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The Art of Learning: An Inner Journey to Optimal Performance Paperback – May 27, 2008
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Josh Waitzkin knows what it means to be at the top of his game. A public figure since winning his first National Chess Championship at the age of nine, Waitzkin was catapulted into a media whirlwind as a teenager when his father’s book Searching for Bobby Fischer was made into a major motion picture. After dominating the scholastic chess world for ten years, Waitzkin expanded his horizons, taking on the martial art Tai Chi Chuan and ultimately earning the title of World Champion. How was he able to reach the pinnacle of two disciplines that on the surface seem so different? “I’ve come to realize that what I am best at is not Tai Chi, and it is not chess,” he says. “What I am best at is the art of learning.”
With a narrative that combines heart-stopping martial arts wars and tense chess face-offs with life lessons that speak to all of us, The Art of Learning takes readers through Waitzkin’s unique journey to excellence. He explains in clear detail how a well-thought-out, principled approach to learning is what separates success from failure. Waitzkin believes that achievement, even at the championship level, is a function of a lifestyle that fuels a creative, resilient growth process. Rather than focusing on climactic wins, Waitzkin reveals the inner workings of his everyday method, from systematically triggering intuitive breakthroughs, to honing techniques into states of remarkable potency, to mastering the art of performance psychology.
Through his own example, Waitzkin explains how to embrace defeat and make mistakes work for you. Does your opponent make you angry? Waitzkin describes how to channel emotions into creative fuel. As he explains it, obstacles are not obstacles but challenges to overcome, to spur the growth process by turning weaknesses into strengths. He illustrates the exact routines that he has used in all of his competitions, whether mental or physical, so that you too can achieve your peak performance zone in any competitive or professional circumstance.
In stories ranging from his early years taking on chess hustlers as a seven year old in New York City’s Washington Square Park, to dealing with the pressures of having a film made about his life, to International Chess Championships in India, Hungary, and Brazil, to gripping battles against powerhouse fighters in Taiwan in the Push Hands World Championships, The Art of Learning encapsulates an extraordinary competitor’s life lessons in a page-turning narrative.
- Print length288 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- Publication dateMay 27, 2008
- Dimensions5.5 x 0.7 x 8.44 inches
- ISBN-109780743277464
- ISBN-13978-0743277464
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Editorial Reviews
Review
"We all remember the portrayal of Josh Waitzkin in Searching for Bobby Fischer. He was a very impressive child who continues to impress with The Art of Learning. Through a unique set of experiences, Waitzkin has formed an original and outstanding perspective. From chess to Tai Chi, he provides tools that allow all of us to improve ourselves every day." -- Cal Ripken, Jr., 2007 Baseball Hall of Fame Inductee
"Waitzkin's in-depth look into the mental side of his success in both chess and martial arts is an inspiring and absorbing read. I strongly recommend it for anyone who lives in a world of competition, whether it's sports or business or anywhere else. It's also a great training tool for kids aspiring to reach the pinnacle of their chosen fields." -- Mark Messier, 6-time Stanley Cup Champion
"Josh Waitzkin's The Art of Learning is a testimonial to the timeless principle of 'do less and accomplish more.' Highly recommended for those who want to understand the power of consciousness." -- Deepak Chopra
"Absolutely brilliant immersion into the phenomenon of human mastery. Waitzkin brings laser clarity and penetrating insights into the delicate mind, body, spirit interactions fundamental to extraordinary achievement in most any area of life. This is a journey worth taking." -- Jim Loehr, Chairman and CEO, The Human Performance Institute, and coauthor, The Power of Full Engagement
"The Art of Learning succeeds on every level, combining a truly compelling auto-biography with profound philosophical and psychological insights all wrapped in a practical how-to framework. This is a must-read for anyone wishing to achieve that rare combination of success and fulfillment." -- Paul Blease, SVP, Director, Team Development & Consulting, Citigroup Smith Barney
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
INTRODUCTION
One has to investigate the principle in one thing or one event exhaustively . . . Things and the self are governed by the same principle. If you understand one, you understand the other, for the truth within and the truth without are identical.
