A Quire of Seven

Sevitakall, bookseller, Bokin, Reykjavík, 2006

Stephen’s ruminations on Quire:

Short stories may be considered the step-children of Literature. Usually not the center of attention, but worthy of consideration nevertheless. This book of absurd sketches is a real curio, redeemed by Halldór’s wonderful language as well as his sharp insight into the human condition.

The stories give the sense of being individual parts of various larger wholes, indeed, The Pigeon Banquet was incorporated into a play and A Place of Safety shares elements of The Fish Can Sing. They are all wonderful, quirky, and humorous—if verging on the fantastic. My favorite is An Inland Fishing Trip, wherein the narrator is a befuddled bank clerk who is left at home, alone, for the first time in his married life. His plans for a fishing trip with some cronies ends in disaster, his pleas for help from the neighbor women become exercises in impotence and futility. Corda Atlantica is a satiric commentary on modern life, extremely dense with detail and references. The other stories explore more banal realities in brilliant style. The Bread of Life was published in a picture book format in 1987. These stories are not always easy to read and are quite challenging at times, but certainly worthy of the consideration of any Laxness fan. If one of his novels were a banquet, these stories would be delicious, rich chocolates.

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Darien’s explanation of “What's a Quire*?”

These seven short stories by my favorite author lack the monumental epic-ness of his novels. But this is an interesting assortment: like a curry, there are many different flavors and nuances. Humor and a surreal atmosphere predominate. Like all of his works, I savored these stories more on my second reading. Boucher translated this work over 30 years ago; it seems an adequate, not utterly graceful translation.

Place of Safety is about dogs, respect, and faithfulness. Next up is Pigeon Banquet, a very odd story about a mysterious host, a lavish party and his bewildered guests.

“Aren’t you enjoying yourself?” I asked.
“Of course I’m enjoying myself,” said the man. “I’m the Icelandic police inspector who lost his passport in New York and couldn't remember his name. Then the judge in New York said, ‘Let the police band play all the national anthems of the world, and see whether he doesn't respond to any of them. '"

Wouldn’t that make a great scene in a black and white movie?

An Inland Fishing Trip is a tale of impending disaster. Capital Error in the West Fjords is the strange odyssey of a middle-aged woman of no particular distinction who loses herself and finds her calling. Corda Atlantica concerns Count Dunganon, Duke of St. Kilda, a man who has his own country. This small island off the coast of Scotland is reputed to be the last remaining part of Atlantis. The Count ...

... differed in no way from the rest of a class that has been more harshly treated than any other group in the world, not excluding the Jews: the so-called petit bourgeoisie, consisting, as everyone knows, of university professors, linen drapers, roadworks supervisors, assistant managers of breweries, and violin-makers.

John of Breadhouses is an alternative view of Christ’s Disciples, as they might have been years after the Crucifixion.

The last story, Bird on the Fencepost, describes the final hours of Hard-Knut (a Bjartur of Summerhouses sort of character). Knut intends to leave all of his worldly possessions (17 ewes) to his housekeeper, Brightmay. This story ends, and likewise the book, with a line that reminds me of Laxness himself:

As they rode through the gate the bird was still sitting on the fence-post, listening to the echo of the song it had chirped in summer.

How many travelers will be listening to the echo of Laxness’ song, for seasons unnumbered?


*Dictionary.com says:
1. a set of 24 uniform sheets of paper.
2. Bookbinding. a section of printed leaves in proper sequence after folding; gathering.

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Eric’s scrutiny of Quire…

Somehow this is the only collection of Laxness’ short stories to be published in English and, from what I understand, it’s an intact translation of his last Icelandic volume of stories. So the question is… when will his other volumes be translated?! I don’t understand it! Aside from these seven tales, he has “Lilly” in Icelandic Short Stories and “New Iceland” in Seven Icelandic Short Stories, so… only nine of his short stories in English translation. Unbelievable. And this one has been out of print for over 40 years and goes for high prices; I had to have a friend from another county borrow it from his library’s storage room. Where’s the English-speakers’ love for Laxness’ short fiction, I ask? This must be remedied.

Anyway, griping aside, I was so happy to finally get my hands on a copy of this. And perhaps all this time of anticipation gave me a bit of “anticippointment.” I loved his two stories from those other collections, and I (mostly) love his novels, but a couple of these left me a bit cold. Two or three of them are pointlessly absurd, like the lesser moments of The Atom Station but with the humor sliding off the edge of the point. Don’t get me wrong, I love absurdism, and I even love pointless absurdism—things don’t need to happen for a reason!—but I just found a couple of these stories to fall flat. Luckily, though, the others make up for it. The tale of the shameful dog cowering under the bed, the tale of “Hard Knut” grumbling on his death bed, the allegory of Jesus’ disciples, the old caretaker going temporarily insane… there are some magical stories here, ones that I think people into good fiction would love to read.

It’s encouraging that the interest in Laxness hasn’t died, what with another book coming out last year, so let’s hope this will continue.

Some favorite passages:

“Whoever hears the river flowing won’t gain much from listening to you.”

“When I was young I read a large number of books. I believed in seven doctrines. Facts killed them all in the order in which I adopted them. I am a heretic of seven faiths.”

“The dog crawled guiltily from under the bed. This dog had broken the dogs’ moral code, out of fear. He had crossed the threshold from the lean-to, pushing the spring-door open with his muzzle - a thing he had never done before. He had then run up the steps into the kitchen, where he knew very well a dog must never go. Finally he had nosed his way forward into the women’s parlour to the old woman. No wonder he looked guilty when he crawled out from under her bed: no creature on earth had so clear a sense of sin as a dog.”

“It needs no more than a single dry day to make up for a whole summer of rain. The bird sits on the fence-post and chirps endlessly, night and day, for two and a half months of summer. The rest of the year is an echo of the summer. A day is measured off in hours and watches, but of all the hours the happiest is when a man falls asleep - though it’s one that can’t be measured; yes, one that a man will never really know.”

“Anything that can be said with words makes me suspect the worst. I listen to the river flowing.”
“Then, Knut, what do you believe in?”
“The bird perched on the fence-post there bobs and twitters, and that tells me enough, my lads,” said the old man. “That bird knows all that needs to be known about the world. It knows all the ways and means of living in the world. And it’s the greatest fountain of stories in the land.”

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Publishing History:

Translated by Alan Boucher:

Iceland Review Library, Reykjavík. 1974, 1977