As much as I love the chapters that takes place at the Everest, I can´t stand the narrative of Mallory´s wife Ruth.
I get why she is pining over the abscence of her husband. She doesn´t know if he´s made it up the mountain or not, if he is on his way back home or possibly won´t come home at all. I really get it. I´m just not that interested in reading about a woman, who walks moping through Cambridge the livelong day, having pretentious thoughts like this:
Once upon a time, I think, the world must have been flat. It was our minds that made it round, our desire to circumnavigate it. Our desire to leave home, certainly, but just as strongly, our desire to return. But in making it round we crumpled it up, pulling it apart in places, crushing it together in others, thrusting them up into the atmosphere. Bullying the deserts, the tundra, the plains into George´s beloved mountains, peaks that stretch up from the rest of the world.