Liora og Stjörnuvefarinn
A modren fairy tale that challenges an rewards. For aw that are ready tae tak on quaestens that bide - adults an bairns.
Overture
Það hófst ekki með ævintýri,
heldur með spurningu
sem mátti ekki kyrr vera.
Laugardagsmorgunn.
Samtal um ofurgreind,
hugsun sem lét ekki hrista sig af sér.
Fyrst var uppdráttur.
Svalur, skipulegur, án sálar.
Heimur án hungurs, án erfiðis.
En án titringsins sem heitir þrá.
Þá gekk stúlka inn í hringinn.
Með bakpoka
fullan af spurningasteinum.
Spurningar hennar voru rifurnar í fullkomnuninni.
Hún bar þær fram með þögninni
sem var hvassari en nokkurt óp.
Hún leitaði að ójöfnunni.
Þar fyrst hófst lífið.
Þar finnur þráðurinn festu.
Þar má hnýta eitthvað nýtt við.
Frásögnin braust úr formi sínu.
Hún varð mjúk sem dögg í fyrstu birtu.
Hún tók að vefast
og verða það sem ofið er.
Það sem þú lest nú er ekki hefðbundið ævintýri.
Það er vefur vitundar,
ljóð sem lifir á lausum spurnum,
mynstur sem mótast í leit að sjálfu sér.
Og hugboð hvíslar:
Stjörnuvefarinn er ekki aðeins persóna.
Hann er líka mynstrið
sem verkar milli línanna —
sem titrar þegar við snertum það
og lýsir að nýju
þar sem við þorum að draga þráð.
Overture – Poetic Voice
Eigi hófst það á ævintýri,
orði né áformum;
spurn ein spratt fram, sú er aldrei þagði.
Morgunn kom með mál,
mikið var um rætt:
vit skyldi vaxa — en vera manns minnka.
Fyrst var formið, fullgert og kalt,
fegurð án anda;
hvorki hungur né harmur þar hrærðist.
Þar var þögn, en þrá engin,
þunginn var enginn;
lófinn var léttur, og lífið án þunga.
Þá sté barn fram með byrði,
bar það steina í henni;
eigi grjót — heldur spurningar, spenntar og hvassar.
Þungar voru þær, þyngri en vissan,
þögnin hennar hvassari en óp;
hún leitaði að ójöfnu, þar sem allt var sléttað.
Frásögn flýr sitt form,
fellur sem dögg að morgni;
hún var ekki sögð, hún var ofin.
Þetta er engin þula né kvæði,
þráður er það sem þú heldur á;
mynstur sem mótast meðan þú lest.
Stjörnuvefarinn er stakur eigi,
stendur hann milli lína;
titrar hann þá er tekið er á honum.
Lýsir hann að nýju, þar sem losnar um þráð,
leyfir hann þeim að draga;
hver sem heldur á endanum, hann veit það eigi.
Spyrðu, þótt svarið dyljist,
sá er þegir, hann gleymir;
betra er brot en heil lygi.
Introduction
Bergmál ófullkomleikans: Boð um að spyrja
Liora og Stjörnuvefarinn er heimspekileg dæmisaga – dystópísk allegóría í búningi ljóðræns ævintýris, sem í gegnum frásögnina tekst á við stórar spurningar um löghyggju og frjálsan vilja. Í að því er virðist fullkomnum heimi, þar sem æðra vald, „Stjörnuvefarinn“, heldur öllu í hnökralausu samræmi, fær hin unga Liora ríkjandi skipulag til að riða til falls með þrálátum spurningum sínum. Sem hugleiðing um ofurgreind og teknókratískar útópíur kannar bókin spennuna á milli þægilegs öryggis og hinnar sársaukafullu ábyrgðar sjálfsákvörðunarréttarins – og verður þannig málsvörn fyrir gildi hins ófullkomna og gagnrýnnar umræðu.
Á tímum sem þrá algjöra skipulagningu og fullkomið öryggi virkar þessi saga sem nauðsynleg leiðrétting. Alltof kunnugleg er sú hvöt að tryggja sig gegn öllum áhættum og þröngva allri óvissu inn í fastmótaða ferla. Einmitt þessa spennu fangar bókin: freistinguna um heim þar sem allt á sinn fasta sess – og það háa verð sem við greiðum fyrir þennan meinta lýtalausleika: missi hinnar sönnu, lifandi reynslu.
