Eyvindur P. Eiríksson

My general attitude towards life, poetry and other literature

The author, this I, was born and brought up in the great nature of Hornstrandir and Djúp, and got used both to the ocean and fishing in it as a child and as a young man. That has left a mark on me and my attitudes. I do not know whether I am a "nature lover" in the fashionable sense of those words. But I do know that I am a part of nature. I am disgusted by the attitude of the Christian faith that man is here to lord over nature which is his to subjugate. Such beliefs are both primitive and obviously obsolete in modern society. "To battle against the elements" is really a terrible phrase and the Christian way of thinking that lies behind it is lethal in the long run for man and any living thing, given the wealth of technology we have at our disposal. I do not care what anyone says, we need another basic ideology, preferably the good old one, so that we can learn to use technology only in accordance with our environment and nature and ourselves, obviously, as we are part of this selfsame nature. A war against nature is, therefore, a war against ourselves, nature´s destruction is our destruction. There is no need for enormous intelligence to spot this, one only needs to open one´s eyes to see the dangers of dubious premises for dubious approaches to life. We should not fear nature, but we must respect it and ourselves and all life. This is my outlook on life and it is reflected in my writings.

I am not in the mood to follow every trend in literary fashion, nor to serve myself up as some sort of a highly advertised piss-pizza. An author who tries to do that loses both his self respect and his originality. Many such authors do in fact believe that they are especially original, probably because they are so good at sticking to the beaten path. Of course it is possible for good authors to direct new waves from the wider world to us, but it takes very good authors indeed for good and original results. The blessed academics are prone to jam everything into boxes, compartmentalised by trends, trends that they simply invent themselves, if the authors have not done so before them. Those authors that do not fit into their square boxes they toss into the "bucket of irritation". I try to observe both land and its life from above, to get as much overview as possible, I am not self-centred enough to write a series on myself or how I grew up in the western part of town or the Voga area or in Hornstrandir, where I did indeed grow up or about my uncle Lalli, who was mentally ill, or went to America.

Some write about highly educated foreigners, who follow their dream across the ocean to inspect primitive wool-clad beings smelling of fish, living in earth mounds on a rocky island north of all the wars of the civilised world, where they come to the enjoyable conclusion that these curmudgeons are after all human beings who even have some of the tendencies of educated people.

And yes, yes. I do not know how to write about big shots or the high and mighty, nor do I write about racially pure Icelandic heroes who do good in places inhabited by even more primitive people. No, I write, for instance, about a normal and common boy, who flees to Iceland, not from it, fleeing war and barbarism, looking for peace and quiet in his soul, finds neither barbarians nor noble heroes of royal descent, only normal people like himself, steeped in the same struggle and the same search. A scholar at the publishers, to whom I showed this manuscript, wanted more of the viewpoint of the guest in the story. My man [the protagonist] comes to this society, adopts their people as his own, tries to learn the common language and the daily life [of the locals] and when he is not quite successful, he either gives in or he continues the search, not knowing where or for what to look. He can not afford to adopt the viewpoint of a guest. If he becomes arrogant with his fine viewpoint of the guest he will only become an outcast foreigner, with nagging and criticism and since everything is so stupid in this place he should just fuck off to his old home.

My biggest influences are the naturalists, old and new. One of my favourite authors is I. P. Jacobsen, a Danish nineteenth-century author, he was exceptionally good and sensitive and died of course from tuberculosis. And then the realists in general, not least Tolstoy, a realist among other things. Oscar Wilde is also a favourite of mine, no matter in which drawer the scholars want to place him. The sagas, naturally, and not least the grammatical papers of those heroes, mostly the "first" such paper from around 1140. Many of the stories about prophets, wizards, and the heroes of antiquity and the Jewish folk tales are interesting and could be pretty good had their authors not been so spiritually handicapped by their terrible religion and repetitive style.

