World Light

Seyðisfjörður, Henry A. Perkins, ca. 1900

“The correct understanding of life, let me tell you, is love despite everything. Love despite everything, that is the aim and object of life. Love, you see, is the only thing that pays in the long run, even though it might seem a dead loss in the short run.”
Darien’s examination of Light:

I love Sven Birkerts’ description of Laxness’s huge literary presence:

World Light, like any of Laxness’s works… is but a boulder in a rock slide, one small part of what might be seen as a compulsive lifelong quest to fix a world to the page.
So, let’s get on with a review of another Laxness book!

This novel chronicles the life of a poet and mystic, an enigmatic man who calls himself Ólafur Kárason of Ljósavík. The story is based on the life of an actual poet, and is filled with lyrical names that roll off the tongue or tickle the senses: Fótur-undir-Fótaræti, Þórunn of Kambar, and Júel J. Júel.

Ólafur’s childhood is bleak. His mother abandoned him, and he lives with an ignorant, cruel family that treats him like, well, a dog. He is plagued by terrible health. The vague maladies that afflict him make him unable to be a useful, contributing member of the family, and thus he is more and more despised. There are occasional bright spots to Ólafur’s youth, however. First, a mystical faith awakens within him at an early age, and throughout his life he finds himself transfigured by beauty and by an intimate understanding of the higher realm. Also, a surprising development is that one of the daughters of the family surreptitiously reads to him, and Ólafur discovers the world of words, books, poetry. His growing love of poetry gives his life meaning and unwavering purpose.

When it appears that Ólafur will never regain his health, his “family” has him carted off to some remote area where an erotic, witch-like woman cures him by a laying on of her hands (or something like that). As he regains health, Ólafur finds his destiny as The Poet. The novel ebbs and flows around the conflicting demands of the life of an artist—one who is in this world but not of it. His great sensitivity to beauty, to words, and to a higher being are gifts beyond value, yet they don’t prepare him for life.

“Ólafur Kárason had always kept to himself and did not interfere in other people’s affairs; it sometimes also happened that he was not very familiar with his own affairs.”
The sensibility of the poet is an enigma to the one person who remains with him most of his life. His wife first meets him when he is young, ill, and impressionable. She is successful in making him feel an obligation to her, and although she was is an older, worn-out woman, who has no understanding at all of art or poetry, Ólafur honors his commitment to her. She becomes his Intended, and later his wife, the mother of his children, his ball and chain. Their relationship brings nothing but misery to either of them, but The Poet never successfully breaks it off:

“Had he, who had chosen her for his lot, the right to punish her—for shortcomings she couldn’t help?… he felt pity for this one more keenly than ever before, and the pity fettered him more than any love could. She was a representative of that humanity with which he himself was inextricably bound up, burdened with emotions, sensitive and sorrowful in its quest for a way out of the darkness and the severity of its origins. Was one to despise and betray this humanity, one’s own humanity, because its instinctive quest for something finer and more beautiful hadn’t succeeded?”
This book is much more than the story of a man, The Poet (although the story of The Poet is magnificent indeed). The story also has elements of the societal changes taking place in the early 20th, and religion, spiritualism, feminism. As the book draws to a close, Ólafur goes to meet his true love atop a glacier. As bleak as his life may be, his quest for the beautiful, divine, and eternal never ends. Ólafur is a flawed character in a flawed world, yet his odd world vision enables us to find a unique and unforgettable beauty, as well as hope.

World Light, The Reykjavík City Theatre Company, 1990

Abi’s impressions:

This is a novel about truth, beauty and art, to put it simply. It is abstract and often bizarre in both style and content.

The story is of Ólafur of Ljósavík, an orphan mistreated by his foster family and who spends much of his childhood lying in bed immobilised by illness until he is cured by an elf. It follows his entire life from early childhood, through many love affairs, a tortured marriage, several children, struggles with poverty and a stint in prison for sleeping with his teenage student, up until the death that releases him from a world he never understood. Ólafur is a poet (or at least he aspires to be one, and he never really does anything else), fascinated from an early age by writing and literature, and finding a greater truth in a supernatural world rather than his actual mundane existence.

He often seems to live on a plane apart from the miserable and lowly existence of his material life. He attempts to elevate himself through his art, bewildered by the realities of a world in which he never seems to belong. Ólafur is often frustratingly naïve, unrealistic and delusional, but simultaneously inspired with a beauty and childlike simplicity of soul. Sporadically he manages to free himself through bursts of inspiration in which he experiences true beauty, only to be repeatedly dragged back down into the mire of reality.

Laxness writes with a wry wit and there is a strong vein of satire running through the novel; although Ólafur ignores society as much as possible, Laxness does not. Those familiar with Laxness will have experienced his particular brand of humour, and he manages to poke gentle fun at his protagonist without out and out mocking him and his idealism. This is a brilliant work of art and one of Laxness' finest.

