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304 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1960

The birth took place in a snowstorm nine days before summer; not a flower in sight, not even a dock-leaf crouching by a wall, certainly no sign of the golden plover yet—the fulmar had scarcely started to hurl itself high in the air to see if the mountains were still there; and suddenly a new creature had been brought into the world almost before the spring itself was born. The little foal ran so lightly at the old mare's side that he could hardly be said to touch the ground with his toes; and yet these tiny hooves were not turned backwards, and this seemed to indicate that he was not a water-kelpie after all—at least not on both sides.Fabulous indeed—literally so, for the novel has its roots in a rural Iceland of simple country ways and folk tales. The protagonist, Steinar of Hlíðar (pronounced, I think, Hleethar), is a ordinary farmer, scraping a living on this mountainside farm to support his wife and two children. Uncomplicated and a little credulous, but without a mean bone in his body, he is also an utterly good person, one of the select few in literature. Although richer and more powerful neighbors wish to buy his white pony, he refuses their offers and instead rides to Thingvellir (ancient site of the National Parliament) to present the horse to the Danish King, who has come to celebrate the thousandth anniversary of the settlement of the country, which places the action in 1874. Though taken aback, the King accepts the gift, and later invites Steinar to visit the pony in Copenhagen, where it has become a favorite of the royal children.


That is why sages believe that language is one of mankind's blunders, and consider that the chirping of birds, with appropriate gestures of the wings, says far more than any poem, however carefully worded; they even go so far as to think that one fish is wiser than twelve tomes of philosophy. The happy assurance that two young people can read in one another's eyes becomes incomprehensible in verbal explanation; silent confession can turn into a denial if the magic spell is broken by words.The author's gentle irony is delightful, but Laxness uses it with a purpose. For the world is more worldly than idealists imagine. What good is paradise in Utah if its price is ruin in Iceland? In the final chapters of the novel, both Steinar and the reader must face some moral calculations. The farmer turned bricklayer does not weigh them out theologically, of course; he does not have the mind for that. But he addresses them in the practical way he has always done, by putting one stone on top of another, building a wall. It is a beautiful, beautiful ending to a radiant book.