What is it that forms you and what does not form you? Did I kill a man or did I not kill a man? Everything forms you. The first book I read on my own was Karlinn í Hringaríki og kerlingarnar þrjár [The Old Man In Roundland And The Three Crones]. It is a Norwegian story and its effect on a small boy without a doubt bad. The next book I read was Dýr Tarzans [Tarzan´s Animals] by the Anglo-Saxon imperialist E. R. Burroughs. To this day I draw wisdom from that book. I cannot resist the enchantment of authors like Svava Jakobsdóttir and Vigdís Grímsdóttir, the cleverest of authors, which is probably why the scholars are having a hard time of it, such authors have the tendency to complicate such matters as stories and text and give them many levels, it should really be forbidden to write literature that we in the literary establishment do not understand and simply do not have the time to try to understand, although we have to pretend to be the only ones that do understand. Or what? Bjarni Bjarnason and Ragna Sigurðardóttir are pretty great and Hallgrímur Helgason´oafs are pretty upright although they might not remain quite so erect amongst lesbians and scum. It is remarkable that Helgason is already this renowned, this youngster in his forties. But that is probably due to his ability to shoot off his mouth. Is there a connection? The pure sincerity and the cleverness with words of Þórbergur Þórðarsson, Jóhannes úr Kötlum, Jakobína Sigurðardóttir, Jón Óskar, Pétur Pálsson, the stylistic speculations of Steinar Sigurjónsson, and there are more of them, the wonderful porridge of words of Megas [Magnús Þór Jónsson], the rap songs of my sons and some others in that field of work. Hallgrímur Helgason and Atli Heimir Sveinsson are on the other hand not very good at rapping. This shapes you and keeps shaping you throughout your life. [Although it is] first and foremost all the storytellers, of both sexes, with their endless stories, told wherever cheerful ladies and chirpy old men gather and chat in the living language that cannot be put to paper and seems to be forgotten by the scholars or thought to be forgotten, ironed out in the all-encompassing flatness of the "humour" and postmodernism, although something remains in some books.

Yes, I am so sorry! I do not know how to be postmodern and I have never had any intelligent anwsers, when I asked, at least I did not understand a thing. And what might the next drawer be christened? To me it is no more than a fleeing bastard, like the ridiculous name itself. Let us take a quick look at a bubble ready to burst, a swelled up item of fashionability like the refugee from freedom that is Milan Kundera, whom the "grown up" Kaiser´s subjects line the street to heap with praise for his embroidered clothes and beautiful posture. They are to be pitied. They really do not see the naked arse. And they are not at all pretending. No, let us rather have some decent romanticism, let us say naturalistic, European, preferable to the slimy American porridge of emotions.

My perception is whole. There is harmony in the wholeness. In living harmony there are also discrepancy and illogic, or else it would be dead and no harmony. Where living harmony gets disorganized, is a bad place. If we are healthy human beings, and especially artists, mean something with our excistence besides earning more money and getting better investments. That is inevitable. And we are bound to take a stand. Each individual is responsible for himself, but that means that he is also responsible for the whole. In some way he forms an opinion and takes a stand to his own existence, his nearest and dearest and his surroundings and to the whole. Even when dead he is part of the whole, even if he has no say in where his remains go. And the whole of the world is not at all well these days. Here [in Iceland] is the whole, the community, also being upset, albeit in a different way. Communities are disturbed, people in the countryside are forced from their homes, not everyone is happy to move to Reykjavík, even if Reykjavík in itself is not a bad place. Everything is everybody´s business, especially artists, authors and writers. But they have glued shut one eye, and their telescopes are stuck up their own arse, the microscopic eye of the artists, who feel pain during the storms of their period, has long since been sold for gold, some for very litle. We authors have for the longest time avoided tackling anything to do with society in our works. Not to be or to be not, seems to be our only choice. or is it?

Some say it is fear. Maybe so. We are a community of frightened individuals constantly racing to ensure status for ourselves in this whole, at the cost of other individuals, at the same time we are undermining the whole that we ourselves belong to. My words are not meant to force each and everyone of us to sit down to write something political because that is the way we are meant to write now. That would be as stupid as the current situation. But by avoiding such confrontations in this screaming silence we are avoiding reality, life itself. This devalues all our creative work. Young artists are of course preoccupied by trying to break into the market, advertise themselves, write supermarket poems. The old radicals are tired, lead a comfortable life, this has become the best of all possible worlds. Do we need a new Voltaire to write a new Candide? Or has the time come to read again the writings of Þórbergur Þórðarson and Halldór Laxnes, especially Bréf til Láru and Alþýðubókin? None of our contemporary authors seem to have the makings or courage to write something like that. But history repeats itself, or so they say, mostly in a different guise. Let it come. Just let it come.

Eyvindur P. Eyríksson, 2001.

Translated by Dagur Gunnarsson

Man and Nature. The work of Eyvindur P. Eiríksson

I

The first published work of Eyvindur P. Eiríksson is the book of poems called Hvenær? (When?) published in 1974. The book contains a large collection of poems written at a time when the author was young and the powerful message of the poems make that quite obvious. Eyvindur has much to say, and he both criticises and pokes fun at a world that is presented to us by the western way of thinking and how it imprisons its citizens in its lethargy. He criticises the world according to capitalism and its fruits, such as American popular culture, the Vietnam war, the American military base at Keflavik, Hallgrímskirkja church in Reykjavík and money grabbing "bow-ties" laundered sparklingly clean in Lux soap powder. The poems have no unnecessary flourishes and their strength lies in the strong message mixed in with the black and darkly ironic sense of humour. Even if the socialistic ideals colour many of the poems, they do not suffocate in one-sided propaganda because the strongest critique is not directed towards the majority´s way of life as such. It is rather directed at man himself who created this capitalistic consumer-dictated world and is therefore responsible for the consequences.

