The Ice That Consumes Us
Rarely does a book so thoroughly and capably disorient, hurling the reader about haphazardly as if the linguistic ground beneath them shifts with every sentence. Anna Kavan’s haunting novel Ice is one of those books. Set in an apocalyptic ice age, the reader is whipped around in a blizzard of vague, oneiric narration that slowly unravels, infecting them with a disorienting paranoia. It’s a novel that eludes all explanation: there is no plot, no character names, and no confidence in the reliability of the narrator, who repeatedly slips in and out of vivid, violent hallucinations. Loosely categorized as part of Slipstream literature—a genre blending realism with speculative or science fiction—Kavan’s surrealism presents a nightmarish reality that is as preposterous as it is plausible.
Originally published in 1967, the story’s commentary on climate change and nuclear fears is apparent and remains prescient in today’s world, but the subtext is complicated by the fact that Kavan’s cataclysmic world is not smoldering with heat but engulfed by piercing, fast-approaching ice. Even more elusive is the cause of the imminent threat. There is no mention of greenhouse gases, carbon footprints, or even active nuclear weapon usage, leaving our assumptions shrouded in a tundra of doubt. Regardless of its origins, the menacing, omnipresent ice remains a central character in the novel, advancing closer in every chapter with its “rumbling roar” and monstrous force.
“Day by day the ice was creeping over the curve of the earth, unimpeded by seas or mountains. Without haste or pause, it was steadily moving nearer, entering and flattening cities, filling craters from which boiling lava had poured. There was no way of stopping the icy giant battalions, marching in relentless order across the world, crushing, obliterating, destroying everything in their path.”
What is the ice, after all? Is it a symbol? An allegory? Does it represent the imminent threat of nuclear apocalypse? Perilous ice encapsulating vast swaths of Earth’s surface mirroring the rapidly expanding world superpowers with their nuclear warheads. Maybe. Is the ice merely the embodiment of addiction, particularly Kavan’s personal struggle with heroin? Despite the autobiographical elements within the story, this conclusion still seems unlikely. Novelist Christopher Priest, in his introduction to the novel, strongly advises us against such an on-the-nose assumption. Maybe it’s the unavoidable presence of death inching closer with each passing moment—sharp, pointed icicles and a bone-chilling cold threatening to deaden our bodies and steal our final breath. Or does the ice not symbolize anything at all? Neither Kavan nor her narrator offer a clear answer. Just a cold shoulder.
In fact, much of the novel leaves readers on the hook, expecting them to pocket their questions and follow the frost-covered Slip ‘N’ Slide narrative. Kavan’s prose balances precision and obscurity, even occasionally breaching into contradiction in her descriptions of “icy volcanoes,” “crystalline icelight,” and her elusive female lead with glinting moonlit hair. In pursuit of this frail, seraphic woman, the narrator staggers between violent dreams and hopeless realities as she repeatedly slips away. Much of his chase consists of Kafkaesque misdirection, including absurd setbacks and prevaricating authorities:
“‘No exceptions?’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, there’s no transport except for official personnel.’ After all these negative statements, I could only say: Then you advise me to give up the idea?’ “Officially speaking, yes.’ He looked at me slyly. ‘But not necessarily’”
Besides the ever-present ice, his greatest obstacle comes in the shape of a colossal, imposing man known as the Warden. The domineering man holds the girl in a sort of metaphysical cell—isolating and abusing her physically, while she mentally and spiritually resigns herself to the fate of a victim, remarking toward the end: “Her part was to suffer; that was known and accepted.” Caught within a coarse, pitiless struggle between controlling men, Kavan seems to shed light on the subservience that many women are often forced or willfully submit to. The further their rivalry rages, the more the two men begin to merge into an icy reflection: “We were like halves of one being, joined in some mysterious symbiosis.” The Warden persists as the more ruthless of the two, but neither brings warmth or salvation to our frozen damsel in distress.
Perhaps the most intriguing element of the perplexing novel is its indictment of humanity. The narrator suggests that mankind has rejected life, stating: “A frightful crime had been committed, against nature, against the universe, against life. By rejecting life, man had destroyed the immemorial order, destroyed the world; now everything was about to crash down in ruins.” Having lived through both World Wars, Kavan likely saw these epoch-defining events as a crime humanity committed against itself—and the world as a whole. Earlier in the work, the protagonist remarks that: “An insane impatience for death was driving mankind to a second suicide,” leaving readers wondering what the first suicide could have been. World War II? The Atomic Bomb? One can’t be sure, but the irreversible crime has been committed and our tragic fate is sealed.
“I knew it meant only one thing: the glaciers were closing in. Instead of my world, there would soon be only ice, snow, stillness, death; no more violence, no war, no victims; nothing but frozen silence, absence of life. The ultimate achievement of mankind would be, not just self-destruction, but the destruction of all life; the transformation of the living world into a dead planet.”
Ice is an unsettling warning against the deathly cold world that awaits us in the wake of violence. A brutal, vicious cold approaches, threatening to disorder, kill, and dehumanize us piece by piece. Throughout the narrator’s journey, he finds himself in a deeply militarized world, where powerful nations wielding exorbitant amounts of nuclear arsenals and forcing the allegiance—or elimination—of smaller countries. As if in direct confrontation with senseless war, Kavan poetically remarks:
“In the delirium of the dance, it was impossible to distinguish between the violent and the victims. Anyway, distinctions no longer mattered in a dance of death, where all the dancers spun on the edge of nothing.”
In its icy conclusion, the narrator reunites with the girl as they drive down a desolate, snow-covered road. The ending is as bitter and inconclusive as the beginning. There is no reason for us to believe the two live much longer or that the world has much hope for a reversal of conditions. Like the environment of her surrealist imagination, Kavan saw the world as increasingly inhospitable. Glaciers of fear, pain, and emotional detachment loom over humanity like the towering ice towers depicted in the novel. In the midst of the stark conclusion, the narrator finds solace in the warmth and certainty of the present moment: “Outside there was only the deadly cold, the frozen vacuum of an ice age, life reduced to mineral crystals; but here, in our lighted room, we were safe and warm,” suggesting that perhaps life and happiness can still be sustained, even with minimal heat.