Og fegurðin mun ríkja ein.

[P] looks at Laxness and World Light:

If I were ever to compose a list of my favourite books Independent People by Halldór Laxness would stroll into my top ten with a shit-eating grin on its face. So, I was sure that I was going to love the Icelandic author’s other work, especially the epic [in girth, at least] World Light. And yet I don’t know what to make of the book at all. Indeed, if I was inclined to use them I’d be scouring the internet for a head-scratching gif right about now. Without a doubt, parts of it are great and parts of it are beautiful and yet, equally, parts of it are poorly executed and large parts of it are simply baffling.

The book is split into three sections. All of them are concerned with the poet Olafur Karason. The first section is a Hardy-ish tale of a poor child who is mistreated by his foster family. We first meet Olafur by the shore, mournfully staring into the sea, and it is quickly established that he is a sensitive boy who, physically and emotionally, cannot meet the demands of working on a farm or even those of interacting with the boorish people who have taken him in he is, rather, more drawn to nature, in which, he believes, God manifests himself. Indeed, he comes to experience visions that he takes to be signs from God; moreover, he believes himself to be, in some not especially clear way, in communication with God. I’ve read elsewhere that people often find this first section hard-going, and what with all the religious chatter, and brutality and bullying, I can understand that to an extent. I think people tend to find that kind of thing oppressive. I quite enjoy it though, and if you like the aforementioned Hardy or Patrick White or even Knut Hamsun then you’ll probably find much to like here too.

The second section is where it all goes a bit bats. In fact, the tone of the work changes so abruptly that it is jarring to read. For most of the first section Olafur is in bed with an apparently fatal illness. He is miraculously cured of this illness towards the end of that section by what he takes to be some kind of magic elf. Yeah, you read that right: magic elf. From the point at which Olafur can walk again the book becomes a kind of episodic tale reminiscent of Don Quixote or Candide. In true episodic-novel fashion most of the characters are essentially one-dimensional, with one exaggerated personality trait or catchphrase or situation [for example, the man who Olafur sometimes finds dead drunk in the middle of the road], and seem to exist merely in order for the author to make satirical points about, or jabs at, society.

Of course, none of that is particularly odd. What distinguishes World Light from other episodic novels, and indeed from its own first section, is just how baffling the behaviour of these characters is. So, while the characters in section one hardly realistic in a Zola-like manner [they are, in fact, more like the kind of petty, stupid, evil bastards you’d find in a Roald Dahl novel], in section two they are utterly bewildering. Take, for example, the three most prominent female characters: one is the girl who summons or is a conduit for the magic elf; she periodically appears in order to make strange, nonsensical, declarations or demands; another girl falls in love with Olafur, gets pregnant, and yet one day suddenly ups and marries someone else; the third is an older woman, a poetess who burns all her poems, who, as far as I could understand it, is physically young on top but old on the bottom. And that’s only the tip of the, er, iceberg [so to speak].

Now, I like this kind of thing, generally speaking, so nothing I have written so far ought to be construed as major criticism. However, more of a problem is the sense I got that Laxness either wasn’t fully in control of his material or his attitude towards it was, um, lax. What I mean by that is there are numerous points across the two sections where things were mentioned or plot points were developed only for them to be forgotten or discarded without explanation. For example, whatever happened to Olafur’s visions? Not only does he stop communing with God in section two, he appears to almost completely lose his religious feeling. That would be fine if it were at least justified in some way by the author but it isn’t; it is almost as though the Olafur of section two is a different character altogether from the one we met before. There were points at which I wondered whether I just wasn’t reading closely enough, or whether my concentration was poor, which happens sometimes, but these inconsistencies were too frequent for them all to be put down to that.

Despite being superficially a book about poetry and poets and the search for beauty, World Light is, without a doubt, really a political novel. Yet, even in this there is a disconnect between sections one and two. In the beginning the politics are subtle; Olafur is, as mentioned previously, being fostered; the family are farmers and his upkeep is paid for by the parish [something that his family often mention and appear to resent]. So, whatever points Laxness was making about poverty or the working person were made in an organic fashion, as part of a story; Laxness’ message is shown to you, rather than told; and, in this way, you, as the reader, have to work a little bit to get at what he wants you to take away from the book. However, in section two characters often engage in conversation about politics, about corruption, the state of Iceland, and how the working person is maltreated; the message is so heavy-handed during section two that even Dickens would have clucked his tongue. However, it isn’t all bad news; some of the political satire is good fun, like when Petur, the manager [which appears to be like a mayor], rambles on about the importance of the soul while he oversees the displacement and exploitation of the locals. At these times, the book reminded me of Platonov’s brilliant The Foundation Pit. Indeed, while I know nothing about the history of Iceland, quite a lot of what occurs in World Light is reminiscent of a collectivist communist state.

