the section
talked a lot about the idea of quality. This one actually centered itself on
writing as an example, so my cross-comparisons became a little easier. Phaedrus was not alone with his troubles in
the school setting. It would seem like
the highest quality of writing would be the kind that finds the appropriate
balance of spelling, grammar, syntax, and
content, among others, but this is so infrequently stressed. Each course I’ve encountered has had a
central focus—usually content based—and requires quality writing but never really says just what that means. Say my sentence structure is totally out of
whack and there are contractions all over the page, but this specific piece of
writing is based on a relevant and interesting topic and is written well, just
not correctly based on a standard. Can
it not be a quality piece? Can a
beautifully composed piece of total fluff be considered quality? The narrator has yet to answer questions
similar to these. I’m anxious to see
what he has to say in the coming chapters.
Here’s a link to a presentation on
writing quality that actually uses Zen as
an example.
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