See the candle, see the candle. Nothing up my sleeve.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Icelandic Faces 4
This drunk man told us all about how we were living in the End Time, and how ours was the last human generation. As we left, we wished him a good evening. He said, 'No, the important thing is for you to have a good evening. I will not have a good evening.' Hardly surprising, really.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Dunash ben Labrat (d. 990)
The Poet Refuses an Invitation to Drink
He said: 'Do not sleep! Drink old wine
amidst myrrh and lilies, henna and aloes,
in an orchard of pomegranates, palms, and vines,
full of pleasant plants and tamarisks,
to the hum of fountains and the throb of lutes,
to the sound of singers, flutes and lyres.
There every tree is tall, branches are fair with fruit,
and winged birds of every kind sing amongst the leaves.
The doves moan melodiously, and the turtle-doves reply,
cooing like reed pipes. There we shall drink among flower-beds
fenced in by lilies, putting sorrow to rout with songs of praise.
We shall eat sweets as we drink by the bowlful.
We shall act like giants, drinking out of huge goblets.
And in the mornings I shall rise to slaughter
fat choice bulls and rams and calves.
We shall anoint ourselves with fragrant oil and burn aloe incense.
Oh, before doom overtakes us, let us enjoy ourselves in peace!'
But I reproached him thus: 'Silence!
How dare you - when the Holy House, the footstool of God,
is in the hands of the gentiles.
You have spoken foolishly, you have chosen sloth,
you have uttered nonsense, like the mockers and fools.
You have forsaken the study of the Supreme God's law.
Even as you rejoice, jackals run wild in Zion.
Then how could we drink wine, how even raise our eyes -
when we are loathed and abhorred, and less than nothing?
He said: 'Do not sleep! Drink old wine
amidst myrrh and lilies, henna and aloes,
in an orchard of pomegranates, palms, and vines,
full of pleasant plants and tamarisks,
to the hum of fountains and the throb of lutes,
to the sound of singers, flutes and lyres.
There every tree is tall, branches are fair with fruit,
and winged birds of every kind sing amongst the leaves.
The doves moan melodiously, and the turtle-doves reply,
cooing like reed pipes. There we shall drink among flower-beds
fenced in by lilies, putting sorrow to rout with songs of praise.
We shall eat sweets as we drink by the bowlful.
We shall act like giants, drinking out of huge goblets.
And in the mornings I shall rise to slaughter
fat choice bulls and rams and calves.
We shall anoint ourselves with fragrant oil and burn aloe incense.
Oh, before doom overtakes us, let us enjoy ourselves in peace!'
But I reproached him thus: 'Silence!
How dare you - when the Holy House, the footstool of God,
is in the hands of the gentiles.
You have spoken foolishly, you have chosen sloth,
you have uttered nonsense, like the mockers and fools.
You have forsaken the study of the Supreme God's law.
Even as you rejoice, jackals run wild in Zion.
Then how could we drink wine, how even raise our eyes -
when we are loathed and abhorred, and less than nothing?
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Found Objects
This message was in the glove compartment of our rented car. It is written on two envelopes, probably by someone from Sweden.
1.
19.9. 10 o'clock AM
Help!!!
We have epty batteri (car) and can not start! Our position is N 64 42' 34" W 16 29' 00". This is the road to Hveragil. Almost at the end of the road about 34km from this Hut. In the place where the road is crossing the stream. We need starting cable to connect your car batteri with our bat. Our car has automatic transmission.
2.
Right now one lady is walking to the bridge over Jökulsá and to the road F88 Askjavegur to try catch some car. She will continue to the Herðubreidlindir hut. One man is going back to the our car ont the Hveragil Road.
Then the note stops abruptly. From the fact that it was in the car, I assume the poor Swedes found their way home in the end.
1.
19.9. 10 o'clock AM
Help!!!
We have epty batteri (car) and can not start! Our position is N 64 42' 34" W 16 29' 00". This is the road to Hveragil. Almost at the end of the road about 34km from this Hut. In the place where the road is crossing the stream. We need starting cable to connect your car batteri with our bat. Our car has automatic transmission.
2.
Right now one lady is walking to the bridge over Jökulsá and to the road F88 Askjavegur to try catch some car. She will continue to the Herðubreidlindir hut. One man is going back to the our car ont the Hveragil Road.
