bunkum
The fundamental error is that of placing Perfection in humanity, thus giving rise to that bastard thing Personality, and all the bunkum that follows from it.
Novaya Zemlya—we eventually made it that far. Not beyond the point that should have opened onto the passage to Cathay—not that bunkum, the arena of approval-needy geographers or feverish, greedy tradesmen—no, the point beyond which no friendship can exist, not even the fairy tale of the coyest fondness, the point beyond which it’s just you and the polar night, the point beyond which you only snarl orders and glower coldly at one another. No spices, no tea, porcelain, silk, fragrant nutmeg or cloves, not a single pepper, only the void, the immeasurable void where every man is on his own in the endless polar whiteness.