William of Lugos

BelaLugosiHeadstone

Headstone of Bela Lugosi at Holy Cross Cemetery in Culver City

His real name was Béla Ferenc Dezsö Blaskó, but that didn’t sound cool enough for the title role in Universal Pictures’ new film Dracula (1931). Béla, or William as it’s translated into English, was born in Lugos in then Austro-Hungarian Empire. Now it is known as Lugoj and is located in Rumania. And, just so you know, in Transylvania, near Timisoara, known by the Hungarians as Temesvár. So Béla Lugosi is none other than William of Lugos.

By the way, his name is really pronounced BAY-lah LOO-gauche-ee, with the accent on the first syllable of first and last name.

Martine has always loved Lugosi’s acting. In fact, on her favorite sweater, she wears a metal pin of a 32¢ stamp issued in his honor, as shown below:

1997 USPS Stamp Commemorating Famous Monsters of Hollywood

1997 USPS Stamp Commemorating Famous Film Monsters of Hollywood

Martine has a set of DVDs for Lugosi’s films; and when we visit Holy Cross Cemetery, we always check out his grave on a hillside near a grotto.

It always surprises me how many famous people don’t have any flowers or other marks of family or fan affection by their graves. Note, however, that there is a little votive candle by the bottom right of Béla’s headstone.

An Afternoon at LACMA

One of My Two Favorite Paintings at LACMA: Jan de Heem’s “Still Life with Oysters and Grapes”

One of My Two Favorite Paintings at LACMA: Jan de Heem’s “Still Life with Oysters and Grapes”

Today was the last day that I don’t have to show up for work until Friday, April 19: That’s thirty-nine consecutive days that I will have to work. (We have a three-day weekend after the April 15 tax deadline).

Martine and I took advantage of the last free day by visiting the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA) right near the famed La Brea Tar Pits by Wilshire & Fairfax. Over the years, LACMA has grown like Topsy: It now occupies a campus of some eight buildings, only three of which I visited. Scattered as the museum’s collections are, it is now much more difficult to find particular paintings or particular periods of art. There are two paintings I always look for. The first (shown above) is Jan Davidszoon de Heem’s “Still Life with Oysters and Grapes,” from the Dutch Golden Age of the 17th century.

The other, shown below, is a delightful Auguste Renoir painting of two girl’s reading from a book.

Pierre Auguste Renoir’s “Two Girls Reading”

Pierre Auguste Renoir’s “Two Girls Reading”

I am not always fond of the Impressionist painters, because I think some of them, such as Monet and Cézanne, can be too sterile in their search for effects (though not always). But in the above painting, the whole world revolves around the two girls. Displayed right next to it at the museum is a portrait of the artist’s son Jean portrayed as a huntsman. Because Jean grew up to be one of my favorite film directors, I have always been fond of that portrait as well.

Because Martine and I have different tastes in art, we split up and met later in the afternoon at the museum café, where I was drinking a cup of English Breakfast tea. In the meantime, on my own I visited the exhibits of Chinese and Korean art. Particularly interesting was a small traveling exhibit of Ming Dynasty Masterpieces from the Shanghai Museum. Many of them depicted members of the Taoist Immortals, often with a great sense of humor, such as the ink wash drawing showing one of them flying up to the heavens on the back of a giant carp.

There was also an excellent exhibit of ancient Meso-American art, showing the typical Mayan, Totonac, and other peoples’ sense of humor depicting gods, men, and animals—especially the latter.

Support Your Local Bookseller

Alpine Village, Central Europe at the Edge of the Desert

Alpine Village, Central Europe at the Edge of the Desert

Today I got off early from tax work, so I suggested to Martine that we go to Captain Kidd’s Fish Market in Redondo Beach for a seafood lunch, followed by a visit to Alpine Village in nearby Torrance. At Alpine Village is not only an excellent European food market with great meats, but an excellent used bookstore that goes under the names of Collectible Books and Michael Weinstein, Bookseller.

Since tax season will get only worse as April 15 approaches, my food preparation will now eschew the fanciful and time-consuming. This next week, we will have knockwurst or German wieners with Brussels Sprouts, cauliflower, or other steamed vegetables. Perhaps the week after, it will be Hungarian Gyulai kólbasz sausage sautéed with onions, potatoes, and paprika—a dish my mother frequently cooked for us back in Cleveland when she was pressed for time.

I was a little disingenuous with Martine because I didn’t mention until later that I also wanted to visit the little used bookstore at Alpine Village, various called Collectible Books and Michael R. Weinstein, Bookseller. There I purchased three items:

  • R. R. Palmer’s Twelve Who Ruled: The Year of the Terror in the French Revolution. I had read this before, but made the mistake of selling it when I wanted to re-read it.
  • Percy Bysshe Shelley’s Selected Poems in a compact hardbound Oxford World Classics edition, suitable for travel.
  • A lovely Lakeside Press edition of William S. Hart’s My Life East and West, the autobiography of the silent cowboy star whose house in Newhall we visit two or three times a year. It is now a museum administered by the Los Angeles Museum of Natural History.

