The prose in this book is as feathery, fragile, and ethereal as snow. I read it during a recent heat wave, temps in the 100’s, yet I felt chilled. Really. Put on my slippers. Eowyn Ivey is this eerily good a writer. Just beautifully evocative imagery. The pensive loneliness of childless couple facing old age, isolated, in the frightening maw of a harsh Alaskan winter. The winter of their discontent. Until, a fairy child appears, bringing with her a magical mysticism that can warm the bleakest heart.
“…I am reminded of the time you spent as a child chasing faires in the woods…you slept more than one night in those old oak trees, and when mother found you in the morning you would swear you had seen fairies that flew like butterflies and lit up the night like lightening bugs. I remember with some shame that the rest of us teased you about seeing such spirits, but now my own grandchildren chase similar fancies and I do not discourage them. In my old age, I see that life itself is often more fantastic and terrible than the stories we believed as children, and that perhaps there is not harm in finding magic among the trees.”
Beautiful writing. Beautiful book.
Not a book I would usually read, but so glad I did.
Maybe you should read it in the summer though?