Lögberg-Heimskringla - 13.02.2004, Blaðsíða 10

page 10 ♦ Lögberg-Heimskringla »13 February 2004
continued from Page 7
Iceland’s Bell, by Halldór Laxness
For his story, harrowing
as it is, serves merely as back-
ground to the star-crossed love
affair of a beautiful Icelandic
woman known as “Iceland’s
Sun” and an Icelandic anti-
quarian, a favourite of the
Danish king, whose job it is to
search out any extant (vellum)
pages of the sagas wherever
they may be found: as shoe
lining, mattress stuffing, sand-
wich filling, whatever.
Have I mentioned that the
book is funny? Well, it’s often
satirical and ironic but it’s also
witty and throw-away funny.
It’s also sexy, in the most
amazing way.
Here is Jón Hreggviðsson
on the verge of one of his
miraculous escapes: “It was
the time of year when night is
inconvenient for criminals...he
thought about what to do next.
Then he started running.”
Later, in custody again,
and being beaten to elicit a
confession, he says to his cap-
tors, “It is useless to beat an
Icelander. We notice it about
as much as we notice lice.”
When he’s lucky enough to get
some coins, or a golden ring,
he drinks it away and never
stops talking, telling off his
companions: “(he) gave one or
two men an earful but they
didn’t pay any attention; no
one even wanted to kick him.”
And what about that love
affair? By this time in the book
she is a married woman with
an alcoholic husband who sold
her for brennivín, living with
her sister’s family, when the
book-collector, also married
for convenience and wealth,
returns for a time to Iceland.
They have found a way to
meet and talk, a dangerous
thing to do. He reassures her:
“Nothing has happened unless
it is possible to prove that it
has.”
And the love scene? Not
explicit but devastating in its
clarity. Here it comes: “She
walked over to him and said:
‘My friend, you’re tired.’”
And so to bed. I love under-
statement! Icelanders do, I
think, Western Icelanders
included.
There are memorable
scenes throughout, fantastic
action and suspense and also
moments fraught with emo-
tion. Others have pointed out,
as if it were a fault, that
Laxness writes like the sagas,
never getting inside a person’s
thoughts. He reports events
and actions, and records con-
versations but doesn’t act as
the omniscient author. He
doesn’t need to. His keen
observation and eye for detail
make it clear to the reader
what is going on with people’s
emotions: “Snæfríður’s face
turned blood-red and its lines
slackened for a moment. She
reached for her embroidery
and in a voice slightly lower
than before said...”
Her sister, the bishop’s
wife, “served thick raisin por-
ridge, and though she
enveloped the dining room
with her winsome, motherly
smile, her pupils were dilated
and her eyes stingingly hot;
red flecks appeared on her
cheeks.”
Here is a man in an upset-
ting conversation: “He had
started to pace the room, his
hands gripped together palms
downward, his eyes fiery and
black.”
Memorable lines and
memorable scenes, satire and
irony, history and romance
surely comprise all the ingre-
dients one needs for a good
read.
Even as I look the book
over for this review, I find
more and more things I want
to share. I guess you’ll just
have to read it. I guess I’ 11
havé to read it again.
<m it urm* fiin* x>m ml wHfciw m u rww.wiY'mm « nm >1 rin 'nwhfcinHh
Greetings from
Gordon J. Reykdal
Honorary Consul of the
Repuhlic of Iceland
17703 - 103 Avenue
Edmonton, Alberta
T5S 1N8
Tel: (780) 408-5118
Fax: (780) 408-5122
E-mail: gord@rentcash.ca
Visitor to the L-H
Björn Th. Árnason from Iceland recently paid a visit to
the L-H. Björn is the President of Félag íslenskra hljóm-
listarmanna, the Icelandic Musician’s Union in Reykjavík.
PHOTO BY KENT LÁRUS BJÖRNSSON
Tjörn, the pond in the mid-
dle of Reykjavík, in winter.
The ducks and geese and
swans looking for a clear
space of water.
The Thurtder Rolls
Three-thirty in the morning
Not a soul in sight
The city’s lookin’ like a ghost toum
On a moonless summer night
Raindrops on the windshield
There’s a storm moving in
He’s headin’ back from someþlace
Where he never should have been
And the Thunder rolls
And the Thunder rolls
Every light is burnin’
In a house across town
She’s pacin’ by the telephone
In her faded flannel gown
Askin’ for a miracle
Hoþin’ she’s not right
Prayin’ it’s the weather
That’s kept him our all night
And the Thunder rolls
And the Thunder rolls
The Thunder rolls
The Thunder rolls
And the lightnin’ strikes
And the lightnin’ strikes
Another love grows cold
On a sleepless night
On a sleepless night
On a sleepless night
by Ámý Hjaltadóttir
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