Trafika Europe 1 - Northern Idyll

Yet now he’s been complimented, which is no small thing for one who’s been called many difficult names throughout his life; words have influence, they can sink into you and leave marks, get a person to believe various things about himself; to receive such a compliment, and from these women— the boy is quite close to sobbing. Another five pages in a week, can you manage it?, asks Geirþrúður, raising her wine glass to her lips, those lips that were kissed today, and that kissed; then she was alive, in the deserted valley, she existed, she burned, the birds were startled and the mountains took note of her. Yes, says the boy, convinced, confident, happy, I can manage it, there’s zeal in his eyes, while outside the storm rages and the world trembles. It would probably be safer to tie it down so that it doesn’t blow out into the darkness of space. Andrea lies in her bed in her basement room and listens to the storm, it’s not her bed, admittedly, but Geirþrúður’s, as is the entire house, she lies there and can’t sleep, tosses and turns, doesn’t know how she should lie, how she should live, the wind pounds the house, tears up the sea, which is dark and heavy and restless, even the Lagoon, which is usually still even when breakers beat outside it, is tumultuous and J. Andersen’s ship rolls upon it frighteningly, its hold empty. Lúlli and Oddur had worked tirelessly, along with others, to empty the ship’s hold of sacks, bags, barrels, and they succeeded, continual work, many hands, things are often urgent here between the mountains, life is in a rush, or, better put, people, not life itself, which simply exists, is just


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