I have readJón Kalman Stefánsson, Harmur englanna | The Sorrow of Angels (2009)
Sjón, Skugga-Baldur | The Blue Fox (2003) The Poetic Edda (some time between the 10th and the 12th c.) Jónas Kristjánsson, Eddas and Sagas. Iceland's Medieval Literature (2007) |
Vertical Divider
|
I have written... nothing ...
|
|
Usually, the heyday of European islands happened very early: as the safest locations, they had been centres of culture in early Middle Ages, before the advances in navigation put an end on their safety, and the maritime powers subjugated independent, autarkic places of settlement, just like Danemark did to Iceland. In modern times, islands became peripheral, depressive spaces, and it may give fascinating results in literary terms. This is the case of Majorca, of Sicily, and also the case of Iceland, that lived its most interesting times at the age of eddas and sagas.
In this trip, I was expecting to discover this early culture, as well as unspoiled nature and absolute peace, which was actually the case. Unexpected encounter with contemporary Icelandic art and literature was a bonus added to this. Technically, this trip was organized - and financed - by my husband, a great admirer of northern locations in general. In Reykjavik, we rented a car to drive mostly on the road nr 1 (the yellow strip you can see on the map, in reality a very modest road circling all the island and passing, sometimes on a single track, through several tunnels). We visited most of the western part of the Iceland, arriving till Akureyri and the Goðafoss waterfall. In Akureyri, I was surprised by the richness of the local botanic garden. So far in the north, it was much more than a collection of lichens that I expected. Back southwards, we jumped to the minuscule Vestmannaeyjar islands with their still active volcano. On the way, an endless variety of landscapes, amazing views, natural curiosities, thermal springs, fogs and rainbows. |
|
the librarian from Mosfellsbær
Icelanders are reading people. I was surprised to see how they spend their Sunday mornings. They simply come to bookshops, where tables and chairs, as well as toys for kids are provided. No wonder that Reykjavik is well provided with bookshops, I would say even better than coffeeshops. What is more, in a country where nothing comes cheap, I could buy a bagful of books.
As I've heard, Island also has the highest concentration of writers per capita. Most of them not so very great, but good enough, writing readable things for reading people, telling stories about how the life used to be hard, most probably still is, on their island. One of them is Jón Kalman Stefánsson, the author of a book under the title Harmur englanna, that I read in Polish translation. He appears as a man of many professions, one of them librarian in Mosfellsbær, a town just some 15 km from Reykjavik, and not far from the place where once lived the Icelandic 1955 Noble prize winner, Halldór Laxness.
Harmur englanna means "sorrow of angels", and the expression stands for snow; I like the word nonetheless. Harmur. Like a trace of some distant Ursprache, of which we obviously preserve the harm. All the novel is just a long explanation of the term, breathing in and out the atmosphere of the land crossed by the postman Jens, who occasionally gets frozen to his horse. Many things freeze in this novel, such things as hatches on ships. Meanwhile, people huddle in the houses, and read, and sleep, and dream, and drink great amounts of black coffee, and write letters that the postman will deliver at a great risk of his life. It snows. They heat their coffee. The winter months are long. They learn English to read even more books, to feel farther things. Foreign words seem to change their world, bring new, colourful things into it, under the snow.
Jón Kalman Stefánsson, Harmur englanna [2009]. Read in a Polish translation: Smutek aniołów, trans. Jacek Godek, Warszawa, W.A.B., 2015.
Kraków, 15.10.2021.
As I've heard, Island also has the highest concentration of writers per capita. Most of them not so very great, but good enough, writing readable things for reading people, telling stories about how the life used to be hard, most probably still is, on their island. One of them is Jón Kalman Stefánsson, the author of a book under the title Harmur englanna, that I read in Polish translation. He appears as a man of many professions, one of them librarian in Mosfellsbær, a town just some 15 km from Reykjavik, and not far from the place where once lived the Icelandic 1955 Noble prize winner, Halldór Laxness.
Harmur englanna means "sorrow of angels", and the expression stands for snow; I like the word nonetheless. Harmur. Like a trace of some distant Ursprache, of which we obviously preserve the harm. All the novel is just a long explanation of the term, breathing in and out the atmosphere of the land crossed by the postman Jens, who occasionally gets frozen to his horse. Many things freeze in this novel, such things as hatches on ships. Meanwhile, people huddle in the houses, and read, and sleep, and dream, and drink great amounts of black coffee, and write letters that the postman will deliver at a great risk of his life. It snows. They heat their coffee. The winter months are long. They learn English to read even more books, to feel farther things. Foreign words seem to change their world, bring new, colourful things into it, under the snow.
Jón Kalman Stefánsson, Harmur englanna [2009]. Read in a Polish translation: Smutek aniołów, trans. Jacek Godek, Warszawa, W.A.B., 2015.
Kraków, 15.10.2021.
Þingvellir and the memory places
Hraunfossar
Travelling north
Akyureiri
Mývatn
Dettifoss
|
|
on the black beach (seals & medusae)
geothermal curiosities
Reykjavik
|
|
South coast of Iceland
Vestmannaeyjar Islands
