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The Fish Can Sing
Abandoned as a baby, Alfgrimur is content to spend his days as a fisherman living in the turf cottage outside Reykjavik with the elderly couple he calls grandmother and grandfather. There he shares the mid-loft with a motley bunch of eccentrics and philosophers who find refuge in the simple respect for their fellow men that is the ethos at the Brekkukot. But the narrow horizons of Alfgrimur's idyllic childhood are challenged when he starts school and meets Iceland's most famous singer, the mysterious Garoar Holm. Garoar encourages him to aim for the 'one true note', but how can he attain it without leaving behind the world that he loves?
246 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1957
About the author
Halldór Laxness
160 books691 followersBorn Halldór Guðjónsson, he adopted the surname Laxness in honour of Laxnes in Mosfellssveit where he grew up, his family having moved from Reyjavík in 1905. He published his first novel at the age of only 17, the beginning of a long literary career of more than 60 books, including novels, short stories, poetry, and plays. Confirmed a Catholic in 1923, he later moved away from religion and for a long time was sympathetic to Communist politics, which is evident in his novels World Light and Independent People. In 1955 he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.
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May 29, 2016
Laxness brings together a catalog of eccentric characters and peculiar anecdotes to tell the story of Algrimur, an orphan taken in by an elderly couple that becomes his only family in a tiny village in the outskirts of Reykyjavík.
In the turf cottage where Algrimur grows up, a disparate crew of extravagant guests gathers at night. The impoverished farmers, fishermen and shepherds get transformed into vagrant-soothsayers, quack-philosophers, sea captains and specialists in cesspools, who sit by the fire to tell their life stories in an allegoric cannon of fiercely original voices.
More than a delightful literary divertimento, “The fish can sing” offers a painfully accurate portrait of life and its hardships in a rural Iceland that is about to disappear engulfed by impending modernity.
The motley assortment of characters orchestrated by Algrimur, who writes his own story as an omniscient narrator, reveals the classic confrontation between two opposed conceptions of the world: the yesteryear social structure, composed of hardened men, self-sufficient in dignified poverty but with great capacity for compassion; and the new emergent class of businessmen and government administrators, or “the authorities”, as Algrimur calls them employing a very fine irony that brutally denounces their treacherous dispositions; who make use of their influence and financial strength to become even more powerful, enough to rule the future.
It’s with critical eye that the fish in this concert sing; in the small, almost imperceptible details - and tragedies- of the characters’ daily lives that faith in society can be restored; for the “true note” that the young protagonist searches without rest, and seemingly to no avail, is hidden in the inexhaustible wisdom of the ordinary, of the common people: in the worn-out Pastor’s chants in every funeral, in the generous hospitality of Algrimur’s foster-grandfather, in the silent suffering of his grandmother, in the disinterested kindness of a music teacher, in the truth to be found in Schubert’s “Der Erlkönig”.
Laxness’ minute prose generates lucidity rather than nostalgia, but the vivid collage of folklore, myth and tradition, taken as a whole, constitutes a profound meditation on perception, life and death that brims over with philosophical implications.
Algrimur might be the last witness of a world in extinction whose people belong to the past; but the prolonged exposition of their incredible lives, captured slowly, in all their austerity and artistry, achieves a paradoxical goal: to stop the passage of time through the smell, taste and color of Laxness’ fleeting snapshots.
“The movements of her body were like the leisurely tail-movements of the lumpfish, and the soul in her face had the fragrance of strawberries.”
In the turf cottage where Algrimur grows up, a disparate crew of extravagant guests gathers at night. The impoverished farmers, fishermen and shepherds get transformed into vagrant-soothsayers, quack-philosophers, sea captains and specialists in cesspools, who sit by the fire to tell their life stories in an allegoric cannon of fiercely original voices.
More than a delightful literary divertimento, “The fish can sing” offers a painfully accurate portrait of life and its hardships in a rural Iceland that is about to disappear engulfed by impending modernity.
The motley assortment of characters orchestrated by Algrimur, who writes his own story as an omniscient narrator, reveals the classic confrontation between two opposed conceptions of the world: the yesteryear social structure, composed of hardened men, self-sufficient in dignified poverty but with great capacity for compassion; and the new emergent class of businessmen and government administrators, or “the authorities”, as Algrimur calls them employing a very fine irony that brutally denounces their treacherous dispositions; who make use of their influence and financial strength to become even more powerful, enough to rule the future.
It’s with critical eye that the fish in this concert sing; in the small, almost imperceptible details - and tragedies- of the characters’ daily lives that faith in society can be restored; for the “true note” that the young protagonist searches without rest, and seemingly to no avail, is hidden in the inexhaustible wisdom of the ordinary, of the common people: in the worn-out Pastor’s chants in every funeral, in the generous hospitality of Algrimur’s foster-grandfather, in the silent suffering of his grandmother, in the disinterested kindness of a music teacher, in the truth to be found in Schubert’s “Der Erlkönig”.
Laxness’ minute prose generates lucidity rather than nostalgia, but the vivid collage of folklore, myth and tradition, taken as a whole, constitutes a profound meditation on perception, life and death that brims over with philosophical implications.
Algrimur might be the last witness of a world in extinction whose people belong to the past; but the prolonged exposition of their incredible lives, captured slowly, in all their austerity and artistry, achieves a paradoxical goal: to stop the passage of time through the smell, taste and color of Laxness’ fleeting snapshots.
“The movements of her body were like the leisurely tail-movements of the lumpfish, and the soul in her face had the fragrance of strawberries.”
August 9, 2023
The title conjures a poetic image, but it opens with a shocking statement:
“A wise man once said that next losing its mother, there is nothing more healthy for a child than to lose its father.”
Álfgrímur is looking back on his life. His father is unknown and his mother left Iceland for the US as soon as he was born, leaving him with an elderly couple he refers to as his grandparents. He doesn’t miss what he never had, and it’s an odd, but very loving home, although the word “love”, along with other modern fads, is never used there.
It’s full of charming insight into Icelandic life in the early/mid 20th century, a time of great change: the advent of barbershops was hotly debated as modern, un-Icelandic decadence. The family live an almost subsistence life: fishing, curing, and selling lumpfish, but birth, death, and local politics intrude. A motley crew live in their mid-loft, which has a cubicle for the sick, mentally ill, giving birth, and dying.
There is a slightly mythic air: people are in tune with nature and the supernatural (belief in the Hidden People and exhortations not to kill flies in other people’s homes), and there are dashes of magical realism concerning a grandfather clock and grandfather’s spotless shoes and never-ageing hat.
An increasingly significant figure is Garðar Hólm, a local who is now a global opera star. But he’s elusive, and it’s delightfully uncertain what is real and true. He is somehow connected to the broken grandfather clock and, more prosaically, to Álfgrímur.
Image: Lumpfish hanging in the open air to dry, Reykjavik, Iceland (Source)
Boundaries
“The Barbed-wire Age was about to begin in Iceland… the most desirable luxury commodity in the land for a while, next only to alcohol and cement… A by-law was issued to the effect that anyone caught climbing over these sacred boundary-fences would have to pay a fine… the price of a yearling ram.”
The cottage’s turnstile-gate is a psychological and linguistic threshold as much as a physical one. The grandparents welcome strangers, but have no desire to be part of the wider world, and as a small boy, that’s true for Álfgrímur as well. With adolescence comes noticing boundaries of every kind, and deciding whether to cross them and how. Will he be a lumpfisherman or get an education, and if the latter, then who and what will he be?
Music and language
There’s little literature or music in the house, but Álfgrímur is drawn to both:
“In certain ancient musical scales there are different intervals than those to which people are now attuned… Words which were commonplace elsewhere sounded not only strange to our ears but were downright embarrassing.”
Storytelling is a different matter: Viking sagas, Bible stories, and gossip are as integral to life as the sea itself.
“The story itself had a life of its own, cool and remote and independent of the telling, free of all odour of man - rather like Nature itself, where the elements alone reign over everything.”
Yet the storytelling of the book felt like the weakest aspect: a rambling memoir, with a huge cast of quirky characters, sometimes excessive detail, and not much narrative drive. But gradually, occasionally, it becomes a quest for a rare, fantastical object: “the one pure note”.
“In Brekkukot, words were too precious to use - because they meant something… Experience was too profound to be capable of expression.. But one note, if it were played in correct relationship to other notes, could tell me much; and sometimes everything..”
Image: Icelandic turf houses (Source)
See also
• That my first Laxness was a bit of a disappointment probably says more about me than him, a Nobel laureate. I was hoping for something more like the profound and elemental lyricism of Jón Kalman Stefánsson’s three-volume novel Heaven and Hell, which I reviewed HERE.
• The simple, rural childhood in a somewhat chaotic family reminded me of Laurie Lee’s Cider With Rosie, which I briefly reviewed HERE.
Quotes
• “The sun shining from a sky with as much brightness as a sun can have in this mortal world.”
• “The sun glistened on the fish-scales in the mire.”
• “Somewhere out in the infinite distance lay the spring, at least in God’s mind, like the babies that are not yet conceived in the mother’s womb.”
• “She looked at me with that strange smile that seemed to live in the air itself… the air clad in a soul, or the soul clad in air, and light.”
• “Having a soul is the monopoly of fish.”
• “The cake melted on the tongue like snow in sunshine and slid unbidden down one’s throat just when the good taste was beginning to make itself felt.”
• “I possessed that string of grace, the note that reached the heart and could call forth that useless salt water we call tears.”
• “It was the custom to advertise in verse if one wanted to sell stockfish or needed a girl for spring work…
Gentle clients, I invite you,
Come and look around my store;
Whips and saddles to delight you,
Leatherwork galore…” It continues for another eight lines.
• “The fish can sing just like a bird,
And grazes on the moorland scree,
While cattle in a lowing herd
Roam the rolling sea.” - A traditional Icelandic paradox, apparently.
“A wise man once said that next losing its mother, there is nothing more healthy for a child than to lose its father.”
Álfgrímur is looking back on his life. His father is unknown and his mother left Iceland for the US as soon as he was born, leaving him with an elderly couple he refers to as his grandparents. He doesn’t miss what he never had, and it’s an odd, but very loving home, although the word “love”, along with other modern fads, is never used there.
It’s full of charming insight into Icelandic life in the early/mid 20th century, a time of great change: the advent of barbershops was hotly debated as modern, un-Icelandic decadence. The family live an almost subsistence life: fishing, curing, and selling lumpfish, but birth, death, and local politics intrude. A motley crew live in their mid-loft, which has a cubicle for the sick, mentally ill, giving birth, and dying.
There is a slightly mythic air: people are in tune with nature and the supernatural (belief in the Hidden People and exhortations not to kill flies in other people’s homes), and there are dashes of magical realism concerning a grandfather clock and grandfather’s spotless shoes and never-ageing hat.
An increasingly significant figure is Garðar Hólm, a local who is now a global opera star. But he’s elusive, and it’s delightfully uncertain what is real and true. He is somehow connected to the broken grandfather clock and, more prosaically, to Álfgrímur.
Image: Lumpfish hanging in the open air to dry, Reykjavik, Iceland (Source)
Boundaries
“The Barbed-wire Age was about to begin in Iceland… the most desirable luxury commodity in the land for a while, next only to alcohol and cement… A by-law was issued to the effect that anyone caught climbing over these sacred boundary-fences would have to pay a fine… the price of a yearling ram.”
The cottage’s turnstile-gate is a psychological and linguistic threshold as much as a physical one. The grandparents welcome strangers, but have no desire to be part of the wider world, and as a small boy, that’s true for Álfgrímur as well. With adolescence comes noticing boundaries of every kind, and deciding whether to cross them and how. Will he be a lumpfisherman or get an education, and if the latter, then who and what will he be?
Music and language
There’s little literature or music in the house, but Álfgrímur is drawn to both:
“In certain ancient musical scales there are different intervals than those to which people are now attuned… Words which were commonplace elsewhere sounded not only strange to our ears but were downright embarrassing.”
Storytelling is a different matter: Viking sagas, Bible stories, and gossip are as integral to life as the sea itself.
“The story itself had a life of its own, cool and remote and independent of the telling, free of all odour of man - rather like Nature itself, where the elements alone reign over everything.”
Yet the storytelling of the book felt like the weakest aspect: a rambling memoir, with a huge cast of quirky characters, sometimes excessive detail, and not much narrative drive. But gradually, occasionally, it becomes a quest for a rare, fantastical object: “the one pure note”.
“In Brekkukot, words were too precious to use - because they meant something… Experience was too profound to be capable of expression.. But one note, if it were played in correct relationship to other notes, could tell me much; and sometimes everything..”
Image: Icelandic turf houses (Source)
See also
• That my first Laxness was a bit of a disappointment probably says more about me than him, a Nobel laureate. I was hoping for something more like the profound and elemental lyricism of Jón Kalman Stefánsson’s three-volume novel Heaven and Hell, which I reviewed HERE.
• The simple, rural childhood in a somewhat chaotic family reminded me of Laurie Lee’s Cider With Rosie, which I briefly reviewed HERE.
Quotes
• “The sun shining from a sky with as much brightness as a sun can have in this mortal world.”
• “The sun glistened on the fish-scales in the mire.”
• “Somewhere out in the infinite distance lay the spring, at least in God’s mind, like the babies that are not yet conceived in the mother’s womb.”
• “She looked at me with that strange smile that seemed to live in the air itself… the air clad in a soul, or the soul clad in air, and light.”
• “Having a soul is the monopoly of fish.”
• “The cake melted on the tongue like snow in sunshine and slid unbidden down one’s throat just when the good taste was beginning to make itself felt.”
• “I possessed that string of grace, the note that reached the heart and could call forth that useless salt water we call tears.”
• “It was the custom to advertise in verse if one wanted to sell stockfish or needed a girl for spring work…
Gentle clients, I invite you,
Come and look around my store;
Whips and saddles to delight you,
Leatherwork galore…” It continues for another eight lines.
• “The fish can sing just like a bird,
And grazes on the moorland scree,
While cattle in a lowing herd
Roam the rolling sea.” - A traditional Icelandic paradox, apparently.
December 28, 2019
Two years after being awarded the Nobel Prize, Laxness published this bildungsroman about the young Icelander Álfgrímur whose coming-of-age at the beginning of the 20th century coincides with the advancement of capitalist modernity in Iceland. Abandoned by his mother, Álfgrímur grows up with loving fostergrandparents in a cottage named Brekkukot in Reykjavik (the Icelandic original of the book is called "The Annals of Brekkukot"). His fostergrandfather Björn works as a fisherman, never demanding more money for his goods than he needs to survive, and lives values like integrity, humility and charity without making a show of it. A recurring metaphor is the old clock in the living room at Brekkukot that chimes in harmony with the church bell, and that seems to tick a four-syllable word with emphasis on alternate syllables: Eternity. But time passes.
At Brekkukot, Björn helps all kinds of people in turmoil, and large parts of the book deal with Álfgrímur meeting Icelanders and some foreigners from all walks of life. A central character is Garðar Hólm, who is allegedly a celebrated singer abroad and returns to Iceland several times - is art a calling or a profession, is it about happiness or fame, is it about truth or beauty? "People have kept on asking me", Álfgrímur recounts, "did he sing well? I reply, the world is a song, but we do not know wehether it's a good song because we have nothing to compare it with." While Álfgrímur is fascinated by the singer, he would be content to stay home in Iceland and become a fisherman like Björn, but the latter knows that industrialized fishing will change the profession and wants his fosterson to get an education - and he is willing to sacrifice the past for his future.
