In climbing where the danger is great, all attention has to be given the ground step by step, leaving nothing for beauty by the way. But this care, so keenly and narrowly concentrated, is not without advantages. One is thoroughly aroused. Compared with the alertness of the senses and corresponding precision and power of the muscles on such occasions, one may be said to sleep all the rest of the year. The mind and body remain awake for some time after the dangerous ground is past, so that arriving on the summit with the grand outlook—all the world spread below—one is able to see it better, and brings to the feast a far keener vision, and reaps richer harvest than would have been possible ere the presence of danger summoned him to life.
Why is it so difficult to give up old perceptions when it is clear that what we really know is only a fraction of what there is to be known? The tiny fraction we see is not the only way it is. Whenever we say, "I know it," it means that we no longer want to struggle with other ways of seeing it. But the way we once saw it may not be the way it is now. Certainly the way something is now does not determine that it will always be that way because we are, all of us, on a journey whose ultimate destination is unknown.