In the poem "Stakreynd" the author puts forward a dark vision of the future which might very well come true if mankind does not wise up and start to realise what life´s real values are.

Nú er það komið í ljós,
sem okkur frændur hefur lengi grunað:
Það er engin framtíð í manninum.
Hann er óþroskaður, ófullkominn og heimskur,
og borin von, að hann batni.

Náttúrunni er löngu ljóst,
að maðurinn er algjörlega misheppnað pródúkt,
því miður.

En sem betur fer
hefur hún verið svo forsjál
að búa manninn
sjálfseyðileggingarþörf.

Síðan er bara að bíða,
okkur liggur ekkert á.
Maðurinn verður innan stundar
búinn að eyða sjálfum sér
og jörðina.

(It has now transpired,
as we have long suspected:
There is no future in mankind.
It is an infantile, imperfect and stupid species,
and there is no hope for improvement.

Nature has long since realised,
that mankind is a failed product,
unfortunately.

Thankfully
it has had the forethought
to equip mankind with
the need for self-destruction.

All we have to do is to wait,
we are not in any hurry.
Mankind will soon
have destroyed itself
and earth.)

Mankind is on the wrong path; lost in a world it has created itself, far from nature and its roots. Opposite the alienation of the modern world stand the values of closeness, respect, faithfulness, goodness, and consideration. These are values that mankind has lost sight of, not just in our relations with each other, but also in our relations with animals and not least nature itself. Mankind rushes on, crumpling underfoot everything in its path and carries on regardless, babbling away, without having anything constructive to say. Eyvindur feels that mankind is squandering the good sense it was given and abuses the knowledge it has to produce pointless gibberish. The poem "Orðið" (The Word) expresses this sentiment quite well:

Hið talaða orð
barst manninum
og maðurinn varð glaður við
held ég
og hann byrjaði að tala
og hann talaði
hann talaði
talaði
talaði og talaði og talaði
talaði
og hann hélt áfram að tala
tala og tala
tala

Sagð ann nokkuð?

(The spoken word
was brought to man
and the man was quite happy
I think
and he started to talk
and he talked
he talked
talked
talked and talked and talked
talked
and he continued to talk
talk and talk
talk

Did he say anything?)

Even if many of Eyvindur´s poems are about the folly of mankind and have a dark vision of the future, underneath there lurks a devious sense of humour and he can quite easily spot the funny side of this endless search for standards to which men compare their happiness. In Hvenær? one can also see his strong grasp of the language, he is not afraid to test its potency, he plays with words, makes interesting experiments with phonetic transcribtion and he also uses runes.

In his next book of poetry, Hvaðan - Þaðan (Whence - Thence), published in 1978 Eyvindur continues with a well-known theme. But now the pen is heavier and more mature, the values are clearer, the imagery is concise and he is more adept at the different forms of poetry. The book is in three parts; Heiman, heim and heima From home, to home and at home, and each of these stands for certain themes that are dear to Eyvindur and crop up repeatedly in his later writings. In the first part he continues to work with the man-made fake worlds. He finds that society is bland and monochrome and misses people who have the courage and will to fight reigning trends. In the poem "1.1.6." he calls his generation pitiful and renounces the world they present to their children:

Þú kynslóð mín brjóstumkennanleg

Óskaðu þér eilífs dauða og glötunar
biddu á hverju kvöldi þess
að mega rotna í friði í moldinni
án minnstu vonar um uppreisn og annað líf

Biddu þess
því sonarsynir okkar bölva okkur
og dótturdætur okkar formæla okkur

Sumum fyrir óhóf
öðrum fyrir fátækt
hinum fyrir hugleysi

Heillum horfna kynslóð
biddu þess að mega fúna í friði
því barnabörnin okkar fyrirgefa okkur ekki.

(You my pitiful generation

Pray for eternal death and damnation
pray every night
to be allowed to rot in peace in the dirt
without any hope of resurrection and another life

Pray for it
because our son´s son´s will curse us
and our daughter´s daughters will curse us

Some for gluttony
others for poverty
the rest for cowardice

Generation of no hope
pray to be allowed to rot in peace
because our grandchildren will not forgive us.)

In the first chapter there is also a very funny stanza about the harmful qualities of Morgunblaðið newspaper and the author finds numerous faults with it. Eyvindur steps forward as a staunch opponent of capitalist ideas, which according to him deaden people´s minds and push everything that they come across into the same infertile rut. In the second chapter the tone is quite different and much softer. In it the author removes mankind from the sociological context and asks himself questions about its nature, how its thought processes work and what part of its thoughts might possibly be fruitful. Some of the poems carry a clear picture of nature dug from the childhood memories of the lyrical I. An example of this is the poem "2.2.1."

