For me the sun has always been the Heavenly Clown. In my first conscious memory of the sun, I have my eyes scrunched up and I’m looking right at it, fully aware that this is forbidden. I’m thinking that the sun is both menacing and full of laughter, like a clown’s face when he paints himself with blood and ashes, bites down on a stick, and—alien, gruesome, and joyous—approaches us children. Now, just before the orb of the sun reaches the horizon, where it momentarily evades the black cloud cover, casting fiery light across the ice and the ship, the clown’s strategy becomes manifest—to evade the darkness by ducking as low as possible. The lethal striking force of humiliation. The Kronos is on its way into the ice. I can see it in the distance, veiled by half-inch-thick safety glass fogged up by the salt crystallized on the outside. That doesn’t make any difference. I can feel the ice as if I were standing on it. It’s dense field ice, and at first everything is gray.
What do You think about Smilla's Sense Of Snow (2011)?