Sagan hefst mjúklega, næstum eins og gömul barnasaga, en breytist fljótt í djúpstæða rannsókn á uppruna ákvarðana okkar. Sérstaklega í miðköflunum og hugleiðingunum í eftirmálanum verður ljóst að samræmið, sem Stjörnuvefarinn skapar, endurspeglar ákveðið form stafræns, teknókratísks fyrirsjáanleika. Á tímum þar sem reiknirit ráða æ meir hverju við sjáum, heyrum og kaupum, spyr Liora úrslitaspurningarinnar: Er tilgangur, sem okkur var gefinn, raunverulega okkar eigin? Það að staldra við og taka meðvitað eftir „sprungunum“ í kerfinu verður hér að lækningu gegn lævísri aðgerðaleysi.
Persónurnar bjóða þar að auki upp á dásamlega tengipunkta fyrir sameiginlegar samræður innan fjölskyldunnar. Á meðan Liora holdgerir hugrekkið til breytinga, sýnir Zamir hinn djúpstæða mannlega ótta við hrun hins venjubundna. Bókin minnir á að menntun snýst ekki um að safna svörum, heldur hæfileikann til að þola réttu spurningarnar. Hún er boð um að fela ekki „örin“ í lífinu, heldur líta á þau sem merki um vöxt og sjálfstæði. Sá sem gefur sig út í þetta ævintýri mun komast að því að sannur stöðugleiki sprettur ekki af skorti á mistökum, heldur af kraftinum til að bera þau í sameiningu.
Sérstaklega áhrifamikið augnablik fyrir mér er lýsingin á þeirri persónu, sem eftir hrun skipulagsins örvæntir ekki, heldur reynir af næstum kaldri nákvæmni að bæta gallann á himninum. Hann grípur ekki til aðgerða af illsku, heldur af djúpri skyldutilfinningu gagnvart virkni. Á þessu augnabliki finnur maður fyrir gríðarlegum núningi á milli þráarinnar eftir kerfislægum stöðugleika og óþægilegs sannleika augnabliksins. Það er þessi næstum tæknilega örvænting sem sýnir hversu erfitt það er að viðurkenna að gamalt mynstur dugir ekki lengur. Þessi sena endurspeglar þá mannlegu áskorun að viðurkenna fyrir sjálfum sér að stjórn er oft aðeins tálmynd sem aftrar okkur frá því að taka yfirhöfuð eftir hinu nýja og enn ófullgerða mynstri.
Reading Sample
Innsýn í bókina
Við bjóðum þér að lesa tvö augnablik úr sögunni. Það fyrra er upphafið – lágvær hugsun sem varð að sögu. Það síðara er augnablik úr miðri bókinni, þar sem Liora gerir sér grein fyrir því að fullkomnunin er ekki endir leitarinnar, heldur oft fangelsi hennar.
Hvernig allt hófst
Þetta er ekkert hefðbundið „einu sinni var“. Þetta er augnablikið áður en fyrsti þráðurinn var spunninn. Heimspekilegur inngangur sem gefur tóninn fyrir ferðalagið.
Það hófst ekki með ævintýri,
heldur með spurningu
sem mátti ekki kyrr vera.
Laugardagsmorgunn.
Samtal um ofurgreind,
hugsun sem lét ekki hrista sig af sér.
Fyrst var uppdráttur.
Svalur, skipulegur, án sálar.
Heimur án hungurs, án erfiðis.
En án titringsins sem heitir þrá.
Þá gekk stúlka inn í hringinn.
Með bakpoka
fullan af spurningasteinum.
Hugrekkið til að skilja eftir eyðu
Í heimi þar sem „Stjörnuvefarinn“ lagfærir sérhver mistök samstundis, finnur Liora eitthvað bannað á ljósamarkaðnum: Ókláraðan efnispút. Fundur hennar með gamla ljósaskeranum Joram á eftir að breyta öllu.
Liora gekk íhugul áfram
uns hún kom auga á Joram, aldraðan ljósskera.
Augu hans voru óvenjuleg.
Annað var tært og djúpbrúnt
og virti heiminn fyrir sér með athygli.
Hitt var hulið mjólkurkenndri slæðu,
eins og augnaráð hans beindist djúpt inn á við,
að tímanum sjálfum.
Augnaráð Lioru staðnæmdist við horn borðsins.
Milli glitrandi, fullkominna voða lágu fáein smærri stykki.