This is a wonderfully moving tale, full of vivid imagery and quirky characters. Brekkukot was modeled after the farm Melkot on which Laxness' parents met, now a literature landmark in Reykjavik, UNESCO's first non-English speaking City of Literature (https://bokmenntaborgin.is/en/node/7771). Icelandic literature is so unbelievably good. Just read Laxness, and then Sjón.
At Brekkukot, Björn helps all kinds of people in turmoil, and large parts of the book deal with Álfgrímur meeting Icelanders and some foreigners from all walks of life. A central character is Garðar Hólm, who is allegedly a celebrated singer abroad and returns to Iceland several times - is art a calling or a profession, is it about happiness or fame, is it about truth or beauty? "People have kept on asking me", Álfgrímur recounts, "did he sing well? I reply, the world is a song, but we do not know wehether it's a good song because we have nothing to compare it with." While Álfgrímur is fascinated by the singer, he would be content to stay home in Iceland and become a fisherman like Björn, but the latter knows that industrialized fishing will change the profession and wants his fosterson to get an education - and he is willing to sacrifice the past for his future.
This is a wonderfully moving tale, full of vivid imagery and quirky characters. Brekkukot was modeled after the farm Melkot on which Laxness' parents met, now a literature landmark in Reykjavik, UNESCO's first non-English speaking City of Literature (https://bokmenntaborgin.is/en/node/7771). Icelandic literature is so unbelievably good. Just read Laxness, and then Sjón.
September 1, 2013
The fish can sing just like a bird,
And grazes on the moorland scree,
While cattle in a lowing herd
Roam the rolling sea.
Starting from this Icelandic paradox put in verse, Halldór Laxness weaves an enchanting tale on the outskirts of Reykjavík, in a time when the price of a Bible was equal to that of a heifer and people still tried to cure headaches by smearing their faces with warm cow-dung. Some say that The Fish Can Sing is a coming-of-age novel, but I don't really see it that way; it is more the diary of a place, Brekkukot, and the portrait of a generation long gone, in a time when Reykjavík was just a bunch of houses inhabited by farmers and fishermen.
Álfgrímur is an abandoned child who grows up at Brekkukot, surrounded by peculiar people and evening sessions of sagas and rímur. His childhood revolves around Brekkukot, convinced, like the eminent Candide, that the world we live in is best at home. He reminisces about a lot of things there: a clock in whose ticking he discovered eternity, a window so small that it was possible to see only one blade of grass and one star. Álfgrímur doesn't perceive himself as poor and he wants to become a fisherman, just like his adoptive grandfather. Until one day, when he hears about the one pure note and starts to indulge in dreams of becoming a singer.
This is one of the details I loved most in this novel - one blade of grass and one star. Such a tiny universe and yet so grand! Because Brekkukot is an open place for the unfortunate and the poor, who bring with them strange stories and peculiar situations. All sorts of people come to live here from all over Iceland - some just in passing, others to stay for good, until their dying day. Álfgrímur shares the loft with three permanent inhabitants - a genuine saga-men who used to pilot Danish ships; a philosopher with a mysterious job whom the child believes to be descended from the Hidden People; and an occasional drunk, admirer of cesspools, who in old age was to become the first person to be run over by a car in Iceland.
The household is run by Álfgrímur's adoptive grandfather, Björn of Brekkukot, and his companion - whom Álfgrímur calls his grandmother, two people that Laxness endows with unforgettable traits. No matter the circumstances, fisherman Björn sold his fish at the same price, rejecting all the fundamental rules of economics, because he thought that people accumulated more money that they actually needed. He used to read the Bible in a monotonous and solemn chant, a special manner of reading that is now lost. Wealthy people considered he had no ambition, but how much benefit could it bring to a man who was obviously more happy than most?
Álfgrímur's grandmother is a mysterious character to him, because he doesn't really get to know her. She was a well of knowledge, answering people with sayings and proverbs, knowing whole ballads by heart from beginning to end. And it seemed she never had a bed of her own to sleep in.
It was not until after I was fully grown that I noticed her sufficiently to feel that I really saw her. Suddenly one day I simply felt that she was probably closer to me than anyone else in the world, even though I knew less about her than anyone else and despite the fact that she had been in her grave for some time by then.
And then there is the elusive Garðar Hólm, the most famous Icelander, known all over the world for his amazing voice. Álfgrímur has the chance to meet him several times when the singer comes to Reykjavík, not knowing what to think of his strange and unapproachable character. He can't even hear him sing, because Garðar Hólm always leaves unexpectedly before his due concert.
Music had not been an educational subject in Iceland since the Middle Ages – indeed, it was considered an affectation or an aberration, especially among the educated – until Garðar Hólm won for Iceland musical fame abroad; and then a few people began to think more highly of it. But for a long time afterwards it was still generally considered rather odd to be famous for singing. So it was practically unthinkable in my younger days for people to let themselves in for the tedium that music involved, except in the cause of salvation; music was good when people had to be put into the ground.
You know the case of the studious pupil that makes a good impression with teachers and, even if later he becomes lazy and uninterested, they still give him good grades? I know this, as I've been there. Well, the same thing happened with me and Halldór Laxness: I fell in love with his Under the Glacier and thus I tend to project this elated feeling upon his other novels and Icelandic literature in general. But the truth is that Laxness's novels are wonderful just the same and I can't praise his writing enough: it is warm, mysterious, poetic, full of humor, but also with an undercurrent of sadness. He makes me experience a sort of happiness.
I'll share with you what I've learnt about Iceland while reading The Fish Can Sing:
1. The Hidden People (Huldufólk), a sort of elves in Icelandic folklore, but not quite. They are believed to live under rocks, so many Icelanders try not to disturb the environment when building their houses. Also, they refrain from throwing stones, for fear they might hit the Huldufólk. Icelandic gardens often feature tiny wooden houses for hidden people to live in. Some people claim to be able to see and interact with Huldufólk and almost everybody has a story to tell. I find this heart-warming, even if the Hidden People are blamed for every object that gets lost.
A wonderful illustration by John Bauer (1882–1918), a less-known Swedish painter.
2. The interesting Icelandic national costume. There are several types of folk costumes in Iceland, some that were designed by the artist Sigurður Guðmundsson in the 19th century. I found it strange that such an outfit could be designed, but it turns out that this practice is quite common - it also happened with the Swedish National Costume, the Amalia Costume of Greece or the Nestor Costume of the Canary Islands. I don't want to post too many pictures here, so I've chosen my favorite traditional costume from Iceland, popular in the 18th century:
The large white headpiece that curves forward is called krókfaldur (I find it fascinating)
3. The Great Icelanders praised in sagas and rímur, one of which was Pastor Snorri of Húsafell, a Latin erudite immensely quick at composing verses, a powerfully built and strong man, so good at Icelandic wrestling that it is believed that for more than fifty years there was no clergyman in the whole synod who could stand up against him (you have to admire the subtle humor here).
To this day there remains the legendary Husafell Stone, used by the Pastor as a door to his sheep pen. The stone weighs 190 kg and is popular even today as a test of strength. It is said that a man has acquired "full strength" if he can lift the stone up and carry it the 50 meters around the perimeter of the goat pen.
I hope these guys managed to prove their strength
And grazes on the moorland scree,
While cattle in a lowing herd
Roam the rolling sea.
Starting from this Icelandic paradox put in verse, Halldór Laxness weaves an enchanting tale on the outskirts of Reykjavík, in a time when the price of a Bible was equal to that of a heifer and people still tried to cure headaches by smearing their faces with warm cow-dung. Some say that The Fish Can Sing is a coming-of-age novel, but I don't really see it that way; it is more the diary of a place, Brekkukot, and the portrait of a generation long gone, in a time when Reykjavík was just a bunch of houses inhabited by farmers and fishermen.
Álfgrímur is an abandoned child who grows up at Brekkukot, surrounded by peculiar people and evening sessions of sagas and rímur. His childhood revolves around Brekkukot, convinced, like the eminent Candide, that the world we live in is best at home. He reminisces about a lot of things there: a clock in whose ticking he discovered eternity, a window so small that it was possible to see only one blade of grass and one star. Álfgrímur doesn't perceive himself as poor and he wants to become a fisherman, just like his adoptive grandfather. Until one day, when he hears about the one pure note and starts to indulge in dreams of becoming a singer.
This is one of the details I loved most in this novel - one blade of grass and one star. Such a tiny universe and yet so grand! Because Brekkukot is an open place for the unfortunate and the poor, who bring with them strange stories and peculiar situations. All sorts of people come to live here from all over Iceland - some just in passing, others to stay for good, until their dying day. Álfgrímur shares the loft with three permanent inhabitants - a genuine saga-men who used to pilot Danish ships; a philosopher with a mysterious job whom the child believes to be descended from the Hidden People; and an occasional drunk, admirer of cesspools, who in old age was to become the first person to be run over by a car in Iceland.
The household is run by Álfgrímur's adoptive grandfather, Björn of Brekkukot, and his companion - whom Álfgrímur calls his grandmother, two people that Laxness endows with unforgettable traits. No matter the circumstances, fisherman Björn sold his fish at the same price, rejecting all the fundamental rules of economics, because he thought that people accumulated more money that they actually needed. He used to read the Bible in a monotonous and solemn chant, a special manner of reading that is now lost. Wealthy people considered he had no ambition, but how much benefit could it bring to a man who was obviously more happy than most?
Álfgrímur's grandmother is a mysterious character to him, because he doesn't really get to know her. She was a well of knowledge, answering people with sayings and proverbs, knowing whole ballads by heart from beginning to end. And it seemed she never had a bed of her own to sleep in.
It was not until after I was fully grown that I noticed her sufficiently to feel that I really saw her. Suddenly one day I simply felt that she was probably closer to me than anyone else in the world, even though I knew less about her than anyone else and despite the fact that she had been in her grave for some time by then.
And then there is the elusive Garðar Hólm, the most famous Icelander, known all over the world for his amazing voice. Álfgrímur has the chance to meet him several times when the singer comes to Reykjavík, not knowing what to think of his strange and unapproachable character. He can't even hear him sing, because Garðar Hólm always leaves unexpectedly before his due concert.
Music had not been an educational subject in Iceland since the Middle Ages – indeed, it was considered an affectation or an aberration, especially among the educated – until Garðar Hólm won for Iceland musical fame abroad; and then a few people began to think more highly of it. But for a long time afterwards it was still generally considered rather odd to be famous for singing. So it was practically unthinkable in my younger days for people to let themselves in for the tedium that music involved, except in the cause of salvation; music was good when people had to be put into the ground.
You know the case of the studious pupil that makes a good impression with teachers and, even if later he becomes lazy and uninterested, they still give him good grades? I know this, as I've been there. Well, the same thing happened with me and Halldór Laxness: I fell in love with his Under the Glacier and thus I tend to project this elated feeling upon his other novels and Icelandic literature in general. But the truth is that Laxness's novels are wonderful just the same and I can't praise his writing enough: it is warm, mysterious, poetic, full of humor, but also with an undercurrent of sadness. He makes me experience a sort of happiness.
I'll share with you what I've learnt about Iceland while reading The Fish Can Sing:
1. The Hidden People (Huldufólk), a sort of elves in Icelandic folklore, but not quite. They are believed to live under rocks, so many Icelanders try not to disturb the environment when building their houses. Also, they refrain from throwing stones, for fear they might hit the Huldufólk. Icelandic gardens often feature tiny wooden houses for hidden people to live in. Some people claim to be able to see and interact with Huldufólk and almost everybody has a story to tell. I find this heart-warming, even if the Hidden People are blamed for every object that gets lost.
A wonderful illustration by John Bauer (1882–1918), a less-known Swedish painter.
2. The interesting Icelandic national costume. There are several types of folk costumes in Iceland, some that were designed by the artist Sigurður Guðmundsson in the 19th century. I found it strange that such an outfit could be designed, but it turns out that this practice is quite common - it also happened with the Swedish National Costume, the Amalia Costume of Greece or the Nestor Costume of the Canary Islands. I don't want to post too many pictures here, so I've chosen my favorite traditional costume from Iceland, popular in the 18th century:
The large white headpiece that curves forward is called krókfaldur (I find it fascinating)
3. The Great Icelanders praised in sagas and rímur, one of which was Pastor Snorri of Húsafell, a Latin erudite immensely quick at composing verses, a powerfully built and strong man, so good at Icelandic wrestling that it is believed that for more than fifty years there was no clergyman in the whole synod who could stand up against him (you have to admire the subtle humor here).
To this day there remains the legendary Husafell Stone, used by the Pastor as a door to his sheep pen. The stone weighs 190 kg and is popular even today as a test of strength. It is said that a man has acquired "full strength" if he can lift the stone up and carry it the 50 meters around the perimeter of the goat pen.
I hope these guys managed to prove their strength
January 31, 2020
«- Aprende a não esperar nada – disse a mulher. – É o início da aprendizagem. Assim conseguirás suportar qualquer coisa.»
Os Peixes também Sabem Cantar, publicado pelo islandês Halldór Laxness em 1957, dois anos depois de ter ganho o Prémio Nobel da Literatura, canta e encanta.
Um intenso e comovente hino à infância e aos avós que tão bem sabem aconselhar os seus netos, mas também – ouso dizer – um tratado que prova e comprova como as políticas económicas adoptadas mundialmente resultaram num total fracasso.
Álfgrímur , protagonista e também narrador, é educado desde a nascença pelos seus avós adoptivos, verdadeiros símbolos da paz no mundo e avessos às regras fundamentais da economia , qual Cândido suficientemente convencido de que o mundo da sua casa era o melhor, e, por isso, como acontece frequentemente entre as pessoas primitivas, as civilizações mais avançadas tinham poucas probabilidades de o impressionar.
A simplicidade em contraponto com a fama mundial de um cantor islandês, que entretanto visita a terra natal, abalam, ou talvez não, os projectos de Álfgrímur se tornar um pescador de peixes-lapa.
«Faltam-te as palavras - disse Garðar Hólm. - Ela olha para ti, expectante, aguardando a tua resposta. mas tu manténs-te calado, porque ainda não nasceu a mulher que consiga compreender-te. Se nunca tivesses suspeitado disso antes, aperceber-te-ias nesse momento que não há nada na terra mais perfeito do que uma mulher...à sua maneira e dentro das suas limitações. Despedes-te dela e silenciosamente afastas-te...para sempre.»
A explicação do título do livro talvez se encontre num ambicioso paradoxo islandês publicado na página 287:
«Os peixes sabem cantar, tal como as aves,
E pastam nas arribas de terras pantanosas
Enquanto o gado, em manadas ruidosas,
Irrompe pelo mar de ondas mais suaves.»
Os Peixes também Sabem Cantar, publicado pelo islandês Halldór Laxness em 1957, dois anos depois de ter ganho o Prémio Nobel da Literatura, canta e encanta.
Um intenso e comovente hino à infância e aos avós que tão bem sabem aconselhar os seus netos, mas também – ouso dizer – um tratado que prova e comprova como as políticas económicas adoptadas mundialmente resultaram num total fracasso.
