Another post in between reviews. I searched for “Icelandic Sagas” on YouTube and came up with this video by Dr. Matthew Roby of the University of Iceland. I’ve posted one of his other videos, about Egil’s Saga, here before. What I like about these videos is that he describes the action on the actual historical sites.
This one is about Njal’s Saga, which may be the greatest of the genre. It certainly deserves the attention it’s gotten.
I’m bemused by the Icelandic pronunciations. I was never aware before that Icelandic words ending in “L” get a “K” sound added. That’s just the sort of thing you’d expect from the Icelanders, who do their best – it seems to me – to make their language as unlearnable as possible.
This situation creates a problem for people like me, who produce what is (laughingly, in my case) known as “popular” literature. I’ve maintained the custom of including a character list in my Erling novels. In that list, I include my suggested pronunciations. These pronunciations, you may have noted, bear no resemblance to how Dr. Roby pronounces them.
It’s essentially an insoluble problem from my point of view. If I went to the trouble of learning how to pronounce Old Norse as Dr. Roby does (something I’m not inclined to do in my limited time), I’d be offering pronunciations that a) nobody would bother with, b) listeners would not understand, and c) are not even precisely what the Vikings used, as scholars admit the language has changed somewhat in the last thousand years.
So I give my suggested pronunciations, based (more or less) on contemporary Norwegian speech. This is mostly the way English-speaking scholars pronounce them in lectures, and they’re more or less comprehensible to other English speakers.
It’s a makeshift.
So much of fiction is a makeshift.
So much of life is a makeshift too, if it comes to that.
“Poor devil!” he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my misfortunes. “What are you up to now?”
“Looking for lodgings,” I answered. “Trying to solve the problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price.”
“That’s a strange thing,” remarked my companion; “you are the second man to-day that has used that expression to me.”
“And who was the first?” I asked.
“A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital….”
Back in 1886, Arthur Conan Doyle was a struggling physician in the London suburb of Southsea (I’ve always understood that he was an ophthalmologist, but his Wikipedia bio says he didn’t turn to eye medicine until a few years later). Lacking patients, he devoted some of his abundant leisure time to writing, with some success. He sold a detective story called “A Study in Scarlet” to Beeton’s Christmas Annual, a publication remembered today almost solely for that story. It was a one-off; Doyle took the modest fee and went on to other things.
But the story came to the attention of the editor of Lippincott’s Magazine in the US, and he commissioned a sequel. This would be “The Sign of the Four.” Doyle’s fictional detective, based to a large degree on the analytical methods of his medical teacher Dr. Joseph Bell, was off like a galloping horse – one that would eventually (in Doyle’s view) run away with its owner.
Having, as I mentioned before, started re-watching the excellent BBC Sherlock Holmes series starring Jeremy Brett, I decided it would be pleasant to re-read the stories – something I haven’t done, I think, since the 1970s. I was right. I enjoyed “A Study in Scarlet,” which I read in this inexpensive Kindle collection (they’re all out of copyright now) immensely.
If you’re not familiar with the story (it’s never been properly dramatized, for reasons I can understand), it’s narrated by Dr. John H. Watson, an army surgeon recently returned from Afghanistan, where he was wounded in action. He’s living on his medical pension while recovering, and starts looking for a roommate. (See the extract above.) He soon finds himself living at 221B Baker Street with the eccentric Sherlock Holmes, whose profession is a mystery to him for a while. Finally, Holmes reveals that his frequent visitors, Lestrade and Gregson, are Scotland Yard detectives. He himself is the world’s first “Consulting Detective.” When the policemen ask Holmes to come view a body found in an empty suburban house, Holmes asks Watson to come along.
I’ll leave it at that. The story is to get hold of, and easy to read. Doyle’s prose is certainly Victorian, but not stuffily so. His characters are vivid; his dialogue is sharp, even after all these years.
