Happy Birthdays!

This year has been a big one for our family. Milestones birthdays include: 60, the "height" of the twenties, a quarter-century ... you'll notice I'm not naming any names ... and yours truly, who has to count up from a certain year, just to calculate her age.

Well, it is time to say Happy Birthday to youngest son Peter.

Peter's birthday present may well be "Goodnight Irene" evacuation orders from the Outer Banks. Possibly he'll be lucky, and miss the hurricane by the same small margin that we missed the Great East Coast Earthquake.

You see, we were in Minneapolis, the home state of Bill Holm, who shares today's birthday with Peter. This trip had a number of superlatives, including a few Icelandic ones:


I was given a really remarkable gift in Anoka from Professor Batty. It was Halldór Laxness' Salka Valka, in a hard-to-find, English translation. (See Laxness in Translation.) The lesson is, keep searching for that special book, and it will reveal itself to you. Thank you, Professor, for your generous persistence.

The Open Book space, featuring curious and beautiful reclaimed architectural features, where I got to see the offices of Milkweed Editions, publisher of Bill Holm's books, many of which feature Iceland. If you visit the Minneapolis area, be sure to stop by to see the intriguing space and the wonderful examples of book art.

Non-Icelandic highlights of the trip: walking/strolling, eating and fun times with Coco and Family; the best beer tour and tasting ever at Schell Brewery, New Ulm; the stunning collections at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts; the Baby Marx puppet exhibit at the Walker; great, independent coffee shops on every corner; beautiful weather; the Minnesota 150 Exhibit; the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum; and awesome bike paths everywhere that make Minneapolis the #1 bike city in the U.S.!

Three trips to Minneapolis/St. Paul in the past three years=good times!

Celebrate! Laxness in Translation

Our friend and collaborator, the esteemed Professor Batty (aka Stephen Cowdery) has a new project. He has done himself proud. His new website celebrates (good choice of words) the life and work of Icelandic author Halldór Laxness. The revolution is at hand!

Laxness in Translation

More Letters From Iceland

Letters from Iceland 1936, by Jean Young. Transcribed by Marion Agnes Harvey. University of Birmingham, 1992. 80 pgs.





Snapshots from a life: a lady scholar from England achieves her lifelong dream of visiting Iceland. We experience a summer of travel and hard manual labor first-hand, through her letters home. Just as we are getting to know her, she vanishes abruptly from our life, leaving us to wonder: was her boat home late? Did an Icelander accompany her home, to work in England? Did she ever return to Iceland? What were the basic facts of her life: when and where was she born, and when did she die; what were her successes in life, her significant relationships? I haven’t been able to answer most of these questions but--my wig!--it has been fun sharing these few months of 1936 with Jean Young.

Jean had an abiding interest in Iceland. Her post-graduate work dealt with Old Icelandic literature, and literary relations between Icelandic and Irish literature. Jean began to study Icelandic literature in 1921, but it wasn't until 1936 that she was finally able to visit Iceland in person. Her letters were published posthumously in 1992, and are readily available at  http://www.vsnrweb-publications.org.uk/Young_Letters.pdf, complete with her sketches and photographs.

W.H. Auden published a book with the same title, written in the same year, but much better known. In one section of Auden’s Letters from Iceland, he and co-author MacNeice present letters “written” by Hetty, girl scout leader extraordinaire. While Hetty is imaginary, she was likely based upon Jean Young. While in the Snaefellsness area, Jean spies the rucksack of "Auden the Oxford poet!”,  catches up with him, and discovers he's producing a book on Iceland-- little knowing it will feature a thinly disguised version of herself.

Jean's letters aren't written with the care and literary panache of Auden and MacNeice's contemporaneous accounts, but hers weren't intended for publication or a wider audience. They do convey a very personal response to Our Favorite Homeland, and are written in a conversational manner. Her account features lots of slang, which makes it seem as though she is talking to us ('em, 'tho, 'cept, summat). In one of her earliest letters she exclaims, "I feel in my bones I'm going to love Iceland just as much as I thought I should!" Followed in short order by, "Oh, my wig how I love Iceland!"

Jean faces the daunting challenge that many others have: "it is a damn hard language." She takes the option that Bill Holm, E. Paul Durrenberger and countless others have: she elects to work on a farm.  First she goes to Arkvorni,  then travels a bit through Iceland, and finally goes to another farm, Fljótshlíð (near Thorsmork), where she works for an entire month.

Jean’s farm labor includes darning, cooking for a large household, emptying chamber pots, cutting hay, and caring for children. Oh, and washing: "... then I took several pairs of heavy socks down to the stream to wash under the waterfall medieval fashion on a flat stone with a wooden clapper." The job benefits? Riding some of the finest horses in the area, learning Icelandic, and discovering  a great appreciation for simple food after 15-hour days of manual labor.  Typical meals consisted of cold porridge, salted fish, potatoes, pancakes, and always coffee with sweet cakes.

When she has a few brief minutes free from labor, she takes time to write letters and read. When Jean meets Icelanders, her standard is: have they read Laxness? She comes to understand Independent People  " ... from within as well as from outside ... which, if you read, take with much salt." She also comes to believe that many of the farm women she encounters are like Salka Valka, the heroine of another Laxness novel.

