In the tumultuous twentieth century, the 1940s were for Iceland the most tumultuous
decade of all. Iceland went from being the poorest country in Europe, largely ignored
by the major European powers, to being one of the most prosperous regions and a major
player in the international chess game of the Cold War. Among the major events, one
may single out:
| April 10, 1940. |
The Alþingi, responding to the German occupation of Denmark, votes unanimously to
assume the governmental responsibilities of the crown, in particular foreign affairs
and defense.
|
| May 10, 1940. |
A British force of ultimately 25,000 troops occupies Iceland to protect British interests
in the north-west Atlantic. The Alþingi protests to no avail. Numerous naval and air-force
bases are established throughout the country.
|
| June 17, 1941. |
The Alþingi chooses Sveinn Björnsson as regent (ríkisstjóri) of Iceland.
|
| July 7, 1941. |
American troops take over the occupation of Iceland at the request of the Alþingi
after British troops are withdrawn for service in other theatres of war. The Americans
numbered 50,000 by the end of 1942 (the population of Iceland had numbered 121,474
in the census of December 2, 1940 (Jónsson and Magnússon 1997, 49).
|
| May 20-23, 1944. |
In a national referendum in which 98.4% of eligible voters participated, 71,122 voted
for independence from Denmark and 377 were opposed (Jónsson and Magnússon 1997, 877,
889).
|
| June 17, 1944. |
Iceland declares itself an independent nation, ending 682 years of foreign rule by
first the Norwegian and then the Danish Crown. Sveinn Björnsson is declared the first
president of the republic.
|
| July 25, 1946. |
The Alþingi votes 36 to 6 in favour of Iceland joining the United Nations. |
| October 5, 1946. |
The Alþingi votes 32 to 19 to permit American forces to remain in Keflavík for six
and a half years. The political left is outraged that Icelandic independence so dearly
won, should be thus squandered by permitting the country to be occupied by a foreign
military power. In September a mob had attacked the Prime Minister, who was attending a meeting of
his party.
|
| July 3, 1948. |
Despite protests from the left, Iceland signs a five-year agreement to take part in
the Marshall Plan to rebuild Europe.
|
| March 30, 1949. |
The Alþingi votes 37 to 13 to join NATO. During the parliamentary debate a large crowd
of people opposed to this agreement gathered before parliament and tried to storm
the building. A large-scale riot broke out. Police and auxiliaries responded with
tear-gas and baton charges. Those who voted in favour of this agreement are accused
of treason (landráð) by their opponents.
|
| May 7, 1951. |
American troops begin arriving in Keflavík. The government announces that, in accordance
with the NATO agreement, the United States had taken over Iceland’s defense and had
been given permission to station troops at Keflavík. This was confirmed by the Alþingi
on December 11.
|
The appearance of a new novel by Halldór Kiljan Laxness was always a literary event,
but few could have predicted the furor that was to be generated by the appearance
of Gerpla [Wayward Heroes] in 1952. But this reaction did not arise out of nowhere; the roots of the controversy
include academic challenges to traditional understandings of the significance of the
Íslendinga sögur [Sagas of Icelanders], the controversy surrounding Halldór’s plan
to produce editions of these sagas in
modern spelling, and the mixed reception of his novel Atómstöðin [The Atom Station]–which reflected deep divisions in Icelandic society over membership in NATO (North
Atlantic Treaty Organization) and the establishment of an American base at Keflavík.
When Gerpla appeared the initial response, especially from the left, was extremely positive,
although at least one critic demurred. However, in February and March 1953, two extremely
hostile reviews were published in two of the leading newspapers, which garnered a
great deal of attention despite valiant attempts to negate their influence. Each of
the reviews, positive or negative, from the period December 1952 to mid-1953 are here
summarized and discussed in order to give a sense of how the various authors, representing
various political factions, presented their arguments. Given the constraints of space
involved with discussing numerous lengthy reviews and other publication-related documents,
I have chosen to summarize the Icelandic text; once I have mentioned the venue and
author, a summary of the argument usually follows in English. All translations from
the Icelandic in the body of the text and References as well as the paraphrases are
solely my responsibility unless otherwise indicated. In the context of particular
reviews, those who are interested in the original Icelandic will find complete bibliographical
information cited in the References.
Between 1933 and 1935, Hið íslenzka fornritafélag [The Icelandic Early Text Society]
published the first three volumes of what was to become the standard edition of medieval
Icelandic texts. This was part of a process aimed at re-claiming Iceland’s medieval
literary heritage for Iceland rather than sharing it as part of a pan-Scandinavian
“Old Norse” culture. Thus, the society and its publications challenged the authority
vested in
the publications of the Samfund til udgivelse af gammel nordisk litteratur [The Society
for the Publication of Old Norse Literature] based in Copenhagen, and the Altnordische Saga-Bibliothek, headquartered in Halle, Germany. The Íslenzk fornrit volumes also asserted their independence by printing the saga
texts in the Society’s own normalized spelling convention. In 1935 Halldór wrote an essay condemning this approach, insisting that any edition
of the sagas intended for an Icelandic audience should be printed using modern spelling
conventions (Laxness 1935).
