Live, as you are able, live!
Dernier volet d'une trilogie.
À la fin de
La tristesse des anges / The Sorrow of Angels, nous avions laissé le gamin, Jens et Hjalti perdus dans la tempête...
Miracle et tristesse, les deux premiers ont survécu et se réveillent à Slettueyri, le troisième à disparu. Grâce à son capital jeunesse et aux bons soins des hôtes qui les ont secourus, le garçon se remet rapidement alors que Jens ressort diminué de leur odyssée. À peine le temps de former de nouveaux liens, le printemps s'installe enfin, un bateau passe et les ramène à leur point de départ où la vie reprend son cours : Jens part de son côté et le gamin, enrichi et nourri de sa nouvelle expérience retrouve le monde de l'auberge et ses personnages tellement indépendants qu'ils en gènent la communauté locale bien pensante et étriquée. Le gamin découvre qu'à la suite de la lettre qu'il lui a adressé avant de partir, Andréa a quitté son mari et le campement de pêcheurs où il l'avait laissée, accueillie, comme lui, par Helga et Ragnheidur.
Le gamin est plein d'énergie, les yeux et le cœur ouverts sur le monde. Il court, il apprend dans les livres sous l'égide de Gisli et il apprend de ses rapports et de ceux des autres avec la communauté des hommes. Il y a le souvenir des cheveux roux et des yeux verts de Alfheidur laissée à Slettueyri, la relation ambiguë avec la fille de Fridrik, le marchand puissant et avide de pouvoir, la liberté et l'indépendance de Ragnheidur, le poids des mot et une lettre écrite à Rakel pour le compte d'Oddur, une nuit de tempête et un naufrage, etc.
Un microcosme de société humaine avec ses zones lumineuses, l'amour, l'amitié, la solidarité, le réconfort, le partage, la connaissance, la poésie, la liberté, etc. et ses zones d'ombres, la recherche du pouvoir et de la domination, la lubricité, le viol, l'alcool, etc. Autant d'éléments qui offrent une réflexion intemporelle sur le sens de la vie et autres éléments philosophiques comme le bonheur, tout en dressant le panorama de la société islandaise de la fin du 19ème siècle en pleine transformation, entre tradition et modernité (premier bateau à vapeur, premiers téléphone, etc.)... sans oublier un cadre grandiose et sauvage, soumis aux éléments, offrant le meilleur comme le pire.
Le gamin est un personnage attachant autant pour le lecteur que ceux qui l'entourent, plein de sensibilité, d'interrogations et d'une certaine innocence. C'est avec un vrai grand regret, les larmes aux yeux et le cœur battant que je le quitte à la fin de cette histoire qui m'a transportée et surprise jusqu'à la dernière page, jusqu'à la dernière ligne, vers une fin absolument épique et aigre-douce.
Un texte porté par la grande qualité d'écriture de cet auteur qui évoque magnifiquement la rudesse et la beauté d'un pays et de la société qui le compose.
Tirés du texte :
We find that life is never a continuous thread except occasionally by coincidence, which is as savage as it is beautiful. Some of the incidents pass through us and are gone without leaving anything behind, but there are others that we constantly relive, because what is past dwells in us, colours our days, transforms our dreams. The past is so interwoven with our present that it's not always possible to distinguish between them, words you speak today will find you five years on,
come to you like a bouquet of flowers, like a consolation, like a bloody knife.
Who am I, are we what we do, or what we dream?
There are very few things that man needs : to love, to be happy, to eat; and then he dies. Yet there are over six thousand languages spoken in the world--why do there need to be so many in order to make such simple desires understood?
And why do we manage it so rarely?
Icelandic summers are so short and predictable that it seems at times as if they don't exist. (...)
But nothing in the world is as bright and clear as the month of June, days and nights merge,
all the shadows vanish and the sky is blue as eternity in the middle of the night.
What is a person (...) apart from a memory?
It hurts when everyone forgets you, really hurts; your shoulders sink, your eyes dull,
solitude enters your body and starts killing you cells.
Little is as important for a person as laughter, and crying; it's far more important than sex,
let alone power, let alone money, that spittle of the Devil in our blood,
those who never laugh gradually turn to stone.
What right does he have to combine words that could change someone's life, what could his responsibility be then?
Those who fire guns are responsible for the bullets, the pain that they may cause; doesn't the same apply to words?
Life expands when you read (...) there is more to it,(...) ,
it's as if you you acquire something that no-one can take from you, ever (...)
it makes you happier.
Unfortunately, there's a huge gap between thinking and living. It's possible to know more than everyone else, to understand life, to be able to describe it in moving words, distinguish between cause and effect, yet have no idea how to live an ordinary, everyday life.
A bit like knowing all the notes but being unable to whistle a simple melody.
What does it mean to betray one self, what is the greatest treachery, the most heinous crime,
so heinous that the king can't pardon you ? To dare not to live, the boy had answered.
Writing is a war and maybe authors experience more defeat than victory.
Translations, (...) 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 except for its own thoughts and customs.
June nights here in the North must be the most beautiful in the world, the luminance of night sky can be wilder you with happiness, it washes away anxiety, stress, hatred, envy, all of these things that are like a blight inside mankind. All is tranquil, transparent.
A June night is a bit like the breath of God, and for a moment all existence is soft and still.
For a moment.
One probably doesn't know much about life ; one just has to step into it. And know how to welcome it when it comes.
There are few things to equal receiving a letter.
There's intimacy in letters, they bridge distances, are precious companions that last a long time, warm you, long after they're read.
I don't know where the darkness comes from, yet I think that it comes from the same place as the light, and I think it grows dark because we let it happen. I think that it's difficult to attain the light, often very difficult, but I also think that no-one attains it for us. Not God, not Jesus, who maybe should have been a woman because then the world would be different and better, not the governor, not farming, not ships, not books. If we don't set out on our own, life is nothing. We ought to live to conquer death, that's the only thing that we know how to do. If we live as we're able, preferably a bit better, then death will never conquer us. Then we won't die, we'll just become something else. I don't have the words for it, to describe it, I mean. Maybe we simply change into music.
Death steps over our wishes, our prayers, our despair and strength, it does so whenever it pleases.
Hardly anyone has eyes in order to look squarely in the face of understanding ; few eyes can tolarate it. (...)
People like Kierkegaard were dangerous because they cause us to question, and even rethink, the world.
In the end we all change into silence.
Du même auteur, voir aussi :
La tristesse des anges / The Sorrow of Angels (tome 2)
Entre ciel et terre / Heaven and Earth (tome 1)
D'ailleurs les poissons n'ont pas de pieds / Fish have no feet
Titre anglais : The Heart of Man
Titre français : Le cœur de l'homme
Auteur : Jon Kalman Stefansson
Première édition : 2009
