Salvador kept pushing us hard, racing daylight to the canyon rim. We almost made it, too. Butwhen we had a good two hours鈥?worth of climbing still ahead, the sun vanished, plunging thecanyon into darkness so deep that all I could make out were varying shades of black. We debatedrolling out our sleeping bags and camping right there for the night, but we鈥檇 run out of food andwater over an hour earlier and the temperature was dropping below freezing. If we could just feelour way up another mile, we might catch enough light above the rim to make it out. We decided togo for it; I hated the idea of shivering all night on a sliver of trail on the edge of a cliff. Dr. Dennis Bramble listened with interest as David Carrier explained his theory. Then he casuallytook aim and blew it to smithereens. He tried to be gentle; David was a brilliant student with atruly original mind, but this time, Bramble suspected, he鈥檇 fallen victim to the most commonmistake in science: the Handy Hammer Syndrome, in which the hammer in your hand makeseverything look like a nail. This state of my thoughts and feelings made the fact of my reading Wordsworth for the first time (in the autumn of 1828), an important event in my life. I took up the collection of his poems from curiosity, with no expectation of mental relief from it, though I had before resorted to poetry with that hope. In the worst period of my depression, I had read through the whole of Byron (then new to me), to try whether a poet, whose peculiar department was supposed to be that of the intenser feelings, could rouse any feeling in me. As might be expected, I got no good from this reading, but the reverse. The poet's state of mind was too like my own. His was the lament of a man who had worn out all pleasures, and who seemed to think that life, to all who possess the good things of it, must necessarily be the vapid, uninteresting thing which I found it. His Harold and Manfred had the same burthen on them which I had; and I was not in a frame of mind to derive any comfort from the vehement sensual passion of his Giaours, or the sullenness of his Laras. But while Byron was exactly what did not suit my condition, Wordsworth was exactly what did. I had looked into the Excursion two or three years before, and found little in it; and I should probably have found as little, had I read it at this time. But the miscellaneous poems, in the two-volume edition of 1815 (to which little of value was added in the latter part of the author's life), proved to be the precise thing for my mental wants at that particular juncture. 鈥淪hould I get the orthotics?鈥? 鈥淗e鈥檚 awesome!鈥? 色久久综合-天天干-久久婷婷五月综合色啪-色姑娘综合站 鈥淥h, fuck me,鈥?Jenn said. 鈥淚 knew this was too good to be true.鈥? A tough pacer, consequently, can save your race; a sharp one can save your life. Too bad forMartimano, then, that the best he could hope for was that the shaggy goofball he鈥檇 met in townwould actually show up鈥攁nd could actually run. 鈥淵o soy El Mono!鈥?he announced. 鈥淭he Monkey!鈥?Hang on, Barefoot Ted thought; do they evenhave monkeys in Mexico? Maybe the Tarahumara don鈥檛 know what a mono is. Just in case, hebegan hooting and scratching like a chimp, his ankle bells jingling and the sleeves of his redraincoat flapping in his face, somehow thinking that impersonating a thing they鈥檇 never heard ofwould let them know what that thing was.