I say, gentlemen, are you seeing this crevasse? What an absolutely perfect specimen.
Of course, I’d heard tell of such wonders from members of the Royal Geographical Society. But to witness one myself? A dream, certainly, but never one I dared hope would manifest. I must confess that I am quite overcome. Christ! It is so deep, the crevasse. My brain is not sufficiently equipped to grasp it all at once. I must admire it section by section, like a continental buffet.
You know my good friend Ralph, don’t you, gentlemen? Ralph Waldo Emerson? Good friend of mine. He’d get a kick out of this crevasse. He, too, would weep, as I am weeping now, at the delectability of this rip. Now, I’m no Ralph, and this crevasse is nearly ineffable, but let me see if I can’t string together a few words.
Sublime. Hark! O Beauty, gaping Beauty. 100-foot-deep pure ice gash. O Lord! Deep slice. I must now prostrate myself at the lip of the crevasse. This won’t take but a moment, gents. Dear Lord: thank you for this frozen bounty. It is my favorite thing that you have made, and you have also made my wife, Clara. Amen.
Nigel. What are you always saying about Clara? That she’s a “willowy beauty?” Wouldn’t you agree that this crevasse makes her look like a lardy witch? I’m afraid I’m going to have to divorce her now that I’ve borne witness to the crevasse. Look at it, Nigel. It is an opalescent ice ravine. You’re not looking. Christ, how could I have been so blind? Clara is a lump of matter that has been incorrectly configured. Any matter on earth that is not configured in precisely the manner of this crevasse is, to put it plainly, a flaming satchel of wapiti scat. In fact, Nigel, seeing you juxtaposed with the chiseled walls of the crevasse awakens me to the fact that your face looks like it was fashioned from bellybutton lint.
Forgive me, chaps, but I couldn’t help but notice that none of you are weeping. Yet here we are, at the mouth of the crevasse. Pray, do tell: what aren’t you understanding? Wallace, you haven’t even taken out your sketchpad, and I personally witnessed you etching a drawing of a bloody racquet-tailed kingfisher just yesterday. So sharpen your pencil and immortalize the crevasse, you grotesque little man. Capture in graphite the sublimity of its maw, or I will clobber you over the head with my musket.
How are our supplies faring? I must remain at the lip of this crevasse for at least one month. Ideally two. Do we have sufficient salt pork for that duration? Nigel can hunt, I suppose, if we run out.
Glorious, glorious chasm. Verily the crevasse is the crack in God’s great caboose. I must dance. I am dancing. Christ. I am flowing. Or rather, the crevasse is flowing through me. Are you seeing these pirouettes, gentlemen? I did not know I could do that. Yet here I am, performing my sixteenth consecutive pirouette.
Well, gents, I am quite certain my destiny awaits me on the crevasse floor. If there even is a floor. I would not at all be surprised if I descended into the crevasse only to find myself twirling upward into the open arms of the Lord Jesus Christ himself.
An ice pick and rope would be too demure of an entrance. A cannonball would be amusing but crass. The crevasse demands elegance. Yes, there is only one thing for it: Running swan dive. Right, here I go. Look away, Nigel — your limited intellect will be unable to comprehend what I am about to do. You can have my wife, by the way. Geronimo!