In the years following this article, 1937–1940, Halldór was at work on his major novel
now known as Heimsljós [Light of the world] (first published 1955, later editions 1957 and 1967). Then on
October 9, 1941, there
appeared an article in the afternoon newspaper, Visir, headlined in heavy type: “Bækur á næstunni … Ný útgáfa Íslendingasagna á nútíma
máli” [Forthcoming Books … New edition of the Íslendingasögur in Modern Icelandic]
(“Bækur á næstunni,” 2). There was some confusion about what Laxness intended, for
initially it was assumed
that he was going to translate the sagas into some kind of modern Icelandic. But whatever
was intended, this announcement set off alarm bells in conservative quarters. In an
editorial published in Tíminn two days later, Jónas Jónsson frá Hriflu, who had self-assumed the role of guardian of Iceland’s
national culture against modern trends (especially those of the leftist variety),
attacked the competency of Halldór Laxness as a translator. Jónas said that a “málfróður
maður” [language expert] had examined Halldór’s translation of A Farewell to Arms (Hemingway 1941) and was of the opinion that there were at least 4000 errors of translation
in it. Furthermore, so far as Jónas was concerned, this translation was so vulgar that it
clearly disqualified Halldór as someone competent enough to have anything to do with
translating the sagas (Jónsson 1941a, 402). In a long follow-up article published a fortnight later, Jónas warned again of the
dire consequences of Halldór and the communists having a free hand with the “helgur
dómur” [sacred relics] of the sagas. The result would be nothing less than the denigration
of the ideals
of Icelandic womanhood: “Halldór Laxness ætti að ríða á vaðið með því að klæða Guðrúnu
Ósvífsdóttur og Þorbjörgu
Egilsdóttur í þann skrúða sem forleggjari kommúnistanna á Íslandi þætti bezt henta” [Halldór
Laxness intends to begin by clothing Guðrún Ósvífsdóttir and Þorbjörg Egilsdóttir
in that finery that seems to best suit the publishing house of the Icelandic communists]
(1941b, 426). Such was the uproar that three members of parliament introduced a law into the Alþingi
that the copyright of all Icelandic works written before 1400 was to be invested in
the state, and that any individual or entity apart from the Fornritafélag would have
to get the permission and approval of the Menntamálaráðherra [Minister for Education]
before publishing any such work. After a contentious debate the law was passed in
December.
As the debate in the Alþingi loomed, Laxdæla saga was rushed into print before the new law could take effect (Laxness 1941a). As a result the edition is flawed despite being based on the Fornrit text established
by Einar Ólafur Sveinsson (Laxdæla saga 1934). In August of the following year an edition of Hrafnkatla með lögboðinn stafsetningu íslenzka ríkisins [Hrafnkels saga with the legally prescribed spelling of the Icelandic nation] appeared, carefully
edited, using the text established by Konráð Gíslason and published
as a challenge to the new law (Laxness 1942; Hrafnkels saga Freysgoða 1847). The response was not long in coming. On November 17, 1942, Halldór and his publisher
and printer, all of whom were named on the title page, were fined 1000 krónur each
or sentenced to 45 days in prison in the event of the fine not being paid. They immediately
appealed the decision, and on July 9, 1943, the Hæstaréttur [Supreme Court] announced
its decision. The majority ruled that the defendants had not broken the law and that the law itself
was an infringement of the constitutionally guaranteed right of freedom of the press
although it was for the Alþingi to repeal it.
Halldór and his publishers secured permission from Einar Arnórsson, the new dóms-
og menntamálaráðherra [Justice and Education Minister] (and Halldór’s father-in-law,
1930–1940), for a new edition of Njáls saga. As soon as this news came out three of the more ardent cultural nationalists in
the Alþingi proposed that the state should itself undertake a new edition of the saga
and distribute it at the taxpayers’ expense to all households in the country in order
to head off the imagined baleful influence of an edition prepared by Halldór Laxness.
In this they had an ally in Jónas frá Hriflu, the chairman of the Menntamálaráð [Educational
Commission]. As might be expected there was a considerable furor about all of this, and Halldór
found himself in the thick of it, characterizing the state edition as a “hatursútgáfa”
[spiteful edition] before it appeared in 1944 (Laxness 1943c). Halldór’s own edition of Njála appeared during the following year in a large and handsome volume, complete with
an index and 71 specially commissioned woodcuts by Gunnlaugur Scheving, Snorri Arinbjarnarson,
and Þorvaldur Skúlason (Laxness 1945a). Furthermore Halldór seems to have learned from the criticisms levelled against his
Laxdæla saga edition. On this occasion no chapters or genealogies are omitted and again the text
follows that established by Finnur Jónsson (Brennu-Njáls saga (Njála) 1908).
At the same time as he was involved in editing the sagas and coping with the controversies
that ensued, Halldór was also working on Íslandsklukkan [Iceland’s Bell], a novel many consider to be his finest work (Laxness 1943a, 1944a, 1946a, 1957). Certainly, he was by this time not only the best-known Icelandic author but also
the most divisive. The controversies surrounding his work continued with the publication
in 1948 of Atómstöðin, a novel-length exposé of the rootlessness of the newly wealthy urban middle class,
as seen through the eyes of a simple country girl. The backdrop to the novel is the
political intrigue leading up to the vote in parliament on October 5, 1946, which
permitted American forces to remain in Keflavík, and also the bizarre story surrounding
the repatriation of the mortal remains (perhaps) of Jónas Hallgrímsson—and the intervention
of the government to have them interred at Þingvellir on November 16, 1946, rather
than his home farm of Bakki in Öxnadalur. In Atómstöðin it seems as if it is only the heroes of the Íslendingasögur—and the communists—who have Iceland’s best interests at heart. As might be expected
this novel was not accorded the unanimous praise that Íslandsklukkan had received, and there remains no real critical consensus on how to interpret the
work.
Earlier in 1945, Halldór published an important essay outlining his views about the
family sagas (Laxness 1945b). He refers warmly to the work of Sigurður Nordal and Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and particularly
approves of suggestions that episodes in the sagas can be traced to similar ones in
Continental Latin works. His discussion of Egla, Njála, and Gretla leads him to conclude that the Íslendinga sögur are priceless resources concerning
Icelandic culture in the thirteenth century and that they say more about the time
in which they were written than the time about which they were writing. They are not
reliable history, even if they feature elements such as genealogies and supposed eye-witness
accounts. He then singles out those “frumstæður” [primitive] or child-like individuals
such as Finnur Jónsson, professor in Copenhagen, who are
unable to distinguish between sagnlist [narrative skill] and sagnfræði [history]. The sagas nourished the nation in the times of greatest hardship; their
language
and style were jewels owned by all. They reminded Icelanders that they too were heroes
and had a pedigree.
