Reykjavik Quotes

When I was little, my ambition was to grow up to be a book. Not a writer. People can be killed like ants. Writers are not hard to kill either. But not books: however systematically you try to destroy them, there is always a chance that a copy will survive and continue to enjoy a shelf-life in some corner on an out-of-the-way library somehwere in Reykjavik, Valladolid or Vancouver.

contemporary poetry is a kind of Reykjavik, a place where accessibility and intelligence have been fighting a Cold War by proxy for the last half-century.

Don't you worry about that, Mr. Adamsson. Why don't you head back to Reykjavik and spend some of that extortionate fee you charged me for a couple of hours' usage of your frankly third-rate restaurant and perhaps find a friendless tree stump to listen to your woes?

- So, what do you do? - Nothing. - What kind of nothing? - The nothing kind of nothing.

Almost all languages change. A rare exception is written Icelandic, which has changed so little that modern Icelanders can read sagas written a thousand years ago, and if Leif Ericson appeared on the streets of Reykjavik he could find his way around, allowing for certain difficulties over terms like airport and quarter-pound cheeseburger.

Reuter Reykjavik A causa Di interferenze nelle trasmissioni televisive È stato deciso Che le vette più alte dello spirito umano Debbano d’ora in avanti Livellarsi alla pianura

Helga Sigrid was born in Reykjavik, Iceland, and still had an accent right out of Wagner. She was almost as tall as he was, and as Nordic as it was possible to get without disappearing altogether whenever the sun came out.

William took a cigarette. He and Mr. Salter sat opposite one another. Between them, on the desk, lay an open atlas in which Mr. Salter had been vainly trying to find Reykjavik. There was a pause, during which Mr. Salter planned a frank and disarming opening. “How are your roots, Boot?” It came out wrong. “How are your boots, root?” he asked. William, glumly awaiting some fulminating rebuke, started and said, “I beg your pardon?” “I mean brute,” said Mr. Salter. William gave it up. Mr. Salter gave it up. They sat staring at one another, fascinated, hopeless.

Исландия — 103 000 квадратных километров. Обычно считается, что здесь просторно. Я знаю, что где-то там далеко есть 600 фьордов, полных пронизывающего ветра и каких-то good for nothing волн, и какой-то непоседливый бог-качок расставил все свои god forsaken валуны на взморье — зачем? Для кого? Потому что во всех этих шестистах фьордах ни души, ни одно сердце — влюбленное, зашитое, разбитое — не бьется под лунявым одеялом ни в одной спичечной хижине и даже не пробирается в джипе в целлофановой шкуре по какому-нибудь из этих абсолютно юзлессных и вейст-ов-манишных кокаиновых сугробов на дорогах, проложенных просто так, как будто кто-то поразвлекался с картой...

The flight to Reykjavik was proceeding uneventfully and the patient was stable and doing well, so I thought this was a good opportunity to have a little fun with the flight crew. I called the pilot on intercom. “Go ahead PJ.” the pilot responded. “I’ve been talking to this doctor back here and he seems to think it’s not looking good for this arm.” I explained. “What do you mean?” asked the pilot. “Well,” I said, “he says the arm was unattached for a long time, probably too long to sew it back on.” “That’s too bad.” The pilot sounded understandably disappointed. I waited a few minutes before giving the pilot further fictitious updates. “The doctor says he’s a hundred percent certain they won’t be able to sew on the arm now. It’s been detached too long. The patient also realizes they can’t sew his arm back on and has accepted the bad news. He’s a pretty tough character. Anyway, I talked to the doctor and patient about this whole situation. Since they can’t sew the arm back on, they said I could have it.” There was shocked silence on the intercom. “What?” asked the pilot. “They won’t be able to sew the arm back on because it’s been separated from his body for too long. The muscles and nerves have been without blood and oxygen for so long that cell death is irreversible. The hospital will just throw the arm away, so I asked them if I could have it, and they said yes.” Once again, there was an uncomfortable silence on the intercom. I could almost hear the gears whirring inside the pilots head. “Wha … what will you do with it?” stammered the pilot. I answered, “I’m not really sure. At first I’ll just keep it in my freezer. I just think it would be a waste to just throw a good arm away.” “Are you serious?” asked the pilot. “No.” I said, “I’m just messing with you.” But, the doctor told me that, ironically, right before the accident the man was heard to say, “I’d give my right arm to be ambidextrous.” Another crewmember chimed in, “That guys pretty tough. I think we should give him a hand!” I heard laughter over the intercom.

