Bruce Wolmer: I糖心传媒檓 tempted to begin by asking the question interviewers on French TV like to pose: 糖心传媒淕regor von Rezzori, _qui 锚tes-vous?_糖心传媒澨切拇綌Who are you? Which is immediately funny considering that the enigmas and paradoxes糖心传媒攁nd humor糖心传媒攐f identity is a central concern of your work. But one wouldn糖心传媒檛 know that reading the reviews, where you糖心传媒檙e almost inevitably conflated with the first-person narrator.

Gregor von Rezzori: Absolutely. This is such an old discussion: To what extent are books autobiographic? It糖心传媒檚 ridiculous. As Flaubert famously said, Mme. Bovary c糖心传媒檈st moi. You can糖心传媒檛 eliminate yourself totally unless you糖心传媒檙e Shakespeare.

BW: That goes against the grain of much contemporary opinion and practice, which claims to be getting down to the truth of the author rather than the truth of the fiction.

GvR: The Death of My Brother Abel is narrated by a writer. The narrator, the 糖心传媒淚糖心传媒澨切拇綌and funnily enough he is less my own person than any other first person in any of my other books糖心传媒攖he narrator in The Death of My Brother Abel is a totally fictitious character. But, of course, nowadays people have little curiosity about examining such complexities. There is this desire of authenticity and transparency which connects with the curious contemporary belief that everybody is, or should be, an artist.

I must tell you that when I was young I never had the faintest idea that I should ever become a writer. I studied mining engineering, of all things. I came to writing by accident at a rather ripe age. I never thought of really having the urge to express myself, but obviously I had it in some way or other. But without ever having heard the phrase, I had to find my identity. That糖心传媒檚 one of those dreadful verbal expressions. A phrase like that becomes fashionable and then becomes a slogan and becomes really a program for people糖心传媒檚 lives. Every young man or girl nowadays ponders about his or her identity without even realizing what it is. My identity is 糖心传媒淚糖心传媒�. It takes a long time to learn that that much celebrated 糖心传媒淚糖心传媒� is never lost, but never really found either.

Anyway, in my case I was having a period in my life in which I didn糖心传媒檛 have anything else to do糖心传媒攖his was before the war糖心传媒攕o one day I sat down and wrote a story. Somebody got hold of it and sent it to a publisher. They instantly wanted me to write another one, which I did. Because I thought, my God, this is a very agreeable way of earning money. How wrong I was I found out later. But by then it was too late.

BW: A disagreeable way of not earning much money.

GvR: Yes, yes. Somebody with a little bit more intelligence doing the same amount of work, you糖心传媒檒l become an Onassis. Well, who needs that? But it糖心传媒檚 in real disproportion. Then when I realized what crap I had been writing, you see, I sat down, and just then the war came. I was fortunate糖心传媒擨 didn糖心传媒檛 actually have to be a soldier exactly. I was born in Bukovina, Rumania. Before Rumania went into the war it was given to the Russians so I was already more or less a Russian although I still had a Rumanian passport and was living in Vienna at that time. When Bohemia was taken by the Russians I went to our ambassador in Berlin, who was a friend of the family, and I said, 糖心传媒淲hat shall I do, what am I supposed to do?糖心传媒� He said, 糖心传媒淲ell, you are supposed to go home and find a new identity because you don糖心传媒檛 exist. And then you糖心传媒檒l die from Mr. Hitler because within a short time you shall have to join in those struggles. I can糖心传媒檛 prolong your passport. How long is it still valid?糖心传媒� I said. 糖心传媒淔or a year.糖心传媒� He said, 糖心传媒淜eep quiet.糖心传媒� Which I did. It lasted for three more years during the war. I had my share of bombing and all that, but in the meantime I had the opportunity to really fill the unbelievable gaps in my knowledge by reading. I must tell you that I read very slowly and I need months to finish a real masterpiece, for example one of Broch糖心传媒檚 novels. [. . .]