Some of my favorite quotes from Jean’s letters:

I foresee that the oilskins'l be useful.
Dolorite forms itself into octagonal columns here--and here only in the world apparently.
No railing to prevent folk from throwing themselves in [Gullfoss].
It's the space and silence that are so marvelous here.
The sanitary arrangements are good ... just the cow shed but here it's goats!
How I'd love to see the sun shine again!

When Jean finally returns to Reykjavik at the end of August, she goes shopping and forgets to take any money with her. She hasn’t used or thought about money in over a month.

I did learn that Jean returns to her studies in Great Britain and eventually becomes Dr. Jean Young, the author/translator of books in at least three languages. But alas, though she had hoped to meet Halldór Laxness and ask to translate one of his books into English, that never transpired. Nor could I learn if she ever returned to Iceland.

Laxness Anniversary

The Honour of the House, by Halldór Laxness. Translated by Kenneth G. Chapman. 2nd editon. Reykjavík: Helgafell,  1985. 131 pgs. Originally published in Icelandic in 1933.





Professor Batty traveled all the way to Iceland this October to discover and purchase another Laxness novel--one that we didn't even know was available in English. Way to go, Batty! Today is the 54th anniversary of the day Halldór Laxness received the Nobel Prize for Literature, and we are celebrating that occasion by publishing tandem reviews of our latest discovery.

This novel tells the tale of an Important Family in a small town in (it appears) east coastal Iceland. The Deacon father and and his wife have two children, both girls. Each travels abroad to Denmark in her twenties to experience the wider world.

Similar circumstances, but different personalities. Thurithur, the eldest, is gone for two years. She is impetuous, temperamental and beautiful, and her father worries that she might get into trouble. No, says her mother, her character will protect her, as

... in a well-bred young girl self-respect and beauty were to be found in the proper proportions.

Thurithur returns, more tempermental and more beautiful, but still virtuous.

Rannveig, the younger sister, is a homebody, who excells in the hand arts and doesn't desire to travel. She has a calm, reliable disposition, and has the deepest care and love for poor people or those in trouble.

A peculiar trait of hers was this: that she should not only be incapable of living at odds with anyone but rather need to spread her love over all.

Rannveig goes to Denmark as well, but returns early. She inexplicably begins to put on weight round her waist.

The chapters in the book show Laxness in his typical fashion, seducing the reader with lyricism and beauty, then forcing the reader to acknowledge that alongside beauty lies pain, loss, and death.

The first chapter, "A Day in Late Summer" talks of shimmering mirages, resplendent castles, warmth, desire, benevolence, beauty. Chapter two, The Good Land, invites the reader to see Denmark from the eyes of the protagonist, with luxury, culture, and good taste , castles, parks, and the arts. Chapter three, The Wedding, begins with veiled irony (there is no wedding), and we begin to see Rannveig from the eyes of her neighbors. All's well ... , chapter six, brings irony to the forefront as we see that all does not end well, even though a marriage might have legitimized Rannveig's situation. The very last chapter, The Norn Father's Feast, moves the story from a particular situation, family and geographic location to the realm of myth and legend.

This book really captured my interest. The characters and the plot are revealed quickly, which served to draw me into the story. Just as I was feeling comfortable with the characters and the pace of the story, it seemed as if the lens of my reader's eye zoomed out, and I was looking at the characters from a more impersonal distance. I found that frustrating.

As I pondered why Laxness chose to put me--and his readers--in this position, I concluded that his story shows how honor and pride can dehumanize and separate people. People become symbols rather than individuals, and intellectual constructs become more important than human feelings. This is a lesson worth keeping in mind and learning anew each day, for me, for anyone.

Our Laxness novel rankings are here and here.
Thanks to Bridgewater College, Va, for the interlibrary loan!

What's a Quire*?

A Quire of Seven, by Halldór Laxness. Translated from the Icelandic by Alan Boucher. Iceland Review Library, 1977 (first published in 1974). 95 pgs.

These seven short stories by my favorite author lack the monumental epicness of his novels. But this is an interesting assortment: like a curry, there are many different flavors and nuances. Humor and a surreal atmosphere predominate. Like all of his works, I savored these stories more on my second reading. Boucher translated this work over 30 years ago; it seems an adequate, not utterly graceful translation.

And--did you guess?--this is another book review challenge, posting the day before the Professor's much anticipated return to Iceland. Read his review of A Quire of Seven at Flippism is the Key.

Place of Safety is about dogs, respect, and faithfulness. Next up is Pigeon Banquet, a very odd story about a mysterious host, a lavish party and his bewildered guests.

"Aren't you enjoying yourself?" I asked.
"Of course I'm enjoying myself," said the man. "I'm the Icelandic police inspector who lost his passport in New York and couldn't remember his name. Then the judge in New York said, 'Let the police band play all the national anthems of the world, and see whether he doesn't respond to any of them. '"

Wouldn't that make a great scene in a black and white movie?

"Deroppefra," ... This Danish expression is oddly conceived. Its immediate sense seems to be the equivalent of the English "from up there"; but beyond this its meaning is so varied that it can be used to convey "from up in the rafters" or "from Heaven itself". And what is odder still, it can also signify "from Iceland."

So close to Heaven, is Iceland.

