Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance - Plot & Excerpts
Today we should arrive at the school, the place where an enormous coalescence of things occurred, and I'm already feeling tense. I remember reading once about an archeological excavation in the Near East, learning about the archeologist's feelings when he opened the forgotten tombs for the first time in thousands of years. Now I feel like some archeologist myself. The sagebrush down the canyon now toward Livingston is like sagebrush you see all the way from here into Mexico. This morning sunlight is the same as yesterday's except warmer and softer now that we're at a lower altitude again. There is nothing unusual. It's just this archeological feeling that the calmness of the surroundings conceals things. A haunted place. I really don't want to go there. I'd just as soon turn around and go back. Just tension, I guess. It fits one of the fragments of this memory, in which many mornings the tension was so intense he would throw up everything before he got to his first classroom.
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