BW: What has been Nabokov糖心传媒檚 influence on you?

GvR: Well, there were many other influences first. I didn糖心传媒檛 read Nabokov until late. But when I had started to write Abel in its first version, I got Nabokov糖心传媒檚 Pale Fire in my hand and instantly put my pen down because I found that there was the book I wanted to write already in the best possible form. Then I collaborated on the translation of Lolita into German, and I became aware that I shall never achieve the almost medieval craft of Nabokov糖心传媒檚 to link fiction with literary allusion and write a book on many layers糖心传媒攐f which one is a direct and fictitiously concrete reality, and behind there is the other reality, the literary reality of all the allusions, all the relations of literature with other literature. At the same time that it糖心传媒檚 discouraging, it糖心传媒檚 very challenging.

BW: Other influences?

GvR: Everything influences you as a writer, whatever you read. I believe there isn糖心传媒檛 any such thing as a bad book, because you take out of any book something by which you learn, even if you throw it away. Then there are writers who encourage me immensely and writers whom I admire so much that I put down my pen and say, 糖心传媒淚 can糖心传媒檛 write.糖心传媒� For instance, I can糖心传媒檛 read ten lines of Robert Musil and keep on writing, I stop for a week at least. Even Joyce. He discourages me totally. But then there are others who encourage me. Thomas Mann with his sort of schoolboyish sense of humor challenges me to get a little subtler. Ironic. And so on.

BW: 颁猫濒颈苍别?

GvR: Well, yes. Not consciously, but the violence. In literature, particularly at that period, a certain barbarism is necessary. Also for the sake of honesty. You can糖心传媒檛 be suave and God knows what in a time like ours. Also there is in him an urge for iconoclastic action which was also very much an aspect of German Expressionism after the First World War.

You can read the entire interview

Meredith Keller: I know you spent your Fulbright year studying Macedonio Fernandez糖心传媒檚 life and work, but how did you first come across him?

Margaret Schwartz: I first encountered Macedonio in a lovely phrase from Borges: 糖心传媒淲hat will die with me when I die? What fragile, pathetic form will the world lose? The voice of Macedonio Fernandez, the image of a roan horse in the vacant lot at Serrano and Charcas, a bar of sulphur in the drawer of a mahogany desk?糖心传媒� I have always been fascinated by the idea of traces糖心传媒攕mall, seemingly insignificant tokens that mysteriously open on to hidden worlds. That糖心传媒檚 what the name Macedonio Fernandez was for me. I was moved enough by the passage to look him up, started reading him, and that was it for me. I remember the first time I walked by the corner of Serrano and Charcas, too糖心传媒攖here糖心传媒檚 a gas station there, now.

MK: Aside from those studying Argentine literature (or working at Open Letter), I don糖心传媒檛 think many American readers are familiar with Macedonio. How is he perceived in Argentina?

MS: I糖心传媒檇 say that Macedonio is considered a folk hero more than a literary giant. Everybody knows him, but only the academics and literary folk have actually read him. Popularly, however, he糖心传媒檚 sometimes viewed with more affection than Borges, who is often considered a snob or a tourist attraction. In academic and literary circles, where people do read and respect him a great deal, he糖心传媒檚 often viewed as a kind of postmodern visionary. There are lots of books in Spanish about his prescience on topics as diverse as postcolonialism, deconstruction, and Lacanian psychoanalysis. There is also a group of young people, hipsters I guess, who run an 糖心传媒淎narchist Archive糖心传媒� in San Telmo and they have some Macedonio first editions.
I think if you糖心传媒檙e down there as an American and you糖心传媒檙e interested in Macedonio, people treat you really well, because he糖心传媒檚 not so well known outside of Argentina. They feel really honored and excited that you糖心传媒檝e taken the time to discover someone that they feel is deeply intertwined with their national values and the peculiarity of what makes them Argentines. And that糖心传媒檚 across social strata. The first time I was in Buenos Aires I stayed at a kind of ladies boarding house, and the women I met there were all really working class and not very educated. But they seriously framed a copy of the letter of permission I got from Macedonio糖心传媒檚 granddaughter, Maite Obieta, that I was going to use for the Fulbright application, because they were so emotional about my work. Strange, but true, I swear!

