Dive into a mind-bending alternate history where a cosmic crash freezes the world in ways that challenge everything we think we know about reality—because what if ice wasn't just cold, but a living force reshaping empires and ideologies? That's the electrifying premise of Ice by Jacek Dukaj, a novel that's not only won the European Union Prize for Literature but also invites you to question the very fabric of chance, power, and existence itself. But here's where it gets controversial: in this story, the infamous Tunguska event of 1908—an enormous explosion in Siberia that flattened trees for miles, likely caused by a meteor or comet fragment—doesn't just linger as a scientific mystery. Instead, it unleashes an enigmatic, growing chill known as the 'gleiss,' a sentient coldness that alters physics, politics, and philosophy in profound, unsettling ways. If you're new to alternate histories, think of it as a 'what if' scenario where one historical twist—like this comet—ripples out to create a world utterly different from ours, making complex ideas more accessible by grounding them in familiar events.
The book's opening line plunges readers straight into intrigue, declaring: 'On the fourteenth day of July 1924, when the officials of the Ministry of Winter arrived for me, that evening, on the brink of my Siberian adventure, only then did I start to doubt my own existence.' It echoes the eerie bureaucracy of Franz Kafka's works or the labyrinthine puzzles in Jorge Luis Borges' tales, yet it ventures into stranger territory. Set in 1924, when Russia had no reigning tsar and his administrative minions should have been relics of the past, the date carries weight—hinting at a timeline that's eerily askew. For beginners curious about this, the Russian Revolution of 1917 toppled the tsar in our history, so imagining a world without it opens up a playground for 'what if' explorations. I had to look it up myself, and it reminded me of Shakespeare's Hamlet lamenting a disjointed world; here, time itself feels distorted.
Our protagonist, Benedykt Gierosławski, is a multifaceted Polish figure—a philosopher, logician, mathematician, and avid gambler whose mounting debts offer an escape: a perilous assignment from the Ministry. He's tasked with venturing into Siberia, dubbed 'the untamed east,' to locate his estranged father, Filip, banished for subversive acts against the regime. But this isn't mere forgiveness; Filip, now revered as Father Frost, blends geology with radical mysticism, potentially tied to the gleiss phenomenon. Dukaj reveals details gradually, building suspense, much like a mystery novel drip-feeds clues. The Tunguska comet crash mirrors our world's, but here it births this expanding cold, long before George R.R. Martin's Game of Thrones popularized 'Winter is coming' on screen. This novel hit shelves in Poland in 2007, proving Dukaj's foresight in crafting a chilling metaphor for environmental and ideological freezes.
And this is the part most people miss: the gleiss doesn't just bring frost; it invents 'black physics,' spawning revolutionary materials and tech. Picture superconducting 'coldiron' for super-efficient energy, shimmering 'frostoglaze' windows that defy logic, and 'blackwickes' that glow with 'unlicht'—an inverted light that's both eerie and innovative. This isn't just sci-fi gadgetry; it rewrites global politics. No Russian Revolution, no World War I—history reroutes entirely. Ideologies morph too, cleaving society between the Ottepyelniks, who champion a 'Thaw' to melt away the cold, and the Lyednyaks, who embrace the gleiss as a sacred, unchanging force. Imagine a rift deeper than our Cold War: entrepreneurs harness the chill for tech dominance, while mystics view its frozen eternity as spiritual enlightenment. The tsar leans toward eradication, aligning Russia with a 'Summer' alliance of European powers, amplifying tensions between Slavophiles (who cherish traditional Russian ways) and Westernizers (who favor European influences), tsarists versus Polish and Siberian nationalists, anarchists against rigid autocrats, and materialists clashing with spiritual seekers. It's a stark dichotomy that forces readers to ponder: is change always progress, or can stasis hold profound wisdom?
Benedykt, as a betting man and thinker, is captivated by how probability twists under the gleiss—turning random chaos into predictable patterns, where quantum uncertainties crystallize into certainties. He's not the only historical cameo; aboard his journey is Nikola Tesla, the brilliant inventor whose real-life genius fits seamlessly into this fiction. Others include the occult figure Aleister Crowley, revolutionary Leon Trotsky, and the enigmatic Grigori Rasputin, blending authentic personas with the story's alternate realities for added depth. The narrative unfolds in three parts: first, the suspenseful ride on the Trans-Siberian Express, packed with conspiracies, assassinations, spies, and betrayals; then, the turbulent political intrigue and scientific hubs of Irkutsk; and finally, the perilous trek into the desolate 'Ways of the Mammoth,' where the gleiss reigns supreme.
Kudos to the publishers for including an insightful appendix by translator Ursula Phillips, where she delves into her creative decisions. The book's style mirrors Benedykt's existential doubts, often omitting the first-person 'I' for a detached, almost robotic tone—commands like 'Stand facing... exhale...'—which Phillips deftly navigates. She defends against claims of 'untranslatability,' acknowledging challenges with cultural nuances (think Russian bureaucracy or Siberian folklore), but her strategies anchor readers in the story's deliberate obscurity. Dukaj even suggested she read Thomas Pynchon's Mason & Dixon for inspiration, highlighting how complexity suits a tale of worldly intricacies. As Phillips notes, truth can be indirect, and this novel's layered ambiguity reflects that.
Yet Ice isn't purely intellectual; it pulses with emotion. Expect bursts of humor amid terror, chapters brimming with heartache, and scenes that unpack lifetimes of sorrow. It's a somber, incisive, brilliant masterpiece that leaves you dazzled. Dukaj poses a haunting question: if history diverged, would the outcomes truly differ, or are we doomed to repeat?
Now, for the controversial twist: Does embracing a 'frozen' status quo, like the Lyednyaks, offer a path to transcendence, or is it a dangerous delusion stifling progress? And what about the Ottepyelniks' push for thaw—could it lead to chaos rather than harmony? This novel sparks debates on environmentalism, nationalism, and fate versus free will. What do you think: Is the gleiss a villain or a misunderstood force? Do you side with the thaw advocates or the ice preservers? Share your thoughts in the comments—do you agree with Dukaj's vision, or does it challenge your worldview? Disagreements welcome!
Ice by Jacek Dukaj, translated by Ursula Phillips, is available from Head of Zeus (£25). To support The Guardian, grab your copy at guardianbookshop.com (https://guardianbookshop.com/ice-9781786697288/?utmsource=editoriallink&utmmedium=merch&utm_campaign=article). Shipping fees may apply.
