A year or so before that book was released in the States, Jackie found a Euro edition in Ireland, and brought it home thinking I'd want to read it. I plodded through a chapter or two before giving up. First, because it felt like a unrecovered addict's typical self-aggrandizing BS (which, as it turns out, it
was 
), but also because his writing, IMHO,
sucked.
Only wish I'd kept that copy, for whatever collector's value it might have in the future.
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is a
much better book. Took me three readings to get past the saga of Pirsig's trip, and his relationship with his son, to the philosophy at its core. Even now I could stand to read it again.