Reykjavík Grapevine - 19.06.2009, Blaðsíða 16

16
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 8 — 2009
A letter from Iceland
by Hermann Stefánsson
Dear Sir/Madam
Although this letter might, admittedly,
seem a bit strange to you when you
commence reading, I assure you that
its content will become crystal clear
on completion, and I am absolutely
certain that you and your institute will
understand my point of view when
everything is taken into account: politics,
history, metaphysics and the essence of
literature.
Let me say that this letter is not written
on a whim; I place each finger carefully
on the keyboard and consider every word
like it was made of precious jewels. I
am hopeful that you will see fit to more
than seriously consider the following
request, and which I must add is truly
a humble one under the circumstances,
although I have taken a certain initiative
in writing this letter. Given the fact that
it is among the duties of your institute
to support literature, writers and their
work, albeit be it normally in Britain and
not the island from which I am writing
(Iceland, recently labelled a terrorist state
by your country), it is my belief that the
very nature of the work of which I speak
addresses your institute and indeed your
very culture in such a direct fashion that
even the most escapist and f lighty reader
would not be able to divert his or her eyes
from it.
Let me digress. Not just for my mere
affection for digression but to show what
is and what is not, so to speak.
In discussing the function of literature
and its connection with the politics of
our nations, I refer you to the case of
the Viking poet Egill Skallagrímsson
and his poem "Head Ransom", written
in the ancient kingdom of York in Great
Britain in celebration of the cruel king,
Eric Bloodaxe. Eric had sentenced
Skallagrímsson to death. To save his life
Skallagrímsson composed a poem in
praise of Eric, thereby reversing his fate.
Eric pardoned Skallagrímsson when he
recited the poem to him on the very day
he was supposed to be executed. You will
see that words have been quite powerful
in the relations between our nations and
regardless of whether the poet writes of
his own initiative or not, he has been
historically well rewarded, even with life
itself.
At this stage you might be thinking
that my literary work (and I hesitate still
at this point to give exact information
on the nature of my work) cannot
be in every way comparable with the
poem the Viking poet wrote to save his
life. You might even be thinking that
many a times modern man can, when
comparing himself to ancient historical
characters, seem less important or even
trivial in some way. To paraphrase: that
modern man’s dictions, in contrast to
those of a man writing to save his head,
can appear to be mere "whining" – the
complaints of a "spoilt brat". But what is
life and when can one be considered to
be saving it? Is our present state of living
less vital in any way and have the words
lost any of their essential meaning? If
on the night he composed his poem,
Skallagrímsson can be thought to have
spent his time extremely well, when can
modern man be thought to be spending
his time well and when is he just wasting
it? I, for one, consider myself to be using
my time well; each time I press a finger
on a letter on the keyboard it is with
passion and conviction. Each letter is
worth something, albeit be it not my
entire life, each word has at least a part
of my soul in it.
This brings us to the subject of time.
"Time is like water", reads a famous
line from an Icelandic poem. What
a ridiculous notion! Time is nothing
at all like water! There are no evident
similarities whatsoever between the two.
For instance, time is not wet and water
cannot be measured by a clock. And
water is not relative as Albert Einstein
claimed time was. There is no theory
on the relativity of water. Does that not
show how poetry can at times be void of
logic? However, more than the theories
of Einstein, I tend to agree when people
say: ‘Time is money’. This is more in
accordance with the logic of poetry,
given that water is money as well, i.e. if
you sell water to someone in a bottle, you
get money for it. And whatever you do
for a living, be it selling water or writing
literature, you are selling your time for
money.
This is how the logic of poetry works,
on a deeper level, drawing similarities
between seemingly remote objects by
various methods:
A chattering rose spread its wings and
f lew.
A full moon came peeking from behind
a cloud like the vacant eye of a lost
political god, gazing upon the lovers as
they strode, watched, down the street.
A speck of snow falling on my nose is
like a whisper from the lips of angels.
All these metaphors, which I have
invented for the sake of argument
(as well as merely to include some
metaphors, if you will) are worth money,
however vulgar this may seem at first
glance. In fact they might well form a
part of the work of art to which I refer,
to say no more. Even Shakespeare wrote
for money.
Of course time – as well as similes
and metaphors – is often wasted,
spent in vain. Think of other noble
notions on par with literature, such as
love, religion or metaphysics. I am in
fact of the opinion that every work of
literature should include love, religion,
metaphors, aesthetics, metaphysics, and
politics. This is a decisive list and I do
not make exceptions in my own literary
work that consists exclusively of short
stories that pertain to a subgenre of my
own invention. I have taken a Borgesian
line, lending my stories an aura of
something else than straight fiction, at
risk of somewhat narrowing my number
of readers, even extensively so. Now,
love is often a waste of time. People fall
hopelessly in love, think compulsively of
their love object and love it even more
if they cannot have it. Surely in this
way they are spending money, as time
is money. The metaphysics of whining
are a source of endless thought. The
complaints and whining of a lover can
in some cases seem somewhat similar
to those of writers and their writing;
I mean that both include a certain
degree of desire and when considering
the metaphysics of complaining (and I
must insist that I would never complain
or try to force my will upon anyone)
they seem to be somehow compatible.
Religion is obviously time-consuming
for those who practice it and it also costs
money: the time people spend going to
church makes up for lost work hours,
they perhaps take the bus and drop their
change in the collection plate. So you
see that when everything is taken into
consideration, all dignified things, be
it love, religion, literature or time, are
connected to money. Money does not
make even the most noble notions any
less respectable – least of all literature.
And money is perhaps, metaphysically
speaking, closest to the core of this
letter, if you will. Let us now pause to
think about the thing closest to money:
politics. As you may or may not be aware,
your country, Britain, has made use of
its laws on terrorism against my country,
Iceland. The politicians responsible for
this being Gordon Brown and Alistair
Darling. The Icesave accounts have
gained a somewhat notorious reputation.
Icesave was an Icelandic bank in
England that went bankrupt, leaving
enormous debts owed to individuals,
local councils and charities in Britain.
Gordon Brown used the terrorist law
against the tiny nation of Iceland to
freeze the assets of all Icelandic banks
in Britain. The results? Some say it has
led to the nationalization and fall of all
the banks and most recently the fall of
Baugur Group. Personally I am not so
sure about that, but certainly we, the
Icelandic public, and our children now
owe an exorbitant sum of money to the
British state, the former debts of about 30
Icelandic bank tycoons and millionaires.
Our bank system, now collapsed, was so
much bigger than the state that there is
no chance of the public ever paying this
back, even if we were to become slaves
(here we call it Iceslave) for about twenty
years.
I will add that as a writer who writes
in the tradition of Egill Skallagrímsson
I am not in the least worried about this.
Worrying is another form of wasting
THE STORy CONTINuES ON PAGE 34
Reykjavík, April 18, 2009
Subject: Grant Request
To: The Royal Literature Fund of
Great Britain
From: Skallagrímur Daðason,
writer, Iceland
Tel +354 577 60 50
www.sixt.is
Illustrations by Lóa Hjálmtýsdóttir