Between 2003 and 2008, Iceland’s three main banks, Glitnir, Kaupthing and Landsbanki, borrowed over $140 billion, a figure equal to ten times the country’s GDP, dwarfing its central bank’s $2.5 billion reserves. A handful of entrepreneurs, egged on by their then government, embarked on an unprecedented international spending binge, buying everything from Danish department stores to West Ham Football Club, while a sizeable proportion of the rest of the adult population enthusiastically embraced the kind of cockamamie financial strategies usually only mooted in Nigerian spam emails – taking out loans in Japanese Yen, for example, or mortgaging their houses in Swiss francs. One minute the Icelanders were up to their waists in fish guts, the next they they were weighing up the options lists on their new Porsche Cayennes. The tales of un-Nordic excess are legion: Elton John was flown in to sing one song at a birthday party; private jets were booked like they were taxis; people thought nothing of spending £5,000 on bottles of single malt whisky, or £100,000 on hunting weekends in the English countryside. The chief executive of the London arm of Kaupthing hired the Natural History Museum for a party, with Tom Jones providing the entertainment, and, by all accounts, Reykjavik’s actual snow was augmented by a blizzard of the Colombian variety. The collapse of Lehman Brothers in late 2008 exposed Iceland’s debts which, at one point, were said to be around 850 per cent of GDP (compared with the US’s 350 per cent), and set off a chain reaction which resulted in the krona plummeting to almost half its value. By this stage Iceland’s banks were lending money to their own shareholders so that they could buy shares in . . . those very same Icelandic banks. I am no Paul Krugman, but even I can see that this was hardly a sustainable business model. The government didn’t have the money to cover its banks’ debts. It was forced to withdraw the krona from currency markets and accept loans totalling £4 billion from the IMF, and from other countries. Even the little Faroe Islands forked out £33 million, which must have been especially humiliating for the Icelanders. Interest rates peaked at 18 per cent. The stock market dropped 77 per cent; inflation hit 20 per cent; and the krona dropped 80 per cent. Depending who you listen to, the country’s total debt ended up somewhere between £13 billion and £63 billion, or, to put it another way, anything from £38,000 to £210,000 for each and every Icelander.

Moscow. Brasilia. Auckland. Oslo. Sofia. Stockholm. Reykjavik. Jakarta. New Delhi. Certain more militant and paranoid territories had correctly initiated immediate airport quarantines, cordoning off the dead jets with military force, and yet… Setrakian couldn’t help but suspect that these landings were as much a tactical distraction as an attempt at infection. Only time would tell if he was correct—though, in truth, there was precious little time.

So he built fires at the mouth of the river near there, and stood by them and called out loudly: "I have put my fire at the mouth of these rivers. All the land that they drain is mine, and no man shall claim it but me. I will call this place Reykjavik.

When I was on a trip to Iceland about ten years ago, I remember standing on the harbourfront in Reykjavik, and looking at the blue fjord north of the city. Across the choppy blue waves was a glacier, maybe twelve or twenty miles away - a big, dirty white tongue of ice crashing down from the bald black mountains with infinite slowness. Intrigued, I asked some hungover local about the glacier, its name and whereabouts. He told me the name of the glacier. The he told me the name of the sea-channel: Faxafloi. But then he addded that the glacier wasn't twenty miles away, it was two hundred miles away. The air in Iceland, he explained, is so clear and unpolluted, things look nearer than they are. I turned and looked again at the glacier, framed by the imperial blue waters of the fjord. I felt a bloodrush in my heart. The scenary was so breathtaking, and so majestic - I was moved and gratified - and yet I was obscurely troubled at the same time. The sense of unexpected distance was dizzying and confusing as well as exhillarating. This may seem far-fetched as an analogy, but it's the best I can do. The feeling I had by that fjord is, somehow, the same weak and head-spinning feeling I get when I look at a truly beautiful woman.

Reykjavik will be missing an Angel.

At Reykjavik Hotel, kids embrace the Putin Tearoom.