Not a bad haul for thirty bucks. I know, I know: I have too many books. But reading great books is what puts the light in my eyes. Martine knows that, so she forgives me my little vice.

A Tarheel in the Big Apple

Joseph Mitchell (1908-1996)

Joseph Mitchell (1908-1996)

In America, fiction writers get all the love. Because I know I can never write good fiction, I have a particular appreciation of nonfiction writers, particularly essayists. And one of my favorites was Joseph Mitchell, who came up from North Carolina to become a writer for The New Yorker, and stayed for most of his life.

Today, while I was munching on some curried vegetables at lunchtime, I read an unfinished article by Mitchell in the February 11 and 18 issue of The New Yorker about the author’s peregrinations through the five boroughs of the big city looking for architectural oddities. Entitled “Street Life,” it begins with interesting architectural features and ends up looking at church services at Catholic and other Christian churches (including various Eastern Orthodox), synagogues, and mosques:

I used to feel very much at home in New York City. I wasn’t born here, I wasn’t a native, but I might have well have been: I belonged here. Several years ago, however, I began to be oppressed by a feeling that New York City had gone past me and that I didn’t belong here anymore. I sometimes went on from that to a feeling that I had never belonged here, and that could be especially painful. At first, these feelings were vague and sporadic, but they gradually became more definite and quite frequent. Ever since I came to New York City, I have been going back to North Carolina for a visit once or twice a year, and now I began going back more often and staying longer. At one point, after a visit of a month and a half, I had about made up my mind to stay down there for good, and then I began to be oppressed by a feeling that things had gone past me in North Carolina also, and that I didn’t belong down there anymore, either. I began to feel painfully out of place wherever I was. When I was in New York City, I was often homesick for North Carolina; when I was in North Carolina, I was often homesick for New York City.

I know that feeling. Things have gone past me in Los Angeles, too, but I suspect that the reason is that my age cohort has passed into a gray area (referring mostly to the color of our facial hair). In no way am homesick for Cleveland, the land of my youth. All that remains of Cleveland for me is buried in several scattered cemeteries in Cleveland and in Pembroke Pines, Florida. My great-grandmother, my mother, my father, my uncle and my aunt. I have been away from there now for more than forty years.

The last time I was there was for my mother’s funeral in 1998. My brother Dan and I drove around the areas where we played as children. What surprised us the most was that our barren post World War Two suburban development in the Lee-Harvard area was now covered with large, stately trees. Even my old High School, St. Peter Chanel in Bedford, is shuttering its doors this year.

Getting back to Joseph Mitchell, I find, reading him, that I become nostalgic for places I have never seen, experiences I have never lived through. That is the mark of a great writer: He can make you feel that you are experiencing these places and events through his eyes.

Some day, if you want a good read, you might want to try one of his books:

  • My Ears Are Bent (1938)
  • McSorley’s Wonderful Saloon (1943)
  • Old Mr. Flood (1948)
  • The Bottom of the Harbor (1959)—My favorite.
  • Joe Gould’s Secret (1965)

I hope that The New Yorker can dig up some more of his old stories. His complete oeuvre is rather small, but it is choice.

The drawing of Joseph Mitchell shown here is by Nick Sung.

The Impulse to Escape

There’s Nothing Like a Rough Tax Season to Make You Want to Escape

There’s Nothing Like a Rough Tax Season to Make You Want to Escape

If you’ve been reading these pages for a while, you might think I seem a trifle obsessed. This is especially true during tax season, when the stress and long hours make me dream of escape. It is not unusual for me to spend six months reading and meticulously planning my escape.

Last year was an exception. Originally, Martine and I were going to go for a long drive through the Southern States. Then I noticed that the temperature topped out at about 100° Fahrenheit (that’s 37° Celsius) every day . For us, that reminds us more of hell than a vacation, so we made a last-minute switch to Vermont, Maine, New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia. We can do the South some other time, perhaps when they all turn Democrat. (Hah!)

The year before (2011), when we went to Argentina, I read so much Argentinean history and literature that I got some incredulous responses from the locals.

Because Iceland’s summer tourist season is so short (2-3 months at maximum), I don’t have six months; but I am embarked on an ambitious reading program to reacquaint myself with the great sagas (I am re-reading Egil’s Saga, Njals Saga, and Grettir’s Saga) and deepen my knowledge of Halldór Laxness’s novels as well as adding some newer authors to the mix. Fortunately, Iceland now has some excellent mystery writers, including Arnaldur Indriðason, Yrsa Sigurdardottir, and Edward Weinman (the latter Icelandic because of his long acquaintance with the country).

Whenever I have a few spare moments, I am checking out Icelandic websites, particularly with regards to the availability of public transportation (I will rent a car only if Martine comes with me) and accommodations. Many Icelandic guesthouses accept only guests with sleeping bags, which is not my preference. After a while, sleeping bags smell worse than old sneakers that are used daily in a heat wave.

I love to research a vacation. After a hard day of pumping out tax returns (like today), I prefer to put myself into another time and place. And Iceland will do nicely for this purpose.