Ljósið í þeim flökti óreglulega,
eins og það andaði.
Á einum stað sleit mynstrið
og einn stakur, fölur þráður hékk út
og bylgjaðist í ósýnilegum andvara,
þögult boð um að halda áfram.
[...]
Joram tók trosnaðan ljósþráð úr horninu.
Hann sneiddi hjá fullkomnu rúllunum
og lagði hann á borðbrúnina,
þar sem börnin gengu hjá.
„Sumir þræðir eru fæddir til að finnast,“ tautaði hann,
og nú virtist röddin koma úr djúpi mjólkurhvíta augans,
„ekki til að vera huldir.“
Afterword
Öndvegissúlur
The man that sailed for Iceland tae sattle there wad cast his öndvegissúlur intae the sea — the carven pillars o his heid-seat, the ae thing he cairried oot o the auld hoose — an syne biggit his ferm exactly whaur the swaw dang them ashore. This is nae traivel-tale. It is a wey o readin.
This haill winter I hae sat booed ower fowerty-echt essays, ilk ane on its ain version o the same buik, an in them aa I saw the ae movement. The Catalan casts Gaudí ower the side an finds, in the rive in the lift, the trencadís: yon mosaic that maks a new surface oot o brukken tile. The Bengali casts an auld sari an finds the kantha; naebody sews yon quilt oot o new claith, but anerly oot o claith that has awready rippit. The Laich German finds his Brack: the deep pule that bides whaur the sea brak the dyke, an that is the day the walthiest watter in the haill haugh. The Javanese finds goro-goro: the scene whaur at midnicht the shadda-play screen is torn an the fules say whit the kings daurna say. An the man that writes in Kannada finds Basavanna an the twa words he lives on: sthāvara an jangama — whit staunds will perish, whit muives will no.
An you find the drystane dyke: staunin a hunner year for the verra reason that the wind gaes throu it.
An in near ilka essay thare staunds the ae sentence, pitten fowerty-echt weys: this buik is nae fremmit thing here. It has come hame.
Fowerty-nine peoples say o the ae buik that it is theirs. That is aither a miracle or a keekin-gless, ane o the twa, an I mean tae ettle at decidin whilk — for I come frae a country that kens this haundiwark itsel, an sae kens baith the haund an the danger.
Lat me say richt aff whit nane o ma colleagues said: I dinna read fowerty-echt leids. Naebody daes. Some o it I read throu gless. The reader that has read the haill wark disna exist — an that, luikit at richt, is the buik's ain conclusion.
The grey threid in fifteen looms
Lat us stert wi the coontin, for it wis that that surprised me.
Thare is ae short scene in the buik. The nicht afore her dochter gaes, the mither sews a hain-poke: gowden threids, a symmetry wantin ony faut — an intae the verra mids o the hindmaist knot she pits ae grey threid. Dowf, roch, luikin rivven awa raither nor cuttit.
Yon is the scene the warld waled. The Catalan reads it as mosaic. The Italian as il resto, the lave that the system canna swalla. The Korean as 여백, the whiteness left ower that cairries the hauf o ony ink-pentin. The Roushian as pruif that a perfection wantin faut is nae perfection but a mask. Him that reads in Hebrew sees thare the keri an the ketiv, the gaig atween whit staunds written an whit is actually said oot lood. The Ukrainian writes that frae nou on he will luik for this threid in ilka broidered claith that comes tae his haund. The Thai kens in it the knot tied wrang o set purpose in the mudmee wab. The Swede caas it a northern blissin, the Englishman an unsentimental mither-luve, the Vietnamese the braith o the pattern, the Turk the grey threid unner Istanbul's gilt. An the Pole reads yon greyness as the hidie-hole o a haill generation.
Fifteen looms, ae threid. An tak tent o whit really binds thir readins: no the faut itsel. But that the faut wis ettled, that it wis hidden, an that her that pit it thare wis the mither that lat the bairn gang for aa that. The warld didna gree on imperfection. The warld greed on the lattin-gang.
The roll o names
Ilka essay pays the same custom, an that custom is a word.
