Viking Romance

Wednesday morning, calm and dark.

But the dark divides itself into two dark masses: sea and sky, hardly distinguishable from one another. The wind is rising, I see that now, coming in from the east rather than the south.

I finished a Viking romance, "Bosi and Herrard," translated from Icelandic, last night. Robust but simple language, lots of teeth flying and blood gushing in the combat scenes, described with admirable succinctness and sang froid. There were also a few humorous midnight encounters between warriors and the daughters of the local inn-keepers. Characters came and went with bewildering frequency, and the names aren't that easy to remember anyway. I found it useful to make a chart to keep things straight.

Our morning escapades included walking down to the office to pay the bill. That gave us the opportunity to chat with Jamie, one of the owners, about how the resort's doing, and also about the game a few nights earlier between the Timberwolves and the Lakers, which she attended with her kids. I mentioned that the yard light was less obtrusive than in years past.

"Yeah, my parents put that bright light in," she said. "When we remodeled the house we replaced it."  

We hiked along the shore at Split Rock State Park and also took a short hike along the Beaver River on a ski trail a few miles inland from Silver Bay. At Zup's Supermarket in town we picked up a can of chili and a jar of Aunt Nellie's pickled beets to go with the chicken liver pate we'd brought along. 

We checked out the glamping tents set up in the woods across the highway from Cove Point Lodge, though at $250/night we'll never stay there. And we also took a walk along the rocks east of the docks at Two Harbors.

Sunset, though we can't see it.

Twelve gulls circle high overhead.

Rising as they drift out to sea,

Blue wings turn gold.

 

* * *

I'm caught between books. Will it be Clive James or Per Petterson? And how about Paul Valery's collection The Outlook for Intelligence? Here's a line from an essay called "Unpredictability" in which Valery steps back from using the word "transcendental":

I dislike using certain terms whose overtones startle the mind—either hypnotizing it or putting it on guard, which are opposite effects that should both be avoided.

A little further on, reflecting on the intellectual climate in 1944, he writes:

Our means of investigation have far out-stripped our means of representation and understanding.    

 

At another point Valery considers the question of whether 

"the world is becoming 'stupid,' whether there is a distaste for culture, whether the 'liberal professions' are suffering, perhaps dying—their strength declining, their ranks thinning, their prestige gradually diminishing, their existence more and more thankless, precarious, and near its end." 

Sound familiar? That was in 1925.

Back outside to see the stars. Brilliant. We spotted the Beehive Cluster, faint as it is,  with binoculars, and at midnight, coming out into the living room on my way to the bathroom, I saw a bright and perfect Leo blazing in the sky above the lake.

* * *

It was a nice morning walk up the Gooseberry River following our old ski route. The downhill runs look different when you're not worried about crashing off into the trees. Then a fine cold lunch back here at the cabin; then a nap. All is gray outside. Our final afternoon of reading, with  "You Must Believe in Spring," a CD of Frank Morgan ballads, playing on the miniature DVD/TV set that's tucked into the wall above the fireplace.

* * *

I did end up reading a second Viking romance, "Halfdan Eysteinsson." This time I didn't make the slightest effort to keep track of relationships between the characters, which included Eystein, Halfdad, Ulfkel, Ulfar, Kol, Ingigerd, Skuli, and two strangers who travel together, both named Grim. I enjoyed it all the same.

* * *

Two crows are wandering out on the rock shelf below the window, pecking desultorily at something, then pausing to discuss where to fly off to next. A model of bourgeois domesticity.

* * *

There are many things to admire about Cultural Amnesia, Clive James' collection of mini-biographies of famous people, not least the choice of entries. It's fun to see Dick Cavett next to Albert Camus and Sartre next to Satie. And how can we resist the juxtaposition of Ramond Aron and Louis Armstrong? Doing a quick count I determined that I'd never heard of roughly a third of the individuals profiled. And I'm pretty sure a few of the choices were guided less by good judgment that by personal quirks of taste: Terry Gilliam? Tony Curtis?

Now that I've read a few of the essays—William Hazlett, Norman Mailer, Georg Christoph Lichenberg—I can see that James has a few pet interests, the most prominent being the well-turned phrase. I suspect he has a notebook filled with the solecisms and mixed metaphors of famous authors. The entry on Lichtenberg, at thirty pages, might be the longest in the book, but James tells us almost nothing about this obscure eighteenth-century aphorist beyond the fact that he chose his words carefully. James devotes most of the essay to highlighting the gaffs of other writers. 

I'd never heard of Lichtenberg, and would like to have found out more about him. James at least had the good sense to direct us to J.P. Stern's Lichtenberg: a Doctrine of Scattered Occasions, which I suppose I'll try to find when I get home. Then again, when was the last time I pulled my copy of Products of the Perfected Civilization, a collection of aphorisms by Lichtenberg's misanthropic contemporary Chamfort, off the shelf? Oh, no! James has got an essay about Chamfort, too! Do I care?

* * *

Our final outing was a walk through the fields and woods away from the lake east of the resort. Lots of alder shrubs and healthy-looking white spruce. We flushed two grouse.

Now we're listening to some Handel sonatas for violin and harpsichord. Night is closing in. The gas fireplace gives off a lot of heat, but it can hardly be said to be blazing. It looks like a collection of glorified cigarette lighters nestled under a pile of artificial rocks. But it does the trick. We love it.

Curried chicken from a plastic sleeve

on couscous left over from the now-distant holidays.

A Cote du Rhone from a vineyard I've never heard of.

The fate of ideas. Zen poems.

On our last evening I take yet another book from the stack: Chet Raymo's An Intimate Look at the Night Sky. We won't be seeing any stars tonight, but it's nevertheless worthwhile to read about what we've been seeing. Raymo discusses the experiments of the ancient Greeks, including Anastarcus, and mentions Giordano Bruno--among the early champions of infinite worlds--and others on his way to the Hubble Telescope, by means of which we can be assured that the universe contains at least a hundred-billion galaxies. That's a very large number.

And now we've got an even bigger, better telescope! That means, even larger numbers.

But then someone in class pipes up: "It makes me feel so insignificant!" That has always struck me as a dumb remark (pardon the expression), though the intent, I'm sure, is to express the inexpressible--the problem Valery highlighted half a century ago. Of course, in many ways we are insignificant, all of us, except to our loved ones, our friends, and the people who rely on us from day to day to deliver their morning paper, repair their car, diagnose their ailments, edit their books, or whatever it is we do to make a little "bread" and contribute to the community.

Yet the stars are ours. Whose else could they be? We see them, know them, love them. Their brilliance is a sign of our own perspicacity, insight, and blinding affection, shooting out in all directions.