Zen-Brain Reflections [Paperback]

I had high hopes when I got this book, but as I read through it I became increasingly disappointed. It has a few merits, but many more flaws. They include:

1) It is terribly organized. A quick glance at the table of contents reveals that the text is composed of 102 chapters. Simple division reveals that the average chapter length is about four and a half pages. That alone is odd. But consider the subjects of some of the chapters that are side by side: for some reason the author thought it was appropriate to put a 3 page chapter about the physiology of breathing (chapter 20, "Breathing In; Breathing Out") right before a 3.5 page chapter about the enigmatic Zen riddles known as Koans (chapter 21, "A Quest for 'No' Answers"). The quotes leading into each chapter demonstrate how sudden and unpleasant of a jolt this is. Chapter 21 opens with the quote "Thoracic respiration gradually shifts to the abdominal and turns into a predominance of the abdominal respiration with the progress of the meditation" (58). (Why is that even significant enough to merit a special, partitioned quote?) And then, 3 pages later, we have the opening quote, "Koan study is essentially a skillful means to really make us question what this life is, until we fully resolve the question" (61). This is a nice quote, but hard to take in right after reading about opioid pathways and abdominal muscles. I understand that this book attempts to fuse two subjects that are difficult to reconcile--namely technical neuroscience with a highly abstract, religious idea system--but crunching together breathing mechanics and zen koans in the span of 7 pages, without either section referring to the other, is not the way to do it. Austin would benefit from reading "On the Origin of Stories" by Brian Boyd, which is a masterful synthesis of evolutionary theory, brain science, and fiction. It shows that disparate subjects can be combined in a user friendly fashion.

2) Zen Brain Reflections is not particularly thoughtful, philosophical, or insightful. Take chapter 65, a 2.5 chapter about mirror neurons and empathy (directly preceded by a pointless, 2 page chapter about spiritual teachers who commit sexual transgressions). In said chapter, which is emblematic of much of the book, Austin says "The few examples cited in this chapter and elsewhere barely introduce the range of topics that might arise with relation to the 'empathies' and 'theories of mind.' Worth noting in any book about Zen, however..." (269). Hold on! Such core human characteristics as empathy and theory of mind are not worth examining? ANY book about the brain and human experience should take at least a few pages to summarize these concepts, as they are FUNDAMENTAL to how we experience the world. A book about Zen and the brain, no less, should fully flesh out these concepts because they strongly relate to aspects of Zen. For example, consider that Zen is about mindfulness. Next consider the fact that we humans are ultra social creatures who constantly use our theory of mind to think about social dynamics--about what others think of us, what they think that we think, what they will think if we do x, y, or z, and so on. Anyone who has tried mindfulness will be surprised by the constant swarm of frantic thoughts regarding other people's minds that dominates consciousness. The "monkey mind" that Zen seeks to tame is fueled largely by our theory of mind imperative, and thus we would do well to understand theory of mind, such that we can appropriately deal with it in pursuit of Zen ideals. Is this too philosophical of me? I don't think so. Austin, in contrast, focuses almost exlusively on the interface between neural structures and Zen. Theory of mind is too complex to be neurally pinpointed, and so Austin essentially ignores it. There are other concepts as well that Austin disappointingly shuns in favor of neurotransmitters and other technical details, which gives the book a lackluster feel indeed.

If you are able to read page upon page of extremely dense, technical jargon about neuroscience, then this book is for you. If not, you will probably be better off reading about Zen and the brain separately, so you can connect the dots for yourself.

There are plenty of lessons to be taken from this book. Lessons about zen, learning, education, brain science, and what it means to be aware of yourself.

It is, however, not very readable, in the sense that it is very abstract and terse sometimes. But it does pass the torpor test[1]. That means that it is a hard quest, but one with a great reward.

A small fragment from the book summarizes its quality:

One of these Kyoto-trained Zen teachers taught me a basic lesson about myself. A simple, dramatic demonstration showed me how strong was my own I-Me-Mine. It happened during an informal private interview before our retreat began.

We had conversed for a while. Then, he took a short, dark, wooden stick from his lap and placed it down on the low table in front of us. It caught my eye immediately. No ordinary wood was this, but a wonderfully aged, irregularly shaped stick, obviously an antique object. This work of art, about a foot long and perhaps an inch and a half in diameter, exemplified wabi-sabi. Its mellow patina conveyed associations with long use and advanced age. No word was spoken, yet the roshi's nod obviously invited me to pick it up.

I did. Turning it over and around in both hands, I then held it horizontally with my right hand at one end, slowly admiring it as I had the other antique objects during that earlier ceremony in Kyoto.

Surprise! In one swift act, the Roshi reached across and suddenly grabbed the free end, eyes twinkling as he did so. And almost as fast, without thinking, as my grasp reflex tightened, I found myself locked into a semi-mock tussle with the rightful owner of this antique treasure!

It was an impromptu tug of war, neither of us moving that stick very far in either direction. The strength of his pull just sufficed to neutralize mine. So there we were, like two boys at play, tugging on his beautiful stick!

Soon enough, it dawned on me: How could I possibly dispute his owner- ship!? Yielding, and relinquishing my grasp, I found we were both smiling when our brief mock play session ended.

A simple unexpected demonstration: Yes, I had longed to go on admiring his beautiful stick. He had (playfully) thwarted Me from doing so. I had behaved like it was Mine, and had grasped the stick reflexly. The greedy grasp of the I-Me- Mine was nakedly on display.

Words were unnecessary. I had been educated. I had done more than observe the full extent of my own instinctual tendency to grasp things. I had felt the strength of my attachment in my muscles, joints, and sinews.

[1] Basically, after exposure to the work, do people care less about the subject than they did before? Taken from Weinberg on Writing: The Fieldstone Method.

Very interesting content but not well written - difficult to read. Often wondered exactly what point he was trying to make. Worth getting if you're interested in the subject matter though as it's a unique review in this area (to my knowledge).