conceivably change the world, they can comfort us and dry our tears. Some words are bullets, others are notes of a violin. Some can melt the ice around one’s heart, and it is even possible to send words out like rescue teams when the days are difficult and we are perhaps neither living nor dead. However, words are not enough and we become lost and die out on the heaths of life if we have nothing to hold but a dip pen. Comes evening, and a cowl casts, over all. Lines written in darkness that never left his eyes, written down by a woman’s hand, translated into Icelandic by a priest who had excellent vision but was sometimes so poor that he didn’t have paper to write on and then was forced to use the sky over Hörgárdalur Valley for a page.
Right! Pétur says loudly.
Right!
The first word heard in the boat for nearly four hours.
They stop rowing at once.
They breathe as heavily as the sea beneath them.
Most of the mountains have sunk completely, but the outlines of two peaks appear dimly, and it is by them that Pétur steers, the boat is above the fishing bank, where the depth is not as great and the sea is not as frightfully dark below.
Right! and Árni and Pétur have pulled in the oars.
One word, which is, however, scarcely a word and is in general completely useless, we scarcely say, right! when we dream about purpose, yearn for lips, touch, we scarcely sigh, right! when we reach orgasm, we don’t say, right! when someone abandons us and our hearts harden to stone. But Pétur doesn’t need to say more. The men don’t need words out here on the open sea. The cod have no interest in words, not even adjectives such as splendid . The cod have no interest in any words, and yet have swum nearly unchanged through the seas for 120 million years. Does this tell us something about language? We might not need words to survive; on the other hand, we do need words to live.
Pétur says, right!, casts the buoy overboard and starts to set the first line together with Árni.
The other four row the line out. This long stretch of rope with countless hooks onto which they threaded the bait during the evening, six lines, one for each man, Pétur’s line laid first. He and Árni make the sign of the cross over each line before setting it so that nothing evil comes up from the deep, but what could that be? The depths of the sea are innocent of all evil, they are just life and death, while there would certainly be a need to make the sign of the cross over the lines not just once but at least ten thousand times if we were to sink them into the depths of the human soul. The easterly breeze is growing steadily stronger, becoming more northeasterly. The temperature drops. Slowly, however, and they are still quite warm after the rowing, a warmth that doesn’t completely leave the four who row out the line, the other two are cold but don’t show it and in that way prove their strength, which is perhaps no strength at all but simply fear of others’ opinions. People are sometimes ridiculous. The lines sink one after the other down into the cold blue sea, lie there in silence and the darkness of the deep, waiting for fish, preferably cod.
The six men wait in the boat for the fish that have swum the seas for 120 million years. Animal species have come and gone but the cod has swum its own course, humanity is just a short span in its life. The cod swims its whole life with a wide-open mouth, so gluttonous that it’s second to none, except humans of course, eats everything it can catch and never gets enough, the boy once counted 150 full-grown capelin inside a medium-sized cod and was scolded severely for wasting so much time on such a thing. The cod is yellow and enjoys swimming, is always on the lookout for food, very little that is remarkable occurs in its life and a line that sweeps down with bait on a hook is considered great news, it is a huge event. What’s this? the cod ask each other, finally something new, says one, and
Right! Pétur says loudly.
Right!
The first word heard in the boat for nearly four hours.
They stop rowing at once.
They breathe as heavily as the sea beneath them.
Most of the mountains have sunk completely, but the outlines of two peaks appear dimly, and it is by them that Pétur steers, the boat is above the fishing bank, where the depth is not as great and the sea is not as frightfully dark below.
Right! and Árni and Pétur have pulled in the oars.
One word, which is, however, scarcely a word and is in general completely useless, we scarcely say, right! when we dream about purpose, yearn for lips, touch, we scarcely sigh, right! when we reach orgasm, we don’t say, right! when someone abandons us and our hearts harden to stone. But Pétur doesn’t need to say more. The men don’t need words out here on the open sea. The cod have no interest in words, not even adjectives such as splendid . The cod have no interest in any words, and yet have swum nearly unchanged through the seas for 120 million years. Does this tell us something about language? We might not need words to survive; on the other hand, we do need words to live.
Pétur says, right!, casts the buoy overboard and starts to set the first line together with Árni.
The other four row the line out. This long stretch of rope with countless hooks onto which they threaded the bait during the evening, six lines, one for each man, Pétur’s line laid first. He and Árni make the sign of the cross over each line before setting it so that nothing evil comes up from the deep, but what could that be? The depths of the sea are innocent of all evil, they are just life and death, while there would certainly be a need to make the sign of the cross over the lines not just once but at least ten thousand times if we were to sink them into the depths of the human soul. The easterly breeze is growing steadily stronger, becoming more northeasterly. The temperature drops. Slowly, however, and they are still quite warm after the rowing, a warmth that doesn’t completely leave the four who row out the line, the other two are cold but don’t show it and in that way prove their strength, which is perhaps no strength at all but simply fear of others’ opinions. People are sometimes ridiculous. The lines sink one after the other down into the cold blue sea, lie there in silence and the darkness of the deep, waiting for fish, preferably cod.
The six men wait in the boat for the fish that have swum the seas for 120 million years. Animal species have come and gone but the cod has swum its own course, humanity is just a short span in its life. The cod swims its whole life with a wide-open mouth, so gluttonous that it’s second to none, except humans of course, eats everything it can catch and never gets enough, the boy once counted 150 full-grown capelin inside a medium-sized cod and was scolded severely for wasting so much time on such a thing. The cod is yellow and enjoys swimming, is always on the lookout for food, very little that is remarkable occurs in its life and a line that sweeps down with bait on a hook is considered great news, it is a huge event. What’s this? the cod ask each other, finally something new, says one, and
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