Inland Fishing Trip is a tale of impending disaster. Capital Error in the West Fjords is the strange odyssey of a middle-aged woman of no particular distinction who loses herself and finds her calling. Corda Atlantica concerns Count Dunganon, Duke of St. Kilda, a man who has his own country. This small island off the coast of Scotland is reputed to be the last remaining part of Atlantis.  The Count ...

... differed in no way from the rest of a class that has been more harshly treated than any other group in the world, not excluding the Jews: the so-called petit bourgeoisie, consisting, as everyone knows, of university professors, linen drapers, roadworks supervisors, assistant managers of breweries, and violin-makers.

John of Breadhouses is an alternative view of Christ's Disciples, as they might have been years after the Crucifixtion.

The last story, Bird on the Fencepost, describes the final hours of Hard-Knut (a Bjartur of Summerhouses sort of character). Knut intends to leave all of his wordly possessions (17 ewes) to his housekeeper, Brightmay. This story ends, and likewise the book, with a line that reminds me of Laxness himself:

As they rode through the gate the bird was still sitting on the fence-post, listening to the echo of the song it had chirped in summer.

How many travelers will be listening to the echo of Laxness' song, for seasons unnumbered?


*Dictionary.com says:

1.	a set of 24 uniform sheets of paper.

2.	Bookbinding. a section of printed leaves in proper sequence after folding; gathering.

---

The Atom Station

The Atom Station, by Halldór Laxness. Translated by Magnus Magnusson. Sag Harbor, N.Y.: Second Chance Press, 1982. Originally published as Atomstodin in 1948; first English translation 1961. 202 pgs.




I didn't save The Atom Station for last because I thought it would be my favorite Laxness. But I enjoyed reading it very much, and liked it more than I had expected. For one thing, the title put me off (with apologies to my nuclear scientist friend, Reed). I thought that the novel might be more about communism, or socialism, than about human nature, or love. What was I thinking? Laxness always writes about human nature, and love!

The story is narrated by Ugla, a young woman from a very rural area in the north. She is unschooled and unrefined, and she has come to Reykjavík to work as a maid in the home of The Member of Parliament, Dr. Bui Arland. The family is wealthy, the wife feels her social significance deeply, and they, like most government officials, are vociferously anti-communist. Ugla finds herself immersed in the class struggle, and falls in with a bunch of artsy, musician types who are very strange.

The plot is fairly straightforward. Ugla comes to the city with a peasant-like, non-judgmental view of the world. She is exposed to new people, new ideas and prejudices, and finds that life can be much more complex and confusing than she is used to. In the course of the story she discovers her potential.

Whether I was kissed or not kissed, a peson's mouth was a kiss, or at least half a kiss.

The novel is named for an "atom station" that world powers wish to situate in Iceland, raising the question of whether the country is about to be "sold." Ugla's allegiances are tested, as the political situation affects the people she works for, and the country as a whole. The atom station represents the power of self-destruction, while Ugla is drawn toward creation, creativity, humanity. She seems to embody an heroic ideal of the eternal mother. She is a physically large young woman, and is portrayed in a way that reminds me of monumental art. While the country may be sold, Ugla would sacrifice herself rather than sell herself.

The selling of Iceland resonates today, over fifty years following the publication of this book. The collapse of the banking system and the controversial aluminum smelter in eastern Iceland highlight themes that are not new. The conflicts that concern Ugla are universal. Here are words of Ugla's that we could live by today:

I was taught never to believe a single word that is written in the papers, and nothing except what is written in the Icelandic Sagas ...

Ugla also speaks words that clearly come straight from Halldór Laxness himself:

That is why I am not going to say how it happened or what it was, I can only tell you the external causes until it ceases to be a story.

Atom Station was written after Laxness had already firmly established himself as a formidable author, with Salka Valka, Independent People, and World Light already completed, among other major works. Happy Warriors and Fish Can Sing were to follow this work. Atom Station seems unique to me, somewhat of an anomaly, or perhaps experimental. John described this novel as "absurdist," and it does border on that. Laxness fans will recognize much in the book, and yet find it differently flavored as well. You won't want to miss it!

For now, it is over. There are no more Laxness books available in English translation for me to read. Some stories and plays, biographies and autobiographies, yes, but for now, no more books. I hope that this situation changes soon, for I am very sad.

On a more cheerful note, there are more reviews to read! Check out Batty's perspective, as well as my revised Laxness ranking. I can confidently proclaim, and I know our fellow Laxness fans agree, that any Laxness book is a good book, an exceptionally good book.

Featuring our Favorite Author

National Public Radio is airing a series that is compellingly directive. You Must Read This airs every week or so, lasts just a few minutes, and features an author extolling the virtues of their favorite book. These are people who know how to use words, and they are very convincing. My guess is that if you go to the list of books that have been reviewed so far--some 85 titles--you won't surface for another half-hour, at best. --How do you define "engrossing"?

Christina Sunley's May 4th review of her favorite "must read" is--you guessed it--Halldór Laxness' Independent People! Her review is exceptionally good, and it brings me great pleasure to think of the vast audience that this review has reached, and the number of people who are reaching for their copy of Independent People, and are experiencing it for the first time. Laxness lovers, our ranks are growing! The You Must Read This site offers readers like you and me a chance to recommend the book being reviewed, and to comment on it. Don't hold back!

