"Human existence boils down to a race against the darkness of the world—treachery, cruelty, cowardice. A race that feels hopeless most of the time, but one we run anyway as long as there's hope left."
"Nothing pleases me except you."
A few lines from Milton—that's all it takes for young fisherman Baldur to forget his coat and freeze to death. We're in 19th century Iceland, a tiny fishing village where seasons dictate everything. Life is harsh at the edge of the world. Ice and snow everywhere. Yet even in these brutal, uncertain times, there are men who love books, who let themselves be lulled by stories and seduced by words. Sometimes at the cost of their lives.
Stefansson paints the daily grind of these men and women—fishermen in winter, farmers or merchants in summer. Death's shadow hangs over everything because life barely holds on in these frozen lands. Through the fates of a few rough but sensitive men, the author delivers a stunning meditation on life and death, on what gives life meaning, on the uncertainty that defines existence—which makes it both precious and painful.
"Hell is being dead and realizing you didn't pay enough attention to life when you had the chance."
I loved the first part: a few men in a rowboat, rowing through snow to catch cod. The unity of time, place, and action creates a tragic atmosphere. The harshness of life doesn't kill dreams of love, tenderness, sensuality. But nothing survives the cold and ice. This lets the author constantly pit nature's grandeur and beauty against its dangers.
The second part is more comical, introducing all the village inhabitants—the shapely innkeeper, the music-loving grocer, the alcoholic boat captain, the blind poet. Life always trumps death. Love and desire erase mourning. Alcohol and poetry make you forget the rest.
A novel that brings water to your eyes, carried by beautiful writing—poetic and profound—philosophizing on life's fragility against nature's rigor, sublime but merciless.
"Words are arrows, rifle bullets, legendary birds chasing heroes. Words are ancient fish discovering terrifying secrets in the abyss. They're nets wide enough to catch the world and embrace the heavens. But sometimes they're nothing—worn rags, pierced by cold, decrepit fortresses that death and misfortune trample effortlessly."
Translated from Icelandic by Éric Boury.
Gallimard, 2010; Folio, 2011 - 255 pages
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Not really my style of reading, but I remain open to new things, so why not...