I finally finished it. After 3-4 years, starting out as my off-and-on, put-me-to-sleep book. It's comprised of four volumes, and the first sees the protagonist mostly sick in bed, and the main conflict didn't even come into play until the fourth volume, so there was just a lot of exposition and prudent satire of Icelandic countryfolk.

The meandering narrative follows a fuckboy-type poet and his gentle misadventures of being someone with his head in the clouds, doing nothing of value in the yes of his peers. He sits in bed and dreams of the sun of becoming a poet.

I don't know how to rate this, because I'm inclined to rate it high, but questioning whether it is due to me actually liking the book, or me having invested a lot of time in something, so it must have been worthwhile in my eyes.

I liked the descriptiveness. It wasn't overly flowery, but it had me dreaming of Iceland