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The Fish Can Sing

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Halldór Laxness is undoubtedly Iceland's most famous writer. The story goes that he was in the middle of writing "Brekkukotsannall" - translated (surprisingly) as The Fish Can Sing - when he was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature (in 1955). Did this recognition change the way he completed the novel? May be, maybe not. Still, reading it with that knowledge in the back of my mind, the novel turns for me into much more that the intimate portrait of a "family", a small village community at the turn of the last century and a coming-of-age story of a young orphan boy, Alfgrimur. Couched in the narrator's stream of consciousness, gracefully integrating the child's view of his world with that of his older, reflective self, we discover the narrator/author's insightful musings on tradition and modernity, loyalty and betrayal, poverty and wealth, obscurity and celebrity. In his descriptions of people and place, Laxness's affecting sense of irony often makes light of the precarious situation in which most of the traditionally-minded locals in the "village" find themselves. The closely-knit community - fishermen, former navy men, the local priest, and the "old women" who look after them all - at the outskirts of what will eventually become Iceland's capital, Reykjavik - are lovingly portrayed and contrasted with the up-and-coming, wealthier merchant class that threatens the perceived peaceful and harmonious life of the community. The latter also represent the pro-Danes group as well as the influence of the wider world; a world that will threaten the livelihood of the local fishermen, like Bjorn of Brekkukot, Alfgrimur's grandfather...

Young Alfgrimur lives, in his own words, a happy childhood, despite the fact that he was abandoned by his mother and left at Brekkukot shortly after birth... He is happiest when fishing with his grandfather; closest to the old woman he calls "grandmother", even though he knows "nothing about her". Brekkukot, an old turf cottage, is an unofficial guesthouse where various short- or long-term visitors are staying: some come to die and are buried in the nearby church yard, others live out their retirement and others are just transients. All share the cramped place and even beds in the "midloft"; it is the social centre of Alfgrimur's odd "family".

The novel starts with a series of short, unconnected chapters, more like vignettes, through which the older narrator introduces the odd collection of "guests" in Brekkukot and some of the neighbours; all of them appear totally normal to young Alfgrimur and fill his notion of his "world". His and the wider world come together, in a way, for Alfgrimur at least, in the person of Gardar Holm, the famous son of the village, turned world-traveling opera singer. He returns from time to time to Reykjavik and, surprisingly or maybe not, strikes some kind of friendship with young Alfgrimur. In turn, the boy admires the older man, even embarks on teaching himself to sing the funeral hymn as well as Schubert's "Der Erlkönig". However, his idol is not all that he seems to be and Alfgrimur over time learns more lessons from their encounters than he realizes for a long time.

I must admit that I took quite some time before I was able to engage with the novel and its characters. Its richness and beauty only really came together for me after I finished the last page and went back, picking out sections and chapters, reflecting on the underlying themes of the novel, exploring its depth and wisdom. [Friederike Knabe]

Laxness' book, "The Fish Can Sing" is a remarkable book. At first, it seems like a random series of vignettes about early 20th-century Icelandic life, full of detail and life, but appearing loosely bound at best. But by the end of the novel, the reader realizes he is in the hands of a master craftsman as the rich detail provided in earlier chapters come back to play important roles in the culmination of the book and its plot.

There's an endless array of well-defined, complicated, and vivid characters. There's the lavish countryside painted simply - evoking the same feeling you get from a good watercolor. Then there's the plot, which is mysterious and complex, but leaves you with much to ponder.

A nod to the translator, Magnus Magnussen, because the prose is fertile and poetic. It's unbelievably rich, yet brilliantly sparse. This is the way prose should be.

Laxness and Magnussen have given us a beautiful, soulful book. It's a remarkable read.

This brilliant work amply demonstrates why its author, Halldor Laxness, won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1955(?). Without much of a plot--it portrays the maturation and awakening of a young man, Alfgrimur Hanson--"The Fish Can Sing" is nonetheless very rich in characterization and aptly depicts life in early 20th century Iceland. As an American who has lived in Iceland for the last two years, I have grown to appreciate Laxness's insight into the character of the proud and independent Icelandic people. I have read two other Laxness books which I could find printed in English--"Under the Glacier" and "Independent People"--and although those are very good, "The Fish Can Sing" is outstanding and clearly my favorite. Humorous, though-provoking and ultimately very moving, this book is one which you will surely enjoy and not readily forget.

I could not help but think while reading this novel of a Frank Capra film from the 1930s entitled YOU CAN'T TAKE IT WITH YOU about an eccentric household headed by Lionel Barrymore full of amiable zanies who stump the frenetic world around them.

Laxness, Iceland's only Nobelist, writes of a young orphan named Alfgrim who may or may not be a relative of the great opera singer Gardar Holm, who also hails from Brekkukot, where the old lumpfisherman Bjork maintains a rambling house on the outskirts of what was to become the country's new capital, Reykjavik. This house is filled with lodgers who get to stay rent-free for no other reason than that they ask.

Alfgrim keeps crossing paths with Gardar Holm and the young woman who wants to become the singer's lover. For some reason, the singer always cancels his appointments to the chagrin of his sponsors and fans; and the young woman, Blaer Gudmunsen, is always given the slip. The unhappy Holm is in stark contrast to Alfgrim, who maintains his balance by being suspicious of fame and content with a future of gathering lumpfish.

In the end, this is an feel-good work of considerable artistry, with a masterful, rich sense of characterization. The translation by Magnus Magnusson is excellent, as befits the man who at one and the same time is both one of the best translators of Icelandic Sagas and the TV host of BBC's MASTERMIND and WHOSE LINE IS IT ANYHOW?

The Fish can Sing (or, as it is known in Icelandic, The Annal of Brekkukot) is one of Laxness's finest and most intimate novels. It successfully weaves together several narrative threads: it is an orphan's lyrical coming-of-age story, a tragic tale of a "world-famous" singer, and a brilliant description of Reykjavik at the beginning of the 20th century, with its quaint combination of old values (as represented by the storyteller's grandparents) and and more modern influences. As in every Laxness book, the characters are colorful and imaginative, yet always true to life. This book is a gem.