-- Er Cheng Yishu, 11th century
Finals: Tai Chi Chuan Push Hands World Championships
Hsinchuang Stadium, Taipei, Taiwan
December 5, 2004
Forty seconds before round two, and I'm lying on my back trying to breathe. Pain all through me. Deep breath. Let it go. I won't be able to lift my shoulder tomorrow, it won't heal for over a year, but now it pulses, alive, and I feel the air vibrating around me, the stadium shaking with chants, in Mandarin, not for me. My teammates are kneeling above me, looking worried. They rub my arms, my shoulders, my legs. The bell rings. I hear my dad's voice in the stands, 'C'mon Josh!' Gotta get up. I watch my opponent run to the center of the ring. He screams, pounds his chest. The fans explode. They call him Buffalo. Bigger than me, stronger, quick as a cat. But I can take him -- if I make it to the middle of the ring without falling over. I have to dig deep, bring it up from somewhere right now. Our wrists touch, the bell rings, and he hits me like a Mack truck.
Who could have guessed it would come to this? Just a few years earlier I had been competing around the world in elite chess tournaments. Since I was eight years old, I had consistently been the highest rated player for my age in the United States, and my life was dominated by competitions and training regimens designed to bring me into peak form for the next national or world championship. I had spent the years between ages fifteen and eighteen in the maelstrom of American media following the release of the film Searching for Bobby Fischer, which was based on my dad's book about my early chess life. I was known as America's great young chess player and was told that it was my destiny to follow in the footsteps of immortals like Bobby Fischer and Garry Kasparov, to be world champion.
But there were problems. After the movie came out I couldn't go to a tournament without being surrounded by fans asking for autographs. Instead of focusing on chess positions, I was pulled into the image of myself as a celebrity. Since childhood I had treasured the sublime study of chess, the swim through ever-deepening layers of complexity. I could spend hours at a chessboard and stand up from the experience on fire with insight about chess, basketball, the ocean, psychology, love, art. The game was exhilarating and also spiritually calming. It centered me. Chess was my friend. Then, suddenly, the game became alien and disquieting.
I recall one tournament in Las Vegas: I was a young International Master in a field of a thousand competitors including twenty-six strong Grandmasters from around the world. As an up-and-coming player, I had huge respect for the great sages around me. I had studied their masterpieces for hundreds of hours and was awed by the artistry of these men. Before first-round play began I was seated at my board, deep in thought about my opening preparation, when the public address system announced that the subject of Searching for Bobby Fischer was at the event. A tournament director placed a poster of the movie next to my table, and immediately a sea of fans surged around the ropes separating the top boards from the audience. As the games progressed, when I rose to clear my mind young girls gave me their phone numbers and asked me to autograph their stomachs or legs.
This might sound like a dream for a seventeen-year-old boy, and I won't deny enjoying the attention, but professionally it was a nightmare. My game began to unravel. I caught myself thinking about how I looked thinking instead of losing myself in thought. The Grandmasters, my elders, were ignored and scowled at me. Some of them treated me like a pariah. I had won eight national championships and had more fans, public support and recognition than I could dream of, but none of this was helping my search for excellence, let alone for happiness.
At a young age I came to know that there is something profoundly hollow about the nature of fame. I had spent my life devoted to artistic growth and was used to the sweaty-palmed sense of contentment one gets after many hours of intense reflection. This peaceful feeling had nothing to do with external adulation, and I yearned for a return to that innocent, fertile time. I missed just being a student of the game, but there was no escaping the spotlight. I found myself dreading chess, miserable before leaving for tournaments. I played without inspiration and was invited to appear on television shows. I smiled.
Then when I was eighteen years old I stumbled upon a little book called the Tao Te Ching, and my life took a turn. I was moved by the book's natural wisdom and I started delving into other Buddhist and Taoist philosophical texts. I recognized that being at the pinnacle in other people's eyes had nothing to do with quality of life, and I was drawn to the potential for inner tranquility.
