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He has to sharpen his voice somewhat for the three of them
to hear, because all the words have to come across, that’s
how poetry is, those are the rules, that’s how it should be,
must be, writing is a war and maybe authors experience
more defeat than victory, that’s just how it is, Gísli had
explained, losing himself in his explanation, there was a
gleam in his eye, as if he were really alive. He’d read over
the five pages that the boy had translated of Mr. Dickens’
story,
A Tale of Two Cities
. It was the best of times, it was
the worst of times. In this story there are few mistakes, few
defeats, making the job of the translator more difficult, yet
happier. The boy said nothing, had the five pages in front of
him, in some places marked up by Gísli, the translation, the
tireless work, anguish, sweat, joy, delicate movement
between languages, shredded by the comments of the
headmaster who talked and talked, the boy looked at the
pages and the anger welled up inside him. It certainly
would be nice to wad up the pages, make a big ball and
stuff it into Gísli, deep into his throat, that dark tunnel.
There’s no need to vaunt yourself on compliments from me,
pride is poison, said Gísli, his voice suddenly prickly.
Compliments!, exclaimed the boy, breaking into a smile
without realizing it, his eyes still on the marked-up pages;
compliments, he repeated, because it’s called a compliment
to tear apart a work into which you’ve put your all, your
heart, lungs, breath. The boy looks in astonishment at
Kolbeinn, sitting right next to him, his eyes closed, as if
sleeping, though with his left ear turned toward them,
catching every word. Yes, said Gísli, I call it a compliment