When it became known that Halldór’s next novel was going to be set in saga-age Iceland,
both his supporters and opponents eagerly awaited its appearance, given that in the
decade before the publication of this work, Halldór had been heavily involved in literary
and political controversies involving the
Íslendingasögur. That Halldór chose
Fóstbræðra saga as the basis for this novel should not perhaps have been a surprise, as it appears
to have been a work about which he was thinking. In chapter 19 of
Atómstöðin, Geiri í Miðhúsum says:
Mín hetjan er og verður Þorgeir Hávarsson. … Og af hverju? Það er af því hann hafði
minst hjarta í öllum fornsögum samanlögðum. Þegar þeir skáru úr honum þetta hjarta
sem aldrei kent ótta, ekki einusinni á Grænlandi, þá var það ekki stærra en fóarn
í titling. (162–63)
[My hero is and will be Þorgeir Hávarsson. … And why? It is because he had the smallest
heart in all the early sagas combined. When they cut from him that heart which never
knew fear, not even once in Greenland, then it was not larger than the gizzard in
a sparrow.]
After a four-year wait, on December 5, 1952, Gerpla appeared in the bookstores (Laxness 1952). On the day of publication, Þjóðviljinn introduced the novel on its front page as one that takes place in the eleventh century
all over the place in Europe. In the beginning of the story several episodes are borrowed
from Fóstbræðra saga, but subsequently a new and unknown story is told (“Gerpla, hin nýja skaldsaga,”
1).
Tíminn made the publication of the novel major front page news: “This book which is written
in the spirit and with the language appropriate to former
centuries, is an innovation in Icelandic literature, and it will be interesting for
many to see how the author faces the challenges that the great subject matter has
placed on his shoulders” (“Skáldsaga Kiljans,” 1). Halldór Laxness says that this is not a novel to be read on the kitchen steps or
during a bout of flu, and not a novel with which to while away the time, but a work
of art that many will lose themselves in as they read it.
Later that same month, Tíminn published a long review by Halldór Kristjánsson frá Kirkjubóli (1910–2000), which
is one of the few contemporary reviews to take a hard look at Gerpla as a work of literature and not to get side-tracked by personal animosities or ideological
quarrels. The book is introduced as a satire and an attack on hero-worship and the
misuse of religion in the service of war mongering. The language is a combination
of the style of the Icelandic medieval romances [riddarasögur], mixed in with the author’s own innovations. After describing how the three main
characters are presented, Halldór frá Kirkjubóli points out that Laxness is following
in the footsteps of poets such as Matthías Jochumsson (1835–1920) who likewise attacked
hero-worship. Laxness has also chosen to go his own way in his spelling of Icelandic. His obsession with lice is discussed and the possibility raised that some time in
the future there will be a doctoral dissertation on this subject. Furthermore, the
book is not written to describe individuals but rather symptoms, and the tropes employed
by the author will begin to wear on some before the book is finished, as most practical
jokes tire people in the long run (Kristjánsson 1952, 5). Because Laxness chooses
to present his protagonists as caricatures, he fails to
engage the sympathy and compassion of his readers. While he has composed a great book
with great skill, it would have been all the more remarkable if he had sought to show
human destiny in peace and war; to show how various kinds of war propaganda sometimes
overwhelm good souls. This happens despite the fact that this propaganda incites people
to kill others in the name of peace (Kristjánsson 1952, 7).
Morgunblaðið, the country’s most read newspaper, noted that the novel had been published (“Gerpla—ný
bók Kiljans,” 2), while
Alþýðublaðið held its report over to the back page (“Gerpla, ný skáldsaga,” 8). The discussion focuses on the secrecy surrounding the publication of the volume,
which is longer than
Íslandsklukkan, and on how it employs the written conventions and vocabulary of the medieval sagas.
It notes the author’s claim that this was such a difficult task that it took him four
years to complete the novel (8). The following week “Hannes á horninu” (Vilhjálmur
S. Vilhjálmsson, 1903–1966) in his regular column reported that the book
was already controversial, but that one person whom he had met who was on the other
side of the political spectrum from Halldór Laxness had found the book excellent,
with
its caricature of the medieval Icelandic sagas recalling the spirit of
Don Quixote (Hannes á horninu 3). Two weeks later, in the column “Brottnir Pennar” [Broken Pens], the newspaper published
a letter from Filipus Bessason
hreppstjóri, who looks forward to Halldór Laxness rewriting other sagas, especially
Njála. For example, he could make the scene where Njáll and Bergþóra place themselves under
the ox-hide at the burning of Bergþórshvoll much more accessible and memorable by
having Bergþóra say to her husband: “Legg þú koll þinn í skaut mér, Njáll bóndi minn,
og skal ég nú leita þér lúsa í hinzta
sinn!” [Put your head on my lap, Njáll dear, and I shall now for the last time check
you for
lice!] (Bessason 6). He could also make the saga more artistic and raise it to a higher literary level,
by calling Hallgerður “Hallinrassa” [lack-arse] or “Langrassa” [long arse], just in
the same way he called Kolbrún, “Kolrassa” [black arse] (Bessason 6).
The first periodical review also appeared in December in the journal Tímarit Máls og menningar. This final number of the year normally would have appeared on December 1, but it
appears to have been held up so that it could include the text of the public lecture
on the novel by one of the journal’s editors, Jakob Benediktsson (1907–1999). “Gerpla er komin út” [Gerpla has been published], it announces. However, the review itself is quite remarkable
for how little is says
about the content of the novel. Jakob emphasizes how each one of Halldór’s novels
is different from the one before, and Gerpla is no exception. Noting that the novel draws its material from the medieval sagas,
Jakob raises the question as to whether any modern writer can improve upon that which
Icelanders already consider sacred relics [helga dómur] and a national treasure. This is certainly an issue on which other authors have
found
themselves in difficulty. The key to success is language and style: how does the matter
stand with Gerpla? Jakob rejects those who claim that it is written in Old Icelandic. It is true that
much of the vocabulary is found only in earlier literature, as is some of the morphology.
But the language in Gerpla is very much a living language, with distinct, charming, and alluring tension between
the old quality and modern style (Benediktsson 1987, 43). Then there is the humour that one has come to expect from Halldór’s works. Of all
of his novels, Gerpla is probably the one that is composed with the greatest skill in terms of language
and style. But what about the characters and the events? It is as if they are reflected
in a spéspegill [funhouse-mirror]. But Halldór has pointed out that the medieval sagas are founded
on imaginative art,
rather than historical reality, and Gerpla abounds with unforgettable scenes and descriptions. Jakob mentions some of the more
memorable and then briefly discusses the three main characters, Þorgeir, Þormóður,
and Ólafur. He notes that some people are going to be upset because several of the
book’s other characters are described very differently compared to the medieval sources.