Sunley recently published a book of her own that I am looking forward to reading. Publisher's Weekly describes the book as "an intricate family travelogue, based in the present of Icelandic-Canadian life and the half-mythical world of her grandparents' Iceland." You can listen to the author reading a fourteen-minute passage from her book, The Tricking of Freya, at this KQED site. Have any of you read this book yet? Hint: my birthday is June 1, and it's on my list! Another hint: I'm a liar!

The One Pure Note

The Fish Can Sing, by Halldór Laxness. Translated from the Icelandic by Magnus Magnusson. London: Harvill Press, 2000. 246 pgs. (First published with the title Brekkukotsannáll, 1957.)



Welcome to Brekkukot:

Thanks, Batty

On the shore of Lake Tjörn in Reykjavík, at the beginning of the 20th century, a coming-of-age tale unfolds. In this small, turf-and-stone cottage called Brekkukot, Álfgrímur Hansson views the world around him.

Álfgrímur's foster grandfather, Björn, is a man with his own moral code, the foundation of which is absolute generosity. Bjorn wants for no more than he needs, and he shares whatever he has with those whose needs are greater than his own. Hence Brekkokot, though small, functions as a sort of refugee camp for the dispossesed. Álfgrímur himself is one of those refugees: his last name, Hansson, indicates that his father is unknown. His mother was on her way to America from somewhere in Iceland, and left Álfgrímur with Björn.

Álfgrímur's foster grandmother is yet another beneficiary of Björn's compassion. After her husband and three children (all named Grímur) die, she comes to Brekkukot, and the elderly, unmarried pair keep house together. Álfgrímur's natural mother wishes to name him Álfur, and his foster grandmother wants to call him Grímur (a reference to rímur--Icelandic poetic songs?), and so he becomes Álfgrímur. I don't think that the grandmother's name ever comes up in this book--she is as shadowy figure, as steadfast and integral as a beating heart. She is silent and nearly invisible, yet omnipresent. As little as Álfgrímur knows about her, so much more she means to him.

This Icelandic tale is told in the first person, which allows us not only to sympathize with the narrator, but also to feel his confusion, and to discover things along with him. Alfgrimur's outlook at the beginning of the book is typically childlike: he accepts his life, his fate, unquestioningly. He doesn't wonder why his mother left him, why his household is filled with itinerant people of little means, or why his family has few material possessions. In fact, there is no "why" to be answered, for he hasn't asked the question. His life just Is.

As Álfgrímur becomes more aware of the people and the events outside the small world of Brekkukot, he begins to wonder and to question. The people around him don't provide too many answers, which adds to the realism and charm of the novel. Aren't we all left to figure things out on our own, pretty much? And the answers we are freely given usually aren't the ones we ask, or the ones we want.

Álfgrímur's first questions concern themselves with the enigmatic Garðar Hólm, who is a kind of cousin to Álfgrímur. Garðar acquired his name along with his fame as Iceland's World Singer. He was born Georg Hansson; being fatherless isn't all that he has in common with Álfgrímur.

Álfgrímur has yet to understand the bond he shares with Garðar. As he and Garðar walk down Löngustétt,

Suddenly I felt a hand under my chin. "I thought it was myself," said Garðar Hólm ... I gaped at him at first, tongue-tied, and finally replied, "No, it's me."

As we read The Fish Can Sing, we ponder, along with Álfgrímur, what the Superintendent does for a living, the nature of the strange people who come to stay in the mid-loft at Brekkukot, whether we will ever hear Garðar Hólm sing, what will become of Little Miss Gúðmúnsen as well as the lovely Blær, the appeal of lumpfish, and whether the learning of Latin will benefit Álfgrímur. These questions, and so many more, flavor the book with a subtle confusion akin to being a very young man or young woman all over again.

As a librarian, I couldn't help but relate to the description of The Icelanders' University, as enacted at Brekkukot:

From time immemorial it has been the custom in all sizeable farms in Iceland to have a good reader available to read sagas aloud or recite rímur for the household in the evenings; this was the national pastime. These evening sessions have been called the Icelanders' University. Old people who had attended this university for eighty years or more came to know the curriculum pretty well ...

I felt a sense of recognition at the feelings evoked in Álfgrímur by the woman who comes to Brekkukot to die. As she dictates to Álfgrímur, he comments:

This woman must surely have been descended from Snorri Sturluson. One thing is certain, that she never deviated from the most stringent standards of Icelandic prose style...Unfortunately, she failed to realize that one can set one's literary standards so high that it becomes impossible to utter a single word ...

This is what has happened to me after reading Halldór Laxness: I have such high literary standards (for what I read, mind you...not for what I write!) that I have one scale of puffins for rating Laxness' books, and I use the same scale in an entirely different way for the works of other authors. Four Laxness puffins do NOT equal four puffins that are assigned to any other author.

This is the fourth or fifth time I have read this book, and still discoveries awaited me. As many times as I have read about the Eternity Clock, which tick- tocks et-ERN-it-Y, et-ERN-it-Y (see the description of Laxness' own clock that it is modeled on) and despite my tears when I got to see it in person at Laxness' home, this was the first time I really understood the concept of eternity that Laxness was describing. Álfgrímur considers:

How did it ever come about ... that I got the notion that in this clock there lived a strange creature, which was Eternity? ... It was odd that I should discover eternity in this way, long before I knew what eternity was, and even before I had learned the proposition that all men are mortal--yes, while I was actually living in eternity myself.

