Disclaimer: The next few reviews are old ones I’d put up on Goodreads which I feel deserve a wider audience. Some of these books were old paperbacks, some were ebooks now relegated to the back of my Kindle, and some are still wilting away on my bookshelf.  

The Snow Child, in particular, was a lovely little book I read in June 2013. This was back in India where new paperbacks were hard to come by and Flipkart was burgeoning from an online bookstore to an Indian Amazon – so imagine my excitement when this new book came to my doorstep!

The Snow Child speaks of compelling imagery – of the tender grief of a woman for her stillborn in the desolate Alaskan winters, of the silent blame her stoic woodcutter husband sees in her eyes everyday. Of the dangerous , all-consuming and unexpected love the couple finds one icy evening, in a small girl they seemingly sculpted of snow, and brought to life with love. Daughter of Snow, they call her. Snegurochka. Our snow child. 

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 no harm in finding magic among the trees.

Eowyn Ivey, The Snow Child

Born to the wild and fettered by none, the girl comes into their lives with the winters, and goes by spring. She feasts on ermine flesh by day and spends her nights in cub holes. She steals their hearts in her glacial white fingers, and thus a lifetime is spent, hoping and losing and yearning – and hoping again.

The Snow Child is crushing and lovely and spellbinding all at once. It more than makes up for a lacking plot with its lush imagery and underplayed emotions – for me, at least. Alaska is at its chilling best – here, in between the mountains and spruce trees and moose meat I felt myself take in, sip by sip, the delicious crunch of a breaking heart. I’m a sucker for the sad-and-beautiful variety of prose, and The Snow Child just about defines this variety. Give it a go if you’re feeling insanely happy – this will definitely mellow you down to an acceptable level of glumness. 

Be warned, though. It might also stretch and flood your heart with the comforting ache of a beautiful book read and relished.