Excerpt from the novel Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert M. Parsig

I don’t know how well DeWeese knew him, and what memories he’ll expect me to share. I’ve gone through this before with others and have usually been able to gloss over awkward moments. The reward each time has been an expansion of knowledge about Phaedrus that has greatly aided further impersonation, and which over the years has supplied the bulk of the information I’ve been presenting here.
     From what fragments of memory I have, Phaedrus had a high regard for DeWeese because he didn’t understand him. For Phaedrus, failure to understand something created tremendous interest and DeWeese’s attitudes were fascinating. They seemed all haywire. Phaedrus would say something he thought was pretty funny and DeWeese would look at him in a puzzled way or else take him seriously. Other times Phaedrus would say something that was very serious and of deep concern, and DeWeese would break up laughing, as though he had cracked the cleverest joke he had ever heard.
     For example, there is the fragment of memory about a dining-room table whose edge veneer had come loose and which Phaedrus had reglued. He held the veneer in place while the glue set by wrapping a whole ball of string around the table, round and round and round.
     DeWeese saw the string and wondered what that was all about.
     “That’s my latest sculpture,” Phaedrus had said. “Don’t you think it kind of builds?”
     Instead of laughing, DeWeese looked at him with amazement, studied it for a long time and finally said, “Where did you learn all this?”
     For a second Phaedrus thought he was continuing the joke, but he was serious.
     Another time Phaedrus was upset about some failing students. Walking home with DeWeese under some trees he had commented on it and DeWeese had wondered why he took it so personally.
     “I’ve wondered too,” Phaedrus had said, and in a puzzled voice had added, “I think maybe it’s because every teacher tends to grade up students who resemble him the most. If your own writing shows neat penmanship you regard that more important in a student than if it doesn’t. If you use big words you’re going to like students who write with big words.”
     “Sure. What’s wrong with that?” DeWeese had said.
     “Well, there’s something whacky here,” Phaedrus had said, “because the students I like the most, the ones I really feel a sense of identity with, are all failing!”
     DeWeese had completely broken up with laughter at this and left Phaedrus feeling miffed. He had seen it as a kind of scientific phenomenon that might offer clues leading to new understanding, and DeWeese had just laughed.
     At first he thought DeWeese was just laughing at his unintended insult to himself. But that didn’t fit because DeWeese wasn’t a derogatory kind of person at all. Later he saw it was a kind of supertruth laugh. The best students always are flunking. Every good teacher knows that. It was a kind of laughter that destroys tensions produced by impossible situations and Phaedrus could have used some of it because at this time he was taking things way too seriously.
     These enigmatic responses of DeWeese gave Phaedrus the idea that DeWeese had access to a huge terrain of hidden understanding. DeWeese always seemed to be concealing something. He was hiding something from him, and Phaedrus couldn’t figure out what it was.
     Then comes a strong fragment, the day when he discovered DeWeese seemed to have the same puzzled feeling about him.
     A light switch in DeWeese’s studio didn’t work and he asked Phaedrus if he knew what was wrong with it. He had a slightly embarrassed, slightly puzzled smile on his face, like the smile of an art patron talking to a painter. The patron is embarrassed to reveal how little he knows but is smiling with the expectation of learning more. Unlike the Sutherlands, who hate technology, DeWeese is so far removed from it he didn’t feel it any particular menace. DeWeese was actually a technology buff, a patron of the technologies. He didn’t understand them, but he knew what he liked, and he always enjoyed learning more.
     He had the illusion the trouble was in the wire near the bulb because immediately upon toggling the switch the light went out. If the trouble had been in the switch, he felt, there would have been a lapse of time before the trouble showed up in the bulb. Phaedrus did not argue with this, but went across the street to the hardware store, bought a switch and in a few minutes had it installed. It worked immediately, of course, leaving DeWeese puzzled and frustrated. “How did you know the trouble was in the switch?” he asked.
     “Because it worked intermittently when I jiggled the switch.”
     “Well—couldn’t it jiggle the wire?”
     “No.”
     Phaedrus’ cocksure attitude angered DeWeese and he started to argue. “How do you know all that?” he said.
     “It’s obvious.”
     “Well then, why didn’t I see it?”
     “You have to have some familiarity.”
     “Then it’s not obvious, is it?”
     DeWeese always argued from this strange perspective that made it impossible to answer him. This was the perspective that gave Phaedrus the idea DeWeese was concealing something from him. It wasn’t until the very end of his stay in Bozeman that he thought he saw, in his own analytic and methodical way, what that perspective was.