"By the time Eustace Conway was seven years old, he could throw a knife accurately enough to nail a chipmunk to a tree. By the time he was ten, he could hit a running squirrel at fifty feet with a bow and arrow. When he turned twelve, he went out into the woods, alone and empty-handed, built himself a shelter, and survived off the land for a week. When he turned seventeen, he moved out of his family’s home altogether and headed into the mountains, where he lived in a teepee of his own design, made fire by rubbing two sticks together, bathed in icy streams, and dressed in the skins of the animals he had hunted and eaten."
This is already the most epic book I’ve ever read, and I’m only four sentences in. The next three paragraphs describe how Eustace sailed down the Mississippi in a handmade wooden canoe when he was eighteen, hiked the Appalachian Trail when he was nineteen, and in the following years kayaked across Alaska, lived with the Navajo in New Mexico, lived with the Maya in Guatemala for five months, and rode across America on horseback in only 103 days. All of this before page 3. Oh, and it isn’t a novel. Happy Monday.