Þú sem fórst norður í sumar!
Standa enn þá veggirnir?
Er enn blágresið í gilinu?
Eða verpir krían enn á sjóargrundinni?
Er skemmurústin að fullu horfin í sinu og hvönn?

Hitt skiptir þó meiru:
Skín ekki sama sólin og í bernsku minni?
Er ekki tjörnin enn þá slétt og góð litlum bátum?
Stafar ekki ávallt lognölduna á víkinni?
Og fjaran vinur sem fyrr?

Ég
á ekki afturkvæmt.

(You who headed north this summer!
Are the walls still standing?
Is the bluegrass still in the gully?
Or does the arctic tern still nest at the sea front?
Are the ruins of the hut completely covered in withered grass and angelica?

More importantly:
Is it not the same sun that shines, as in my youth?
Is not the pond still calm and good for small boats?
Do not the quiet waves work on the small bay?
And the beach a friend as always?

I
cannot return.)

There are more nature friendly glimpses from the author´s childhood in the book´s last chapter, there the author expresses a certain yearning for past times. This yearning is not characterised by a simple division between the corrupt modern times versus the all-embracing rural bliss of the past, but the author rather regrets that people nowadays have lost sight of certain human values that he feels have been pushed aside in modern society.

In his books of poetry Viltu (Would you) (1989) and Vertu (Be) (1998) Eyvindur is still emphasising the meaning of friendship, love, family ties and respect in this technology crazed world. He looks even more into the heritage of folktales and Icelandic medieval poetry and the influence of Hávamál and Völuspá are obvious. Eyvindur plays with the many forms of poetry and refreshes ancient meters. He writes polemic poems like never before, where his criticism of the system is clear and his view that the roots of the technologically equipped forest are more likely to fray than the roots that have lived in co-habitation with real nature. Eiríksson reminds us that we are still the same men that we have always been, despite our many attempts to make more of our intellect and that true happiness is to be found in the simple and raw.

In Eyvindur latest book of poetry Óreiðum augum: heiðin ljóð (Eyes Without Anger: Heathen Poems) (2001), he juxtaposes nature and the spirit that resides within it with the decline and alienation of modern times. He paints nature with strong colours and makes much of the terrific opposites and the power that he sees within it. Nature is dangerously beautiful and it must be treated with respect and humility. He criticises the modern ego which constantly has a harder time of handling the true peace and beauty of nature due to all the equipment it uses to get close to it. Modern man defines himself in opposition to nature and uses every trick in the book to subjugate it. We have come a long way from our origins, lost in an endless world of false symbols that cloud our vision so that we cannot see the true and pure. Mankind has a view of life that is increasingly based on fragments that will never form a whole image when we should be thinking of the healthy circulation of life and content ourselves within it and our place within it.

Óreiðum augum: heiðin ljóð comes with a CD where Eyvindur reads his poems set to the magnificent music of Hilmar Örn Hilmarsson. Their collaboration has been very successful and the music follows nicely the creation, break, and finally equilibrium Eyvindur creates with the poems of this book. His poetry is varied and although he has a potent message to deliver he never falls into the trap of pretending to know everything. He knows how not to take himself seriously and therefore there is a warmth in tone and intimacy in his poetry, something the reader can easily relate to. This intimacy is also reflected in his children´s and teenage books, and especially the highly entertaining doodle books that are full of interesting experiments with the interplay of drawings and different forms of text.

II

The writings of Eyvindur P. Eiríksson are accessible and free from unnecessary or decorative phrases that might harm the proximity of the world he offers the readers. He is not afraid to stretch format of the text and often he uses drawings that either differ widely from their surroundings or present the recipient with a key to a certain understanding of the subject matter being discussed. The two P-Árbækur (D-Rawing Annals) (1988 and 1996) are a fun example of unorthodox books, as they are hand-drilled by the author himself. The first one is a one-hole-book and the second a two-hole-book and they come with good instructions from Eyvindur on how to hang them. Thus the author emphasises the fact that books are also suitable to look at as objects, to handle, and to read rather than letting them collect dust in a locked bookcase like a mantelpiece ornament. The content of the P-Árbækur reflects quite well the outer appearance of the books because they are full of short pieces of text and funny drawings that are quickly browsed through. Eyvindur takes old fairytales and gives them a new twist, presents a few rhyming couplets with direct references to today´s society, mirrors mankind in many formats, is smutty, becomes philosophical, gives the reader snippets that are funny, ridiculous, sad, poetic, and boring. He makes fun of fanciful poetry and the literary elite that thrive on it, and as an answer to such dogma he lets the reader take an active part in the work by leaving empty space for scribbling.

