Odd Saga of the American ...

The Odd Saga of the American and a Curious Icelandic Flock, by E E Ryan. Charleston, 2010. 59 pgs.

I love books about Iceland, I love books about Icelanders in the U.S.--and elsewhere--(such as those by Olaf Olafsson), and I love books about foreigners in Iceland (anything by Bill Holm). Sometimes the authors of the "foreigners in Iceland" category haven't been to Iceland (Jules Verne), but E E Ryan has. Only Ryan (pen name) himself knows how closely the action in his novella mirrors his own experiences.

This novel details the adventures of Alex Welch, an American student who finally realizes his dream of spending a semester in Iceland. He will work with researchers, collecting and analyzing blood samples from sheep. Although his semester is cut short, Alex is in Iceland long enough to experience the misunderstandings, confusion, and humorous adventures that one can expect when traveling or living abroad on your own.

The first Icelander Alex meets is Dr. Gustafsson, Chairman of the Department of Biochemistry.  In a country where people are known by their first names, Dr. Gustafsson never shares his, indicating the size of his ego, perhaps.

Alex dines at Dr. Gustafsson's home and meets some of the people he will be working closely with. One is Snorri, the veterinarian who will help him collect blood samples. The author contrasts the personalities of remote Dr. Gustafsson and the enigmatic Snorri by describing the literature that each prefers (Snorri likes the Sagas, while Gustafsson prefers Laxness). Nice touch!

Snorri's proclivity for the Sagas foreshadows the mysterious events that are to cut short Alex's semester. Some of the events border on tragic, yet like the Sagas, humor is used in relating them.

Just like a trip to Iceland, this brief book will leave you wanting more.

Booksale Love: Direct from Iowa

Ghosts, Witchcraft and the Other World: Icelandic Folktales I. Translated by Alan Boucher. Iceland Review Library, 1977. 91 pgs.

The stories in this book surprised and delighted me by turns. Many of the folktales were reminiscent of the sagas in their understated irony and humor. I was reminded that those of us in the living flesh lead really dull lives, compared to those non-living spirits that surround us daily and nightly--just out of view.

 The Soul of my man Jon is a charming story about the lengths a woman will go to for her man. Specifically, a woman whose man was "ill-natured, little liked by his neighbours, ... lazy and useless about the house ... " But she loved him. When he died she set off for Heaven to have a talk with St. Peter. Next she talked to St. Paul, then the Virgin Mary. She finally resorted to tricking Jesus Christ Himself in order to save Jon's soul.

Rich Farmer, Poor Farmer is a wonderful cautionary tale about misconception and trust. One night a Poor Farmer has a dream that he and his Rich Farmer friend will both die in three days. The two farmers spend their remaining time on earth together, with surprising results.

All in all, a fun read.

I'm sure there are many more Icelandic treasures in Iowa waiting to be found--keep up the good work, Liz!

Valentines from Iceland

Valentines: stories, by Olaf Olafsson. New York: Pantheon, 2007. 216 pgs.

Do you like depressing books? Such as, those by Annie Proulx? Shipping News is one of my favorite books, but her subsequent ones are really, I mean really depressing.

Olaf Olafsson is another favorite author of mine. Like Annie, he is the author of books that, if you pick one up to read for 5 minutes, an hour and a half later you come back to reality with a start, and reluctantly put the book down. He is a  brilliant author who can immediately get you inside his protagonist's head. Olafsson's books are psychological studies of complex and disturbed individuals whose lives are revealed to the reader little by little.  I want to read anything that Olafsson writes, but the reviews for Valentines hadn't left me as eager to read it, so it took me a few years to get around to it.

Just like his other books, I couldn't put this one down. I read it in two sittings: both times when I intended to just read for a few minutes. This short story collection is organized in a series of 12 stories, each titled for a month of the year. Each is an ironic play on the title, for the characters exhibit every type of falling-apart relationship. Mis-understandings, missed connections, misplaced trust. Month after month, I fervently hoped for a positive note, a redeemed character, a regained relationship: a happy ending. Would I find it in October? In November, perhaps? WHAT ABOUT DECEMBER?

We know that the author is an Icelander living in New York; an accomplished scholar and a successful business executive; a husband and the father of three (three children; three novels). Reading this book makes you seriously wonder what kind of relationships he has. Perhaps he has learned from the mistakes of his characters, and has achieved the happiness that they find so elusive. I certainly hope so.

A Merry Bill Holm Christmas

Cabins of Minnesota, by Bill Holm. Photography by Doug Ohman. Minnesota Byways Series. St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 2007. 128 pgs.