On October 5, 1998, I walked into William C. C. Chen's Tai Chi Chuan studio in downtown Manhattan and found myself surrounded by peacefully concentrating men and women floating through a choreographed set of movements. I was used to driven chess players cultivating tunnel vision in order to win the big game, but now the focus was on bodily awareness, as if there were some inner bliss that resulted from mindfully moving slowly in strange ways.
I began taking classes and after a few weeks I found myself practicing the meditative movements for hours at home. Given the complicated nature of my chess life, it was beautifully liberating to be learning in an environment in which I was simply one of the beginners -- and something felt right about this art. I was amazed by the way my body pulsed with life when flowing through the ancient steps, as if I were tapping into a primal alignment.
My teacher, the world-renowned Grandmaster William C. C. Chen, spent months with me in beginner classes, patiently correcting my movements. In a room with fifteen new students, Chen would look into my eyes from twenty feet away, quietly assume my posture, and relax his elbow a half inch one way or another. I would follow his subtle instruction and suddenly my hand would come alive with throbbing energy as if he had plugged me into a soothing electrical current. His insight into body mechanics seemed magical, but perhaps equally impressive was Chen's humility. Here was a man thought by many to be the greatest living Tai Chi Master in the world, and he patiently taught first-day novices with the same loving attention he gave his senior students.
I learned quickly, and became fascinated with the growth that I was experiencing. Since I was twelve years old I had kept journals of my chess study, making psychological observations along the way -- now I was doing the same with Tai Chi.
After about six months of refining my form (the choreographed movements that are the heart of Tai Chi Chuan), Master Chen invited me to join the Push Hands class. This was very exciting, my baby steps toward the martial side of the art. In my first session, my teacher and I stood facing each other, each of us with our right leg forward and the backs of our right wrists touching. He told me to push into him, but when I did he wasn't there anymore. I felt sucked forward, as if by a vacuum. I stumbled and scratched my head. Next, he gently pushed into me and I tried to get out of the way but didn't know where to go. Finally I fell back on old instincts, tried to resist the incoming force, and with barely any contact Chen sent me flying into the air.
Over time, Master Chen taught me the body mechanics of nonresistance. As my training became more vigorous, I learned to dissolve away from attacks while staying rooted to the ground. I found myself calculating less and feeling more, and as I internalized the physical techniques all the little movements of the Tai Chi meditative form started to come alive to me in Push Hands practice. I remember one time, in the middle of a sparring session I sensed a hole in my partner's structure and suddenly he seemed to leap away from me. He looked shocked and told me that he had been pushed away, but he hadn't noticed any explosive movement on my part. I had no idea what to make of this, but slowly I began to realize the martial power of my living room meditation sessions. After thousands of slow-motion, ever-refined repetitions of certain movements, my body could become that shape instinctively. Somehow in Tai Chi the mind needed little physical action to have great physical effect.
This type of learning experience was familiar to me from chess. My whole life I had studied techniques, principles, and theory until they were integrated into the unconscious. From the outside Tai Chi and chess couldn't be more different, but they began to converge in my mind. I started to translate my chess ideas into Tai Chi language, as if the two arts were linked by an essential connecting ground. Every day I noticed more and more similarities, until I began to feel as if I were studying chess when I was studying Tai Chi. Once I was giving a forty-board simultaneous chess exhibition in Memphis and I realized halfway through that I had been playing all the games as Tai Chi. I wasn't calculating with chess notation or thinking about opening variations . . . I was feeling flow, filling space left behind, riding waves like I do at sea or in martial arts. This was wild! I was winning chess games without playing chess.
Similarly, I would be in a Push Hands competition and time would seem to slow down enough to allow me to methodically take apart my opponent's structure and uncover his vulnerability, as in a chess game. My fascination with consciousness, study of chess and Tai Chi, love for literature and the ocean, for meditation and philosophy, all coalesced around the theme of tapping into the mind's potential via complete immersion into one and all activities. My growth became defined by barrierlessness. Pure concentration didn't allow thoughts or false constructions to impede my awareness, and I observed clear connections between different life experiences through the common mode of consciousness by which they were perceived.
