MEMORIES OF ICE – A NEURODIVERGENT READ

 While I was reading Steven Erikson’s Deadhouse Gates (the sections focusing on The Chain of Dogs, specifically) I felt compelled to go back and read some of my favourite Vietnam war novels, a grim fascination of mine, an unfortunate pet subject. I think if I had, it would have coloured my perspective when reading Memories of Ice. After all, my perception of Erikson’s militaristic writing already feels more grounded in modern military history rather than any prehistoric, ancient, medieval, or industrial era. I admit that when I’m reading scenes of Malazan warfare, I have to do a minor double-take when the soldiers draw swords rather than modern firearms; use magic rather than heavy artillery. And indeed, this essay would be rather different if that was the focus of my perception, analysing Memories of Ice through a firmly militaristic lens, through the lens of modern war literature. But that’s not what I’m going to be talking about here. Instead of reading war novels after Deadhouse Gates, I read something else—of military occupation, rather than action, though it wasn’t this aspect that most sharply drew my attention.

 Adania Shibli’s Minor Detail (translated by Elisabeth Jaquette) is set around the Israeli– Palestinian conflict, but, as the title suggests, its narrative finds itself concerned with minor details. I will refrain from completely analysing Shibli’s novel here, no matter how compelled I feel to do so, and instead focus on—in my limited and biased perspective—just one detail: that of the novel’s depiction of neurodivergency. While never outright stated that the narrator of Minor Detail is autistic, we can infer it from their thoughts and interactions in the world, starting out with their metaphor regarding borders: 

“…as soon as I see a border, I either race toward it and leap over, or cross it stealthily, with a step. Neither of these two behaviours is conscious, or rooted in a premeditated desire to resist borders; it’s more like sheer stupidity. To be quite honest, once I cross a border, I fall into a deep pit of anxiety. It’s a matter, simply put, of clumsiness. Once I realised that I inevitably fail whenever I try to navigate borders, I decided to stay within the confines of my house as much as possible…Yet all my fear and anxiety and internal turmoil dissipates when this trespassing occurs within the confines of my solitude. Solitude is so forgiving of trespassed borders…” 

 This section, shortened as much as I can make it while trying to keep an outline of its core purpose, details the way the narrator navigates their life, and as the novel goes on, we see our narrator put into situations in which their anxiety about “crossing borders” affects their daily interactions: buying vegetables at the market, taking the bus to work, passing military checkpoints, borrowing a car, and so on. The crossover between their anxiety and neurodivergency affecting mundane day-to-day activities and those that are weighed down much more heavily by the military occupation in Palestine is brilliant and harrowing. As a neurodivergent individual myself, the simple terror and poignancy with which this theme is explored made this book affect me quite deeply. It was after having read this novel that I read Memories of Ice, and perhaps that will help you understand that, while reading this epic narrative of fantasy and war, I was most deeply enraptured by the strange relationships and character moments that the novel is so steeply suffused with. And I first became fully aware of this aspect with the character of Toc the Younger:

“None the less, the transition from barren plain to green pastures and signs of human activity was something of a shock to Toc the Younger. He realized, with a dull and faint surge of unease, that he’d grown used to the solitude of the plain the Elin called Lamatath. Absence of people—those outside the group…strangers—had diminished what he now understood to be a constant tension in his life. Perhaps in all our lives. Unfamiliar faces, gauging regard, every sense heightened in an effort to read the unknown. The natural efforts of society. Do we all possess a wish to remain unseen, unnoticed? Is the witnessing of our actions by others our greatest restraint?” 

 This passage was a key for me. It unlocked a greater understanding of the narrative that I had almost ignored up until this point, but after I read it, I couldn't help but constantly see its relevance. Memories of Ice is filled with characters crossing borders, large or small, and finding discomfort or difficulty in the process. Before Toc’s emergence onto the Lamatath plain, his existence is defined by a quiet and budding friendship with Tool, and his inability to interact appropriately with Lady Envy. Tool, of the T’lan Imass, represents the pain and solitude of the entirety of the T’lan Imass in microcosm—where the Imass’ storyline in this novel is of a grand scale, Tool’s is much smaller, but equally important. Tool, discussing his culture with Toc, explaining the meaning of his language, of the apostrophe in his name, while together, he and Toc are forming bonds through the arrows and broken obsidian they craft them from, is the perfect encapsulation of their strange relationship. One and the same, they are singularly broken, and the friendship they form is one that defines the journey they take to fix themselves as the narrative progresses. Tool especially has such a beautiful transformation as the novel concludes, simply stated solely when he says his name: Onos Toolan, rather than T’oolan. Broken no more. 

 But we can see how both Tool and Toc have a strange friendship based on their severe inability to cross boundaries gracefully. On their lack of comfort, “the natural efforts of society.” We frequently see Toc bumbling his social interactions with those he is close to: 

“Toc hesitated, then strode to the undead warrior. ‘There was untruth in your words, Tool,’ he said.

