Ice
The first American edition of Ice, published by Doubleday in 1970, two years after Anna Kavan's death in 1968. This edition includes an introduction by Brian Aldiss, who had been a friend of Kavan's and was instrumental in championing the novel and arranging its American publication. Aldiss's advocacy was significant: his own standing as a leading figure in science fiction lent the book credibility with readers who might not have encountered it otherwise, and helped position Ice as a serious work at the intersection of literary and speculative fiction. Kavan did not live to see it published in the United States.
Hardcover. First American Edition, First Printing. Octavo, bound in blue cloth. New York: Doubleday & Company, 1970. #10867.
Fine in fine dust jacket with faintest hints of wear.
Hardcover. First American Edition, First Printing. Octavo, bound in blue cloth. New York: Doubleday & Company, 1970. #10867.
Fine in fine dust jacket with faintest hints of wear.
Additional Details
Anna Kavan was the pen name of Helen Ferguson, the name under which she published her earliest novels in the late 1920s and 1930s. The pseudonym first appeared on a 1940 collection of stories, Asylum Piece, and she would use it for the rest of her career. The name change coincided with a period of severe personal crisis, including two failed marriages, institutionalization, the loss of her son in the Second World War, and a heroin addiction she would maintain, under medical supervision, for much of her adult life. By the time Ice was published, Kavan was in her mid-sixties and had been writing for four decades with only modest recognition.
The novel starts with an unnamed man's return to his home country, aware of some vague international emergency, and consumed by the need to find a young woman he once hoped to marry. She is now married to another man, a figure who shifts throughout the book from painter to warden to something more strange and menacing. The narrator pursues the girl across a series of deteriorating landscapes, war-damaged towns, frozen ports, and unnamed countries, while a wall of ice closes in on the world from the poles.
What makes Ice strange and powerful is the way Kavan refuses to stabilize any of these elements. The narrator's relationship to the girl oscillates between protectiveness and cruelty. In one passage he rescues her; in the next he watches the ice engulf her with something approaching pleasure. The man she lives with is sometimes her captor and sometimes just her husband. Scenes repeat with variations, as if cycling through trauma rather than advancing through plot. The ice itself is never quite a metaphor and never quite a literal catastrophe. It simply encroaches, chapter by chapter, until there is almost nowhere left.
Christopher Priest, in his foreword to a later edition, makes a useful distinction: the ice is not allegory. For allegory to work, the symbolic and the literal must correspond precisely enough that a reader can decode one into the other. Kavan's ice doesn't operate that way. It is more elusive, and more emotionally true for being so. The novel has often been read in light of Kavan's heroin use, the whiteness and coldness of the ice echoing the drug's crystalline purity, its encroachment mirroring addiction's slow suffocation of a life. But Kavan herself seems to have resisted any tidy interpretation. The images work because they invoke feeling rather than argument.
The prose itself is spare and exact, even as the narrative loops and doubles back. Kavan's style has sometimes been compared to J.G. Ballard's, and the comparison is apt in one sense: both writers treat landscape as a projection of psychological states, and both are drawn to images of entropy and enclosure. But Kavan's vision is cooler and more detached than Ballard's, less interested in the beauty of catastrophe than in the nature of obsession: why the narrator pursues the girl, why he cannot stop, why saving her and destroying her seem like the same impulse.
Ice is often categorized under post-apocalyptic and climate fiction, and both tags fit, though neither fully captures it. The book anticipates later ecological anxiety fiction in its vision of a world coming apart through human action and climatic catastrophe, but Kavan isn't making any arguments about it. The approaching catastrophe in the novel is merely backdrop. What it is far more concerned with is its narrator.
The first edition, published by Peter Owen in London, is notably scarce. Kavan had little commercial track record by 1967, and the print run was modest. The book gained its reputation gradually, through word of mouth and critical reassessment, largely after her death.
The novel starts with an unnamed man's return to his home country, aware of some vague international emergency, and consumed by the need to find a young woman he once hoped to marry. She is now married to another man, a figure who shifts throughout the book from painter to warden to something more strange and menacing. The narrator pursues the girl across a series of deteriorating landscapes, war-damaged towns, frozen ports, and unnamed countries, while a wall of ice closes in on the world from the poles.
What makes Ice strange and powerful is the way Kavan refuses to stabilize any of these elements. The narrator's relationship to the girl oscillates between protectiveness and cruelty. In one passage he rescues her; in the next he watches the ice engulf her with something approaching pleasure. The man she lives with is sometimes her captor and sometimes just her husband. Scenes repeat with variations, as if cycling through trauma rather than advancing through plot. The ice itself is never quite a metaphor and never quite a literal catastrophe. It simply encroaches, chapter by chapter, until there is almost nowhere left.
Christopher Priest, in his foreword to a later edition, makes a useful distinction: the ice is not allegory. For allegory to work, the symbolic and the literal must correspond precisely enough that a reader can decode one into the other. Kavan's ice doesn't operate that way. It is more elusive, and more emotionally true for being so. The novel has often been read in light of Kavan's heroin use, the whiteness and coldness of the ice echoing the drug's crystalline purity, its encroachment mirroring addiction's slow suffocation of a life. But Kavan herself seems to have resisted any tidy interpretation. The images work because they invoke feeling rather than argument.
The prose itself is spare and exact, even as the narrative loops and doubles back. Kavan's style has sometimes been compared to J.G. Ballard's, and the comparison is apt in one sense: both writers treat landscape as a projection of psychological states, and both are drawn to images of entropy and enclosure. But Kavan's vision is cooler and more detached than Ballard's, less interested in the beauty of catastrophe than in the nature of obsession: why the narrator pursues the girl, why he cannot stop, why saving her and destroying her seem like the same impulse.
Ice is often categorized under post-apocalyptic and climate fiction, and both tags fit, though neither fully captures it. The book anticipates later ecological anxiety fiction in its vision of a world coming apart through human action and climatic catastrophe, but Kavan isn't making any arguments about it. The approaching catastrophe in the novel is merely backdrop. What it is far more concerned with is its narrator.
The first edition, published by Peter Owen in London, is notably scarce. Kavan had little commercial track record by 1967, and the print run was modest. The book gained its reputation gradually, through word of mouth and critical reassessment, largely after her death.
Related item