MK: Museum must糖心传媒檝e been a particularly difficult book to translate. Was there a theoretical (or maybe procedural?) approach that you used for this project?

MS: The key to my process in this case is the hours and hours I spent in Macedonio糖心传媒檚 archive, reading his handwritten manuscripts, notebooks, and diaries. Almost all of Macedonio糖心传媒檚 books were published posthumously, which means he never got a chance to decide what order things should be in, and what things should get cut and what things should stay. That biographical fact, plus the spiraling, open-ended nature of his prose and the ideas he糖心传媒檚 trying to express about consciousness, make reading him (and translation is in some ways a very special kind of reading) into a sort of detective work. You work with clues糖心传媒攚ith traces, like I said before. And you have to go with your hunches. In my case, those hours spent reading accumulated in my subconscious to make a kind of Macedonian murmur. It took a long time to hear糖心传媒攂ut there糖心传媒檚 an earnestness and melancholy about him, despite all his irony and silliness. Once I realized that, I found I had a voice for him, and I had the confidence to translate him without trying to be ridiculously faithful to his insane syntax.

As for theoretical approaches糖心传媒攊s it clich茅 at this point to talk about Benjamin? Though I don糖心传媒檛 buy the idea of a shared linguistic essence, his ideas about translation resonate with my process for The Museum of Eterna糖心传媒檚 Novel. As a translator, you have to believe there糖心传媒檚 something there, that you can pull out of the source language and sort of embed in the target language. I糖心传媒檇 hesitate to call it a truth or an essence, but it糖心传媒檚 something. So when I was translating Macedonio I would kind of put my ear to the tracks, metaphorically speaking, and listen for what he might sound like in English. Maybe that糖心传媒檚 why when I do readings of Macedonio I sometimes end up sounding like my old Jewish relatives.

MK: Which leads nicely into my next question: Do you have any favorite sentences from the book?

MS: Sigh! There are so many good ones. When I read Thirlwell糖心传媒檚 preface I was struck by some of the passages he quoted. I was like, 糖心传媒淲ait, did I translate that? It糖心传媒檚 beautiful!糖心传媒� You get very close to things when you糖心传媒檙e working on a book. So I糖心传媒檒l pick the one that a friend picked: 糖心传媒淎ll the statues that saddened the plazas were evicted, and in their place grew the best roses.糖心传媒�

MK: I know this if your first book-length translation to be published, but are there other Spanish writers you糖心传媒檝e worked on? Ones that are maybe easier to translate than Macedonio? It糖心传媒檚 hard to imagine anyone starting off with such a complex novel . . .

MS: I have actually mostly translated Macedonio. [blush.] I was working on another of his books, called The Newcomer糖心传媒檚 Papers, when I met Chad from Open Letter, and we started working on _Museum of Eterna糖心传媒檚 Novel_糖心传媒攚hich I had also translated parts of, but wasn糖心传媒檛 actively working on at the time. Macedonio is what made me want to do literary translation.

I did also translate an issue of Popular Communication, which is an academic journal in Media Studies (I糖心传媒檓 an assistant professor of Communication and Media Studies at Fordham University). That was a really rewarding experience, because so much work in our field is global, but it doesn糖心传媒檛 get circulated as it should because all of our major journals are in English. So I really salute Popular Communication for that糖心传媒攊t糖心传媒檚 much rarer in academia than you糖心传媒檇 think.

But the experience of doing that translation糖心传媒攚ell, everything seems so much easier after Macedonio! But it was also interesting to find that one still struggles with voice糖心传媒攈ow to make it sound like an academic article would in English, with the same kind of diction, the same kind of authoritative register. It was fun.

