Iceland - Butterflies in November et. al.

Country: Iceland               
Book: Butterflies in November (Rigning í nóvember)
Author: Auður Ava Ólafsdóttir, Brian FitzGibbon (Translator)
Publication Year: 2004 (2014)
Genre: Fiction

Country: Iceland               
Book: Icelandic Folk Tales
Author: Hjörleifur Helgi Stefánsson
Publication Year: 2020
Genre: Folklore

Country: Iceland               
Book: The Prose Edda
Author: Snorri Sturluson, Jesse Byock (Translator)
Publication Year: 1220 (2005)
Genre: Norse Mythology

Country: Iceland
Book: Saga: A Novel of Medieval Iceland
Author: Jeff Janoda
Publication Year: 2005
Genre: Historical Fiction

Iceland is a country which fascinates me. Straddling the Atlantic ridge between the Eurasian and America tectonic plates, it is a land famous for its volcanoes and lava fields. Indeed, over the last few years there have been a number of prominent volcanic eruptions on the island, the live streams for which I have often played in the background while reading.

Even before then, my awareness of Iceland as a place of wonder begins with the 1959 film adaptation of Journey to the Centre of the Earth, staring James Mason, and later the book, which began my love of Jules Verne (see: Le Rayon Vert for more).

In Journey to the Center of the Earth (Voyage au centre de la Terre), German Professor, Otto Lidenbrock finds a note written in runic script in an old book of Icelandic saga. When decoded, the note gives the reader coded instructions on how to gain entrance to the centre of the Earth.

Lidenbrock, accompanied by his nephew, Axel, travels to Iceland, to the stratovolcano of Snæfellsjökull in the west of the island. On certain days at the end of June the sun casts shadows that point the way towards a tunnel which leads into the bowels of the planet. Many have seen in this, and other plot points, as an influence for JJR Tolkien’s The Hobbit. They initially take the wrong tunnel and have to double back. Once on the right track, the adventures never return to Iceland, finally emerging during a volcanic eruption on the Italian island of Stromboli.

Iceland beguiles with its apparent smallness. Although only 500km at its widest point, the coastline runs for more than 6,500km. Which provides more than enough space for the roadtrip featured in the first Icelandic book proper under consideration, Butterflies in November by Auður Ava Ólafsdóttir.

The unnamed narrator, a translator of more than 11 languages, has been left by her husband for his pregnant mistress. She has ambitions of travelling abroad, but when a friend is hospitalised for several months, she find herself the temporary guardian of their 4 year old, hearing impaired son. And so the two set out on a journey around the 1300km long Ring Road that encircles Iceland.

The novel has certain similarities to Arto Paasilinna’s The Year of the Hare (see: Finland). Just as Paasilinna’s book begins with the winging of the titular hare, so Butterflies in November begins with the narrator hitting and killing a goose in her car. The lives of the protagonists of both books alter or unravel in the immediate aftermath of these incidents, resulting in them journeying through the wilderness of their respective countries.

It’s a decent enough novel in its way and I will return to Ólafsdóttir’s books at a later date. However, as others have pointed out, it does contain some problematic language. Like "a child with a Senegalese father" being identified as being disabled because of their dual heritage. The narrator’s husband is a misogynist and bully of the highest order, with his pronouncements and personal attacks on her going unchallenged. There is even a brief reconciliation between the two at one point. The book is one of those that just kind of ends without any resolution being achieved. I want to read more as I’m interested to see if this is emblematic of Ólafsdóttir’s oeuvre or of Icelandic literature in general.

Auður Ava Ólafsdóttir

For now, let’s move on to Icelandic Folk Tales by Hjörleifur Helgi Stefánsson. The image of traditional Icelandic literature is one of the great sagas and Edda (see below). In turning to Iceland, I knew I wanted to read some Icelandic folklore and found a number of examples. Stefánsson’s short collection of folk stories is a more modern rendering of a number of folklore tropes, but all the familiar characters are here. Demons. Witches. Elves. Sooo many trolls. If ever we needed reminding just how much influence Icelandic folklore had on the shaping of Tolkien’s Middle Earth, we can find it in these pages.

