As I noted yesterday, parts of this book are really cringe-worthy. Other parts make me question whether Mt. Everest is of any size at all when compared to Messner's ego.
Others still tempt me to pledge to dnf the book the very next time he tells us (YET AGAIN!) that he is climbing Everest without oxygen (because everything else is cheating).
And then you get to passages like this one (excuse the shoddy writing - like I said, the book needed an editor - or at least a decent translator):
I must get this second tent up. I do want to come out of all this, I do want to survive. One more time. So Ang Dorje and I climb out from the chaos, under the torn canopy, and try in the lulls of the storm, to erect a new tent. But over and again the gusts of wind get under the slack fabric and blow it up like a balloon. The tent is almost ripped from our hands. The storm drowns our cries; we cannot understand each other from as little as a couple of metres apart. We have to keep turning out of the wind to rub away the snow which is clogging up our eyes. Once I can see the utter ridiculousness of our situation, I relax a bit. Even towards death. It is too late for anything. The storm builds up into a hurricane. My skin feels as if it burns. The first blue-white tinges of frostbite appear on my finger tips and the end of my nose. I am chilled to the marrow although I am wearing a complete down suit. At last, after an hour, I crawl into the second tent. It sways, it flaps, but it holds. It holds, and I burst into tears.