Álfgrímur , protagonista e também narrador, é educado desde a nascença pelos seus avós adoptivos, verdadeiros símbolos da paz no mundo e avessos às regras fundamentais da economia , qual Cândido suficientemente convencido de que o mundo da sua casa era o melhor, e, por isso, como acontece frequentemente entre as pessoas primitivas, as civilizações mais avançadas tinham poucas probabilidades de o impressionar.
A simplicidade em contraponto com a fama mundial de um cantor islandês, que entretanto visita a terra natal, abalam, ou talvez não, os projectos de Álfgrímur se tornar um pescador de peixes-lapa.
«Faltam-te as palavras - disse Garðar Hólm. - Ela olha para ti, expectante, aguardando a tua resposta. mas tu manténs-te calado, porque ainda não nasceu a mulher que consiga compreender-te. Se nunca tivesses suspeitado disso antes, aperceber-te-ias nesse momento que não há nada na terra mais perfeito do que uma mulher...à sua maneira e dentro das suas limitações. Despedes-te dela e silenciosamente afastas-te...para sempre.»
A explicação do título do livro talvez se encontre num ambicioso paradoxo islandês publicado na página 287:
«Os peixes sabem cantar, tal como as aves,
E pastam nas arribas de terras pantanosas
Enquanto o gado, em manadas ruidosas,
Irrompe pelo mar de ondas mais suaves.»
June 28, 2018
ისლანდიური “მე, ბებია, ილიკო და ილარიონი”-ა. ))) ბევრი რამით ჰგავს.
სიამოვნებით წავიკითხავდი ლაქსნესის სხვა ნაწარმოებებსაც თუა ნათარგმნი.
სიამოვნებით წავიკითხავდი ლაქსნესის სხვა ნაწარმოებებსაც თუა ნათარგმნი.
September 27, 2019
Una storia d'Islanda
Laxness è l'unico scrittore islandese ad essere stato insignito del Nobel per la Letteratura (nel '55). "Il concerto dei pesci" è successivo all'ambito Premio.
Si tratta di un 'romanzo di formazione' ambientato a inizio '900 in un'Islanda ancora depositaria dell'antica cultura, che tuttavia comincia ad avvertire i sussulti della modernizzazione.
Il giovane protagonista, abbandonato alla nascita, viene amorevolmente cresciuto da un'anziana coppia. Vivono di pesca in una casupola di torba col tetto fiorito di margherite. Umiltà vissuta a testa alta, in affascinante armonia con la natura: "c'è solo un lavoro indegno, ed è il lavoro malfatto" .
Un ambiente quasi fiabesco "nelle fredde sale azzurre dei monti islandesi" ; un luogo dove "soave canta il cigno per l'estate intera" e "gli spiriti risorgono dall'oblio" .
Nella vicina città, però, irrompe il 'progresso': la mentalità borghese e gli affari paiono inarrestabili.
Intanto il ragazzo cresce, apprende con facilità e ama il canto. La nonna intende avviarlo a studi rigorosi : "dove in Islanda finisce il pesce, comincia il latino".
Giungerà un cantante d'opera famoso in tutto il mondo, che ritorna nella sua piccola patria, a portare scompiglio, tanto più perché è un uomo assai enigmatico e sempre più misterioso.
La lettura prosegue fra pagine splendide di una scrittura spesso bellissima e digressioni che rallentano il tempo. Solo talvolta si avverte la necessità di qualche utile taglio. Ma lo scrittore ha voluto così, a modo suo, far trapelare un animo pirandelliano e non concedere compiacenza alcuna.
Laxness è l'unico scrittore islandese ad essere stato insignito del Nobel per la Letteratura (nel '55). "Il concerto dei pesci" è successivo all'ambito Premio.
Si tratta di un 'romanzo di formazione' ambientato a inizio '900 in un'Islanda ancora depositaria dell'antica cultura, che tuttavia comincia ad avvertire i sussulti della modernizzazione.
Il giovane protagonista, abbandonato alla nascita, viene amorevolmente cresciuto da un'anziana coppia. Vivono di pesca in una casupola di torba col tetto fiorito di margherite. Umiltà vissuta a testa alta, in affascinante armonia con la natura: "c'è solo un lavoro indegno, ed è il lavoro malfatto" .
Un ambiente quasi fiabesco "nelle fredde sale azzurre dei monti islandesi" ; un luogo dove "soave canta il cigno per l'estate intera" e "gli spiriti risorgono dall'oblio" .
Nella vicina città, però, irrompe il 'progresso': la mentalità borghese e gli affari paiono inarrestabili.
Intanto il ragazzo cresce, apprende con facilità e ama il canto. La nonna intende avviarlo a studi rigorosi : "dove in Islanda finisce il pesce, comincia il latino".
Giungerà un cantante d'opera famoso in tutto il mondo, che ritorna nella sua piccola patria, a portare scompiglio, tanto più perché è un uomo assai enigmatico e sempre più misterioso.
La lettura prosegue fra pagine splendide di una scrittura spesso bellissima e digressioni che rallentano il tempo. Solo talvolta si avverte la necessità di qualche utile taglio. Ma lo scrittore ha voluto così, a modo suo, far trapelare un animo pirandelliano e non concedere compiacenza alcuna.
October 13, 2021
3.5 stars. Basically, I very much liked it. I thought it sort of dragged in the last quarter of the book, when the denouement was being revealed. But the prior ¾ of the book was wonderful. 😊
Halldór Laxness won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1955. This book was published in Iceland in 1957 and translated into English in 1966 by Magnus Magnusson.
In a review of the book from the Times literary Supplement, the reviewer says it is in part a Bildungsroman. The narrator relates to us how an old couple who he called Grandfather and Grandmother (he was adopted by them) raised him from a young boy to a young man. The old man is a fisherman of lumpfish, and for a while that is what the narrator, Álfgrímur, aspires to. But he can sing, and that’s a gift. A gift that another character in the novel, Garðar Hólm, supposedly had and Garðar went off from the village to better and bigger things in Europe, supposedly touring all the famous opera houses and even having an audience with the Pope. There is a mystery however regarding Garðar Hólm and the mystery is revealed in the denouement. But a good chunk of the book is not really about Garðar Hólm and more about the quirky characters that inhabit the village and the house with the grandfather and the grandmother. Laxness’s writing when describing the interactions of Álfgrímur and these other people was really good, and at times was humorous and at times was just pleasant to read (the characters more often than not were good people besides being quirky).
The book was good enough to convince me I need to read two more novels of his – Independent People and Paradise Reclaimed.
This reviewer (from the first review listed below) loved the book and here are a couple of sentences from his review to hopefully convince you to consider putting this book on your TBR list:
• A reader should approach with caution any book that has won a whole bunch of awards. A reader should also approach, with all of their little brain cells firing at top speed, any book by an author who has won an international literary award for their work, like the Nobel Prize in Literature or the Man Booker International Prize. Finally, the reader should sit down and do some serious critical reading of such a book, without being overwhelmed by the author’s fame. So that’s what I set out to do with Halldór Laxness’ The Fish Can Sing. However, despite all my caution, I was entirely disarmed by the book – I fell for its charm, and I was so taken with it that my critical thinking just ebbed away.
Reviews
• https://sevencircumstances.com/2019/0...
• https://dannyreviews.com/h/Fish_Can_S...
• https://www.complete-review.com/revie...
Halldór Laxness won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1955. This book was published in Iceland in 1957 and translated into English in 1966 by Magnus Magnusson.
In a review of the book from the Times literary Supplement, the reviewer says it is in part a Bildungsroman. The narrator relates to us how an old couple who he called Grandfather and Grandmother (he was adopted by them) raised him from a young boy to a young man. The old man is a fisherman of lumpfish, and for a while that is what the narrator, Álfgrímur, aspires to. But he can sing, and that’s a gift. A gift that another character in the novel, Garðar Hólm, supposedly had and Garðar went off from the village to better and bigger things in Europe, supposedly touring all the famous opera houses and even having an audience with the Pope. There is a mystery however regarding Garðar Hólm and the mystery is revealed in the denouement. But a good chunk of the book is not really about Garðar Hólm and more about the quirky characters that inhabit the village and the house with the grandfather and the grandmother. Laxness’s writing when describing the interactions of Álfgrímur and these other people was really good, and at times was humorous and at times was just pleasant to read (the characters more often than not were good people besides being quirky).
The book was good enough to convince me I need to read two more novels of his – Independent People and Paradise Reclaimed.
This reviewer (from the first review listed below) loved the book and here are a couple of sentences from his review to hopefully convince you to consider putting this book on your TBR list:
• A reader should approach with caution any book that has won a whole bunch of awards. A reader should also approach, with all of their little brain cells firing at top speed, any book by an author who has won an international literary award for their work, like the Nobel Prize in Literature or the Man Booker International Prize. Finally, the reader should sit down and do some serious critical reading of such a book, without being overwhelmed by the author’s fame. So that’s what I set out to do with Halldór Laxness’ The Fish Can Sing. However, despite all my caution, I was entirely disarmed by the book – I fell for its charm, and I was so taken with it that my critical thinking just ebbed away.
Reviews
• https://sevencircumstances.com/2019/0...
• https://dannyreviews.com/h/Fish_Can_S...
• https://www.complete-review.com/revie...
January 6, 2017
A gentle comedy set in pre independence Iceland.
Alfgrimur is abandoned as a baby and is brought up in a run down shack on the outskirts of Reykjavik. Passing through the house are a motley bunch of deadbeat lodgers and wacky characters. Most intriguing of all is Gardar Holm, the son of a neighbour. He is a local boy made good overseas as a world renowned singer ....... or is he.
Gardar flits in and out of the boys life during fleeting return trips home, almost but not quite giving a concert to his adoring home town. One day the saga finally comes to a conclusion as a date for the big concert is set. Unwittingly the boy is sucked into the maelstrom and his path for life is set.
There is a sense of a country in transition as the old Iceland is changing, moving towards independence and with modern industry starting to take hold.
A whimsical affectionate book, amusing rather than laugh out loud funny.
Alfgrimur is abandoned as a baby and is brought up in a run down shack on the outskirts of Reykjavik. Passing through the house are a motley bunch of deadbeat lodgers and wacky characters. Most intriguing of all is Gardar Holm, the son of a neighbour. He is a local boy made good overseas as a world renowned singer ....... or is he.
Gardar flits in and out of the boys life during fleeting return trips home, almost but not quite giving a concert to his adoring home town. One day the saga finally comes to a conclusion as a date for the big concert is set. Unwittingly the boy is sucked into the maelstrom and his path for life is set.
There is a sense of a country in transition as the old Iceland is changing, moving towards independence and with modern industry starting to take hold.
A whimsical affectionate book, amusing rather than laugh out loud funny.
August 16, 2020
ნოდარ დუმბაძე რომ ასტრიდ ლინდგრენი ყოფილიყო, ალბათ, ამ წიგნს დაწერდა.
August 26, 2023
4,5 ⭐
Reykjavik, a comienzos del siglo XX, es la flamante capital de Islandia, una provincia de Dinamarca en tiempos del rey Christian IX (1863 – 1906); aún es poco más que una aldea de pescadores. En la casa de Brekkukot, en el borde de la aldea, nace un niño, Alfgrímur, el protagonista y narrador de la novela.
“Un sabio afirmó que, aparte de perder a su madre, para un niño no hay nada más sano que perder a su padre”.
Esta frase con la que se inicia la novela, y que en otras circunstancias sería cruel, es absolutamente válida en la experiencia de Alfgrímur con sus abuelos adoptivos.
Brekkukot es una casa abierta a viajantes y a personas que no tienen hogar, y Alfgrímur se criará en compañía de estos inquilinos de perfiles diversos, algunos temporarios, otros permanentes, que, junto con sus abuelos adoptivos, constituyen unos excelentes personajes que completarán su familia y tendrán gran influencia en su carácter. Sus años de crecimiento estarán marcados también por la figura misteriosa de Gardar Holm, un mítico cantante, surgido de esta ciudad, para la cual, paradójicamente, el único canto de interés es el de los peces.
La narración de la novela es serena y con lenguaje bello e impecable, en lo que se reconoce el mérito del autor, así como también de la muy buena traducción de Enrique Bernárdez. Me ha costado entender algunos refranes o comentarios de los protagonistas, posiblemente por desconocer las particulares significados locales.
En un momento la novela ingresa en una meseta, y cae un poco el interés; pero es como el mar que se retira para volver como una ola aún más grande, a través de una serie de giros y sorpresas en la historia, que la elevan, en su final, a una altura magnífica.
Haldór Laxness (Halldór Gudjónsson) nació en Islandia en 1902, y residió en varios países. Obtuvo el Premio Nobel en 1955, y publicó esta novela dos años después, en 1957.
Fue mi primer contacto con este autor, a quien conocí (así como esta novela) a través de la buena reseña de Yuri Sharon, mi amigo en Goodreads.
Reykjavik, a comienzos del siglo XX, es la flamante capital de Islandia, una provincia de Dinamarca en tiempos del rey Christian IX (1863 – 1906); aún es poco más que una aldea de pescadores. En la casa de Brekkukot, en el borde de la aldea, nace un niño, Alfgrímur, el protagonista y narrador de la novela.
“Un sabio afirmó que, aparte de perder a su madre, para un niño no hay nada más sano que perder a su padre”.
Esta frase con la que se inicia la novela, y que en otras circunstancias sería cruel, es absolutamente válida en la experiencia de Alfgrímur con sus abuelos adoptivos.
Brekkukot es una casa abierta a viajantes y a personas que no tienen hogar, y Alfgrímur se criará en compañía de estos inquilinos de perfiles diversos, algunos temporarios, otros permanentes, que, junto con sus abuelos adoptivos, constituyen unos excelentes personajes que completarán su familia y tendrán gran influencia en su carácter. Sus años de crecimiento estarán marcados también por la figura misteriosa de Gardar Holm, un mítico cantante, surgido de esta ciudad, para la cual, paradójicamente, el único canto de interés es el de los peces.
La narración de la novela es serena y con lenguaje bello e impecable, en lo que se reconoce el mérito del autor, así como también de la muy buena traducción de Enrique Bernárdez. Me ha costado entender algunos refranes o comentarios de los protagonistas, posiblemente por desconocer las particulares significados locales.
En un momento la novela ingresa en una meseta, y cae un poco el interés; pero es como el mar que se retira para volver como una ola aún más grande, a través de una serie de giros y sorpresas en la historia, que la elevan, en su final, a una altura magnífica.
Haldór Laxness (Halldór Gudjónsson) nació en Islandia en 1902, y residió en varios países. Obtuvo el Premio Nobel en 1955, y publicó esta novela dos años después, en 1957.
Fue mi primer contacto con este autor, a quien conocí (así como esta novela) a través de la buena reseña de Yuri Sharon, mi amigo en Goodreads.
August 28, 2015
Não é exagerada a nota no fim do livro: 'Laxness falece aos 96 anos, consagrado como um dos maiores escritores de sempre.' Entra, efectivamente, para o meu passeio da fama.
O curioso ao ler 'Os peixes também sabem cantar' é a sensação de querer ler mais 10 livros assim. Por momentos pensei na analogia com os sul americanos: Laxness é um romancista do mundo mágico - só que vem do frio.
