I subscribe to The New Yorker, and its diverse and interesting pieces sustain me during my long and varied commutes across buses and trains in the Bronx each day.
A recent piece on explorer and all-around bad-ass Henry Worsley touched a nerve. This is by author David Grann, so it’s great writing, and he has clear admiration for Worsley. Do yourself a favor and read it.
Yet despite also admiring Worsley’s relentless drive and leadership, I ended the piece feeling upset, even angry.
He left behind a wife and two children who loved him fiercely. For what? To trudge across the vast, icy, crevassed expanse of the South Pole on his own in order to fulfil what seems to me a prurient fantasy. That speaks of either immense despair or delusion, not of heroism.
I think it is much more heroic to learn to bear inner demons quietly, while tending to the needs of your family and society.
The loss of a man as strong as Henry Worsley is all the more tragic in consideration of all the good he could still be enacting if he had decided to put his energies towards the ones around him, rather than towards a solo trek across the ice.
—The White Darkness, David Grann / The New Yorker https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2018/02/12/the-white-darkness