I say this is a modern retelling as Stefánsson’s framing is of oral tales passed down by his parents and grandparents. It is also very much a national collection, with each area of Iceland featuring at least once. Yet the well worn, clichéd language of the fairytale is also present, with all of the usual, ‘There once was a’ and suchlike that we find in Hans Christian Andersen and the Brothers Grimm. The stories are new and old at the same time, reminding the reader just how old a country Iceland really is.

For a sense of how old Iceland is, we turn to the 13^th century Prose Edda. This is the one. The book that inspired Tolkien’s entire mythology, from Middle Earth, the name he took for his mythical world, to names of several of the dwarfs that set out with Bilbo Baggins in The Hobbit, to the name of Frodo in The Lord of the Rings series, who is here a character called, Frodi.

As well as well Tolkien, The Prose Edda was used by Richard Wagner for much of his Ring Cycle, the Black Sabbath album, Tyr, as well as all of those Marvel movies. Indeed, whenever anyone makes reference to the Valkyries, Berserkers. Valhalla, Ragnarok, Yggdrasill, Thor, Odin or Loki, they are ultimately referring back to the Prose Edda.

The book is in one  sense a teaching aid on how to write epic poetry, using references to earlier Norse poems that are mostly now lost (although a second volume, known as The Poetic Edda, does gather many of these verses together.) Here we get the sense of the age of Iceland, in that these stories were already old when they were gathered together and set down by Sturluson in the early 13^th century. It is telling that the Prose Edda is also known as the Younger Edda.

The Prose Edda is also an interesting document in that it straddles the periods of pagan and Christian Scandinavia. The book starts with reference to Adam and Eve and Jesus Christ, but soon spins off into reference to classical mythology. Thor is made a refugee from the Fall of Troy in the same way as Aeneas in Virgil’s Aeneid. He is made commensurate with Hector, although in most renderings of the story, including the Iliad, Hector was killed by Achilles.

This classical framing was perhaps an attempt to preserve Norse mythology in the face of Christian persecution by making it seem less grandiose and more in the vein of Roman mythology. Thor, in other renderings of the mythos, is commensurate with Zeus or Jupiter, all of them gods of thunder. Yet this would place Thor in direction competition with Jehovah. Thor’s powers are therefore dialed down and transferred to a mythical realm that remained acceptable to the Roman Catholic church because of its Latin associations.

In a similar vein, Loki, chief antagonist for Thor, becomes analogue with Odysseus (or Ulysses, to emphasise the Roman version). Which makes sense. Both are tricksters. The Trojan Horse is said to have been Odysseus’s idea, not to mention his many deceptions on the journey home to Ithaca. Though Hector and Odysseus are never really placed in direct conflict with one another in either Homer or Virgil.

Many of our modern English words come down to us from these tales. Earth (as in Planet Earth). Hell (Hel in the original). Not to mention most of our days of the week, which are all named after Norse gods, in the same way that all Latin derived, romance languages use names derived from pagan Roman gods.

Of all the books we have looked at, or will look at on this journey, we are unlikely to find one that has had more influence on western thought than the Prose Edda.

For a modern retelling of other Icelandic sagas, we turn, finally, to Saga: A Novel of Medieval Iceland by Jeff Janoda. This historic novel takes it queue from the Eyrbyggja saga, written by an anonymous writer sometime in the 13^th century. It describes the feud between two Norse clans that settled Iceland, led by the chieftains, Snorri Goði and Arnkel Goði.

Janoda’s retelling (one imagines, without having read the source material) gives the characters more of an inner life than would have been the convention in medieval literature. Like the Prose Edda, there is a blending of Christian and Norse mythology. Odin and Thor never appear directly, but their influence and patronage or disapproval are keenly felt by all. The supernatural elements of the original do feature, but are open to interpretation. Are visions of the dead real or figments of the imagination? It is for the reader to decide.

Like the best historical fiction, Janoda roots the action in the real world. The Eyrbyggja saga was considered semi-historical to begin with and Janoda’s book would seem to iron out some of the wrinkles to make it closer to the historical reality of 13^th century Iceland while playing fast and loose with the narrative elements of the original story. But isn’t his what happens in all mythology? Building on previous versions of a tale to add to the mythos. We see this with Greek and Elizabethan playwrights, Marvel comics, as well as every adaptation of A Christmas Carol or The Hound of the Baskervilles.