Eyvindur finds it easy to observe ordinary things from exciting points of view and this quality of his comes in handy in his books for children and teens, Á háskaslóð (On the Path to Danger) (1993) and Meðan skútan skríður (Whilst the Yacht Sails) (1995). The books tell the story of an eccentric teacher and his two sons who spend their summer holiday on a sailboat in the Baltic Sea. The topics of the books are family ties and respect for the environment and Eyvindur manages to camouflage the healthy message in an exciting plot, a lot of messing about and a heart-warming story of how father and sons come of age in their dealings with frail men and unpredictable nature. Eyvindur manages to avoid being condescending to his audience and offers no easy way out, he does not categorise his characters into either a holy and good person or a wholly evil villain. Those who turned out to be villains in Á háskaslóð get redeemed in Meðan skútan skríður and likewise a seemingly good guy turns out to have a darker personality than the father and sons had earlier assumed. The boys get into all sorts of adventures on the sailboat with their father and the author keeps his readers captured with lively descriptions even though there is a message flowing in the subtext as can be seen from an example from Á háskaslóð:

Þarna flaut heilmikið af dauðum fiski með magann upp í loft, það voru líka dauðir fuglar í þessu. Við gleymdum okkur svo að okkur hafði nærri rekið inn í þetta ógeð. Við tókum til áranna, en þá sáum við hreyfingu á lágum steinum utar. Það voru selir, þrír, nei fjórir. Tveir þeirra hreyfðu sig en virtust ansi slappir, tveir lágu alveg kyrrir, líklega dauðir. Við þóttumst sjá einn selskrokk enn hreyfast fram og aftur í þörungasúpunni við klappirnar. (68)

(There was a lot of dead fish floating belly up, there where also dead fish floating in it. We where so engrossed that we almost drifted into the disgusting mess. We started rowing, but then we saw movement on the low rocks further away. There were some seals, three, no four. Two of them where moving but seemed very weak, two lay completely still, probably dead. We thought we saw another seal move in the algae soup by the rocks.)

With such descriptions of the consequences of modern living, Eyvindur appeals to his reader´s sense of justice and also points out that a solution is not in sight. Many powers have different interests and concerning environmental matters a quick profit often rules over conservation of nature. Although the books without doubt carry the messages of environmental conservation Eyvindur paints a fictional world which is in no way black and white but reflects the diversity of life with all the complications that are to be found there.

Á háskaslóð and Meðan skútan skríður also tell the story of the coming of age of two rapidly growing boys and not least the story of the father who is at a crossroads in his life. The simple life aboard the sailing boat allows him to view the hustle and bustle of every day life from afar and tend to his relationship with the boys. The father and sons get to know new facets of each others´ characters and form special bonds characterised by mutual friendship, even if the close proximity in the living quarters can put a strain on them at times. The books are stuffed to the gills with fun facts, have exciting plot lines and not least a good message about mankind´s tolerance towards nature, animals and not least their fellow man. Eyvindur does not make light of the intellect of children and thinks that they are just as capable as grown-ups to see life in a sensible light and try to figure out what life is all about. He lets his main characters also tackle difficult problems that more and more families have to face and it is certain that many can sympathise with the thoughts of Gaggi in Meðan skútan skríður when he gets the opportunity to think about his parents´ relationship after they have sailed through some stormy weather and rough seas:

En líklega myndu þau skilja í haust eða vetur. Annað hvort þeirra yrði þá að flytja, hann vissi ekki hvort það yrði. Það gæti farið eftir því hjá hvoru við bræðurnir vildum heldur vera. Ég sagði ekkert. Ég vissi ekki lengur hjá hvoru ég vildi vera. Í vor hefði ég hiklaust valið mömmu. En það var margt að breytast. Pabbi var líka góður gæi. En auðvitað gætum við verið hjá þeim til skiptis. Það færi samt eftir skólum og svona. Ég vildi óska að þau héldu áfram að búa saman. Þau máttu alveg rífast stundum, ef þau bara kysstust á milli. Og hættu þessari þögn sem setti allt í frysti í marga daga. (112)

(They would probably get divorced in the autumn or come wintertime. One or the other would have to move house; he did not know which one. It might depend on with whom the brothers wanted to live with. I said nothing. I did not know with whom I wanted to stay. Last spring I would have chosen mother without hesitation. But a lot of things where changing. Dad was also a good guy. But we could of course stay with them on an alternating basis. That depended on schools and such. I wish they stayed together. They could have the occasional fight if they just kissed and made up in-between. And stopped this silence that puts everything into the freezer for days on end.)

