Reykjavík Grapevine - 10.02.2006, Blaðsíða 19

Though few foreigners know about her, Vigdís Grímsdóttir is
one of the most prominent and prolific contemporary writers
of Iceland. For the last two decades, she has captivated readers
with her mystical subjects, lyrical style and fearless attitude
towards cultural taboos. In addition to winning the Icelandic
Literature Prize in 1992 and nominations for the Nordic Prize,
among other awards, her books have remained in circulation—
putting her among a handful of writers whose books make up
the contemporary Icelandic canon.
For the most part, this celebrated author has avoided the
Icelandic spotlight, living throughout Europe and the US.
With the success of a recent film adaptation of her book Ka-
ldaljós (Cold Light), she is again returning to prominence.
No discussion of Icelandic culture is complete without
mentioning Grímsdóttir. Þórdís Elva Þorvaldsdóttir Bach-
mann paid a visit toVigdís Grímsdóttir, one of Iceland’s most
influential living writers.
/// What is the purpose of contemporary literature in modern
day society, in your opinion?
– To preserve our nation, we have to preserve our language,
and that’s what literature does. It shows us the proximity of
God, or the distance of God, the beautiful and the ugly. People
are often afraid that other media will somehow destroy the
purpose of literature, but it will always serve as our cultural
root. It may perhaps have played a bigger role earlier in history,
but its purpose hasn’t changed. Literature is essential. I suspect
that the constant bickering about people not reading enough
may actually lead to people reading less. People still read a lot;
I can sense it in my work. I get calls, visits and emails from
readers who tell me what they like and dislike in my writing.
Literature is our cultural cellar. We can build on top of it with
floors of computer games, movies and entertainment, but
literature is the foundation for it all. There’s no roof on this
building. We don’t need one.
/// Is there a book that changed your outlook on writing?
– I’ve always been a sucker for books. I was a reclusive child
and I was often lonely, which is weird considering I have seven
siblings. Books were my companions. Ever since I was a child,
my favourite type of literature has been fairy tales. To me, a
good book, no matter how realistic it is and no matter if it’s
completely unadventurous, is still a fairy tale. The book that
had the biggest effect on me was The Little Match Girl (by
H. C. Andersen.) It made my world grow tremendously. I was
ten years old and it was the year 1963. Everyone I knew could
afford a decent meal on Christmas Eve and nobody froze to
death. This book made me realise that the world was so much
bigger than I thought, and that there might be something on
the other side of the mountain, something that needed to be
fixed. It made me want to become a nurse. I was angry at the
world for allowing such injustice as described in the book. No
work of literature has had such a deep-seated effect on me,
before nor since.
/// Writers are often put in two different categories, those
who write for social change and those who claim that their
works aren’t meant to be critical of modern day society in any
way.
– That, in itself, is critical.
/// Yes?
– A few years ago, a certain group of authors was attacked for
writing books for their own entertainment, books that didn’t
contain any specific message or storyline but were merely
written to cleanse and shape the language. But if you live in
a society where you can write a whole book about absolutely
nothing, it says a whole lot about your society. Even when au-
thors say that they don’t mean to be influential, they still mean
to. Regardless of whether they mean to influence the whole of
society or just one individual, it doesn’t change the fact that as
soon as you have a reader, you’re influencing someone. Writing
a book is a political act.
My car was wrecked and I received murder threats after
the release of Ísbjörg (My Name is Ísbjörg, I am a Leo) back
in 1989. Nobody really talked about it back then, about sexual
abuse. I had a Fiat that I was very fond of, and it was de-
stroyed. But I also received flowers. I was afraid for a while.
Then I realised, okay, you can be afraid that some big bad
man might kick your ass on your way to the store, but you’ve
obviously created something that matters. If people go to the
trouble of pissing in your gas tank, beating on your car and
sending you threats, it makes you realise that you’ll prob-
ably never again be able to write a book that moves people as
much as that. So in the end, I was happy about it. The way
you react to criticism depends entirely on your mindset. Let’s
say you get five reviews, four of them are positive and one is
negative. Which one do you remember? If you only remember
the negative one, you need to change your mindset. I know
a lot of writers who have crawled under a blanket and stayed
there after getting a bad review. But that’s just life, and that’s
okay. You can’t be a people pleaser. I think I’m somewhere in
between the two categories you mentioned. I hope people can
find a little of both in my writing.