Then the note stops abruptly. From the fact that it was in the car, I assume the poor Swedes found their way home in the end.
Icelandic Faces 3
These three kids were playing at the football pitch in Borgarnes. I didn't wait to see if the third kid got up. I'm sure it was only a flesh wound.
A Day-Trip
I cannot drive. However, I can read a map. Lots of people who live on my floor, such as Branislav the Slovak and Keir the Californian, can drive, but have only a tenuous grip on where they are. So, we rented a car for six of us and took a day-trip. We decided to travel up towards the Snæfellsnes Peninsula, in order to look at the Snæfellsjökull icecap. This, I was convinced, because of a certain amount of geological ignorance, was a glacier inside a volcano. In fact, it is a glacier on top of a volcano. So sue me.
The first thing you notice when you leave Reykjavík is that people are very small and mountains are very large.
Little houses, all with red corrugated iron roofs and white plastered concrete walls, are settled down in the middle of fields, with giant volcanic outcrops above them.
They have built a tunnel under five kilometres of the sea, across the Hvalfjördur (Whale Fjord) in order to smooth off some of the crinkly edges which are so nice to look at but difficult to navigate. We decided not to take the tunnel, but to go round the side of the fjord. This was for two reasons. Whale Fjord is apparently full of cheerful whales joyously bouncing around in baline glee. We thought we might see some whales. The large whale-processing plant at the base of the fjord seems to have scared them away. Secondly, and much more reliable, is Glymur, Iceland's highest waterfall. You park your car at the bottom of a valley and walk up a hill. It is not very far, but it is quite confusing. The path leads through a cave
and across a river with no obvious bridge. And then up a hillside with no obvious path. Circumstantial evidence, I know, but maybe we were in the wrong place? But no: perseverence up the pathless scree slope leads you to the waterfall, which sometimes looks Japanese
and sometimes looks like the sort of phenomenon John Ruskin would write screeds about if his mind was on art and not the other thing.
Up, down. I didn't fall over on the downwards journey. Others did. Back to the car and onwards to Borgarnes. This is a small and extremely cold town where they keep greenhouses and gnomes, apparently with little saving irony.
We parked the car by the seaside and had a picnic of the kind I remember with fondness from my childhood.
We drove on, with the increasingly weird landscape looking down on us all the time. Mountains
and lava fields
and things that were probably petrified trolls.
Then, finally, we got to Snæfellsjökull. We stopped at Sönghellir on the way. This is a cave which apparently was so full of echoes (bergmál, 'mountain talk') that people thought it was a haunt of dwarves. Presumably, dwarves who only spoke while they were being spoken to, in precisely the same words in which they were addressed. Oh well. I can confirm it is very echoey. I choose to illustrate it with a photo of what you can see from the cave, because caves themselves aren't all that photogenic.
But upwards, upwards, always upwards. We drove up towards the top of the mountain, startling the merry snow buntings as we drove, in order to gaze across the majestic icecap that stands so proudly above the plains below...etcetera, etcetera. It was foggy. We saw nothing. We had to be content with the view back down into the valley.
We turned back, and thought we'd roll around the edge of the peninsula and then head home. So, we went to Hellnar, a fishing village which is apparently full of nesting birds in the summer. In October it has little to see apart from a fine breakwater built to protect the harbour. Every so often water splashes over the edge of the breakwater, and hits the unsuspecting people who stand on the breakwater looking out to see the sea. That is, us.
Then we went to the lighthouse at Malariff, which I thought was boring, and where I did not take photographs. Marian has recently finished reading To The Lighthouse: about halfway through, she turned to me and asked, 'Do they ever go to the bloody lighthouse?' Well, today we did, and I opted out. But while they were at the lighthouse, the clouds cleared over Snæfellsjökull.
On to Dritvík, which I think means Guano Bay. But it is in fact resolutely unshitty. A perfectly smooth and washed pebble beach, with occasional outbursts of harder rock that you can climb or just marvel at. The sun was setting, and there was a good view of the Tröllakirkja - a little outcrop that people thought at one time was the church for the trolls.
And the setting sun also made the Snæfellsjökull a lovely pink.
And as we got back to the car, a huge harvest moon, like a buoyant marble, was coming up from behind the mountain.
