A tribute to Robert M. Pirsig

This is a photograph of author and philosopher Robert M. Pirsig taken by Ian Glendinning at Chester, England on 7th July 2005

Talking in some depth about things that seem important – by J A R Willis

This article appeared in the December 2000 issue of Medical Humanities in the series Medicine through the Novel.  It is repeated here as a tribute to one of my greatest inspirations – Robert M. Pirsig – who died two days ago (24 April 2017)

‘Unless you are fond of hollering you don’t make great conversations on a running cycle. Instead you spend your time being aware of things and meditating on them. On sights and sounds, on the mood of the weather and things remembered, on the machine and the countryside you’re in, thinking about things at great leisure and length without being hurried and without feeling that you are losing time.’ (p 17 of 416)

The gentle voice is incredibly familiar, heard now for the third time, a voice that seems to have got itself into my deepest being.

Not that I came to the book very quickly. I never do. It had all the hallmarks of a fashion, way back in the early seventies when people used to talk about it.  Zen – motorcycles – ugh. All far too flower-powery for me. But I’ve made up for it since.

I can’t remember who persuaded me to try it, but when I eventually did I understood enough of it to want to read it again. Very carefully. In fact I highlighted great chunks of it the second time, in a rather ugly, green highlighter, and then lent the copy to somebody and never saw it again. Which is just as well, I don’t think highlighter is the way to summarise an odyssey, to capture the sound of that motorcycle in the empty vastness of minor-road prairie America, or the voice of Pirsig as he quietly unfolds the many purposes of his wonderful book. His sensing of that coming storm (the returning ghost) long before the first thin line of cloud is visible on the far horizon. Long before his son, Chris, close behind him on the bike but terribly distant, senses it, or their travelling companions John and Sylvia do, up the road ahead on their expensive BMW. Of whose surface they are so proud, but of whose inner workings they have no understanding at all.

‘What I would like to do now is use the time that is coming now to talk about some things that have come to mind. We’re in such a hurry most of the time we never get much chance to talk. The result is a kind of endless day-to-day shallowness, a monotony that leaves a person wondering years later where all the time went and sorry that it’s all gone. Now that we do have some time, and know it, I would like to use the time to talk in some depth about things that seem important.’ (p 17)

The first time you read the book it takes you (at least it took me) practically the whole of it to be sure that the extraneous third person he calls Phaedrus, whom he shares with us but with no one in the book (except, gradually, with Chris) is in fact himself. One track of his Odyssey is this agonised rediscovery of the part of his mind which, before his breakdown and his ablative ECT therapy, used to be a brilliant, radical professor of rhetoric, IQ 170, obsessed with the meaning of Quality. By which he meant the Good. By which he meant the God. By which he meant the Buddha. By which he meant the Tao.

With us as his confidant Pirsig revisits the classrooms where the epic confrontations of this Phaedrus, both student and teacher, occurred. We watch him inch open the long-locked lid of the box of Phaedrus’ ideas. Dangerous, exciting, compelling ideas which once convinced him that the world was insane; and which convinced the world he was. Together we excavate for the buried foundations of his certainty that ancient Greek philosophers took a desperately-important wrong turning when they swept aside the softer teachings of the Sophists they replaced.  ‘Truth won,  the Good lost, and that is why today we have so little difficulty accepting the reality of truth and so much difficulty accepting the reality of Quality, even though there is no more agreement in one area than in the other.’ (p 375)

The tragedy is that Pirsig wrote his book in the seventies believing, and rightly, that Phaedrus’ ideas would fall on more receptive minds than they had in the fifties when their author first tried to propound them. He expected this trend towards enlightenment would continue, but of course we know that it hasn’t. In the seventies it would have been thought madness to suggest that medical practice could be defined by rigid rules. Today it is our tragedy to live at a time when this bizarre idea is the orthodoxy, held with frightening certainty by those on high, and it is to think otherwise that is now thought mad, and those who do so are rejected as completely as Phaedrus ever was.

Of course, the beauty of the book is its balance, caught so neatly in its famous title. The art of motorcycle maintenance. What could be more technical than a motorcycle? If there is art here, surely it must be everywhere!   Q, as they say, E.D.

So, Pirsig makes it clear beyond the slightest doubt that he is a superb technician; that is what makes it so difficult to ignore what he says about abstract things. It is transparently obvious that he knows what he is talking about when he describes how to cope with the setback of assembling an engine in the wrong order and then having to take it apart again. Similarly he knows exactly why a ‘shim’ cut from an aluminium beer-can will make a perfect solution to the slight looseness of John’s handlebars, although John can’t accept such defilement of his precious BMW and prefers to leave the handlebars loose, perhaps for ever.  “I was seeing what the shim meant.”  Pirsig patiently explains. “He was seeing what the shim was.” (p 60)

In just the same way he obviously knows what he is doing when he hikes into the mountains with his son. He had spent a lot of time hiking in the mountains in his former self. To Chris’ disgust he ducks the summit this time, partly because of increasing rock-falls but partly because he has reached a peak in his own mind, which is what he really set out to achieve. But as they descend, far from any track, a step at a time, hacking through dense woods with a machete, we have no doubt he is going to find his way back to the road.