'Mundo mágico' ganha sentido nas descrições tão apuradas e intensas desse país que ninguém imagina - a Islândia. Das expressões da gente e do simbolismo presente nesta maneira de falar.
"... e se uma pessoa estivesse mais morta que viva, dizia-se “Oh, está um bocado em baixo”. Se alguém estivesse a morrer devido à idade avançada, empregava-se a seguinte frase: “Sim, tem comido menos nestes últimos dias.” Acerca de alguém que estivesse no leito da morte, dizia-se: “Sim, está a fazer as malas, o desgraçado.” De um jovem mortalmente doente, dizia-se que não parecia que viesse a ter alguma vez cabelos grisalhos para pentear. Quando um casal se separava, usava-se a seguinte frase: “Sim, acho que se passa algo de errado por ali”."
É esta a linguagem de Álfgrímur - um miúdo que vai crescendo com a simplicidade de um desejo: ser pescador de peixes-lapa, como o avô. Mas o seu sonho vai sendo desviado pelo misterioso e famoso cantor - 'o orgulho da Islândia' - Garõar Hólm. É o desvendar dos segredos deste personagem que vai empurrar Álfgrímur para o mundo do canto, em busca da 'nota pura'. Mas será que ele vai estudar mesmo música?
Brekkukot é a terra de onde é natural: definitivamente marcado no meu mapa! Foi abandonado pela mãe e adoptado por duas pessoas a quem ele chama de avós. Gente de valores muito simples, das pescas e do campo.
A descrição das paisagens e das gentes da Islândia deixou-me completamente apaixonado. Com vontade de ir para lá e conhecer Brekkukot, de ir à apanha dos peixes, de assistir aos serviços fúnebres da 'gente pobre' - assegurados pelo canto de Álfgrímur.
Este livro é uma enorme lição de simplicidade. Tem vários valores camuflados entre as metáforas nas conversas dos personagens. Valores também vincados na beleza daqueles lugares - tão inóspitos... Mas tão ricos e espirituais!
É dos maiores livros que li. Este faz com que mantenha a paixão pela leitura...
O curioso ao ler 'Os peixes também sabem cantar' é a sensação de querer ler mais 10 livros assim. Por momentos pensei na analogia com os sul americanos: Laxness é um romancista do mundo mágico - só que vem do frio.
'Mundo mágico' ganha sentido nas descrições tão apuradas e intensas desse país que ninguém imagina - a Islândia. Das expressões da gente e do simbolismo presente nesta maneira de falar.
"... e se uma pessoa estivesse mais morta que viva, dizia-se “Oh, está um bocado em baixo”. Se alguém estivesse a morrer devido à idade avançada, empregava-se a seguinte frase: “Sim, tem comido menos nestes últimos dias.” Acerca de alguém que estivesse no leito da morte, dizia-se: “Sim, está a fazer as malas, o desgraçado.” De um jovem mortalmente doente, dizia-se que não parecia que viesse a ter alguma vez cabelos grisalhos para pentear. Quando um casal se separava, usava-se a seguinte frase: “Sim, acho que se passa algo de errado por ali”."
É esta a linguagem de Álfgrímur - um miúdo que vai crescendo com a simplicidade de um desejo: ser pescador de peixes-lapa, como o avô. Mas o seu sonho vai sendo desviado pelo misterioso e famoso cantor - 'o orgulho da Islândia' - Garõar Hólm. É o desvendar dos segredos deste personagem que vai empurrar Álfgrímur para o mundo do canto, em busca da 'nota pura'. Mas será que ele vai estudar mesmo música?
Brekkukot é a terra de onde é natural: definitivamente marcado no meu mapa! Foi abandonado pela mãe e adoptado por duas pessoas a quem ele chama de avós. Gente de valores muito simples, das pescas e do campo.
A descrição das paisagens e das gentes da Islândia deixou-me completamente apaixonado. Com vontade de ir para lá e conhecer Brekkukot, de ir à apanha dos peixes, de assistir aos serviços fúnebres da 'gente pobre' - assegurados pelo canto de Álfgrímur.
Este livro é uma enorme lição de simplicidade. Tem vários valores camuflados entre as metáforas nas conversas dos personagens. Valores também vincados na beleza daqueles lugares - tão inóspitos... Mas tão ricos e espirituais!
É dos maiores livros que li. Este faz com que mantenha a paixão pela leitura...
October 1, 2018
Eu gostei muito deste romance mas há vários dias que o volto e revolto; faço resumos e escrevo palermices; leio opiniões alheias; e nada...
Ainda estive tentada a fazer um plágio (estou em crer que ninguém dava por isso mas a minha maldita consciência trava-me). Optei pelo mal menor: parasitar. A opinião do Rodrigo, que é muito bonita.
=================================
"Poucas coisas são tão falíveis e inconstantes como o coração que ama, e no entanto é o único lugar no mundo onde existe o sentimento de partilha."
— Halldór Laxness (Gente Independente)
Halldór Laxness nasceu em Reykjavík, Islândia, no dia 23 de Abril de 1902 e morreu em Reykjavík, Islândia, no dia 8 de Fevereiro de 1998. Foi galardoado com o Prémio Nobel da Literatura em 1955.
Ainda estive tentada a fazer um plágio (estou em crer que ninguém dava por isso mas a minha maldita consciência trava-me). Optei pelo mal menor: parasitar. A opinião do Rodrigo, que é muito bonita.
=================================
"Poucas coisas são tão falíveis e inconstantes como o coração que ama, e no entanto é o único lugar no mundo onde existe o sentimento de partilha."
— Halldór Laxness (Gente Independente)
Halldór Laxness nasceu em Reykjavík, Islândia, no dia 23 de Abril de 1902 e morreu em Reykjavík, Islândia, no dia 8 de Fevereiro de 1998. Foi galardoado com o Prémio Nobel da Literatura em 1955.
May 8, 2021
სადღაც შუაში ვიყავი და ვიფიქრე რივიუში დავწერ - კი კარგი წიგნია, მაგრამ გადამეტებულად აფასებდნენთქო.
ბოლო აბზაცის შემდეგ, ხელი ვერ მომიბრუნდებოდა მაგის დასაწერად.
ბოლო აბზაცის შემდეგ, ხელი ვერ მომიბრუნდებოდა მაგის დასაწერად.
December 8, 2020
Dentro do meu desiderato de me apropriar de algumas obras escritas por aqueles autores que foram agraciados pelo Prémio Nobel e passeando pelo escaparate da minha livraria preferida, encontrei este título que, só pelo nome, não me deixou indiferente. “Os Peixes Também Sabem Cantar” o que só por si fez-me que não hesitasse em adquiri-lo muito por força do teor poético que o mesmo encerra.
E, de facto, Halldór Laxness não me desiludiu, muito pelo contrário, fiquei com uma enorme vontade de dar continuidade à leitura de mais alguns dos seus títulos, nomeadamente “O Grande Tecedor de Cachemira” ou “O Paraíso Reclamado”.
Mas voltando ao livro em questão, estando eu numa fila de uma loja qualquer, num centro comercial, esperando a minha vez de ser atendida, nestes tempos em que a normalidade se torna em anormalidade, em que o tempo real se torna pesado e inflexível, comecei a ler a primeira página. E para o meu grande espanto encontro isto logo no parágrafo de abertura:
“Um sábio disse uma vez que, para além de perder a mãe, não há nada mais saudável para uma criança do que perder o pai”. Exclamações indignadas naquela espera que parecia durar por mais algum tempo. Como é possível tal afirmação? Que sábio seria esse que punha em causa a felicidade de uma criança pela ausência das suas referencias?? Estava chocada, confesso! Mas continuando, logo percebi que Laxness, não subscrevendo de todo esse conceito ou teoria tendo também ele, o próprio autor, ficado estupefacto, explica-nos, porém, que “Embora com toda a franqueza, eu jamais pudesse subscrever semelhante afirmação, seria a última pessoa a rejeitá-la liminarmente”.
E foi então que percebi. Quando a nossa progenitora nos abandona em bebé, sem que haja qualquer imagem paternal física ou espiritual e quando somos criados por avós adotivos, mas extraordinariamente carinhosos, talvez possamos compreender, com toda a clareza a visão do sábio.
E é assim que começamos a conhecer e a entender a personagem do jovem Álfgrimur, elemento central de toda a narrativa. Acho que vai mais além da simples caracterização do protagonista pois todo o romance terá como foco principal todas os seus propósitos idiossincráticos. Abandonado pela sua mãe que, entretanto, aceitara a hospitalidade de Bjorn de Brekkukot deixando com este patriarca o seu rebento antes de partir para a América, Álfgimur cresceria numa localidade próxima de Reykjavik, numa altura em que a Islândia ainda pertencia ao reino da Dinamarca sob a égide do rei Cristiano VIII.
Assim, desde o início percebi que estava perante uma narrativa especial. Especial no sentido daquilo que podemos conhecer e compreender de uma Islândia fortemente dominada por uma economia piscatória, em que o peixe-lapa era o sustento primordial para os simples pescadores, numa sociedade empobrecida e cada vez mais reduzida nos seus valores pecuniários devido ao crescente aumento de barcos armados por proprietários mais poderosos que punham em causa o sustento dos pequenos pescadores.
Trata-se de uma narrativa que nos dá a conhecer as dificuldades de um país nórdico e insular, com pouca preponderância numa Europa de fausto e elegância.
Mas Álfgrimur tinha um dom musical. Conseguir atingir a afamada e difícil “nota única”. E é aqui que vai surgir uma outra personagem, talvez de igual importância, o cantor lírico, islandês Gardar Holm que acredita nas possibilidades artísticas e vocais do jovem.
Mas como sair de um meio, no qual fora crido, no qual a pesca do peixe-lapa consiste no maior objetivo de vida de Alfgrimur?
Na minha perspetiva “Os Peixes Também Sabem Cantar” é uma narrativa mágica, carregada de criatividade e com um sentido de humor único talvez não tão percetível para nós latinos que temos sempre uma outra visão dos nossos objetivos, sentidos, sensibilidade, perspetivas e sonhos. Creio que muito vale para a apropriação de uma nova realidade afastada de nós. Mas será assim tão inexoravelmente afastada? Talvez não …
Em síntese: é um livro encantador que me fez querer explorar um pouco mais da obra deste autor islandês que recebeu o maior prémio da literatura em 1955.
E, de facto, Halldór Laxness não me desiludiu, muito pelo contrário, fiquei com uma enorme vontade de dar continuidade à leitura de mais alguns dos seus títulos, nomeadamente “O Grande Tecedor de Cachemira” ou “O Paraíso Reclamado”.
Mas voltando ao livro em questão, estando eu numa fila de uma loja qualquer, num centro comercial, esperando a minha vez de ser atendida, nestes tempos em que a normalidade se torna em anormalidade, em que o tempo real se torna pesado e inflexível, comecei a ler a primeira página. E para o meu grande espanto encontro isto logo no parágrafo de abertura:
“Um sábio disse uma vez que, para além de perder a mãe, não há nada mais saudável para uma criança do que perder o pai”. Exclamações indignadas naquela espera que parecia durar por mais algum tempo. Como é possível tal afirmação? Que sábio seria esse que punha em causa a felicidade de uma criança pela ausência das suas referencias?? Estava chocada, confesso! Mas continuando, logo percebi que Laxness, não subscrevendo de todo esse conceito ou teoria tendo também ele, o próprio autor, ficado estupefacto, explica-nos, porém, que “Embora com toda a franqueza, eu jamais pudesse subscrever semelhante afirmação, seria a última pessoa a rejeitá-la liminarmente”.
E foi então que percebi. Quando a nossa progenitora nos abandona em bebé, sem que haja qualquer imagem paternal física ou espiritual e quando somos criados por avós adotivos, mas extraordinariamente carinhosos, talvez possamos compreender, com toda a clareza a visão do sábio.
E é assim que começamos a conhecer e a entender a personagem do jovem Álfgrimur, elemento central de toda a narrativa. Acho que vai mais além da simples caracterização do protagonista pois todo o romance terá como foco principal todas os seus propósitos idiossincráticos. Abandonado pela sua mãe que, entretanto, aceitara a hospitalidade de Bjorn de Brekkukot deixando com este patriarca o seu rebento antes de partir para a América, Álfgimur cresceria numa localidade próxima de Reykjavik, numa altura em que a Islândia ainda pertencia ao reino da Dinamarca sob a égide do rei Cristiano VIII.
Assim, desde o início percebi que estava perante uma narrativa especial. Especial no sentido daquilo que podemos conhecer e compreender de uma Islândia fortemente dominada por uma economia piscatória, em que o peixe-lapa era o sustento primordial para os simples pescadores, numa sociedade empobrecida e cada vez mais reduzida nos seus valores pecuniários devido ao crescente aumento de barcos armados por proprietários mais poderosos que punham em causa o sustento dos pequenos pescadores.
Trata-se de uma narrativa que nos dá a conhecer as dificuldades de um país nórdico e insular, com pouca preponderância numa Europa de fausto e elegância.
Mas Álfgrimur tinha um dom musical. Conseguir atingir a afamada e difícil “nota única”. E é aqui que vai surgir uma outra personagem, talvez de igual importância, o cantor lírico, islandês Gardar Holm que acredita nas possibilidades artísticas e vocais do jovem.
Mas como sair de um meio, no qual fora crido, no qual a pesca do peixe-lapa consiste no maior objetivo de vida de Alfgrimur?
Na minha perspetiva “Os Peixes Também Sabem Cantar” é uma narrativa mágica, carregada de criatividade e com um sentido de humor único talvez não tão percetível para nós latinos que temos sempre uma outra visão dos nossos objetivos, sentidos, sensibilidade, perspetivas e sonhos. Creio que muito vale para a apropriação de uma nova realidade afastada de nós. Mas será assim tão inexoravelmente afastada? Talvez não …
Em síntese: é um livro encantador que me fez querer explorar um pouco mais da obra deste autor islandês que recebeu o maior prémio da literatura em 1955.
February 12, 2022
ზამთარში, როცა ცივი სიო ქრის და თმა ყალყზე გიდგება, მაშინ უნდა წაიკითხო, შინაგანად გაგათბობს... თბილ კვალს დატოვებს შენში, უცნაურ კვალს, რომელიც ყველა გახსენებისას ღიმილს მოგგვრის.
December 29, 2014
Loved the earlier part of the book, an Icelandic Cider with Rosie, not so much the latter. That could have had something to do with struggling through the second half in the haze of a seemingly random, day-long migraine-like headache and aftermath. I could see the story was *good*, but wasn't on board with its particular brand of bittersweet illusion-shattering enterprise.
It's going to be easiest to discuss this after quoting the blurb:
Abandoned as a baby, Álfgrímur is content to spend his days as a fisherman living in the turf cottage outside Reykjavik with the elderly couple he calls grandmother and grandfather. There he shares the mid-loft with a motley bunch of eccentrics and philosophers who find refuge in the simple respect for their fellow men that is the ethos at Brekkukot. But the narrow horizons of Álfgrímur's idyllic childhood are challenged when he starts school and meets Iceland's most famous singer, the mysterious Garðar Holm. Garðar encourages him to aim for the "one true note", but how can he attain it without leaving behind the world that he loves?
