Reykjavík Grapevine - 11.03.2005, Qupperneq 36

Norwegian painted Edvard Munch
before marrying Austrian journalist
Frida Uhl and moving with her to
Austria.
Symbolism, Alchemism and the
Occult
Once there, he promptly left Frida
and their newborn child to hang
out with French painter Paul
Gauguin in Paris. Strindberg was
an accomplished painter himself,
and dabbled in symbolism as well
as alchemism and the occult. But
still he did not write. Then, finally,
and no doubt based on his recent
experiences, he writes in French the
story of Johann Jörgensen, about
a writer living in Paris who leaves
his family to discover the secrets of
alchemy before his final conversion
to Catholicism. The book not only
inspired Laxness to write his first
novel, but also to become a Catholic,
and he almost joined a convent. But
fortunately for all of us, he decided
to do as Strindberg did, not as he
said.
The Only Award that Ever Meant
Anything
The fire rekindled, Strindberg
returned to Stockholm, married his
third and final wife Harriet Bosse
and invented expressionist theatre.
But Strindberg and Bosse remained
together for only two years. In 1908,
he moved to his final home, The
Blue Tower, on Dronninggatan
85, where he died four years later.
He never won the Nobel Prize,
probably because of his socialism
(they should have checked Laxness’
political affiliations better), but in
the final year of his life, students and
workers held torch-lit processions
on Dronninggatan outside his
house, and awarded him the “Anti-
Nobel Prize,” a large sum of money
organized by donations. Perhaps it
is the only award an author ever got
that really meant anything.
His house on Dronninggatan 85 has
been turned into a museum, and,
if you ask really nicely, they may
even let you into his study, where
he wrote his final play, “The Great
Highway.”
Man Bites Dog
“Society is madhouse whose wardens
are the officials and the police,” it
said. I stopped, surprised, excited
and feeling somewhat less safe. Yes,
of course it is, I thought to myself
as I reread the phrase in the clear,
metallic letters fastened to the
asphalt. I continued on, not quite as
sure of what to expect next. “People
who keep dogs are cowards who
haven’t got the guts to bite people
themselves,” the street now said. As a
former mailman, I could not help but
agree. As I looked up the street, past
the pedestrians happily carrying bags
or hopefully peering into windows to
find the mid-winter sale made just
for them, I noticed that the street
seemed to be lined with mysterious
messages. And all of them seemed to
speak directly to me.
A Hell for Children
“Happiness consumes itself like a
flame. It cannot burn for ever, it
must go out, and the presentiment
of its end destroys it at its very
peak,” “Family... the home of all
social evil, a charitable institution for
comfortable women, an anchorage
for house-fathers, and a hell for
children,” “A man with a so-called
character is often a simple piece
of mechanism; he has often only
one point of view for the extremely
complicated relationships of life.”
It was true, it was all true. My steps
grew heavier as I continued up the
street. Was there no hope? And
then, as I had almost reached the far
ends of the busiest pedestrian street
in Stockholm, amid the mid-winter
sales I found it. The tiny gleam of
hope at the bottom of Pandora’s
box. “Allt tjanar,” the street said.
Everything helps.
The Genius of the North
Who was this mysterious sage who
had taunted me, tried me and in the
end, perhaps, offered me salvation?
As I reached the end of the street I
saw him, sitting on a rock. He was
about twice my height, muscular,
and made of solid granite. Like
Prometheus unbound, there was
nothing that could contain his fire.
Not chains, not even death itself. His
fire burns the hottest of anyone in
Sweden still, almost a century after
his death. He is Strindberg.
Norwegians probably think that
Ibsen is the greatest literary genius
of the Nordic countries, the Finns
Kivi or Runeberg, the Danes might
mention a miserablist philosopher
(Kirkegaard) or a children’s book
author (HC Andersen or indeed Ole
Lund). Icelanders, of course, rarely
tire of pointing out that Laxness won
a Nobel Prize in this very city.
But to many more impartial
observers, Strindberg is the greatest
writer of the north. Just ask Halldór
Laxness, who wrote in his memoir
Úngur ég var, “I myself wrote, if
truth be told, the same story as
Strindberg had in Inferno, except it
was called Vefarinn mikli.” Vefarinn
mikli frá Kasmír was Laxness’ first
novel, and set him out on the career
that led him to Stockholm.
The Man who Got Laxness Writing
Strindberg himself never won the
Nobel Prize, despite having been
born in Stockholm, and despite
his influence on Laxness and a
host of other writers. Einar Már
Guðmundsson, whom many have
called Iceland’s greatest living scribe
following the death of Laxness,
said that no book had served him
as well when writing his award
winning Angels of the Universe as had
Strindberg’s Inferno.
When Inferno first came out in 1897,
Strindberg had been in the throes
of a creative crisis, which almost
ended his career. In 1889 he had
written the play Miss Julie, which
remains one of the most frequently
performed plays in the world. Three
years later, he had divorced his
wife, the Finno-Swedish baroness
Siri Von Essen and left Stockholm
for Berlin. There he hung out with
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STOCKHOLM’S GREAT HIGHWAY TO HOPE
by Valur Gunnarsson
Stockholm is, at first glance, just as you expect it to be. Safe, clean and polite, if not going out of its
way to be overtly friendly. This might be a nice place to live and bring up children if you’re so inclined,
I thought to myself, but there’s something lacking. Some sense of excitement, of the unknown. And as you
walk down the main pedestrian and shopping street, Dronninggatan, it looks safe, clean, polite, and
mostly predictable. Or so it seemed, until the street itself started speaking to me.
For those who prefer their Strindberg closer to home, The City Theatre is
premiering Strindberg’s Dreamplay, translated by Hafliði Arngrímsson,
20.00 on March 11th. The play was one of the first things he wrote after
his Inferno crisis and was first premiered in 1902.
It follows the adventures of Agnes, daughter of a Hindu God who comes to
earth to observe man’s grievance and winds up marrying a lawyer. This,
not unsurprisingly, leads to a personal crisis. The play stars the graduate
class of the Art School Department of Drama and is directed by Benedikt
Erlingsson, who follows in the footsteps of such luminaries as Ingmar
Bergman, who directed the play for the Royal Dramatic Theatre of Sweden
in 1986.
Strindberg’s Dreamplay in Reykjavík
Vladur