I was tempted when I used the word episodic earlier in the review to call the novel picaresque instead; indeed, it boasts almost all of the hallmarks of a picaresque novel, except that Olafur is no rascal or picar. In truth, he isn’t, as a character, much of anything and that is, perhaps, the book’s biggest flaw. Of course, he could be, and I would guess that he is, a satire on a certain kind of Icelandic personality. Yet, for a non-Icelandic reader, who isn’t in on any potential joke, he mostly comes across as dull and insipid. In fact, by part three I was really quite tired of him. On one level Olafur is easy to figure out; he was mistreated early in life and so seeks to avoid confrontation. That is fine, psychologically sound even. However, there came a point in my reading when I realised that he is pretty much entirely about negation: he has no opinions, no personality, no interests [outside of poetry or literature–and yet after section one he doesn’t read a single book]. The more I read the more convinced I became that Laxness didn’t like him very much either, that maybe he intended him to be an example of someone who appears to be selfless but is, in reality, emotionally entirely self-serving; furthermore, that while he is a good poet, on the surface, he could never be a great one because he refuses to fully engage in life or open his eyes to or, rather, be interested in the truth of the world. As the genuinely great John Keats once wrote:

Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all

Stephen's reflections on Light:

This 500+ page novel is from the late 1930s, when Laxness was in his prime. He had recently completed Salka Valka and Independent People and this story of the hapless poet, Olaf Karason of Ljosavik (loosely based on the real-life failed poet Magnus Hjaltalin Magnusson) can be considered as part of a trilogy concerning the transition of Iceland from its near-feudal society of the 19th century into the modern world. The social unrest and upheaval depicted in each of these books serves as a backdrop for the main characters’ struggle for existence. The difference here is that the protagonist is, by the circumstance of his upbringing (told in Dickensian detail), is nearly an imbecile when it comes to dealing with the hard realities of living in poor Icelandic fishing villages. He overcomes years of illness at the hands of his foster family, finding solace in his “poetry”, although much of what he writes is sentimental doggerel for illiterate suitors. He is roundly criticized as a wastrel but does manages to eke out a meager living writing and depending on charity as well as being supported by his long-suffering “betrothed”.

The strongest sub-theme is Laxness’ exploration of relationships between men and women. Olaf, with his delicate features and sensitive nature, has no trouble meeting women. His desire is strong; his attention span is short. The woman with whom he does “settle down” is a epileptic older woman with attachment issues. He feels bound to her, fathers two children with her (both die in childhood), but his heart is restless. I got the impression that Laxness was working through some of his own personal issues he was experiencing at the time.

A furtive, meaningless coupling with a dim teenage girl causes Olaf to be sent to prison. In prison, he has a vision of his perfect soulmate, this vision is transferred to a young woman he meets while boarding the trawler that is returning him to his village. She resists him at first, but ultimately succumbs to his charms, only to leave him to return to her regular life. They live on opposite sides of a glacier and after he learns of her death, Olaf climbs the glacier to join her in paradise.

This sounds somewhat corny, and although Laxness can be comical at times, he never ridicules the passion of Olaf, or any of the other characters, for that matter. Laxness understands that the lives people live are not necessarily the ones they would choose for themselves, and there is no shame in living a humble, unexamined life.

Erik’s World Light Goodreads review:

This is the 2nd-best book I’ve read this year.

The first was Independent People, by the same author, which is easily one of the 5 or 10 best books I’ve ever read. If you want to discover a truly phenomenal writer, one with as much pathos and humanity as tenderness and good humor, with some of the most stunningly beautiful passages imaginable… I would suggest Laxness to you! No, I would almost demand that you let this saint into your life. These two books are something on another level altogether. He wrote with so much honesty and passion, warm and fuzzy yet cold and distant when needed. (He is Icelandic, after all). Reading Laxness feels like sitting in front of a blazing fire with wool socks, watching a terrifying blizzard from the single-plane windows of your house which may or may not stand up to the elements (but you hope that it does, so that you don’t freeze to death, and can read all of his other novels when you're finished with one).

