|The Third Policeman|
Shenpa. The term comes from Tibetan Buddhism, or at least the Pema Chodron version. Its literal definition is difficult to verify, but meditation teachers generally open by calling it a fishing hook. And then they us the word “hook” to describe anything that we needlessly obsess about, or spend too much time being distracted by. In other words, Shenpa is all that is irrelevant to having peace and happiness, and meditation, according to these teachers, is the key to remaining unhooked. The Third Policeman is a Shenpa object lesson. It doesn’t tell us how to pull the hooks out, but it does show us in book length what being hooked really means so that we can identify some of the less prominent hooks most of us are pierced with from time to time, like the overwhelming need to possess complete answers to questions and challenges, or placing more value on what is temporary than what can be eternal—family, truth, love, good will.
Thus, the atomic theory of bicycles. If a man spends so much time with what is temporary and irrelevant that the man and his hooks become indistinguishable, is there really a man left at all? Has he given away what makes him a man for, ultimately, nothing? O’Brien/O’Nolan said, “Answers do not matter so much as questions . . . A good question is very hard to answer. The better the question the harder the answer. There is no answer at all to a very good question.” I don’t agree that this applies to all questions, but in fiction, with its freedom for exploration and conjecture, the absence of answers provided by the author (perhaps to questions unanswerable by the author) extends a challenge to us, the readers, the thinkers, the hooked, and the unhooked, alike. Can we answer the difficult questions about the consequences of our less invasive hooks? Where are they, how can we pull them out, what will it take to heal the wounds? What percentage of ourselves is something else, something that shouldn’t be occupying our bodies and minds at all (what’s our number?)? Fiction is true for this reason: it asks questions we hadn’t thought of yet, and specific answers only come from specific questions.
The Third Policeman is one of those books, like the poems of Emily Dickinson for me, that requires the reader to be in a near-hostile psychological or emotional condition in order to appreciate it. If the reader is not already in that place, the book is liable to take them there. And regardless of the old axiom that “adversity is the best education,” and the fact that much good can come from a sour mood, it is unlikely that anyone would willingly leave behind happy contentment for melancholic ennui. However, in the way a sad song can sooth the sting of a lost love or a crappy job, or the way Greek tragedy can bring forth and drain dry the toxins of the soul, The Third Policeman has the power to uncover the futility and associated suffering of self-centeredness and an obsession with irrelevancies. It is a living Hell that is depicted in the novel, one that shows us consequences that—like Meth Project Foundation ads—work to deter us from those misdirected priorities. I didn’t particularly enjoy the novel when I read it, aside from the atomic theory of bicycles bit, but I have thought about it a lot since that reading. And I think the value of the book is not in its slight and dark attempts at humor, or in its surreal absurdity (though there is a certain realm of pleasure that those things permit access to). It’s in the stylistic method used to teach the same old lessons in a unique way—don’t be selfish; don’t spend all of your time looking for answers to the wrong questions; don’t value your possessions above people, or you may end up a possession yourself.
- Cliff Ward
Other Topics of Interest:
Reflections: The Third Policeman