/// You’ve written about themes that are commonly classified
as feminist, shedding light on domestic violence, prostitu-
tion and sexual abuse. Would you call yourself a feminist
writer?
– (hesitates) I just write about things that come to me. I don’t
think prostitution is a particularly feminist topic. I can’t cat-
egorise myself like that. That doesn’t mean I don’t respect fem-
inists, I do. But I can’t put myself in that category rather than
anywhere else. I just don’t want to. You might as well call me
a sticker. I don’t like stickers. I don’t like it when people talk
about realism, modernism, romance - life is all of those things.
Of course I’m a feminist in some things I do. In some things
I’m a man, in some things I’m a woman. For example, what
is The Little Match Girl? Is that a piece of feminist writing?
People can view me however they want to. I just write about
things that fascinate me. Back in ’89 when I wrote Ísbjörg,
I did field research on the world of prostitution and drugs,
something that didn’t exist back then. The underworld was just
as shocking back then as it is now. People are always writing
about the same things, but nobody can do it the way you do.
/// Lesbianism has been the topic of two of your books, Lov-
er’s Loins and Z: A Love Story. Are you trying to shed more
light on the issue of homosexuality?
– It just fascinated me. It was about time too, that someone
wrote about love this way. Z is a comparison between two
sisters. One of them is non-homosexual, and the other is
homosexual, but it’s all the same in the end. Love is always the
same.
/// So it wasn’t an issue you were fighting for at the time?
– I can’t fight for things that don’t fascinate me. I know this
book had a positive effect, judging from the reactions I got,
from priests amongst other people.
/// Priests?
– Yes. It made me very happy. Lover’s Loins on the other
hand, that’s a very special book. I dreamt it. It was a journey I
went on in a dream. I never understood why I wrote that book.
In some ways, it was like dying. Going into another world and
looking back on your life. I wrote it as a description of this
journey I went on before I got back home, into my body.
/// Was it only one dream, or many dreams?
– No, just one magnificent dream. Peculiar, huh? It’s supposed
to be a poem. I’m a terrible poet. I’d love to be a good poet,
but I’m not. Lover’s Loins is more of a narration. I went on
that journey, I know it sounds like a lie. Maybe it happened
because I’d been reading so-called trance literature, in folklore.
It describes women going on dream journeys, one of them even
becoming pregnant along the way. Of course the whole thing
was a lie this woman made up for her husband who was away
when it took place, catching fish. He believed her. You don’t
question dreams.
/// Is there a particular place or time in which you write?
– I have up to three statues (points to a computer) around me
at any time. I write all over the place. I travel a lot, and I often
go away to write, to get complete peace. I’m… what do you
call it… manic? It’s just how I am. I’ve tried so hard being the
person I’m supposed to be.
/// Are you supposed to be a specific person?
– Yes. It’s healthy. It’ll make me live longer. Many people have
tried to make me change my habits. I’m supposed to wake up
at seven, eat breakfast, write for three hours, then go on a walk,
but I can’t. I write for three weeks straight without sleep, and
then I don’t write a thing for the next two weeks. I write in
turns. No matter how many shrinks, psychologists and friends
have told me that I’m shortening my life, I’ve managed to
become 52 years old, and I’m still going strong. I respect those
who take walks with their dog, if they have a dog, and then
write for two hours, and then read the papers. I respect that,
but it’s not the way I am. I can’t stop until the groundwork for
my book is done.
/// Are there particular places in the world you go to to write?
– I’ve been around. France, Denmark, Finland, New York...
It’s selfish, of course, to leave like that. You have to be selfish
in this work. It’s not a problem now, but it was more difficult
when my kids were young, they found it hard. I’m fond of
the fact now, that they found it hard back in the day. I was
something to them.
/// Do you get writer’s blocks?
– No, I haven’t. I’ve only read about it, and heard people talk
“Female Writers Were Weird”
An Interview with Vigdís Grímsdóttir
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“[W]e have to preserve our language, and that’s what literature does. It
shows us the proximity of God, or the distance of God, the beautiful and the
ugly. People are often afraid that other medias will somehow destroy the pur-
pose of literature, but it will always serve as our cultural root.”
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