Ice (Peter Owen Modern Classic)

Online research tells me this type of fiction is called "slipstream," and I'm glad to have a name for what I really don't like. The mysterious reality-unrelated non-storytelling structure irritated me, and I objected to the victimizing of the incredibly passive woman that is the focus of the story. I ended up speeding through the thing by just glancing down each page. But days later images from the novel kept popping up in my head -- her blond head, the constant cold, the men escorting each other into rooms -- and I realized that the author expressed something about herself by having the character so coldly remote from her surroundings and even her lovers. So I concede that it is in fact a work of genius, even though I am not a fan.