III

In the novels Múkkinn (The Fulmar) (1988), Landið handan fjarskans (The Land Beyond The Far Away) (1997) and Þar sem blómið vex og vatnið fellur (Where The Flower Grows and The Water Falls) (1999) Eyvindur examines how mankind interacts with nature from different points of view. He makes interesting experiments with the novel as a format and tends to go for innovations in handling the material and in his use of language. The stories are more candid, erotic, and grotesque than his previous work and his descriptions of life on board an old trawler, a young man´s search for fulfilment in the midst of the lunacy of pointless warfare is a powerful analysis of the way our forefathers lived, all of this will appeal strongly to the reader´s senses. Eyvindur tends to put his characters in extreme situations at the edge of civilisation and there he exposes the animalistic instincts that are to be found in mankind. When all is said and done, life is about survival and in those situations the manmade "codes of politeness" of Western civilisation are useless. In those circumstances, nature is both a life-giving force and an annihilating one. Man grows small in the hands of nature and Eyvindur emphasises the fact that it would be best for mankind to respect the power of nature and not to fear it which often leads to attempts to lord over it. In Múkkinn he describes everyday life on board an Icelandic trawler and the raw, all male, society that blossoms in conditions that often seem to border on what normally would be considered human. The story has nothing to do with the adventurous reminiscing of old heroes of the sea because there is precisely nothing romantic about the main character´s battle for survival. On the trawler Suðurey the men are not pulling "silver of the ocean" on board in calm seas but swollen and red sea-perch from somewhere deep down:

Þeir koma úr djúpu kafinu og geta ekki aðlagast, úttútnir af þrýstingnum, sem kemur að innan og ekkert heldur á móti í þessum framandi heimi og augun eru blöðrur á stilkum og maginn kemur öfugur og tæmdur út í gegnum kjaftinn og stendur eins og þaninn smokkur fram á milli skoltanna. Það er eins og hann geti snúið uppblásnum augunum í allar áttir en hann sér ekkert og nær ekki andanum. (61)

(They arrive from the deep below and are unable to adapt, all puffy from the pressure from within and nothing contains them in themselves in this strange world and the eyes are protruding balloons and the stomach turns inside out and emptied like a blown up condom out between the jaws. It is as if he can turn his puffed-up eyes in all directions but it sees nothing and cannot breathe.)

Múkkinn is clearly the communal story of a group where there is no main protagonist but rather a group of men who live in a similar reality and share a similar standard of living. The crewmembers take on different roles and try their hardest to hide any vulnerability. They take a strong stance against landlubbers who know nothing and they form a strange society characterised by certain rules that are not to be transgressed. Eyvindur structures the book mostly by conversations that are powerful and pornographic. Often it is difficult to distinguish who is talking at any given time but it does not matter because they all keep within the frame of the views that are accepted by the society of the trawler. The helm is the place where the guard is possibly dropped temporarily, and members of the crew express themselves in solitude about the wife, the family and the future. Underneath there are signs of tenderness but the men are on their guard and are quick to fall into the rhythm of the world dictated to them by the ship and the rude way of talking that characterises it. The trawler is their world while the stint lasts and there is no escape. The men are stuck in a rut, they are unhappy but would not want to be anywhere else. Eyvindur describes the daily grind in a realistic way in odd language, which is certainly not for everyone to understand fully:

Og túrinn hélt áfram og það var ræs og það var glas og það var étið og það var kastað og það var híft og það var kúttað og það var slitið innan úr og þar var ísað og það var kaffi og það var híft og það var kastað og það var goggað og það var bætt og það var skipt yfir og það var blóðgað og það var skolað og það var ísað og það var gert að og það var híft og þar var kastað og það var glas og það var étið og það var skitið og þar var kjaftað og það var drukkið kaffi og það var reykt og það var skriðið í koju og það var ræs og það var étið og það var kastað og það var híft og það var ísað og þegar veröldin var ekki orðin annað en köst og hífingar og bætningar og aðgerð og ís og fiskur og sígarettur og kaffi og át og skit og meiri bætningar og skipt yfir, þá var trollið tekið inn án þess að skipt væri yfir og það var bundið upp og lestin skálkuð og settar stímvaktir og nefi snúið heim. Heim? Já, eða þangað. (63)

(And the stint went on and there was a wake-up call and there was a glass and there was a feeding and there was a throw and there was a pull and there was a cutting and innards pulled out and there was icing and there was a coffee break and there was a pull and a throw and there was a hooking and mending and a turnover and a blooding and washing and there was an icing and mending and a pull and a throw and there was a glass and a feeding and a shit and a chat and some coffee was had and a smoke and then crawled to bed and there was a wake-up call and a feeding and a throw and a pull and an icing and when the world has been reduced to throws, pulls and mending and cutting and ice and fish and cigarettes and coffee and feeding and shitting and more mending and turn over, then the net is hauled on board without a turn over and it is tied up and the hold is secured and the crew´s watches are set and the nose turned homewards. Home? Yes, or in that direction.)