But Halldór’s characters have to live the life he gives them, whatever the source
texts may have to say about them, for they contribute to delivering the message of
the novel—although Jakob excuses himself from addressing what that might be. Even
so he continues by claiming that the novel is about the stupidity of the heroic ideal
that trusts in the sword alone and measures an individual’s accomplishments in terms
of killings. This position is contrasted to the lives of those people who are content
and peaceful, such as the inhabitants of Hornstrandir or the Inuit, people whose way
of life is threatened by the values represented by the heroic code. But this is not
done to criticize the historicity of the sagas or to deprive them of their romantic
veil of glory. No, argues Jakob, it is to remind us today that we still struggle with the same problems,
even though there is a difference between the blunt blade of an axe and an atomic
bomb. Industrial warfare may have dramatically increased the kill ratio that was possible
in the Viking age, but the belief in power and violence has not changed. This message
concerns all of us, especially now, which is why Gerpla is a book about the present despite its setting.
Also in December 1952, the linguist Sveinn Bergsveinsson (1907–1988) published a review
of Gerpla in Menn og menntir, the short-lived periodical of the Menningar- og fræðslusamband alþýðu [M.F.A. Workers
Educational Association] edited by Tómas Guðmundsson. As in the review by Halldór Kristjánsson frá Kirkjubóli, Sveinn attempts to evaluate
Gerpla on its own terms, and he finds it to be a novel about futile heroics. He outlines
what he considers to be the lesser of the two plots in the novel involving Þorgeir
Hávarsson, a man whose most sought-after pastime is to learn how to use weapons and
kill people, a man who never chooses peace if there is the possibility of war, and
Þormóður Kolbrúnarskáld, a poet and womanizer who finds it a noble occupation to compose
poetry about Þorgeir’s feats so that they may live forever. The problem is that Iceland
is a country poorly provided with weapons and a land where the inhabitants are more
concerned with farming than killing people. Their exploits on Strandir and the encounter
with Bútraldi Brúsason end unsatisfactorily. Eventually Þormóður finds himself stranded
in Greenland in his futile attempt to avenge Þorgeir’s death—a situation not conducive
to poetry. Finally at the Battle of Stiklastaðir, he is unable to recite to King Ólafur
the long poem he had composed celebrating him.
For Sveinn, the more important plotline follows Þorgeir overseas, although he is hardly
the focus of the narrative. Powerful people interact wth him, but Þorgeir, the Don
Quixote of the novel, as might be expected, does not understand these people. Sveinn
observes that when the Northmen made themselves Icelandic farmers, not because of
the persecution of Haraldur háfagri, but because they wanted more space for themselves, they brought with them the social
structure they knew best, that of the independent farmer. In Norway a monarchical
system developed with royal officials. Killing someone was no longer an heroic exploit,
but rather a part of lawful royal rule. Sveinn argues that this was something the
Icelanders did not understand. Their custom was: one against one unless timidity intervened.
Þorgeir becomes tired of the king’s mass murders. He tries to obtain a modicum of
fame for himself, but is able to achieve little more than his own disgrace. The kings
however were only interested in fighting each other, burning settlements and farms,
killing farmers, women and children, and oppressing the people with taxes to pay for
wars or their own ransom. And they behaved worst of all towards their own retainers.
Gerpla is not only a book about the vanity of heroism but also about the crimes of humanity.
This for Sveinn is the main theme of the novel.
The language of Gerpla, Sveinn states, is new. That is, old. Not old as in the family sagas, but rather
with their literary tinge and structure. Archaic words abound, most of them from medieval
literature or similar sources. The author has called it an experiment, and it is an
experiment that would be impossible to repeat. Gerpla is a devastating book, full of magical power. If anyone is going to read it, then
that individual needs to read it closely. And it is not a book for Icelanders, but
rather for all those people who do not have war as their god. But unfortunately the
book is not translatable into other languages (Bergsveinsson 104–07).
After a six year hiatus, the journal Helgafell was revived in 1953. The first issue included a review of Gerpla attributed to “Crassus” who in this instance was Sverrir Kristjánsson (1908–1976). The review opens by claiming
that Halldór’s new novel is a masterpiece [dvergasmíður] in every respect. Gerpla—a heroic saga in the heroic style—has been published. Yet the book review columns
of some newspapers keep quiet about the book, while the most popular newspaper in
the country summons some kind of bændaferð [rural attack] on the author. Inevitably, the reviews of these bookish individuals create an atmosphere
similar to when the dogs are set on a guest who rides into the yard. Such is Icelandic
hospitality when one should welcome into Bragi’s yard a new novel by Halldór Kiljan Laxness.
No living writer except Halldór Laxness, Sverrir argues, could have taken the enormous
leap in language and style that he did with such apparent ease when he began writing
Gerpla after Atómstöðin. But for Halldór, delving into the past is not abandoning those themes that he addressed
in Atómstöðin, his novel of the war years. In Gerpla he is getting to the core of a number of contemporary problems. His subject matter
is war and peace, subjects that loom large in the modern world, and yet that are as
old as humanity itself. He could have set out to create a highly moral “historical
novel” in a contemporary style, but he elected not to do so. He chose rather to let
the
burning problems of the past illuminate the personal life and events of the present,
to dress them up and interpret them in a linguistic style that, in terms of the choice
of words and ideas, was tied to Old Icelandic literature. The review makes it clear
that while Gerpla is not “historical fiction,” it is the result of a great deal of historical research.
Gerpla is similar to other Halldór Laxness novels in that it is exaggerated, ornamented,
and embossed. But Halldór always tells the truth. When he ceases to tell the truth,
he will cease to be a poet.
Sverrir then analyzes the events of the novel in some detail. He notes that Þormóður’s
story differs quite considerably from its sources, although Halldór changes Þorgeir’s
narrative very little. Together, the narratives are reminiscent of Cervantes’ Don Quixote. The love story involving Þormóður, Kolbrún, and Þordís is also examined before the
exploits of Þorgeir in Normandy and England are discussed. If his exploits on Hornstrandir
had not brought Þorgeir much glory, being on the Continent is hardly an improvement.
