Antarctica has this mythic weight. It resides in the collective unconscious of so many people, and it makes this huge impact, just like outer space. It's like going to the moon.
The way to Everest is not a Yellow Brick Road.
I'm intrigued by fanatics - people who are seduced by the promise, or the illusion, of the absolute.
I love being outdoors, being in the mountains and the desert, and my wife enjoys that too. That's one of the things that sustain our relationship.
Once you believe that God is speaking directly to you, there is no discussion.
The thing that is most beautiful about Antarctica for me is the light. It's like no other light on Earth, because the air is so free of impurities. You get drugged by it, like when you listen to one of your favorite songs. The light there is a mood-enhancing substance.
Heaven, for me, is one focused project - it's like a weird form of autism.
There's something about being afraid, about being small, about enforced humility that draws me to climbing.
You can get a lawyer with two months off or a New York socialite who wants to play at being Lewis and Clark and put them up there, but Everest is still in charge; it can still kick butt.
I think part of the appeal of Antarctica is experiencing some sort of power, the forces of the natural world.
Antarctica is a very alien environment, and you can't survive here more than minutes if you're not equipped properly and doing the right thing all the time.
Almost every magazine piece I've ever written, I felt like I haven't done it justice, like it was just a gloss.
I never studied writing, but I'd always been a reader and had a secret fantasy about being a writer.
There is nothing glamorous or romantic about war. It's mostly about random pointless death and misery.
When I start any book, I have no idea what I'm going to do.
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