In just the same way Pirsig knows what he is talking about on the abstract things, the philosophy stuff. The irony of the book is that we know, perhaps more than he does himself, that the quiet voice we are listening to comes straight from that brilliant mind and not just from a humble technical author, which is what he says he is now content to be:

What you’ve got here, really, are two realities, one of immediate artistic appearance and one of underlying scientific explanation, and they don’t match and they don’t fit and they don’t really have much of anything to do with one another. That’s quite a situation. You might say there’s a little problem here. (p 63)

The relevance of this book to our present-day situation seems to me impossible to exaggerate. This is a view with which contemporary critics concurred. To pick out isolated extracts is my job, but of course it’s a distortion. Nonetheless, try this for size:

‘It’s the style that gets you; technological ugliness syruped over with romantic phoniness in an attempt to produce beauty and profit by people who, though stylish, don’t know where to start because no one has ever told them there’s such a thing as Quality in this world and it’s real, not style. Quality isn’t something you lay on top of objects like tinsel on a Christmas tree. Real Quality must be the source of the subjects and objects, the cone from which the tree must start… (Page 296)

Or this:

‘My personal feeling is that this is how any further improvement of the world will be done: by individuals making Quality decisions and that’s all. God, I don’t want to have any more enthusiasm for big programs full of social planning for big masses of people that leave individual Quality out. These can be left alone for a while. There’s a place for them but they’ve got to be built on a foundation of Quality within the individuals involved. We’ve had that individual Quality in the past, exploited it as a natural resource without knowing it, and now it’s just about depleted. Everyone’s just about out of gumption. And I think it’s about time to return to the rebuilding of this American resource – individual worth. There are political reactionaries who’ve been saying something close to this for years. I’m not one of them, but to the extent they’re talking about real individual worth and not just an excuse for giving more money to the rich, they’re right. We do need a return to individual integrity, self-reliance and old-fashioned gumption. We really do. I hope that in this Chautauqua some directions have been pointed to.’ (Page 362)

Chris likes ghost stories and his father says he can’t remember any, ‘Go to sleep’. But he knows really he is writing about ghosts; this ghost of his former self; the ghosts of the Sophists philosophers; the ghost in the machine, that perhaps most of all. And he is writing about journeys; this journey across half of America, which I have on this third reading marked with trail of ‘push-pins’ on my Encarta Atlas (at last finding something the computer map does well); then this journey of discovery of his former self, then this journey in his relationship with his son; then this journey towards greater understanding of reality – which is the mysterious purpose of our lives.

The scene which from my first reading always seemed the centre of the book comes surprisingly near the end (pages 359-60 of my 416 page edition). It is the one where a taciturn and monosyllabic mechanic in Grants Pass, Oregon, barely 70 miles from the Pacific coast, performs what seemed to be an impossible welding job on a torn metal chain-guard after a replacement had been found to be unobtainable. The description of that lone man’s exquisite and totally unselfconscious artistry is beautifully done and impossible to render out of context. You need to have travelled those weary roads.

‘Can I have a motorcycle when I get old enough?’, says Chris, on the penultimate page.

‘If you take care of it.’

‘What do you have to do?’

‘Lot’s of things. You’ve been watching me.’

‘Will you show me all of them?’


‘Is it hard?’

‘Not if you have the right attitudes. It’s having the right attitudes that’s hard.’

Pirsig convinces, utterly, that in motorcycle maintenance, of all superbly-chosen examples, the art is more fundamental than the science. It’s having the right attitudes that matters. So, we must ask ourselves, how much more must this apply to medicine! How could we ever have been so blind as to think otherwise! Perhaps our greatest contemporary folly has been to forget to work on those attitudes. Perhaps a journal of medical humanities is a big step in the right direction. I certainly hope so.

Back, then, one and a half thousand miles to North Dakota and to the middle of Chapter Three. The two bikes have exchanged a signal and decided to run for it to escape that looming storm he had seen coming two chapters earlier. Pirsig describes the way they pick up speed. Seventy… eighty… eighty five…  The road verge blurring, going out of focus. Ninety miles an hour. The machine running superbly. That tight, ‘packed’, high-rev sound that shows the engine he maintains so lovingly is perfectly tuned. And then:

‘A flash and Ka-wham! Of thunder, one right on top of the other. That shook me, and Chris has got his head against my back. A few warning drops of rain … at this speed they are like needles . A second flash-WHAM and everything brilliant … and then in the brilliance of the next flash that farmhouse … that windmill … oh, my God, he’s been here! … throttle off … this is his road … a fence and trees … and the speed drops to seventy, then sixty, then fifty five and I hold it there.’ (p 38)

‘Why did you slow down, Dad?’ Says Chris that evening, when they are safe and dry. ‘Sylvia said she thought you saw a ghost.’