The guerilla warfare of the citizens of London defeats the much better equipped Viking
army. Halldór sets up nameless peasant forces against the famous generals and heroes
of the Viking armies and rewards them with victories. The working farmer is the representative
of this social morality that grows in the soil of peace. And alongside the farmers
are their women.
As Sverrir observes, some may find that perhaps no individual in the novel is dealt
with more disgracefully than saint Ólafur. But he is a Viking. He conquers Norway
with fire and sword. This is the kind of king whom the foster brothers want to serve.
Those who are upset about Halldór’s treatment of Ólafur should go back and read Ólafs saga in Heimskringla where they will find that Snorri comes very close to blaspheming the Saint. The description
of Ólafur in Gerpla comes from Snorri himself.
For Sverrir, it cannot be said too often that Gerpla is Halldór’s greatest achievement. It is true that it is difficult to draw distinctions
between his many books. But, for most readers, the greatest source of wonder will
be Halldór’s ability to master the narrative voice that was necessary for the creation
of a work such as Gerpla. The perennial literary argument over the content and form of any work of art seems
to have been solved a long time ago, at least so far as Halldór is concerned. The
argument about which should be given priority is in reality an argument over which
comes first, the chicken or the egg. Halldór has always found in each work a stylistic
form appropriate to the content. He took the greatest risk when he developed the style
for Gerpla, but he has succeeded magnificently in avoiding all pitfalls. As to how he achieved
this—that is the secret of genius that people will probably never understand, even
if it were shown to them. It is the secret that Halldór Laxness alone knows, along
with the muse of fiction (“Crassus” 91–102; Sverrir Kristjánsson 4: 171–88).
But not everyone was quite so positive or as rapturous as these reviewers. The novel
was reviewed in the first issue of Eimreiðin for 1953 by Þorsteinn Jónsson (1885–1970), who usually wrote under the pseudonym
Þórir Bergsson. He opens his review by noting that Halldór Laxness is in the first
rank of Icelandic authors, although Atómstöðin, his most recent work, was the source of some disappointment. But everyone has to
stumble sometimes. Gerpla has now arrived, and Þorsteinn notes the peculiar vocabulary deriving from both medieval
and modern works and from who knows where. The novel is a mixture of the style of
the riddarasögur, the glibness of children’s books, the romanticism of the medieval
sagas, and modern language—a peculiar style without parallel in Icelandic literature.
The novel is a sharp satire [háðsrit] of the medieval sagas, casting a dim shadow over their brightness. For its subject
matter, it takes one of the most improbable [óhugnanlegusta] of the sagas, Fóstbræðra saga, an ugly and unlikely story about a murder-sick man and a half-crazy poet. The novel
also attacks chivalry and the people of the period. Not that Halldór does not have
many true and important things to say, but everything is painted in the most garish
colours and most often it is the worst things that receive the most emphasis. All
periods have their dark corners, the Middle Ages no less than the present, and many
nations seem not to have advanced since those days. Barbarity and brutality still
predominate in the world, especially where “nýir siðir” [new faiths] are proclaimed,
and some of those missionaries are grimmer than ever Ólafur Haraldsson
may have been. But it is unpleasant to know that the gentle faith of Christ is preached with such
ferocity and in such a discreditable fashion. Ólafur is presented as a monster and
Þorsteinn is sure that little of this will stand up to scholarly scrutiny. It is clear
that Halldór intends to attack Christian missionary activity, rather than give a neutral description of
it. He does this in the most scathing and ludicrous fashion, utilizing the style of
stories about knights and robbers. The novel is a kind of resurrection or rebirth
of a medieval prose style, mixed with the new, and presented in a masterly, although
not always comprehensible, way. Worst of all is the prospect that there will be a
horde of imitators of this style in future years, and Þorsteinn warns writers against
trying to follow in the footsteps of the master. As a novel, Gerpla does not come up to the level of Halldór’s masterpieces. Nevertheless, it resonates
with power and is an amazing book, although in many respects unfair and full of extremes,
like the knightly romances and religious books. The review concludes by complaining
about Halldór’s idiosyncratic spelling, noting that it is a bad state of affairs when
people cannot agree on a single, consistent spelling system for Modern Icelandic.
But the real controversy only began with a long review in Tíminn by Helgi Haraldsson á Hrafnkelsstöðum (1891–1984) (1953; text quoted from 1971 printing). Helgi had crossed swords with Halldór Laxness before, and this time there was no
holding back. For him the medieval sagas are stock market shares underwritten by gold, whatever
turmoil there might be in the storm-tossed world market. Every good Icelander would
agree that it should be a sacred matter of high seriousness for each of them to ensure
that the gold standard of the medieval sagas remains unchanged through the ages. But
there appears to be one exception, because Halldór has taken it upon himself the noble
[veglegur] task of cataloging this literature in terms of a different and debased rate of exchange.
He has begun with Fóstbræðra saga and his rehash is twice as long. Helgi admits that he was among those who looked
forward with apprehension to the much advertised appearance of the novel because of
its subject matter. No one can deny that when he wants to, Halldór can write elegantly
and well, but it is equally clear that his puerile disposition gets in the way. Helgi
suspected that the approach might be playful and bought the book immediately, reading
it from cover to cover. Never before had he needed to exercise such strength of mind
in reading through to the end of the novel. In brief, he had never before encountered
“önnur eins uppgrip af bulli í einni og sömu bók” [another such overwhelming amount
of drivel in one and the same book] (151–52). Either Halldór is mocking himself or
the Icelandic nation, or perhaps both at the
same time. The principal components in the book are pornography and blasphemy: it
is among the most disgusting of its kind to be read. Woven into the narrative is a
kind of grotesque vocabulary that the author has cobbled together. Yet, there are
the phrases stolen from the medieval sagas, which shine like gems in this mudslide
[leirskríða]. In short, that which is good in this book is not new, and that which is new is
not
good. Then Helgi tackles the vocabulary and outlandish terms such as prinsípissa [princess]. And while everyone knows what frilla [mistress] means, it is apparently not vulgar enough for Halldór who comes up with
fuðflagi. Nor has Helgi ever heard of vændismenn [male prostitutes, but here probably just a term of abuse], another of Halldór’s
vulgarities. Neither of these words appear to have been used in Old Icelandic and to introduce
them to the language would not be to clothe it in any kind of Sunday best.