I’ve always rated “A Study in Scarlet” as one of the weaker stories, mainly because of the “back story” chapters, where the murderer – arrested (he uses the delightful Americanism “snackled” for it) after being lured in by Holmes, explains how and why he came to commit the terrible murders he is confessing. The story takes us back to the American Wild West and the Mormon state of Utah. This back story works better than I remember, though (although I have no time for Mormon theology) I still think the Mormons are portrayed pretty harshly.
But taken all together, I found “A Study in Scarlet” more entertaining than I expected. And I have even better stories to look forward to, as I move into Doyle’s stronger work.
One caveat about this edition – it appears that, in scanning, the OCR software incorporated the page numbers into the text. So you’ve got to ignore those when they show up.
Southeast across Hvalfjörður toward the mountains north of Þingvellir (left) and Esja (right), November 21 09:00 Iceland, November 2007 Photo by me user debivort (or friend, with permission given to upload and license freely). CC BY-SA 3.0.
Back to the sagas, from The Complete Sagas of Icelanders. Today’s report is on “The Saga of Hord and the People of Holm.” This is one I’d never heard of – perhaps because it’s so perfectly typical of the form that it doesn’t stand out a lot. This is a saga of which we only have late copies, and it certainly shows the effects of generations of artistic embroidery.
Hord Grimkelsson is a young man of good family, living in the neighborhood of present-day Reykjavik. We’re told that he was a late bloomer in terms of his development, but eventually he grew into the kind of tall, strong, handsome figure a saga demands. He develops a close relationship with his foster-brother, who is his constant companion to the end. And he has a sister with a strange background – rejected by her father, forced to live with beggars for a while, then finally returned to her own family with a chip on her shoulder. She will impact the story eventually, in a bloody way.
Eventually, Hord joins a merchant expedition. One interesting element of the story is an encounter Hord’s friend Geir has in Bergen, Norway (which did not actually exist as a town, I’m pretty sure, at that time). He runs into one of King Harald Greycloak’s men, who tries to steal his vararfeldir cloak (vararfeldir was a woolen cloth with short threads woven through the fabric, to produce a fleecy appearance). Defending himself, Geir kills the king’s man, which forces the whole crew of Icelanders to flee to Gotland, where Hord marries the jarl’s daughter. (This sounds like a romantic invention, but may actually have been true, as the wife returns to Iceland with him and bears his sons.)
What’s interesting about this cloak incident is that it seems to be inspired by a famous episode in Heimskringla, the kings’ sagas – a much more genial anecdote explaining King Harald’s nickname. In that story, the king himself chats with an Icelandic merchant, who complains that no one is buying his wool cloaks. The king then asks him to give him one of them. He wears it, and of course it becomes the height of fashion. The merchant is then able to sell off his whole stock at a good profit.
In any case, Hord and his companions finally return to Iceland, where he proceeds to live prosperously for some years, until he gets involved in a feud. His enemies use witchcraft to ruin his luck, and he and his household end up holding out on an island in the Hvalfjord, until their final violent end.
Some sagas, such as Egil’s and Grettir’s, seem to be written by authors with enough honesty, or understanding of human nature, to admit that their heroes are partly responsible for their own tragedies. But more commonly, the hero is portrayed as pretty much blameless, victim to either fate or witchcraft, the only things that could overcome so outstanding a man. That’s how I read “The Saga of Hord.” The unvarnished record looks pretty ugly – to survive on a desolate island, Hord and his people steal valuable supplies and foodstuffs from the people in the area – and this is in a marginal economy. Hunting Hord down was a matter of survival for his victims.
Sagas are commonly loaded with characters, many of whom come complete with genealogies. This makes it hard for English readers to keep track of the players. I found this one heavier loaded than most in that way. Hord fills out most of the conventional saga tropes – he digs for treasure in a grave mound and overcomes the revenant there, who curses the sword Hord takes from him. He visits foreign courts where the lords entreat him to stay with them because of his noble qualities. And all his failures are blamed on bad friends or supernatural forces.
In fact, I’d say “The Saga of Hord” probably qualifies as a good representative saga. It’s not the cream of the literary form, but it checks most of the boxes.