He did see a ghost; Phaedrus has arrived in the story.

Grandmother’s clock

grandmas-clock-caseThe old hall clock struck four at twenty minutes to six this morning. And then five at six. It’s almost like a code – but, as my wife points out, without that element of consistency which codes require to make them really useful.
I mention this because, endearingly, the old thing behaved itself perfectly all through this Christmas. I had finally given up on it a couple of years ago (when it struck something like twenty five at something like seventeen minutes past three) and since then it had stood, a beloved but silent sentinel, in the hall of our home. But this year, when I was putting the seasonal holly and tinsel in its hair, I suddenly had a whim to give it another try.
I hauled the weight up on its chain and circled the ancient hands to set the time, and as I did so I noticed with surprise that the correct number rang out as they passed each hour. So I gave the pendulum its little push and tiptoed away, pleased that I had restored, if only for a short time, the house’s ticking heart. But, as I’ve just said, it then surprised us by keeping time and striking the hours correctly right through the new year, asking only to be wound each night on my way upstairs to bed.
The way this happened was really quite weird, because now the festive season is over and we have hit 2017, it immediately reverted to being just as erratic as ever.
It used to stand in the hallway of the Cotswold farmhouse when my wife’s deceased mother grew up a hundred years ago, and she used to tell us it never worked properly then.
grandma's-clock-faceIts face proudly proclaims that it was made by S. Simms of Chipping Norton, a town a short distance away from them by their horse and cart. So this was never a Thomas Tomkins masterpiece, yet it has a kind of rustic honesty which we can’t help respecting and cherishing, even when it doesn’t go. And not just because of its family connections.
Not that we haven’t tried: We sent it away to a clock-maker once and he said it was ‘dry’ and oiled it. His cure didn’t last long and one of my brothers repeated the process when he was staying with us. It was the sort of thing he was good at and, removing the pendulum and weight, lifting the mechanism out of the case, removing the face and hands by pulling out various little metal pins, he cradled the gleaming brass mechanism in a cushion on the dining room table and then spent ages delicately touching all the bearings inside with a little paintbrush dipped in 3 in 1 oil.
Mysterious inner workings

That worked for a time as well, and after it had once again been playing up I eventually plucked up courage and made the effort to take it to bits myself and copy what he had done. I may even have done this a second time a few years later, but in the end I gave up and the poor old thing seemed to have fallen silent for good.

Until, that is, I did the most dreadful thing you can imagine – in a moment of wild irresponsibility I just lifted the top off the case and blasted aerosol WD40 into the movement from both sides.
To my utter shame this cowardly, lazy and sacrilegious act restored the clock immediately and completely to perfect health, which lasted at least as long as any of the previous attempts to do the job properly had done.
When we moved home three years ago we propped the clock carefully upright in our new hall (we found that old pennies were perfect for putting under the feet to make it vertical, in case you ever find that helpful) and once again had a few goes at getting it going. But in the end our patience flagged and we gave up the struggle and left it silent from then on.
Until this Christmas in fact. Which is why, with no further intervention at all, it seemed so strange that it ran properly for almost two weeks before reverting to its former eccentricity.
And now I have to tell you the shameful truth that since starting to write this little piece I decided to repeat the WD40 treatment. I absolutely soaked the whole mechanism until it was dripping.  And once again, ever since, the clock is chiming all the right hours at exactly the right times.
S. Simms of Chipping Norton must be turning in his grave on every accurately signaled hour.
Naturally, this story raises all sorts of important philosophical points. For one thing, it reminds us how rare and precious it is these days to be able to actually see how something works. At least in theory, and when the reasons they don’t work, as here, are so deeply mysterious. It is the same when you take the front off a real piano and let the grandchildren see the hammers and the dampers and the chain of beautifully crafted intermediaries which follow from their pressing the ivory keys.
It would be quite worrying if a generation were to grow up who had no expectation that they might be able to understand how a thing works. And I think showing kids the insides of a ‘real’ clock does something to compensate for this.
And another thing – the modern world does have many wonderful innovations – like WD40 – which really are progress. Provided we use them wisely and try to understand what we are doing, they help us to combine the best of the old with the best of the new.
The final solution

Entente Cordiale never more important

How to celebrate the 10th anniversary of our twinning with the town of Pertuis, Provence, way down there in the glorious south of France? And return the compliment of their having named a major roundabout

(circle in American, Rond-Point in French) after us, showing the genuine warmth of their appreciation of the link with Alton.

