Quebec author Dominique Fortier’s On the Proper Use of Stars (beautifully translated from French by Sheila Fischman) reminded me of Gao Xingjian’s Soul Mountain. Both narratives can be arduous to get through, and yet near the conclusion you recognize that those tedious elements were how you identified with the characters. The quality that makes both books difficult to read is in fact what gives them their power.

On the Proper Use of Stars begins in 1845 and follows Francis Crozier as he embarks on a journey to the Arctic to find the Northwest Passage. Back in England are Sophia and Lady Jane; Sophia and Crozier have a romantic affection for one another, while Lady Jane is married to Sir John Franklin, the commander of the expedition. The ships get lodged in an endless field of ice and must wait for the ice to thaw before they can return.

Fortier devotes much of her energy to examining the events onboard the ships and back home; these events often consist of the study of co-ordinates and magnetism in the former, and tea drinking and entertaining in the latter. These lengthy passages are frustrating because they lack emotion and struggle. The characters pursue their daily activities with little difficulty and aren’t transformed in any meaningful, emotional way.

Without question, Fortier conducted ample research in order to create an authentic, compelling world, and her use of language is poetic and evocative, but neither quality is of much use if the characters aren’t wrestling with challenges. Challenges do arise, such as an expedition that thwarts disaster only after being rescued by a small band of Esquimaux, but these are mere incidents that often affect the course of events only temporarily, and therefore seem to be of minor consequence.

It’s in the latter portion of the novel, when the ships have been trapped for over two years, that a sense of dread creeps into the narrative. The men on the ship quickly realize the food will not last. The women back home demand the British Admiralty send a search party. People get sick and die in alarming numbers. The Admiralty insists there is no need to worry. We know that something must be done in order to avoid catastrophe and we feel anxious.

Suddenly, those previous, irritating passages take on a whole new meaning. Back then, the characters set sail with a sense of adventure, confident they could overcome the tests that awaited them. Humanity’s trust in science and its instruments didn’t need to be questioned. The women, accustomed to waiting for their men’s return, attempted to carry on with their normal lives. We, like them, never suspected calamity would strike. Like them, we are caught off guard when it does.

The novel is about the fragility of human life, and the razor-thin line that divides contentment and devastation. We need to trust our own ingenuity in order to live sane, happy lives, and yet that trust can cause us to forget how close we always are to ruin.