Indeed, as this project likes to draw parallels with the countries and authors it has previously explored, we cannot fail to observe that a certain Robert Louis Stevenson, last seen in Samoa (see: Samoa), wrote 'The Waif Woman: A Cue, from a Saga', a story based on certain elements of the same saga. A cursory reading of the story suggests it was largely based on a minor subplot. It was published posthumously in 1916, more than 20 years after Stevenson’s death in 1894.

We, I, have spent more time and covered more Icelandic authors than any country on this journey thus far. However Iceland perches on the edge of a liminal space between many different worlds. The mythological and the historical; the Norse and the Christian; the European and the American. It bestrides the narrow world like a colossus (to borrow from Shakespeare's Cassius).

One figure absent from Jeff Janoda’s version of the Eyrbyggja saga is Eric the Red, the Viking explorer who ‘discovered’ Greenland and established the first settlements on the island. The Icelandic Edda and Sagas tell us so much about the Vikings who influenced European society far beyond the height of their powers, from trading across Europe and into Asia, to founding the city of Dublin, amongst others, to  ruling the Danelaw across North East and Eastern England for more than two centuries.

Yet while Iceland exists in that liminal space, it is a county in the here and now. Since beginning to read these books, the latest volcanic eruption has begun on the island and has already been going on for more than a week, with no sign of ending just yet. Iceland has given us Björk and Sigur Rós (amongst others), for which I am personally very grateful. It is one of those places that seems to punch above its weight, but also has the same kind of successful social democracy as other Scandinavian countries. A reminder that you don’t need to be the richest nation in the world to provide a high standard of living for your citizens. Indeed, the two things might be mutually exclusive.

As such, you will excuse me writing two thousand words on such a small country, when a behemoth like Argentina or Congo might receive half that word count (*might*: I cannot say what rabbit holes I will stumble into during this project). Iceland exists in that liminal space between the mythical and the real. Its tropes and archetypes flow into western literature into a dozen other places besides. Other than Rome, Athens and Jerusalem, there is nowhere else that has influenced us more.

Jeff Janoda

Liechtenstein - Seven Years in Tibet

Country: Liechtenstein                 
Book: Seven Years in Tibet
Author: Heinrich Harrer
Publication Year: 1952
Genre: Travel

Ok, so I have to admit this one is a bit of a cheat. However, it is one that is pretty standard for those of us seeking to read the world, especially in English. When turning to the tiny, doubled-landlocked European country of Liechtenstein, there are few if any national writers whose work has been translated into English. We either have to learn German, or make alternative arrangements.

Heinrich Harrer was an Austrian born mountaineer who was part of the first team to scale the north face of the Eiger mountain in Switzerland in 1938. Later in life Harrer moved to Liechtenstein and was resident there when he wrote Seven Years in Tibet. It’s not ideal, either in terms of the writer or their subject material. If I ever find someone more relevant to Liechtenstein (or learn German), I will return here. There are apparently a number of celebrated crime writers and in other genres amongst the literati of Liechtenstein. For now, Harrer will have to do.

The other issue we run into when considering Harrer and his work is his associations with the Nazis. Of course, anyone born in Germany or its neighbouring states during that epoch of history could not avoid being tainted by the stench of German fascism. Despite being a Nazi Party member and holding the rank of Sergeant in the SS, Harrer insisted he only wore his uniform once, on his wedding day, and came to regret being a member of the Nazi party.

You get the sense from reading Seven Years in Tibet, as well as Harrer’s biography, that the man had a single minded devotion to mountaineering and exploration in general. After Hitler's annexation of Austria in 1938 (Anschluss) , Austrian nationals had to play the game and make a good impression if they wanted to pursue their own personal interests. We should of course never forget than many in occupied Europe did not have that option. 

That said, Harrer used the options available to him to get as far from Nazi Germany as possible. The attempt to climb the north face of the Eiger was partly a publicity stunt with his real aim being to bring him notice and be selected for an Himalayan expedition. It worked. It also resulted in being received by Hitler following his return from the Eiger expedition.

