背包裡放著西線無戰事
回到陌生的家裡
昨天我說Davie Rennie引述
Madill et al. (2008)質性研究
有卅二種路數
而量性研究從頭到尾
只有一種
所以去天堂的路只有一條
那邊一路高速
呼嘯壅塞
而去地獄的的路至少三十二條
那邊鄉間小路blackbird
蜿蜒猶有自然可言
這件事
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry into Values (ZAMM)
Robert M Pirsig (1974)就已說過
https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B5viXpvvYMYEd1I3OThPT1lGcVk/view?usp=sharing
https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B5viXpvvYMYEd1I3OThPT1lGcVk/view?usp=sharing
一開始
他是這麼說的
他是這麼說的
We are in an area of the Central Plains filled with thousands of duck
hunting sloughs, heading northwest from Minneapolis toward the Dakotas. This highway is an old concrete two-laner that hasn’t had
much traffic since a four-laner went in parallel to it several years ago.
I’m happy to be riding back into this country. It is a kind of nowhere, famous for nothing at all and has an appeal because of just that.
... He grabs the back of my helmet and hollers up, "I’ve seen lots of those, Dad!"
"Oh!" I holler back. Then I nod. At age eleven you don’t get very impressed with red-winged blackbirds.
You have to get older for that. For me this is all mixed with memories that he doesn’t have. Cold mornings long ago when the marsh grass had turned brown and cattails were waving in the northwest wind. The pungent smell then was from muck stirred up by hip boots while we were getting in position for the sun to come up and the duck season to open. Or winters when the sloughs were frozen over and dead and I could walk across the ice and snow between the dead cattails and see nothing but grey skies and dead things and cold. The blackbirds were gone then. But now in July they’re back and everything is at its alivest and every foot of these sloughs is humming and cricking and buzzing and chirping, a whole community of millions of living things living out their lives in a kind of benign continuum.
You see things vacationing on a motorcycle in a way that is completely different from any other. In a car you’re always in a compartment, and because you’re used to it you don’t realize that through that car window everything you see is just more TV. You’re a passive observer and it is all moving by you boringly in a frame.
On a cycle the frame is gone. You’re completely in contact with it all. You’re in the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence is overwhelming. That concrete whizzing by five inches below your foot is the real thing, the same stuff you walk on, it’s right there, so blurred you can’t focus on it, yet you can put your foot down and touch it anytime, and the whole thing, the whole experience, is never removed from immediate consciousness.
... He grabs the back of my helmet and hollers up, "I’ve seen lots of those, Dad!"
"Oh!" I holler back. Then I nod. At age eleven you don’t get very impressed with red-winged blackbirds.
You have to get older for that. For me this is all mixed with memories that he doesn’t have. Cold mornings long ago when the marsh grass had turned brown and cattails were waving in the northwest wind. The pungent smell then was from muck stirred up by hip boots while we were getting in position for the sun to come up and the duck season to open. Or winters when the sloughs were frozen over and dead and I could walk across the ice and snow between the dead cattails and see nothing but grey skies and dead things and cold. The blackbirds were gone then. But now in July they’re back and everything is at its alivest and every foot of these sloughs is humming and cricking and buzzing and chirping, a whole community of millions of living things living out their lives in a kind of benign continuum.
You see things vacationing on a motorcycle in a way that is completely different from any other. In a car you’re always in a compartment, and because you’re used to it you don’t realize that through that car window everything you see is just more TV. You’re a passive observer and it is all moving by you boringly in a frame.
On a cycle the frame is gone. You’re completely in contact with it all. You’re in the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence is overwhelming. That concrete whizzing by five inches below your foot is the real thing, the same stuff you walk on, it’s right there, so blurred you can’t focus on it, yet you can put your foot down and touch it anytime, and the whole thing, the whole experience, is never removed from immediate consciousness.