I’m quite enjoying Dan Wheatcroft’s offbeat espionage novels. I wonder if other people have the same reaction. I honestly see why some wouldn’t like them.
The Summer of 75 takes place (obviously) nine years after the previous book, The Summer of 66. Our hero John Gallagher, now an experienced counterespionage agent, gets his first overseas assignment. An East German government official, whom he met in the previous book, wants to defect. It’s Gallagher’s job to help him. The government, always tightfisted, stretches to the expense of issuing him a gun and a few bullets.
Of course there are wheels within wheels. There’s a British agent in the pay of the Russians, who very much does not want the defector to be debriefed in the west. There’s the secret police, who know a lot of secrets, but don’t know which ones are red herrings. Not only are all the characters playing games with the others, they’re second-guessing them and doing their best to manipulate reactions.
I can’t claim that I followed the plot of The Summer of 75 all the way through. As is customary with Wheatcroft’s books, it’s pretty complex, all the threads densely packed together. This is a story with very little free space in it, like the roots of a pot-bound plant.
Yet somehow, I found the book relaxing to read. I can’t account for that reaction.
There are a few odd grammar lapses. The author doesn’t know how to conjugate the verb “hang.” He says “X hung him/herself,” more than once. He also has trouble with “sat.” He writes quite professionally otherwise, so that’s peculiar.
But I enjoyed The Summer of 75 – rather more, in fact, than I enjoyed the year itself when I lived through it.
This month, our theme will be the Almighty. Today’s hymn is based on Psalm 145, written by Englishman Richard Mant (1776-1848), the rector and bishop of many English towns. The tune is from an influential German hymnal of the 16th century.
“They shall speak of the might of your awesome deeds, and I will declare your greatness” (Psalm 145:6 ESV).
1 God, my king, thy might confessing, ever will I bless thy name; day by day thy throne addressing, still will I thy praise proclaim.
2 Honor great our God befitteth; who his majesty can reach? Age to age his works transmitteth; age to age his pow’r shall teach.
3 They shall talk of all thy glory, on thy might and greatness dwell, speak of thy great acts the story, and thy deeds of wonder tell.
4 Nor shall fail from mem’ry’s treasure works by love and mercy wrought: works of love surpassing measure, works of mercy passing thought.
5 Full of kindness and compassion, slow to anger, vast in love, God is good to all creation; all his works his goodness prove.
6 All thy works, O Lord, shall bless thee, thee shall all thy saints adore. King supreme shall they confess thee, and proclaim thy sovereign pow’r.
I’ve got a busy day today, so let me start by sharing a little light verse.
You live a few days then you die And sometimes you ask yourself why. What could bring relief? The next season’s release. Go watch and the time will fly by.
They’re calling to all of the sheep To occupy Ivy League Street Don’t think of the issues Just bring down your tissues And cry, yell, scream, chant, and repeat.
Scotland: From the land of the free and the home of the brave comes this tale of Black Agnes, who held Castle Dunbar against the English for several months in 1338, saying among other things”
‘Of Scotland’s King I haud my house, He pays me meat and fee, And I will keep my gude auld house, While my house will keep me.’
A New Review: John Wilson imagines a Christian review periodical and what it’s pushback would sound like: “We’re beset on every hand by attacks on our core convictions, by enemies of our faith, and you are whining about book reviews?”
Of publishers it may be said that like the English as a race they are incapable of philosophy. They deal in particulars and adhere easily to Sydney Smith’s dictum that one should take short views, hope for the best, and trust God.
William Jovanovich, Now, Barabbas
Photo: John Margolies Roadside America photograph archive (1972-2008), Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division
Last Saturday I ventured outside my comfort zone to make the perilous drive to downtown Minneapolis (one of the still unburned parts), to hear a lecture. The lecture was delivered at the Mindekirken, the Norwegian Memorial Church (there’s one in Chicago too), where they hold a Norwegian language service every Sunday. You’d think I’d go there all the time, but they’re not really my kind of Lutherans. However, they offer cultural and language programs too, and I lectured myself there once, at one of their regular lunchtime events.