 

One Day in 2001

Edward Weinman

Edward Weinman

Twelve years ago, I visited Iceland by myself. At the BSI bus terminal in Reykjavik, I purchased a Ring Road Pass and proceeded to circumnavigate the island. Because of the desolate nature of the island’s interior, virtually all of the population is clustered within fifty or so miles of the coast.

It was a difficult trip, as the osteoarthritis pain in my left hip was approaching its apogee, so I was able to walk, haltingly, only with a cane. (The year after, I had an operation which erased twenty years of agony as if never existed.) Back then, I could walk all right: It’s just that standing up from a sitting position was excruciating.

Still, I loved the trip—even though Martine did not join me for some reason I have since forgotten. This summer, I am planning on going once again. And once again, Martine may not join me, but this time because she is in pain from fibromyalgia.

In preparation for the trip, I have taken again to reading the “Daily Life” column on the website of The Iceland Review. I was pleasantly surprised to find that Edward Weinman (pictured above) is still writing columns for them, and that he has written a noir mystery novel called The Ring Road.about an ex-detective from San Francisco who gets stuck on the island in a cataclysmic volcanic eruption. It’s a tale of murder, prostitution, cannibalism, witchcraft—all the things that Iceland is noted for. (Insert a smiley here.) For my review of his book on Goodreads.Com, click here.

I had met Ed and his fellow staff members of The Iceland Review in 2001 when I hobbled east on Laugavegur to their offices. It was a brief, but pleasant visit, which I enjoyed and remembered all this time. I wish Ed and all his fellow writers well. Perhaps I’ll drop in on them again, if my trip comes off as planned this July.

One interesting little coda: Exactly one week after my return to the U.S., the flight I was on to L.A. was commandeered by Al-Qaeda and flown into New York’s World Trade Center.

 

Hávamál

Viking Ship

Viking Ship

Hávamál
The Sayings of Hár
(Translated by W. H. Auden and P. B. Taylor)

1

The man who stands at a strange threshold,
Should be cautious before he cross it,
Glance this way and that:
Who knows beforehand what foes may sit
Awaiting him in the hall?

2

Greetings to the host,
The guest has arrived,
In which seat shall he sit?
Rash is he who at unknown doors
Relies on his good luck,

3

Fire is needed by the newcomer
Whose knees are frozen numb;
Meat and clean linen a man needs
Who has fared across the fells,

4

Water, too, that he may wash before eating,
Handcloth’s and a hearty welcome,
Courteous words, then courteous silence
That he may tell his tale,

5

Who travels widely needs his wits about him,
The stupid should stay at home:
The ignorant man is often laughed at
When he sits at meat with the sage,

6

Of his knowledge a man should never boast,
Rather be sparing of speech
When to his house a wiser comes:
Seldom do those who are silent make mistakes;
mother wit is ever a faithful friend,

7

A guest should be courteous
When he comes to the table
And sit in wary silence,
His ears attentive,
his eyes alert:
So he protects himself,

8

Fortunate is he who is favored in his lifetime
With praise and words of wisdom:
Evil counsel is often given
By those of evil heart,

9

Blessed is he who in his own lifetime
Is awarded praise and wit,
For ill counsel is often given
By mortal men to each other,

10

Better gear than good sense
A traveler cannot carry,
Better than riches for a wretched man,
Far from his own home,

11

Better gear than good sense
A traveler cannot carry,
A more tedious burden than too much drink
A traveler cannot carry,

12

Less good than belief would have it
Is mead for the sons of men:
A man knows less the more he drinks,
Becomes a befuddled fool,

13

I forget is the name men give the heron
Who hovers over the feast:
Fettered I was in his feathers that night,
When a guest in Gunnlod’s court

14

Drunk I got, dead drunk,
When Fjalar the wise was with me:
Best is the banquet one looks back on after,
And remembers all that happened,

15

Silence becomes the son of a prince,
To be silent but brave in battle:
It befits a man to be merry and glad
Until the day of his death,

16

The coward believes he will live forever
If he holds back in the battle,
But in old age he shall have no peace
Though spears have spared his limbs

17

When he meets friends, the fool gapes,
Is shy and sheepish at first,
Then he sips his mead and immediately
All know what an oaf he is,

18

He who has seen and suffered much,
And knows the ways of the world,
Who has traveled, can tell what spirit
Governs the men he meets,

19

Drink your mead, but in moderation,
Talk sense or be silent:
No man is called discourteous who goes
To bed at an early hour

20

A gluttonous man who guzzles away
Brings sorrow on himself:
At the table of the wise he is taunted often,
Mocked for his bloated belly,

21

The herd knows its homing time,
And leaves the grazing ground:
But the glutton never knows how much
His belly is able to hold,

22

An ill tempered, unhappy man
Ridicules all he hears,
Makes fun of others, refusing always
To see the faults in himself

23

Foolish is he who frets at night,
And lies awake to worry
A weary man when morning comes,
He finds all as bad as before,

24

The fool thinks that those who laugh
At him are all his friends,
Unaware when he sits with wiser men
How ill they speak of him.

25

The fool thinks that those who laugh
At him are all his friends:
When he comes to the Thing and calls for support,
Few spokesmen he finds

26

The fool who fancies he is full of wisdom
While he sits by his hearth at home.
Quickly finds when questioned by others .
That he knows nothing at all.