The novel begins by following Fóstbræðra saga; as an example of how Halldór describes his characters Helgi takes the example of
Butraldi Brúsason from chapter 14 (Laxness 1952, 118–20; Laxness 2016, 111–12). There
is nothing like this in Njála or Heimskringla. There is no point in referring to Gerpla with the intention of identifying the most stupid element in the narrative, because
this book is superior to all the other Halldór Laxness books that Helgi has read;
unlike the author’s other works, this one is far from stupid in a number of respects
[misvitlaus].
As for the latter part of the book, it is as if Vellýgni-Bjarni [Bjarni the big-liar] has taken over, so completely is the narrative turned inside out, in the sense that
none of the events described have anything to do with the medieval sources, and Helgi
spends some time putting Halldór right. In Lúsa-Oddi, Halldór encountered someone
in the medieval sagas who was to his taste, and thus Halldór gives him a significant
role in the latter part of the novel. But there he is called Lúsoddi, because it is
apparent that one should rape [nauðga] the language whenever possible. Nor do things improve with Þormóður. He follows
Lúsoddi
to Greenland, never meets him, and ends up involved in the most preposterous adventures
before returning to Norway as a cripple incapable of doing anything. Then Helgi poses
the question to the older generation of readers, those who grew up with and adored
the medieval sagas: how do they like Halldór’s description of one of the chief champions
of medieval saga literature? What kind of message does this send to the younger generation, given this description
and with no mention of Þormóður’s heroic death after the battle of Stiklastaðir? If
the Icelandic nation had the manhood it had a hundred years ago, it would say in one
voice: “Vér mótmælum allir” [we protest all of it]. Has Halldór Laxness ever thanked his Creator for that indispensable attribute, which
has been granted to him, to not know how to be ashamed? Or has he taken out a patent
to lie regarding all kinds of crimes and shameful behaviour involving long-dead people
of distinction as he does in this singular book? Was he so short of names for his
characters that he had to reach back to the medieval sagas when he set out to write
such balderdash [þvætting]? Instead of Þorgeir and Þormóður, why did he not call his protagonists Halldór and
Kiljan? Had they been so called they would be able to behave as klauffættir grasbítar [cloven-hooved grass-grazer(s)] (Laxness 1952, 119; Laxness 2016, 112) to use one
of his witticisms. So far as Helgi is concerned, Halldór sets out to sell
counterfeit goods under a trustworthy label. He knows that especially in the countryside,
medieval literature has still such a hold on people that they thirst for whatever
is based upon it, and any new book on such subject matter will sell well. It is evident
to Halldór that he over-played his hand with Atómstoðin, and it was not clear that people would care much for more of the same. He must have
then thought to cover his bare arse by taking names from the middle ages.
Then Helgi takes up what he sees as Halldór’s obsession with lice. It is as if he
has lice on the brain. They are all over the place in Gerpla. Two new sports have been added to those enumerated in Íþóttir fornmanna (Bjarnason 1950), to kill lice and to kill fleas. Even Haraldur hárfagri is not
exempt: “Hann gat að visu börn við ambáttum og gaungukonum af endilangan Noreg um
sjö tigu
vetra, en lítt gerðust tignarkonur til lags við svo lúsugan mann” [In fact, he begat
children with maidservants and vagrant women from one end of Norway
to the other for seventy years, since noble women had little desire to take such a
louse-ridden man to their beds]. Jónas Hallgrímsson (1807–1845) completely forgot to mention that he found lice in
his beloved’s hair when he combed her locks by Galtará. Helgi has sufficient faith in the Icelandic people to believe that any work that
tries to turn their golden age literature into a huge rubbish heap will never be popular.
Halldór would be considered a treasure east of the Iron Curtain, in helping the communists
rewrite the history of humankind. It would not be entirely useless for the imperial
aims of the Russians and for world literatures were Halldór Laxness to describe, in
his incomparably copious vocabulary, how communists go about hanging an individual
in the presence of Saint Stalin. However, the loud-mouthed Reykjavík Reds will discover
that neither Kiljan’s lice nor communism will thrive in the country districts of this
land.
While Morgunblaðið had acknowledged the publication of Gerpla in December, 1952, it was not until after Helgi’s review in late February 1953, that
the country’s most widely-read newspaper paid any further attention to it. On March
3, an article appeared under the by-line “Fræðavinur” [Friend of knowledge] that warned
that the communists wish to tear down everthing that the nation cherishes
and values so that their own views can start to prevail. It is particularly dangerous
when they attack spiritual and cultural institutions. The most recent example of this
is Kiljan’s book, which was published before Christmas. His goal with this work is
obviously to destroy the value of medieval Icelandic culture in the minds of young
people. The family sagas and our medieval literature in general are one of the building
blocks of Icelandic nationality and without this cultural achievement it is unlikely
that we would have managed to regain our independence. For this reason it seems to
the communists that the time has now come to demean it. Nothing may remain standing
and no bonds are to connect the current generation to the past. When everything has
been torn down, victory for these miscreants will be the more likely. There is a large
Norse Studies Department at the University of Iceland and one might have hoped that
they would have been at the forefront in warning people about Halldór’s cunning assault.
But nothing has been heard from these people except for a few who have heaped praise
on this disgraceful work. It has taken a farmer from Hrunamannahreppur to boldly defend
the Icelandic cause. Shame on all the others who have been asleep at their watch and
forgotten to defend Icelandic culture when a blow is aimed at its heart (“Fræðavinur”
1953, 9).
