Halldór Kiljan Laxness
author profile
born
April 23, 1902
died
February 08, 1998
gender
male
place of birth
Reykjavík, Iceland
genre
Literature & Fiction
influences
The Sagas, Catholicism, Communism
about this author
Born Halldór Guðjónsson, he adopted the surname Laxness in honour of Laxnes in Mosfellssveit where he grew up, his family having moved from Reyjavík in 1905. He published his first novel at the age of 17, the beginning of a long literary career of over 60 books, including novels, short stories, poetry, and plays. Confirmed a Catholic in 1923, he later moved away from religion and for a long time was sympathetic to Communist politics, which is evident in his novels World Light and Independent People. In 1955 he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.
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avg rating: 3.98
| 1,263 ratings
| 296 reviews
| 22 distinct works
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More books by Halldór Kiljan Laxness…
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Independent People by Halldór Kiljan Laxness avg rating 4.17 — 618 ratings — published 1935 19 editions |
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Under the Glacier by Halldór Kiljan Laxness avg rating 3.57 — 179 ratings — published 1968 8 editions |
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Iceland's Bell by Halldór Kiljan Laxness avg rating 3.91 — 106 ratings — published 1972 9 editions |
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The Fish Can Sing by Halldór Kiljan Laxness avg rating 3.79 — 84 ratings — published 1957 8 editions |
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Paradise Reclaimed by Halldór Kiljan Laxness avg rating 3.98 — 61 ratings — published 1990 4 editions |
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World Light by Halldór Kiljan Laxness avg rating 4.17 — 47 ratings — published 1969 6 editions |
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The Atom Station by Halldór Kiljan Laxness avg rating 3.52 — 31 ratings — published 1948 13 editions |
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Salka Valka by Halldór Kiljan Laxness avg rating 4.00 — 13 ratings — published 1932 2 editions |
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The Great Weaver from Kashmir by Halldór Kiljan Laxness avg rating 3.00 — 8 ratings — published 2008 |
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Ordinary People by Halldór Kiljan Laxness avg rating 4.25 — 4 ratings — published 2008 |
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upcoming events
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"But he could not help it. No one can help it. One is a realist. One has put up with it all ever since childhood; one has had the courage to look it full in the eye, possibly courage enough to look it in the eye all one's life long. Then one day the distances beckon with their floating possibilities, and in one's hands are the admission tickets, two slips of blue paper. One is a realist no longer. One has finished putting up with it all, one no longer has the courage to look it in the eye, one is in the power of beckoning hospitable distances, floating possibilities, perhaps forever afterwards. Perhaps one's life is over."
— Halldór Kiljan Laxness (Independent People)
— Halldór Kiljan Laxness (Independent People)
"Like all great rationalists you believed in things that were twice as incredible as theology."
— Halldór Kiljan Laxness (Under the Glacier)
— Halldór Kiljan Laxness (Under the Glacier)
"Dr. Syngmann: I am talking about the only quality that was worth creating the world for, the only power that is worth controlling.
Pastor Jon: Ua?
Dr. Syngmann in a tired, gravelly bass: I hear you mention once more that name which is no name. I know you blame me; I blame myself. Ua was simply Ua. There was nothing I could do about it. I know you have never recovered from it, John. Neither have I.
Pastor Jon: That word could mean everything and nothing, and when it ceased to sound, it was as if all other words had lost their meaning. But it did not matter. It gradually came back.
Dr. Syngmann: Gradually came back? What did?
Pastor Jon: Some years ago, a horse was swept over the falls to Godafoss. He was washed ashore, alive, onto the rocks below. The beast stood there motionless, hanging his head, for more than twenty-four hours below this awful cascade of water that had swept him down. Perhaps he was trying to remember what life was called. Or he was wondering why the world had been created. He showed no signs of ever wanting to graze again. In the end, however, he heaved himself onto the riverbank and started to nibble.
Dr. Syngmann: Only one thing matters, John: do you accept it?
Pastor Jon: The flower of the field is with me, as the psalmist said. It isn't mine, to be sure, but it lives here; during the winter it lives in my mind until it resurrects again.
Dr. Syngmann: I don't accept it, John! There are limits to the Creator's importunacy. I refuse to carry this universe on my back any longer, as if it were my fault that it exists.
Pastor Jon: Quite so. On the other hand, I am like that horse that was dumbfounded for twenty-four hours. For a long time I thought I could never endure having survived. Then I went back to the pasture. "
— Halldór Kiljan Laxness (Under the Glacier)
Pastor Jon: Ua?
Dr. Syngmann in a tired, gravelly bass: I hear you mention once more that name which is no name. I know you blame me; I blame myself. Ua was simply Ua. There was nothing I could do about it. I know you have never recovered from it, John. Neither have I.
Pastor Jon: That word could mean everything and nothing, and when it ceased to sound, it was as if all other words had lost their meaning. But it did not matter. It gradually came back.
Dr. Syngmann: Gradually came back? What did?
Pastor Jon: Some years ago, a horse was swept over the falls to Godafoss. He was washed ashore, alive, onto the rocks below. The beast stood there motionless, hanging his head, for more than twenty-four hours below this awful cascade of water that had swept him down. Perhaps he was trying to remember what life was called. Or he was wondering why the world had been created. He showed no signs of ever wanting to graze again. In the end, however, he heaved himself onto the riverbank and started to nibble.
Dr. Syngmann: Only one thing matters, John: do you accept it?
Pastor Jon: The flower of the field is with me, as the psalmist said. It isn't mine, to be sure, but it lives here; during the winter it lives in my mind until it resurrects again.
Dr. Syngmann: I don't accept it, John! There are limits to the Creator's importunacy. I refuse to carry this universe on my back any longer, as if it were my fault that it exists.
Pastor Jon: Quite so. On the other hand, I am like that horse that was dumbfounded for twenty-four hours. For a long time I thought I could never endure having survived. Then I went back to the pasture. "
— Halldór Kiljan Laxness (Under the Glacier)