27

The ignorant booby had best be silent
When he moves among other men,
No one will know what a nit-wit he is
Until he begins to talk;
No one knows less what a nit-wit he is
Than the man who talks too much.

28

To ask well, to answer rightly,
Are the marks of a wise man:
Men must speak of men’s deeds,
What happens may not be hidden.

29

Wise is he not who is never silent,
Mouthing meaningless words:
A glib tongue that goes on chattering
Sings to its own harm.

30

A man among friends should not mock another:
Many believe the man
Who is not questioned to know much
And so he escapes their scorn.

31

The wise guest has his way of dealing
With those who taunt him at table:
He smiles through the meal,
not seeming to hear
The twaddle talked by his foes

32

The fastest friends may fall out
When they sit at the banquet-board:
It is, and shall be, a shameful thing
When guest quarrels with guest,

33

An early meal a man should take
Before he visits friends,
Lest, when he gets there,
he go hungry,
Afraid to ask for food.

34

To a false friend the footpath winds
Though his house be on the highway.
To a sure friend there is a short cut,
Though he live a long way off.

35

The tactful guest will take his leave early,
not linger long:
He starts to stink who outstays his welcome
In a hall that is not his own.

36

A small hut of one’s own is better,
A man is his master at home:
A couple of goats and a corded roof
Still are better than begging.

37

A small hut of one’s own is better,
A man is his master at home:
His heart bleeds in the beggar who must
Ask at each meal for meat.

38

A wayfarer should not walk unarmed,
But have his weapons to hand:
He knows not when he may need a spear,
Or what menace meet on the road.

39

No man is so generous he will jib at accepting
A gift in return for a gift,
No man so rich that it really gives him
Pain to be repaid.

40

Once he has won wealth enough,
A man should not crave for more:
What he saves for friends, foes may take;
Hopes are often liars.

41

With presents friends should please each other,
With a shield or a costly coat:
Mutual giving makes for friendship
So long as life goes well,

42

A man should be loyal through life to friends,
And return gift for gift,
Laugh when they laugh,
but with lies repay
A false foe who lies.

43

A man should be loyal through life to friends,
To them and to friends of theirs,
But never shall a man make offer
Of friendship to his foes.

44

If you find a friend you fully trust
And wish for his good-will,
exchange thoughts,
exchange gifts,
Go often to his house.

45

If you deal with another you don’t trust
But wish for his good-will,
Be fair in speech but false in thought
And give him lie for lie.

46

Even with one you ill-trust
And doubt what he means to do,
False words with fair smiles
May get you the gift you desire.

47

Young and alone on a long road,
Once I lost my way:
Rich I felt when I found a another;
Man rejoices in man.

48

The generous and bold have the best lives,
Are seldom beset by cares,
But the base man sees bogies everywhere
And the miser pines for presents.

49

Two wooden stakes stood on the plain,
on them I hung my clothes:
Draped in linen, they looked well born,
But, naked, I was a nobody

50

The young fir that falls and rots
Having neither needles nor bark,
So is the fate of the friendless man:
Why should he live long?

51

Hotter than fire among false hearts burns
Friendship for five days,
But suddenly slackens when the sixth dawns:
Feeble their friendship then.

52

A kind word need not cost much,
The price of praise can be cheap:
With half a loaf and an empty cup
I found myself a friend,

53

Little a sand-grain, little a dew drop,
Little the minds of men:
All men are not equal in wisdom,
The half-wise are everywhere

54

It is best for man to be middle-wise,
Not over cunning and clever:
The learned man whose lore is deep
Is seldom happy at heart.

55

It is best for man to be middle-wise,
Not over cunning and clever:
The fairest life is led by those
Who are deft at all they do.

56

It is best for man to be middle-wise,
Not over cunning and clever:
No man is able to know his future,
So let him sleep in peace.

57

Brand kindles till they burn out,
Flame is quickened by flame:
One man from another is known by his speech
The simpleton by his silence.
58

Early shall he rise who has designs
On another’s land or life:
His prey escapes the prone wolf,
The sleeper is seldom victorious.

59

Early shall he rise who rules few servants,
And set to work at once:
Much is lost by the late sleeper,
Wealth is won by the swift,

60

A man should know how many logs
And strips of bark from the birch
To stock in autumn, that he may have enough
Wood for his winter fires.

61

Washed and fed,
one may fare to the Thing:
Though one’s clothes be the worse for Wear,
None need be ashamed of his shoes or hose,
Nor of the horse he owns,
Although no thoroughbred.

62

As the eagle who comes to the ocean shore,
Sniffs and hangs her head,
Dumfounded is he who finds at the Thing
No supporters to plead his case.

63

It is safe to tell a secret to one,
Risky to tell it to two,
To tell it to three is thoughtless folly,
Everyone else will know.

64

Moderate at council should a man be,
Not brutal and over bearing:
Among the bold the bully will find
Others as bold as he.

65

Often words uttered to another
Have reaped an ill harvest:

66

Too early to many homes I came,
Too late, it seemed, to some;
The ale was finished or else un-brewed,
The unpopular cannot please.

