Paris Review Daily
“When I first heard the medieval Icelandic Gísla saga Súrssonar, I was sitting on a mound where archaeologists had excavated a Viking-era burial site, where Gisli might very well have buried Vestein, in the Haukadalur valley, on the banks of Dýrafjörður, in theVestfirðir, or Westfjords of Iceland. It was July, and the grass grew high, spangled with toadstools, wildflowers, and dried sheep dung, but it wasn’t haymaking weather. Under a gray, drizzly sky, beside the subarctic waters of the fjord, I huddled with my husband, Karl, on a gray wool blanket.
“Are you cold? Do you need another blanket?” one of our companions asked in English.
They stood before us, braced in the wind, booted and cloaked: Jón, smiling straight at us as he recited dozens of pages of Icelandic text from memory; his assistant, Júlla, intently interpreting.”
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