One reason I don’t go there more often is that it’s an awful place to drive to. The conservative Center Of the American Experiment, based here in Minnesota, has documented the fact that our city planners have it as an explicit goal to make driving around here as inconvenient as possible – so we peasants will be compelled to use buses and the wonderful light rail they’re forcing us to pay for. I don’t think I’ve ever driven to the Mindekirken without getting turned around in some way – even with GPS.
Anyway, I arrived at last, only a few minutes late. I came in during the introduction, so I didn’t miss any of the lecture.
The lecturer was my online friend, Pastor Thomas E. Jacobson, who has recently had a book released. It boasts the surprising title, Pain In the Belly: The Haugean Witness In American Lutheranism. I’ve written about the Norwegian lay evangelist Hans Nielsen Hauge many times before in this space – just do a search in the box up above if you’re curious. We Haugeans (I still identify as a Haugean) have been called a sect, but we never separated from Lutheranism or denied its basic tenets. In Norway, the Haugeans in any parish tended to pool their money to build a “bedehus,” a prayer house. There, after having attended regular services in their local Lutheran churches, they could gather among themselves and hold “edification meetings” and other social and educational functions. Many bedehuser still exist in Norway, and continue to be used for something like their original purpose.
I haven’t read Tom’s book yet, but I thought I’d give it a plug here anyway. It focuses on the influence of the Haugeans on Lutheranism in the USA. The title comes from a comment made by a Haugean leader when the old Hauge Synod at last agreed to join a church merger. When told that a theologian in one of the more conservative groups entering new church body had said that he rejoiced that the Haugeans would now be “swallowed up” in mainstream Lutheranism, this man said he expected to cause them “a pain in the belly.”
Sadly (in my view), in the long run the new church body and its successors turned out to have a pretty iron digestion.
In any case, we sang a hymn that Hans Nielsen Hauge wrote in 1799, “With God in Grace I’m Dwelling.” He wrote it during one of his imprisonments for illegal lay preaching. I looked for a video of somebody singing it, but as far as I can tell nobody has ever been bold enough to perform the hymn and leave a permanent record. So I’ll just transcribe a couple verses here. A common tune used for it is “Passion Chorale,” the one we use for “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded.”
With God in grace I’m dwelling, What harm can come to me From worldly pow’rs compelling My way thus closed to be? Though they in chains may bind me Inside this prison cell, Yet Christmas here can find me; Within my heart ʼtis well.
Our God has promised surely To free each seeking soul, Who walks in spirit purely With truth as way and goal. Whose heart the world’s deceiving Can never lead astray, Who, constantly believing, Will walk the Kingdom’s way.
God grant us now His power, And help us by His might To follow truth this hour, All guided by His light; And may we work together As one in mutual love, Forsaking self and gather At last in heav’n above.
The novel, The Box, by Dan Wheatcroft, which I reviewed the other day, turned out to be a continuation of an existing series of two books about British counterespionage in decades past. I was intrigued enough to pick up the first novel, The Summer of 66, whose hero (he only appears briefly in The Box) is agent John Gallagher.
The story begins with young Gallagher, formerly of Special Branch, being transferred to the Home Office Statistical Unit, a suitably dull cover for an intelligence operation. In contrast to our ingrained images of James Bond’s world, Gallagher’s new workplace is notably dull. It looks like a slightly shopworn small business operation, not very well funded. (The not very well-funded part, at least, is true. When John eventually gets outfitted with a weapon, it’s no state of the art armament from Q, but a standard revolver. The budget is too tight to allocate him as many cartridges as he’d like.)
The first operation John is involved in concerns the problem of a suspicious number of cryptologists involved in a certain secret project having recently committed suicide. Do the Russians have a method for inducing depression and despair? The group’s investigations uncover a ring of ruthless deep-cover agents.
I’m not entirely sure why I enjoy these books as much as I do. They have noticeable weaknesses. The prose isn’t top-shelf (misplaced modifiers are sometimes among the problems). I can only describe the plotting as dense – we’re bombarded with information, and it’s often difficult to follow the many story threads.