67

Some would invite me to visit their homes,
But none thought I had eaten a whole joint,
Just before with a friend who had two.

68

These things are thought the best:
Fire, the sight of the sun,
Good health with the gift to keep it,
And a life that avoids vice.

69

Not all sick men are utterly wretched:
Some are blessed with sons,
Some with friends,
some with riches,
Some with worthy works.

70

It is always better to be alive,
The living can keep a cow.
Fire, I saw, warming a wealthy man,
With a cold corpse at his door.

71

The halt can manage a horse,
the handless a flock,
The deaf be a doughty fighter,
To be blind is better than to burn on a pyre:
There is nothing the dead can do.

72

A son is a blessing, though born late
To a father no longer alive:
Stones would seldom stand by the highway
If sons did not set them there.

73

Two beat one, the tongue is head’s bane,
Pockets of fur hide fists.

74

He welcomes the night who has enough provisions
Short are the sails of a ship,
Dangerous the dark in autumn,
The wind may veer within five days,
And many times in a month.

75

The half wit does not know that gold
Makes apes of many men:
One is rich, one is poor
There is no blame in that.

76

Cattle die, kindred die,
Every man is mortal:
But the good name never dies
Of one who has done well

77

Cattle die, kindred die,
Every man is mortal:
But I know one thing that never dies,
The glory of the great dead

78

Fields and flocks had Fitjung’s sons,
Who now carry begging bowls:
Wealth may vanish in the wink of an eye,
Gold is the falsest of friends.

79

In the fool who acquires cattle and lands,
Or wins a woman’s love,
His wisdom wanes with his waxing pride,
He sinks from sense to conceit.

80

Now is answered what you ask of the runes,
Graven by the gods,
Made by the All Father,
Sent by the powerful sage:
lt is best for man to remain silent.

81

For these things give thanks at nightfall:
The day gone, a guttered torch,
A sword tested, the troth of a maid,
Ice crossed, ale drunk.

82

Hew wood in wind-time,
in fine weather sail,
Tell in the night-time tales to house-girls,
For too many eyes are open by day:
From a ship expect speed, from a shield, cover,
Keenness from a sword,
but a kiss from a girl.

83

Drink ale by the hearth, over ice glide,
Buy a stained sword, buy a starving mare
To fatten at home: and fatten the watch-dog.

84

No man should trust a maiden’s words,
Nor what a woman speaks:
Spun on a wheel were women’s hearts,
In their breasts was implanted caprice,

85

A snapping bow, a burning flame,
A grinning wolf, a grunting boar,
A raucous crow, a rootless tree,
A breaking wave, a boiling kettle,

86

A flying arrow, an ebbing tide,
A coiled adder, the ice of a night,
A bride’s bed talk, a broad sword,
A bear’s play, a prince’ s children,

87

A witch’s welcome, the wit of a slave,
A sick calf, a corpse still fresh,

88

A brother’s killer encountered upon
The highway a house half-burned,
A racing stallion who has wrenched a leg,
Are never safe: let no man trust them.

89

Trust not an acre early sown,
Nor praise a son too soon:
Weather rules the acre, wit the son,
Both are exposed to peril,

90

To love a woman whose ways are false
Is like sledding over slippery ice
With unshod horses out of control,
Badly trained two-year-olds,
Or drifting rudderless on a rough sea,
Or catching a reindeer with a crippled hand
On a thawing hillside: think not to do it.

91

Naked I may speak now for I know both:
Men are treacherous too
Fairest we speak when falsest we think:
many a maid is deceived.

92

Gallantly shall he speak and gifts bring
Who wishes for woman’s love:
praise the features of the fair girl,
Who courts well will conquer.

93

Never reproach another for his love:
It happens often enough
That beauty ensnares with desire the wise
While the foolish remain unmoved.

94

Never reproach the plight of another,
For it happens to many men:
Strong desire may stupefy heroes,
Dull the wits of the wise

95

The mind alone knows what is near the heart,
Each is his own judge:
The worst sickness for a wise man
Is to crave what he cannot enjoy.

96

So I learned when I sat in the reeds,
Hoping to have my desire:
Lovely was the flesh of that fair girl,
But nothing I hoped for happened.

97

I saw on a bed Billing’s daughter,
Sun white, asleep:
No greater delight I longed for then
Than to lie in her lovely arms.

98

“Come Odhinn, after nightfall
If you wish for a meeting with me:
All would be lost if anyone saw us
And learned that we were lovers.

99

Afire with longing”; I left her then,
Deceived by her soft words:

I thought my wooing had won the maid,
That I would have my way.

100

After nightfall I hurried back,
But the warriors were all awake,
Lights were burning, blazing torches:
So false proved the path

101

Towards daybreak back I came
The guards were sound asleep:
I found then that the fair woman
Had tied a bitch to her bed.

102

Many a girl when one gets to know her
Proves to be fickle and false:
That treacherous maiden taught me a lesson,
The crafty woman covered me with shame;
That was all I got from her.

103

Let a man with his guests be glad and merry,
Modest a man should be;
But talk well if he intends to be wise
And expects praise from men:
Fimbul fambi is the fool called;
Unable to open his mouth.