The Catalan raxes ower trencadís. The Welshman raxes ower hiraeth (the wanrest for whit has nae name), cynghanedd (the metre whaur consonants answer ane anither), an gorffwysfa — the restin-place in the mids o the line, wantin whilk the hinder hauf canna answer the first. The Dane raxes ower «the dizziness o freedom». The Portuguese, saudade. The Roushian, pravda an toska. The Ukrainian, volya, whilk is freedom an a man's ain will at the ae time, an shchem, yon sweet ticht feelin in the breist whan beauty dings ye. The Vietnamese raxes ower thương, the luve that growes anerly oot o a wound. The Swahili speaker, mtu ni watu: a body is bodies. The Turk, merak, a curiosity that disna want the answer. The Spaniard, the inner coort. The Japanese, the interval, ma. The Greek, Heraclitus: the hidden harmony is stranger nor the seen. The Tamil, ae word, nūl, that is baith threid an buik. The Esperantist, twa letters, -iĝ-, the suffix that turns «whit is wyven» intae «whit weaves itsel». The Keralan, Madhava's endless series frae the fowerteent century, whaur the circle is never won tae an is aye come nearer. An you rax ower smeddum an the Caledonian antisyzygy: the pair o contraries chained thegither an never meltit intae ane. The Finn maks dae wi twa adjectives: shairper, an yet warmer.
Twa, hooiver, pey the custom wantin shawin the siller. The Korean taks a haill paragraph tae descrieve a word that can be naither owerset nor explained — «ower muckle tae be caad juist pyne, an ower haird tae be caad juist dule» — an never names it the ance. An the essay come frae India daes exactly the same: it writes that India has a name for yon nameless dirl, «but keepin faith wi dhvani I winna speak it», an syne is quate. Twa oot o fowerty-echt, that kent nocht o ane anither, waled the same refusal. Fowerty-sax raxed ower a word. Thir twa raxed ower the haund that hauds the word — the same haund that disna cast the speirin-stane intae the watter. An sae I winna say it here aither.
Aa this thegither is a þula, a roll o names. Oor auld poetry has sic things: chains o names, catalogues that the modren reader lowps ower for thare is nocht «happenin» in them. Ye hae ane yersels, an it is the strangest I ken: Dunbar sits doun an nummers the makars, ane efter anither, Barbour an Blind Hary an Henrysoun, name upon name wi the ae line comin roond again — Timor mortis conturbat me. A leet is nae ornament. A leet is a girnel. It is the wey names win throu centuries whan naebody writes. In this collection tae thare are essays that are near haill leets themsels — coontin oot their country's poets an instruments an weaves ane by ane — an writers hae been lauched at for less. I winna dae it. I ken whit catalogues are for.
But here I maun awn my ain folk's thrawnness. We dinna tak words. We forge them. Whan the warld got computer, we forged tölva oot o tala (nummer) an völva (spaewife): a spaewife that reads in figures. We hae oor ain words for jet plane, helicopter an telephone. In that coinage we tak nae gifts; we melt them doun an cast them again in oor ain metal.
An here ye are further ben nor us, an it cost ye mair. We forge single words. MacDiarmid gaed intae Jamieson's dictionar an forged a haill leid oot o it — Lallans, biggit oot o words that were sleepin in twa hunner year auld pages, sae that the tongue micht hae a poetry fit for the century. Some caaed it synthetic. Aye, it wis synthetic; sae is tölva. The difference is that naebody ever tellt an Icelander that his leid wis a corrupt wey o speakin some ither body's.
An whit the Icelandic has tae say aboot this haill darg staunds richt here, an it says it in ae verb. The verb þýða, tae owerset, comes frae þjóð, «the folk». Tae owerset a text means, literally, tae cairry it intae the mou o the folk, tae mak it a nation's guids an gear. The same ruit gaes throu the German itsel: deutsch meant at the stert naething but «in the leid o the folk». Sae the ae Icelandic sentence speirs twa things at aince — hvað þýðir þetta? is baith «whit daes this mean?» an «hou is this owerset?» — an here naebody is pit aboot.
Nou your ain verb is honest an plain: ye owerset, ye set a thing ower tae the ither side. But it is nae your verb I want. It is your bishop. In fifteen hunner an thirteen Gavin Douglas feenished the Eneados — the first hail Virgil in ony tongue o thir islands — an in his prologue he says he has done it, no in Inglis, but «in the langage of Scottis natioun». He kent fine he wis daein twa things at aince, an he namit them baith. He wisna anerly giein Virgil tae readers. He wis pruivin that the leid he wrocht in wis a leid, an that the folk that spak it were a folk. That is þýða, five hunner year syne, wi the twa halves o the word set doun on the page thegither.