The comic irony is that upon reaching Karachi in modern day Pakistan (then still part of India), Britain declared war on Germany and Harrer and his colleagues were arrested and put in an internment camp. They seem to have been treated rather well by the British, but Harrer made a number of unsuccessful attempts to escape.

On his penultimate escape, Harrer and his fellow escapee got really quite far, well into the Himalayas, but they were eventually caught by the Indian army and placed in two weeks solitary confinement. He was, however, able to leave a bag of supplies that were to become essential during his ultimate escape.

It is perhaps a final irony that when Harrer did finally escape the internment camp and make it all the way to Tibet, it was April 1944 and D-Day was just around the corner. By the time he was attempting to gain entry into inner Tibet, the war was over.

Seven Years in Tibet is in many ways a fairly standard travel book, in the vein of The Adventures of Marco Polo or Arabian Sands or Scott’s diaries. It is a tale of frozen wastelands, roadside bandits and bureaucracy, as well as the extraordinary kindness of the Tibetan people. At one point Harrier and his compatriots are stranded in one village for nearly a year as local officials essentially place them under house arrest. Though they are allowed to roam the countryside during daylight hours.

I’m sure many know the book only from the Brad Pitt movie made in the mid-90s. I haven’t seen the film, but I can imagine it being the usual romanticised Hollywood version. Pitt probably meets the Dalai Lama five seconds after arriving in Lhasa, even thought Harrer only became a tutor to the fourteen year old spiritual leader much later in his seven years’ residence in the country (the title is a misnomer, by the way, as Harrer seems to have spent a maximum of six years in Tibet - which is a much less romantic title).

Harrer and His Holiness do eventually become good friends, Harrer being both the young man’s tutor and building for him a private cinema. The friendship, though, is short lived. When Mao’s Red Army invade Tibet in 1950, Harrer and his European colleagues are forced to flee. 

Tibet

Only two years later. as Seven Years in Tibet was being published, the Dalai Lama himself was forced into exile in India, from which he has never returned. Harrer did return to Tibet in the early 80s, during a brief improvement in relations between China and the outside world. Harrer heard stories of concentration camps and forced labour. It is worth noting that China has killed an estimated 1.2 million Tibetans over the years, as well as ethnically cleansing much of the indigenous population and replacing it with Han Chinese. Many of the same tactics used against the Tibetans are now being repeated against the Muslim Uyghur population in the nearby province of Xinjiang.

Seven Years in Tibet was Heinrich Harrer’s first published book. He would go on to write a number of other books about Tibet, including a biography of the Dalai Lama’s brother, Thubten Jigme Norbu. He also wrote about the scaling of the north face of the Eiger, as well as accounts of his later adventures. He is estimated to have made somewhere in the region of 40 documentary films.

Harrer took part in a number of subsequent mountaineering expeditions to Alaska, the Andes and the Mountains of the Moon (central Africa), as well as expeditions to the Amazon, Congo River and Borneo, amongst other faraway places. He died in 2006, at the age of 93. Which, as we have said before, is not a tragedy.

Despite the follies of his 20s Heinrich Harrer lived a fuller and more fulfilling life than most of us can even imagine. I can’t imagine Adolf Hitler or anyone else in Nazi High Command approving of his journeys into Bhutan, French Guiana or the Andaman Islands. Which I suppose is a kind of redemption, if any were needed.

Heinrich Harrer with the Dalai Lama

 

Bhutan - Folktales of Bhutan

Country: Bhutan               
Book: Folktales of Bhutan
Author: Kunzang Choden
Publication Year: 1994
Genre: Folklore

Dangbo..o..o Dingbo..o..o.. there was a country high in the Himalayas that had a rich oral tradition and a mythology all its own. Yet this mythology was in many ways universal to that found in the countries far below.

Tse ni – Delay.

Wherever in the world humans have settled, they have told tales to entertain, educate and inform. Greek myths. Nordic sagas. First nation Australian visions of the Dreamtime. The mythic tales found in Genesis and Indian Vedas. We have been telling stories for millennia.

