Sigfús Bjartmarsson

Among Predators, Zombies and South-Americans

I

I really missed my namesake the wolf from Sigfús Bjartmarsson’s Vargatal (Raptorhood) (1998). For although wolves have not been very noticeable in Icelandic fauna, they are to be found in words, names and tales, and thus would be fully fledged members of the club of Icelandic predators as Sigfús discusses them, for his predators are no less mythical creatures than real. The snowy owl and the polar bear are given space here on account of their migrating tendencies and unexpected appearances, however, they are mostly found in exaggerated tales and news, rather than out and about.

My regret does not stem from a criticism of Sigfús’s work, but from the fact that I got totally immersed in Vargatal and often feel that I never really got out of it again. Sigfús paints vivid and menacing images of the predators of Icelandic nature, opening up a vista into a kind of a hidden world of this country, where sharp-nosed, softly feathered birds glide invisible over the heads of innocuous wildernesses housing deranged minks, silky foxes and porky seals. The brown rat I shall not mention, for I really hated that chapter. On the other hand it came as a surprise to me to see seals listed among predators, but they probably are mainly here glutton-ators, or possibly as a kind of oceanic support to the killer whale, visualised by most as a limp Keiko, or a soppy Willy who is in constant need of a rescue. Here, however, this whale gets the rescue he deserves and is transformed from a silly circus animal into a majestic toothed whale wrecking havoc in shoal of herrings. And finally my wolf appeared briefly, for the killer whale is called sea-wolf, and not without reason for it is not content with some small fry for dinner:

Nú og svo áræðir flokkurinn kannski næst að renna sér samtaka og samtenntur í sandreiði eða langreyði, eða jafnvel steypireyði eða búrhval sem ekkert virðist að nema seinagangurinn. Og þá rífa þeir úr þeim heilu stórstykkin veltandi sér í leiðinni með glæsikúnstum oft og iðulega og lengi vel því þessar miklu skepnur geta verið tregar til að deyja. Nú og þar þykir gefa á að líta því úlfurinn stekkur víst jafnvel óumbeðið í kæti sinni áður en hann stingur sér aftur niður í sælu blóðskýs og garnadræsu takandi á ný til óspilltra kjaftanna. (122)

[Now, and then the flock dares perhaps the next time to attack, together and with ready teeth, a sei whale or a razorback, or even a blue whale or a sperm whale that does not seem to be anything but late. And then they tear out of them large chunks of flesh tumbling majestically often and for a long time for these large beasts can be reluctant to die. Now and there is a sight for sore eyes for the wolf allegedly jumps unasked in his joy before he dives again down into the bliss of a cloud of blood and a scramble of guts avidly deploying his jaws again.] (122)

Birds seem to stand particularly close to the author’s heart; the story about the great black-backed gull gave me a whole new idea about this bird that I have always rather disliked, and the coverage on the raven was similarly revealing, but Sigfús’ raven is considerably less impressive than the one I keep in my mind.

Even though the book is called a work of fiction it is not easy to fit Vargatal into the natural science of a novel or a short story collection. The work certainly contains different sections and can thus be called a short story collection, but on the other hand it must be stressed that the stories or the predators are closely linked and the predators are all described from the same point of view and thus it is clear that the stories form a cohesive, if a bit loose, whole, which might be referred to as a novel. Still it is obvious that one cannot speak of a narrative thread or characters in this book. The predators are the main protagonists or even heroes and certainly memorable as such, but due to their nature they do perhaps not fit well into a traditional genre and thus demand this radical havoc wrecked on the novel (or the short story collection) that appears in Sigfús’ work. In Vargatal the author weaves together natural science, personal experience and tales in a wonderful way and manages to capture the reader to the extent that I continually felt that I was standing face to face with dark-eyed and yellow-eyed predators. The book is not particularly easy to read nor is it a quick read as the language is manipulated in the struggle with the predators, for it needs more than normal discourse to imprison a predator. In this way the author also demarcates himself from traditional natural science and storytelling and creates instead a personal image of these animals, an image that is both vivid and tangible, often taking on a mythical quality.

It is an amusing paradox that even though Vargatal is in its play on form a postmodern work, it also bears a distinct mark of archaic thought, for all these animals seem to belong to another time, even another world. This archaic quality appears in general in the use of language, but in the chapter on the sea eagle it takes on a tangible image in the descriptions of this semi-mythical bird. Shy of men and secluded in his habits, the sea eagle is the predator that least belongs in the modern world and a close inhabitat with mankind. The sea eagle “does not wish to use any of the qualities of modern life” contrary to his big brother by the Pacific Ocean who has become a regular around the navy. “His shyness of men is perhaps more profound, more seclusive, more archaic of mind and older in his habits and thus more reluctant to adapt to modernity one imagines even though it is ridiculous to think in such a way about a bird” (111).

