The concept is funny, but the joke does eventually get old, so it would be a 3 star review if taken by itself.Īfter reading through the Goodreads reviews, though, and seeing that almost everyone on here took this book 100% seriously, I'm upping this to 5-stars. Taken by itself, this is a moderately funny satire of literary criticism and how absurd certain literary interpretations can become. Or until I rescue him again and take him down to the pond, on a summer's day, to hear the bees buzzing - but not feel those pesky (western) philosophers stinging. Pooh will be in therapy for the rest of his life. This is a sad little book in which Poor Pooh Has Been Made To Go Head-to-Head With All The Philosophers, From Aristotle to The Existentialists, And Emerges Exhausted And Traumatized. (My newly-minted word for being at one with the universe.)
Even Heidegger's favorite phrase "ready to hand" to indicate equipment clearly derives from Pooh's phrase "about you" when he asks, "I wonder if you've got such a thing as a balloon about you?" Pooh's use of a balloon as a tool to get honey is obviously the key to Heidegger's emphasis on the use of tools and equipment to deal with the world outside. The familiar phrase "the World of Pooh" itself signals a strong connection with Heidegger. Later, I encountered that blasted balloon again: I myself was in danger of my arms staying straight up for a week: I was desperately clinging to emotions that evidence and reason were rejecting, for I actually continued to read after this, despite my soul screaming out for mercy. We also see how great his anguish was when we go on to read, "his arms were so stiff from holding on to the string of the balloon all that time that they stayed up straight in the air for more than a week." What a brilliant picture of the way in which habit and emotion may cling to a belief that evidence and reason have rejected! We note the unhesitating courage with which he performed the painful duty.
So when Pooh Bear experienced the burning pain of a bee sting, this symbolized the pain of discarding a cherished hypothesis. I never suspected for a moment that the author might be serious. My tongue is only a teeny bit in my cheek, for I can certainly embrace all the Zen qualities of Pooh when I tuck the book under my arm, stroll down the garden path to the pond, and spend a few pleasant hours, intermittently reading, and listening to the bees buzzing. There is no doubt in my mind that Winnie The Pooh is a Zen Master. As an antidote to sadness, or downheartedness, or just a vague bluesy feeling, it is exactly what works for me. I admit to liking Benjamin Hoff's Tao of Pooh very much. Pooh and the Philosophers: In-Which-It-Is-Shown-That-A-Fool-Is-Born-Every-Minute.
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