Eventually, on March 17, Morgunblaðið published its own review of the novel in the form of a letter to the newspaper dated
February 20, 1953, written by Þorbjörn Björnsson (1886–1970), a farmer at Geitaskarð
in Langidalur. Þorbjörn begins by positioning himself as a reader. Some works do not affect him
at all while others give him the greatest pleasure. On one occasion while in hospital
in Reykjavík he read everything he could lay his hands on including four of the very
first works by Halldór Laxness, and he found them delightful. Gerpla, however, is hideous and needs to be handled with gloves. It shows the difference
between a long-winded literary work and a good one. It goes without saying that Gerpla is a unique phenomenon on the Icelandic literary scene. There are many reasons for
this assertion and there is no need to go into them here. Almost everywhere the choice
of words and style is vulgar and disgusting, and the dialect is such that a clear
understanding of various words and whole sentences is possible only for those highly
educated scholars of language with a pile of dictionaries at hand. Þorbjörn does not
see the point of all this in a modern work. It is also clear to any reader of Fóstbræðra saga that the foster-brothers are hardly model citizens. But in Gerpla, all of the personal descriptions of individuals are unrelentingly negative. Although
the novelist is sympathetic to peasants and fishermen, he pays so little attention
to them, that their characters remain undeveloped, unlike those of the warrriors.
Þorbjörn declares that no Icelandic writer now or in the past has been as hostile
to the rural class as Halldór Laxness. He then quotes passages to demonstrate the
mindset of the novel and its character descriptions. What does the author think he
is doing with such an approach? There are two possibilities. The first is that he
is attempting a feeble attack on hero-worship and our nation’s medieval literature,
and it will not be long before he tries his hand at other works such as Njála and Laxdæla saga. Secondly, it seems to be part of the novelist’s efforts, now as before, to put the
blame for violence on Christianity. Some people have maintained that the point of
the novel is to attack prevailing military policies, atrocities, and violence. This
seems doubtful, because Halldór is said to be a great supporter of communist imperialist
policies, which now have half the world in the iron grip of bullying, repression,
and terrorism, to such an extent that they terrify the peace- and freedom-loving other
half of the world. It is also strange that Halldór, who is said to be dapper and fastidious,
should take such an inexhaustible delight in describing the worst and the ugliest
things in human experience, past or present. Not content with just narrating ugly
reality, he seems to revel in doing so. Þorbjörn concludes by asserting that it is
the responsibility of Halldór Laxness and others blessed with literary talent to bring
us together around the fires that once warmed and enlightened us, to the fires that
live now and will always live, to the spiritual fires that make humankind’s future
brighter and better (Björnsson, 11).
Attacks of this nature in the country’s leading newspapers were not going to go unanswered.
In the Wednesday edition of Þjóðviljinn, March 11, a news item appeared under the by-line “Svipall” [i.e. Óðin] (1953, 11),
which opened with a reference to a stanza in a set of old rímur that mentions a farmer who in the distant past lived at Hrafnkelsstaðir and who spewed
fire and poison. Helgi does not spew fire, but rather stupidity and ignorance, which
have for a long time been one of the greatest poisons in the world. It is evident
that he does not get the point of Gerpla. He does not understand this great work of art, neither its artistic relevance nor
its spirit. He takes words and phrases out of context and pays no heed to the fact
that Halldór is a master at breathing new life into old words. If he were really to
think about this, he would have to admit that Vikings were pirates and rowdies who
went from land to land killing innocent people. The greatest among them were those
who could both steal and kill the most. The modern day Vikings are the industrialists
who wage war against innocent peoples, as is now happening in Korea. The spirit is
the same, and it is this spirit of war that Halldór takes issue with in Gerpla. That is the question posed to Icelanders in this perilous time. Are you for or against
war, for or against the Vikings? The writer was of the opinion that people in the
country were good, peace-loving folk, but the final part of the review calls that
into question. We must hope his is a solitary, anomalous voice. History will prove
that, even though it may take a long time, these “loudmouthed Reds,” as Helgi calls
them, will save Icelandic culture, if this is at all possible, rather
than those who think the same as Helgi Haraldsson (“Svipall,” 11).
Readers had to wait until the middle of April before
Þjóðviljinn mounted a full-scale defense of
Gerpla from the pen of Helgi Jósep Halldórsson (1915–1987). He begins by comparing stormy weather with the critical “storms” surrounding a work
like
Gerpla. In particular the novel has been attacked by two farmers who, it appears, have more
in common with the rascal Butraldi Brúsason than with the laudable Þorgils Arason
or Vermundur í Vestfirði. He then goes on to talk about the varying relationships Icelanders have with their
ancient literature. Some hold it for a fact that everything that is good in nineteenth-
and twentieth-century Icelandic literature bases its phrasing and vocabulary on the
older literature. The present hails the past and communicates with it concerning the
problems of life and art. This is surely what Halldór has in mind in writing
Gerpla. But he chose to work as a novelist rather than as a scholar, although he has combined
the two roles in the depiction of his characters, simultaneously showing both the
old and the new. Helgi then indicates that he intends to review the book from a literary
rather than an historical perspective or through an analysis of sources—that would
take as long as the novel itself. Under the heading “Samsetning” [Composition] he
summarizes the plot of the novel before turning to “Persónusköpun” [Character Creation].
The characters of
Gerpla are all recognizable types from the medieval sagas, albeit updated. As the title
of the book indicates, particular attention is paid to the kind of man now known as
“hero.” The chief among these is Þorgeir Hávarsson, the personification of the medieval
concept
of “hero” and a Viking with no interest in women. This is based directly on
Fóstbræðra saga. Even so he refuses to take part in the sport of tossing infants around on spear
points (Laxness 1952, 235; Laxness 2016, 221) and yet he refuses to extinguish the
hero in him in the arms of the women of Rouen
and become the successor to a farmer the Vikings had killed (Laxness 1952, 256–60;
Laxness 2016, 240–44). And he dies at home in Iceland. In contrast, there are three
parts to Þormóður’s
character. The first derives from
Fóstbræðra saga, as he is the foster brother of Þorgeir and accompanied him on various escapades
in Iceland. He is a poet and is fond of women. But there is tension between these
three traits. He is torn between the physical attraction he feels for Kolbrún and
his love for Þordís, who inspires him intellectually and spiritually. For a while
it looks as if he will settle down with Þordís, with whom he has two daughters. But
the arrival of the salted head of Þorgeir reminds him of what it was to be a hero
and to compose poetry for a king. He abandons his life with his wife and heads off
to Greenland in search of Þorgeir’s killers. There he encounters Kolbrún again. But
things do not work out. Þorgeir’s killers elude him, and when he goes to Norway and
meets up with King Ólafur, he ultimately finds himself unable to remember the poem
he has composed in praise of the king.
