*** FOR ORDERS OF MULTIPLE ITEMS, PLEASE CONTACT US ABOUT COMBINING SHIPPING**** DESCRIPTION In a narrative which takes the reader through extreme experiences, from an avalanche in Bolivia, ice-climbing in the Alps and Colorado and paragliding in Spain - before his final confrontation with the Eiger - Simpson reveals the inner truth of climbing, exploring both the power of the mind and the frailties of the body. ISBN 0099422433 ISBN-13 9780099422433 Title The Beckoning Silence Author Joe Simpson Format Paperback Year 2003 Pages 304 Publisher Vintage Publishing

In dreams I hear a wind-chime, clarion and beckoning in it’s soft and solitary tone // Part 14

I’m walking in an endless meadow. It’s touching the zenith’s height somewhere in the distant horizon. A cold breeze is sweeping the fresh, knee-high grass around me that is waving at me gently. I can smell the fragrance of jasmine, but can’t see the flowers or the trees anywhere; it’s only me and the long, dense grass, as far as my eyes can see. The smell of jasmine is faint, but it’s there nevertheless. There are butterflies fluttering in unison everywhere. They are in every single color this universe has got, even in the ones that are hidden from the human eye. The sky is a yellowish blue, or bluish yellow, I don’t know. It might be sunset or the sunrise. I can see the indistinct impressions of stars; they are twinkling once in a while, about to get lost under the blanket of auroras, not very different from the southern lights, that has engulfed the sky as far as my eyes can see. The cold wind is fondling my hair and kissing my face, but it’s too gentle, not chilled and harsh at all. Almost as if a long lost lover is desperately trying to find her way back and hug me. I can feel it. I can hear the crickets chirping; it must be evening then. But is it? Who says crickets don’t chirp at the breaking of the dawn? Well, I don’t want to think about anything, not right now. I ward away the thoughts and look ahead. As the clouds are dispersing, I notice that it’s a city established on an unfathomable mountain! I can see a gigantic mountain emerging from the edge of the meadow now through a white and grey cluster of clouds. Wait, it’s not just a big mountain. As the clouds are dispersing, I notice that it’s a city established on an unfathomable mountain! I can see the monastery-like houses, dangling from the edges of the rocks. I can see fountains and the cattle and the shops selling ironwork. Why, is that an ancient-looking library? My heartbeat is picking up the pace. As I tread nearer, the mountain appears to be bigger than I had thought. Is this my destination? Is this the place I was looking for all my life? Is this the same mountain I used to see in my dreams since childhood? I am unable to think rationally anymore. My feet are just taking me there, not needing my consent anymore. Then I see them! There are people on the mountain, appearing like tiny specks of dust, but I can see them clearly, clad in brown and black and grey colored robes that are probably made of jute or some hand-woven fabric. They’re waving at me. No, they are calling me… They are calling me to join them. They are calling me to hurry up. I don’t know them, but I’ve never felt this elated for as long as I can remember. There is some kind of music in the air but I can’t hear any instrument. Nevertheless, I fasten my pace. I look at one of them; an elderly wizard-looking man with a hooded robe, smiling gently at me, waving his hand. He has got heavy brows covered in thick, white hair, almost hiding his gleaming, mystical eyes. He’s saying something from beneath his dense, glorious white beard. I can hear it clearly even at such a distance. I don’t know how but I can hear him. “Come to us,” he is saying, “Come to Moon Men, Star Boy.” About the Author Ronin ( 4 Posts) A writer, poet, graphic designer, harmonica player, Ronin is an artist who loves to do whatever he does. He likes fiction and fantasy genre and is a huge fan of Van Gogh, comic book legend Stan Lee, Munshi Premchand, and Dan Brown to name a few. Ronin loves listening to old rock songs; Pink Floyd and Guns N' Roses are his all time favorite. Ronin also goes by the name of Shubhang Saurav in the mortal world, which is his birth as well as socially accepted name. All Posts of Ronin Hope you enjoyed reading... ... we have a small favour to ask. More people are reading and supporting our creative, informative and analytical posts than ever before. And yes, we are firmly set on the path we chose when we started... our twin magazines Learning and Creativity and Silhouette Magazine (LnC-Silhouette) will be accessible to all, across the world. We are editorially independent, not funded, supported or influenced by investors or agencies. We try to keep our content easily readable in an undisturbed interface, not swamped by advertisements and pop-ups. Our mission is to provide a platform you can call your own creative outlet and everyone from renowned authors and critics to budding bloggers, artists, teen writers and kids love to build their own space here and share with the world. When readers like you contribute, big or small, it goes directly into funding our initiative. Your support helps us to keep striving towards making our content better. And yes, we need to build on this year after year. Support LnC-Silhouette with a little amount - and it only takes a minute. Thank you Support LnC-Silhouette Related Posts: Ordinary Man Extraordinary Mission Horizon The Emperor of Green: A Story of Determination Nature’s Musing Fragmented Fetters & A Soul’s Awakening Silhouettes Got a poem, story, musing or painting you would like to share with the world? Send your creative writings and expressions to [email protected] Learning and Creativity publishes articles, stories, poems, reviews, and other literary works, artworks, photographs and other publishable material contributed by writers, artists and photographers as a friendly gesture. The opinions shared by the writers, artists and photographers are their personal opinion and does not reflect the opinion of Learning and Creativity- emagazine. 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6 Artworks by Eelco Maan, Saatchi Art Artist

In dreams I hear a wind-chime, clarion and beckoning in it’s soft and solitary tone // Part 14

The Beckoning Silence by Joe Simpson (Hardback, Signed, 2002) Signed by Joe Simpson (Author) Please see photos for publishing information Condition - Very good, no marks or damage (see photos)   Can I collect my item?You can collect from any of our 40 locations in 26 communities around London.Below are the areas that our shops cater to. You can collect Monday to Sunday between 11 AM and 5 PM. Please message us before collection as each shop has different timings.Streatham, Balham, Clapham, Earlsfield, Southfields, BatterseaIslington, Belsize Park, Fulham, Pimlico, Primrose HillEaling, East Molesey, Greenford, Kensington, Notting Hill, Shepherds Bush, Whitton, Barnes, Chiswick, East Sheen, New Malden, Richmond & TeddingtonYou can also collect from our Warehouse in Hounslow between Monday to Friday 9 AM - 3 PM. All the items are generously donated to FARA Charity Shops in London Sustainable Shopping Transforming Lives For Over 30 YearsReturns: We have a 30-day return policy for all our items.

Explored #85 on Oct 8, 2011. Thank you all for your kind comments.

In dreams I hear a wind-chime, clarion and beckoning in it’s soft and solitary tone // Part 4

Since the first attempt to ascend the Himalayan mountain Makalu in 1955, climbers have tried less than 300 times. No wonder—it's two and half months of hell.

The winner of the Kendal Mountain Festival photography competition was announced at the weekend. Here we showcase the winning shot, plus the competition finalists

Brokenness. It’s a word I have carried in my chest for several years now. It’s a word I see when I look in the mirror and at the world around me. Sometimes it is all I can see. I close my eyes and imagine shattered pottery, the jagged edges slicing the tender chambers of my At least when we see our own sin, we can stare into the mirror with some level of acceptance knowing we made the mess ourselves. How can we move forward when we are crippled by the stabbing of another? We collect the pieces of our broken hearts and bodies like discarded seashells dug from the sand, unable to imagine what their original shape must have been based on their current state.