But I think it’s that very denseness that makes the books compelling – for me. There’s an authentic sense of real life here – the way I myself feel when multiple stimuli threaten to overwhelm me. (Author Wheatcroft confesses in his bio to being on the autism scale. Since I believe I’m low-level autistic myself, that may be what attracts me.)
A genuflection is made to the altar of gay rights in this book, but the author demonstrated himself un-Woke in The Box, so I let that go by.
I’m not sure if normal readers will enjoy The Summer of 66 as much as I did. But I certainly did enjoy it.
Tonight, like your high school teacher when he had a hangover and couldn’t face the prospect of lecturing, and so rolled out the old film projector, I once again fall back on video, bereft of useful ideas. I happened to be watching one of the old Inspector Dalgliesh mysteries with Roy Marsden, and Joss Ackland showed up in the cast. That always reminds me of his tour de force performance as C. S. Lewis in the original 1985 BBC television film of Shadowlands – which in my opinion remains the only watchable version. The travesty Richard Attenborough foisted on the public in 1993 was not actually about C. S. Lewis, but about some imaginary scholar Attenborough made up, who was emotionally stunted until being saved by True Love. (I’ll stipulate that Debra Winger was better as Joy Davidman than Claire Bloom was – purely because she was more abrasive. That is, in my opinion, almost the theatrical film’s only virtue.)
This version, excerpted above, is much closer to the original events, and to Lewis’ personality. Douglas Gresham praised Joss Ackland’s performance as his stepfather. Ackland didn’t much resemble Lewis, except in physical bulk, but he had a similar booming voice, and he seems to have sought out ways to make his performance authentic.
The clip above dramatizes the critical point in the plot where Joy, stricken with cancer and newly married to Jack Lewis, experiences a remission and goes home to the Kilns to live with Jack, his brother, and her two sons (there were, in fact, two boys – one got cut in the transition from small to large screen).
Joss Ackland usually played villains or rather nasty people (one exception was a cameo as D’Artagnan’s father in Richard Lester’s The Three Musketeers). I would pay considerable money (if I had any) for a voice like his. I looked him up on Wikipedia, and found that he died last November. 95 years old, which is a good run.
Thurstan Baddeley is a police inspector… somewhere in the northwest of England. I’m not sure the city is actually named in Dan Wheatcroft’s The Box, a somewhat oddball novel that I found delightful. He leads the Major Crimes squad, works well with his team, and is good at solving crimes. Unfortunately, his Chief Constable has it in for him. He keeps nagging Baddeley to institute department policies, like wearing preferred pronoun badges and rainbow badge lanyards. Finally, it comes to a head and Thurstan is packed off to a new posting, to investigate cold crimes in the small town of St Helens, Sutton Box station, where police careers go to die.
Soon he is joined by his friend and subordinate Randolph (known as Gandolph), a computer hacker who has massaged assignment records to excuse his presence. Together they begin going through the boxes of cold crimes files. Most of the old cases are uninteresting, but two of them draw their attention. One concerns the murder of a prostitute in 1902, which went unsolved though there was an obvious suspect – the son of the richest man in town. The other comes from the 1970s, and concerns a socially awkward young man, who’d never been in trouble before, convicted of stabbing a man to death. He later committed suicide in prison. Most of the people involved in both cases are dead, but there are people who still know things, and others who remember, with either sadness or fear.
There are no gunfights in The Box (well, this is England, after all), no fistfights or chases. All the violence happens off stage. Yet the author succeeds in escalating the dramatic tension steadily, and I turned the pages with eagerness.
It turns out that The Box is the beginning of a new series for the author, but it branches off from an earlier series. I’ll have to check those other books out. The writing wasn’t absolutely top-shelf – the author sometimes falls into confusing constructions like “fate inhabited him instantly.” But it was good enough to carry a fascinating story with lively characters.
And the cherry on top, of course, is the politically incorrect elements. You don’t run across such bare-faced un-wokeness in many novels today – no wonder the author uses a pseudonym.