II

The nineties, or perhaps particularly the late nineties, were somewhat characterised by a tumult in the traditional genres. This tendency had actually already appeared in the eighties, culminating in Steinunn Sigurðardóttir’s novel Tímaþjófurinn (Thief of Time) (1986). Works like Gyrðir Elíasson’s Gangandi íkorni (Walking Squirrel) (1987), Ragna Sigurðardóttir’s Borg (City) (1992), Sjón’s Augu þín sáu mig (Thine Eyes Did See Me) (1994), Kristín Ómarsdóttir’s Dyrnar þröngu (The Narrow Doors) (1995) and Erta by Didda (1997) attempted to test the limit of the novel form. In addition to this, short story writers like Gyrðir and Sigfús himself published short story collections characterised by a certain cohesive approach, where the short stories where to a large extent related to one another and thus formed an unstable whole. The form of the autobiography merged with the novel in the biographical novel or the fictional biography of Guðbergur Bergsson in 1997, Faðir, móðir og dulmagn bernskunnar (Father, Mother and the Mysticism of Childhood), and to underline this merging of forms and impossibility to separate autobiographical writings from the fictional, Guðbergur called his work a ‘skáldævisaga’, meaning literally ‘biofiction’. A year later the second volume of this biofiction appeared and that same year, 1998, a little group of works was published, all skirting traditional genres and forms in one way or another. Apart from Vargatal those were Jón Karl Helgason’s Næturgalinn (Nightingale) and Huldar Breiðfjörð’s Góðir Íslendingar (Fellow Icelanders), both untraditional in form and treatment. These books (the last three were all published by small publishing house Bjartur) are all good examples of what is most enjoyable about postmodern fiction; this vagrancy of form, or freedom of form, that opens up ways to fit into a fictional frame all kinds of things that have been ordered outside of it, such as stories about real love letters (Næturgalinn), a travelogue (Góðir Íslendingar) and a dictionary of predators. And the play on form continued with books like Myndin af heiminum (Picturing the World) by Pétur Gunnarsson (2000), Turninum (The Tower) by Steinar Bragi (2000), Ósýnilega konan (The Invisible Woman) by Sigurður Guðmundsson (2000) and Með titrandi tár (With a Trembling Tear) by Sjón (2001). Sigfús himself has continued to explore the possibilities and test the elasticity of traditional forms and published the travelogue Sólskinsrútan er sein í kvöld (The Sunshine Bus is Late this Evening) in 2001, and like Vargatal it was published as a work of fiction.

III

Even though Vargatal and Sólskinsrútan are in many ways highly different works, they both share a double-edged world view, a mixture of nostalgia and modernity, appearing in a desire for the primitive social structure of the past – which is also found in the present day Latin-America. Sólskinsrútan describes Sigfús’ travels in Latin-America – a society that is not affected by technology nor urbanisation, but is however, always viewed in the light of modernity. This conjunction clearly appears in the language, characterised by verbosity and always powerful; at the same time the text can sometimes be too frugal and thus enigmatic. Into this archaic diction modern references continually abound, like the sudden reflection that “it is ridiculous to think in such a way about a bird” above, and the description of the “majestic tumbling” of the killer whales that undeniable arouses mental images of the modern role of whales as an entertainment in films, zoos and at sea. In this way the text builds up certain contradictions that mirror the worldview.

Yet, nostalgia is above all the strongest drive in Sigfús’ work. It does however, not only appear as regret but also as a distinct evocation or an atmosphere. This is how the hunting-theme emerges, a theme rich in all of Sigfús’ books, and culminating in Vargatal. Sigfús’ world of hunting is archaic and mythical, and primitive in the way that connections between the hunter and the prey are continually forged. By immersing himself into the world of the animal and identifying with it to some extent the hunter is successful. This primitive, and at the same time modern, immersion and identification to the world of the predators is a part of what makes Vargatal such a powerful work.

