Lögberg-Heimskringla - 25.09.1992, Blaðsíða 6

6 • Lögberg-Heimskringla • Föstudagur 25. september 1992
Livin|£ witH a love of books
By Tom Oleson
The Icelandic love of literature, of
books, of reading, is legendary.
Tourists invariably comment on
the number of bookstores and daily
newspapers in Reykjavik, both of
which are, by North American and
most European standards, surprising in
their number. Visiting journalists
invariably comment on Iceland’s
remarkable rate of literacy—as close to
100 per cent as you can get and the
highest in the world—and, if they have
been lucky enough to have been invited
into some homes, on the number of
books that are present and the casual
way that the books fit into the lifestyle
of the home, not displayed on the cof-
fee table to impress visitors but inte-
grated into the very lives of the inhabi-
tants, fitting as naturally into their lives
as the jar of peanut butter left on the
kitchen counter and the dirty sock
inadvertently dropped on the basement
stairs. They are as indispensable to the
people as the roof over their heads and
the food in the fridge. Books, as British
writer Anthony Powell commented in
the title of one of his 12-volume series
A Dance to the Music of Time, do fur-
nish a room. And they are, as an
American socialite once commented—
unfortunately in earnest—so decora-
tive. But as Icelanders know—as,
indeed, everyone who has learned to
love them knows—they also fumish a
life and decorate a mind.
Visitors to Iceland in the 19th cen-
tury, when the nation was gripped by
poverty and deprivation that we in
Europe and North America can only
imagine today, commented frequently
on the fact that even in the most hum-
ble hovel of the most desperately poor,
there were always books. When the
emigrations to North America began in
the late 19th century, many of those
emigrants came from among those des-
perately poor. Even the more well-to-
do, those had more in the way of mate-
rial goods, could not take much with
them. But almost all of them, rich and
poor alike, brought whatever books
they had, even if it meant leaving other
treasures behind.
They arrived in Canada and the
United States with their love of books
and leaming and knowledge intact and
they passed it on to their children, who,
in turn, instilled it in their children.
When I was a boy my parents’ home —
and my grandparents’ home.as well—
was filled with books. My mother’s and
father’s bedroom had a whole wall of
bookshelves from floor to ceiling that
was always full — overfilled in fact —
and, because there were books in it, it
was always open to the whole family,
which may, although one hesitates to
speculate on such a thing, expiain why
there is more than six years separating
each of their three children. The living
room was lined with ramshackle book
cases, jerrybuilt from bricks and
boards. Each of those children had
book cases in their rooms and a room
in the basement that served several
functions — recreation room, father’s
study and play room — had more. My
friends, in whose houses books were
always in short supply and who —
most of them — were not much inter-
ested in reading anyway, particularly
after television came along, were
always vaguely puzzled by what we did
with all these books. The answer was
simple, although I don’t think I ever
told them: we read them, we loved
them, we cherished them.
There are a lot of books in my own
home today. My wife and I do not have
a wall of books in our bedroom—there
are only two years separating each of
our three children—but everywhere
else, on the kitchen table, in the dining
room and the living room, down the
basement and up in the children’s bed-
rooms, there are books and book
cases. I still have books that I inherited
from my grandfather’s library and
books that belonged to my father, in
some of which I find, when I pick them
up, pages marred by childish scribbles,
pages where a kid too young to read or
write, but nevertheless armed with a
pencil, had left his mark, his young
claim to immortality. I know who the
culprit was—it was me. I’m sure I must
have tom some pages in my time, too,
but, although I might have been scold-
ed, I was never forbidden to look at the
books.
Today, sometimes when I pick up
my own books, I find pages marred by
childish scribbles, often now not in
pencil but in the ink of ballpoint pens
and felt markers. Sometimes I find
pages ripped—why is it that two-ycar
olds love to hear the sound of paper
tearing? —and I have to tape them
together again. I know that I am not
guilty of these acts of vandalism; I also
know who is—it is the three little
goolies who share our home and our
library. And so I scold them. I threaten
to take way their pencils and pens and
markers. But I do not forbid them to
look at the books. They have played
with books almost since the day they
were born—some of my collection is
quite tattered—and they started tiying
to read them as soon as they twigged to
the fact that books can be read. I hope
that—in this age of television and video
games—they will leam to feel the same
love and reverence for them that was
passed on to me by my parents and my
grandparents and countless genera-
tions of Icelanders before them.
Icelanders — and Western Ice-
landers — don’t just read of course.
They also write. My father wrote
books, scholarly articles and pieces for
newspapers as well as, when he was a
young man, poetry which was not par-
spp
NJAI'S
œm ■■—n su. \

œ&m §§*œ' jPBf i

A 14th century manuscript and a 20th
ticularly good but which I still have
and enjoy reading occasionally. My
grandfather also wrote some books and
briefly published a small newspaper. I
dabble in journalism, evidence, per-
haps, that the blood does indeed grow
thinner over the generations.
Many Icelanders and Western
Icelanders write extremely well.
Iceland has a new generation of novel-
ists, short-story writers and poets that
is making an impact in North America
and Europe as their works are now
being translated. Here in the West, we
also have a fine new generation of writ-
ers building on the traditions of the
past even as many of them break those
traditions. David Arnason—one of
Canada’s finest short story writers, as
well as a poet and critic—this summer
published his first novel, an accom-
plished work called The Pagan Wall.
W.D. Valgardson has a new novel
coming out, The Girl with the Botticelli
Face, which will be reviewed in
Lögberg-Heimskringla shortly, along
with Kristjana Gunnars’ new work The
Guest House. Betty Jane Wylie, whose
article graces the front page of this
issue, has written many books, as has
Bill Holm whose recent account of his
stay in China was critically acclaimed
in the New York Times and elsewhere.
There are many others, too many to
mention; but the tradition continues.
Other traditions continue as well.
When I was a child, I always received a
book for Christmas; so did my father
before me. My children are given
books at Christmas now. This article is
not meant to be a history of the Oleson
family—I have carefully left out all the
juicy parts—and I apologize for this
‘(Elje ^erfeci Qlljrtstmaa (Irift
FRflMFflRI
hard cover, English translation of the entire 76 issues of the first
lcelandic newspaper pub'lished in North America, dating from 1877 - 1880.
^Ststortcaííg stgníftcant — entcrtaintng rcnbtng
66 lt was a great, pralseworthy
undertaking to translate
Framfari into English, so
that the younger generatlon
can acquaint itself with this
important work of the
Icelandic pioneers. 99
Finnbogi GuOmundsson
Director of the National
Library of Iceland
Price per copy $25.00
plus $5.00 mailing charge within
Canada or $10.00 outside Canada.
Cheques payable to:
Gimli Chapter, INL
Box 1979
Gimli, Man., R0C 1B0
century book bespeak the tradition.
self indulgence. Rather it was meant to
be—it was an attempt to be—a celebra-
tion of the Icelandic love for literature.
I am told that in Iceland today books
are still frequently given as Christmas
presents. Christmas is rapidly
approaching. Scattered throughout this
issue of the paper you will find a num-
ber of advertisements from booksellers
and publishers in both North America
and Iceland. They offer books of eveiy
description, in both English and
Icelandic. Take a look at them; there is
almost certainly something that a
friend or loved one would enjoy and
there is still time to order so that it can
be there on Christmas Eve. The giving
of books—and not necessarily just at
Christmas—is another tradition that
deserves to be maintained.
I-------------------1
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