Trabzon, 19.07.2010
Published in two parts in Iceland in 1934-35, when the author was thirty years old and was still far from been awarded the Nobel in 1955, this novel, which is just extraordinary to define, chronicles the life and stubborn titanic defeat of Bjartur Somarhus, farmer ewes and its aspiration to independence is willing to sacrifice everything, including and especially that of the people who live around. After eighteen years service in a rich farm, managed to buy a farm on which is charged with debts, he married and began her life as a farmer master of his land, made a slave to a job which does not stop inhuman or rewards in the north of the country (we are from the late nineteenth and early twentieth century) that can not be found in agriculture his vocation. I do not make any summary of the story, read it and you will not regret. I will just make a few comments on the protagonist.
Bjartur character is a "larger than life" beautifully told without a word of description. That 's what it is and that is enough. A single idea dominates, that of being independent, not having anything to anyone. Debts confronts them but can not bear to have to say thank you to anyone. A gift for him is an affront, as understood by some episodes such as that of "housewife" Dunya me has torn my heart, for the disappointment of those expectations is a pleasure that will bring his gift, which is then rejected, is something that is unbearable to me. Tackle any denial, deprivation, sacrifice, because he did not have these, what matters is the road that follows the path of independence. What is lost do not regret it, and this is repeated several times during the novel, and the notation is more shocking to the reader. There are several characters that gradually disappear, sometimes in a terrible way, leaving a vacuum that causes a sea of \u200b\u200bquestions in the reader and even a blink in Bjartur. At least until the final disappearance, which opens a breach in his armor and save him, in a sense, in the end.
And the other aspect is shocking to the reader the tremendous effort, the harshness of life, the appalling conditions of ignorance, promiscuity, dirt, exhausting work that takes place the existence of sheep farmers in northern Iceland . Children and adults who work eighteen hours a day, eating jelly oatmeal and salt cod waste, drinking coffee, sleeping seven or eight in the same room where they cook, with equally extreme weather conditions. And the conclusion is only one: the poor are condemned, for them there is no redemption from poverty and tuberculosis, independence is a chimera, the only politicians and traders who can earn more in life. A few dreams that can go well, maybe just to escape, America down there, great land where the sheep are on their own to graze the grass.
Love does not exist, who knows the affection, the ambiguity of the relationship between Biartur Solillja Auction and one of the most beautiful bed. But it's not a depressing novel, is an epic inno alla capacità umana di seguire i propri ideali sbagliando e risbagliando senza accettare la sconfitta. La natura eccessiva e arcigna domina su tutto ma l'uomo non si lascia schiacciare, la usa e la contrasta sperando sempre di piegarla i propri voleri. E sul fondo c'è il mondo che cambia, la prima guerra mondiale, le discussioni su Dio e sull'anima, le banche, le cooperative, le donne e il loro destino spietato. Un romanzo che mi fa venire in mente solo un termine: magnifico. Non se ne esce facilmente una volta finito, e Bjartur è indimenticabile.
Si capisce bene che il pubblico islandese sia stato sconvolto da Gente indipendente che metteva a nudo miserie e arretratezze del paese, come spiega in modo interessante e esauriente Silvia Cosimini in the afterword, the author also of the wonderful translation.
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