MK: In your introduction to the novel, you cite Scalabrini Ort铆z糖心传媒檚 statement that Macedonio was Buenos Aires糖心传媒檚 only authentic philosopher, and elaborate that 糖心传媒淗e糖心传媒檚 an archetype, a kind of distillation of what it is to think like an Argentine, of the particular poetics and mournful solitude of the South.糖心传媒� Is there something unique about the way Argentina/Macedonio thinks?

MS: Argentina has typically viewed itself as kind of unique in Latin America糖心传媒攁 sort of different breed. Which is why if you talk to people from other parts of that region they糖心传媒檒l often say that Argentines are snobs! But historically, Argentina developed as a nation in a far corner of the Spanish empire, during the colonial period. The land is mostly flat, with lots and lots of plains糖心传媒攖he pampas糖心传媒攁nd so it developed as a ranching country, much like the American west. It had a very small population of immigrants, and its indigenous population was mostly nomadic糖心传媒攏ot like the big civilizations of Peru and Mexico. So if you put together those factors糖心传媒攖he small population, the quickly decimated native people, and the huge expanses of land糖心传媒攜ou get a certain individualism, and a certain sense of isolation. The archetypal Argentine is the gaucho糖心传媒攁 man who works as a ranch hand and as a mercenary, who travels with the herd and who sells his knife or his tracking skills to the highest bidder. Romantically he糖心传媒檚 often pictured with his mate and his guitar, alone on the prairie, much like our cowboys.

Now Macedonio, of course, was no kind of cowboy. But he came from a very old family, one that traced its roots back to the earliest colonial times. He was Argentine, through and through, in a nation that identifies itself, much as the U.S. does, as built on immigration. And he was a highly original thinker who believed in the uniqueness of the Argentine people. His writing is full of witty references to life in Buenos Aires, and to little details of everyday life that have a very distinct Argentine flair to them: mate, a strong tea drunk from a gourd; empanadas, alfajores, whistling tea kettles and chilly winter patios and lost buttons and dimly lit street corners. His writing, but more properly his persona, which he cultivated in life and which Borges amplified after his death, exemplifies the kind of courteous, self-effacing, idealistic yet melancholy feeling that is part of the romanticism in Argentine literature about those empty, lonely, vast expanses to the south.

MK: Anyone who糖心传媒檚 ever tried to translate literature knows that it takes more than fluency, a solid grasp of grammar, and a good dictionary糖心传媒攖he true challenge and key to a successful translation is rendering the poetics and refined artistry of the original prose in the target language. You describe Macedonio糖心传媒檚 prose as 糖心传媒渂aroque糖心传媒� and 糖心传媒渃omplicated and ornate,糖心传媒� where the 糖心传媒渄iction is antiquated if not necessarily high-register.糖心传媒� How did you go about conveying these characteristics in English?

MS: I tried to keep the register high, even absurdist, without tangling the syntax too much. I remember insisting that the verb 糖心传媒渢o redact糖心传媒� not be changed to the simpler 糖心传媒渢o write,糖心传媒� for that reason. There糖心传媒檚 something of the old-timey soap box salesman in Macedonio糖心传媒攖here are no cars or carts in his world, only conveyances, contraptions. He also reminds me of a silent film comedian, like Harold Lloyd or Charlie Chaplin: there are a lot of exaggerated, winking asides and grandiose yet absurd gestures, a lot of madcap, Keystone-Cops-esque sequences. So where I could, I let run on sentences run on. I tried to find a way to keep all that loopiness, even when sometimes I had to straighten out the syntax or cut a long sentence up.

MK: Do you have any recommendations or advice for aspiring literary translators?