Well, by a sheer stroke of serendipity, there was a second bird, as one might say, just waiting to be killed with this stone. Because, by a curious historical anomaly, Alton has for some years rejoiced in the possession of two parallel roads both called Whitedown Lane. That’s more Whitedown Lanes, you must agree, than any town strictly needs.

OS map showing too many  Whitedown Lanes

And, by a further happy chance, one of these two Whitedown Lanes was completely devoid of houses, so that nobody would have to change their postal address were it to be renamed – obviously a no no if it had been otherwise.

So, the responsible authorities swiftly agreed the proposal, new road signs were ordered and erected, Google (if not as yet the OS) updated their map,

Pertuis Avenue on the (Google) map

and the unveiling of the new road sign was arranged for the Saturday morning of the Anniversary visit by two dozen of our friends from Provence – the 22nd October. Just over a week ago.

First thing that morning I loaded the car with potted greenery and set off to join Don in decorating the sign, leaving Lesley to finish breakfast with our two French house guests

Not quite the breakfast Ramond and Simone  gave us in Pertuis last year

and then take them to the Mayor’s reception in the Town Hall.

Nearly ready for the unveiling

It is an amusing thought that Altonians will have as much difficulty pronouncing Pertuis Avenue as  Pertuisians presumably have with Rond-Point d’Alton.

But less amusingly, while I was bending to plant the flags you see on the left of this picture, a bag of rubbish thrown from a passing car bounced off my shoulder. Which interested me, because the marksman either showed astonishingly quick reactions coming round the corner, or, much more probably, took the trouble to get his driver to turn round and come past again for the sole purpose of expressing his (I assume his) xenophobic venom. Which suggests a level of calculated malice sufficient to raise an appreciative editorial eyebrow  at the Dailies Mail or Express. Indeed, should either of these publications wish to award a prize, the till receipt from the Petersfield MacDonalds which the lobber thoughtfully enclosed in his grubby bundle might help them in tracking him down. (Funny that – Petersfield says more ‘Telegraph’ to me, but ‘Daily’, just the same.)

I had these thoughts during the hour I spent guarding (yes, in these Brexit times it did seem to be necessary) the site,


while Don, in his capacity as Twinning Association Chairman, joined the meeting in the Town Hall.

Passers-by, hearing why I was grumpy, fell over themselves to cheer me up – “Here – let me take the rubbish so that you can forget about it” “That sounds wonderful, I was just setting off for Dartmoor but I love France and I’ll stay for the ceremony” (She did, plus her dog) “Can I get you a cup of tea?” To which – “How very kind of you, but there isn’t a loo…”

The happy Ceremony

That afternoon, in the town, was endlessly heart-warming. Everyone seemed to know about the Anniversary visit. Walking with our guests around King’s Pond, we introduced them at random to a lady with two children feeding the ducks near us and found that she was an enthusiast for twinning, and that her son was corresponding, through school, with a contact in Pertuis. And the little son who was with her, probably no more than five, had learned a few words of French and exchanged them, in an utterly charming scene, with our visitors.

Happy faces at the dinner at the end of the weekend

On the way back from leaving Simon and Raymond at their coach on Monday morning, I stopped to photograph the three flags flying on the Alton War Memorial flag poles, a symbol of our better selves, and of hope for the future.

Entente cordiale never more important

Tomorrow’s EU referendum- the need to listen to the experts

Does the panel agree with Michael Gove that we’ve had enough of experts?

That was the question I submitted in advance for the EU referendum debate in Alton Assembly Rooms this Monday evening. Unfortunately it was left to the very end – in fact five minutes after the very end (timed for the England/Slovenia match) – and the panel were asked to give it a one-word answer.

I had been hoping for more than that.

I had chosen my question, after much thought, specifically to Continue reading Tomorrow’s EU referendum- the need to listen to the experts

Las Vegas to Calgary in four weeks, and a story with a moral

Our route

Our Route
Blue – self-drive car    Red – rail   Green – bus

The above image is a still from the interactive Google map of our route which can be accessed by clicking this link. If you do that you can zoom down to the detail of where we went and/or superimpose the Satellite view.

Some facts and figures

Modes of travel:
Plane:London to Las Vegas 10 hours BA
Calgary to London 7½ hours Air Canada on a Boeing 787-9 Dreamliner. Continue reading Las Vegas to Calgary in four weeks, and a story with a moral

Technical gadgets and gizmos on the trip

I do have some technical experience to share if anyone is contemplating a trip of the kind described in these posts of the last four weeks. And the usual disclaimers apply that I am not an expert and this may all be second nature to many readers. However, here goes: Continue reading Technical gadgets and gizmos on the trip

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