Another thing I want to do this week (in addition to a special post about Icelandic cuisine) is highlight some of the as-yet-untranslated authors featured on the wonderful Fabulous Iceland site.
First up is Gerður Kristný, who I had the honor of meeting last time I was in Iceland. (Facebook friends go first! Besides, Gerður and her husband, Kristján Jónasson, are two of the nicest people ever.) She’s the author of 18 books, mostly poetry, but also novels, short story collections, and children’s books.
As mentioned on the Fabulous Iceland site, 2010 was a kick-ass year for Gerður. Over the course of 2010 she won three prizes: the Jón úr Vör Poetry Prize, the Guðmundur Böðvarsson Poetry Prize, and West Nordic Children’s Literature Prize. She has a new book of poetry out—Blóðhófnir (Bloodhoof)—which is based on an ancient Eddic poem and has been receiving a lot of praise. And that comment about being one of the nicest people ever? She also spent some time in Uganda recently working with the Icelandic branch of Save the Children.
Fabulous Iceland has a very nice interview with Gerður, which is where the following is pulled from:
Your newest book draws on ancient Nordic literature: The Lay of Skírnir in the Poetic Edda. Sixteen years before that, you dealt with the exact same work in the poem “Til Skírnis” (“To Skírnir”), which appeared in your debut. Did the material for Bloodhoof stay with you for all those years?
As a child, I fell in love with Norse mythology. I thought the stories were terrific. The tale of my namesake, Gerður, the daughter of Gymir, was an early favorite, so I lent her a voice in my first work, the poetry book Ísfrétt (Ice Report, 1994). Later, after turning in the manuscript of my first novel, Regnbogi í póstinum (A Rainbow in the Mail, 1996), I decided to celebrate by getting a tattoo. I had an old friend, the late tattoo-artist Helgi, tattoo Freyr’s sword on me. I’ve gone around armed ever since. I would later write a poem about Helgi, which appeared in Höggstaður (Weak Point, 2007).
The new book undermines the traditional reading of The Lay of Skírnir as a love poem. Instead, it highlights the coercion brought to bear on the giantess Gerður. Tellingly, equal rights have been a persistent theme in your work. There is a special kind of impact in subverting old traditions like this, isn’t there?
Equal rights are often mentioned in the pieces I’ve written for the newspaper Fréttablaðið during the past five years, but not in the poetry you are referring to. Scholars have covered The Lay of Skírni_r very well in the past few years, and no wonder – it’s a captivating poem that lends itself readily to interpretation. I find the coercion in _The Lay of Skírnir to be plain as day. Gerður Gymisdóttir has no more choice than the young girls I recently met in Uganda. Just like her, they were snatched from their homes and forced into the service of men. Skírnir bullied Gerður with threats, the worst of which was the threat of eternal loneliness, that she will only have death to look forward to. It’s understandable that this threat sways her. When I was little, I read that Gerður was counted among the Æsir – the Norse Gods – after arriving in their midst. At the time I thought that this must have been a great honor to her. However, if you read the poem you’ll see that she doesn’t want to leave her home and only gives in under extreme duress. The lay comes to a close when Skírnir informs the god Freyr that Gerður is on her way. I wanted to continue the story and relate what happened when Freyr and Gerður meet. And that’s what I did in Bloodhoof.
There is a strong element of horror in your poetry. Does fear fascinate you?
My world of poetry has always had very strict border patrols. However, fear was an early settler, settling into its deepest crevices. It’s stayed there ever since; I don’t think I’ll be evicting it by now. In any case, there has to be room for the whole spectrum of emotions. [. . .]
18 works in 16 years. Is more on the way?
There sure is! In late January, my musical Ballið á Bessastöðum (The Bessastaðir Ball) will premier on the main stage of the National Theater. It’s adapted from two of my books: The Bessastaðir Ball (2007) and Prinsessan á Bessastöðum (The Bessastaðir Princess, 2009). After that, there are at least two novels waiting to be finished, and I have quite a bit of unpublished poetry. In December, I’ll be heading off to a poetry festival in Bangladesh, and no doubt some of the things I’ll see there will find their way into poetry. I’ll bring a notepad along, sketch down ideas, and when I get home I’ll see if they’re worth anything.
“Rambling Jack—what’s that?”
“A novel. Novella, I guess.”
“Yeah, it looks short. What is it, a hundred pages?”
“Sorta. It’s a duel language book, so really, only about… 50 pages total.”
“And this—what. . .
Many authors are compared to Roberto Bolaño. However, very few authors have the privilege of having a Roberto Bolaño quote on the cover of their work; and at that, one which states, “Good readers will find something that can be. . .
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When a novel states a fact that ties into another fact and another and another, as the chain goes on. . .
César Aira dishes up an imaginative parable on how identity shapes our sense of belonging with Dinner, his latest release in English. Aira’s narrator (who, appropriately, remains nameless) is a self-pitying, bitter man—in his late fifties, living again with. . .
Originally published in French in 2007, We’re Not Here to Disappear (On n’est pas là pour disparaître) won the Prix Wepler-Fondation La Poste and the Prix Pierre Simon Ethique et Réflexion. The work has been recently translated by Béatrice Mousli. . .
Even though the latest from Jean Echenoz is only a thin volume containing seven of what he calls “little literary objects,” it is packed with surprises. In these pieces, things happen below the surface, sometimes both literally and figuratively. As. . .
Who is this woman? This is the question that opens Xiao Bai’s French Concession, a novel of colonial-era Shanghai’s spies and revolutionaries, police and smugglers, who scoot between doorways, walk nonchalantly down avenues, smoke cigars in police bureaus, and lounge. . .
For the past 140 years, Anna Karenina has been loved by millions of readers all over the world. It’s easy to see why: the novel’s two main plots revolve around characters who are just trying to find happiness through love.. . .
Linn Ullmann’s The Cold Song, her fifth novel, is built much like the house about which its story orbits: Mailund, a stately white mansion set in the Norwegian countryside a few hours drive from Oslo. The house, nestled into the. . .
Karel Schoeman’s Afrikaans novel, This Life, translated by Else Silke, falls into a genre maybe only noticed by the type of reader who tends toward Wittgenstein-type family resemblances. The essential resemblance is an elderly narrator, usually alone—or with one other. . .