Oh, and we saw the Northern Lights on the way back. But maybe we can afford to be a bit blasé about them now.
The first thing you notice when you leave Reykjavík is that people are very small and mountains are very large.
Little houses, all with red corrugated iron roofs and white plastered concrete walls, are settled down in the middle of fields, with giant volcanic outcrops above them.
They have built a tunnel under five kilometres of the sea, across the Hvalfjördur (Whale Fjord) in order to smooth off some of the crinkly edges which are so nice to look at but difficult to navigate. We decided not to take the tunnel, but to go round the side of the fjord. This was for two reasons. Whale Fjord is apparently full of cheerful whales joyously bouncing around in baline glee. We thought we might see some whales. The large whale-processing plant at the base of the fjord seems to have scared them away. Secondly, and much more reliable, is Glymur, Iceland's highest waterfall. You park your car at the bottom of a valley and walk up a hill. It is not very far, but it is quite confusing. The path leads through a cave
and across a river with no obvious bridge. And then up a hillside with no obvious path. Circumstantial evidence, I know, but maybe we were in the wrong place? But no: perseverence up the pathless scree slope leads you to the waterfall, which sometimes looks Japanese
and sometimes looks like the sort of phenomenon John Ruskin would write screeds about if his mind was on art and not the other thing.
Up, down. I didn't fall over on the downwards journey. Others did. Back to the car and onwards to Borgarnes. This is a small and extremely cold town where they keep greenhouses and gnomes, apparently with little saving irony.
We parked the car by the seaside and had a picnic of the kind I remember with fondness from my childhood.
We drove on, with the increasingly weird landscape looking down on us all the time. Mountains
and lava fields
and things that were probably petrified trolls.
Then, finally, we got to Snæfellsjökull. We stopped at Sönghellir on the way. This is a cave which apparently was so full of echoes (bergmál, 'mountain talk') that people thought it was a haunt of dwarves. Presumably, dwarves who only spoke while they were being spoken to, in precisely the same words in which they were addressed. Oh well. I can confirm it is very echoey. I choose to illustrate it with a photo of what you can see from the cave, because caves themselves aren't all that photogenic.
But upwards, upwards, always upwards. We drove up towards the top of the mountain, startling the merry snow buntings as we drove, in order to gaze across the majestic icecap that stands so proudly above the plains below...etcetera, etcetera. It was foggy. We saw nothing. We had to be content with the view back down into the valley.
We turned back, and thought we'd roll around the edge of the peninsula and then head home. So, we went to Hellnar, a fishing village which is apparently full of nesting birds in the summer. In October it has little to see apart from a fine breakwater built to protect the harbour. Every so often water splashes over the edge of the breakwater, and hits the unsuspecting people who stand on the breakwater looking out to see the sea. That is, us.
Then we went to the lighthouse at Malariff, which I thought was boring, and where I did not take photographs. Marian has recently finished reading To The Lighthouse: about halfway through, she turned to me and asked, 'Do they ever go to the bloody lighthouse?' Well, today we did, and I opted out. But while they were at the lighthouse, the clouds cleared over Snæfellsjökull.
On to Dritvík, which I think means Guano Bay. But it is in fact resolutely unshitty. A perfectly smooth and washed pebble beach, with occasional outbursts of harder rock that you can climb or just marvel at. The sun was setting, and there was a good view of the Tröllakirkja - a little outcrop that people thought at one time was the church for the trolls.
And the setting sun also made the Snæfellsjökull a lovely pink.
And as we got back to the car, a huge harvest moon, like a buoyant marble, was coming up from behind the mountain.
Oh, and we saw the Northern Lights on the way back. But maybe we can afford to be a bit blasé about them now.
Ducks at Dusk
The Tjörn (cognate with 'tarn') is a large ornamental - insofar as Iceland may be said to contain ornament - lake in the middle of Reykjavik, which exists mostly in order to provide the politicians in the Raðhús something to look at from their windows. It attracts a large number of ducks and geese of various sorts. At dusk they look quite picturesque.
