2005
[hissing]
Elín, you wrote about crimes, about death – is death a subject you give a lot of thought to?
[pause]
Now, you mean? Yes, I suppose so, I probably always have done, but one’s attitude to it changes over the years.
When I was younger – younger than you – death was purely a concept, an idea, somebody else’s problem.
I believe that what young people have in common, most of them, is that they don’t really believe in death.
You feel that, yes, sure, it can get its claws into other people, but there’s no proof it’ll ever come for you.
The whole thing seems abstract. I suppose that’s how it should be when you’re young.
Then, when I reached middle age, around the time I started writing my crime novels, I gradually became conscious of my own mortality.
It wasn’t any one specific thing that brought it home to me, I just finally managed to face facts, and it was an uncomfortable feeling.
I remember thinking to myself, maybe I’ll give it a go, publish a book; maybe I’ll just go ahead and take the plunge.
I felt I had nothing to lose anyway, now that the consciousness of mortality had taken up residence in my soul.
Life’s like that: one thing leads to another; but I’m very glad I made the leap and decided to let people read what I’d been scribbling.
These days, my friends and contemporaries are increasingly going the way of all flesh.
It’s sad, but not unexpected. An uncomfortable but salutary reminder.
There are times, though, when I wake up from a dreamless sleep and briefly experience that old feeling of immortality, as though I’m untouchable, exempt from the common human lot.
A moment of certainty, followed by wishful thinking, before eventually the consciousness comes back to me.
It’s fine, but that short-lived moment of blissful certainty is like a flashback to my youth, because I believe we’re simultaneously young and old, children and pensioners. We’re everything we’ve ever been.
[pause]
Incidentally, I should add that I’m not thinking of shuffling off this mortal coil any time soon.
I mean to carry on enjoying life, in my own fashion.
Being outdoors in nature is what makes me happiest these days, and travelling, from time to time.
I have a constant need to create something too, get something down on paper, though it’s not necessarily intended for anyone else’s eyes.
Can I ask what kind of outdoor activities you enjoy?
Yes, of course you can ask. Have you travelled much around your own country?
I can’t really claim to have seen much of Iceland, no. Though recently I’ve been getting into horse riding. It’s great fun, but it’s not exactly cheap.
The highlands, you mustn’t miss out on them.
Though you need to treat them with respect as they’re the only real serial killer we’ve had in the history of Iceland, with the exception of Axlar-Bjorn in the sixteenth century.
So take my advice: never go alone into the highlands.
That said, there’s nothing to beat sitting on the ground, somewhere in the endless expanses of the Icelandic wilderness, and just looking, listening and breathing – communing with nature.
It sounds as if you’re grateful to have been born in Iceland?
[pause]
Is it possible to answer that with anything other than yes?
I don’t want to seem ungrateful, because Iceland has given me so much, but it’s also taken an awful lot away from me over the years.
So I don’t really know how to respond to your question.
It might have been nice to have been born in the French countryside, for example; to have grown up in a warmer place, seen a greater variety of colours in the landscape, been more cosmopolitan.
Perhaps I’d have sat at the window of an old chateau – sorry, but one’s invariably rich in this sort of fantasy – and surveyed my domain, scenting spring on the wind, or settled under a spreading oak tree with a book, and invented my own stories that would later have been published, perhaps as a collection of French poetry.
Something along those lines, maybe? Who knows?
I might have had more money, or less, but that’s not the be all and end all.
I’ve never really worked out what to do with all my royalties as it is; I hardly lack for anything.
One day maybe you’ll come into more money than you need to live a comfortable life and then you’ll understand what I’m talking about.
I find that unlikely, Elín. Journalism’s not exactly a well-paid job.
Nor is being an author, as a rule. Just follow your heart, do something you care about.
And remember the importance of culture. Of course we want to save lives, build houses, practise science, understand the world – that’s all well and good, but none of it has any value without culture.
What would be the point of getting up in the morning, feeding ourselves, working by day and sleeping at night, if nothing ever touched your soul?
We need fairy tales, beauty; we need to be able to imagine that oak tree in the French forest, see drawings of it, smell the scent of its leaves through the medium of poetry and stories, and – most essential of all – have a good book ready to hand in case we find that tree in real life and want to settle down in its shade to read.
I suppose you could say it’s all about snatching moments from eternity.
[hissing]