Sunday, October 18, 2009

18 October, 1910

Off to Sydney with Kathleen and Simpson. We need at least 5,000 pounds, which is a tall order. Hoping that I can spin a few yearns about the Discovery days to stir up some Imperial spirit. 

Everyone wants to know about Shackleton, the absolute bane of my existence. Surely if he couldn't get to the Pole, how can I? they ask. For want of a mere 100 miles, I tell them. They want to know what that extra 100 miles will require, and it's dead simple: help from the motor sledges for a good headstart on the Barrier; a little more food, a little more fuel, and most of all, a little more heart! A little more drive! A little more willingness not to be such a Goddamn sissy! (I don't say that last bit though.) 

They seem very circumspect, these people. When they point out that I, too, have failed to reach the Pole the last time around, I am forced to remind them that I was dragging that damned fool Shackleton with me that time, too. Can they not see the connection? 

Look at him in that picture. How could anyone who looks like that hope to succeed in a real man's endeavour? 

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