As I cultivated openness to these connections, my life became flooded with intense learning experiences. I remember sitting on a Bermuda cliff one stormy afternoon, watching waves pound into the rocks. I was focused on the water trickling back out to sea and suddenly knew the answer to a chess problem I had been wrestling with for weeks. Another time, after completely immersing myself in the analysis of a chess position for eight hours, I had a breakthrough in my Tai Chi and successfully tested it in class that night. Great literature inspired chess growth, shooting jump shots on a New York City blacktop gave me insight about fluidity that applied to Tai Chi, becoming at peace holding my breath seventy feet underwater as a free-diver helped me in the time pressure of world championship chess or martial arts competitions. Training in the ability to quickly lower my heart rate after intense physical strain helped me recover between periods of exhausting concentration in chess tournaments. After several years of cloudiness, I was flying free, devouring information, completely in love with learning.
* * *
Before I began to conceive of this book, I was content to understand my growth in the martial arts in a very abstract manner. I related to my experience with language like parallel learning and translation of level. I felt as though I had transferred the essence of my chess understanding into my Tai Chi practice. But this didn't make much sense, especially outside of my own head. What does essence really mean anyway? And how does one transfer it from a mental to a physical discipline?
These questions became the central preoccupation in my life after I won my first Push Hands National Championship in November 2000. At the time I was studying philosophy at Columbia University and was especially drawn to Asian thought. I discovered some interesting foundations for my experience in ancient Indian, Chinese, Tibetan, and Greek texts -- Upanishadic essence, Taoist receptivity, Neo-Confucian principle, Buddhist nonduality, and the Platonic forms all seemed to be a bizarre cross-cultural trace of what I was searching for. Whenever I had an idea, I would test it against some brilliant professor who usually disagreed with my conclusions. Academic minds tend to be impatient with abstract language -- when I spoke about intuition, one philosophy professor rolled her eyes and told me the term had no meaning. The need for precision forced me to think about these ideas more concretely. I had to come to a deeper sense of concepts like essence, quality, principle, intuition, and wisdom in order to understand my own experience, let alone have any chance of communicating it.
As I struggled for a more precise grasp of my own learning process, I was forced to retrace my steps and remember what had been internalized and forgotten. In both my chess and martial arts lives, there is a method of study that has been critical to my growth. I sometimes refer to it as the study of numbers to leave numbers, or form to leave form. A basic example of this process, which applies to any discipline, can easily be illustrated through chess: A chess student must initially become immersed in the fundamentals in order to have any potential to reach a high level of skill. He or she will learn the principles of endgame, middlegame, and opening play. Initially one or two critical themes will be considered at once, but over time the intuition learns to integrate more and more principles into a sense of flow. Eventually the foundation is so deeply internalized that it is no longer consciously considered, but is lived. This process continuously cycles along as deeper layers of the art are soaked in.
Very strong chess players will rarely speak of the fundamentals, but these beacons are the building blocks of their mastery. Similarly, a great pianist or violinist does not think about individual notes, but hits them all perfectly in a virtuoso performance. In fact, thinking about a "C" while playing Beethoven's 5th Symphony could be a real hitch because the flow might be lost. The problem is that if you want to write an instructional chess book for beginners, you have to dig up all the stuff that is buried in your unconscious -- I had this issue when I wrote my first book, Attacking Chess. In order to write for beginners, I had to break down my chess knowledge incrementally, whereas for years I had been cultivating a seamless integration of the critical information.
The same pattern can be seen when the art of learning is analyzed: themes can be internalized, lived by, and forgotten. I figured out how to learn efficiently in the brutally competitive world of chess, where a moment without growth spells a front-row seat to rivals mercilessly passing you by. Then I intuitively applied my hard-earned lessons to the martial arts. I avoided the pitfalls and tempting divergences that a learner is confronted with, but I didn't really think about them because the road map was deep inside me -- just like the chess principles.