Bhutan, like any other society, has its own mythology. Transmitted through the still isolated and largely rural country by the oral tradition, the collection of folktales and legends published by Kunzang Choden sees many of these stories told outside of the country for the first time. And yet they are redolent of similar tales told the world over.

In reading through the collection of short tales, the obvious analogue that one can’t help but mention is that of Aesop’s fables. Like Aesop, many of the tales feature animals. Tigers and leopards. Chickens and foxes. An entire army of frogs (which is the collective noun for  a group of frogs).

Yet there are elements of those stories that deal with the human inhabitants of Bhutan that feel more like tales from the Arabian Nights. Or parables found in the gospels of the New Testament.

The former, at least, is understandable, given Bhutan’s location high in the Himalayas, with China, India and Pakistan is close proximity. As isolated as Bhutan is, the legends Choden retells feature visitors and explorers who find themselves wandering into the mountain Kingdom. Cross cultural fertilisation is inevitable, however isolated a country might be.

Then again, many experiences are universal to the human sphere, no matter how isolated a place might be. The desire to love, marry and raise children. The need to survive and thrive. Joseph Campbell showed in his academic work how many of the same sorts of stories are universal the world over. 

 
All cultures, for instance, seem to have a story equivalent to the Biblical story of Jonah and the Whale, where a character is swallowed by a fish, whale or other aquatic creature. Though in landlocked Bhutan, the closest analogue to Jonah seems to be The Girl who was Swallowed by a Python. The girl cuts her way free in the way that other captives free themselves by a variety of methods.

Perhaps it reflects a time when we were smaller creatures and more likely to be eaten by snakes or large fish. Perhaps it is a deep seated desire to return to the womb.

Indeed, if you want something truly universal, the Bhutanese refer to their country as, Drukyul, which is thought to mean, Land of the Dragons. Which are the subject of mythological tropes from China to Turkey and England and Wales.

Many of these tales reflect morality tales we find in Buddhist and Christian tracts. Like the man who finds a large piece of turquoise and swaps it for a horse, then swaps the horse for a bull, then a ram, rooster and finally a song. It’s the woman who swallowed a fly in reverse, but just as silly. Yet the story reflects the message of anti-consumerism found in both religions.

The Tiger and the Frog has some features of The Frog and the Scorpion. Although in the Bhutanese version, the frog gets the better of the tiger. A boy goes to buy a cow, but is attacked by a Sinpo, a flesh-eating spirit, which has some of the same features as Jack and the Magic Beanstalk.

Other stories are more baffling . Like, The Princess with Three Breasts, where the titular (yes, I went there) Princess marries a man with a hunchback. They are thrown together by a blind man and both the husband’s hunch and the princess's third breast burst in the collision and they live happily ever after. It’s a love conquers all metaphor perhaps. Or the idea that any personal disadvantage or handicap can be overcome by meeting the right person. Something like that.

There is also the weird and supernatural. Like the disembodied goat’s tale that helps to feed its mistress (Hans Christian Andersen would be proud). Or the various ghosts that feature in the stories. Here it feels like we are leaning more towards the stories told by Scheherazade during the 1001 Nights. Frogs don’t quite turn into princes in these Bhutanese tales, but frogs and princesses do have business with one another, like any good folk tradition.

The Bhutanese are thought to be of Mongolian decent and like the characters in Galsan Tschinag’s Blue Sky trilogy (see: Mongolia), the trials and tribulations of goat and sheep farming are reflected in these stores with just as much focus placed on the importance of dung as seen on the West Mongolian plain.

Obviously there is a lot of local flavour and regional variation to these stories, but the same tropes are found again and again across the world. Some of these stories wouldn’t be out of place in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales or Boccaccio’s Decameron. Or in West African folklore. Or Incan ritual.

For a country of just 600,000 people, living in the rarefied atmosphere of the Himalaya, these stories have been preserved remarkably well via the oral tradition. New ways of storing data to greater and greater capacities make us lose something of ourselves. When there is no reason to store information in our own brains, we lose the ability to retain even a tiny fraction of what we were once capable of holding in our minds.