MS: OK well this will sound very goofy, but it糖心传媒檚 true: Translate what you love! I worked for ten years on this, and I never hoped to get it published. Then one day I met Chad at a conference and he asked me what I was working on. I said, 糖心传媒淥h, you won糖心传媒檛 have heard of him, he糖心传媒檚 this Argentine avant-gardist . . .糖心传媒� and he said, 糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檝e been trying to get the rights to that book for the past five years.糖心传媒� Suddenly I had a press that really believed in translation and an editor who loved the project. It was perfect. You糖心传媒檙e not going to make a million being a literary translator, so why not let your passion guide you? You糖心传媒檒l be happier, and you糖心传媒檒l attract people who care about the project the same way you do. It糖心传媒檚 a win-win!

In the meantime, here’s I did with Stephen of Green Apple Books about why we should read literature in translation, and so on.

is a damn cool store, and their “Book of the Month Videos” are a pretty innovative and fun. Here’s the most recent one for Werner Herzog’s

(Also, you can check the rest of Nigel’s offerings .)

And interviews with some other interesting people as well, like Enrique Vila-Matas, Jonathan Lethem, Paul Auster, and Stephen Malkmus, although I’m sure the Bolano interview will be cause enough for a lot of people to go out and buy this. . . .

Bragi 脫lafsson was born in Reykjavik, and may be most well known for playing bass in The Sugarcubes, Bj枚rk糖心传媒檚 first band. After recording three albums and touring the world, he quit making music and turned to writing. He is the author of several books of poetry and short stories, and four novels, including Time Off, which was nominated for the Icelandic Literature Prize in 1999 (as was The Pets), and Party Games, for which Bragi received the DV Cultural Prize in 2004. His most recent novel糖心传媒� The Ambassador (which Open Letter will publish in late 2009)糖心传媒攚as a finalist for the 2008 Nordic Literature Prize and received the Icelandic Bookseller糖心传媒檚 Award as best novel of the year.

The Pets is now available in Janice Balfour糖心传媒檚 translation (978-1-934824-01-6; $14.95) will be the first book of his to appear in English.

Bragi was kind enough to answer some questions about his work and life over e-mail.

Open Letter: As a writer, you started out writing poetry and have even done some playwriting. How did that transition糖心传媒攆rom poet to playwright to novelist糖心传媒攖ake place? Have you continued writing poetry, or have you shifted your focus exclusively to the novel?

Bragi 脫lafsson: My first literary idols were poets, so it seemed obvious to write poetry. I wrote my first texts when I was 13 or 14 years old. These poets I read were mostly Icelandic, and through them and their translations of European and American poets I came into contact with “foreign” literature, and started appreciating a lot of modernist prose and playwriting. The writer who has probably influenced me the most, and served as the biggest encouragement, is Harold Pinter. But as I knew that I would never be able to write plays as good as his, I decided to concentrate on poetry, and eventually prose. However I糖心传媒檝e written some radio plays for the State Radio, and one play for the City Theater. And now I糖心传媒檝e been commissioned to write a play for the National Theater. After I published my first novel I糖心传媒檝e gradually stopped writing poetry; somehow I have become intimidated by its form. I think I have realized that the novel is the form that suits me the best.

OL: You translate as well, right? How did that come about?

BO: I have translated some poems and Paul Auster糖心传媒檚 City of Glass. The reason why I translated Auster糖心传媒檚 book is that my publisher asked me to do it. I don糖心传媒檛 consider myself as a translator. But I have great respect for Paul Auster, he has written some excellent books, and edited a very good anthology of Twentieth Century French Poetry. A person who likes Max Jacob doesn糖心传媒檛 have to worry about anything.

OL: Turning to _The Pets_糖心传媒攐ne of the most striking things about the book is the fact that for most of the novel, the main character, and main narrator, Emil is trapped under his bed. Was this a restriction you set out for yourself at the beginning of the novel, or did it occur naturally during the writing process?

