The unnamed narrator, a cultured “high society” man, is on a vague secret mission when he finds out about the girl. This fragile woman with platinum hair becomes his main obsession, and for her sake he will defy war, the terrifying advancing ice, the almighty Guardian and all armored soldiers. But he always loses it at the last moment.

An unexpected mixture of Ballard, Kafka and Burroughs with horror and disaster films, masterfully written – Cavan’s visual prowess is unmatched, and the descriptions of ice triumphantly rolling across the Earth are mind-blowingly beautiful – “Ice” by an author with a similarly fragile character who signed her books with the name heroines from her early literary works, the name and personality that became her alter ego, a magnate with an adventurous temperament, full of travel, exotic experiences, suicide attempts and imprisonment in psychiatric hospitals and rehab centers – this book is a novel unlike any other that you can remember. Because there is nothing like it.

Cavan is in many ways the same girl: “Forced in childhood to adopt the mindset and behavior of the victim, she was defenseless against his aggressive will, with which he could keep her under his absolute control” (p. 64). “Her face haunted me: long eyelashes that blinked, her shy, charming smile [μια] a change in her expression that I could remember at any moment, a sudden change, an offended look, a lightning-fast address, ending in an expression of panic, tears” (p. 120). But just how much does this omniscient narrator want “what’s good for her” who can and does follow the girl like a camera wherever she goes – an intoxicating discovery – and how innocent is he? “The bones of the forearm were broken, the sharp ends of the bone pierced the torn tissue and protruded from the wrist. I felt deceived: I had to break this neck myself, gently and lovingly; I was the only person entitled to harm her in any way” (p. 91).

A claustrophobic/kaleidoscopic book about war, violence, submission and addiction, full of anger, despair and fear. And an absolutely feminist book, of course. Cavan, born in 1901, died in 1968, a year after publication. This is her masterpiece waiting to be discovered. He talks about women, about our age, and about the end of the world, which will be loneliness and ice.

The translation is very good, the Prologue is instructive, and the Epimeter is necessary. Missing version.