In the short story “The Killing” (“Strandhögg”) in Mýrarenglarnir falla (The Swamp-Angels are Falling) (1990) this primitive world of the hunter is directly reflected in Australian aboriginals, living on the opposite end of the planet: “They are so powerful that they find it easy to stand on one leg, completely still, all night. The animals get used to them like trees or poles and stupidly come close enough” (71). The narrator Vigfús says this, but he uses this trick extensively in his hunting of mice and birds. “The Killing” is the longest story of this short story collection and functions as its central piece, the other stories almost appear like variations on it, like “The Attack” (“Aðförin”), also describing a lonely and above all drenched hunting trip, where a young man desperately tries to sustain ancient values in the rapidly deteriorating world of modernity. In the other stories the narrator is older, although in one of them, “Jagged Vision” (“Skörðótt fyrir augum”), he tells the story of a young boy who raises ravens. The same consciousness connects all the stories; hunting, empathy for nature and fauna, deterioration of the countryside and its values, and last but not least the feeling for the supernatural forces of the country. The country in Sigfús’ text does not only appear to the reader as full of animals – mostly vermin, traditional livestock is limited – but also of something else, even less visible, supernatural beings, either good or bad, tales and mythological powers.

In an interview, taken by Eiríkur Guðmundsson and Kristján B. Jónasson, Sigfús says that he is very worried about the deterioration of the country culture, together with the increased weight of urban culture, and he believes that this will make the cultural landscape in general poorer. He describes Mýrarenglarnir falla as emerging from “a solidarity to what is receding in general, and this is why the aboriginals appear there. There is no real difference between them and the Icelandic country people, or Eskimos or Indians” (Tímarit Máls og menningar, nr. 4, 1996, p. 17).

Woven into this archaic worldview is the search for masculinity. Masculinity seems to belong to this vanished or vanishing world and is continually raised in Sigfús’ texts; the young narrators of Mýrarenglarnir are very preoccupied with being as masculine as possible and Vargatal is characterised by a highly masculine vision – always pierced with nostalgia. But Sigfús can also show a more ironic and comic side of masculinity, as seen in Tröllasögur (Tales of Trolls) (1991), a collection of short stories by Gunnar Harðarson, Magnús Gestsson and Sigfús. Tröllasögur are modern folktales, and in his part Sigfús writes variations on the female troll stories of folklore and Prehistoric Sagas and mixes with (un)moderate consumption of intoxicating brews in the manner of viking heroes like Egill Skallagrímsson. His male characters, often rather unassuming specimen, pit themselves against huge and evil-looking female trolls, and the women of the stories all behave in a distinctly troll-like manner, even though they are supposed to be human.

The search for masculinity could be called a kind of a leitmotif, and appears also in Sigfús’ poetry, beginning with the book út um lensportið (out of the scupper) (1979), where poems like, “one epilogue of the night” (“einn eftirmáli við ummaran”), “happiness in marriage comes first” (“hjónabandssælan í fyrirrúmi”), and “hljómar were playing” (“hljómar léku fyrir dansi”), all describe a young man’s search for identity and struggle with masculinity. The description from “hljómar were playing” is memorable for its humorous take, where the man is wandering around the dancehall, unable to join the fun. In Hlýja skugganna (The Warmth of the Shadows) (1985) a much more stoical attitude towards masculinity appears, as in the poem “photocopies allowed” (“öllum heimilt til ljósritunar”), where the narrator’s love is on a special offer after weekends and dances. The poem “The Cro-Magnon Men are Coming” (“Cro-Magnon mennirnir koma”) illustrates a certain coming together of primitive masculinity and hunting and indicates that both are disappearing:

6
þegar neanderthalis
þótti öllu því eytt
sem grandað yrði
þá gróf hann gyðju sína í gori

þakti tákn sín
af ástúð
veggina alla
með blautri ösku
hlóð upp í hellismunnann
og tók stefnu út og vestur fjöll

allan þann dag
hafði hann veður af æti
og nærri almyrkt orðið
þegar hann tók eftir því
að sá
sem fer síðastur sinna
varpar engum skugga á hjarnið

[6
when neanderthalis
thought everything ruined
that could be wrecked
he dug his goddess in blood

covered his symbols
lovingly
the entire walls
with wet ashes
piled stones into the mouth of the cave
and took off and west over mountains

all that day
he could smell food
and nearly dark
when he noticed
that the one
who goes last of his people
does not cast a shadow on the frozen snow]

The poem is the first poem in the book Án fjaðra (Without Feathers) (1989), a book that is considerably different form Sigfús’ earlier books of poetry, and was considered to be somewhat less accessible. In the aforementioned interview the author says that he has learned much from South-American fiction, particularly Octavio Paz, whose poetry Sigfús has translated together with Jón Thoroddsen. Sigfús particularly mentions Paz’s “ideas about the nature of rhythm, that it is something else than just music, a magnification of words and meanings that can approach witchcraft, and is meaningful in itself” (13). As Kristján B. Jónasson points out in his review on Mýrarenglarnir Sigfús is at times very spare of words, cutting out function words and adjectives so the reader travels quickly between scenes without realising properly how this travelling comes about. The image that is drawn is thus fragmented and more often than not does not become whole until much later, while at the same time the text is driven by such a strong atmosphere – the meaning of the rhythm itself – that the reader’s experience becomes no less effective than it would be from more detailed and slower descriptions.