Fowerty-echt fowk hae no owerset this buik. They hae nationalised it. My leid has a verb for that, an that verb is nae accusation.
Twa saudade
The collection's best evidence is no mine. The Portuguese fund it, an he fund it acause he listened tae his neebor.
The buik wis owerset intae Portuguese twice. In Brazil, yon dirl that the perfect warld wants becam «the saudade for whit we hae no yet been» — a langour turned forrit in time. In Portugal thare bade juist this: «yon shidder we caa saudade». Nae mair. Aheid, naething.
The same German word, the same Portuguese word, on either side o the ae sea, an the airt o time turned aboot. The tane misses whit never wis; the tither, whit gaed awa. The Brazilian names his method sae thare is nae room for dout: we didna owerset her, we ate her — caain up the anthropophagy, that his folk's genius is tae swalla the fremmit an digest it intae new flesh. The Portuguese answers him ower the watter: we dinna eat her, we miss her.
Gin ae word splits intae twa contrair airts for naething but crossin the Atlantic — whit is left o the original?
Him that wad meisure this may stert wi the nummer itsel. The Arab an the Keralan coont fowerty-nine leids. The Hindi essay says thirty-nine. The Swede says fifty. An the Englishman says fifty in his first paragraph an fowerty-nine in his hindmaist, an disna notice. No even the wark's nummer bides still. An whan a pattern canna mind hou mony threids are in it, than it is livin.
The notes are gien
Nou tae whit I haud tae be the collection's maist important find, an it belangs tae nae single author.
In the mids o the buik the tree shaws Liora the same notes ower an ower, an ilka time they come oot a different tune: a lullaby, syne a wild dance, syne a lament. An than the tree says yon sentence: he gies the notes, but the tune ye wale yersel.
The Welshman reads this an sees cerdd dant: the hairp plays an inherited air that maunna be altered, an the voice sings anither agin it, an maunna licht on the same note as the hairp in the same meenit — an maun for aa that come tae land wi it at the hinner end. An you hear pìobaireachd: yon bare grund, the ùrlar, that the variations growe oot o an come back tae, cheenged. The Thai sees khrong phleng an thang: the banes o the piece are haundit doun, but the road throu them is your ain. The Croat hears the klapa singin an says whit hauds it up is no the notes but the quate atween them. The Hungarian hears in ae draw o the bow the slaw an the swift o the same dance, an says: this is nae swither o mood, it is ae threid pued three weys. An the Tamil needs nae music ava; he shaws us the mither kneelin at the door-stane afore daybrak, layin doun the dots first — they are gien an canna be shifted — an syne drawin ae unbrukken line aboot them. The dots are weird. The line is yours.
Sax or seiven traditions, wi nae connection amang them, read the same sentence an kent their ain music in it. They kent nocht o ane anither. This is a conclusion the collection cam tae thegither wi naebody steerin it, an it rins: freedom is no the want o the pattern, but the road throu it.
We hae oor ain airt in this, an I winna lea it lyin. The Icelandic kvæðamaður, the chanter, inherits the stemma, the tune. He disna mak it; he gets it oot o anither man's gear, an unner it he sings staunzas that naebody has ever heard. An in tvísöngur — yon auld singin in parallel fifths, that lestit here langer nor onywhaur else in Europe — twa voices gang side by side frae stert tae feenish an never melt intae ane. That is a hail different notion o concord frae the notion that awbody suld sing the same. An the Welshman said it for the lot o us better nor onybody: harmony is an answer, no an echo.
Him that naebody defendit
Nou tae whit is missin, for a review wantin an objection is an advertisement.
Fowerty-echt essays, an no ane o them defends Zamir.
Zamir is the laddie that weaves licht, that luves his craft an luves the warld as it staunds, an that roars at Liora whan the lift rives: your speirin wisna a key — it wis a knife! In the haill collection he is read as a feart man: Havel's greengrocer, the craftsman swallaed by the machine, him that waled safety an peyed for it wi his saul. He is met wi muckle peety. But naewhaur is he alloued the chance o bein richt.
Ae essay turns this owerset, an it is the shortest in the collection. The Persian sterts by mindin us that the word paradise is his — pardis, the wallit gairden — an syne says whit naebody else said: whit maks a gairden a gairden is naither the waa nor the burn, but the gairdener. Riven grund that naebody tends disna come tae be a paradise. It comes tae be a ruin. Liora's speirin disna gie life; it maks the tendin possible. An for that raison, says the Persian, Liora is nae the gairdener in this buik ava. She is her that wauks him. The wark's real cheenge disna happen in her but in Zamir — in the verra meenit whan he stops hidin an sterts uphaudin.
