'Antarctica has no government as such'

W. Herzog about filming Encounters at the End of the World

The film benefited greatly from the spirit of the Antarctic Treaty, which came into force in 1961 and which I consider to be one of the finest documents of the civilised world. It banned military activity on the continent and established the area as a scientific preserve, committing an entire landmass to the principles of peace and knowledge. There is also an unequivocal ban on nuclear testing or dumping of radioactive waste. The treaty is one of the most potent manifestations of civilised behaviour among nations in modern history. I remember a time when at least a dozen countries claimed segments of the continent as their national territory, but Antarctica has no government as such; it belongs to no one, and while making the film I was witness to the extraordinary international co-operation you find there.
[...]
The vast landscape of the continent is unique, but Encounters at the End of the World is more about the inhabitants of Antarctica than  anything else. There is a significant science being done there, which attracts a certain kind of person, and behind every door at McMurdo is an extraordinary character. With no indigenous population, no one there has anything in common other than a shared attraction to this immense, unspoilt and untouched area of the earth. Someone told me that everybody who isn't tied down falls to the bottom of the globe.
Werner Herzog, A Guide for the Perplexed, Conversations with Paul Cronin, p385-386 (Faber & Faber 2014)

Große Wasser

An einem großen Wasser fühlt man sich freier als sonst, einfach nur, weil das große Wasser da ist. Das große Wasser verscheucht die ewigen kleinen Gedanken und das Drandenken an dies und das und sagt einem, dass man einmal still und ruhig werden soll. Man wird plötzlich ganz "spiegelglatt", ich meine im Innern. Und man atmet ganz ruhig und spürt die Luft vom Wasser her, wie sie das Gesicht kühlt und dafür sorgt, dass die Sonne sich einbrennen kann in das Gesicht. 

Ortheil, Die Berlinreise, p 109 (Luchterhand 2014)

snowed in & a thread of stories

One thing that my mother once told me was that I fell quite ill when I was five or six. We could not call an ambulance because even if we did manage to get hold of one, we were too deeply snowed in. So my mother wrapped me in blankets, tied me on a sled and pulled me all night to Aschau where I was admitted to hospital. She visited me eight days later, coming on foot through deep snow. I do not remember this, but she was so amazed that I was absolutely without complaint. Apparently I had pulled a single piece of thread from my blanket on the bed and for eight days had played with it. I was not bored: this thread was full of stories and fantasies for me.
Werner Herzog, A Guide for the Perplexed, Conversations with Paul Cronin, p12-13 (Faber & Faber 2014)

maelstrom

One night in 1945, on a Navy vessel in Pacific storm, my relief on bow watch, seasick, failed to appear, and I was alone for eight hours in a maelstrom of wind and water, noise and iron; again and again, waves crashed across the deck, until water, air, and iron became one. Overwhelmed, exhausted, all thought and emotion beaten out of me, I lost my sense of self, the heartbeat I heard was the heart of the world, I breathed with the mighty risings and declines of earth, and this evanescence seemed less frightening then exalting. Afterwards, there was a pain of loss - loss of what, I wondered, understanding nothing.
Peter Matthiessen, The Snow Leopard (1979), p48 (Harvill HarperCollins 1989)

'that distant, watery past'

We just want to go back. To the distant, distant past. To a primeval era, in fact, before human beings existed. All people with autism feel the same about this one, I reckon. Aquatic life-forms came into being and evolved, but why did they then have to emerge onto dry land, and turn into human beings who chose to lead lives ruled by time? These are real mysteries to me.

In the water it's so quiet and I'm so free and happy there. Nobody hassles us in the water, and it's as if we've got all the time in the world. Whether we stay in one place or whether we're swimming about, when we're in the water we can really be at one with the pulse of time. Outside of the water there's always too much stimulation for our eyes and our ears, and it's impossible for us to guess how long one second is or how long an hour takes.

People with autism have no freedom. The reason is that we are a different kind of human, born with primeval senses. We are outside the normal flow of time, we can't express ourselves, and our bodies are hurtling us through life. If only we could go back to that distant, distant, watery past - then we'd all be able to live as contentedly and as freely as you lot!
Naoki Higashida, The Reason I Jump: one boy's voice from the silence of autism, Q39 p104-105 (Sceptre 2014), translated by David Mitchell & Keiko Yoshida