feel that whatever time I have left to live will be uninterrupted sleeplessness. Then death will come.
Sometimes I look forward to dying because then the illusion will come to an end. Sometimes I shudder at the thought of being buried. Imagine it, Steinn, letting your body be buried in the earth! Often when the terror overcomes me I get up out of bed at night, and I take out my picture of Mother. I kiss it and cry. And then I hate my own body, Steinn, because it cost my mother her life. God grant that I never have a child! Iâm afraid of my body, afraid of my soul, afraid of myself, afraid of everything. And youâre gone.
13.
Steinn!
Since youâll never see this letter then I might as well write everything. Everything? No, so little can be put in words. Words can never reveal the heart. Words are wise, precise, and strict like teachers, and Iâm afraid of them, but the heart is none of these things. I usually stayed quiet when you were around because I felt that words couldnât say what was in my heart. I want to speak a completely different language than the one contained in words. As if I could put into plain words how I felt in my heart that day in the summer when you left!
I went to bed and fell asleep after you drove away. When I woke up it was pouring rain. I got up out of bed and went to the window. And Ãrmannsfell, where the sun had come up in the morning, was covered with clouds. And huge drops fell outside my window. And oh, how everything was dreary! I woke up alone in the wilderness, and your ship had put out to sea seven hours before. And I listened to the rain fall, and memories rained down in my mind. I recalled your words and everything that had happened. Your words are beautiful and terrible. I tremble when you start to speak. Everything that you say and do is beautiful and terrible. Maybe youâll get up without any warning, come straight over to me, plunge your hand into my breast, and take away my heart.
I felt that the farther away you went, the more beautiful and terrible everything that you had said would become, the more beautiful andterrible everything that had happened. Tell me why we swore oaths! Were we serious? Steinn, is it true that youâre going to try to become so perfect? Isnât that just poetic fancy like so much else? How can anyone become so perfect? Iâm positive that I can never become perfect. Iâm so frightened. Steinn, donât ask me to become perfect, because I donât want to, but tell me that I can believe in you, because thatâs the only thing that I want to be allowed to do.
Your name was in the paper the next day:
â Gullfoss sails today for Leith and Copenhagen. Among the passengers: Director and Mrs. GrÃmúlfur Elliðason, Steinn Elliði GrÃmúlfsson, cand. Phil. . . .â
Every time I see your name in print, Steinn, itâs as if something seizes my heart. Strangers had printed your name there in black, lifeless letters, people who couldnât care less about you, people who had no clue as to what youâd said before you left, where youâd been your last night here, how you were completely smitten with grandiose plans, how your voice was passionate and inspired, your eyes bright. And you had held the hands of your little tearful girl and made her swear an oath. Steinn, what did we mean? I donât dare to think about you becoming so perfect!
I look out over the lava, gray in the rain, toward the wilderness, and think about you who are gone. And itâs like Iâm reading a big book. I donât recall anything before you. Once you had a straw hat with a wide brim and a red walking stick with a crook. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was sitting on someoneâs lap, and you walked with your stick straight through and into the next room. Thatâs my first precise memory of you, because I thought it extraordinary how big you were, with your hat and stick. Youâre
Sometimes I look forward to dying because then the illusion will come to an end. Sometimes I shudder at the thought of being buried. Imagine it, Steinn, letting your body be buried in the earth! Often when the terror overcomes me I get up out of bed at night, and I take out my picture of Mother. I kiss it and cry. And then I hate my own body, Steinn, because it cost my mother her life. God grant that I never have a child! Iâm afraid of my body, afraid of my soul, afraid of myself, afraid of everything. And youâre gone.
13.
Steinn!
Since youâll never see this letter then I might as well write everything. Everything? No, so little can be put in words. Words can never reveal the heart. Words are wise, precise, and strict like teachers, and Iâm afraid of them, but the heart is none of these things. I usually stayed quiet when you were around because I felt that words couldnât say what was in my heart. I want to speak a completely different language than the one contained in words. As if I could put into plain words how I felt in my heart that day in the summer when you left!
I went to bed and fell asleep after you drove away. When I woke up it was pouring rain. I got up out of bed and went to the window. And Ãrmannsfell, where the sun had come up in the morning, was covered with clouds. And huge drops fell outside my window. And oh, how everything was dreary! I woke up alone in the wilderness, and your ship had put out to sea seven hours before. And I listened to the rain fall, and memories rained down in my mind. I recalled your words and everything that had happened. Your words are beautiful and terrible. I tremble when you start to speak. Everything that you say and do is beautiful and terrible. Maybe youâll get up without any warning, come straight over to me, plunge your hand into my breast, and take away my heart.
I felt that the farther away you went, the more beautiful and terrible everything that you had said would become, the more beautiful andterrible everything that had happened. Tell me why we swore oaths! Were we serious? Steinn, is it true that youâre going to try to become so perfect? Isnât that just poetic fancy like so much else? How can anyone become so perfect? Iâm positive that I can never become perfect. Iâm so frightened. Steinn, donât ask me to become perfect, because I donât want to, but tell me that I can believe in you, because thatâs the only thing that I want to be allowed to do.
Your name was in the paper the next day:
â Gullfoss sails today for Leith and Copenhagen. Among the passengers: Director and Mrs. GrÃmúlfur Elliðason, Steinn Elliði GrÃmúlfsson, cand. Phil. . . .â
Every time I see your name in print, Steinn, itâs as if something seizes my heart. Strangers had printed your name there in black, lifeless letters, people who couldnât care less about you, people who had no clue as to what youâd said before you left, where youâd been your last night here, how you were completely smitten with grandiose plans, how your voice was passionate and inspired, your eyes bright. And you had held the hands of your little tearful girl and made her swear an oath. Steinn, what did we mean? I donât dare to think about you becoming so perfect!
I look out over the lava, gray in the rain, toward the wilderness, and think about you who are gone. And itâs like Iâm reading a big book. I donât recall anything before you. Once you had a straw hat with a wide brim and a red walking stick with a crook. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was sitting on someoneâs lap, and you walked with your stick straight through and into the next room. Thatâs my first precise memory of you, because I thought it extraordinary how big you were, with your hat and stick. Youâre
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