No, I do not intend to write about any mystical eastern philosophy, reasons for which you may understand later, if I find the time to explain them. Neither does this in any way concern motorcycle maintenance (or the lack thereof).
My chosen title is a tribute to a book I read a long time ago, considering the fact that I am still not old enough to be called old may explain to you why I didn’t really understand any of it. Even if I did understand something, my memories of it are shrouded by the mists of time, irretrievable, irrevocably lost.
What I do remember is that subsequent to my reading it, I spent a significant amount of time explaining to anyone who cared to listen, what an important book it was. Looking back, I can hardly blame myself, I was about 14 at the time, a very impressionable age I might add. The book itself contributed in no small part to my actions, the copy I possessed was bursting with self-importance (if that quality may be attributed to a book) from its solemn two-tone (purple and grey) cover to the reams of praise on the back. Like I said I don’t blame myself for falling for the trap the devious publishers had sprung on me.I never attempted to re-read the book even once I had reached a mature age where I may have been receptive to its content. Partly because I couldn’t forgive the book for having made me play the fool and partly because my interests had shifted, Zen, No! Motorcycle maintenance, maybe.
My chosen title is a tribute to a book I read a long time ago, considering the fact that I am still not old enough to be called old may explain to you why I didn’t really understand any of it. Even if I did understand something, my memories of it are shrouded by the mists of time, irretrievable, irrevocably lost.
What I do remember is that subsequent to my reading it, I spent a significant amount of time explaining to anyone who cared to listen, what an important book it was. Looking back, I can hardly blame myself, I was about 14 at the time, a very impressionable age I might add. The book itself contributed in no small part to my actions, the copy I possessed was bursting with self-importance (if that quality may be attributed to a book) from its solemn two-tone (purple and grey) cover to the reams of praise on the back. Like I said I don’t blame myself for falling for the trap the devious publishers had sprung on me.I never attempted to re-read the book even once I had reached a mature age where I may have been receptive to its content. Partly because I couldn’t forgive the book for having made me play the fool and partly because my interests had shifted, Zen, No! Motorcycle maintenance, maybe.
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