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Il più grande scrittore d'Islanda
Un vecchio si sveglia all'improvviso dal sonno ritrovandosi in aperta campagna, senza riuscire a ricordare il proprio nome né tantomeno i motivi che lo hanno portato lì. Ma a poco a poco capisce di essersi svegliato nel 1952, quasi cinquant'anni dopo la sua morte, e di essere uno scrittore. Infatti è proprio lui che crea tutto quello che lo circonda, dalle persone all'ambiente, in quell'illusione che si chiama letteratura, diventando quindi protagonista forzato di un romanzo che ha scritto lui stesso.
- GenresFiction
496 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2001
About the author
Hallgrímur Helgason
37 books284 followersHallgrímur Helgason is an Icelandic author, painter, translator, cartoonist and essayist. He has studied at the School of Visual Arts and Crafts in Reykjavík and the Academy of Fine Arts in Munich.
His most famous works are 101 Reykjavík, which was made into a popular film, and Höfundur Íslands (Iceland's Author), which won the Icelandic Literary Prize in 2001. He was nominated for the prize again in 2005 for the novel Rokland (Stormland), along with the Nordic Council's Literature Prize for 101 Reykjavík and Rokland.
His most famous works are 101 Reykjavík, which was made into a popular film, and Höfundur Íslands (Iceland's Author), which won the Icelandic Literary Prize in 2001. He was nominated for the prize again in 2005 for the novel Rokland (Stormland), along with the Nordic Council's Literature Prize for 101 Reykjavík and Rokland.
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Displaying 1 - 13 of 13 reviews
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October 27, 2022þessi er svona 200 bls of löng
September 14, 2016
Libro altamente suggestivo e molto originale.
Difficile da seguire, almeno all'inizio, per via dei continui flash-back ma assai gradevole nel complesso.
Difficile da seguire, almeno all'inizio, per via dei continui flash-back ma assai gradevole nel complesso.
November 12, 2025
I read this book in the spring of this year, when the halves of May seemed to have traded places. Early and exuberant spring gave way to bursts of cold wind carrying rain and flurries of snow down from the mountains. After weeks of waiting for warmth, it was hard to feel grateful for such a return — so I hardly left the house. The stove, already retired for the summer, was once again burning every day.
The Author of Iceland by Hallgrímur Helgason fit into this atmosphere of a belated summer with uncanny precision. I approached it with both hesitation and excitement: my first Icelandic novel by an Icelandic writer, steeped in the biting wind of that northern island from the first to the last page. The blurb that first caught my attention described it like this:
“Helgason wrote this book inspired by a dream in which Nobel laureate Halldór Laxness, after his death, finds himself inside his own novel Independent People.”
The novel turned out to be at once heavy-going and vividly alive. Its first half unfolds as the captivating reflections of a grumbling writer with a grand ego. Everything is interwoven — fragments of real and fictional lives, memories blurred with invention, until truth and imagination become indistinguishable. Under the author’s omnipotent pen, people turn into stories. Characters are distorted versions of real figures who, once written into being, no longer belong to themselves but to the divine — or perhaps diabolical — will of their creator.
By its midpoint, the book turns into a confession — the confession of someone with nothing left to hide. You are already dead, your characters live on, and you yourself have become one of them, trapped inside your own text. Yet it remains unclear what role you play within it. The writer’s life is expendable; the world is merely a supplier of raw material.
The final chapters turn outward — to the twentieth century and to Iceland itself, to the constant shifts of political and cultural ideals, to how one order dies and another takes its place: new values, new people, new meanings. Helgason writes:
“The twentieth century despised all other centuries. An age of arrogance. The age of the mob. Its kings were those who understood it; its victims — those who did not understand the folly of either. <...> Was I bad? No — it was the century that was cruel.”
[author’s translation*]
At times, the novel feels viscous and dragging, like a peat bog that pulls you under — and at others, strangely cleansing. There is no good or evil here, only life as it is.
“Everything has a face, every stone a soul, and even the smallest flower — a higher purpose. I believe this. Everything has its purpose. Everything mirrors everything else. Everything you do shapes who you are.”
[author’s translation]
*I don’t have an English translation of the book, which made me attempt the translation myself.
The Author of Iceland by Hallgrímur Helgason fit into this atmosphere of a belated summer with uncanny precision. I approached it with both hesitation and excitement: my first Icelandic novel by an Icelandic writer, steeped in the biting wind of that northern island from the first to the last page. The blurb that first caught my attention described it like this:
“Helgason wrote this book inspired by a dream in which Nobel laureate Halldór Laxness, after his death, finds himself inside his own novel Independent People.”