I finally comprehended what Laxness was saying, and found it to be so profound. Isn't this a defining characteristic of childhood: the feeling that time goes on forever? As children, we have no concept of the end of life. Childhood is the essence of eternity, and once we comprehend the concept intellectually, our eternity has ended--unless it should return upon our death.

Although I can't read Icelandic, it appears to me that this translation by Magnus Magnusson is nearly perfect. It expresses both the story and the sentiments beautifully.

This particular work of Laxness' is lyrical in its simplicity. To compare this book with his others is, to me, like comparing blues with jazz or with symphonic music. It is spare and lacks the complexity of his other works, yet has genuine depth. There is sweetness without sentimentality, and some of Laxness' familiar irony crops up ... just not as frequently as in his other works.

The Fish Can Sing remains my favorite work by Halldór Laxness. Having reread it yet again I am surprised to find that my appreciation for his other longer, more difficult, more complex and ambiguous works, has grown. I have come to enjoy his other books so much more, over time. I suspect that, as I continue to reread his different titles, my Laxness Personal Ranking might be as changeable as a river. A characteristic of truly great literature is a dual process of transformation: the book is transformed in the mind of the reader, with each subsequent reading, and the reader is transformed by the book.

What does the One Pure Note mean to you?

I'll be sharing some comments by other Laxness Fans soon. In the meantime you can enjoy Professor Batty's review of The Fish Can Sing!

Women and Warriors

John's Review of The Happy Warriors

The Happy Warriors, Halldor Laxness' send-up of Icelandic literature, is a good antidote to those afflicted with an inordinate love of romantic sagas. The champion Thorgeir and his prattling poet-skald Thormod bluster and bully their way across Iceland, Europe, and Greenland, leaving a trail of destruction, death, and mutilation in their wake, all in the name of pursuing an invented heroic ideal. While frequently gruesome, there is comedic bite to their framing every act of wanton cruelty as a display of valor, even when inflicted upon the poor and defenseless.

Laxness has a masterful command of the Icelandic sagas, so language and theme flow naturally from an ancient font. What I found most interesting, however, was the role the feminine plays in The Happy Warriors. Thorgeir, Thormod, and various scoundrels hold center stage, but it is the women in their lives who shape their actions. Thorgeir's mother Thorelf “had little to lavish on her son but stories of champions of old” that continue to infect him with a twisted morality. She goes so far as to fete him for his first murder. Thormod gives up life as a Viking in exchange for the placid domesticity of his marriage to Thordis (“I am the bane of glory to hero and skald”), and then she manipulates him into leaving her to search for the killers of his oath-brother. He fails in his quest when he is seduced by an old love, shacking up with her for several years while the trail turns cold. Witches and troll-wives and queens push the action forward, sparking men to war and murder, then just as frequently pull them back from it. Thorgeir and Thormod, of course, remain oblivious to the feminine sphere of influence* and spin their own illusions of what governs the world.

The Happy Warriors is an indictment of the power of literature to sway and corrupt, while at the same using literature to make its point. Halldor Laxness must have enjoyed the irony. If you can find a copy of this book for less than fifty dollars, send it to my wife. It will justify her sway over my life.

x()()()()()()()()()()()()()x

*John declines to state whether he thinks this natural sphere of influence pertains to the sagas and Laxness, or whether it is universal. I wonder.

And I ask myself: am I "afflicted with an inordinate love of romantic sagas"? Don't have to wonder about that one, do we.

Thanks to my most special guest contributor.

Read all reviews of The Happy Warriors.

Warriors next-to-last Chapter

I couldn't help myself. I read The Happy Warriors again. Writing about the book, and thinking it over allowed it to start growing in my head. On this second, more careful reading I found that I could appreciate the rhythm of the book and its subtleties. There is more character development than in the sagas, and the characters' motivations are more transparent. Those who are familiar with early English history will likely find the many historical figures in the book fascinating.

This book was quite a departure for Laxness. Was it an exercise? Was it successful? I think yes, on both counts. It takes the saga structure, or formula, and expands it. While I am partial to the bare-bones style of the sagas, I do find Laxness' version seductive. Many of the political situations and people in power have a disturbingly contemporary feel to them.

The book is more humorous than I first perceived. I found myself counting how many times Thorgeir is called "stupid" to his face--by my counting, at least five times. He should have been born in another era--you know, the earlier one--and has no conception of how obsolete he is.

One particularly delicious passage relates how Thorgeir is the only one left after a battle in Normandy. All of his fellow warriors flee. It is apparent that they cannot win, having been set upon by villagers who throw boiling piss on them and ensnare them in fishnets, among other humiliations.

...[Thorgeir] stood his ground calmly...'I am an Icelander,' said he, 'and I do not remember hearing in tales of old that true fighting-men ever fled in battle.'

(The crowd of peasants laughs at him.)

...the more he was seized with berserk rage, the merrier grew these peasants...Thorgeir Havarsson thought he had fallen into a bad dream.

(The crowd of peasants takes away his weapons.)

In the weeks since I finished my second reading, the characters continue to re-enact events in my mind. Isn't that a mark of great literature? Abstract and ambiguous writing, if it's good, tends to stick with one.

