Can one call it a tragedy when persons go, against their better judgment, on a long walk against the elements, and end up having their toes amputated and even die?

Even though I cannot help but think of this book as a kind of description of the male ego—trying to go against all odds, proving oneself despite having a family at home which you'll leave devastated if you die—at its worst, it's very nicely written and structured.

Yet Shackleton, fearing for his men’s welfare, retreated again. After returning to England, he didn’t discuss his failure with his wife, Emily, though he said, “A live donkey is better than a dead lion, isn’t it?”

That's from Shackleton, an old explorer with whom the main character in this story was obsessed with.

On the return journey, he and his four men, including Edward Wilson, ran out of food. “We shall die like gentlemen,” Scott scribbled in his diary, before they all perished.

This is more a hagiography about intrepid conquerors rather than about humans.

Worsley and his men moved in single file and rarely spoke, hearing only the thumping of their sleds or the soundtracks on their iPods. Adams loved to listen to Rachmaninoff’s Vespers; Gow sometimes trudged along to an audiobook of Lansing’s Endurance. Worsley’s playlist included Bruce Springsteen and the Seeger Sessions Band playing “Eyes on the Prize” (“I got my hand on the gospel plow / Won’t take nothing for my journey now”) and “We Shall Overcome” (“We are not afraid, we are not afraid”).

Still, the book is saved by the writing style and its structure. And yes, I can't help but feel for the poor blighters who've set out into the big unknown (even though it's quite well known).

It's a good, tidy, small, and nice book. All hagiographies should be kept this small.