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A review by korrick
Independent People by Halldór Laxness
5.0
When you say the word 'culture', watch out. The traps within the simple word are many, a loving gaze on the self and a objectifying fascination with the other, idealization and discrimination two shafts of light within the same grimy crystal. Nothing conveys this truth so well and so thoroughly as literature, as many throughout the centuries bring up their utensil of inkish intent and lay down their views, all for the most part bound within their single subset of country, family, faith. Nothing sells a turn of phrase like the simplicity of a forthright declaration, adulation and condemnation downright refusing to coexist in any measure, each shying away from the other as if the smallest admittance to the other would be the phrase that broke the novel's back. We have had our reactions to all this, true. Modernism, post-modernism, a straining towards the truth that is often only as effective as its level of readerly defibrillation, which I have applauded many times in the past and will continue to do so in the future, but. This is not the only way.
For, no matter how confabulated the methodologies, no matter how esoteric the means and ends by which the words display their worth in full, still there may remain the subtle divide between outright embracing and downright rejection, an implicit answer of no to the question of, is it possible to love, and still critique? Hate, and still recognize as valid? To accept the facts for what they are, and bring them to a plain more beautiful without an instance of warp and waiving over?
Laxness can.
Now, I know the dangers of first encounters, and this book exemplified so many. My first Icelandic author, my first experience of Iceland as conveyed in literature, my first acknowledgement of this Nobel Prize Laureate for Literature, the final category littered with so many pompous landmines as to make a catastrophic debacle of its own right. And yet, I say, if you must choose a first, or for some tragic reason an only, piece of Icelandic literature to root around in a fervent search for whatever you read for, choose this one. Some say this would ruin the a large portion of future choices, to enjoy something of this supreme caliber as an initial course rather than a triumphant conclusion, but to that I say, life is short, and time is an awful thing to stretch and sap through other works, sustained by only lack of experience. For independence is all very well, but when it comes to living, I will never forgo the chance for change. I have enough confidence in my personal quirks to risk them in something new.
For here, you will find the piece of literature that others unconsciously grasp for when they decry the lack of reality of [b:The Lord of the Rings|33|The Lord of the Rings (The Lord of the Rings, #1-3)|J.R.R. Tolkien|https://d202m5krfqbpi5.cloudfront.net/books/1347257199s/33.jpg|3462456]. Here, you will soak in the bliss of gorgeous sights of nature and shudder at the fearful legends of heritage, but do not think you will be left to ride out the course of history in an icy land without the slightest glimpse of the morbid grip it has on its inhabitants. Does the biological workings of shit and parasites in sheep and other creatures make you turn up your nose? Do you frown on the turnings of politics as matters of little concern, disengaged as they seem from the livelihood you attempt to chase? Do you drown yourself in bucolic meanderings, flee from the slightest turn of horrors wreaked by the elements in all their gorgeous lashes against the alive, only take the idealized pieces of a single collective people of epic and landscape and curious traditions and leave the rest as not worth your readerly time? If so, this is not for you, for while it is heartbreakingly obvious that Laxness loved his people, here he does not coddle their faults, nor does he use them as an excuse to excise all the wonder generated in such a harsh world. You will love, and you will hate, and at the end you will be left with the accumulation of this one story of a man, an independent man, and it is for you to decide whether to cry on his shoulder or tear him to pieces with your teeth.
The great workings of the world beyond continue to wheel through the many cultures and the countless souls bred upon each and every one, and there is both singing and sorrow to be found within the lands and tongues and vibrancy of this turning sphere of ours. In this piece of work, you will discover one that you may have only heard trickles of tales, of Vikings, of bank failures, of volcanoes and of a small, cold land, where it is reported that one in ten will publish a book. If you are intrigued, don't hesitate for a moment. Love or hate, you will feel, and learn, and perhaps even appreciate this wide plain of existence we live and die upon, and all that comes out of the throes to be shared with those who follow.
For, no matter how confabulated the methodologies, no matter how esoteric the means and ends by which the words display their worth in full, still there may remain the subtle divide between outright embracing and downright rejection, an implicit answer of no to the question of, is it possible to love, and still critique? Hate, and still recognize as valid? To accept the facts for what they are, and bring them to a plain more beautiful without an instance of warp and waiving over?
Laxness can.
Now, I know the dangers of first encounters, and this book exemplified so many. My first Icelandic author, my first experience of Iceland as conveyed in literature, my first acknowledgement of this Nobel Prize Laureate for Literature, the final category littered with so many pompous landmines as to make a catastrophic debacle of its own right. And yet, I say, if you must choose a first, or for some tragic reason an only, piece of Icelandic literature to root around in a fervent search for whatever you read for, choose this one. Some say this would ruin the a large portion of future choices, to enjoy something of this supreme caliber as an initial course rather than a triumphant conclusion, but to that I say, life is short, and time is an awful thing to stretch and sap through other works, sustained by only lack of experience. For independence is all very well, but when it comes to living, I will never forgo the chance for change. I have enough confidence in my personal quirks to risk them in something new.
For here, you will find the piece of literature that others unconsciously grasp for when they decry the lack of reality of [b:The Lord of the Rings|33|The Lord of the Rings (The Lord of the Rings, #1-3)|J.R.R. Tolkien|https://d202m5krfqbpi5.cloudfront.net/books/1347257199s/33.jpg|3462456]. Here, you will soak in the bliss of gorgeous sights of nature and shudder at the fearful legends of heritage, but do not think you will be left to ride out the course of history in an icy land without the slightest glimpse of the morbid grip it has on its inhabitants. Does the biological workings of shit and parasites in sheep and other creatures make you turn up your nose? Do you frown on the turnings of politics as matters of little concern, disengaged as they seem from the livelihood you attempt to chase? Do you drown yourself in bucolic meanderings, flee from the slightest turn of horrors wreaked by the elements in all their gorgeous lashes against the alive, only take the idealized pieces of a single collective people of epic and landscape and curious traditions and leave the rest as not worth your readerly time? If so, this is not for you, for while it is heartbreakingly obvious that Laxness loved his people, here he does not coddle their faults, nor does he use them as an excuse to excise all the wonder generated in such a harsh world. You will love, and you will hate, and at the end you will be left with the accumulation of this one story of a man, an independent man, and it is for you to decide whether to cry on his shoulder or tear him to pieces with your teeth.
The great workings of the world beyond continue to wheel through the many cultures and the countless souls bred upon each and every one, and there is both singing and sorrow to be found within the lands and tongues and vibrancy of this turning sphere of ours. In this piece of work, you will discover one that you may have only heard trickles of tales, of Vikings, of bank failures, of volcanoes and of a small, cold land, where it is reported that one in ten will publish a book. If you are intrigued, don't hesitate for a moment. Love or hate, you will feel, and learn, and perhaps even appreciate this wide plain of existence we live and die upon, and all that comes out of the throes to be shared with those who follow.