Rural idyll? Household of eccentric, tolerant people? Musicians? Obviously it sounds like something I'd like - I first bought this 12 years ago after finding it in a bookshop. (Long before all you non-hipsters were into Nordic stuff...)
What was most interesting was a sense of Icelandic-ness, which is building up through some other books I've started recently (not yet finished or reviewed). To describe it as a blend of liberality and harshness sounds all wrong, as if it's conflicted - it's more that qualities combine in ways which aren't quite usual in English culture; it makes sense as part of the physical environment and isn't easy to explain in words. This old couple provide an unquestioning refuge for people in various predicaments, yet aspects of their own emotional world would look excessively reticent and restrained to the most stiff-upper-lipped of Brits: with their boy, love and especially falling-in are barely talked of, or as something in "hysterical" imported (Danish) novels, people who are dying are described as "off their food" and so forth. (But in a way it fits as in my own experience, the most supportive people are those who are just quietly, solidly there and let you get on with being however you are at the time, not fussing or being strongly emotional themselves. Or perhaps that's closer to the Millsian / Rogerian philosophy of one visitor to the household: I reckon one should help all creatures to live as they want to live. Even if a mouse came to me and said that it was going to fly over the ocean, and an eagle said it was thinking of digging itself a hole in the ground, I would say 'Go ahead'. One should at least allow everyone to live as he himself wants to live as long as he does not prevent others from living as they want to live.) However the foster-grandparents' emotional buttoned-up-ness filters through later in inconvenient ways as Álfgrímur finds himself more tongue-tied than the average teenage male narrator when he's confronted with attractive girls.
There is a cosiness about the book, but Álfgrímur's lack of interior reflection about his teenage years and schooling, which he found unenjoyable though seemingly not awful, (contrasting with the vibrant descriptions of the childhood he still evidently misses) made him less appealing a narrator as he grew older; his lack of reflectiveness and not-very-rich memory here is at least true to psychological type. The story is well-structured but the later parts didn't give as much insight into the characters (especially Garðar), or even atmosphere and sense of place as the beginnings promised, although it's possible I missed things given the circumstances of reading. Still, the book has the romance of an idyll and its perhaps-inevitable loss.
It's going to be easiest to discuss this after quoting the blurb:
Abandoned as a baby, Álfgrímur is content to spend his days as a fisherman living in the turf cottage outside Reykjavik with the elderly couple he calls grandmother and grandfather. There he shares the mid-loft with a motley bunch of eccentrics and philosophers who find refuge in the simple respect for their fellow men that is the ethos at Brekkukot. But the narrow horizons of Álfgrímur's idyllic childhood are challenged when he starts school and meets Iceland's most famous singer, the mysterious Garðar Holm. Garðar encourages him to aim for the "one true note", but how can he attain it without leaving behind the world that he loves?
Rural idyll? Household of eccentric, tolerant people? Musicians? Obviously it sounds like something I'd like - I first bought this 12 years ago after finding it in a bookshop. (Long before all you non-hipsters were into Nordic stuff...)
What was most interesting was a sense of Icelandic-ness, which is building up through some other books I've started recently (not yet finished or reviewed). To describe it as a blend of liberality and harshness sounds all wrong, as if it's conflicted - it's more that qualities combine in ways which aren't quite usual in English culture; it makes sense as part of the physical environment and isn't easy to explain in words. This old couple provide an unquestioning refuge for people in various predicaments, yet aspects of their own emotional world would look excessively reticent and restrained to the most stiff-upper-lipped of Brits: with their boy, love and especially falling-in are barely talked of, or as something in "hysterical" imported (Danish) novels, people who are dying are described as "off their food" and so forth. (But in a way it fits as in my own experience, the most supportive people are those who are just quietly, solidly there and let you get on with being however you are at the time, not fussing or being strongly emotional themselves. Or perhaps that's closer to the Millsian / Rogerian philosophy of one visitor to the household: I reckon one should help all creatures to live as they want to live. Even if a mouse came to me and said that it was going to fly over the ocean, and an eagle said it was thinking of digging itself a hole in the ground, I would say 'Go ahead'. One should at least allow everyone to live as he himself wants to live as long as he does not prevent others from living as they want to live.) However the foster-grandparents' emotional buttoned-up-ness filters through later in inconvenient ways as Álfgrímur finds himself more tongue-tied than the average teenage male narrator when he's confronted with attractive girls.
There is a cosiness about the book, but Álfgrímur's lack of interior reflection about his teenage years and schooling, which he found unenjoyable though seemingly not awful, (contrasting with the vibrant descriptions of the childhood he still evidently misses) made him less appealing a narrator as he grew older; his lack of reflectiveness and not-very-rich memory here is at least true to psychological type. The story is well-structured but the later parts didn't give as much insight into the characters (especially Garðar), or even atmosphere and sense of place as the beginnings promised, although it's possible I missed things given the circumstances of reading. Still, the book has the romance of an idyll and its perhaps-inevitable loss.
November 7, 2014
Ao ler Laxness, ocorreu-me várias vezes a ideia de ter sido com ele que começou a ficção islandesa. Existiram outros antes, mas isso não interessa agora. A Islândia tem uma matriz literária moderna e aqui está ela.
Seguimos a vida de Alfgrimur, desde a adopção pelos “avós” cuja vivência se faz da mais genuína e autêntica fibra humana, at�� ao encontro com o homem real, por trás do cantor de ópera famoso Garðar Hólm. Conhecemos Reiquejavique e Alfgrimur na infância até à adolescência, passando por Brekkukot, a casa onde a bondade faz acolher qualquer um que precise de um tecto (excepto bêbados) e o adro da igreja onde existe uma nota e é pura. De facto, a história forma-se de pequenos
episódios que poderiam ser lidos como contos, confluindo para uma ideia de crescimento e evolução.
A inocência do personagem principal e narrador ganham o seu tom na ironia e comentário social do autor. Os Peixes Também Sabem Cantar lê-se através dos olhos do jovem narrador, criado na generosidade e abnegação, lançado ao mundo governado pelo egoísmo e astúcia. Neste estilo, parece ganhar um registo íntimo e uma edificação lenta, mas nobre onde muitos reconhecem o regresso às origens, depois do Nobel ganho com Gente Independente.
Já não vou a tempo, contudo, está aqui um excelente ponto de partida para quem se queira iniciar na escrita islandesa. Não irão encontrar melhor. A excentricidade das personagens desfaz-se arrebatadoramente com a mensagem que carregam e o título do livro figura numa das frases mais poderosas aqui proferidas (que me deixou a pensar na globalização da economia). Muito bom.
Seguimos a vida de Alfgrimur, desde a adopção pelos “avós” cuja vivência se faz da mais genuína e autêntica fibra humana, at�� ao encontro com o homem real, por trás do cantor de ópera famoso Garðar Hólm. Conhecemos Reiquejavique e Alfgrimur na infância até à adolescência, passando por Brekkukot, a casa onde a bondade faz acolher qualquer um que precise de um tecto (excepto bêbados) e o adro da igreja onde existe uma nota e é pura. De facto, a história forma-se de pequenos
episódios que poderiam ser lidos como contos, confluindo para uma ideia de crescimento e evolução.
A inocência do personagem principal e narrador ganham o seu tom na ironia e comentário social do autor. Os Peixes Também Sabem Cantar lê-se através dos olhos do jovem narrador, criado na generosidade e abnegação, lançado ao mundo governado pelo egoísmo e astúcia. Neste estilo, parece ganhar um registo íntimo e uma edificação lenta, mas nobre onde muitos reconhecem o regresso às origens, depois do Nobel ganho com Gente Independente.
Já não vou a tempo, contudo, está aqui um excelente ponto de partida para quem se queira iniciar na escrita islandesa. Não irão encontrar melhor. A excentricidade das personagens desfaz-se arrebatadoramente com a mensagem que carregam e o título do livro figura numa das frases mais poderosas aqui proferidas (que me deixou a pensar na globalização da economia). Muito bom.
August 7, 2011
This is the same book as, in the English version, is called The Fish Can Sing
This is very possibly the best book ever written.
Forgive my fretting about translations, I didn't want people to miss a thing. Then I realized that the books' tone, that true tone, will reach through all human languages.
The story is set in Reykjavik in the beginning of the 20th century. These are reminiscences about a boyhood spent with an old couple who adopt this abandoned baby in the same manner they welcome several strange characters who end up living in their tiny turf-house. Beyond their home there is the burgeoning town with its Danish influenced pretensions, and there are the mysterious comings and goings of a relative of sorts, a purportedly world famous singer.
The sheer beauty and peculiarity of this life is caught with perfectly pitched humor and sensitivity. The humor permeates everything-almost, because although one might most often be laughing out loud, caught by a fresh surprise, in the end the sorrow and the sympathy, or some sort of love for the characters, is overwhelming.
Oh, if only some of the sufficiency and modesty of the Brekkukot inhabitants had prevailed better in Halldór Laxness's beloved land. A fancier house has long since replaced Brekkukot, it says so in the story, it was so in the real life world. Yet Brekkukot is eternally there for all of us.
This is very possibly the best book ever written.
Forgive my fretting about translations, I didn't want people to miss a thing. Then I realized that the books' tone, that true tone, will reach through all human languages.
The story is set in Reykjavik in the beginning of the 20th century. These are reminiscences about a boyhood spent with an old couple who adopt this abandoned baby in the same manner they welcome several strange characters who end up living in their tiny turf-house. Beyond their home there is the burgeoning town with its Danish influenced pretensions, and there are the mysterious comings and goings of a relative of sorts, a purportedly world famous singer.
The sheer beauty and peculiarity of this life is caught with perfectly pitched humor and sensitivity. The humor permeates everything-almost, because although one might most often be laughing out loud, caught by a fresh surprise, in the end the sorrow and the sympathy, or some sort of love for the characters, is overwhelming.
Oh, if only some of the sufficiency and modesty of the Brekkukot inhabitants had prevailed better in Halldór Laxness's beloved land. A fancier house has long since replaced Brekkukot, it says so in the story, it was so in the real life world. Yet Brekkukot is eternally there for all of us.
March 28, 2022
“Where fish leaves off in Iceland, Latin takes over”
I know I am unjust with my three-star rating, but The Fish Can Sing is one of those books I’ve instantly recognized the literary value of, but I couldn’t care much for. Moreover, it constantly reminded me of Salman Rushdie’s Satanic Verses (I hear some heartfelt protests here!) in a bizarre, twisted kind of way, not only because I had the same mixed feelings about that one too, but also because it is its total opposite: instead of a rich, overcrowded, overcoloured narrative, a severe, grey and angular one; instead of an aggressive magic realism an apparently naïve, primitive one; instead of a complicated, postmodern structure, the medieval form of a chronicle, instead of a chaotic, devouring city, a quiet and uneventful village. What connects them, however, is the same search of identity, be it social like in Rushdie’s novel, be it artistic, like in Laxness’s one.
Whereas Satanic Verses seems to speak about alienation through immigration and loss of religion, The Fish Can Sing is supposed to illustrate (at least according to the author’s notes) the alienation through glory and uprooting. The title could thus be interpreted as a pleading for the beauty of the ordinary life, ordinary people, whose silence speaks to the soul better than any masterpiece could, like the iconic image of the grandfather:
And indeed, there are enough memorable portraits of those “unspoilt” people, educated at the “Icelander’s university”, which was a quiet gathering around a good reader that read sagas aloud for an entire household in the evenings: people like the narrator Álfgrímur grandparents, with a grandmother who was never seen to sleep in a bed or a grandfather whose moral law concerned fish sale that was not to accumulate money, only to gain enough to live; nameless people like the woman from Landbrot who came to Brekkukot to die and who writes (through the narrator) an endless letter to her children to teach them how to take care of their cow Lykla who was about to calf, or like the man who loves his wife so much that he forgets to take care of her while preaching about her and their love all over the village; local people like little Miss Gú∂múnsen who stalks both Álfgrímur and Gar∂ar Hólm, or Pastor Jóhann who thinks that there is one single note, and it is pure, or Ebenezer Draummann, who wears no socks in order to save money to buy stamps and send letters to philosophers asking them the meaning of obscure words in Sanskrit:
If there is an equation for happiness, all these stories seem to tell, it could be found in this simple triangle: people – fish – singing, that is simple life elevated to art. This is why the narrator insists saying to whoever asks that his dream is to become a lumpfisherman, to continue to live a life unchanged from immemorial times, when the value of a Bible was, as it is now, the same as the value of a cow.
However, this interpretation is only partial, since the people of Brekkukot with their stories are only the background for the complicated, strange and not in the least ironic relationship between Álfgrímur and Gar∂ar Hólm, that reveals the real theme of the novel: the artist’s condition, his continue struggle between individuality and universality, together with his obsession to find that pure, unique note that could reconcile both. As Gar∂ar Hólm teaches Álfgrímur
This relationship, reinterpreted in that irony I was talking about and that prevents both sentimentality and "tragicality" in a very postmodern way that contradicts the apparent simplicity of the narrative, this relationship, as I said, is the novel's core and Laxness’s masterstroke, and I think that the key of lecture can be easily found by answering a simple question: what is Gar∂ar Hólm for Álfgrímur? Is he his teacher, revealing him the secrets of art, and encouraging him to find his place even though it means replacing him, like in his final public evasion? Or is he his father, who left him as his own father left him, since they are both named Hansson (His-son), like all fatherless children in Iceland? Or maybe, instead of being Álfgrímur’s spiritual or biological creator it is he who is the narrator’s creation, his artistic projection came into life and who never tires to wonder at their resemblance whenever they meet in person:
The most seductive hypothesis is that they are in fact one, emphasizing the dual condition of the artist – the ephemeral human being, and the eternal genius but in a more complicated way, since neither represents only the man or only the genius, but the same artist in two timeframes: the image of maturity comes to haunt the adolescent with contradictory information about artistic and social accomplishments bewildering him even though it won’t stop his way. It is significant that Álfgrímur leaves his village and his grandparents and his past after he sang at Gar∂ar Hólm’s grave, over a body he never saw. He buries his ephemeral being for a while, knowing he will recreate it and finally return to it through his art, for he is finally aware that the voice of his grandfather’s old clock cannot be stopped:
I know I am unjust with my three-star rating, but The Fish Can Sing is one of those books I’ve instantly recognized the literary value of, but I couldn’t care much for. Moreover, it constantly reminded me of Salman Rushdie’s Satanic Verses (I hear some heartfelt protests here!) in a bizarre, twisted kind of way, not only because I had the same mixed feelings about that one too, but also because it is its total opposite: instead of a rich, overcrowded, overcoloured narrative, a severe, grey and angular one; instead of an aggressive magic realism an apparently naïve, primitive one; instead of a complicated, postmodern structure, the medieval form of a chronicle, instead of a chaotic, devouring city, a quiet and uneventful village. What connects them, however, is the same search of identity, be it social like in Rushdie’s novel, be it artistic, like in Laxness’s one.
