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Great passions may give us this sense of life, ecstasy and sorrow of love, the various forms of enthusiastic activity, disinterested or otherwise, which come naturally to many of us. Only be sure that it is passion, that it does yield you this fruit of a quickened, multiplied consciousness. Of such wisdom, the poetic passion, the desire for beauty, the love of art for its own sake, has most.
To each his own, I suppose. However, the "desire for beauty" need not be limited to an appreciation for art. Perhaps the best mountaineering book I've read (and I've read them all, almost) is Jonathon Waterman's "In the Shadow of Denali". One chapter is about the disastrous summer of 1991, when many climbers died on "Denali" (climbers call Mt. McKinley,the highest mountain in North America by its native name). Included in the death toll was Mugs Stump, one of the greatest Alaskan climbers and Waterman's friend. He fell into a crevasse. Waterman dreams about him:
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In my dream about Mugs just after he died, he disapproves of my life with its lack of action and my brooding with words on paper.... He is disappointed that I am not going up Denali anymore, and he tries to talk me into a climbing trip that will last forever, with granite rasping our palms and frozen clouds coursing through our lungs.....
I've had other climbing friends echo these sentiments, decrying "armchair climbers", who read the books instead of visiting the mountains. Since I rarely climb anymore (well, I did do a decent route on Mt. Whitney's East Face recently) I can't quite agree. Like Marbles, I think it's a false dichotomy. Nonetheless, the refutation of the OP isn't all THAT simple. We appreciate climbing literature all the more from having done some climbing ourselves, and love stories all the more for having been in love.