Woodworking in eternity #87660
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Woodcarving in Eternity - and More Stories contains a selection of short stories by Gyrður Elíasson. Ever since his first collection of short stories, Bréfbátarigningin, was published in 1988, he has devoted special attention to this form of writing and has enriched it with his own unique storytelling and sophisticated style. Although the stories are different, they all share the same nuance that has always characterized Gyrður's work.
The book collects stories from a period of ten years. They show the development of Gyrður's storytelling and its various nuances. These are stories of longing for the lost and the dead and regret for what is on the verge of collapse. Stories of horror and fear, stories of men with horns and women with wings, of prophecies and visions, of melancholy and longing. But not least, these are stories of joy over the magic of life and the trust that the forces that want to work out the path are better than those that want to make our world poorer in wonders and peculiarities. These are stories about the hope that woodworking, like other forms of work and indeed our whole life, are not only bound to time and place - they belong to eternity. (Cover text)
Horn
While the coffee is being heated, the old men chat about a younger man who found reindeer horns in Loðmundarfjörður and took them south and had them grafted onto him, and the following year came to live in the village here, with his horns sticking out of his head and the frames of his glasses hooked back over the branches. He settled in this town and set up a small farm and drank with his ram whenever he got the chance, and trips fell to Seyðisfjörður. The ram was useless with wine and would scold people who wanted to look in on the man with the horns. But he shook his horns good-naturedly and smiled at the evil in the ram, scolded him gently and then continued drinking, fetching a glass for the guest when the animal had calmed down, and the horns glowed against the sky itself when he reached the door of the sheepfold with the glass. Then he bent forward to get through the door, and the horns turned into antennae.
He didn't want to talk about the transplant, wasted his time, fumbled with his glasses, often took them off and polished them, blew and fogged them, polished them some more, then perhaps said: "It's convenient to catch the southern European stations on the radio while the fog rolls in here."
For a while he had a few chickens, but they were short-lived; they went to waste after he started brewing and stopped waiting for trips to Seyðisfjörður for alcohol. He had poured the dregs out onto the lawn behind the house and the chickens came cavorting in the bright sunshine and began to peck at this little spot. By evening the corner man had no chickens alive.
The book collects stories from a period of ten years. They show the development of Gyrður's storytelling and its various nuances. These are stories of longing for the lost and the dead and regret for what is on the verge of collapse. Stories of horror and fear, stories of men with horns and women with wings, of prophecies and visions, of melancholy and longing. But not least, these are stories of joy over the magic of life and the trust that the forces that want to work out the path are better than those that want to make our world poorer in wonders and peculiarities. These are stories about the hope that woodworking, like other forms of work and indeed our whole life, are not only bound to time and place - they belong to eternity. (Cover text)
Horn
While the coffee is being heated, the old men chat about a younger man who found reindeer horns in Loðmundarfjörður and took them south and had them grafted onto him, and the following year came to live in the village here, with his horns sticking out of his head and the frames of his glasses hooked back over the branches. He settled in this town and set up a small farm and drank with his ram whenever he got the chance, and trips fell to Seyðisfjörður. The ram was useless with wine and would scold people who wanted to look in on the man with the horns. But he shook his horns good-naturedly and smiled at the evil in the ram, scolded him gently and then continued drinking, fetching a glass for the guest when the animal had calmed down, and the horns glowed against the sky itself when he reached the door of the sheepfold with the glass. Then he bent forward to get through the door, and the horns turned into antennae.
He didn't want to talk about the transplant, wasted his time, fumbled with his glasses, often took them off and polished them, blew and fogged them, polished them some more, then perhaps said: "It's convenient to catch the southern European stations on the radio while the fog rolls in here."
For a while he had a few chickens, but they were short-lived; they went to waste after he started brewing and stopped waiting for trips to Seyðisfjörður for alcohol. He had poured the dregs out onto the lawn behind the house and the chickens came cavorting in the bright sunshine and began to peck at this little spot. By evening the corner man had no chickens alive.