Nicholson was buried with full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery on March 30, posthumously awarded the Purple Heart and the Legion of Merit. In an unprecedented move, President Ronald Reagan signed the papers to promote him posthumously to the rank of honorary lieutenant colonel. Three years later, amid the thawing of relations between the superpowers as Gorbachev met with Reagan at summits in Geneva and Reykjavik, an official apology for his death was finally issued by Soviet defense minister Dmitry Yazov. President Reagan had consistently brought up the subject of his killing at every opportunity with the Soviets.

Цветов не надо. Но сам я умираю, как цветок. Роняю голову на грудь. Очки сползают. Я поправляю их тыльной стороной руки. Вот и все. Больше не помню. Я уже мертв. Пьян мертвецки... Краткий курс ознакомления с настоящей смертью. Учения. Я на минутку отлучаюсь. Прилепляю на себя табличку: «Ушел. Вернусь в час ночи. ХБХ». Вот так. Оставляю себя на обочине, как автомобиль с работающим двигателем. Из выхлопной трубы валит дым, на приборной доске свет, печка включена. Но за рулем никого нет. Мозг думает сам по себе, как включенный мотор. Интересно, что он там такое думает. Что он замышляет без меня. Скорее всего, он проводит простые спасательные операции: отгоняет хмель и спасает извилины, чтоб они не утонули. Если тело — прогретая машина, поставленная на скорость, на ручном тормозе, то я — душа, лечу по своим делам по городу. И над городом. Пока я свободен от тела. Пока... Пока, кровь и кожа! Пока, ногти и нос! Без штанов, без пуповины, без ремня — я ковыляю по космическому коридору во тьме над городом с маленьким блестящим кислородным баллоном за спиной, беззубая душа семенит по теплым китовым спинам уличных фонарей, я кувыркаюсь над Рейкьявиком в замедленной съемке, лежу в безвоздушном пространстве, на якоре, перед колокольней церкви Хатльгрима, радиоканалы чешут мне спину четырьмя разными барабанными ритмами, а телеканалы разрывают меня, разлагают на душеатомы, рассеивают, рассаливают над всем городом. Я — во всех местах одновременно, в малых дозах, и все же весь целиком, как секунды, которые тикают во всех уголках земного шара, а все же принадлежат одному и тому же времени. Я — во мне, и я — во всем, и все — во мне, и я — в часах Адальстейна Гильви Магнуссона, спящего на Западной улице, на ночном столике рядом с университетским справочником. Я — муха между двойными рамами в окне спальни на улице Бергторугата, лежу там на спине, беспомощно перебираю лапками, смотрю, как мама и Лолла болтают под одеялом. И я — ржавчина в водосточной трубе на Лёйгавег, 18, и я взбираюсь по подбородку одинокой женщины в Аурбайре, дремлющей на диване под изображением птичьего хвоста, и я лазаю в бороде своего отца и хватаюсь за волосок, когда он мотает головой, услышав новости но радио в такси на Хетлисхейди, а в крови у него полбара отеля «Ковчег». И я возле Островов Западных Людей, и я — вместе со скомканной бумажкой с канадским номером телефона в правом кармане брюк румынской девушки, которые лежат на полу в Брейдхольте, заношенные и грязные. И я — в кране в темной кухне в Кеплавике, в доме музыканта Рунара Юлиуссона, и я — под сиденьями неосвещенного самолета, который стоит на летном поле в Лейфсстадире, темный и холодный. И я — между краской и стеной, и я — между файлом и экраном, и я — между сросшихся зубов. Я — во мне, и в мене и неме... Я: ja, ja! Я везде и нигде, в одном и во всем, территориальные воды моей души простираются на двести миль от пальцев рук и ног, и простерлись бы дальше... если б я оставался мертвым чуть подольше.

— А знаешь, почему у «Мальборо» в Америке фильтры белые, а в Европе желтые? — Э-э... Нет. — Чтобы Кит Ричардс знал, в какой части света находится.