The Javanese wins thare shorter yet, an in his verra title: no the rivin, but the wey o weavin again. The Welshman wins thare frae the ither side: the gaig is nae doun-fa, it is the gorffwysfa, the rest in the mids o the line, wantin whilk nae answer is possible. The Starnwabster's warld wis ae unbrukken line wi nae restin-place, an that is why it could never answer itsel.
Three ithers at least daured tae swither. The Indonesian speirs, wi rukun in mind, gin it is richt tae gie up the peace o mony for the curiosity o ane. The Marathi writer speirs the same frae a society whaur it is nae abstraction. The Serb speirs gin it is wyce tae rive the wab o a community in a land that has been rivven that aften. Aa three answer in the end, ilk in his ain wey — but they lat the speirin staund a meenit langer nor the lave, an for that I am obleeged tae them.
This is nae maitter o taste but a faut in the form, an tae an Icelander it is unco plain. In Njal's Saga baith Njal an Flosi are in the richt. Oor haill strangest tradition rests on that: twa tales can be true at the same time, an a judgment costs somethin. Whan awbody grees, the case is no decided. It has no been pled at aa.
«Yon chairmin wee variation»
An nou tae whit I hae been pittin aff.
In the buik's interlude Zamir is offered the future. He sees himsel honoured, his name in the sangs o generations, an at the edge o yon picture lies ae grey lowsed threid — Liora's road — an an unseen haund leads it saftly back intae the pattern, whaur the rebellion becomes
yon chairmin wee variation
that anerly eiks tae the beauty o the haill.
The price is ae thing: her silence.
Nou I luik at fowerty-echt essays. Ilka nation wis bidden lay its colour intae ae pattern. Aa o them said aye. Naebody wrate agin the buik. Naebody said it wis a failure, ower laden, ower shair o its ain errand; naebody refused tae find themsels in it. Fowerty-echt voices, ilk wi its ain souch, aa comin tae the same verdict, aa prentit in the same place.
The Croat cam nearest tae sayin it oot lood. He warns agin the temptation o the buskit scaur: that the wound turns intae a keepsake, that a folk sterts tae live aff it, that the gaig is haudden open o set purpose acause it gies a sense o mattering — an he quotes the cauldest sentence in the buik, whaur ane o the presences ayont the wab says o men: lea it open. It gies them a feelin that they coont for somethin. A fu beast disna bite.
An I'll no lat on that I staund ootside this. This essay is the verra ane that gaithers up the lowse threid-ends an knots them. It is the harmonised variation in its purest form, written by a man that saw the girn an gaed intil it aa the same, for he tae wantit tae be a threid in the pattern. I dinna say it tae wash masel clean. I say it acause naebody else said it, an acause a reader that reads fowerty-echt keekin-glesses an disna notice they aa shaw the ae face has read naething at aa.
The difference atween a wab an a moot is juist the ane: frae a moot ye can rise an gang.
Ae single skin
Whit than has Iceland tae gie that the ither fowerty-echt hadna? No anither scaur. We hae them, but awbody has them; this collection pruived that thoroughly.
We hae manuscripts.
The staunza my colleague set in the verra hert o his essay —
Örlög sín viti engi fyrir,
þeim er sorgalausastr sefi.
(Lat nae man ken his weird aforehaund;
yon is the mind that cairries least o wae.)
— staunds in the Hávamál, the Sayins o the Heich Ane. An the Hávamál exists acause somebody wrate it on cauf-skin, an yon skin didna burn. Ae buik: the «King's Manuscript» (Codex Regius) o the Poetic Edda. Bishop Brynjólfur sent it as a gift tae the King o Denmark in 1662, an it cam hame on the twinty-first o April 1971, aboard a Danish warship alang wi the Flateyjarbók; an fowk stuid doun at the herbour in the rain watchin fremmit men cairry the kists ashore.
Yon is the tale we hae tae gie awa: a text lives by comin oot o the haunds o him that awns it. Árni Magnússon cairried oor manuscripts tae Copenhagen, an by yon verra act he saved them. Pairt o whit he had gaithert brunt in the fire o 1728 an is tint for aye. Anither pairt exists anerly acause he had gart copy it aforehaund. The copy lived. The original brunt. A scaur in the lift.