BO: After an English friend of mine told me of a rather unfortunate incident he had with a guinea-pig, cement and a water-hose, I wanted to write a story about a person who is assigned to take care of a few pet animals. I had some difficulty in finding the correct form and tone for the story, but one day when I was sitting in my living room, looking at the open window with a steaming hot coffee in front of me, I started to imagine some unwanted person coming through the window and me hiding under the bed, and all of a sudden that very idea and the story about the pets came together. Thus the method of telling the story existed from the start. But that the main character is trapped under his bed is not really a restriction, on the contrary it糖心传媒檚 very helpful for the imagination of the person writing the story. In fact I would like to write more novels from that point of view, I feel comfortable under a bed, it糖心传媒檚 probably something from childhood.

OL: A series of “the view from under the bed” books would be fantastic. . . . Personally, as the book went along, I got more and more anxious about how Emil was going to get out and how the situation would be resolved. (Being an ex-smoker, the few references to how long it had been since his last cigarette gave me vicarious nic fits.) I guess that糖心传媒檚 what I would see as the main constraint糖心传媒攈ow is this going to end? And without giving much away, I have to admit that I was pleased and shocked by how the story was resolved. When did you know how the novel would end the way that it does?

BO: I糖心传媒檝e had lots of comments on how the novel ends. While many readers find it very frustrating, even feel betrayed, other readers think it is the proper ending to a story like this. One reader came up to me and told me that the ending of The Pets was the second best ending he had read in a book. I was of course very flattered to hear that, especially because this reader seemed like a “normal” person, not a literature student. And when I asked him what was the best ending he had read, the answer was: For Whom the Bell Tolls! It made my day.

I had not decided how The Pets was going to end when I started the book, and I think that decision came rather late in the writing process. I had tried two or three different endings but always felt I was betraying myself and the story by not letting it end the way it does. I think it糖心传媒檚 a good thing when an ending of a book gives the reader the permission to decide for himself what has really been going on in the story and what will happen after he has read the last page.

But talking about strange or disturbing endings; there糖心传媒檚 a book called The Golden Egg by a Dutch writer, Tim Krabb茅. It was made into a very good film called Spoorloos, by a Dutch film director, and the ending of that film is probably one of the most unpleasant, and at the same time one of the most exhilarating, endings in film history. But then the same director remade the film for Hollywood, and what happened? The new film, which was called The Vanishing, got a happy ending, so that American movie-goers wouldn糖心传媒檛 be too troubled by what they had seen.

OL: Returning to your earlier response for a second糖心传媒擨 really can糖心传媒檛 believe the guinea pig story is true! For me, that scene encapsulates what I really like about your book糖心传媒攊t糖心传媒檚 very funny, and at the same time slightly disturbing. Are there any authors/books that influenced your style and sense of humor?

BO: Yes, the guinea pig story is true. I didn糖心传媒檛 see it happen myself but I糖心传媒檝e been in the backyard where it happened!

I try to avoid naming authors which I think have influenced my way of writing 糖心传媒� because I don糖心传媒檛 really know who have 糖心传媒� but I very much like the humor and precision in Gogol, Chekhov and Pinter, and the novels of Evelyn Waugh, Italo Svevo, Thomas Bernhard and Saul Bellow, just to name a few very different authors. And the brilliant humor of Halldor Laxness, and another Icelandic writer, Thorbergur Thordarson, is very important for Icelandic writers and artists. But I糖心传媒檓 no less influenced by films. Films like Playtime by Tati, La grande bouffe my Marco Ferreri and Mulholland Drive by David Lynch have some comic moments that I think about almost every day; scenes that are very shallow and profound at the same time. For example the scene in Lynch糖心传媒檚 film about the meeting in the boardroom; it糖心传媒檚 worth hundreds of books, it糖心传媒檚 total genius (if that word means anything).

OL: On top of everything else, you also run the fantastically named publishing company, Bad Taste, in Iceland. Could you tell me a little bit about how it got started and what you publish?