Kristján’s review is one of many articles on Sigfús that have appeared in the past ten years in the literary magazines Tímarit Máls og menningar and Skírnir. Whether this is due to the recurrent theme of masculinity or not it is clear that young (male) literary critics have embraced Sigfús’ work and piled rhapsodic praised upon it. As an example it is very rare for a poetry book to garner two long reviews in academic journals, but this occurred when Sigfús’ fourth book of poetry, Zombí (Zombie), or Zombíljóðin (Zombie-poems), was published in 1993.

This is not saying that the book did not deserve the attention. In a manner similar to how Vargatal followed upon and strengthened some themes from Mýrarenglarnir, Zombí is a particularly successful result of a struggle with the poem and is without doubt Sigfús’ best book of poetry. In Zombíljóðin the struggle with modernity appears in a much more incisive way than before and the book, actually a single long poem, describes a kind of a ‘journey’ taken by the two, the narrator and zombie, in time and the world. These partners are mirror images of each other, as it says towards the end:

73
Zombí
það er þér einnig
fyrir bestu að þú
vitir sem fæst
til fullnustu

Og þegar þú heldur
að ég sé að rugla þig
markvisst og skipulega
skalt þú minnast þess að ég
er í þér falinn spegill
og því ertu til.

Og
á milli okkar
algróið leiðið
ómerkt.

[73
Zombie
it is for your own
good that you
know as little
as possible fully

And when you think
that I am messing with your head
systematically and in an organised manner
remember that I
am in you a hidden mirror
and thus you exist.

And
between us
the green grave
unmarked.]

At the same time it becomes clear that zombie is to some extent the representative of the reader him/herself, who most certainly knows few things fully about Sigfús’ poetical witchcraft and is systematically messed with; in the sixth poem s/he is awakened from his/her grave, called forth with the “blood coloured tones of the drums” (“blóðlitum tónum trumbanna”), powerful wreaths of roses from a new thick iron and “then when you/come perfectly to being/we are face to face one and the same” (“svo þegar þú/verður fullkominn til/horfumst við á einn og sami”). In their journey they discuss what they see and reflect on past and present. Zombie is a suitable companion, a creature from folktales and urban legends, a foreign variation on the revenant who in modern versions of film and fiction has become the symbol of the passive. Thus zombie can be seen as the consumer, the one without influence who is drawn into modernity without the power to resist, but at the same time zombie is a figure from the archaic past of magic and myths, and a very handy companion through these struggles in time and world view. The zombie also becomes a representative of the unrestrained and unrestrainable poem when he breaks out from the power of the modern media and entertainment in the form of the film – after the narrator has reminded him “to give birth to the world again/in your biblical image/the full breathing wet size/of the films” (“að endurfæða heiminn/í biblíulega mynd þína/fulla andvota líkamsstærð/kvikmyndanna”), he breaks out of it again:

- Og sjáðu nú þennan
ótrúlega andskotans
ærslafans lokamynda
sem gleymdist að kasta
við klippingu.

En bíðum við
hér getur þú átt krók
við bragði og skotið þér inn
í heimskan og harmrænan
kokteil þessa verks
mjakað þér inn í aðhald
og skjól fáránleikans
með næturkeðju um hnefann
glerperlur sem sundrast
meðan þýður með veggjum
þindarlaust og alltaf að
brothljóðum og blóðsprettum –
Zombí þeir spurðu aldrei
að leikslokum hálfvitarnir
þeir héldu sig eiga þau
í handriti.

[- And look at this
incredible damned
romping herd of final images
that did not get scrapped
when editing.

But wait
here you can find
a way and shoot yourself in
to the stupid and tragic
cocktail of this work
worming yourself into the restraint
and shelter of ridiculousness
with a nightchain around your fist
glasspearls that smash
while smooth along the walls
relentlessly and always at it
sound of breaking and blood spattering –
Zombie they never asked
about the end the fools
they thought they had it
in a manuscript.]

