Evening star., 1946-07-28
Mr.. Loxness Emerges From the Arctic
Niqht With Another Masterpiece
INDEPENDENT PEOPLE

By Halldor Larness. (Knopt;
So
In the past, when I have been
reading novels by Russians I have
sometimes said that Russian novels
are the best. I am not ashamed Of 1t.
Russian novels, in the main, are
magnificent. In the novel field, as in
the fields of the ballet and of the
making of vodka the Russians con-
sistently reach heights which by
other nations are only rarely
touched. Whether there is any con-
nection between these three arts or
not, I leave to critics who take up
that sort of leaving. I mention the
matter now only because I am dis
turbed somewhat about the question
Of Iceland.
What they do about the novel in
Iceland is, frankly, pretty dark to
me. In some Is years of reviewing
I have come on just two Icelandic
novels and they were both by the
same author. Both are superb. Now,
as far as I know, there may be
contemporary Icelandic literature
which EQUALS that of the Russians
and. hence, puts me to shame. Or,
on the other hand. it may simply be
that Halldor LaXneSs is an iso-
lated phenomenon. My knowledge of
what they write up there ends with
some rather blurred scholastic men,
ories of ancient poems III which
hairy-chested heroes Glove one an
other to the belt with upsetting nom
chalance. I call here and now for
a clarifcation of the mystery. Will
some obliging scholar publish a re-
port on the contemporary 1celandic
scene? Until that happens, I find
Mr.. Laxness disturbing. At interval
of nearly a decade he emerges from
the Arctic night with masterpiece
and the rest is silence. What are
they doing up there anyway? Why
not more translations
He Did 1t Again.
"Salka Valka" was the other Lax
ness novel which came my way and
I went overheard for it without res
ervations I even went out and
bought it, beyond which act I know
no praise. Last week I picked up
Independent People" saying to my
self that even with 10 years leeway
Mr.. LaXness could hardly do 1t
again. But he did it again. If any
thing. he did it better.
II is a great big novel. 1t shares
with the Russian masterpiece at It's
best a hearty inclination to bulk.
There is nothing skinny about it
anywhere And. in general, it might
be observed, thick novels are better
than thin ones. A thick one, to live
at all, needs plenty Of life. A thin
one can be animated by small
spark; it can even be galvanized
into deceptive semblance of life by
some clever manneriSms. But nobody
yet ever galvanized quarter Of
million words. When you run to that
length, you are good or you are
nothing.
The Plot Is Simple.
And yet, as far as plot goes, 1t Is
very simple. 1t tells us merely how
a poor Icelandic laborer who was
driven by the urge to be an inde-
pendent farmer fought to save his
independence. The time is the first
20 years of this century.
The story opens with the hero
making his first payment on a
sheep farm. He has Slaved on
wages for Is years to accumulate
the money. He slaves even more
vigorously for IL more to complete
the payments. He lives in an
earthen hut which also houses his
sheep and his horse, his family
know no care but that of nature:
the weak children die on the awful
diet which he is able to afford:
vermin and dirt are their COM
monplace; every one, down to the
smallest child. labors to make the
farm pay and nothing-not even
life itself-is put ahead of the idea
of attaining eventual clear owner
ship. Thus 80 years of the mans
life pass. He gets his title at last,
enjoys a few years of debtless pow
erty, as compared to his previous
poverty debt-ridden. and then, irB
an economic upheaval following the
World War loses everything. That
in brief is the story.
Now these peasant sagas have
been written before. I would not
say that Mr.. Laxness has done
anything particularly original in
reporting one mans difficult life
But as he is great artist and not
just a reporter, he has gotten all
our lives into his very specific
Icelandic report. He has told the
story of human aspiration for
arbitrary ideals, looking down at
it all from a great height, using
neither sentimentality nor pity,
using indeed a cheerful mockery.
not quite condescending to knock
his puppets about but still saying,
as he pulls the strings, We'll,
they're Just puppets and that's ALL"
and yet making them move with
Such Cfead1ul neart-Wringlng truth
that no one can escape the re-
joinder as he reads, And so are
we" This is truly universal litera-
ture.
A Living Character.
In its specific quality, however,
it could hardly be surpassed. It
lives the life of its character. 1t is
tied to its place and time as closely
as if it grew out of them. To read
it is to live in its hut, to know the
stencil. dirt and hunger. Moreover,
Mr. Laxness has done something
which a. great many depicters of
specific social conditions have
failed to do-he has created char
acter. His peasant is no mere type.
He is as vivid person as I have
ever encountered in fiction.