Thank you, University of Kentucky Library. And, thanks to our inter-library loan intermediary. Way to go, girl!

Next up: John reviews Happy Warriors.

The Happy Warriors

The Happy Warriors, by Halldor Laxness. Translated by Katherine John. London: Methuen, 1958. 287 pgs.



Yes, tonight’s post features another book review challenge with Professor Batty.

I was eager to read The Happy Warriors for a number of reasons. It is one of the few English translations of Laxness that I had not yet read. Published in 1952, it was part of the body of literature for which Laxness was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1955. And the fact that it covers some of the same ground as several saga stories (Saga of the Sworn Brothers, Saga of Saint Olaf) made me anticipate it even more. Copies are few and hard to come by (and are far too expensive), so I was pleased to receive my copy via interlibrary loan. Thank you, Vanderbilt University Library.

Contrary to its name, Happy Warriors is a dark tragicomedy. At a very young age our first hero, Thorgeir, witnesses the murder of his father and vows to avenge him. Using the old warrior stories as his instruction guide, Thorgeir fashions some crude armor and weapons from materials at hand, and sets off to fulfill his destiny.

We next meet Thormod, a skald, or poet who—also at a very young age—is seduced by an old witch in retaliation for a poem he wrote about her. Thormod encounters Thorgeir, and is impressed by his singular warrior attire. As he comes to know him he is likewise impressed by Thorgeir’s single-mindedness and determination, while Thorgeir is impressed by Thormod’s gift with words. Thormod vows to compose a lay, or heroic poem, about Thorgeir once he commits a great deed. The two become “sworn brothers,” or perhaps alter-egos.

In typical saga fashion, our heroes/antiheroes fight, lust, seek revenge, compose lays, go raiding for treasure, seduce women, seek kings to fight for, and write more lays. Thorgeir and Thormod pass much of their lives apart, but their destinies are intertwined. After lots of bloody action, the psychological drama heats up when Thorgeir is killed, and his head is returned to Thormod.


After many adventures, Thormod had found an idyllic life with a loving wife and daughter. The most affecting part of the story is when Thormod’s wife, Thordis, comes to realize that he will never again be content until he has avenged Thorgeir’s death, and has immortalized him in a poem. She knows that he loves her too much to leave her. “I am so burdened with Thormod’s grief that I would give all to release him from me,” says Thordis. She sacrifices herself by committing adultery with their slave, so that Thormod will be free. And, after months of talking with Thorgeir’s salted head, Thormod sets out on his journey, leaving his life, happiness, and sanity behind him. He must search for the king worthy to bestow his heroic lay upon: the lay written to honor Thorgeir.

Laxness does some very interesting things with this story. He shows the consequences of pursuing youthful idealism without ever sacrificing it to maturity. His characters demonstrate the futility of being driven by obsession, the senselessness of war and violence, the results of ruling with nothing but power and ulterior motives.

Laxness’ retelling has many details which portray how ludicrous the heroes’ actions are, what misfits they are, and how incapable they are of seeing themselves as others perceive them. This telling is heavy with sarcasm. There are light moments too: the crazy Vikings go to fight the French King, and learn some unpalatable news. In order to fight, plunder, and obtain riches they must first bathe, delouse themselves, and—insult to injury--get baptized!

Part of the appeal of the ancient sagas is that they are bare-bones tales: much of the charm is in what isn’t said. As Laxness delves into the sagas to bring forth a modern version, his story lacks the simplicity and the droll, laconic dialog that I have come to love in the “originals.” And, this translation has an awkward, old fashioned feel to it. But there are always those “Laxness moments”--as when Thordis, Thormod, and the slave have an oblique discussion about a crowing rooster: this is simply masterful writing.

Few authors can match the singular talents of Halldor Laxness. But truly the same can be still be said of Snorri Sturluson and the anonymous saga writers—900 years later.

Let’s see what Batty has to say about this, shall we? And, check out my revised Laxness personal ranking.

St. Olaf

Great Weaver from Kashmir

The Great Weaver from Kashmir, by Halldor Laxness. Translated from the Icelandic by Philip Roughton. Brooklyn: Archipelago Books, 2008. 450 pgs. Originally published in 1927.





This book didn't cast a spell over me as so many of Laxness' books have. The plot, characterization and descriptions aren't as elegant as his later works. The main character, Steinn, is not a likeable person, nor does he have the fascination and sympathy of Laxness' more developed anti-heroes (such as Bjartur of Summerhouses). Dilja, the other main character and Steinn's love interest, is tepid. The book clearly was written by a very young man: it takes itself too seriously. The sometimes gentle, sometimes raucous sense of humor that is woven through most of Laxness' books isn't evident here.

The plot concerns a young man who is handsome and charismatic, egotistical, possibly brilliant, and entirely selfish. Steinn relates that his most precious gift is that he has been given "an aesthetic soul, the ability to worship the glory on the visage of things." This is an important distinction, for he struggles with seeing the essential rather than the superficial. He exemplifies the opposing natures within man: soul and body, perfection and perdition. The entire novel deals with Steinn's efforts to find, achieve and maintain salvation--at whatever cost to others.