Since I decided to write this book, I have analyzed myself, taken my knowledge apart, and rigorously investigated my own experience. Speaking to corporate and academic audiences about my learning experience has also challenged me to make my ideas more accessible. Whenever there was a concept or learning technique that I related to in a manner too abstract to convey, I forced myself to break it down into the incremental steps with which I got there. Over time I began to see the principles that have been silently guiding me, and a systematic methodology of learning emerged.
My chess life began in Washington Square Park in New York's Greenwich Village, and took me on a sixteen-year-roller-coaster ride, through world championships in America, Romania, Germany, Hungary, Brazil, and India, through every kind of heartache and ecstasy a competitor can imagine. In recent years, my Tai Chi life has become a dance of meditation and intense martial competition, of pure growth and the observation, testing, and exploration of that learning process. I have currently won thirteen Tai Chi Chuan Push Hands National Championship titles, placed third in the 2002 World Championship in Taiwan, and in 2004 I won the Chung Hwa Cup International in Taiwan, the World Championship of Tai Chi Chuan Push Hands.
A lifetime of competition has not cooled my ardor to win, but I have grown to love the study and training above all else. After so many years of big games, performing under pressure has become a way of life. Presence under fire hardly feels different from the presence I feel sitting at my computer, typing these sentences. What I have realized is that what I am best at is not Tai Chi, and it is not chess -- what I am best at is the art of learning. This book is the story of my method.
Copyright © 2007 by Josh Waitzkin LLC
Product details
- ASIN : 0743277465
- Publisher : Free Press; 37102nd edition (May 27, 2008)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 288 pages
- ISBN-10 : 9780743277464
- ISBN-13 : 978-0743277464
- Item Weight : 2.31 pounds
- Dimensions : 5.5 x 0.7 x 8.44 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #13,178 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #10 in Chess (Books)
- #417 in Personal Transformation Self-Help
- #536 in Memoirs (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
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About the author
Josh Waitzkin, an eight-time National Chess Champion in his youth, was the subject of the book and movie Searching for Bobby Fischer. At eighteen, he published his first book, Josh Waitzkin's Attacking Chess. Since the age of twenty, he has developed and been spokesperson for Chessmaster, the largest computer chess program in the world. Now a martial arts champion, he holds a combined twenty-one National Championship titles in addition to several World Championship titles. When not traveling the country giving seminars and keynote presentations, he lives and trains in New York City.
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The Art of Learning is divided into three sections in which Waitzkin describes his learning, meaning that there are three areas of discussion from which educators can draw inspiration for facilitating change in a classroom. First, in “The Foundation,” Waitzkin describes his rise to fame in the competitive chess scene, delving into his experiences and interactions with chess Grandmasters Bruce Pandolfini, Mark Dvoretsky, and Yuri Razuvaev, as well as the lessons he learned from working with each of them. In the second section, “My Second Art,” Waitzkin moves away from chess and talks about his work and participation in Tai Chi, and how he progressed from a student to a master of the Push Hands discipline of the martial art. In the final section, titled “Bringing It All Together,” Waitzkin goes into more detail about the similarities of preparation and execution between chess and Tai Chi, and how he applies what he learned in one to the other. I found that, while reading each of these sections, each chapter within a section had its own theme and lesson, most of which I feel can be included in a classroom setting.
