The Ice Organ

Pierre Skira (ENG)

In the Swiss Alps, two adolescent boys are fascinated by Zsuzsa, a village girl : she is strange, seems to live in a parallel world, and speaks a mix of German, French and what seems to be Yiddish. The three of them often go into the glacier, a terrible place, magnificent and alive, in search of bones which they must bring back to the preacher. Years later, when he comes back to his childhood haunts, the narrator learns Zsuzsa’s story, her traumatizing past, and then what became of her.

A modest novel, quite gentle and deliciously written, along the lines of the German romanticists.

Extract :

“ Zsuzsa, hair a mess, knees bloodied, trembling as if feverish, strives to prove her tenacity and pride, and I notice in her eyes a part of a world that is rightfully hers. She shows no trace of revolt, no exclamation cursing our expedition, she acquiesces to this distress and I’m not surprised to see her pray. Which doesn’t stop her, with each jump between two crevasse lips or blocks of ice, from punctuating her feats with cheerful laughter and shouts of joy. Not so for me. On the verge of nausea, I hurl a pack of insults at Andrew, who every time drags me on his adventures and every time I’m the first to blindly follow. My obsession is to not give off to Zsuzsa the image of a coward, especially after having explained and invented that my ancestors were « conquistadores », a meaningless word to her, but it was the best I could find to shine in her eyes.

We agree to let Zsuzsa accompany us on the condition that she keep the secret of the « bone hunt ». During the summer and autumn months, every two weeks in the early afternoon, having class only in the morning, we return to the glacier where, thanks to the melting of the snow, water covers the moraines and surrounding meadows, hoping to unearth, liberated from their gangue, jaws, femurs, skulls, pelvises, all those missing hikers, fallen into crevasses, lost, driven to madness, returned to the world of the living after many years, sometimes a hundred years. We had the following agreement with the pastor : for every recovered bone, whatever its condition and no matter which body part, he would give us in exchange a bag of sweets. And in this way, eyes riveted on the ground, we went all over the ice monster. And the triumphant returns home, blaring obscenities about our finds, we would descend into the village with the feeling of a mission accomplished, waiting for our sweets and the Christian burial of our loot. ”

NB : this novel opens with a very visual and living description of the glacier.

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Presse & Librairie

Richard Blin, Le Matricule des anges

« C’est un monde d’images superbement obsessionnelles, aux capillarités profondes, lestées de peurs et de passions, que nous offre Pierre Skira [...]. Entre équilibres pétrifiés et appels à l’engouffrement, un roman bouleversant que porte à sa plus haute tension la pression secrète de sa vibration déplorante. »

Cécile Cosset-Dirou, Page

« Toute la force du livre réside dans la description de ces paysages vierges de toute présence humaine dans lesquels évoluent ces jeunes égarés, fascinés par la beauté des lieux et par le danger. Les Orgues de glace est un premier roman qui emprunte aux romantiques allemands l’évocation d’une nature hostile et obsédante. Le peintre pastelliste Pierre Skira semble avoir trouvé dans la figure du glacier un élément prépondérant de sa palette d’artiste. »

Augustin Trapenard, Magazine littéraire

« Au gré d’images vibrantes qui empruntent au romantisme d’un Novalis ou d’un Friedrich, la mélancolie des Orgues de glace métamorphose la création poétique en expérience spirituelle. »

Jean-Maurice de Montremy, Livres Hebdo

« Pierre Skira [...] propose un conte initiatique. Il y fait résonner, comme dans un choral symphonique, les ondes et les chocs du XXe siècle. [...] Hommage à la couleur, aux transparences et aux paroles gelées, entre angoisses et rêves. »

Sylviane Friedrich, Le Temps

« Lorsque cet aquarelliste de talent se met à écrire pour nous dire un secret enfoui depuis longtemps, c’est étonnant. Étonnant parce que les mots sont posés, superposés comme des couleurs, recherchés afin de créer un monde particulier et mystérieux. Un langage riche d’inventions et de poésie, un environnement végétal et magique, parfois déroutant [...]. »

Michel Crepu, Revue des deux mondes

"Livre-poème plus que roman, élégie intime, confidence comme d’un rève dont on consignerait les traces, mais sans espoir de retrouver jamais la clé. [...] Quelque chose de l’ordre du sacré, dans ce livre, païen, religieux, d’une religiosité sans demeure réelle. Étonnant."