ago, and the result had been some purely sentimental,
pedagogical drivel! And a third might have edited a
festschrift for some alcoholic sleepwalker in the Academy.
Such was the society’s membership roster – at least for the
most part. The few authors who actually deserved to be
there had been branded “cultural mafia” by the media.
The danger here was that when another Árni Dahl decided
to write a new literary history in half a century or so, that
the person would turn to the Society’s membership roster in
search of fitting representatives. People who were no doubt
skilled with a copy machine would be called notable bearers
of Faroese culture.
Eigil could see only one reason that Dr. Napoleon was
honored with a place among the Faroese full and half gods.
He had the right DNA profile! The doctor was the son of the
old business manager Jákup Nolsøe, and therefore the
nephew of poet and national icon, Nólsoyar-Páll. It was
solely for that reason that Árni Dahl had smuggled him in
through the back door of his literary history!
When Eigil reached Napoleon’s grave, he set down his bag.
It was August 26th, exactly one hundred and eighty-five
years since Napoleon was born. Eigil placed a hand on the
stone and wished him happy birthday; as so often before, he
also asked Napoleon’s forgiveness for having sullied his