Once "home", it can be testing for the members of the crew to settle in and more often than not do they get into scrapes with locals and some of them become guilty of terrible deeds while furiously intoxicated. They see themselves to be in opposition to everything on dry land but mixed feelings do still stir once they wake from their stupor on their way out to the fishing banks once again.

Eyvindur breaks the powerful flow of words from the sailors with lyrical insertions that give new insight into man´s struggle in middle of the vast ocean. Death is also hovering and the character that gets the most attention from the author gets swept overboard and drowns. This threat is a part of the existence that the crew has got used to and the voice that finds the body washed ashore is typical for the physical and grotesque language so typical in Múkkinn:

"Hann er svona ráétinn, hausinn, og eiginlega lítið eftir á kúpunni og ofan að peysukraganum. Mér sýnist eins og það sé umtalsvert kjöt á honum eftir það, og dálítið blásinn upp þegar að dregur niður, eins og stundum vill nú verða" (50).

(He´s been nibbled up top, the head and there really is not much left on the skull and above the sweater neck. It seems to me that there is quite a lot of meat on him otherwise, and a bit swelled up as you go lower, as sometimes happens.")

The scenes of the novels are in many ways unusual and in Eyvindur´s hands familiar circumstances become strange. Múkkinn takes place on a trawler in close proximity with the harsh nature and even if most Icelanders think they know something about such a reality, not many have experienced the circumstances described. In Landið handan fjarskans the main protagonist travels around war-torn Scandinavia and Russia around 1800 and in Þar sem blómið vex og vatnið fellur he is back in Iceland, where an unusual connection forms between man and strange powers that live in an eccentric nature.

Landið handan fjarskans and Þar sem blómið vex og vatnið fellur describe Óli Ólason´s long search for himself and a place he can call his own. The work begins when he, as a young man is shoved into a terrible war where he fights for the honour of his king. To begin with he is proud of such a trial of manhood but soon enough the endless cruelty of men and the futility of war make him turn away from thoughts of the glory of war:

Allt var öfugt. Búðirnar, óþrifaleg tjöldin, tal mannanna, upphrópanir og blótsyrði, hlátrasköll, reykurinn sem þyrlaðist um, meira að segja snarkið í eldinum. Skítug stígvélin, heimskulegir skúfarnir upp úr húfunum, húfurnar sjálfar verstar. Þung lyktin sem farið var að leggja yfir af dritholunum og innyflum sláturdýranna. (63-64)

(Everything was back to front. The camp, the stinking tents, the conversations, exclamations and cursing, bursts of laughter, the smoke that blew about, even the crackling of the fire. The dirty boots, stupid tassel on the hats, the hats themselves where the worst. The heavy smell drifting in from the privy holes and the innards of the slaughtered animals.)

Eyvindur´s descriptions of war are highly visual and very suitable to penetrate the stupidity of mankind and show how much mankind is removed from its roots. In the madness of war nature takes a different form and becomes hostile, as if it has had enough of the behaviour of mankind and its endless disrespect for living beings.

Landið handan fjarskan contains a strong criticism of warfare and the aspects of human thought that turns man against man, but the book is also the story of a young man and his coming of age, his fleeing from the terror of war and how he does the best he can, to glue together his poor soul that has been shot to pieces. Due to his circumstances Óli has to change his name many times and the consciousness of his personality swings from the young boy Óli, to Jannis the warrior, to Eineinn the deserter, to Sonni the sailor, to Jens the Dane and finally to Jan the Icelander. He is a small soul in a vast landscape, someone that yearns only to find peace in his soul and to reconcile himself with his own actions. On the way he meets colourful characters that the author manages to give their own characteristics with odd words, a peculiar style, and a rich language. As in Múkkinn his descriptions are incredibly grotesque and often they show mankind in a twisted state. When the main protagonist in Landið handan fjarskans is close to giving up he gets help from an surprising source when he hears a story about a perfect country where:

,,[f]ólk dvelur í húsum sínum. Segir sögur sínar og sögur og syngur langa dapra söngva sem eru gleðisöngvar og óður til sólar og lífs og ástar. Enginn skilur tungu þessa fólks, nema það sjálft og svartir hrafnar sem fljúga stöðugt þar. Þeir, sem ekki skilja mál þess, halda það allt sorgarsöngva. En þetta gleðiháttur fólks" (281-282).

(people live in their houses. Tell their stories and stories that are songs of joy and an ode to the sun and life and love. Nobody understands the language of these people, except they themselves and black ravens that constantly circle this place. They, who do not understand the language, think that these must all be songs of sorrow. But this is the peoples way of happiness."

