Many of Western philosophy’s greatest texts have run to hundreds of thousands of words. Some of the deepest works of Zen philosophy have been written in the form of three-line poems. Haikus, as these are known, contain three parts, two images and a concluding line which helps to juxtapose them. The best-known haiku in Japanese philosophy is called ‘Old Pond’, by Matsuo Bashō: 'Old pond / A frog leaps in / Water’s sound.' It is all (deceptively) simple – and yet contains, when one is in the right frame of mind, a gracious call to redemptive reverie. Here is another by him: 'Violets / how precious on / a mountain path.' Bashō believed that poetry could ideally allow one to feel a brief sensation of merging with the natural world. One might become – through language – the rock, the water, the stars, leading one to an enlightened and prized frame of mind known to Zen Buddhist philosophers as muga, or ‘a loss-of-awareness-of-oneself’.
It’s a truth universally acknowledged that a normal person in search of a holiday will enjoy skiing; they will delight in bracing mountain air, thrill at going down mogul dotted slopes and feel pleasantly exhausted after a day of parallel turns. This assumption about pleasure joins a host of others proposed by the modern world. Normal people will equally enjoy white wine, the Amalfi coast, the novels of Margaret Atwood, dogs, high heels, small children, Miami beach, oral sex, Banksy, marriage, Netflix and vegetarianism. We may legitimately delight in all of these elements; the issue lies in the immense pressure we are under to do so. The truth about ourselves may, in reality, be a great deal more mysterious than the official narrative allows. Whatever our commitments to decorum and good order, we may in our depths be far more distinctive than we’re supposed to be. We may — once we become sensitive to our faint tremors of authentic delight and boredom — hate the idea of jogging, the the...

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