Whereas Satanic Verses seems to speak about alienation through immigration and loss of religion, The Fish Can Sing is supposed to illustrate (at least according to the author’s notes) the alienation through glory and uprooting. The title could thus be interpreted as a pleading for the beauty of the ordinary life, ordinary people, whose silence speaks to the soul better than any masterpiece could, like the iconic image of the grandfather:
He never gave any sign of knowing that his grandchild was nearby, and I never paid much attention to him either, and yet somehow I was always involuntarily aware of him in the background. I would hear him blowing his nose with long pauses between each blow, and then taking another pinch of snuff. His constant silent presence was in every cranny and corner of Brekkukot – it was like lying snugly at anchor, one’s soul could find in him whatever security it sought. To this very day I still have the feeling from time to time that a door is standing ajar somewhere to one side of or behind me, or even right in front of me, and that my grandfather is inside there, pottering away.
And indeed, there are enough memorable portraits of those “unspoilt” people, educated at the “Icelander’s university”, which was a quiet gathering around a good reader that read sagas aloud for an entire household in the evenings: people like the narrator Álfgrímur grandparents, with a grandmother who was never seen to sleep in a bed or a grandfather whose moral law concerned fish sale that was not to accumulate money, only to gain enough to live; nameless people like the woman from Landbrot who came to Brekkukot to die and who writes (through the narrator) an endless letter to her children to teach them how to take care of their cow Lykla who was about to calf, or like the man who loves his wife so much that he forgets to take care of her while preaching about her and their love all over the village; local people like little Miss Gú∂múnsen who stalks both Álfgrímur and Gar∂ar Hólm, or Pastor Jóhann who thinks that there is one single note, and it is pure, or Ebenezer Draummann, who wears no socks in order to save money to buy stamps and send letters to philosophers asking them the meaning of obscure words in Sanskrit:
“For example, what does the word prana mean? Or karma? And maya?”
Obviously there was no one at Brekkukot who could answer this.
“And you don’t know either, young man – and you a pupil at the Grammar School?”
“No,” I said.
“There you are, then,” said Ebenezer Draummann. “Everyone wearing socks, and no one knows what prana is. Not even this young man from the Grammar School.”
If there is an equation for happiness, all these stories seem to tell, it could be found in this simple triangle: people – fish – singing, that is simple life elevated to art. This is why the narrator insists saying to whoever asks that his dream is to become a lumpfisherman, to continue to live a life unchanged from immemorial times, when the value of a Bible was, as it is now, the same as the value of a cow.
However, this interpretation is only partial, since the people of Brekkukot with their stories are only the background for the complicated, strange and not in the least ironic relationship between Álfgrímur and Gar∂ar Hólm, that reveals the real theme of the novel: the artist’s condition, his continue struggle between individuality and universality, together with his obsession to find that pure, unique note that could reconcile both. As Gar∂ar Hólm teaches Álfgrímur
Always sing just as you sang that day. Sing as if you were singing over a sea-scorpion. Any other singing is false. God only hears that one note. Anyone who sings for other people’s entertainment is a fool, but not quite such a fool as the man who sings for his own entertainment.
This relationship, reinterpreted in that irony I was talking about and that prevents both sentimentality and "tragicality" in a very postmodern way that contradicts the apparent simplicity of the narrative, this relationship, as I said, is the novel's core and Laxness’s masterstroke, and I think that the key of lecture can be easily found by answering a simple question: what is Gar∂ar Hólm for Álfgrímur? Is he his teacher, revealing him the secrets of art, and encouraging him to find his place even though it means replacing him, like in his final public evasion? Or is he his father, who left him as his own father left him, since they are both named Hansson (His-son), like all fatherless children in Iceland? Or maybe, instead of being Álfgrímur’s spiritual or biological creator it is he who is the narrator’s creation, his artistic projection came into life and who never tires to wonder at their resemblance whenever they meet in person:
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Álfgrímur,” I said.
“Ah, so it wasn’t a lie after all?” he said, and smiled at me out of his dark brooding. I stood nailed to the road. Finally he walked up to me very simply and stretched out his hand:
“So you really exist after all. I thought I had dreamed it.
The most seductive hypothesis is that they are in fact one, emphasizing the dual condition of the artist – the ephemeral human being, and the eternal genius but in a more complicated way, since neither represents only the man or only the genius, but the same artist in two timeframes: the image of maturity comes to haunt the adolescent with contradictory information about artistic and social accomplishments bewildering him even though it won’t stop his way. It is significant that Álfgrímur leaves his village and his grandparents and his past after he sang at Gar∂ar Hólm’s grave, over a body he never saw. He buries his ephemeral being for a while, knowing he will recreate it and finally return to it through his art, for he is finally aware that the voice of his grandfather’s old clock cannot be stopped:
For some time no one had heard our clock, any more than if it had not existed. But for these last few days the living-room was quiet, and then I heard that it was still ticking away. It never let itself get flurried. Slowly, slowly went the seconds in my grandfather’s timepiece, and said as of old: et-ERN-it-Y, et-ERN-it-Y. And if you listened hard enough you could make out a sort of singing note in its workings; and the clear silver bell struck.
November 8, 2017
...and swim underwater, for a really long time.
Great stuff from this Icelander.
Great stuff from this Icelander.
August 21, 2015
Reykjavik início séc. XX
Halldór Laxness (1902 – 1998) é o mais famoso escritor islandês, laureado com o Prémio Nobel da Literatura em 1955.
Álfgrímur, o narrador de “Os Peixes Também Sabem Cantar”, foi um bebé abandonado pela sua mãe, uma jovem rapariga que partiu para a América, que acaba adoptado pelo pescador Björn de Brekkukot e pela sua mulher, um casal de idosos, um avô e uma avó, que vivem numa pobre casa tradicional, com o telhado de erva/relva/turfa, um refúgio que alberga no seu sótão um grupo de personagens peculiares e excêntricas – o reformado capitão naval Hogensen, o superintendente de Reykjavik e filósofo Jón de Skaggi e o homem que espalha estrume na cidade Runólfur Jónsson – três habitantes permanentes a que se juntam outros de passagem, com histórias dramáticas de doença e morte.
A idílica infância de Álfgrímur - que pretende “apenas” ser pescador de peixes-lapas, tal como o seu “avô” Björn de Brekkukot, que tem uma peculiar e original relação com o dinheiro ”… completamente diferente da dos valores bancários normais.” (Pág. 22) e com o preço de venda do peixe, mantendo sempre o mesmo valor, não enquadrado com a lei económica da oferta e da procura, considerando que: ”o preço certo para um peixe-lapa, por exemplo, seria aquele que impedisse um pescador de acumular mais dinheiro do que aquele que necessitasse para viver.” (Pág. 23) – é interrompida pelo início da escola…
”Até àquele dia, o Mundo em que eu vivia tinha-me parecido suficiente para os meus desejos, de tal maneira que eu nunca tinha ambicionado outro. Eu tinha tudo. Aos meus olhos, tudo no Mundo era, à sua maneira, perfeito e completo.” (Pág. 147)
E eis que surge Garðar Holm, um famoso cantor lírico islandês, um homem misterioso e enigmático, um “parente” de Álfgrímur, ora presente ora ausente; e o dia em que ouve o som da “Nota Pura”.
Mas nem tudo o que parece é…
Halldór Laxness escreve um excelente romance – sem a intensidade dramática de ”Gente Independente” e sem a qualidade da reconstituição histórica de ”O Sino da Islândia” - um retrato intimista de uma família, na pequena cidade de Reykjavik, Islândia, no início do séc. XX, numa narrativa reflexiva e perspicaz de Álfgrímur, desde a infância até à idade adulta, com descrições inesquecíveis de uma pequena comunidade rural e piscatória, numa luta pela subsistência, sempre de uma forma pacífica e harmoniosa, com uma escrita primorosa, com recurso a quarenta e um capítulos, curtos, sempre com um título temático, com notáveis descrições dos cenários envolventes, bem estruturado, com muita emoção e ironia, conjugando de uma forma surpreendente a tradição e a modernidade, a lealdade e a traição, a pobreza e a riqueza, a obscuridade e a celebridade.
”Os Peixes Também Sabem Cantar” pode ser uma excelente primeira abordagem à obra do premiado escritor islandês Halldór Laxness.
Casa tradicional com telhado de erva/relva/turfa - Islândia
”Para falarmos na nossa casa acerca de fazer “caridade”, usávamos a expressão “ter bom coração”, e uma pessoa caridosa, como se diz numa linguagem espiritual, era simplesmente uma pessoa com “bom coração” ou ”boa”. A palavra ”amor” também nunca se ouvia na nossa casa, excepto se algum bêbado ou uma criada solteira particularmente estúpida vinda do campo se lembrasse de criar alguns versos de um poeta moderno qualquer; e, ainda por cima, o vocabulário desses poemas era de tal maneira indecente que se acontecesse ouvi-los, desciam-nos arrepios gelados pela espinha abaixo, e o meu avô sentar-se-ia sobre as mãos, por vezes inclusivamente lá fora, no muro do jardim, fazendo caretas, encolhendo os ombros e contorcendo-se como se tivesse piolhos, e diria: ”Toc, toc!” e ”Francamente!”. Globalmente, a poesia moderna tinha em nós o mesmo efeito da lona a ser raspada.” (Pág. 68)
”A curiosidade pode ser uma virtude ou um vício, dependendo do tipo de ética elementar que se defenda.” (Pág. 111)
”- Sussurrar os segredos das pessoas ao vento é considerado insensato. (Pág. 307)
”Finalmente, agora conseguia compreender as pessoas que recorriam ao suicídio para roubar a iniciativa à morte. (Pág. 319)
July 20, 2022
The Fish Can Sing by Halldór Laxness, translated from the Icelandic by Magnus Magnusson, unfolds in the first-person voice of Alfgrimur, an orphan. Abandoned by his mother in a small fishing village on the outskirts of Reykjavik, Alfgrimur is raised by an elderly couple who become his surrogate grandparents.
Growing up in the humble cottage at Brekkukot, Alfgrimur shares his home with a motley crew of eccentric characters from all walks of life who traipse in and out of his grandparents’ home, availing themselves of their hospitality. Some stop there on their way to somewhere else; others come there to await death. Alfgrimur describes their mannerisms, clothing, habits, anecdotes, euphemisms, and philosophical outpourings as they gather together in the evenings. The characters are unique, quirky, and treated with fondness and respect.
A prominent figure in the novel is the elusive Garðor Holm who rose from humble beginnings in the village to become a world-famous singer and Alfgrimur’s conflicted mentor. Alfgrimur’s grandfather, known as Björn of Brekkukot, is a generous, compassionate man of few words who behaves with integrity, dignity, and charity. Alfgrimur’s grandmother instils in him respect for others and generosity of spirit. The two are memorable characters, speaking primarily through their actions. Their few words are imbued with wisdom and compassion for the less fortunate. Their goodness and humility represent a bygone era.
Although the word “love” is not spoken in the home and demonstrable physical affection is eschewed, Alfgrimur grows up in a loving, secure environment. His goal is to live within the confines of his small village since that is all he has ever known and loved; his ambition is to be a fisherman like his grandfather. He struggles to find his place in a world in which modernity encroaches on simple village life, transforming lives and livelihoods as it does so. Alfgrimur’s grandparents recognize the impending changes and insist on an education and a better future for their adopted grandson.
Laxness paints a touching portrait of a small village in rural Iceland in the early twentieth-century where a way of life is slowly dying with the encroachment of modernity. Traditional ways of being and doing clash with a modern business class espousing differing values. This clash threads its way throughout the novel, generating a nostalgic tone for the past and a concern for the future.
Laxness’ diction is immersive. The smells, sights, sounds, and activities of an Icelandic fishing village are brought vividly to life. The narrative voice is whimsical, ambling, and replete with affectionate humor. The movement is slow and meandering. The intimate, ethereal quality of the prose; the affectionate treatment of the eccentric characters which populate its pages; and the endearing snapshot of a quaint Icelandic village at the turn of the century work in unison to make this a memorable read.
Highly recommended.
My book reviews are also available at www.tamaraaghajaffar.com
Growing up in the humble cottage at Brekkukot, Alfgrimur shares his home with a motley crew of eccentric characters from all walks of life who traipse in and out of his grandparents’ home, availing themselves of their hospitality. Some stop there on their way to somewhere else; others come there to await death. Alfgrimur describes their mannerisms, clothing, habits, anecdotes, euphemisms, and philosophical outpourings as they gather together in the evenings. The characters are unique, quirky, and treated with fondness and respect.
A prominent figure in the novel is the elusive Garðor Holm who rose from humble beginnings in the village to become a world-famous singer and Alfgrimur’s conflicted mentor. Alfgrimur’s grandfather, known as Björn of Brekkukot, is a generous, compassionate man of few words who behaves with integrity, dignity, and charity. Alfgrimur’s grandmother instils in him respect for others and generosity of spirit. The two are memorable characters, speaking primarily through their actions. Their few words are imbued with wisdom and compassion for the less fortunate. Their goodness and humility represent a bygone era.
Although the word “love” is not spoken in the home and demonstrable physical affection is eschewed, Alfgrimur grows up in a loving, secure environment. His goal is to live within the confines of his small village since that is all he has ever known and loved; his ambition is to be a fisherman like his grandfather. He struggles to find his place in a world in which modernity encroaches on simple village life, transforming lives and livelihoods as it does so. Alfgrimur’s grandparents recognize the impending changes and insist on an education and a better future for their adopted grandson.
Laxness paints a touching portrait of a small village in rural Iceland in the early twentieth-century where a way of life is slowly dying with the encroachment of modernity. Traditional ways of being and doing clash with a modern business class espousing differing values. This clash threads its way throughout the novel, generating a nostalgic tone for the past and a concern for the future.
Laxness’ diction is immersive. The smells, sights, sounds, and activities of an Icelandic fishing village are brought vividly to life. The narrative voice is whimsical, ambling, and replete with affectionate humor. The movement is slow and meandering. The intimate, ethereal quality of the prose; the affectionate treatment of the eccentric characters which populate its pages; and the endearing snapshot of a quaint Icelandic village at the turn of the century work in unison to make this a memorable read.
Highly recommended.
My book reviews are also available at www.tamaraaghajaffar.com
September 10, 2013
Reykjavik today is such an interesting place. Half spartan northern outpost, half ambitious capital of a scarcely populated but not diminutive country, the biggest (and some say only) town in Iceland welcomed your humble reviewer in style.
Bygone the hectic days of the financial and real estate bubble followed by the economic crisis that lead the local currency to lose a good deal of its value overnight and the national government to fall, Reykjavik is slowly recovering. Quite reluctantly, many Icelanders have to reckon that tourism turned out to be a damn good goldmine for the country. According to the Visitor's Guide handed over by the Tourism Office in Ingolfstorg (a main square shaped by burger joints and marauded by skateboarders), 278,000 people visited Iceland in 2002, while 672,000 did it ten years later. Given the importance and the position of the capital - not to mention the proximity of Keflavik, the only international airport - I have reasons to believe that 9 out of 10 of these tourists passed through Reykjavik (sorry Akureyri folks!).
When I visited the place - at the end of the summer of 2013 - I couldn't help but finding the wonderful Harpa a shiny blackish convention centre cum opera house straight on the waterfront, slightly overdimensioned for a town the size of Reykjavik. Especially considering how, the capital of Iceland already had a Opera House. Ok, the building has just won the prestigious Mies van der Rohe Award 2013 which is to say the Nobel Prize for Architecture and is labelled as 'Reykjavik Latest Landmark'. But still. Personally, I've found the building bearing many a resemblance with the new Royal Library in Copenhagen (aka The Black Diamond) and the Utrecht University Library. But I'm no architect, indeed.
