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From the Prologue

In the high Arctic, the cold can be so intense that the moisture in your eyes freezes to form tiny icicles between your upper and lower lashes. On a bright day in February the sunlight refracts through the crystals and spreads dancing rainbows across your retina. You live deep inside the tunnel formed by the hood of your anorak. Only your breath ventures into the polar landscape and as it escapes, the moisture freezes on the fur ruff of your hood, forming icicles that tinkle softly when you walk, like crystalline wind chimes. Part of you wants to push the curtain aside and step into the outer world, but your body selfishly contracts within itself and draws its warmth toward the center. Eventually the body wins and your mind withdraws to the deepest, most protected places. The hostility of the environment becomes abstract. Even the cold lives in a different time and place and all that remains is a peaceful eternity of ice.