Swords hissed out and the Malazan spun to see Senu and Therule advancing on him.

Tool snapped out a hand. ‘Stop! Sheathe your weapons, Seguleh. I am immune to insults—even those delivered by one I would call a friend.’

‘Not an insult,’ Toc said levelly, turning back to the T’lan Imass. ‘An observation. What did you call it? The breaking of blood-ties.’ He laid a hand on Tool’s shoulder. ‘It’s clear to me, for what that’s worth, that the breaking failed. The blood-ties remain. Perhaps you could take heart in that, Onos T’oolan.’” 

 We can perhaps even infer a further metaphor from when Toc looks into Tool’s eyesockets, musing:

“Gods, I look and see nothing. He looks and sees…what?” 

 While Toc is looking quite literally into the withered sockets of Tool’s face, is it illogical to draw the idea that this action reflects the quite real inability for some neurodivergent individuals to read the expressions of those they interact with? We can also gather a bit more evidence to back up this theming with some dialogue from Lady Envy: 

“Have you ever noticed how language can be twisted to mask brutality? Ah, a thought! Look at the Seguleh—masked, yes, yet they speak true and plain, do they not? Is there something in that, do you think? Some hidden significance? Our malleable, fleshy visages are skilled at deceit—a far more subtle mask than what the brothers over there are wearing.” 

 Toc, unable to gauge the proper form of social etiquette, frequently speaks bluntly, often harming or insulting those he talks to. This is even more evident with Lady Envy, whose constant flirtations with Toc either go over his head, or are wilfully ignored, eventually leading to her reaction: 

“‘Oh!’ She stamped her foot. ‘You’re just like Rake!’” 

 And this is where we segue into the other strange, impactful friendship explored in the novel: that of Anomander Rake and Whiskeyjack, best encapsulated in this passage: 

 “Whiskeyjack, in his heart, was certain that Anomander Rake was not dead. Nor even lost. In the half-dozen late-night conversations he shared with the Lord of Moon’s Spawn, the Malazan had acquired a sense of the Tiste Andii: despite the alliances, including the long-term partnership with Caladan Brood, Anomander Rake was a man of solitude—an almost pathological independence. He was indifferent to the needs of others, for whatever reassurance or confirmation they might expect or demand.” 

 This is a rather callous interpretation of Anomander Rake from Whiskeyjack’s perspective, but perhaps not wholly incorrect. Rake’s hundreds of thousands of years of self-isolation and inability to properly socialise with others has given others an impression of indifference, or even heartlessness on his part, not unlike the way people sometimes interpret the behaviour of neurodivergent people. We learn that Rake is acutely aware of the people around him, and of his place and burdens he bears, the walls he puts up around himself, to prevent his needless crossing of borders—he stays inside his house. But Whiskeyjack, all throughout this novel, acts as a key, a sort of tractor beam that brings people together, unlocks them and frees them in a way any other would not. Whiskeyjack, alone, is the only individual in thousands of years, who can see behind Rake’s expertly crafted veil: 

“Anomander Rake, how can you bear this burden?

This burden that has so thoroughly broken my heart?

But no, that is not what so tears at me.

Lord of Moon’s Spawn, you asked me to step aside, and you called it a mercy. I misunderstood you. A mercy, not to the Women of the Dead Seed. But to me. Thus your sorrowed smile when I denied you.

Ah, my friend, I saw only your brutality—and that hurt you. 

Better, for us both, had you crossed blades with me.

For us both.

And I—I am not worth such friends.” 

 And from this we can learn that Rake’s callousness can often be mistaken. Perhaps it is not that Rake is indifferent to the needs of others, but simply unable to properly express a warring burden within himself, boundaries he's unwilling to cross, often to the detriment of those around him, because to him, his solitude is so forgiving of trespassed borders, that when he needs to act, he acts alone—no matter how misguided that may seem. 

 There are other ways in which I could further dissect and analyse these themes, to explore the self-isolation of Gruntle and his growth through it, the monolith of Itkovian's burden, the sadness of Buke's self-hatred, the romance of Korlat and Whiskeyjack (similarly mirroring Whiskeyjack's friendship with Rake), Quick Ben’s individuality within the narrative as a lone actor, the Mhybe’s abandonment (and her namelessness…), but as it stands, I’m already of the belief that this train of thought of mine—so influenced by Adania Shibli’s Minor Detail, influenced by my own neurodivergence and willingness to see it where its inclusion may not have been intentional—is threadbare. The further I go on, the more tangential my connections would become, the thinner my argument. But as an evidence for the power of our own ability to read a text, to analyse a novel, I hope others might explore new ways to find meaning in what they read, even if that exploration is one entirely unique to you, alone. When I read Memories of Ice—a novel filled with partners, duos, and groups of people, banding together—all I could see was the individual, and the awkward singularity of those individuals overcoming their trespassed borders, and the strange and uncommon bonds that formed between them all.