Вот они. Мать моя — лесбиянка и отец мой — алкаш. А кто тогда я? Потомок алкаша и лесбиянки. Смотрю на них внимательнее. Вдруг мне кажется, что они — птицы двух разных видов. Алкаш и лесбиянка. Оператор британского телевидения панорамит какой-то типично исландский ландшафт. За кадром голос диктора — Оскара Ингимарссона: «Алкаш — водоплавающая птица, обитает в основном вблизи рек и озер. Он отличается тяжеловесностью, и для того, чтобы взлететь, ему требуется хороший разбег, но он вынослив и способен к чрезвычайно долгим полетам. Иногда он не спускается на землю неделями. В промежутках между полетами алкаш затаивается и становится очень агрессивным, особенно в первые дни после приземления. Лесбиянка — относительно новый вид в исландской фауне. Зимовать в Исландии она стала только в последние годы, исключительно на юго-западе острова. Считается, что этот вид был завезен в страну из Скандинавии, главным образом из Дании, а также с Британских островов. Лесбиянка — маленькая птичка, но бойкая и сильная. Ее отличительная черта — голова, покрытая редким пухом и напоминающая бритую налысо человеческую голову. У этого вида только каждая вторая самка откладывает яйцо, а другая самка берет на себя роль самца, строя гнездо и добывая корм. Единственный контакт самки с самцом происходит во время спаривания. Самец лесбиянки намного тяжелее самки. В последние годы участились случаи нелетающих самцов, и ученые продолжают внимательно следить за этим развитием».

— It's Hlynur Bjorn Hafsteinsson, Bergporugotu, 8b, Reykjavik, Iceland. — Is there no postal code? — Oh yes. It's hundred and one Reykjavik. I'm the one.

Reykjavik.

Behoefte hebben aan een prikkelarme omgeving maakt je nog geen getalenteerd kluizenaar.

Het lastigste van IJsland is dat je er niet meer weg wilt als je er eenmaal woont. Je voegt je naar de ruimte en kunt met minder niet meer toe, zoals sommige reptielen groeien wanneer ze in een groter aquarium worden gezet.

Konden we politici die kunst als hobby wegzetten maar een tijdje laten afkoelen op de Ijslandse hooglanden. Als een vis op het droge zouden ze naar cultuur liggen happen. Niet als entertainment maar als datgene wat de mensheid van mosland onderscheidt.

When I was little, my ambition was to grow up to be a book. Not a writer. People can be killed like ants. Writers are not hard to kill either. But not books: however systematically you try to destroy them, there is always a chance that a copy will survive and continue to enjoy a shelf-life in some corner on an out-of-the-way library somehwere in Reykjavik, Valladolid or Vancouver.

Andrew sighed at Styrka’s unforgiving attitude; it was the fashion among Calvinists at Reykjavik to deny any weight to human motive in judging the good or evil of an act. Acts are good and evil in themselves, they said; and because Speakers for the Dead held as their only doctrine that good or evil exist entirely in human motive, and not at all in the act, it made students like Styrka quite hostile to Andrew.

Iceland would never be much more than a remote outpost.

Like the “issues” that came up with the cave troll study in the Reykjavik sewers. No one liked to talk about the incident that led to a League scientist being mailed back to headquarters

While she enjoyed her solitude, she thought, as she turned off the taps and stepped into the water, loneliness was something quite different. That was more like a kind of melancholy longing – a desire for something she was on the point of discovering, but never actually managed to find.

There are almost no trees in Iceland, and the few that exist are all in the cemeteries; as if there were no dead without trees, as if there were no trees without the dead. They are not planted alongside the grave, as in idyllic Central Europe, but right in the center of it, to force a passerby to imagine the roots down below piercing the body. I am walking with Elvar D. in the Reykjavik cemetery; he stops at a grave whose tree is still quite small; barely a year ago his friend was buried; he starts reminiscing aloud about him: his private life was marked by some secret, probably a sexual one. "Because secrets excite such irritated curiosity, my wife, my daughters, the people around me, all insisted I tell them about it. To such an extent that my relations with my wife have been bad ever since. I couldn't forgive her aggressive curiosity, and she couldn't forgive my silence, which to her was evidence of how little I trusted her." He smiled, and then: "I divulged nothing," he said. "Because I had nothing to divulge. I had forbidden myself to want to know my friends secrets, and I didn't know them." I listened to him with fascination: since childhood I had heard it said that a friend is the person with whom you share your secrets and who even has the right, in the name of friendship, to insist on knowing them. For my Icelander, friendship is something else: it is standing guard at the door behind which your friend keeps his private life hidden; it is being the person who never opens that door; who allows no one else to open it.