The thing about heroic adventure lit is that it’s always so… well… heroic. The people involved in these feats of superhuman endurance and strength are mythologised and their accomplishments are, often justly, enshrined in history and immortalised in old faded photographs in random Inns across the globe. Even books about tragic failures are editorialised, again often quite rightly, as ones where a much more lasting spirit of success can be gleaned. As Lord Hunt, the leader of the 1953 Everest expedition, put it, “The true result of endeavour, whether on a mountain or in any other context, may be found rather in its lasting effects than in the few moments during which a summit is trampled by mountain boots. The real measure is the success or failure of the climber to triumph not over a lifeless mountain but over himself: the true value of the enterprise lies in the example to others of human motive and human conduct.”
But what if the motive is misguided and human conduct reeks of self-destructive tendencies? How likely is one to triumph over themselves by reaching that summit, when at the foot of the mountain their life is a quagmire of abandonment, broken hearts, and pathological rootlessness. This is a book about one such hero. I saw him as someone misplaced in space and time, an ascetic and morose echo of the Lost Generation, one whose biggest climb is not some Alpine peak but that out of the emptiness into which he throws himself with determination the moment the climb is over, this is why you don’t get any accounts of descent in this book.
I have to say this is something I didn’t realise I was missing—an authentic lie in an ocean of true heroic accounts.
Defeat, my Defeat, my shining sword and shield,
In your eyes I have read
That to be enthroned is to be enslaved,
And to be understood is to be leveled down,
And to be grasped is but to reach one's fullness
And like a ripe fruit to fall and be consumed.
Defeat, my Defeat, my bold companion,
You shall hear my songs and my cries and my silences,
And none but you shall speak to me of the beating of wings,
And urging of seas,
And of mountains that burn in the night,
And you alone shall climb my steep and rocky soul.
— Kahlil Gibran, Defeat