104

Fruitless my errand, had I been silent
When I came to Suttung’s courts:
With spirited words I spoke to my profit
In the hall of the aged giant.

105

Rati had gnawed a narrow passage,
Chewed a channel through stone,
A path around the roads of giants:
I was like to lose my head

106

Gunnlod sat me in the golden seat,
Poured me precious mead:
Ill reward she had from me for that,
For her proud and passionate heart,
Her brooding foreboding|

107

What I won from her I have well used:
I have waxed in wisdom since I came back,
bringing to Asgard Odrerir,
the sacred draught.

108

Hardly would I have come home alive
From the garth of the grim troll,
Had Gunnlod not helped me, the good woman,
Who wrapped her arms around me.

109

The following day the Frost Giants came,
Walked into Har’s hall To ask for Har’s advice:
Had Bolverk they asked, come back to his friends,
Or had he been slain by Suttung?

110

Odhinn, they said, swore an oath on his ring:
Who from now on will trust him?
By fraud at the feast he befuddled Suttung
And brought grief to Gunnlod.

111

It is time to sing in the seat of the wise,
Of what at Urd’s Well I saw in silence,
saw and thought on.
Long I listened to men
Runes heard spoken, (counsels revealed.)
At Har’s hall, In Har’s hall:
There I heard this.

112

Loddfafnir, listen to my counsel:
You will fare well if you follow it,
It will help you much if you heed it.
Never rise at night unless you need to spy
Or to ease yourself in the outhouse.

113

Shun a woman, wise in magic,
Her bed and her embraces:

114

If she cast a spell, you will care no longer
To meet and speak with men,
Desire no food, desire no pleasure,
In sorrow fall asleep.

115

Never seduce another’s wife,
Never make her your mistress.

116

If you must journey to mountains and firths,
Take food and fodder with you.

117

Never open your heart to an evil man
When fortune does not favour you:
From an evil man, if you make him your friend,
You will get evil for good.

118

I saw a warrior wounded fatally
By the words of an evil woman
Her cunning tongue caused his death,
Though what she alleged was a lie.

119

If you know a friend you can fully trust,
Go often to his house
Grass and brambles grow quickly
Upon the untrodden track.

120

With a good man it is good to talk,
Make him your fast friend:
But waste no words on a witless oaf,
Nor sit with a senseless ape.

121

Cherish those near you, never be
The first to break with a friend:
Care eats him who can no longer
Open his heart to another.

122

An evil man, if you make him your friend,
Will give you evil for good:

123

A good man, if you make him your friend;
Will praise you in every place,

124

Affection is mutual when men can open
All their heart to each other:
He whose words are always fair
Is untrue and not to be trusted.

125

Bandy no speech with a bad man:
Often the better is beaten
In a word fight by the worse.

126

Be not a cobbler nor a carver of shafts,
Except it be for yourself:
If a shoe fit ill or a shaft be crooked;
The maker gets curses and kicks.

127

If aware that another is wicked, say so:
Make no truce or treaty with foes.

128

Never share in the shamefully gotten,
But allow yourself what is lawful.

129

Never lift your eyes and look up in battle,
Lest the heroes enchant you,
who can change warriors
Suddenly into hogs,

130

With a good woman, if you wish to enjoy
Her words and her good will,
Pledge her fairly and be faithful to it:
Enjoy the good you are given,

131

Be not over wary, but wary enough,
First, of the foaming ale,
Second, of a woman wed to another,
Third, of the tricks of thieves.

132

Mock not the traveler met on the road,
Nor maliciously laugh at the guest:

133

The sitters in the hall seldom know
The kin of the new-comer:
The best man is marred by faults,
The worst is not without worth.

134

Never laugh at the old when they offer counsel,
Often their words are wise:
From shriveled skin, from scraggy things
That hand among the hides
And move amid the guts,
Clear words often come.

135
Scoff not at guests nor to the gate chase them,
But relieve the lonely and wretched,

136

Heavy the beam above the door;
Hang a horse-shoe on it
Against ill-luck, lest it should suddenly
Crash and crush your guests.

137

Medicines exist against many evils:
Earth against drunkenness, heather against worms
Oak against costiveness, corn against sorcery,
Spurred rye against rupture, runes against bales
The moon against feuds, fire against sickness,
Earth makes harmless the floods.

138

Wounded I hung on a wind-swept gallows
For nine long nights,
Pierced by a spear, pledged to Odhinn,
Offered, myself to myself
The wisest know not from whence spring
The roots of that ancient rood

139

They gave me no bread,
They gave me no mead,
I looked down;
with a loud cry
I took up runes;
from that tree I fell.

140

Nine lays of power
I learned from the famous Bolthor, Bestla’ s father:
He poured me a draught of precious mead,
Mixed with magic Odrerir.