BO: Before my friends and I formed The Sugarcubes we started the company Bad Taste. The Sugarcubes were actually formed in order to finance the publishing company, which it then did for five or six years. Bad Taste has been the leading independent record company in Iceland for 20 years, although we have never made any money out of it, only lost a lot of it. (Two years ago The Sugarcubes reformed for just one night to save Bad Taste from bankruptcy. And we succeeded.) We not only publish popular music but also modern Icelandic music and jazz, and historical recordings. Then we publish some books as well. My first book of poetry was published by Bad Taste in 1986, and two years ago I started a series of little books, called The Bad Taste Booklets, containing poetry, both translated and original, and prose.

OL: When I visited Icelandic publishers, I was fascinated by the idea that most of the works of fiction published in Iceland all come out during the same month糖心传媒攕omething that would never happen in America. What kind of challenges/opportunities does this pose for a publisher?

BO: Some traditions are good, but this old tradition of only publishing books in October and November is not one of them. The Icelandic reading public sees literature as Christmas presents, and if your book doesn糖心传媒檛 catch any attention as such, it won糖心传媒檛 sell any copies. Because of this the publishers behave like total barbarians in the five or six weeks before Christmas, they advertise like madmen on television and in the papers, and the books are mainly sold in the supermarkets. It糖心传媒檚 not a very civilized situation. And the obligation on writers, to finish their books in time for the so-called Book Flood, is not good for literature糖心传媒檚 sakes, obviously it sometimes results in half-finished books. And a writer that publishes a half-finished book is stuck with it for the rest of his (half-finished) life. And it糖心传媒檚 a problem not only facing the writers but also the critics, as they have to read and review dozens of books in the space of some five or six weeks. I may not sound too happy about this 糖心传媒� and I am not 糖心传媒� but still, this hysterical book-craze in November and December is of course a lot of fun too, especially when you don糖心传媒檛 have a book out yourself and can watch the other writers suffering.

OL: Are you working on a new book?

BO: Yes, I糖心传媒檓 working on a novel which is related to my last novel, The Ambassador. This one has the working title The Screenplay, and tells the story of two men in their late sixties (a film director, educated in Czechoslovakia, who has never made a film after he finished his studies, and a playwright and a translator who has never actually had a play produced) who suddenly, with the help of an old acquaintance, a rich pharmacist, get the opportunity to write and produce a film of their own. But at the start of the novel one of the two guys, who糖心传媒檚 called 脰rn Featherby, gets the news that his recently dead English father, who lived in Hull and whom he hadn糖心传媒檛 had contact with in thirty years, has left him in his will a great collection of shoes, almost two hundred pairs that should fit his son. 脰rn decides to collect his inheritance, but because he has a bad fear of flying he has to travel by sea, and he and his friend, whose name is J贸n Magn煤sson, go on a trawler to Hull, with the intention of using the time on board to work on their screenplay. The story is told by J贸n Magn煤sson糖心传媒檚 ex sister-in-law, who is also indirectly a character in the novel, so we follow the adventures of J贸n and 脰rn Featherby through the eyes of a woman.

(Does this make sense? The novel itself probably doesn糖心传媒檛 make any sense at all, but the description of it should . . .)

Selected Works by Bragi 脫lafsson

Prose:

Hvildardagar (Days Off, a novel), publ. Bjartur 1999

Gaeludyrin ( a novel), publ. Bjartur 2001 (in English, Danish, German and Spanish translation)

Samkvaemisleikir (Party Games, a novel), publ. Bjartur 2004

Sendiherrann (The Ambassador, a novel), publ. Mal og Menning 2006

Poetry:

Dragsugur (Draught), publ. Bad Taste Ltd 1986

Fjorar Linur og Titill (Four lines and a title), publ. Bad Taste Ltd 2006

Plays:

Groid Hverfi (A Solid Neighbourhood), a radio play broadcasted by the State Radio in May 2003 (in English translation).

Belgiska Kongo (Belgian Congo), a stage play which has been performed at The Municipal Theatre in Reykjav铆k since May 2004.

Interview copyrighted 漏 Open Letter, 2008