Steinn's family and friends in his native Iceland are introduced, and he then departs for Europe to travel, write, and search for perfection. In a chance encounter on a train, Steinn meets a French monk, Father Alban, who becomes the key to Steinn's self-discovery. Steinn pretends to be interested in learning about Catholicism, but instead simply expounds his own pretentious, shallow ideas to Fr. Alban. Later, as Steinn becomes disillusioned and hopeless, he seeks out Alban, and in desperation asks him for help. Alban serves as a teacher and spiritual guide, and Steinn gradually comes to desire the love and salvation of God. But he vascillates, and falls back into false arguments and self-justifications. Steinn's story becomes tedious as his inability to learn from his mistakes, and his pretentious self-importance wears thin.

Yet the book has some very rewarding passages. The only way I can account for the beautiful eloquence with which Fr. Alban elucidates the love of Christ is to assume that the words spring from a fountain within Laxness himself. Laxness spent time at a monastery in Belgium in his early twenties, and came to embrace Catholicism. Presumably much of Steinn's questioning and discovery mirrors Laxness' own. The passages narrating the religious journey are some of the loveliest explications I have read of God's love, outside of the Bible.

This is where the Weaver from Kashmir proves its worth: it asks the important questions, and attempts to answer them. Where does man's idealism lead, what is our journey, how do we seek perfection, what is the highest value in our life? How do we avoid fooling ourselves that what we want is what is best for us? Does God exist and does he exemplify perfection, does he forgive us and offer us redemption? What should be sacrificed in order to gain salvation?

Finally, another compelling reason I enjoyed this book is because it caused me to ask the following questions about my beloved author, Halldor Laxness. Did his early religious experiences enable him to see how humble all men are, and how we are all beloved in the eyes of God? Did this help forge Laxness' affinity toward people who are downtrodden, imperfect, simple, common...and uncommon? What led to Laxness' own empathy for people who strive for perfection in their own ways, and fail countless times? Is this the beginning of his unusually compassionate portrayal of the beauty and the value in the most imperfect characters that he created?

The Great Weaver from Kashmir has been described as the first major novel of a world-renowned novelist. Why did it take so long for it to be translated into English? Despite the failings of the book, I can't imagine. It is a fascinating glimpse into Laxness' personal life, and into his beginnings as a writer: he wrote it when he was in his early twenties. And it offered me a chance to ask so very many questions, and to enjoy thinking about the answers.

When I finished this review (a wee bit late!) I had the luxury of enjoying both Professor Batty's review, and one written by Bill Holm. Batty once again sums things up cogently:

If Laxness hadn't been such a good writer this book would be as insufferable as trying to engage in meaningful conversation with a verbose, narcissistic young man.

Bill Holm's review really added to my understanding and enjoyment of the book. He has some interesting comments on Laxness' impact on Icelandic literature in the 20th century, and some fascinating insights into his beliefs. Holm's review reminded me that Laxness' books were effectively unavailable in English until recently. I pointed out to my husband that my Laxness conversion wouldn't have been possible 12 years ago, when English editions weren't available. He replied laconically, "that is what has prevented you from having to learn Icelandic." That, and my intellectual incapacity, I fear.

Holm has a quote I loved:

Americans are sometimes not too sure where or what Iceland is, but for the literary, it is a sort of holy land...

Thank you Batty, Bill, and Halldor!

And I'll end with a quote from The Weaver that appealed to me:

He became sad with homesickness, like an ancient Icelander.

Laxness Photos

If you're in Reykjavík, there is a special exhibit of photographs at The Culture House that is running through February 16, 2009. The Culture House describes the exhibition as:

...snapshots taken by the voyager, the husband, the father and friend Halldór Laxness. They are private photographs that bear witness to a life’s story that entailed interrelations between family life, political life and a career as a novelist.

Laxness Sighting

Yes, Laxness was at the American Library Association Annual Conference! Made my day.

The Revolution Has Begun

An Epic Saga:

First, the Revolution. That's where we convince the world that Halldór Laxness is an author to read. One person at a time, the world will discover that Laxness is a great writer, and that reading one of his books is just the beginning. Bill Holm is a card-carrying member of this revolution; he gives away copies of Independent People that he has found in used bookstores. Professor Batty is a member*. So am I.


Rockwell Kent, International Workers Order, 10th Anniversary

Picture your humble revolutionary (:me) at the Book Exchange today. I always carry a credit of between $25-$75. there, so anything I buy is, well, free. Today I discover a treasure: a hardcover, first (English) edition of Independent People (like the one pictured here). For $5.! (If that sounds good to you, buy one yourself for the same price, online.)

But that's not all! As I walk past the table where the staff sit to read, talk, read, eat lunch, read, eat chocolate, read, joke..you get the picture...I see a new paperback copy of...you guessed it...Independent People. As I pay for my purchases (not), I ask the man helping me (whom I recognize by face but not by name), "who is reading Independent People?". I think I actually asked, "WHO IS READING INDEPENDENT PEOPLE!!!?" Turns out, he is. "I heard it was really great, and decided I'd read it."

What a happy coincidence! Here's where we quote Batty: "One reader at a time, Rose, one reader at a time."
*Batty seems to concentrate on giving away copies of The Fish Can Sing.

Iceland's Bell

Iceland's Bell, by Halldór Laxness. Translated by Philip Roughton. Introduction by Adam Haslett. New York: Vintage Books, 2003. 425 pgs. Originally published 1943-46.




