The appeal of this book was in the writing, not in the main character. Poor Olafur was a rather frustrating character. I could pity his condition, but so wanted to seize him and shake him! He saw beauty in nature and had a bland goodwill to all, including those least worthy of it, yet was quite oblivious of the need to support his family in any practical way. There was a relentless bleakness in his condition. His brutal childhood is reminiscent of Dickens, or, in an Australian context, Albert Facey's "A Fortunate Life". It is perhaps unsurprising that he found beauty in the less earthly things. His lack of purpose is described aptly: "Olafur Karason was like water which trickles through in various places but has no regular channel." It was Laxness's brilliance as a writer which kept me going with this book. In the first part, one would think it was set in the 19th century or before, such was the squalor and primitive nature of life, then suddenly aviation and telegraphs are mentioned. Then there is the wonderful humour and irony throughout, a counterfoil to all the misery: "Finally the bank had made it clear that it had exhausted its Christian forebearance, which is such a hallmark of these institutions..." I am so glad that I read this after about five other Laxness books, for I may not have been so keen to persist with one of the greatest writers I have encountered. However, World Light was still well worth reading.
Read this introduction in this paperback edition (first!): It says a lot about this very long and mostly somber book, in which 'not a lot happens.' It is difficult to say that the main character even has 'the strength of his own convictions' because fairly baseless moods seem to affect his inner life a lot, and strongly so, when they take hold of his mind and drive his actions (which are few, and not heroic ones. Example: as a teenage invalid, many of the first 200 pages of the book take place as he is confined for 4 years to his bed in a small attic room while his health so slowly improves...and those around him simply ignore his existence--for the most part.) This book is much more about the main character's inner life (impossible to call him a 'hero' and even hard to call him the 'protagonist' -- as he is so much more 'acted upon' than he ever 'acts' himself), and the inner lives of the other characters, than about any adventure or 'exoticness' or even scenery (on a big scale) that a book that takes place several places in Iceland could set forth: little or none of that here. As the introduction notes, the 'action' is so 'interior' (and 'mental') for much of the book, that there's often a slight shock when the reader encounters infrequent mentions of an airplane, a radio, labor-management conflicts -- or any of the other items that also characterize the early 20th century of Iceland.
What do You think about World Light (2002)?
Strange... As the introduction says. Following the life of the poet called Olafur Karason, in its different stages, the book opens up different views and stages of Iceland too. And never in another book, one feels this much culture shock. Karason's life is presented with all its clashing ingredients: endurance, sainthood but human frailty, love, philosophy, pride, nationalism, socialism, physical and spiritual needs, women and men, friendship... And Laxness writes with a certain level of cynicism that makes this book out of the ordinary. Yes, strange is the best word to describe it.
—Cigdem
Halldor Laxness introduces readers to a new genre of prose, where each line is like a divine sonnet.What makes World Light so incredible is the story of pain and the beauty it brings with it. The protagonist dreams and yearns to be a poet; the consequence of being respected or shunned is immaterial to him. Through the physical and emotional torment of life, he wages on, painting each moment with beautiful rhymes.Halldor Laxness definitely knows how to render pain a charm that makes his readers long for it.
—Abhishek Ganguly
Wasn't the easiest book I've ever read. I almost abandoned it many times. The Wilde like aphorisms on love and poetry and politics started weighing me down. At some points it was one of those books that every line screams to be placed on the front of a quote card for someone like my fiancée to place upon her wall and ponder countless times. And that's all and good for a couple of lines, but there were millions. It became almost too witty. But that aside, I loved the book. The Icelandic allusions to sagas and poets and other historical/political happenings were lost within my slim, ok, zero, understanding of anything Icelandic (besides Sigur Ros). But I loved the idea of a poet, a poet who has never published a single word, sacrificing his life in trying find and define (through the failure that language turns out to be most to the time) beauty. He does an awful thing that places him in prison and still I do not hate Olaf Karason (nor do I forgive him). As an artist who may never "publish" a work of art again and is ok with that, I sort relate to him. Maybe I'm a shirker too?
—Corey Ryan