In the book’s introduction, Waitzkin establishes his overarching theme of “I am best at the art of learning” by opening with descriptions of his attendance at the Tai Chi Push Hands championship in 2004. He reminisces on his life at the time that Searching for Bobby Fischer was in theaters, saying that he could not walk down the street without people asking him to “autograph their stomachs or legs.” He then says that this newfound fame was not truly helping him achieve happiness, nor was it aiding him in his “search for excellence.” After this experience, Waitzkin enrolled in Tai Chi classes under Grandmaster William C. C. Chen, whose classes encouraged meditation, reflection, and realizing that “the mind needed little physical action to have great physical effect.” Once he used what he learned in Tai Chi to make connections to his chess career, his life “became flooded with intense learning experiences,” ranging from watching water crash onto a shore to using basketball to work on Tai Chi mechanics. Ultimately, Waitzkin began to think about how he transferred his knowledge of chess to Tai Chi, and how this question became the central focus of his life. Waitzkin concludes with his primary theme of this book, which is that he is “best at the art of learning.” As soon as I read the introduction, I immediately began to think about what he could possibly mean by the art of learning. How is learning an art? Can someone “get better” at learning? How can I (or other educators) use what Waitzkin says to incorporate change and improvement with students? In the three sections I described earlier, Waitzkin goes into more detail and provides different techniques and suggestions that support both his main idea and facilitating change in classrooms.
One idea that I found particularly helpful and applicable to a classroom setting is one that Waitzkin talks about in the first chapter. In this chapter, Waitzkin meets Bruce Pandolfini, a chess Grandmaster that eventually becomes his mentor and teacher. Waitzkin says that one of the most important aspects about Pandolfini was his educational philosophy, which focused on discussion rather than lecture. Whenever Waitzkin would make a mistake, Pandolfini would ask him his thought process and how he reached that conclusion. Actually, Pandolfini would ask Waitzkin his thought process on nearly every facet of his chess game, encouraging him to think about his own actions as well as finding different paths to reach the same conclusion. By doing so, Waitzkin was able to develop a deeper love and understanding of chess. Pandolfini’s philosophy aligns with my own values in regards to teaching. I am a firm believer in discussion and collaboration when working with students, and Pandolfini took this approach when working with Waitzkin. In my own educational experience, a majority of my classes were heavily lecture based, where discussion was not necessarily discouraged, but was not as prominent as I would have liked. In an educational setting, focusing on collaboration and discussion (as Waitzkin and Pandolfini did) will hopefully encourage students to want to learn and help them develop a deeper understanding of their subject area.
An additional point of interest for me (which Waitzkin called investment in loss) was in the second section of the book during Waitzkin’s Tai Chi classes. In simplest terms, Waitzkin describes investment in loss as “giving yourself to the learning process.” In other words, learning comes by resisting old habits and accepting new ones, as well as not being afraid to make mistakes. In Waitzkin’s case, he began to focus exclusively on training, and was eventually was able to exploit other beginners’ habits in his classes. Because he ignored old behaviors, he was able to rapidly progress – he did not let his ego affect his learning. From an educational standpoint, this mentality is perfect for facilitating change in student attitudes. At the beginning of a school year, a teacher establishes an environment that will be set for the class. Depending on what the teacher says and how he or she presents it, students may not feel comfortable learning new methods for solving problems, may be afraid of making a mistake for fear of embarrassment from their peers, or be inclined to let their egos affect their learning. If a teacher exemplifies the mentality of investment in loss at the beginning of the year, the students will hopefully model this behavior, as well. To do so, the teacher can explain that making mistakes is acceptable (in fact, making mistakes is how we learn!), as well as being open to ideas that students have in order to show that new ideas help the learning process. By demonstrating investment in loss, students will hopefully make rapid progress as Waitzkin did with Tai Chi.
A final takeaway I found in this book is when Waitzkin mentions “building your trigger” in the third section of the book. In this chapter, the primary focus is… well… focus! Waitzkin talks about focus in terms of important competitions, and “keeping cool” under pressure. He says that when thinking about high-stakes, high-stress times, it is important to avoid giving attention to the moment that “decides your destiny.” If this occurs, then stress, tension, and over-excitement are bound to be present, which will undoubtedly affect performance. To counter these feelings, Waitzkin suggests keeping healthy patterns in day-to-day life so that, when the time comes, everything feels natural. While Waitzkin is talking about Tai Chi in this particular passage, this outlook on focus and attention can also be applied in an educational setting. When I read this passage, I thought of students taking a test. Most likely, students will be nervous or tense about a test for a variety of reasons, meaning the nervousness can take over and affect their performance. If teachers and educators take Waitzkin’s approach, they can begin helping students by incorporating methods in their classrooms that make test taking feel “normal.” For instance, a teacher for an AP Calculus class can create tests with questions based on those found on actual AP tests. In doing so, when the AP test rolls around, the students will already feel like the questions are “normal” because they have grown accustomed to them in class. As a result, students will not be distracted by nerves and will be able to focus on the task at hand, which parallels what Waitzkin says about Tai Chi.
