22 / 238
22
There’s power in this text, says Helga after the boy has read
the five pages, these words that he found in the language
and used for bridge-building so that others, as well as he
himself, could seek out remote worlds, seek out life,
feelings, seek out what exists in the distance but of which
we weren’t aware. Translations, Gísli had said, it’s hardly
possible to describe their importance. They enrich and
broaden us, help us to understand the world better,
understand ourselves. A nation that translates little,
focusing only on its own thoughts, is constricted, and if it
boasts a large population it becomes dangerous to others,
as well, because most things are alien to it but its own
thoughts and customs. Translations broaden people, and
therewith the world. They help you understand distant
nations. People hate less, or fear less, what they
understand. Understanding can save people from
themselves. Generals have a harder time getting you to kill
if you have understanding. Hatred and prejudice, I declare
to you, are fear and ignorance; you may write that down.
He did so, wrote it all down, then went up to his room and
corrected the translation, and has now read it over; he read
it as the storm pounded the house, the rain lashed the
Village, the horses, the sheep, the earth, and turned the
June light to dusk. He concludes his reading, there’s power
in this text, says Helga; yes, says Geirþrúður, yes, there’s
power, and she looks at the boy. Even Kolbeinn seems to
hem something that can possibly be interpreted as a
compliment, that curmudgeon who still hasn’t let the boy