I was delighted to receive a copy of this book from Jody in Minnesota. It is fun to read (Bill wrote the text), and fun to enjoy all the cabin photos--it may also give us some planning ideas for the Condemnation Plantation. As I read through it last night I was delighted to find that Bill spends the last chapter ruminating on time spent at his cabin in Hofsós, Iceland. When we met Bill in Hofsós he visited us at the house we were renting, and while we have photos of his house (cabin), we don't have any photos of him in front of it. Now that I own this book we do! A great Christmas gift, Jody; thank you.

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.

---

Saga of Gisli, Son of Sour

The Saga of Gisli, Son of Sour. Translated by Ralph B. Allen, illustrated by Rockwell Kent. New York: Harcourt, Brace and Co., 1936. 148 pgs.

Gisli Sursson's Saga, translated by Martin S. Regal. Pgs. 496-557. In The Saga's of Icelanders: A Selection, preface by Jane Smiley, introduction by Robert Kellog. New York: Viking, 2000. 782 pgs.




To paraphrase Pete ("I've never met a dessert I didn't like"), I've never met an Icelandic saga I didn't love. But I haven't read them all yet.

Gisli came up next on my list as the logical beginning of what will be, for me, a trilogy. Part two, which I have just begun, is Overing and Osborn's Landscape of Desire, which features a chapter on the Saga of Grettir. Part three is a Master's Thesis, written by Lisa Brewer, "No one guessed who I was when I came here this morning: Humor as political subversion in the Medieval Icelandic outlaw sagas of Gisli and Grettir, 2008. Overing, of Landscape of Desire, is Brewer's thesis advisor. So you can see that the third part of my reading trilogy ties the first parts together, and that I would want to read Gisli's saga before embarking upon Lisa's thesis.

I had purchased a first edition of Gisli because of its woodcut illustrations by Rockwell Kent. The illustrations are over-the-top heroic style, and very attractive. I found the text stilted and archaic, however. I struggled through it, and at some point it occured to me that I had another edition of Gisli in my copy of The Sagas of Icelanders (if you don't have a copy, you can purchase a used copy for only $10. or so--what a deal for a nearly 800 page hardcover book!). When I finished the Ralph Allen edition, I turned to the newer translation in The Sagas, by Martin Regal, and found it much more readable. My quotes, however, are from the Allen translation.

Gisli is different from many of the saga heroes in that he is a true hero in a more modern sense of the word. Many of our other saga friends, such as Grettir and Egil, could more accurately be called antiheroes.

Gisli is exceedingly fair and kind in spirit; he is also forgiving. Gisli holds himself to a higher standard of behavior and generosity than he does other men. As his brother Thorkel puts it,

Unlike is Gisli to other men in patience; much better he acts than we.

Gisli's relationship with his brother Thorkel is always problematic, despite Gisli's continual efforts to improve things. In a telling exchange, Gisli says to Thorkel:

... if anything should chance to happen in my lifetime of such moment that it seems to thee equally as great as this appears to me, thou shouldst then promise me this, to act with the same restraint as thou now askest of me.

I don't mean to give you the impression that Gisli was a mild-mannered, peaceful man. On the contrary, he was a great warrior. But he was also an extremely fair man. There is humor, pathos, and poetry in this saga, and I encourage you to read it. As for me, it is a beguiling foretaste of the next two readings in my "trilogy."

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.

The Fish Can Sing, as seen by Jon

Jon recently finished The Fish Can Sing, and Jon's comments focused on several things:

Life at Brekkukot: the descriptions of smells, living arrangements, and daily chores are delightfully funny; everyone living at Brekkukot is the beneficiary of unwavering hospitality; Álfgrímur learns from the permanent and transient guests there.

Icelandic Society: the affectations of the well-to-do are portrayed with unflattering humor; many of the characters in the book display a quiet--or not so quiet--desperation; Álfgrímur is taught by example that people are of value, whatever their station or status, and in fact Alfgrimur believes he could find complete satisfaction in being a lumpfisherman, despite his education.

Garðar Hólm: Alfgrimur is influenced by the idea of Garðar Hólm as well as his contacts with the man himself. The fact that no one has heard him sing adds to the mystery of the man, as well as his influential absence: he is usually traveling abroad, but his presence is very much felt in Iceland.

Finally, Jon wonders how much of Laxness' childhood is reflected in his writing, and he comments that The Fish Can Sing is an absorbing insight into a uniquely Icelandic coming of age story.

Thank you, Jon!

