A woman falls in love with an ice man.
(from The New Yorker, Feb. 10, 2003)
This story, it occurs to me, is a lot like life, in that it is a tale told by an idiot. But seriously, what the hell? This one was so silly and overdone, I couldn’t help but think the author, generally an excellent writer from what I’ve seen, was just messing around. Stream-of-consciousness noodling on Murakami’s part. An experiment he never should have handed in. A wandering non-story with some pretty moments.
Everything about this ice man turned out to be a metaphor for more ice. The white patches in his hair? Like pockets of unmelted snow. His cheekbones? Like frozen stone. His fingers? frosted at the tips. Also, he sat as quiet as the winter scene outside the window and his stare was like a pointy icicle. So? Like? He’s? Some kinda an ice man?
Too bad he couldn’t crap out a snowcone. Make yourself useful, ice man.
Something about the tone reminded me of this classic story from one of my all-time favorite websites, superbad.com.
The link from which I printed “Ice Man” no longer seems to be working. But do some Googling and you’ll find the cached version.
Day Three of Recommendation Week. This one came endorsed by reader Stephen Schenkenberg, who told me “Ice Man” was extraordinary. That it was.