As already said the zombie is a foreign variation on the Icelandic revenant and what powers Sigfús’ work is the conjunction with other societies, sometimes exotic, so often found in his fiction. Sigfús has travelled widely and the theme of the journey is rich in his work, the first two books of poetry contain poems about travelling and in Speglabúð í bænum (1995), a kind of a collection of prose and poetry, there are proses describing Greece, London and Guatemala. Like the language reflects the struggle in time it also plays a role in creating this world of other nations and cultures, and Sigfús does not hesitate to use slang and foreign words, actually announcing in the aforementioned interview that slang will fend off the danger that language is in due to the disappearance of country culture and the monotonous cultural landscape of the city.

The theme of travelling is also related to the masculinity, but as before Sigfús’ descriptions of travels are suffused with masculine vision together with nostalgia for a masculinity gone with the wind. This becomes particularly noticeable in the travels in Latin-America, where the culture is driven by a rather primitive attitude towards gender roles. And it was with a travelogue that Sigfús gained the attention of the general reading public, after having been somewhat an outsider, or an underground writer, for a long time. Sólskinsrútan er sein í kvöld was nominated for the Icelandic Literature Prize in 2001 and was praised by critics. The book is a variation on travelogue and novel and is thus related to the author’s former prose works. It describes Sigfús’ travels around Latin-America, many journeys have been collapsed into one, and Sigfús often compares his former visits to the later ones, and this comparison is highly intriguing. Sigfús plays the part of the cool and experienced traveller who is the opposition of the ignorant tourist. Like the hunter who identifies with his pray the traveller makes a point of assimilating himself into his surroundings and to experience the lifestyle of the natives, he is not overly worried about things, whether walking around in a dangerous ghetto, quarrelling with soldiers or terrorists, or meeting cockroaches and spiders. He enjoys his travelling to the full, knows how to savour the beauty of what he sees on his way while at the same time being able to sympathise with the dismal life of people and livestock. This is underlined in the style; it is juicy, full of slang and at times unyielding in its search for an unexpected expression.

As before Sigfús’s powerful style makes the reading richer, but at times here it becomes a bit to much, and overreaches; Sigfús’ style is so unique that it can become monotonous in its verbosity, in the same way the descriptions of the travels got to be to similar at times. Thus it might be said that Sigfús’ take on a river sailing towards the end of the book is a fair summation of his travelogue: “This is a fine river even though it has uniformity against it in the long run” (226).

Sigfús is particularly good at giving an insight into a world that is unknown to most, and in this travelogue he skilfully weaves together images from the daily life of individuals and knowledge about countries and nations. Many of the chapters are very memorable, such as the description of the farmers and the surroundings of the farm Hope, and the couple that run the guesthouse that reminds Sigfús of Skriðuklaustur in Iceland. In descriptions like these a pure simplicity is achieved, and is much more effective then many of the more adventurous events. The Sunshine bus itself has a star appearance as well, as Sigfús builds up a vivid feeling for the journey itself, buses and trains that shake and bounce in a cloud of dust and livestock and pictures intense images of a myriad of sunshine buses that are all late, for the feeling for time is not yet corrupted by western influence, or as Sigfús says: “For them time had probably not as yet become the measurable valuable that many the prosperous is so close-fisted with” (243).

This sentence is in many ways illuminating for the world view that appears in all of Sigfús’ works, describing a clash between a mythical past and the glittering present, deterioration and prosperity – often those two seem to be one and the same as seen in verse 38 of Zombí:

Þetta er rétt
eins og tölvuleikur
svona líka glögg skiltin
og reglulega úr þokunni
- necropolis til vinstri
necropolis til hægri snú
og seiðandi söngur sírena
og blikkljósa dofnandi hættan
kinnalitur og enginn kitlandi
veggur óriftanlegur og basta
en blindir hlykkir og lygin
léleg að sjá og fíla
Zombí einnota allt saman
eins og ljósþyrnikórónan
billega áðan manstu
á bensínstöðinni.

[This is just
like a computer game
these clear signs
and regular out of the fog
- necropolis to left
necropolis to right turn
and the tempting song of sirens
and blinking lights fading out danger
blush and no tickling
wall irrevocable and that’s it
but blind twists and the lie
looks poor and feel
Zombie disposable everything
like the chandelier of thorns
cheap just now remember
at the gas station.]

© Úlfhildur Dagsdóttir, 2003

Articles

Neijmann, Daisy L., ed. A History of Icelandic Literature
University of Nebraska Press, 2007, pp. 452-453, 498

2001 - The National Broadcasting Service’s Writer’s Fund

1999 - The DV Cultural Award: Vargatal (Raptorhood)

Nominations

2004 - The Icelandic Literature Prize: Andræði

2001 - The Icelandic Literature Prize: Sólskinsrútan er sein í kvöld (The Sunshine Bus is Late This Evening)