AMONG THE THINGS I've brought to the Arctic is a 1917 essay titled "Art as Technique," by a Russian named Viktor Shklovsky. In it, Shklovsky argues that routines function as a kind of anesthetic in our lives. "If we start to examine the general laws of perception," he writes, "we see that as perception becomes habitual, it becomes automatic....If one remembers the sensations of holding a pen or of speaking in a foreign language for the first time and compares that with his feeling at performing the action for the ten thousandth time, he will agree with us."
But art, Shklovsky says, ought to help us recover the sensations of life, ought to revivify our understanding of things—clothes, war, marriage—that habit has made familiar. Art exists, he argues, "to make one feel things, to make the stone stony. The purpose of art is to impart the sensation of things as they are perceived and not as they are known."
Sometimes you have to make yourself a stranger to your own life in order to recognize the things you take for granted. Like sunsets, or hot showers, or alphabets. My health, my family, the streams of photons sent from our star—how had I stopped actually seeing these things? The polar bear—a big male—hurried off through the broken ice north of camp. By the time I had climbed back onto the iceberg to search for him, he was just a dot loping through a golden mist.
That was really well written. Out of all those lines, the following really captured my imagination: and I love the idea of something foaming with flowers. As much as I absolutely loathe being cold, I would love to take at least one trip to the Arctic as well as the Antarctic. Not too long ago, a family friend and I were talking about traveling by train. I believe I've mentioned my interest and intention of someday going the full length of the Trans Siberian Railway, beginning in Japan and ending in London, but on hearing of my interest in rail travel, my friend asked if I'd ever be interested in taking the train up to Churchill, Manitoba, which he informs me, is also the polar bear capital of the world. Hopefully it wasn't just idle chat, as I'd be really into that in spite of the cold. It's such an alien and ancient environment and I can only imagine (further stoked by this piece) what the rest of the world looks like from such a vantage point.It's early June, and back home in Idaho the garden foams with flowers. Here in the High Arctic, I have to search for ten minutes before I find some lichen.
When I left my wife planting lemon verbena in the gentle Idaho sunshine, I thought that I was leaving spring behind with her. But spring exists above the Arctic Circle too, once you learn to see it. Tiny willows creep across the ground of Bylot Island, wearing the fuzz of coming blooms. Some of them, an inch tall and no thicker than a pencil, are more than a century old.
Long have I schemed to visit South Georgia and I put the Trans-Siberian in my novel. My buddy's dad was a project manager on the SSC, and used to have to supervise the manufacture of some of the herkin' magnets at Novosibersk. He had stories to tell.
Yeah, that's the question, isn't it? Back in '92 I approached a travel agent in my town (population 12,000) and asked her the same thing. Her eyes bugged out a little but bless her, she gave it the old college try. I think she got as far as contacting the British embassy about having me rent quarters on a supply ship. The only real answer is "you point your boat at it."