Also looking out onto the Tjörn is the Tjarnarbío, a cinema which has been the focal point of last week's Film Festival. I saw some good films, mostly with the word 'Road' in their titles (Red Road, The Road To Guantánamo). I saw some middling films, such as Keane (although the main actor was amazingly good), and a documentary about the wallpaper designer Florence Broadhurst, which was as interesting as you might think a film on such a subject would be.
In honour of the Reykjavík International Film Festival, here is a rough cut of my duck photo.
Also looking out onto the Tjörn is the Tjarnarbío, a cinema which has been the focal point of last week's Film Festival. I saw some good films, mostly with the word 'Road' in their titles (Red Road, The Road To Guantánamo). I saw some middling films, such as Keane (although the main actor was amazingly good), and a documentary about the wallpaper designer Florence Broadhurst, which was as interesting as you might think a film on such a subject would be.
In honour of the Reykjavík International Film Festival, here is a rough cut of my duck photo.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Chased all over the Prado
'What a devilish lot of fuss about nothing!' cried one of the large young men. 'I agree with Charlie. Listen, brothers, or half-brothers, for such you probably are. You all knew my wicked Uncle Fred: if not, you cannot be called wise children. The ugliest brute that ever lived! Very well, a well-known Irish poet he met at a horse-race gave him a love philtre (this is what he told me). At that time he was the backwardest young man in the world, being such a hobgoblin. Very well, he tries a tiny drop of this in desperation. It works! All his life long he uses just a teeny drop - has to resign his commission, barred from the paddock, chased all over the Prado, three duels, the happiest man in the world, and lowered the standard of beauty for the whole human race, especially Stalbert. He got such faith in his philtre, he never said a by-your-leave. Very well, he had it analysed just before he passed out - pure water!'
'Excuse me,' cried Willoughby in some disorder, 'I must leave you for an hour so: I've just remembered an appointment of the greatest importance. See you later.' He rushed out, and across the square. The air was soft and blue, full of the leaping of his heart, like the soft sudden flashes of electricity. On such a night...! There was a light in Lady Stumber's window.
He went to his room first, looked in the glass: his whole face had the air of a false moustache. 'Am I drunk? Perhaps I am a little drunk,' said he with a titter. 'Wine! Passion!'
He went down the little curling stairs, slipping a step or two in the darkness. He tapped at the inner door.
'What? Who's that?' cried the voice of his beloved.
'Me, me,' replied Willoughby.
'Wait a moment,' she cried. 'Don't come in. What is it?'
'Life and death. Most important,' said he, flinging open the door. 'Constance!'
'Willoughy! What do you want? What's the matter with you?'
'Love,' said Willoughby, bursting into a laugh of pure joy. 'Love.'
'Are you drunk?' she asked, as if unable to believe her ears.
'On love!' said he, with a half-bow. 'Your hands, your arms, shoulders, neck, all!' With that he seized her, and aimed a series of kisses at each of the first four items as he named it.
'Do you want me to call for help?' said Lady Stumber firmly. 'I will call. I will.'
'Constance. Goddesses are for everyone.'
'Stop. I won't call, if only you'll be quiet for a moment. Listen. Please.' A table fell with a crash. He continued to imprint kisses at an incredible rate. Between them he panted, for Lady Stumber wriggled amazingly. 'You are tearing my clothes,' she cried.
'Yes, she has noticed it too!' thought Willoughby. 'We notice the same things! Besides, she is not calling. Love!'
John Collier, Defy The Foul Fiend (1934)
'Excuse me,' cried Willoughby in some disorder, 'I must leave you for an hour so: I've just remembered an appointment of the greatest importance. See you later.' He rushed out, and across the square. The air was soft and blue, full of the leaping of his heart, like the soft sudden flashes of electricity. On such a night...! There was a light in Lady Stumber's window.
He went to his room first, looked in the glass: his whole face had the air of a false moustache. 'Am I drunk? Perhaps I am a little drunk,' said he with a titter. 'Wine! Passion!'
He went down the little curling stairs, slipping a step or two in the darkness. He tapped at the inner door.
'What? Who's that?' cried the voice of his beloved.
'Me, me,' replied Willoughby.
'Wait a moment,' she cried. 'Don't come in. What is it?'
'Life and death. Most important,' said he, flinging open the door. 'Constance!'
'Willoughy! What do you want? What's the matter with you?'
'Love,' said Willoughby, bursting into a laugh of pure joy. 'Love.'