Some Icelanders would have rather preferred, say, a new hospital for their capital - the one I saw looked in a pretty bad shape - or those 164 million Euros to be invested elsewhere. Completed and open to cultural business on 2011, two years later the building does still look like the proverbial cathedral in the desert as no money were left for a development project including a 400-room hotel, luxury apartments, retail units, a car park and the new headquarters of an Icelandic bank (ironically). Which, your reviewer believes, it's a positive thing.
One must not forget that Reykjavik is still administred by a comedian playing the mayor. And sometimes it shows. Formerly a misdiagnosed retarded child, a punk rocker, a cab driver and founder of the self proclaimed Best Party (Besti flokkurinn), Jon Gnarr was dismissed as 'not very entertaining' and a disgrace by all the locals I spoke with. I mean, where else in the world you have the most popular weekly flea market in town being hosted in the ground floor of the National Customs House? Isn't that ironic? I mean not even the bohemian likes of former playwright and Czechoslovakian President Vaclav Havel could have made it better.
(For some additional awe-inspiring fun, just check the Icelandic phonebook which is one for all the country and has people listed on it alphabetically but by their first name).
Anyways, the Reykjavik that you can find in 'The Fish Can Sing' looks centuries away from the one I saw. And yet, merely one hundred years have passed by as Laxness set his novel at the beginning of 20th century. At that time, Reykjavik was the capital of a poor, remote and backwardish Danish province with none of the cultural, technological and environmental zest of contemporary Iceland.
The town itself gravitated around a couple of long streets, the church, a main square and the Danish Government building (formerly a prison). A bunch of shopkeepers with Danishised surnames and toying with Latin mottoes were the bourgeoisie. The price of jet-set commodities such as books and cream cakes was compared to the one of sheep and cows. Cottages still had turf-made roofs. And all that came from Copenhagen - save preachers - was fashionable.
This is the Reykjavik were the orphan Alfgrimur Hansson (a surname meaning the son of Him and thus given to children with no parents) grows up fishing lumpfish with his adoptive 'grandad' Bjoern of Brekkukot, being chased by the plump daughter of the greatest shopkeeper in town and wearing the shoes of the opera singer Gardar Holm, the man who sung for the Pope and made Iceland known worldwide.
Holm is a masterfully built and elusive fictional character who is suddenly appearing and disappearing in town baffling the local authorities and bourgeoisie who always try to give him a kingly welcome. When reading about Holm and his idiosyncrasies, I thought that Laxness was partially talking about himself - just change the profession of singer with the one of writer - and that could be true. At the same time, this Gardar Holm who is reluctantly playing the ambassador of Iceland in Paris, Rome and New York is exactly what Bjork became for her country in the 1990s (and Sigur Ros in the 2000s): a celebrity detached by his/her homecountry due to their talent, but later pining for a return back home with world weary eyes hoping to be left in peace by the media.
To be honest, not that much happens in 'The Fish Can Sing', but for those who are interested in how people lived, thought - and what they dreamed - in Reykjavik one century ago this novel has a historic significance. The coming of age of the protagonist is not that compelling, but it works as well.
Laxness himself was a communist (but driving a Jaguar) who won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1955 due to his portrayal of rural Iceland - go and read 'Independent People'! - and hated any foreign influence in his homecountry. If he were still alive, I'm not sure the author would have liked the fact that all of his books in their English translation are easily avaialble in every bookstore, duty free shop and fuel station of Iceland today. Including 'The Atom Station' where Laxness attacks the presence of a Nato base in Keflavik which is exactly what has recently been converted into the only international airport in Iceland.
'The Fish Can Sing' is not Laxness at his best. But this novel does have its charm, includes some decent Icelandic-like humour and I would go for it if you went or are planning to take the next flight to this magnificent and crazy country. Perhaps, if you are lucky, you could get a ticket to see Bjork or Gardar Holm performing at the Harpa seeking for the one note, the same note Alfgrimur Hansson was looking for.
Bygone the hectic days of the financial and real estate bubble followed by the economic crisis that lead the local currency to lose a good deal of its value overnight and the national government to fall, Reykjavik is slowly recovering. Quite reluctantly, many Icelanders have to reckon that tourism turned out to be a damn good goldmine for the country. According to the Visitor's Guide handed over by the Tourism Office in Ingolfstorg (a main square shaped by burger joints and marauded by skateboarders), 278,000 people visited Iceland in 2002, while 672,000 did it ten years later. Given the importance and the position of the capital - not to mention the proximity of Keflavik, the only international airport - I have reasons to believe that 9 out of 10 of these tourists passed through Reykjavik (sorry Akureyri folks!).
When I visited the place - at the end of the summer of 2013 - I couldn't help but finding the wonderful Harpa a shiny blackish convention centre cum opera house straight on the waterfront, slightly overdimensioned for a town the size of Reykjavik. Especially considering how, the capital of Iceland already had a Opera House. Ok, the building has just won the prestigious Mies van der Rohe Award 2013 which is to say the Nobel Prize for Architecture and is labelled as 'Reykjavik Latest Landmark'. But still. Personally, I've found the building bearing many a resemblance with the new Royal Library in Copenhagen (aka The Black Diamond) and the Utrecht University Library. But I'm no architect, indeed.
Some Icelanders would have rather preferred, say, a new hospital for their capital - the one I saw looked in a pretty bad shape - or those 164 million Euros to be invested elsewhere. Completed and open to cultural business on 2011, two years later the building does still look like the proverbial cathedral in the desert as no money were left for a development project including a 400-room hotel, luxury apartments, retail units, a car park and the new headquarters of an Icelandic bank (ironically). Which, your reviewer believes, it's a positive thing.
One must not forget that Reykjavik is still administred by a comedian playing the mayor. And sometimes it shows. Formerly a misdiagnosed retarded child, a punk rocker, a cab driver and founder of the self proclaimed Best Party (Besti flokkurinn), Jon Gnarr was dismissed as 'not very entertaining' and a disgrace by all the locals I spoke with. I mean, where else in the world you have the most popular weekly flea market in town being hosted in the ground floor of the National Customs House? Isn't that ironic? I mean not even the bohemian likes of former playwright and Czechoslovakian President Vaclav Havel could have made it better.
(For some additional awe-inspiring fun, just check the Icelandic phonebook which is one for all the country and has people listed on it alphabetically but by their first name).
Anyways, the Reykjavik that you can find in 'The Fish Can Sing' looks centuries away from the one I saw. And yet, merely one hundred years have passed by as Laxness set his novel at the beginning of 20th century. At that time, Reykjavik was the capital of a poor, remote and backwardish Danish province with none of the cultural, technological and environmental zest of contemporary Iceland.
The town itself gravitated around a couple of long streets, the church, a main square and the Danish Government building (formerly a prison). A bunch of shopkeepers with Danishised surnames and toying with Latin mottoes were the bourgeoisie. The price of jet-set commodities such as books and cream cakes was compared to the one of sheep and cows. Cottages still had turf-made roofs. And all that came from Copenhagen - save preachers - was fashionable.
This is the Reykjavik were the orphan Alfgrimur Hansson (a surname meaning the son of Him and thus given to children with no parents) grows up fishing lumpfish with his adoptive 'grandad' Bjoern of Brekkukot, being chased by the plump daughter of the greatest shopkeeper in town and wearing the shoes of the opera singer Gardar Holm, the man who sung for the Pope and made Iceland known worldwide.
Holm is a masterfully built and elusive fictional character who is suddenly appearing and disappearing in town baffling the local authorities and bourgeoisie who always try to give him a kingly welcome. When reading about Holm and his idiosyncrasies, I thought that Laxness was partially talking about himself - just change the profession of singer with the one of writer - and that could be true. At the same time, this Gardar Holm who is reluctantly playing the ambassador of Iceland in Paris, Rome and New York is exactly what Bjork became for her country in the 1990s (and Sigur Ros in the 2000s): a celebrity detached by his/her homecountry due to their talent, but later pining for a return back home with world weary eyes hoping to be left in peace by the media.
To be honest, not that much happens in 'The Fish Can Sing', but for those who are interested in how people lived, thought - and what they dreamed - in Reykjavik one century ago this novel has a historic significance. The coming of age of the protagonist is not that compelling, but it works as well.
Laxness himself was a communist (but driving a Jaguar) who won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1955 due to his portrayal of rural Iceland - go and read 'Independent People'! - and hated any foreign influence in his homecountry. If he were still alive, I'm not sure the author would have liked the fact that all of his books in their English translation are easily avaialble in every bookstore, duty free shop and fuel station of Iceland today. Including 'The Atom Station' where Laxness attacks the presence of a Nato base in Keflavik which is exactly what has recently been converted into the only international airport in Iceland.
'The Fish Can Sing' is not Laxness at his best. But this novel does have its charm, includes some decent Icelandic-like humour and I would go for it if you went or are planning to take the next flight to this magnificent and crazy country. Perhaps, if you are lucky, you could get a ticket to see Bjork or Gardar Holm performing at the Harpa seeking for the one note, the same note Alfgrimur Hansson was looking for.
March 3, 2012
Halldór Laxness is undoubtedly Iceland's most famous writer. The story goes that he was in the middle of writing "Brekkukotsannall" - translated (surprisingly) as The Fish Can Sing - when he was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature (in 1955). Did this recognition change the way he completed the novel? May be, maybe not. Still, reading it with that knowledge in the back of my mind, the novel turns for me into much more that the intimate portrait of a "family", a small village community at the turn of the last century and a coming-of-age story of a young orphan boy, Alfgrimur. Couched in the narrator's stream of consciousness, gracefully integrating the child's view of his world with that of his older, reflective self, we discover the narrator/author's insightful musings on tradition and modernity, loyalty and betrayal, poverty and wealth, obscurity and celebrity. In his descriptions of people and place, Laxness's affecting sense of irony often makes light of the precarious situation in which most of the traditionally-minded locals in the "village" find themselves. The closely-knit community - fishermen, former navy men, the local priest, and the "old women" who look after them all - at the outskirts of what will eventually become Iceland's capital, Reykjavik - are lovingly portrayed and contrasted with the up-and-coming, wealthier merchant class that threatens the perceived peaceful and harmonious life of the community. The latter also represent the pro-Danes group as well as the influence of the wider world; a world that will threaten the livelihood of the local fishermen, like Bjorn of Brekkukot, Alfgrimur's grandfather...
Young Alfgrimur lives, in his own words, a happy childhood, despite the fact that he was abandoned by his mother and left at Brekkukot shortly after birth... He is happiest when fishing with his grandfather; closest to the old woman he calls "grandmother", even though he knows "nothing about her". Brekkukot, an old turf cottage, is an unofficial guesthouse where various short- or long-term visitors are staying: some come to die and are buried in the nearby church yard, others live out their retirement and others are just transients. All share the cramped place and even beds in the "midloft"; it is the social centre of Alfgrimur's odd "family".
The novel starts with a series of short, unconnected chapters, more like vignettes, through which the older narrator introduces the odd collection of "guests" in Brekkukot and some of the neighbours; all of them appear totally normal to young Alfgrimur and fill his notion of his "world". His and the wider world come together, in a way, for Alfgrimur at least, in the person of Gardar Holm, the famous son of the village, turned world-traveling opera singer. He returns from time to time to Reykjavik and, surprisingly or maybe not, strikes some kind of friendship with young Alfgrimur. In turn, the boy admires the older man, even embarks on teaching himself to sing the funeral hymn as well as Schubert's "Der Erlkönig". However, his idol is not all that he seems to be and Alfgrimur over time learns more lessons from their encounters than he realizes for a long time.
I must admit that I took quite some time before I was able to engage with the novel and its characters. Its richness and beauty only really came together for me after I finished the last page and went back, picking out sections and chapters, reflecting on the underlying themes of the novel, exploring its depth and wisdom.
Young Alfgrimur lives, in his own words, a happy childhood, despite the fact that he was abandoned by his mother and left at Brekkukot shortly after birth... He is happiest when fishing with his grandfather; closest to the old woman he calls "grandmother", even though he knows "nothing about her". Brekkukot, an old turf cottage, is an unofficial guesthouse where various short- or long-term visitors are staying: some come to die and are buried in the nearby church yard, others live out their retirement and others are just transients. All share the cramped place and even beds in the "midloft"; it is the social centre of Alfgrimur's odd "family".
The novel starts with a series of short, unconnected chapters, more like vignettes, through which the older narrator introduces the odd collection of "guests" in Brekkukot and some of the neighbours; all of them appear totally normal to young Alfgrimur and fill his notion of his "world". His and the wider world come together, in a way, for Alfgrimur at least, in the person of Gardar Holm, the famous son of the village, turned world-traveling opera singer. He returns from time to time to Reykjavik and, surprisingly or maybe not, strikes some kind of friendship with young Alfgrimur. In turn, the boy admires the older man, even embarks on teaching himself to sing the funeral hymn as well as Schubert's "Der Erlkönig". However, his idol is not all that he seems to be and Alfgrimur over time learns more lessons from their encounters than he realizes for a long time.
I must admit that I took quite some time before I was able to engage with the novel and its characters. Its richness and beauty only really came together for me after I finished the last page and went back, picking out sections and chapters, reflecting on the underlying themes of the novel, exploring its depth and wisdom.
July 15, 2012
I am indulging myself by re-reading this literary gem, and what a perfect book it is. It is a gentle, humorous coming-of-age narrative written in the first person set in the early 1900s. Reykjavik was only a town of 5,000 people, and the farm Brekkukot was situated right on the edge of the current cbd.
It is a simple story, beautifully told, of a young boy Alfgrimur, left by his mother on her way to America. He is fostered by Bjorn and his wife, the elderly couple whose farm is a haven and home for any amount of wayfarers: no-one, apart from drunks, is unwelcome. This couple, especially Bjorn, would have to be the most humane, perfect and moral (in the truest sense) characters ever created in literature. One feels that if the world took Bjorn's ethos as its own, we would live in an earthly paradise. On the pursuit of money, for instance, Bjorn avers that "...all great wealth was inconsistent with common sense."
Even though Bjorn reads from a book of sermons each Sunday,
"...references to ancient eccentrics from the far east of the Mediterranean, enhanced by the rigidly systemic theology of German peasants...", his moral code is all his own. As Alfgrimur observes,
"I think my grandfather Bjorn of Brekkukot would not have been significantly different if he had lived here in Iceland in pagan times", or anywhere else, for that matter.
This glorious simplicity is contrasted with the pretensions of the Danes and their local wannabes. Even the notion of celebrity, in the hero-worship of Gardur Holm, the supposedly world renowned singer, is lampooned. The Brekkukot household is immune from this, staunchly Icelandic with their respect for the old ways. The simple language and old sayings were part of daily currency. Even modern literature was suspect:
"Danish novels...this was the name which applied in our house to modern literature in general, but particularly anything to do with hysteria." This is the reverse of their own traditions:
"....the story-teller's own life never came into the story, let alone his opinions. The subject matter was allowed to speak for itself."
