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A review by nhborg
Icefields by Thomas Wharton
5.0
Who would’ve thought I’d find love at the very start of 2025?«Icefields» took my breath away.
To think that this humble, little book can contain such a vastness. It explores the lonely walk along a path to find oneself, the extremities of natural landscapes, the intruding force of colonialism and industrialization, the healing yet isolating effect of stillness and connection with nature, the co-existence of rationalism/science and intuition/spirituality, the immaterial inheritance from our parents, the terrors of war, the pain of a broken heart. The glacier looms in the background as a constant in the ever-changing world; it observes, remembers and reminds.
The writing is utterly gorgeous and full of imagery; a gold mine for literary analysis:
«Everywhere the ice bristles up with glittering frost needles as the melted and now refreezing surface water dilatates. A garden of tiny ice flowers seems to be growing all around me.»
«She can hear, rolling underneath the cold technical language, a turbulence of desires and emotions. She cannot interpret them. This is a voice out of the dark.»
This book offered so much interesting to reflect on along the way, and I can’t wait to return to my pencil-covered pages in the future for a re-embarkment. I adore how the story manages to be so simple yet so layered, almost feeling like a geological structure itself. As the back of my paperback says, «this novel rears up a shining ice-cathedral of a story, lovely, mysterious, and awe-inspiring.»
I’m hoping that this phenomenal start means that my renovated reading strategies are proving successful, and if so, I can’t wait to see what the rest of the year has to offer:)
(Bonus) Another favorite passage of mine:
«She is somehow childlike. This older woman who has lived in some of the world’s great cities and written about their dangers, their seductions. She travels like the meandering heroine of a novel for children, shrugging off the entanglements of one chapter and moving on to the next, never stopping long enough in one place for its habits of defeat and cynicism to cling to her. Always asking what’s over the next hill, around the next curve of the river? But never asking how will I get home?»
To think that this humble, little book can contain such a vastness. It explores the lonely walk along a path to find oneself, the extremities of natural landscapes, the intruding force of colonialism and industrialization, the healing yet isolating effect of stillness and connection with nature, the co-existence of rationalism/science and intuition/spirituality, the immaterial inheritance from our parents, the terrors of war, the pain of a broken heart. The glacier looms in the background as a constant in the ever-changing world; it observes, remembers and reminds.
The writing is utterly gorgeous and full of imagery; a gold mine for literary analysis:
«Everywhere the ice bristles up with glittering frost needles as the melted and now refreezing surface water dilatates. A garden of tiny ice flowers seems to be growing all around me.»
«She can hear, rolling underneath the cold technical language, a turbulence of desires and emotions. She cannot interpret them. This is a voice out of the dark.»
This book offered so much interesting to reflect on along the way, and I can’t wait to return to my pencil-covered pages in the future for a re-embarkment. I adore how the story manages to be so simple yet so layered, almost feeling like a geological structure itself. As the back of my paperback says, «this novel rears up a shining ice-cathedral of a story, lovely, mysterious, and awe-inspiring.»
I’m hoping that this phenomenal start means that my renovated reading strategies are proving successful, and if so, I can’t wait to see what the rest of the year has to offer:)
(Bonus) Another favorite passage of mine:
«She is somehow childlike. This older woman who has lived in some of the world’s great cities and written about their dangers, their seductions. She travels like the meandering heroine of a novel for children, shrugging off the entanglements of one chapter and moving on to the next, never stopping long enough in one place for its habits of defeat and cynicism to cling to her. Always asking what’s over the next hill, around the next curve of the river? But never asking how will I get home?»