excellent criticism of a medieval saga”) but that the verse itself is devilishly complex, bristling with alliteration and internal rhyme, trickier than a sonnet. That tangled, palindromic, old-fashioned kind of rime has become almost a model for the country.
Now, though, increasingly, that legacy is threatened. Scarcely a century ago, only 5 percent of Icelanders lived in towns; today, the figure is more than 80 percent. For nine centuries almost, the population scarcely rose (it hit six figures only in this century); and as recently as 1806, there were only 300 citizens in Reykjavik, of whom 27 were in jail for public drunkenness. Today, however, 145,000 of the country’s 255,000 people live in or around the suburb-sprouting capital. And thesingle fact of television alone has inevitably cast a shadow over a world in which lighthouse keepers read Shakespeare to fishing fleets and families wax Homeric in the dark. Though the government has worked overtime to protect its culture (hence the longtime ban on daytime television, and no broadcasting in the month of July), its efforts have often been in vain: Iceland (which seems to lead the world in leading the world in categories) now boasts more VCRs per household than any other country. In the Westman Isles, the rock formation that used to be called Cleopatra is now known by some as Marge Simpson, and the fishing crates nearby are decorated with portraits of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Even young couples, when not talking of their holidays in Spain and their dreams of seeing the Pyramids, will tell you that purity is to be found now only in the countryside; that Reykjavik is dangerous and full of drugs; that, sadly, people use the word “cassette” instead of its Icelandic equivalent.
Iceland is also more and more full of foreign faces and less militantly blond than even four years ago. There is a Thai restaurant now in Reykjavik, and a Thai snack bar (complete with Buddha, picture of King Bhumibol, and sign for Coke in Thai); there are Somalian refugees, adopted kids from Sri Lanka, even immigrants from North Africa (whose children must—by law—be given names like Bjorn and Gudrun). In one factory alone, there are ten “mail order brides,” three of them cousins from the Philippines. None of this would seem exceptional except in a country where, until recently, many people could hardly imagine Somalia, or Sri Lanka, or even California. When I was here in 1987, I found myself an object of dark fascination to people who could hardly tell an Indian from a Indianan; now, when I went to restaurants, I was greeted with a polite, unsurprised
Godan dag
in Icelandic.
The zealously maintained racial purity of the people has, ofcourse, a shadow side: Hitler’s
Mein Kampf
appears in the window of a local bookstore, and D. ÜBER ALLES has been scribbled up on walls downtown. Many Icelanders draw their imaginations tightly round themselves. One day an emaciated young ship’s cook with nicotine-stained teeth leaned over to me in a café. He had been to Japan, he said, and China, and Baltimore. Which was his favorite place? He thought for a long time. “Holland. Is okay. And Norway and Denmark. Okay, but expensive.” Was he preparing now for his next trip? “No,” he said matter-of-factly. “I am an alcoholic. And on the ship I cannot go to A.A. meetings.” Some Icelanders in the countryside still live in fear of a Turkish attack (there was one as recently as 1627).
At the same time, of course, the isolation that is so transporting to the foreigner is desperately confining to the would-be with-it teenager, and if Iceland seems very far from the world, the world can seem very far from Iceland. In Iceland, again by law, most shops and offices must bear Icelandic names, and the hotels—aimed at foreigners—are duly given unpronounceable names like Esja, Gardur, Ódinsvé. Yet more and more of the names used for recreation—aimed at the locals—bespeak a longing for
Now, though, increasingly, that legacy is threatened. Scarcely a century ago, only 5 percent of Icelanders lived in towns; today, the figure is more than 80 percent. For nine centuries almost, the population scarcely rose (it hit six figures only in this century); and as recently as 1806, there were only 300 citizens in Reykjavik, of whom 27 were in jail for public drunkenness. Today, however, 145,000 of the country’s 255,000 people live in or around the suburb-sprouting capital. And thesingle fact of television alone has inevitably cast a shadow over a world in which lighthouse keepers read Shakespeare to fishing fleets and families wax Homeric in the dark. Though the government has worked overtime to protect its culture (hence the longtime ban on daytime television, and no broadcasting in the month of July), its efforts have often been in vain: Iceland (which seems to lead the world in leading the world in categories) now boasts more VCRs per household than any other country. In the Westman Isles, the rock formation that used to be called Cleopatra is now known by some as Marge Simpson, and the fishing crates nearby are decorated with portraits of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Even young couples, when not talking of their holidays in Spain and their dreams of seeing the Pyramids, will tell you that purity is to be found now only in the countryside; that Reykjavik is dangerous and full of drugs; that, sadly, people use the word “cassette” instead of its Icelandic equivalent.
Iceland is also more and more full of foreign faces and less militantly blond than even four years ago. There is a Thai restaurant now in Reykjavik, and a Thai snack bar (complete with Buddha, picture of King Bhumibol, and sign for Coke in Thai); there are Somalian refugees, adopted kids from Sri Lanka, even immigrants from North Africa (whose children must—by law—be given names like Bjorn and Gudrun). In one factory alone, there are ten “mail order brides,” three of them cousins from the Philippines. None of this would seem exceptional except in a country where, until recently, many people could hardly imagine Somalia, or Sri Lanka, or even California. When I was here in 1987, I found myself an object of dark fascination to people who could hardly tell an Indian from a Indianan; now, when I went to restaurants, I was greeted with a polite, unsurprised
Godan dag
in Icelandic.
The zealously maintained racial purity of the people has, ofcourse, a shadow side: Hitler’s
Mein Kampf
appears in the window of a local bookstore, and D. ÜBER ALLES has been scribbled up on walls downtown. Many Icelanders draw their imaginations tightly round themselves. One day an emaciated young ship’s cook with nicotine-stained teeth leaned over to me in a café. He had been to Japan, he said, and China, and Baltimore. Which was his favorite place? He thought for a long time. “Holland. Is okay. And Norway and Denmark. Okay, but expensive.” Was he preparing now for his next trip? “No,” he said matter-of-factly. “I am an alcoholic. And on the ship I cannot go to A.A. meetings.” Some Icelanders in the countryside still live in fear of a Turkish attack (there was one as recently as 1627).
At the same time, of course, the isolation that is so transporting to the foreigner is desperately confining to the would-be with-it teenager, and if Iceland seems very far from the world, the world can seem very far from Iceland. In Iceland, again by law, most shops and offices must bear Icelandic names, and the hotels—aimed at foreigners—are duly given unpronounceable names like Esja, Gardur, Ódinsvé. Yet more and more of the names used for recreation—aimed at the locals—bespeak a longing for
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