Some books are artfully written, but dull. Others are thick with excitement, but flat. This one? This one stands at that sweet intersection: beauty and tension, in equal measure.
Part adventure story, part survival tale, even part psychological thriller, this story takes you from the glacial inland to the cold wet coast of the Alaskan wilderness. It's the kind of setting that makes you snuggle deep under the blanket, suddenly aware that you are warm and dry. Yet nothing gets romanticized here. You're staggered by the scale of the story's rugged backdrop, constantly aware of how unforgiving it is.
And forgiveness is the pulse of the tale - specifically, as one character puts it, about asking for forgiveness when you don't deserve it. In confronting the crimes of their lives, Anna and Kyle and the invisible William are looking for ways to live with themselves, and with the hard, immutable facts we all face in one form or another.
The beauty of the book is in the economy of its language, matched with precision. There is a spareness to these pages, a simmering restraint that amplifies the wind, the engines, the screams into the glacier. It reads a bit like poetry that way.
You know that feeling you get when a book ends a chapter too early? When you're caught up with a character, and you reach the resolution, but you sort of want to hang out a little longer, to see what comes next? This book lets you. It compels you to the end, but then delivers a smooth, soft landing. As I read the last pages, I felt a bit like someone standing on a dock, watching a ship and its familiar passengers recede on the horizon. And I kept on staring, even after it had disappeared.