As I read The Art of Learning, I thoroughly enjoyed how the book was written as a whole. By this, I mean that I could sit down, open up to any chapter I wanted, and discover a brand new theme different from any other chapter. Even though each of the three sections of the book were devoted to either chess, Tai Chi, or both combined (respectively), I felt that I did not need to read each chapter in the proper order to understand Waitzkin’s messages and lessons. It felt like a season of television’s Scrubs: I can jump into any episode of the season and not feel lost, but I can pick up on the story halfway through. Each chapter was relatively short, but had some themes that made me question both how I live my own life and how I will teach in the future. I also enjoyed the fact that Waitzkin has a desire for learning and improving anything he tries. In an educational setting, this is a perfect attitude to have – everyone is allowed to make mistakes (except on a test!), everyone is encouraged to explore and learn through discovery, and assessments help both teachers and students improve their educational experience.
Even though this book was not written by an educator, per say, The Art of Learning has an incredible amount of inspiring material that can be applied to an educational setting. Waitzkin says in his Afterword, “mastery involves discovering the most resonant information and integrating it so deeply and fully it disappears and allows us to fly free.” By taking what Josh Waitzkin includes in his book and incorporating his messages into a classroom, educators will not only encourage students to think about their thinking (as Waitzkin did in his interactions with Pandolfini), but also how to become better learners and students. This book is an incredible read, resource, and guide for facilitating change in a classroom and life.
The most serious flaw is the somewhat misleading title. The author surprisingly doesn't give a lot of clear pointers on how to learn. If anyone is qualified to teach learning, it's Mr. Waitzkin. And he's fairly personable, so he should be able to communicate advice better than he does in this book. The real advice he gives could definitely could be clarified and condensed. I hope the author has identified this weakness and is working on it - I suspect he has given that he's in that arena now.
The second most nagging flaw is the vindictive tone that keeps recurring. He really gets harsh digs in and he names names. The story of his chess youth rehashes a lot of the one dimensional villain characters from the movie SFBF which I'd hoped were simply an insensitive plot device. A famous and respected chess instructor is also trashed on both a personal and professional level. I found a dig at an old philosophy professor nasty - accusing him of 'narcissistic academic literalism' when he questioned the author's cherished sacred cow 'intuition'. But that's what philosophy professors do since Wittgenstein - it's their job to help clarify vague language! The author should have recognized this challenge as legitimate and non-trivial.
Which brings to mind the last major flaw: the storytelling itself is relatively narcissistic. Without intending to do so, the author in very florid detail promotes himself as deep and artistic. He also seems very eager to spin competitive problems he has experienced, and this reader was left with the impression that he is so tormented by some past defeats that he can't accept them as just that and nothing more.
The main strength of the book is that it does give some useful advice! He gives tips such as focusing on simple skills rather than fancy ones, how to make injuries and setbacks as opportunities, how to get in a zone, how to be resilient, etc. I take him at his word since he clearly would have excelled in any competitive endeavor that caught his imagination. And the book was a pretty fun read. Despite my rough criticisms above, I find the author quite likeable. We all have our faults, and he's a good guy who really has the potential to help a lot of people if he can work on mastering this new art.
I'm glad I bought it and it's worth reading if you are involved in competitive endeavors that require determination. There is some real food for thought, and that's why I give it 4 stars despite all my reservations - you only need to learn one or two useful tips to make it worth the money! I'm not sure he ever succeeds in demonstrating that he simply isn't talented. Many of us have great willpower, intuition, and creativity. But practice as we may, we don't rise to the top of the pack. I consider him a demonstrated master of two fields who needs to work more yet on the art of teaching.