Hi! I'm Lisa, and I'm a Sagaholic

Two guest reviewers have joined the Laxness fan club. First up, Lisa's review:

"What’s it all about, Álfgrímur?" Thoughts on Laxness’ The Fish Can Sing

This gem of a novel was my introduction to Halldór Laxness, and I am grateful for Rose’s recommendation. I am also thankful that I came to the novel first with some small background knowledge of the sagas [editor's note: she's being modest]. Contemporary Icelandic literature and poetry have much in common with the medieval classics. I suppose that is because modern Icelanders can quote the sagas as easily as they do the day’s headlines (perhaps more so).

I can’t help but wonder: does our Rose take her name from Lykla’s calf? Here are a couple of observations I would like to share.

Álfgrímur (possibly from alfr, meaning elf, and grimmr, meaning fierce, although he is neither) is a character who reminds me a great deal of Forrest Carter’s protagonist Little Tree in the semi-autobiographical novel touted by its author as “A True Story.” Does this matter? No; I just find it interesting! I suppose both of these novels are “true” in some larger sense of the word. Both characters are young men raised by grandparents, surrounded by various colorful figures, who quietly take a stand against the accepted norms of society. Additionally, both characters often find that words are more of a burden, less of a gift.

I find this view of “words as problematic” intriguing since both books are written by men whose art seems more poetry than prose. For instance, at the beginning of Chapter 10, Álfgrímur observes,

At home in Brekkukot we did not acknowledge all the concepts which are now all the rage, and indeed had no words for them. All sorts of talk that was in common currency outside the turnstile-gate at Brekkukot struck us as mental illness; words which were commonplace elsewhere sounded not only strange to our ears but were downright embarrassing to us, like smut or other shameless chatter.

Later, he acknowledges that in his home,

… words were too precious to use – because they meant something; our conversation was like pristine money before inflation; experience was too profound to be capable of expression ….

Similarly, in The Education of Little Tree the young boy notes in Chapter 8 that his grandfather said,

... if there was [sic] less words, there wouldn’t be as much trouble in the world.

In fact, the old fellow

... favored the sound, or how you said a word, as its meaning.

A further explanation of love and understanding according to Little Tree’s grandparents is not to be missed. Like the pair of elders in The Fish Can Sing, Carter’s novel provides a tender example of marriage in its truest form between two tender hearts.

Hearts love well and truly in the Brekkukot cottage, although love is unspoken and affection is not demonstrated physically. Rather than being a cold home devoid of feeling, the stoic, independent and somewhat eccentric inhabitants create a loving family bond closer than most blood relations. Álfgrímur has no desire to achieve the world’s standards of success; to him, happiness is being a hardworking lumpfisherman.

Happiness is truth and authenticity in a well-lived life: the one, the elusive pure note of the novel, I believe. For Álfgrímur, happiness exists easily at Brekkukot. I would like to write more in support of this theme: of celebrity versus anonymity, of service versus servitude, of chasing after wealth versus contentment, of ribbons and bows versus the flowers of the field. Will Álfgrímur find happiness elsewhere following his travels on the mail-boat? With his moral compass firmly established, I have high hopes for him wherever he goes.

Lisa can be contacted at spchwoman@aol.com
Thank you, Lisa!

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.

More Warriors

My second interlibrary loan copy of The Happy Warriors arrived from the University of Kentucky Library. On the first page of the text, penciled close to the inside margin of the page is the information that this 1958 edition was added to the library collection on 7/6/59, and that it cost $2.52. Unfortunately, there is no way to tell how many times the book has been checked out over the years--wouldn't I love to know! Still, it's something to think that this book has been in use for 50 years now.


I had requested another interlibrary loan so that I could include a few of my favorite quotes. An added benefit is that, after having read my review (below), John decided he would like to read the book. This one has a longer due date and is renewable, so we can look forward to his response to Happy Warriors right here at Icelandic Fever.

Early in the story the Oath Brothers, Thorgeir and Thormod, are shipwrecked in the Westfjords. Frozen and hungry, they come upon a remote farmstead and a woman answers the door to ask what they want.

"We ask nothing of any," said Thorgeir. "But we will have food to eat and fire to thaw our clothes and a place to sleep. And if you deny us these, let a proper man of your household, or more than one, come out and do battle with us."

The woman replied: "It has never been the way in these fjords that spent folk had to fight the peasants for shelter. You must be a stupid man."

And how about our friend Olaf Haraldsson/Olaf the Stout/St. Olaf, pictured in the previous post?

Olaf had come aboard that night...He expressed himself as those do who are in the habit of talking for many ears, and it was commonly thought that what he lacked as a fighting-man and in other manly parts he made up in eloquence and insinuating address.