Laxness’s protagonists are fairly impoverished and rather single-minded, simple on one level but intrinsically complex, and intelligent enough to scrape by. There are heaps of other characters buzzing around his epic tales, ranging from greedy tobacconists, hypocritical pastors and evil Christian men, strong-headed young women, tyrannical politicians, strange and lonely spiritual mediums, etc. Needless to say, most of the townsfolk we meet along the journey are quite grotesque in one way or many. The anti-hero of this novel is Ólafur, an orphan who “was sent away from his mother in a sack one winter's day.” The first quarter of the book (originally published in four installments) details his awful childhood with equal parts sympathy and subtle anger. (The same can be said of the whole novel, really.) Weak and extremely unloved by all, he lives a bleak existence that somehow never quite becomes bitterness. His only solace is learning how to be a poet, which he does while in his sickbed for two years, meanwhile memorizing every knot and crack in the wood floor and ceiling in his corner of the cold hut. He soon comes across a book, a sole book, which he reads in private, knowing that the house would be outraged if he were caught reading a “filthy” book (meaning any book that is not the Bible). Alas, he is caught and the book is burned in a tragic episode.
“Admittedly he had never understood the book, but that did not matter. What mattered was that this was his secret, his dream, his refuge; in short, it was his book. He wept only as children weep when they suffer injustice at the hands of those stronger than themselves. It is the most bitter weeping in the world. That was what happened to his book; it was taken from him and burned. And he was left standing naked and without a book on the first day of summer.”
He eventually is ostracized from the house and taken on horseback to a faraway village. He is guided by Reimar the poet, the most popular in the region. He finally works up the courage to ask, “Don’t you find it exceedingly difficult to be a poet, Reimar?”
“Difficult? Me? To be a poet? Just ask the womenfolk about that, my friend, whether our Reimar finds it difficult to be a poet! It was only yesterday that I rode into the yard of one of the better farms hereabouts, and the daughter of the house was standing outside, smiling, and without more ado I addressed her with a double-rhymed, quatro-syllabic verse that just came to me as I bent down from the saddle to greet her. No, it's not difficult to be a poet, my friend, it's a pleasure to be a poet.”
In this new land, he is free, though equally poor. His one desire is to write poetry all day long and look at the world around him. His only thought of the future is to write poetry, with no questions about food or employment. He seeks not friends, but only vaguely to be understood. In short, he’s a bit naive… but he is, after all, only 17 at this point.
“He went on composing poetry for most of the day, and reciting his poems to Nature and lying on his back on the grass and loving the sky. Late in the afternoon he drank some water from the brook. He was sure that the birds of the sky would bring him tidbits in their beaks whenever he got hungry.”
His life continues on, with a handful of genuine (though mild) ups, and many downs. It is the saga of good Ólafur, who merely wants to be a true poet and not bother anybody. But in the process he somehow ends up bothering almost everybody... Surrounding him are all the narrow-minded and corrupt people in high positions, and the hard-working, hungry townsfolk who are more and more oppressed at every turn. Of course, much of the book deals with bleak things, but it's never bleak for long - there is good humor throughout, even in the speeches of the corrupt hypocrites, and even in the deep despair of young Ólafur. What’s more, the genuine joy to be found in such simple things as the sun splashing onto the hair of a first lover in the morning, the glimpsing of a beautiful glacier, the divine power of feeling the heavens, the palpable spirit of an inspired poem… these moments fill your soul like they’re actual breaths of fresh glacial air.

There’s a lot about spirituality, and much talk about Christianity (especially the two religious leaders of the town, who are just about the opposite of godly men). Near the end of the book, however, we meet a pastor who often pays a visit to jails. Turns out this guy, at least, has a bit more of the kind, humane, gentle personality of the figure Christians are meant to look up to most.
“If I have a face that rejoices in God's grace, my brother, it is because I have learned more from those who have lived within the walls [of this prison] than from those who lived outside them,” said the cathedral pastor. “I have learned more from those who have fallen down than those who have remained upright. That's why I am always so happy in this house.”
I think it’s fair to say that the reader will feel the same: reading this book, we learn more about goodness from those who have fallen than from those who have supposedly “remained upright.” I finished this book a month and a half ago, thinking I’d find the words to write a proper review about it. Those words are still avoiding me, so I'll just give up and tell you to read this book if you like books that have the power to change the way you think about life.

Laxness was a god among men, and these two books are incredibly inspired. Independent People was written before World Light, so I would suggest starting there, but that’s like choosing between Rubber Soul and Revolver: completely pointless; you need them both in your life, and the sooner the better.

Kjartan’s musical tribute and opera video preview inspired by World Light…

Ragnar’s performance piece and New Yorker article…

Justin references World Light vis-à-vis the Covid-19 pandemic…

Lara’s review in Rain Taxi…

Publishing History:

Heimsljós (Part I) - Ljós heimsins, 1937, (Bókaútgáfan Heimskringla, Reykjavík)
Heimsljós (Part II) - Höll sumarlandsins, 1938, (Bókaútgáfan Heimskringla, Reykjavík)
Heimsljós (Part III) - Hús skáldsins, 1939, (Bókaútgáfan Heimskringla, Reykjavík)
Heimsljós (Part IV) - Fegurð himinsins, 1940, (Bókaútgáfan Heimskringla, Reykjavík)

English translation by Magnus Magnusson:

World Light - University of Wisconsin Press, Madison, London, 1969, Introduction by Magnus Magnusson

World Light - Vintage, London, 2002, Introduction by Sven Birkerts

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