William Heinesen (1900–1991)

Heinesen's last novel is an autobiographical look back from the perspective of old age at how a child experiences the process of discovering the world it lives in.

The narrator, Amaldus, in 1976, looks down from his metaphorical tower at the (chronological) end of his own world at the child-Amaldus living in the early years of the 20th century on a little rocky patch of land in the sea, a world that clearly stretches no further than the lighthouse at the tip of the island. But the years show more pass, he learns that there is a bigger world out there, places his father's ships sail to, and indeed that he is living on a round ball, spinning through space, that can project its shadow onto the Moon.

He is also, as children are, brought face to face with the realities of birth and death, with the inscrutable complexities of adult relationships, with the mysteries of religion, folklore, and witchcraft; with the complicated feelings he has for his friends, the clever and subversive girl Merrit and the would-be juvenile delinquent Hannibal, and so on.

But this isn't just an "end of innocence" novel, it's more complicated than that. Heinesen plays with biblical metaphors, weather-imagery, and all kinds of other structural and poetic devices, he brings his older narrator-self in and out of the story. And, as ever, there is a lot about the human need for beauty and the arts, and the damage that happens when that need is frustrated.

In the background to start with, but gradually taking over at the centre of the plot, there's another version of the story of The lost musicians, in this case driven by the ambition of Amaldus's hard, "practical", sea-captain/capitalist father to gain full control of the family business from his "feckless idiot" brother-in-law, Amaldus's uncle Hans. Hans prefers to spend his time drinking and making music with three close friends, when he isn't chasing girls or sailing his pleasure-yacht. Of course, there are tragic consequences to the father's intervention, but it's strange to see how strong the parallels are between the crazed Evangelical bank-manager in the earlier book and the ultra-sane, sceptical captain in this one.

Another lovely little book, and it makes me want to leap onto a ship and head for the North Atlantic! show less

A small community in the Faroes during the later stages of the Second World War, with the islands under British military occupation, and an unusual number of outsiders to disturb the even keel of island society. There are huge profits to be made at sea from fishing and cargo carrying, but there are big risks out there as well and many young men have been lost to mines, submarines and aircraft.

Of course, since this is a Heinesen novel, there are political tensions and another disturbing show more element is the rise of a revivalist religious movement, in this case one led by the local baker Simon — the Bun Sect. Heinesen explores the interesting collisions between capitalist greed, nationalistic and religious fervour, sexual desire, and good old-fashioned class prejudice that result. A funny, moving, complex dissection of a small community at a difficult time. show less

I liked The lost musicians, but it didn't really strike me as a book by someone who could have been seriously discussed as a candidate for the Nobel. This one does. It's easily in the same league as Independent people, and deserves to be better known.

It's a historical novel in the form of a serial letter from Peder Børresen to a friend in Denmark, describing his experiences after being appointed as pastor to the parish of Tórshavn in the Faroes in the spring of 1669.

Peder is clearly a show more learned, conscientious and fearless clergyman who numbers some of the most influential people in Denmark among his friends from college days, but a weakness for alcohol has got him into trouble on numerous occasions in the past, and this is only the latest in a series of transfers to remote and backward regions designed to get him out of the way. And obviously another miscalculation, because he is not someone to accept the way his poor parishioners in Tórshavn are being treated by the authorities, and he's soon involved in the fight of his life.

Under the overlordship of Frederick III's notoriously rapacious minister Christoffer von Gabel, the islanders are being robbed blind through the trading monopoly of the Royal Store. They are absolutely dependent on imported grain and timber, and their only real income is from the wool they export. Gabel's officials have absolute control over all communications to and from the islands, and they use that and the criminal justice system - which is equally under their thumbs - to quash any hint of political opposition. The military commandant of the islands is free to amuse himself by raping the islanders' young daughters - anyone who objects is arrested on a trumped-up charge and thrown into the Black Hole.

The pastor finds himself involved in opposition to Gabel from the start - his predecessor's daughter, Rachel, is one of the commandant's victims, and her fiancé, the son of the parish clerk, is in jail awaiting sentence after daring to challenge the commandant. But somehow, although he scarcely believes in that sort of thing himself, he also gets caught up in the islanders' active sense of the supernatural, acquiring a reputation for driving out demons after succeeding in calming a couple of people with mental health problems.

Heinesen manages to capture the flavour of Peder's fiery 17th century combination of anger and self-doubt brilliantly. In Glyn Jones's elegant translation it comes across as belonging to the tradition of Robinson Crusoe and John Bunyan, without ever quite being conspicuously archaic, but also without ever stepping out of the frame to remind you that this is a 21st century translation of a book written in the 1960s. Obviously, the book does have a political agenda: Peder's opposition to the evils of absolutism is meant to make the reader think about Nazi abuses, and also about Denmark's current relationship with its dependencies. He possibly reacts to things that someone used to 17th century absolutism would not have considered unduly excessive (even if he was a graduate of Leiden). But that didn't trouble me whilst I was reading - Heinesen pulls you so completely into Peder's world-view that the 20th and 21st centuries seem quite irrelevant for a while. show less

The lost musicians was apparently mostly written during the Second World War, when the Faroes were effectively a self-governing British protectorate, cut off from German-occupied Denmark, and many Faroese lost their lives serving in the Royal Navy or supplying Britain with fish. But it's set during the more cheerful times of Heinesen's childhood before the First World War.

A little group of unconventional characters get together regularly in a basement in a dodgy neighbourhood of Tórshavn show more to play string quartets, sing, discuss poetry, and have a few drinks (or a lot of drinks) with their friends. Most of them are relatively impoverished and live from crisis to crisis by doing various odd jobs - one is a ferryman, another sets type on the newspaper, another teaches and hangs wallpaper, etc. - but they are united by their belief that the things that matter most in life are friendship, love, and aesthetic pleasure, in particular expressed through music.

Set against them is the bank-manager Ankersen, a former drunkard himself, who has accepted Jesus into his life and is driven to share the Good News and sweep away the sinfulness he sees all around him. He founds - and then disagrees with and splits off from - his own nonconformist sect, and with the best possible intentions, he becomes directly or indirectly responsible for smashing up the lives of the musicians and their friends.

This is a theme for a novel that you can easily imagine Thomas Hardy, Arnold Bennett, Gottfried Keller, or Sinclair Lewis tackling, in their different ways - Heinesen is a bit different, though, because for him the emphasis is always on the sheer fun his characters are having, and even what would for anyone else be the most tragic moments entirely fail to take themselves seriously. The movement of the plot is left to take care of itself and the focus is always on incident. There is no political agenda, only a human one - Heinesen presumably wants us to see the danger of good intentions that fail to take account of the individuals they are dealing with, but his main point seems to be that the joy of music and poetry is something that ultimately triumphs, even in the worst situations: definitely something that needed to be said in the 1940s. show less