I came to this book, via the Harper's review, for the Alaska porn, and the book delivers on the details: the stunning landscape, the vast wilderness, the bears, and, of course, the cold. Adams describes the cabin in Fairbanks where he lived for years, located not on the south-facing hills, but down below in the permafrost-ed forest, where it's much colder and the sun doesn't even reach for weeks at a time. Often the temperature didn't rise above 40 below. But he loved it! He enjoyed the silence, the solitude, and the time alone to compose his music, which is not of the European classical tradition, but rather is experimental and often meant to invoke natural sounds. It's not for everyone -- almost none of it contains what we think of as melody -- but it does inspire the imagination, and won him a Pulitzer Prize. His descriptions of his compositional processes mesmerized me as well, and I was all in for the first 2/3rds of this book. Unfortunately it then...fell off a cliff. Adams is not a writer by trade, but his editor should have insisted on a chronological narrative. The book bounces around in time, and sometimes, most painfully, slips into present tense. The final sections concern his close Alaska friends, the conductor Gordon Wright, and the writer John Haines. They both sound like capital fellows, but the (non-sequential, varied-tense) anecdotes often sound like you had to be there. Still, five stars! The writing about Alaska, the cold, and Adams' own art is crisp and compelling. The ending is forgiven. Adams froze his butt off contemplating existence so you don't have to, and I suspect I'll retain his lessons for a long time.