141

Waxed and throve well;
Word from word gave words to me,
Deed from deed gave deeds to me,

142

Runes you will find, and readable staves,
Very strong staves,
Very stout staves,
Staves that Bolthor stained,
Made by mighty powers,
Graven by the prophetic god,

143

For the gods by Odhinn, for the elves by Dain,
By Dvalin, too, for the dwarves,
By Asvid for the hateful giants,
And some I carved myself:
Thund, before man was made, scratched them,
Who rose first, fell thereafter

144

Know how to cut them, know how to read them,
Know how to stain them, know how to prove them,
Know how to evoke them, know how to score them,
Know how to send them”; know how to send them,

145

Better not to ask than to over-pledge
As a gift that demands a gift;
Better not to send than to slay too many,

146

The first charm I know is unknown to rulers
Or any of human kind;
Help it is named,
for help it can give In hours of sorrow and anguish.

147

I know a second that the sons of men
Must learn who wish to be leeches.

148

I know a third: in the thick of battle,
If my need be great enough,
It will blunt the edges of enemy swords,
Their weapons will make no wounds.

149

I know a fourth:
it will free me quickly
If foes should bind me fast
With strong chains, a chant that makes Fetters spring from the feet,
Bonds burst from the hands.

150

I know a fifth: no flying arrow,
Aimed to bring harm to men,
Flies too fast for my fingers to catch it
And hold it in mid-air.

151

I know a sixth:
it will save me if a man
Cut runes on a sapling’s roots
With intent to harm; it turns the spell;
The hater is harmed, not me.

152

I know a seventh:
If I see the hall
Ablaze around my bench mates,
Though hot the flames, they shall feel nothing,
If I choose to chant the spell.

153

I know an eighth:
that all are glad of,
Most useful to men:
If hate fester in the heart of a warrior,
It will soon calm and cure him.

154

I know a ninth:
when need I have
To shelter my ship on the flood,
The wind it calms, the waves it smoothes
And puts the sea to sleep,

155

I know a tenth:
if troublesome ghosts
Ride the rafters aloft,
I can work it so they wander astray,
Unable to find their forms,
Unable to find their homes.

156

I know an eleventh:
when I lead to battle old comrades in-arms,
I have only to chant it behind my shield,
And unwounded they go to war,
Unwounded they come from war,
Unscathed wherever they are.

157

I know a twelfth:
If a tree bear
A man hanged in a halter,
I can carve and stain strong runes
That will cause the corpse to speak,
Reply to whatever I ask.

158

I know a thirteenth
if I throw a cup of water over a warrior,
He shall not fall in the fiercest battle,
Nor sink beneath the sword,

159

I know a fourteenth, that few know:
If I tell a troop of warriors
About the high ones, elves and gods,
I can name them one by one.
(Few can the nit-wit name.)

160

I know a fifteenth,
that first Thjodrerir
Sang before Delling’s doors,
Giving power to gods, prowess to elves,
Fore-sight to Hroptatyr Odhinn,

161

I know a sixteenth:
if I see a girl
With whom it would please me to play,
I can turn her thoughts, can touch the heart
Of any white armed woman.

162

I know a seventeenth:
if I sing it,
the young Girl will be slow to forsake me.

163
To learn to sing them, Loddfafnir,
Will take you a long time,
Though helpful they are if you understand them,
Useful if you use them,
Needful if you need them.

164

I know an eighteenth that I never tell
To maiden or wife of man,
A secret I hide from all
Except the love who lies in my arms,
Or else my own sister.

165

The Wise One has spoken words in the hall,
Needful for men to know,
Unneedful for trolls to know:
Hail to the speaker,
Hail to the knower,
Joy to him who has understood,
Delight to those who have listened.

Saga Fiend

Page from One of the Icelandic Sagas

Page from One of the Icelandic Sagas

I am still contemplating going to Iceland this summer—though it may be without Martine. The poor girl has been suffering from what I think is fibromyalgia, which combines roving muscular pain in different parts of the back with the inability to get a good night’s sleep. She is currently undergoing physical therapy, which I hope moderates the symptoms, which have destroyed the last two months for her.

If Martine can come with me, we will concentrate on Southern Iceland. I will rent a car, and we will do all the sights along the southern rim of the island, from the “Golden Circle” of Thingvellir, Gullfoss, and Geysir (yes it’s a place) to the black sands of Breidamerkursandur and Skaftafell National Park. If I go alone, I will concentrate on the remote Westfjords, where I will do some serious bird-watching and hiking—and reading.

I have already loaded a collection of Icelandic sagas on my Kindle and have begun reading more of the same. So far within the last week, I have read Kormak’s Saga and The Saga of Hallfred Troublesome-Poet; I hope to re-read Egil’s Saga (which is one of the best) within the next couple of weeks.

Most of the Icelandic sagas were written in the Thirteenth Century and look back to the early days of settlement ranging from the 9th century to the introduction of Christianity around A.D. 1000 at the behest of King Olaf Tryggvason of Norway. In a way, it can be compared to the Western films that, until recently, have been made in the United States. Except for one thing: Many of the characters in the Icelandic sagas were actual people whose descendants are alive today. Many of the events, however, were quite fanciful, such as the one illustrated above in one of the old manuscripts.

In Reykjavik, I will visit the Arni Magnusson Institute for Icelandic Studies, which has an ongoing exhibit of Icelandic saga manuscripts. It was closed the last time I was in Reykjavik in 2001.

