I am writing this in Iceland on a miserable, wet October day that reminds me of the feel of the natural environment in this epic novel. I'm also about thirty pages into a later book of Laxness's, "Iceland's Bell", which so far is so almost horrific in its matter-of-factness about human misery and exploitation that it makes "Independent People" almost a comedy by comparison. Other than that, I find it difficult to say much about "Independent People" as its impact on my life has been so profound, ever since the first time I read it in 1965. It's a book I frequently return to, and I envy the reader who begins it for the first time. ( )

If you want to get a view on Icelandic people and their love of good coffee and sheep - then this is for you. ( )

If you were being quizzed, how many of you, even those of you who are well read, could come up with an Icelandic author off the top of your head? I know I certainly couldn't have before being introduced to not only an Icelandic author but to THE Icelandic author, 1955 Nobel Prize winning author Laxness. This bleak, desolate novel of a poor sheep farmer ekeing out an existence for himself and his unhappy family can be a tough read. After all, it doesn't sound terribly appealing, does it? But it is far more than the plotline would suggest.

Opening the story with the recounting of a old myth, the reader first Bjartur of Summerhouses hiking to his newly purchased croft, which is reputed to be haunted by the characters of the myth. We see the measure of the man when he refuses to toss a stone on the cairn built to appease the mythic figures he disdains. And we know his hard-headed determination will not yield to anything, not to softness, kindness, foolishness, or truth. He has worked for 18 years to be able to put down a downpayment on a poor farm with only a small sod home/barn on it and a few animals but he feels richer than the richest man around. To this remote holding he brings first a wife, who gives birth to another man's child alone during a blizzard, bleeding to death in the process. Surprisingly Bjartur opts to raise the baby as his own, finds another wife (one who seemingly had little to no choice but to marry him) and fathers more children, only two of whom live past infanthood.

This is really Bjartur's story as most of the other characters are one dimensional, with the exception of eldest daughter Asta Sollilja. Life is hard and nature cruel but Bjartur continues to eke out an existence. There are great descriptive swathes spent on worms killing sheep and butchering animals and the like but somehow, they only add to the narrative. Like a homegrown sort of Odyssey, all experienced within a day or two's walk, the experiences and adventures of the bombastic Bjartur are all oriented towards a striving for home (and in Bjartur's case, of independence). Almost all reviewers have called this an epic book, and it does indeed feel epic. Echoes of poor farming settlers everywhere abound but there also seems to be something indescribable that is purely Icelandic here as well. It feels as if this must have been written under the lowering sky of sunless winters. And yet, I think it brilliant in a depressing, downtrodden sort of way. Probably not for all readers, as there is little (no?) joy to be found in the characters here. But for those who want to persevere, they will be rewarded with nuggets of truth. ( )

You're either going to love this book or hate this book. I personally loved it. It was bleak and strong and uncompromising. It describes a way of life totally alien to a 21st Century middle-class American. It is life in early 20th Century Iceland, in the most rural areas, at its most stultifying. It is fascinating and disgusting at the same time. Bjartur of Summerhouses, the hero, wants nothing more than to be an independent man, relying on nobody for anything, even emotions. He is an enigma through most of the book to me and only near the end do I begin to understand him a little as he begins to understand himself.

The only joy in his life is his daughter, Asta Sollilja, although he hides his emotions so much that even he isn't aware of his feelings for her. She, in turn, loves her Father and is more like than him than one would expect.

I can't describe the book without giving away more than is fair. The edition I have has an Introduction by Brad Leithauser, which I felt gave away too much of the book's tension and actions. In other words, it had spoilers. I only read half of it and don't recommend reading it before reading the book itself. I will read it soon.

If you like epics and the slow development of characters and events, you will like this book. It is vivid in its descriptions and takes the most minute action and imagery and invests it with majesty and dignity. I felt throughout most of the book that this was needed to outweigh the blandness and privation and bleakness of life in an Icelandic croft.

The translation is beautifully done. I didn't feel any of the jerkiness and discord that can occur when a translator just 'doesn't get it.' The language is lyrical and evokes the beauty and desolation of Iceland and the beauty and desolation of Bjartur's soul. ( )

Hardship and frontier sagas have their own man vs. nature fan club, whose meetings I rarely attend. When you overlay the whole elemental drama with an exposition of the honest, working man’s helplessness in the face of manipulative rich people who advance capitalism and modernity, a grim sub-genre emerges. It was done perfectly with “The Grapes of Wrath” and a guild of other page-fillers have knocked out an unnecessary pile of novels that tell similar tales ad nauseum. Certainly, Laxness’ creation is distinguished by its Icelandicness; but if you aren’t dying of curiosity to experience the peculiar iteration of peasants getting screwed that Iceland has to offer and you generally don’t enjoy long, deliberate, earthbound books of this variety, keep away.

Of course, like most people who win the Nobel Prize for literature, Laxness is not a sloppy wordsmith or a bad story teller. “Independent People” occasionally distinguishes itself with unexpected invention and artful character development. The wry, paper thin humor, the farmer colloquies, a few touching and insightful glimpses into childhood imagination, the humanized animals and the description of Iceland’s response to World War One, were all well-wrought, unique and pleasurable. The articulation of the book’s lamentably stubborn protagonist Bjartur of Summerhouses as the man who thinks, “Possibly his best course would be to marry the bitch, so that he could have full leave to tell her to shut up; or at the least go to bed with her, as she herself was suggesting in her own starchy fashion;” and the man who does this: “He floundered madly about in the snow, thumping himself with all his might, and did not sit down again till he had overcome all those feelings of the body that cry for rest and comfort, everything that argues for surrender and hearkens to the persuasion of faint-hearted gods” is consistent, believable and, eventually, frustrating.

Bjartur’s tendency to self-justify with references to Icelandic hero legends and complex, traditional poetry, is also a wonderful counterpoint to his expertise in the various disgusting ailments of sheep. The jury is sort of out on this book. It is an absolute success at being what it is and the historical perspective that I gained on Iceland in its nearly 500 pages is not something I will forget; but, this isn’t my sort of book. I’d rather recommend it to my grandfather.

Somehow, I have to add that it reminds me of Knut Hamsun’s “Growth of the Soil,” (the last book I recommended to my grandfather) which is nothing like “Hunger,” which is Hamsun, the Nazi’s, most commonly read work in translation. If you enjoyed “Growth of the Soil,” “Independent People” will be a superior treat. ( )