The Martian by Andy Weir is the type of book that should make one feel smarter after reading. Yet strangely enough, I only felt depressingly dumber. Throughout the course of this book, I couldn’t help but let my mind wander over my own chances if I were in the midst of similar circumstances. If I woke up stranded on Mars, with a metal pole sticking through me, with a space suit low on oxygen, I would probably be throwing up my hands, sighing regretfully, “well… life was fun.” Of course, I’d first recite the pledge of allegiance, pray my last prayers, and, if I had time, maybe deliver my eulogy to vast space. (I wouldn’t go down without dignity, mind you.) But that would be immediately followed by my abrupt bleh (death) as I collapse to the martian floor in a display of drama accurate to the adjusted gravity for Mars. On the other end of the spectrum, however, there’s Mark Watney who rebuilt a space system, created water by repurposing complex machines, and traveled 3200km across an unsurvivable Martian wilderness. It’s rather emasculating to be honest.
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