Mountains Make Poor Receptacles For Dreams.

He Was Unheeded, Happy, And Near To The Wild Heart Of Life. He Was Alone And Young And Wilful And Wildhearted, Alone Amid A Waste Of Wild Air And Brackish Waters And The Seaharvest Of Shells And Tangle And Veiled Grey Sunlight.

Having Stumbled Upon A Tolerable Career, For The First Time In My Life I Was Actually Living Above The Poverty Line. My Hunger To Climb Had Been Blunted, In Short, By A Bunch Of Small Satisfactions That Added Up To Something Like Happiness.

I Think Part Of The Appeal Of Antarctica Is Experiencing Some Sort Of Power, The Forces Of The Natural World.

I Never Studied Writing, But I'd Always Been A Reader And Had A Secret Fantasy About Being A Writer.

That's What Was Great About Him. He Tried. Not Many Do.