Just to show you how serious the Icelanders are about their literature, there are two museums in the country of 300,000 inhabitants dedicated to individual sagas: The Settlement Center in Borgarnes (with its permanent exhibition on Egil’s Saga) and The Icelandic Saga Center (about Njal’s Saga) at Hvolsvollur. In our nation of some 300 million inhabitants, do we have any museums dedicated to any single works of American literature?

 

Can It Get Worse?

Yesterday’s Villains Can’t Hold a Candle to Today’s

Yesterday’s Villains Can’t Hold a Candle to Today’s

My first presidential election was in November 1968. Not coincidentally, that was the election that put Richard M. Nixon into his first term in the White House. Did I vote for Nixon? No, my ballot went to the Rev. Otto Schlumpf for President (write-in) and Dick Gregory for Vice President. Now, I can’t even find Schlumpf on the Internet, let alone Wikipedia. On the plus side, I now begin to appreciate some of Nixon’s accomplishments in office.

My political life has been bedeviled with Republicans from the very start. Could things get any worse? The answer is (as usual), yes! After I told all my friends that I would move to Canada is Ronald Reagan got elected President, he got in and stayed for two terms. What do I think of Reagan now? He has improved somewhat in my books; though I still think he was a very flawed President.

Could things get any worse? Yes, indeedy, after eight years of Clinton, we got the worst of them all—at least so far—George W. Bush. At the moment, I still can’t think of anything good to say about this man. Will I ever? I doubt it.

Could things get any worse? I’m afraid so. In 2016, we elect another President, and I have no idea at the present moment wither America’s vast psychoses will lead us. Will it be some Tea Party hack like Rand Paul or Ted Cruz? Or will we get another Obama-like respite until the next lunatic leader? (It seems that the lunatics get worse every ten or twenty years.)

The American voter is certainly no smarter than he or she was in 2000, 1980, 1960, or just about whenever. What troubles me most is that television has not only led to the dumbing-down of the American voter, but it has made all of us more susceptible to distorted electioneering tactics employed by big corporations and their political hirelings.

What is the likelihood that American voters will view attempts to influence their vote via TV with increasing skepticism? Not too good, I’m afraid.

The Unthinking Detective

Georges Simenon (1903-1989)

Georges Simenon (1903-1989)

This is a slight expansion of a review of Georges Simenon’s Inspector Cadaver (also called Maigret’s Rival) that appeared on Goodreads.Com yesterday.

Sometimes I am surprised that Georges Simenon’s work is not part of the university literature curriculum. After all, he did for France what Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, and James M. Cain did for the United States and what G. K. Chesterton, Dorothy Sayers, and Josephine Tey did for Britain. Although he was a more prolific mystery writer than all the other above mentioned authors put together, his work could stand comparison with the best.

Inspector Maigret is a mystery in his own right. Unlike Edgar Allan Poe’s notion of a tale of ratiocination, Inspector Cadaver gives us a detective who absorbs with the help of intuition more than he reasons from dry facts. In fact, his case comes together when one of the characters, Alban Groult-Cotelle, quite unnecessarily, presents a receipt as alibi that he was not involved in a murder—before it was ever suspected that he was involved. Maigret’s response is classic: “Don’t you know … that there is a saying in the police force that he that has has the best alibi is all the more suspect?”

That starts the Inspector on a train of thought:

The minute he left the house, an idea had occurred to him. It was not even an idea, but something vaguer, so vague that he was now striving to recapture the memory of it. Every now and then, an insignificant occurrence, usually a whiff of something barely caught, reminds us in the space of a second of a particular moment in our life. It is such a vivid sensation that we are gripped by it and want to cling to this living reminder of that moment. It disappears almost at once and with it all recollection of the experience. Try as we might, we end up wondering, for want of an answer to our questions, if it was not an unconscious evocation of a dream, or, who knows, of some pre-existent world?

I love reading about Maigret’s train of thought, because it is not only unique in the genre, but fascinating as an expression of the French concept of débrouillage, working one’s way through a mental fog.

In a few pages more, we see some progress has been made:

At such moments, Maigret seemed to puff himself up out of all proportion and become slow-witted and stodgy, like someone blind and dumb who is unaware of what is going on around him. Indeed, if anyone not forewarned was to walk past or talk to Maigret when he was in one of these moods, he would more than likely take him for a fat idiot or a fat sleepyhead.

“So, you’re concentrating on your thoughts?” said someone who prided himself on his psychological perception.

And Maigret had replied with comic sincerity:

“I never think.”

And it was almost true. For Maigret was not thinking now, as he stood in the damp, cold street. He was not following through an idea. One might say he was rather like a sponge.

Try to get Sherlock Holmes or Philip Marlowe to admit to something like this! He never thinks, and the facts come to him the way a sponge absorbs water. What Maigret does is allow the patterns to form by themselves in his mind. Then, he is ready to pounce!

Inspector Cadaver was published in 1944 during the War in a France under German occupation, and its atmosphere of grimness partakes of the time. And yet, and yet, Simenon, whenever he sets a tale in the provinces, creates an intriguing combination of ugly weather and pompous, ugly characters.