Olaf talks of Duke Richard:

Out of fear he would now throw open his lands to you, and give you leave to harry French kings and crush them at pleasure, and of the land's wealth have what you choose, princesses and queens and other high-born dames gratis as desired. But that you may give yorselves up unblamed to all the sport that lies in victorious war, with slaughter, fire-raising, plundering and rape, Richard asks only this trifle in return, that you should receive baptism and the Holy Ghost and become Christians.

As I've reflected on this book it has grown on me more and more. I think I'll read it again, while I have the opportunity. It's a good thing that Laxness' books glow ever brighter on second and third readings (and so on), since I'll soon be out of English translations. If there are any readers out there with the means to fund new translations, I feel certain that the folks at Gljúfrasteinn would love to talk to you!

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

Voices

Voices, by Arnaldur Indridason. Translated from the Icelandic by Bernard Scudder. New York: St. Martins, 2006. (Original published in 2003.) 313 pgs.




I am rating this three puffins--for genre fiction--but it isn't one of the best mysteries I've read. With the exception of flashbacks, the entire book takes place in a hotel in Reykjavik at Christmastime, which gives it a claustrophobic feel. Erlendur, Indridason's emotionally damaged detective, continues to develop, ever so slowly, and we learn a bit more about his past. This book incorporates several plot lines: the murdered hotel doorman, who was once a choirboy child star; a case of child abuse that Erlender's associate is investigating; and Erlendur himself: the effect that events of his childhood have had on him as an adult and as a parent.

Translator Bernard Scudder is a pre-eminent saga translator, among other things. For this reason, I am inclined to assume that the sometimes awkward and unrealistic dialogue is because it has been translated into British English. The translation detracts from the story in my opinion, whatever the reason.

You probably won't want to miss this since it is Indridason, and it is a look at contemporary Icelandic society. It could have been better, though. Indridason's characters are not portrayed with enough depth to be very sympathetic.

For a different point of view, see Batty's review.

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.

The Good Shepherd

The Good Shepherd, by Gunnar Gunnarsson. Translated by Kenneth C. Kaufman. Illustrated by Masha Simkovitch. New York: Bobbs-Merrill, 1940. 84 pgs.





Gunnar Gunnarsson (1889-1975) was born and raised in poverty, on a farm in northeastern Iceland. (Interestingly, he was born the same year as Þórbergur Þórðarson.)He went to school and achieved fame as a writer in Denmark. He returned to Iceland with his wife and family in the 1930's, and lived there the remainder of his life.
Gunnarsson is buried on the island of Videy, so that he (a Lutheran) and his wife Franzisca (a Catholic) could rest together in consecrated ground.

This lovely little book (which could be considered a novella or short story), is beguilingly simple. It tells the story of shepherd Benedikt who has found meaning in the Advent season, for some twenty-seven years, by hiking alone to the high mountains to retrieve sheep that had not been found at the autumn in-gathering. Not exactly alone, however, for each year he is accompanied by his faithful friends: his dog Leo ("Pope Leo"), and his bell wether sheep, Gnarly. (To my surprise I learned that the etymology of bell wether is a sheep with a bell around its neck and/or a castrated male sheep.) This year Benedikt's journey is not quite the solitary pilgrimage that he anticipated, for a rough, inconsiderate group of men from a nearby farm join him in order to take advantage of his skill and generosity. A series of raging snowstorms bring Benedikt, Leo and Gnarly to the point of frozen starvation, but throughout the journey Benedikt finds that kindness given returns to him. His musings are philosophical...

A journey like this is a sort of poem with rhymes and splendid words. In the blood it turned into a poem and, so to speak, you could learn it by heart like a poem. And besides some impulse drove a man back here again and again to see if everything remained unchanged. And it was unchanged--strange and unattainable and at the same time friendly and intimate and indispensable.

On his journey, much of it alone with Leo and Gnarly, Benedikt ponders the mysteries of life and death. He considers the responsibility of love: he must care for his animals not only in their lives, but also their deaths. When the time comes, and his animals are no longer able to function, he will have to end their lives.

After all, to a certain extent, all animals were sacrificial beasts--but was not all of life a sacrifice? When it was lived in the right manner? Was not this the key to the riddle, that the power of growth is a power within...

The appealing quality of Benedikt is that he sees beyond himself and understands his connection to simple animals, to other people, to things he can't see or know:

...there was the prospect within the next few days of saving a few sheep from death by hunger, and so of being useful to his own parish and, as well, to all mankind and to all the universe.

This is a simple tale...at first I thought might be a children's story. But it speaks more to an older audience: people who have loved, have lost, have hoped, have learned to see beyond themselves. Written at a time when it seemed that the whole world was in danger of holocaust, this short book offered then, and offers now a touching dose of hope.