Jens finally finds himself in Denmark where he meets Gullaugur the Icelander who in a state of drunkenness drones on about the charms of his homeland. Jens decides to look for this magnificent country that is populated by peaceful people and there he aims to find much longed for peace in his soul in a place where the flower grows and the water falls. When Jens comes to Iceland he gets a job as a cooper in a village in the northwest part of the island. The locals pronounce his name Jans and this name change is yet another rebirth for his personality and emphasises how unsettled he is. Jans is quite disappointed with this peace-loving nation in the north and although he is respected within the society, gets married and forms a family, the voice of Gullaugur is always droning on in the background and his descriptions of the utopia that Jan has made his own.

Eyvindur describes the surroundings and the society of early 19th century Western Iceland in a very lively way. He uses Jan the foreigner to highlight many ridiculous, grotesque and comic things about our forefathers. He does not spare the punches and as in Múkkinn his descriptions appeal to the reader´s senses and it is very easy to accept his description of these past times. Jan gets sucked into this world and soon enough he begins to abuse alcohol, fight, and bed married women. Although society becomes a filthy one in the hands of the author, magnificent nature has also shaped great men and wonderful women who form a juxtaposition to the greedy powers-that-be and a corrupt clergy. Finally Jans gets disgusted with himself and the sordid world that surrounds him and he goes in search for the place Gullaugur had described. On this journey Jans is drawn into a charming world of nature, hidden people, ancient ghosts and other otherworldly beings that slowly cleanse him of the dark feelings that had seized control over his life. Eiríksson plays around with the material from the folk tales, and poetry gets more room. He uses the magic powers of the nursery rhyme to emphasise the mystique that lives in nature and people and he gives his characters a peculiar and rich language that becomes a part of this dreamlike world.

Eyvindur stresses the importance of respect and understanding of the complexities of life and emphasises different attitudes, religions, races and different attitudes to life that all are valid and are important in this world. Jan searches for the true ,,life chant"/nursery rhyme that will give him the happiness and peace of mind that he has long looked for, but a small imp points out to him that he has the wrong premise in his search and gives him the key to a certain understanding of life that stands Jan in good stead:

Engin rétt þula til! En þessi má vel vera sú, sem þú átt einn, sú sem er hverjum manni nauðsyn, ef hann vill ekki vera manntætlur einar. Gerir hann að manneskju. Og hver sá sem þröngvar sinni þulu um eyra annars, hann skemmir þar við bæði heyrn og hlust. Og hver sá sem reynir að læra annars manns þulu, hann ruglast á lífi og geði. Og hverjum er hollast að lifa sína þulu, manni, gengli, ármanni og vætti, safna henni í sarpinn sinn, svo sem rjúpa laufi sínu. Sá sem hefur lært hana til loka, fái hann frið til þess, hann getur dáið hverjum þeim drottni eða draug sem honum sýnist, Guði, Gaspod, Jehóva, Júmala, Deusi, Þeosi, Þór eða Alexíusi afa, sýnist honum svo. Svo nú skalt þú bara hlýða á þinn hollæk og hlusta eftir rödd bróður þíns dauða í bárunni og golunni í sinugresinu. (352-353)

(There is no right chant! But this one could well be the one that belongs to you alone, the one that is necessary for each man if he desires not to be mere shreds of a man. Makes him a man. And he who pushes his chant into the ear of another, he thereby destroys both hearing and listening. And he, who tries to learn another mans chant, will go mad. And each is best to live his own chant, man, ghost and being, collect it into his belly like the grouse does with heather. He who has studied it to completion, if he is let in peace to do so, he can die in the name of the god or ghost of his choosing, God, Gaspod, Jehovah, Jumala, Deus, Theos, Thor or grandpa Alexius if he so chooses. So you just heed your brook and listen for the voice of death, your brother, in the waves and the breeze in the withered grass.)

Nature and the powers within it teach Jan humility, respect and understanding. With its help he can make peace with his own sins and finally find happiness. Eyvindur emphasises in his writing that there is no one chant for life and that men must get peace to go their own way to look for happiness on their own terms. Even if his image of mankind is too dark, one can just gleam some hope and a belief in human sensibility if humans just get the chance to think and accept nature´s part in this way of thinking. When men ignore the healthy circle of humanity and nature they become lost in a world of false signs that get in the way of the true value of things. In those circumstances the world becomes warped by certain attitudes to life and Eyvindur P. Eiríksson seriously doubts that they will ever be of any good for either man or nature.

© Bjarki Valtýsson, 2002

Translated by Dagur Gunnarsson

2005 - Winner, The Hafnarpóstur / PP forlag / Icelandair short story competition: "Hvað líður sumrinu ...?"

1998 - Kópavogur Poet Recognition

1997 - The Halldór Laxness Literature Award: Landið handan fjarskans (The Land Beyond Distance)

Nominations

1997 - The Icelandic Literature Prize: Landið handan fjarskans (The Land Beyond Distance)