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But it's a different kind of autobiography in that it focuses on peak performance, and to some extent, ways of learning.
Some of the main ideas about performance and learning discussed are:
- "Soft Zone" - this is about getting into the flow zone even with distractions
- "Making Smaller Circles" - focus on the essence of a technique, then refine it to make it as smooth as possible
- "Form to leave form" - letting go of the technical minutiae and develop an intuition or feeling
- Focus on depth over breadth, fundamentals over shiny new techniques
- Intentional relaxation - focusing intensely then taking breaks
- Building a "trigger" - this is a relaxation routine that can be triggered with a cue to get into the right mindset
- Dealing with adversity: handling "dirty" players and unfair rules without losing composure
- "Chunking" - a set of principles or techniques eventually becomes second-nature, and a building block to the next level, freeing up the conscious mind
- Spending a massive amount of time going over the hard parts (this is also known as "deliberate practice")
- Developing presence and awareness, channelling negative emotions into something better
- Having a growth mindset, which is based on incremental improvements and putting yourself in difficult situations to improve
The book has a lively, sentimental style and Josh clearly writes from the heart. It's pretty well written, especially considering he must have done it in his late 20s. Some of the advice is a little mystical and you can sense his influence from Eastern philosophies and religions. For a guy who's achieved a lot he is quite humble and modest, and acknowledges at all points the people who were supportive and helped him.
I think for anyone doing anything competitive or just wanting to up their game and learn more, this is a good read.
L'autore ne è la prova perché è arrivato a livelli mondiali in campi molto diversi ma accomunati dallo stesso atteggiamento mentale per riuscire.
Ci sono spunti utili per automigliorarsi e sui quali riflettere.
O livro é uma narrativa, mas com meditações sobre os estados mentais de uma pessoa performando sua habilidade. É como um relato do estado de flow, e também os intervalos entre batalhas intensas.
O livro é muito interessante para as pessoas que se interessam por alta performance, autoconsciência e profundidade de raciocínio. (isto é, compreensão detalhada sobre um processo)
Desde a primeira leitura deste livro, passei a dedicar-me muito mais a autopercepção enquanto executo uma tarefa, principalmente a de escrever. E percebi muitos 'detalhes' úteis. Como se fossem matéria-prima para evoluir minha concentração. Além disso, mudei muitos paradigmas sobre engajamento, foco e descanso.
O livro nos convida a perceber o que é uma jornada de consciência, e integração entre nossos interesses, habilidades e nossa própria natureza autentica. De certa forma, subverte a teoria do sacrifício de tudo em prol de um objetivo para em verdade, integrar toda a vida e as imperfeições como parte que compõe a condição para a 'última performance'. É perfeitamente possível encontrar foco pleno e realização concentrada, se soubermos ter consciência sobre nossos limites, reais habilidades, emoções, condição física e motivação pessoal. E, além disso, certo 'equilíbrio' em 'outros campos' da vida.
Após esse livro, é difícil não enxergar o quanto somos um só em todas as esferas da vida. E que, a forma que fazemos uma coisa, é a forma que fazemos todas as coisas. Entre tantas lições, este livro me ensinou que a alta performance é resultado de auto consciência, prática e aprendizado constante (voluntário).
Cada momento, e feedback de nossas ações, é uma possibilidade de perceber um pouco de mais de perto, a 'Verdade'. (como entidade teórica que significa 'melhor que antes' ou 'sem aquela percepção falsa' ou 'sem aquele limite')
P.S: Embora o livro seja sobre a arte de aprender, ao entrar no mundo Josh Waitzkin diria que se trata da arte da alta performance. Embora discorra muito bem sobre a relevância de uma estrategia de aprendizado apropriada para o início do aprendizado de uma 'arte', o livro é brilhante pelas seções que discorre em profundidade os desafios para romper os limites dos níveis mais altos de habilidade e desempenho.