the author
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It was with a sense of mounting excitement that we eagerly surveyed the flat white cover of the package, I could sense our goal. I knew it wasn't going to be easy traversing 428 pages of a book titled "The Ice" but I had completed intensive practical training for this expedition. I was a veteran of Huntsford's "Schackleton", Huxley's "Scott of the Antarctic", Fuchs & Hillary's "The Crossing of Antarctica", the list was long but rewarding. Here was my biggest challenge to date.
The warnings were stark right from the start, the prologue uses half a page to list 72 ways to name ice. I stumbled and nearly gave up. Willpower, only willpower kept me going. I was becoming word blind. Reaching my first goal, the middle, I could only contemplate with horror the trials still awaiting me. "Great God, this is an awful book", I thought as I turned the next page. I wondered if I had the stamina to make it, others before me must have faltered. My son looked at me, "I'm just going out, I may be some time". I could only admire his courage, at having come so far. I ploughed on, yet another reference to Admiral Byrd appeared on the horizon. Until now I had been unaware of his supreme importance as an American and Antarctic explorer. Similarly I had been foolishly unaware of the fact that "...there is nothing in the Heroic age to compare with Ellsworth's all-or-nothing transcontinental flight, even Schackleton turned back..." The fact that Ellsworth achieved precisely nothing is of no importance, he was an American.
Things were looking bleak, stamina was draining fast. A crevasse nearly finished me as I learned that TMW Turner (English) had painted sunsets. I began to lose hope, I was hallucinating, could he really mean JMW Turner who painted ships too, and trains ? It was my darkest hour, all hope was gone. I closed the book.
This is a book for the fanatical written by someone who equates flowery, overblown prose with literature, it is so bad it is almost a parody. If you want to read about the modern Antarctic, read Sara Wheeler's polar classic "Terra Incognita". The best place for Pyne's tome is on an iceberg, drifting slowly out of sight towards the equator.
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I found this Australian collection of poetry while looking up Richard Lortz's recently-dustbunnied novel of the same title while researching the review of it, and the coincidence was amusing enough that I went out and picked up a copy of this. My recent explorations into the world of as-yet-unfamiliar-to-me poetry have been something less than pleasing, so I went into this book without too much hope.
The first two lines of the first poem, "The High Price of Travelling," seemed to confirm my worst fears: "Even though our eyes are bruised/From reading all the daily news..." I almost threw the thing across the room and jumped away from it as if it were a tarantula. However, I steeled myself and went on. Not a bad choice, as those are the only two rhyming lines couched in a free-verse poem in the book, and the only time Williams ever stretches far enough to use a filler word in order to pick up the rhythm ("all" turns it from a poetic line into something out of a pop song. A very bad pop song). Bear with us, though. I should have been thinking "after that, where is there to go but up?"
Williams does go up. He doesn't hit the heights of a David St. John or an Ira Sadoff, but don't stick him in the same bin as Rod McKuen. There's nothing all too new here, but every once in a while Williams comes up with some excellent phrasing, and everything falls together quite nicely:
Some of the men cry, and many of the women
Make impossible devotions. Some others
Who are neither men nor women go about their work
Invisibly - or else, becoming.
(from "Hunger")
The only other major problem in the work, aside from those first two lines, is that Williams has the type of social conscience that manifests itself with a sledgehammer (cf. such titles as "The Weight of Freedom" and "The King of Hate," which have roughly the content one would expect from such titles). Not to say, of course, that Williams is being wrongheaded in his social values. As we have seen thousands, if not millions, of times over, though, socially conscious poetry tends to find itself mired in metaphor rather than letting the images impart the metaphor.
This is not an unreadable book, to say the least, and while some of what's here could have used reworking, there are enough moments of small pleasure contained therein for the average poetry fan to consider picking it up, if you find it easier to come across than did I.
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And no, I have nothing to do with the AMA (whatever that is) or traditional medicine. I just know fraud when I see it.
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They cover the basics, but also do a great job on game theory and probablistic decision making. I had no economics before reading this, and found it clear and understandable even for the most abstruse concepts. Highly recommended.