I had been wondering about the ice that fascinated Jose Arcadio Buendia when the gypsies brought it to Macondo. And the reference to it in the first sentence of the novel. I am not satisfied that it had no more meaning than the eventual good fortune it brought his grandsons, although it did neatly provide an obvious reason for the railroad to be brought in, and all it brings with it. As an aside, it did remind me of East of Eden, and Cal’s bright idea to move lettuce quickly by refrigerated cars, which of course, was a dismal failure and practically sealed his doomed efforts to prove himself to his father.
Today, I feel the ice brings more the coldness of bitter feelings, of empty starkness and immobility. The protective bubble that is solid and inpenetrable while thought and feeling hangs suspended within. It is insulation and distance. I understand the ice. It is just one more manner of solitude that disillusionment and helplessness can bring.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology