Frostily immaculate and mysterious as the titular ice formation. Tunnels of ice, spires of ice. Rooms with only entries and no exits that beckon, beckon.

There's so much that fascinates here: the ethereal descriptions of northern landscapes, and accompanying slightly alien compassion of its communities, the inexpressible pre-sexual bonds of children, the inexpressible secrets and promises of self and other, the ice palace, always the ice palace. The simple direct language all the more capable of poetry, perfectly formed intercuts of non-narrative scenes (snow-fleas, birds of prey), heightening mood and quietly pulsing with the theme beneath the story. as water runs under ice.

I seem to be more drawn to these compressed bursts of sheer otherworldy poetics lately, and this is a key example among those.