Thus it was in the sagas. Indeed, even Halldor's writing reflects the ancient style in parts. Right at the beginning, when Alfgrimur's mother leaves for America, he writes, "...and she is now out of this story."
However, to me it is not just the story, engaging as it is, but the sheer brilliance of the writing. So many passages are pure poetry. Captain Hogensen, an elderly resident of Brekkukot, is described thus:
"...the light of the world had more or less taken leave of this man, for he was almost blind."
Or this, written in the middle of winter:
"Somewhere, out in the infinite distance lay the spring, at least in God's mind, like the babies that are not yet conceived in the mother's womb."
In the late 17th century, during the Great Fire of Copenhagen, the scholar and great saga collector Arni Magnusson strove desperately to rescue as many of these precious writings as he could.
If a fire broke out in my house, I would fight to do exactly the same with my beloved Halldor Laxness books, especially this one.
It is a simple story, beautifully told, of a young boy Alfgrimur, left by his mother on her way to America. He is fostered by Bjorn and his wife, the elderly couple whose farm is a haven and home for any amount of wayfarers: no-one, apart from drunks, is unwelcome. This couple, especially Bjorn, would have to be the most humane, perfect and moral (in the truest sense) characters ever created in literature. One feels that if the world took Bjorn's ethos as its own, we would live in an earthly paradise. On the pursuit of money, for instance, Bjorn avers that "...all great wealth was inconsistent with common sense."
Even though Bjorn reads from a book of sermons each Sunday,
"...references to ancient eccentrics from the far east of the Mediterranean, enhanced by the rigidly systemic theology of German peasants...", his moral code is all his own. As Alfgrimur observes,
"I think my grandfather Bjorn of Brekkukot would not have been significantly different if he had lived here in Iceland in pagan times", or anywhere else, for that matter.
This glorious simplicity is contrasted with the pretensions of the Danes and their local wannabes. Even the notion of celebrity, in the hero-worship of Gardur Holm, the supposedly world renowned singer, is lampooned. The Brekkukot household is immune from this, staunchly Icelandic with their respect for the old ways. The simple language and old sayings were part of daily currency. Even modern literature was suspect:
"Danish novels...this was the name which applied in our house to modern literature in general, but particularly anything to do with hysteria." This is the reverse of their own traditions:
"....the story-teller's own life never came into the story, let alone his opinions. The subject matter was allowed to speak for itself."
Thus it was in the sagas. Indeed, even Halldor's writing reflects the ancient style in parts. Right at the beginning, when Alfgrimur's mother leaves for America, he writes, "...and she is now out of this story."
However, to me it is not just the story, engaging as it is, but the sheer brilliance of the writing. So many passages are pure poetry. Captain Hogensen, an elderly resident of Brekkukot, is described thus:
"...the light of the world had more or less taken leave of this man, for he was almost blind."
Or this, written in the middle of winter:
"Somewhere, out in the infinite distance lay the spring, at least in God's mind, like the babies that are not yet conceived in the mother's womb."
In the late 17th century, during the Great Fire of Copenhagen, the scholar and great saga collector Arni Magnusson strove desperately to rescue as many of these precious writings as he could.
If a fire broke out in my house, I would fight to do exactly the same with my beloved Halldor Laxness books, especially this one.
February 12, 2019
It took me fifty pages or so to get into this novel as I think I was expecting something more plot driven but the book is a more of a memoir of Alfgrimur, an orphan taken in by two loving older people to live with them in this small prescribed area in Rekyajik where everyone knows everyone else. It is also about Gardar Holm, the opera singer who has gone out into the wide world to achieve fame for Iceland, someone who is revered and respected yet has secrets that remain only hinted at even by the end of the novel.
This is a quiet, slow paced novel where little happens, instead we get pictures of life in Iceland during this period, the fishing, the traditions and the people often told with humor and wit. Alfgrimur’s grandparents’ house is used as kind of hostel by travelers and visitors alike and each of these ‘guests’ has a story behind them that is explored chapter by chapter. The guests often tell stories of adventure, of tragedy and of the ‘ghosts and the Hidden Folk’, stories that contrast with the simple life of Alfgrimur and his grandparents who nevertheless have pasts that are revealed piece by piece.
We see Alfgrimur grow up and begin to study and to sing and all the while the mysterious Gardar is in the background, appearing and disappearing. He becomes larger than life as the novel progresses but it is the minor characters who sustain the interest whether it be Captain Hogensen, Miss Gudmunsen, or the woman from Landbrot all with their foibles and funny ways and it is the love between Alfgimmur and his grandparents that is the heart of the novel for me.
Some favorite lines
‘he never deviates from the special manner of reading that people in Iceland once used for God’s Words, a monotonous and solemn chant in a high-pitched tone that dropped a fourth at the end of every sentence. This style of reading bore no trace of wordliness, although it had certain affinities with the mumblings of some of the mentally deranged.’
‘In Brekkukot, words were too precious to use – because they meant something; our conversation was like pristine money before inflation; experience was too profound to be capable of expression; only the bluebottle was free.’
“The man who wears no socks can acquire things which bestockinged people can never obtain. By saving on socks, one can afford stamps for letters from philosophers throughout the world and get from them the correct interpretation of obscure words in Sanskrit.”
‘Nothing was more natural to her than that turf-sods should be fastened round her thighs in order to increase her earthly strength, or that people should try to stop up her nostrils with warm cow-dung at the behest of some southern dung-doctor with a cleft palate, to see if such treatment could not ease the head pains.’
This is a quiet, slow paced novel where little happens, instead we get pictures of life in Iceland during this period, the fishing, the traditions and the people often told with humor and wit. Alfgrimur’s grandparents’ house is used as kind of hostel by travelers and visitors alike and each of these ‘guests’ has a story behind them that is explored chapter by chapter. The guests often tell stories of adventure, of tragedy and of the ‘ghosts and the Hidden Folk’, stories that contrast with the simple life of Alfgrimur and his grandparents who nevertheless have pasts that are revealed piece by piece.
We see Alfgrimur grow up and begin to study and to sing and all the while the mysterious Gardar is in the background, appearing and disappearing. He becomes larger than life as the novel progresses but it is the minor characters who sustain the interest whether it be Captain Hogensen, Miss Gudmunsen, or the woman from Landbrot all with their foibles and funny ways and it is the love between Alfgimmur and his grandparents that is the heart of the novel for me.
Some favorite lines
‘he never deviates from the special manner of reading that people in Iceland once used for God’s Words, a monotonous and solemn chant in a high-pitched tone that dropped a fourth at the end of every sentence. This style of reading bore no trace of wordliness, although it had certain affinities with the mumblings of some of the mentally deranged.’
‘In Brekkukot, words were too precious to use – because they meant something; our conversation was like pristine money before inflation; experience was too profound to be capable of expression; only the bluebottle was free.’
“The man who wears no socks can acquire things which bestockinged people can never obtain. By saving on socks, one can afford stamps for letters from philosophers throughout the world and get from them the correct interpretation of obscure words in Sanskrit.”
‘Nothing was more natural to her than that turf-sods should be fastened round her thighs in order to increase her earthly strength, or that people should try to stop up her nostrils with warm cow-dung at the behest of some southern dung-doctor with a cleft palate, to see if such treatment could not ease the head pains.’
January 24, 2014
What a strange and bewildering book! I started it eagerly, then languished a bit in its digressive opening chapters. After ignoring it for a few weeks, I moved it to my 'on hold' shelf – usually the kiss of death – only to pick it up again and find myself drawn in. The story is narrated by a young boy, Alfgrímur, growing up under the care of his adoptive grandparents, who are principled, hardworking, poor, and generous to the point of recklessness. Their seaside cottage outside Reykjavik (still, at this point, a small town) is a magnet for hard up boarders, who come and go or simply settle in as part of the family. Young Alfgrímur, who shares a bed in a cramped loft with these misfits, absorbs their solemn tales and regards them all as bygone heroes. But the pattern of his life is ruled by the thrall and secrecy surrounding his elusive cousin, Gardar Hólm, a world famous singer and hero of Iceland.
Every sentence in this book is thick with wryness, so thick you feel as though you are reading in another language and glimpsing only half the meaning. It's both captivating and disorienting. Even as Alfgrímur grows up and his larger-than-life heroes come into focus as flawed, frayed human beings, the childlike credulity in his narration is replaced by a tactful restraint that is just as unhelpful to you, the reader, as you try to sift truth from legend in Alfgrímur's peculiar world.
Although I feel like I'd have to read it again to understand it, I couldn't help but like this book. It was puzzling and moving and beautiful. One day, I will read Independent People, and I'll go in ready for anything.
Every sentence in this book is thick with wryness, so thick you feel as though you are reading in another language and glimpsing only half the meaning. It's both captivating and disorienting. Even as Alfgrímur grows up and his larger-than-life heroes come into focus as flawed, frayed human beings, the childlike credulity in his narration is replaced by a tactful restraint that is just as unhelpful to you, the reader, as you try to sift truth from legend in Alfgrímur's peculiar world.
Although I feel like I'd have to read it again to understand it, I couldn't help but like this book. It was puzzling and moving and beautiful. One day, I will read Independent People, and I'll go in ready for anything.
March 23, 2020
დავიწყებ იმით, რომ რაღაც მომენტში ჩემთვის დამღლელიც იყო და თითქმის მთელი პირველი ნახევარი უბრალოდ ზანტად მომწონდა (რაზეც ვერ ვიტყოდი, რომ კარგია), მაგრამ, საერთო ჯამში, ძალიან არასწორი ვიქნები ჩემს თავთან, თუ ახლა 5 ვარსკვლავს არ დავუწერ.
დასაწყისიდანვე მოლოდინი მქონდა, რომ ბავშვობის სიტკბოებას მთელი სიცხადით ხელახლა მაზიარებდა და მოახერხა კიდეც, ბრეკუკოტის სხვენის, სტუმრების, ამბების, მა-რად მოწიკწიკე საათის, სასაფლაოს ზარის, მბრუნავი ჯვრის, მარადისობის დილას სათევზაოდ წასვლის, ხუთი ერეს ღირებულების ნამცხვრის, ხან ფისჰარმონიაზე დამკვრელი, ხან კი ფანჯარასთან ჩრდილის მოლოდინში მდგარი, გალუმპული ალფგრიმურის წყალობით.
ეს ყველაფერი კარგი, მაგრამ გარდარ ჰოლმი და მთელი მისი ამბები რომ არა, შეიძლება 3 ვარსკვლავზე მეტი არც გამემეტებინა ამ წიგნისთვის.
ძალიან საინტერესო, არაპროგნოზირებადი, უცნაური, თავისებური და გამორჩეული პერსონაჟია, რომელიც თავისი ამბით განსაკუთრებულ ხიბლს სძენს ამ წიგნს. მნიშვნელოვანია კავშირი რომელიც ალფგრიმურსა და მას შორის იკვეთება.
“შენი ღირსებების ქებათა-ქება გამიჭირდება, რადგანაც ჩემი ნაწილი ხარ განუყოფელი.”
წიგნს მსუბუქი და ნაზი სატირა გასდევს და იკვეთება აშკარა კონტრასტი სოფლის ცხოვრებასა და წარჩინებულ ადამიანთა ყოფას შორის. მნიშვნელოვანია, ცნობადობის მთელი უარყოფითი მხარეები, როგორ სულიერ სიმარტოვემდე შეიძლება მიიყვანოს ადამიანი დიდებამ და უსაზღვრო პოპულარობამ.
“არსებობს მხოლოდ ერთი ტონი, ვინც მას გაიგონებს, სხვა აღარაფერი სჭირდება. როცა მსოფლიო ყველაფრით დაგასაჩუქრებს, როცა დიდების შეუბრალებელი უღელი დაგაწვება მხრებზე, და დიდების დაღი შუბლზე გექნება ამომწვარი, თითქოს საშინელი დანაშაული ჩაგედინოს კაცობრიობის წინაშე, გახსოვდეს, მხოლოდ ამ ლოცვაში ჰპოვებ თავშესაფარს: “ღმერთო, წაიღე ჩემგან ყველაფერი, გარდა იმ ერთადერთი ტონისა”.
დასაწყისიდანვე მოლოდინი მქონდა, რომ ბავშვობის სიტკბოებას მთელი სიცხადით ხელახლა მაზიარებდა და მოახერხა კიდეც, ბრეკუკოტის სხვენის, სტუმრების, ამბების, მა-რად მოწიკწიკე საათის, სასაფლაოს ზარის, მბრუნავი ჯვრის, მარადისობის დილას სათევზაოდ წასვლის, ხუთი ერეს ღირებულების ნამცხვრის, ხან ფისჰარმონიაზე დამკვრელი, ხან კი ფანჯარასთან ჩრდილის მოლოდინში მდგარი, გალუმპული ალფგრიმურის წყალობით.
ეს ყველაფერი კარგი, მაგრამ გარდარ ჰოლმი და მთელი მისი ამბები რომ არა, შეიძლება 3 ვარსკვლავზე მეტი არც გამემეტებინა ამ წიგნისთვის.
ძალიან საინტერესო, არაპროგნოზირებადი, უცნაური, თავისებური და გამორჩეული პერსონაჟია, რომელიც თავისი ამბით განსაკუთრებულ ხიბლს სძენს ამ წიგნს. მნიშვნელოვანია კავშირი რომელიც ალფგრიმურსა და მას შორის იკვეთება.
“შენი ღირსებების ქებათა-ქება გამიჭირდება, რადგანაც ჩემი ნაწილი ხარ განუყოფელი.”
წიგნს მსუბუქი და ნაზი სატირა გასდევს და იკვეთება აშკარა კონტრასტი სოფლის ცხოვრებასა და წარჩინებულ ადამიანთა ყოფას შორის. მნიშვნელოვანია, ცნობადობის მთელი უარყოფითი მხარეები, როგორ სულიერ სიმარტოვემდე შეიძლება მიიყვანოს ადამიანი დიდებამ და უსაზღვრო პოპულარობამ.
“არსებობს მხოლოდ ერთი ტონი, ვინც მას გაიგონებს, სხვა აღარაფერი სჭირდება. როცა მსოფლიო ყველაფრით დაგასაჩუქრებს, როცა დიდების შეუბრალებელი უღელი დაგაწვება მხრებზე, და დიდების დაღი შუბლზე გექნება ამომწვარი, თითქოს საშინელი დანაშაული ჩაგედინოს კაცობრიობის წინაშე, გახსოვდეს, მხოლოდ ამ ლოცვაში ჰპოვებ თავშესაფარს: “ღმერთო, წაიღე ჩემგან ყველაფერი, გარდა იმ ერთადერთი ტონისა”.
April 2, 2019
I have a feeling that I describe every other Icelandic book as weird. This is one of those as well. Maybe just call it Icelandic weird (a good kind of weird). The pace is quite slow, you can actually read it as short stories in the majority of chapters, since the main character usually describes people and their life stories. The style of writing is really captivating and beautiful, it really transported me to another time and space. I took me a long time to finish this book, but that's only because you needn't rush through it to find out the story, you just enjoy in the moment and places described, a little at a time. I really like the characters and settings. I would call this a quiet book, but I think it stays with you long after reading. I will definitely read something else by Laxness, I just have to wait a while and fill my reading palate with some faster books to enjoy his slow and beautiful writing style again.
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