"If I could get away with a one-line introduction, I would: Halldór Laxness rules." Thankfully Adam Haslett extends his introduction to thirteen pages: it is well worth the price of admission to Iceland's Bell. Who is Adam Haslett? An acclaimed author, but more important to me, a devotee of Laxness--one who articulates with grace and style many of the reasons that I love Laxness so.

Haslett nails the characteristics of Laxness novels that make them so outstanding, he pinpoints the features of Iceland’s Bell that make it unique, and he delineates many of the qualities that make Laxness' writings so universal. Reading his introduction is enlightening. But we'll get back to Haslett in a bit--first, let's talk about the novel itself.

Iceland’s Bell was written a decade after Independent People. The plot is based on an historical event of the seventeenth century that resulted in forty years of litigation. The novel has a picaresque flavor, and offers something to please every reader. It is much more than an historical novel: it contains elements of intrigue, drama, pathos, love, vivid landscapes and varying scenes, and colorful characters with idiosyncratic personalities.

A major character is the marginal farmer, Jón Hreggviðsson. Jón steals cord (fishing line), is forced into labor, and is charged with killing the (Danish) King's Hangman. (It's unclear whether Jón actually killed him or not.) He is conscripted into the Danish army, and his fortunes rise and fall. He becomes embroiled in the middle of a love affair between Snæfríður, the most beautiful woman in Iceland, and Arnas Arnæs, a Royal Advisor modeled on the life of Árni Magnússon (the Icelandic book collector/scholar).

Snæfríður Iceland's Sun is the strongest, most compelling character in the book. Her fortunes also wax and wane, yet she is indomitable. She is willing to fight for her principles to the end, and the following speech conveys her determination and forthright nature, and reveals the Icelandic sense of identity:

Excuse me for speaking up, excuse us for being a race of historians who forget nothing. But do not misunderstand me: I regret nothing that has happened, neither in words nor thoughts. It may be that the most victorious race is the one that is exterminated: I will not plead with words for mercy for Icelanders. We Icelanders are truly not too good to die. And life has meant nothing to us for a long time. But there is one thing that we can never lose while one man of this race, rich or poor, remains standing; and even in death this thing is never lost to us; that which is described in the old poem, and which we call fame: just so my father and my mother are not, though they are dust, called ignoble thieves.

This story moves from one incident, character, country, to another, and back again; from pain to humor, and back again; from the despicable yet delightfully sardonic Jón to the noble yet fatally stubborn Snæfríður. It's is typical Laxness Art.

And now, some quotes from Haslett:

The bleakness is so total, and perhaps more importantly is delivered in prose so thoroughly nonchalant, that laughter is the only possible relief. ix ...we see the unflinching generosity Laxness has toward all his characters. x

And, the one I truly identify with:

Reading my first Laxness novel is one of those experiences that I look back on with a kind of jealous fondness, loving the memory of it but wishing it hadn't ended. viii

This 2003 edition is the first English translation of Iceland’s Bell, and I hope more of Laxness’ books will become available in the near future.

Salka Valka

Salka Valka, by Halldór Laxness. Translated by F. H. Lyon. London: George Allen & Unwin, 1963. 429 pgs.



This book has an interesting history. It was originally published in Icelandic in two volumes, in 1931 and 1932. It was translated into Danish in 1934. The Danish edition was translated into English and revised by Laxness, and published in one volume (1936). English editions are in short supply and typically very expensive, and there weren't any copies at any nearby libraries. I was fortunate to borrow a copy from Professor Batty.

Salka Valka is the tale of a precocious little girl named Salvör Valgerdur. Salka's mother, Sigurlina, has fled the north to seek a better life in the south of Iceland, but they stop off in the tiny town of Oseyri and never leave. Sigurlina is as weak as her daughter is strong. Sigurlina desires to be a good woman, but fate and love seem to conspire otherwise.

Unlike her mother, Salka learns: she learns how to read books, how to read people, and she learns from her mistakes. We meet Salka as a rough, uneducated, illegitimate girl, who speaks her mind with complete honesty even when it means being rude. She isn't afraid of anyone, and her imposing looks and strength inspire admiration and yearning in those around her. Salka's hard work and determination bring her out of poverty and earn her independence, and throughout her hard life she finds the resources to help others along the way, through friendship and material means. Her only weakness turns out to be her lifelong love for a weak man.

Laxness brings his familiar irony and humor, pathos and tenderness to this work. When Salka fears that her mother is dead, the old man they live with comforts her in the only way he can, with his honesty:

...it's no use crying in this place; there's nobody to console one but oneself. I've lived in Oseyri now for over sixty years. Perhaps you young people will be able to become human beings, even if we older ones haven't succeeded. But it's late already. And there's nothing so good as sleep, both for those who are blind and for those who still have their sight. So we'll look after one another a little, so far as we can, if we should wake again to-morrow. There's so little people can do for each other in this place. Good night.

Salka Valka's story is the story of loneliness, despair, politics, power, compassion, lust, poverty, fish, and the Salvation Army. Most of all it is the story of a love strong enough to make the ultimate sacrifice; a noble, strong generosity of heroic proportions.

A Swedish movie version of Salka Valka was produced in 1954. It is largely unavailable in the U.S. Have you seen it? I would love to! There was also a Finnish TV version done in 1979.