'Are you drunk?' she asked, as if unable to believe her ears.
'On love!' said he, with a half-bow. 'Your hands, your arms, shoulders, neck, all!' With that he seized her, and aimed a series of kisses at each of the first four items as he named it.
'Do you want me to call for help?' said Lady Stumber firmly. 'I will call. I will.'
'Constance. Goddesses are for everyone.'
'Stop. I won't call, if only you'll be quiet for a moment. Listen. Please.' A table fell with a crash. He continued to imprint kisses at an incredible rate. Between them he panted, for Lady Stumber wriggled amazingly. 'You are tearing my clothes,' she cried.
'Yes, she has noticed it too!' thought Willoughby. 'We notice the same things! Besides, she is not calling. Love!'
John Collier, Defy The Foul Fiend (1934)
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
But it does move...
'You must be the fiftieth woman who has said that to me. It's a credit to universal education that whenever a girl meets Dick Brown she begins to talk about the wheel and the lever. I've even had a French prostitute tell me about the fulcrum.'
This is from Mary McCarthy's novel The Group. I get the feeling that I might have found it a little more racy and / or true to life if I had managed to read it when it was first published, sixteen years before I was born. But please set me right - maybe Archimedes really is the subject of much current pillow-talk.
This is from Mary McCarthy's novel The Group. I get the feeling that I might have found it a little more racy and / or true to life if I had managed to read it when it was first published, sixteen years before I was born. But please set me right - maybe Archimedes really is the subject of much current pillow-talk.
Dialogues
What goes through the minds of the people who write language-teaching books? Here is a dialogue from my textbook. It is between, I assume, Oscar Wilde and a particularly patient shop assistant.
Assistant: 'Who's next?'
Customer: 'I am next.'
Wilde: 'No, I was before you.'
Customer: 'Pardon me.'
Assistant: 'What can I get you?'
Wilde: 'I would like ten beautiful roses.'
Assistant: 'Would you like yellow roses or pink ones?'
Wilde: 'I would like neither... perhaps you have some red ones?'
Assistant: 'Alas, no.'
Wilde: 'All right, I'll take five yellow and five pink. How much does one rose cost?'
Assistant: 'One hundred and seventy-five crowns.'
Wilde: 'Aie, I have no money. May I pay you tomorrow?'
The indigent aesthete, famously the best teaching-aid. Or else we are expected to believe that the characters are educationally subnormal:
Troll 1 [trying to trick his friend]: 'What day is today?'
Troll 2 [firmly]: 'Today is Tuesday.'
Troll 1 [wheedling]: 'Isn't today Wednesday?'
Troll 2 [counting on his knuckles]: 'Hmm, you're right.'
Troll 1 [triumphant]: 'Yes, yesterday was Tuesday.'
Troll 2 [desperate to win back some troll-cred]: 'And it's Thursday tomorrow.'
But now I know the days of the week. Saturday - Laugardagur - must have some connection with 'lauga', 'to wash'.
Assistant: 'Who's next?'
Customer: 'I am next.'
Wilde: 'No, I was before you.'
Customer: 'Pardon me.'
Assistant: 'What can I get you?'
Wilde: 'I would like ten beautiful roses.'
Assistant: 'Would you like yellow roses or pink ones?'
Wilde: 'I would like neither... perhaps you have some red ones?'
Assistant: 'Alas, no.'
Wilde: 'All right, I'll take five yellow and five pink. How much does one rose cost?'
Assistant: 'One hundred and seventy-five crowns.'
Wilde: 'Aie, I have no money. May I pay you tomorrow?'
The indigent aesthete, famously the best teaching-aid. Or else we are expected to believe that the characters are educationally subnormal:
Troll 1 [trying to trick his friend]: 'What day is today?'
Troll 2 [firmly]: 'Today is Tuesday.'
Troll 1 [wheedling]: 'Isn't today Wednesday?'
Troll 2 [counting on his knuckles]: 'Hmm, you're right.'
Troll 1 [triumphant]: 'Yes, yesterday was Tuesday.'
Troll 2 [desperate to win back some troll-cred]: 'And it's Thursday tomorrow.'
But now I know the days of the week. Saturday - Laugardagur - must have some connection with 'lauga', 'to wash'.
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