As we have externalised the function of the gut to the frying pan and oven, we have externalised the function of the mind to the smart phone. So too, maybe, have we externalised our imaginations to film and TV screens. The old ways of retaining information are slowly being lost. The stories found in Folktales of Bhutan are a window into one of the last places where these traditions endure. A Shangri-La of memory. A place to which we can dream of returning.

Kunzang Choden

Samoa - Where We Once Belonged

Country: Samoa               
Book: Where We Once Belonged
Author: Sia Figiel
Publication Year: 1996
Genre: Fiction

Sia Figel’s 1996 novel, Where We Once Belonged, holds the distinct honour of being the first book published in the United States written by a female Samoan author. The honour is also somewhat dubious. Rather like Octavia E Butler being the first American women of colour to publish a work of speculative fiction (1977’s Patternmaster), it is depressing how recently it happened.

Where We Once Belonged is on one level a simple coming of age tale. It uses a traditional Samoan storytelling technique, su'ifefiloi, which, as I understand it, involves sewing or weaving together different parts (the word derives from the weaving together of a garland of flowers). In employing this technique, Figiel attempts to counter the lazy stereotypes of western anthropological studies of Samoa and the sexualisation and fetishisation of Pacific island women n general (“Gauguin is dead! There is no paradise!’”).

In another sense, the novel conforms to storytelling techniques found throughout the world, some of which we have already discussed in this project. In following the story of thirteen year old Alofa Filiga, as she navigates the pitfalls of puberty and village life within Samoan society, we are harking back to other tales of village and small town living. In A Grain of Wheat in particular (see: Kenya), Ngugi Wa Thiong'o weaves together the parallel narratives of his villagers to give a comprehensive overview of events during and in the years following the Mau-Mau Rebellion.

Ngugi’s, however, is a simple act of narrative prose storytelling. Figiel weaves poetry into the various tales that hang together on a central stem (though there are various examples of prose/verse mixtures used in western literature, of which Dante’s Vita Nuova is perhaps the best example).

But this is also a form of expression seemingly more widely used in Pacific island writing than would perhaps be allowed in other parts of the world. In considering the academic work of Epeli Hauʻofa (see: Tonga) and Teresia Kieuea Teaiwa (see: Fiji), we have read collections of essays that include pauses for poetry between the weightier academia in a way that one wouldn’t find in the work of Noam Chomsky, say. Indeed, Figiel and Teaiwa released an audiobook together of poetry and song (Terenesia) in 2000. Another link in the chain that takes us from Hauʻofa to Teaiwa and on to Figiel.

Other universal themes rear their heads. Sexual awakening. The male gaze. Christianity and its scapegoating of women for being the objects of male lust. The cruel and cliquey nature of adolescent children and young women. The ghost of colonialism that casts a long shadow, as it does everywhere, with the fetishisation of the Pacific called out in its references to Gauguin, but also Robert Louis Stevenson, who spent time living on Samoa during his three year voyage among the islands of the Pacific.

There is an irony that western travellers saw the Pacific islands as some kind of prelapsarian idyll, full of dusky maidens, unaware and unashamed of their nakedness. Then the missionaries arrived, bringing with them Christianity and concepts of original sin that destroyed Eden in the process. 

 We see its toxic after-effects throughout Where We Once Belonged. Alofa being ostracised because a man looks lustfully at her in church: Idle gossip: Demonisation of those on the fringes of village society: People casting the first stone left, right and centre. Like the inhabitants of Salem, Massachusetts, sin and satanic influence are conjured in the collective imagination and punished with the shaving of Alofa’s head. Yet the usual male indiscretions take place, powered by patriarchal rule, with no repercussions (see: Afghanistan, Eritrea, Somalia and most of the rest of the Reading the World project for further examples).

All in all, Where We Once Belonged is a decent enough novel. Unique yet universal. Employing stylised local narrative techniques, but weaving in themes and methods that are used the world over and which have probably been in development since the birth of oral storytelling.

This is not the last Samoan book we shall encounter in this journey, I am sure. There is the work of Albert Wendt, for a start, whose name floats above these Pacific island entries like a shearwater flitting from island to island. And as we return to these places in future journeys, we are bound to find Samoa in the backwash of other Pacific island shores.

Sia Figiel