The novel turned out to be at once heavy-going and vividly alive. Its first half unfolds as the captivating reflections of a grumbling writer with a grand ego. Everything is interwoven — fragments of real and fictional lives, memories blurred with invention, until truth and imagination become indistinguishable. Under the author’s omnipotent pen, people turn into stories. Characters are distorted versions of real figures who, once written into being, no longer belong to themselves but to the divine — or perhaps diabolical — will of their creator.
By its midpoint, the book turns into a confession — the confession of someone with nothing left to hide. You are already dead, your characters live on, and you yourself have become one of them, trapped inside your own text. Yet it remains unclear what role you play within it. The writer’s life is expendable; the world is merely a supplier of raw material.
The final chapters turn outward — to the twentieth century and to Iceland itself, to the constant shifts of political and cultural ideals, to how one order dies and another takes its place: new values, new people, new meanings. Helgason writes:
“The twentieth century despised all other centuries. An age of arrogance. The age of the mob. Its kings were those who understood it; its victims — those who did not understand the folly of either. <...> Was I bad? No — it was the century that was cruel.”
[author’s translation*]
At times, the novel feels viscous and dragging, like a peat bog that pulls you under — and at others, strangely cleansing. There is no good or evil here, only life as it is.
“Everything has a face, every stone a soul, and even the smallest flower — a higher purpose. I believe this. Everything has its purpose. Everything mirrors everything else. Everything you do shapes who you are.”
[author’s translation]
*I don’t have an English translation of the book, which made me attempt the translation myself.
December 28, 2023
vá, þetta er eins og ævisaga Halldórs Laxness skrifuð af Halldóri Laxness.
„Það sem við skiljum ekki, syfjar okkur. Það sem við skiljum, skiljum við við okkur. Það sem við skiljum næstum því, heillar okkur.“
„Hann var einn af þessum flugvelgefnu mönnum sem fylla fimm prósent í hverju þjóðfélagi. Hann var níutíu og níu prósent gáfaður. Vantaði aðeins þetta eina sem var skilningur á lífinu.“
bls. 479-480
„Það sem við skiljum ekki, syfjar okkur. Það sem við skiljum, skiljum við við okkur. Það sem við skiljum næstum því, heillar okkur.“
„Hann var einn af þessum flugvelgefnu mönnum sem fylla fimm prósent í hverju þjóðfélagi. Hann var níutíu og níu prósent gáfaður. Vantaði aðeins þetta eina sem var skilningur á lífinu.“
bls. 479-480
June 11, 2018
In retrospect it was interesting to see the Blockbuster of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button as it came out as there are similarities between the book and that movie if one does not look for the Halldor K Laxness in the movie.
June 6, 2020
mikil veisla
January 18, 2025
Когда смерть заставляет взглянуть в глаза всем, кого знал. Роман, показывающий насколько человеклюбивый Хельгасон по сравнению с Лакснессом.
May 22, 2025
One of my favourite authors, good, a bit long, written in my ancestors environment. Hilarious and serious, dramatic & authentic
January 24, 2023
mjög goð, meta-textual og ahugavert take a HKL
February 12, 2022
Stórkostleg snilld! Eivís lyktaði af sagógrjónagraut og kanil. Ég þarf að lesa bókina aftur.
January 28, 2021
Libro parecchio difficile, o almeno io l'ho trovato tale. Non c'è molto da aggiungere alla trama del libro, il fatto è che anche se il libro è un racconto in realtà è tutta una grande riflessione sulla vita vissuta da questo scrittore. È scritto benissimo, bellissime le immagini a cui dà vita e imperdibili i pensieri che provoca nel lettore, però è davvero molto complesso e spesso può risultare noioso se non lo si legge con l'anima giusta.
August 7, 2011
En saanut otetta kirjasta aluksi. Sitten tajusin, että mitään varsinaista juonta tästä on ihan turha etsiä. Loppua kohden aloin tykätä kirjasta yhä enemmän. Kannatti kahlata läpi.
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July 30, 2016Þessi bók fer yfir allan skalann, hún er stórkostleg og hrikaleg, hún er leiðinleg og skemmtileg, hún er ógeðsleg og hún er einstaklega falleg, hún er óskiljanleg og hún er auðlæs.
Displaying 1 - 13 of 13 reviews