Like a revelation it came to him that it was far, far better to be an Eskimo; that these people didn't know their arse from a hole in the ground, tha… - Alexander Knox

The high Arctic had more snow that year than anyone remembered.

How many would die this winter? There'd be a few more babies, but far more piles of stones. The Old Ways were a trap. The ceremonies and the rituals were pegs where living hangs suspended. Mad. Learn ancient, beautiful skills with spear and kayak in order to conquer impossible country, then struggle back to impossible country so you could use the skills you'd learned? Mad. Learn the skills to prove you're a man, and then to prove you're a man run, run, run to where you have to use the skills! Mad. ... To prove yourself a man. To whom? The million dead worked out these skills so they wouldn't die, but they did die, and the hissing of the Northern Lights was wry, accepting laughter. The million dead wouldn't be so foolish a second time.

Everything about the girl was like a round of yeasty dough. It cried out to be smoothed or pressed or moulded or lifted or patted or stroked or gathered up or folded.