The reviewer then turns to consider the women characters. They are the heirs of Brynhildur
Buðladóttir and Guðrún Ósvífursdóttir who get their lovers to kill each other and
take the victor. This is certainly the case with Kolbrún and Geirríður, although somewhat
less so with Þordís. The devoted love of Lúka and Mamúka is always valued the least.
The old crone in Normandy is a realistic character drawn from experience (Laxness
1952, 273–84, 257–60; Laxness 2016, 351–62, 241–44).
The second part of the review opens with Helgi Halldórsson leaving it up to the historians
to pronounce on the historical interpretation of the novel. Instead he turns to some
elements that are essential in understanding the work. In Iceland there are those
opposed to the behaviour of the foster brothers, namely Þorgils and Vermundur. In
England Þorgeir encounters the hopeless government of Æthelred the Unready, who caved
in to the Vikings and tried to buy them off with Danegeld. (This section is illustrated
with long quotes from the novel.) The episode involving Ríkarður í Rúðu is described
in great detail. But even though the novel is set in the eleventh century, it is not
merely about recounting the history of that time. The book is also written to sharpen
our understanding of twentieth-century history. Despite technology having made it
possible to provide everyone with the necessities of life, the old struggles over
wealth and power continue. Colonial politics are merely a continuation of the Viking
depredations though in a different form. There are still leaders who are like Æthelred,
more afraid of their own people than of the “Vikings,” as with the British in Greece,
let alone the Korean War, which is the greatest crime
[glæpur] in the history of the world. What causes such enormities? Halldór’s answer is that the head lags behind the advances
of technology. In order to prevent this happening, there needs to be a complete reassessment
of core values. Gerpla is the first step in this direction. First one has to see through the deception [blekking], as when Þorgils tells Þormóður to go home to his farm, advice Þormóður does not
take. Þormóður as a poet contributes to the deception by writing poetry in praise
of unpraiseworthy deeds. Helgi á Hrafnkelsstöðum criticizes the way Halldór describes
the appearance of Þormóður when he arrives in Norway from Greenland. For his part,
Helgi Haraldsson could not but be amazed if he were to find himself in say Hamburg
and see those individuals, one-legged, missing an arm, with crutches under their stumps,
begging for food with one eye in a burnt face, who in the last World War travelled
the same path as Þormóður did of old.
The review continues by asserting that many will say that Gerpla is a critique of hero worship in general, but such is a misunderstanding of the basic
issues. There are more heroes than those who bear weapons. The stewards of life are
also heroes, whether they till the earth, haul in fish, or are occupied with other
tasks. Perhaps the greatest act of heroism today is “þora að vera maður” [to dare
to be a man]. In this, too, medieval literature can be a source of inspiration. There are more
poets than those who write poetry praising the deeds of the Vikings. There are also
Hávamál, Völuspá, and Sólarljóð. Nobody now writes poetry in praise of war. And hopefully women nowadays and in the
future will refuse to exchange their happiness for the head of Þorgeir Hávarsson.
The fact is that the hideous head, which gapes at the world today, brutish on the
cowardly torso of the beast of war that the rulers now spur on with hellish bombs
in their hands, should be eliminated so that peace-loving peoples might be able to
live with their blessings in a fair and generous world.
Despite the length of the review, the author apologizes for not having discussed the
style and narrative techniques of the novel that will perhaps be its enduring legacy
rather than its message. Each reading will reveal something new. Most Icelanders probably
do not realize the incredible amount of work that lies behind such a novel. And even
though Helgi recognizes that not all his contemporaries will agree with him, he claims,
based on his knowledge of Icelandic literature ancient and modern, that since Njáls saga, no Icelandic book has been composed with more skill than Gerpla—unless one makes an exception for Íslandsklukkan (Halldórsson 1953).
The immediate controversy over Gerpla is now over, although it was not forgotten and continued to flare up from time to
time, as in a little booklet by Pétur Magnússon from Vallanes (1893–1979). This argues that Halldór Laxness did not deserve the Nobel Prize for literature and
that there were others equally deserving such as Gunnar Gunnarsson (1889–1975). From
Atómstöðin onwards, Pétur claims, Halldór’s work had rapidly deteriorated—not least as represented
in the strangest object in recent literature, Gerpla. Pétur considers the mudslinging in Gerpla as directed at the family sagas and Heimskringla, and in particular at Ólafur, the patron saint of Norway (23). The Icelandic public
greeted this work with silence, but it was Peter Hallberg,
from 1943–1947 lector in Swedish at the University of Iceland, who pushed Halldór
Laxness’s case with the Swedish Academy.
It is ironic that a novel so clearly grounded in a message of peace should have unleashed
such a war of words. But this response was as time sensitive as the novel’s other
topical illusions. In 1952 there were still many Icelanders for whom the sagas were
a living entity, an essential part of their national and individual identity. This
is less so today. Even when Gerpla was published, readers had difficulty with its language. No matter how lavishly some
reviewers may have praised its innovative style, those difficulties have only increased
with time. It is nearly 35 years since the school edition of Gerpla appeared, with the vocabulary lightly annotated. A new edition is now needed with
full scholarly apparatus.
Sveinn Bergsveinsson was prophetic when he wrote in 1952 that Gerpla was an experiment that could not be repeated. He was not quite so perspicacious in
his comment that the novel was untranslatable. It certainly presents a major challenge
to any translator, and this probably explains why Gerpla has had to wait until 2016 for Philip Roughton’s full English translation directly
from the Icelandic (Laxness 2016). Roughton has wisely concentrated on translating and made no sustained attempt to
imitate the archaic vocabulary of the original. I would not be surprised if Wayward Heroes not only introduces a new generation of English readers to the richness of the novel,
but also makes Gerpla accessible to Icelandic readers who may still read Njáls saga unaided, but find this work by their Nobel laureate impenetrable.