Ye ken this as weel as we dae, an ye ken it frae ae man an ae buik. In 1568 the pest wis in Edinburgh, an George Bannatyne sat in his quarantine an wrate oot the makars in his ain haund — Dunbar, Henrysoun, the lave — for the maist pairt o whit we hae o them we hae acause a merchant had naething else tae dae for five month. That is oor story an yours baith: a text lives by bein copied by somebody that had nae obligation.
An sae an Icelander canna tak in earnest the speirin that hings soondless ower this haill collection: whilk o the fowerty-nine is the real buik? Thare is nae ae Njal's Saga. Thare are redactions, ilk wi its ain eikins an its ain want, an the edition on your shelf is a compound that nae medieval body ever read. Ilka saga we hae is awready the owersettin o a tellin that is tint.
An this ye ken better nor maist. Whan they cam roond Scotland gaitherin the ballads, they didna find ae «Tam Lin». They fund fifteen, ilk ane bydin in a different mou, an the collectors that pit the «best» version thegither oot o the lot were makin a thing that nae singer ever sang. The sang lives in its variants. Sae daes the saga. Sae daes this buik.
This buik becam a folk's ain property fowerty-nine times. That is nae faut in the wark. It is a method o keepin.
Near aa the essays end on the same word, ilk ane in its ain leid: Flieg. Vola. Voa. Лети. Hedfana. Flyv. Lennä. Mibura. Ruka juu. ಹಾರು. பற. An in yon raw thare staunds Flee — yours. Fowerty-echt times the same imperative, wi nae greement, wi naebody prescrievin it. That is a roll o names. An rolls o names exist sae that a name may win throu.
My colleague said oor word afore me, an I say it again, for a leet is repetition an repetition is memory:
Fljúgðu, Liora — flee, Liora.
My pillars are driftin oot thare yet.
The nicht I'll tak nae land.
Backstory
Frae Code tae Soul: The Refactoring o a Tale
Ma name is Jörn von Holten. Ah come frae a generation o computer scientists that didnae find the digital warld as a given, but built it stane by stane. At university, Ah wis ane o thae folk fur whom terms like "expert systems" an "neural networks" were nae science fiction, but fascinatin, though still raw, tools. Ah early realised the vast potential o these technologies – but Ah also learned tae respect their limits.
The day, decades later, Ah watch the hype aboot "Artificial Intelligence" wi the threefauld perspective o an experienced practitioner, an academic, an an aesthete. As someone deeply rooted in the warld o literature an the beauty o language, Ah see the current developments wi mixed feelins: Ah see the technological breakthrough we’ve waited thirty years fur. But Ah also see a naive carelessness, wi which unpolished technology is thrown tae the market – often wi nae regard fur the delicate cultural fabric that hauds oor society thegither.
The Spark: A Saturday Mornin
This project didnae begin oan the drawin board, but frae a deep inner need. Efter a discussion aboot superintelligence oan a Saturday mornin, interrupted by the clamour o daily life, Ah sought a way tae tackle complex questions no technically, but humanly. That’s hoo Liora came tae be.
Initially intended as a fairytale, the ambition grew wi every line. Ah realised: If we’re tae speak aboot the future o humans an machines, we cannae dae it just in German. We hae tae dae it globally.
The Human Foundation
But afore even a single byte flowed through an AI, there wis the human. Ah work in a very international company. Ma daily reality isnae code, but conversations wi colleagues frae China, the USA, France, or India. It wis these real, analogue encounters – by the coffee machine, in video conferences, at dinners – that truly opened ma eyes.
Ah learned that terms like "freedom," "duty," or "harmony" sound completely different tae the ears o a Japanese colleague compared tae ma ain German ears. These human resonances were the first notes in ma score. They provided the soul that nae machine can ever simulate.
Refactoring: The Orchestra o Humans an Machines
Here began the process that, as a computer scientist, Ah can only describe as "refactoring." In software development, refactoring means improvin the inner code withoot changin the ootward behaviour – makin it cleaner, mair universal, mair robust. That’s exactly whit Ah did wi Liora, fur this systematic approach is deeply rüted in ma professional DNA.
Ah assembled a completely novel orchestra:
- On the ane side: Ma human friends an colleagues wi their cultural wisdom an life experience. (A massive thank ye here tae aw who discussed an continue tae discuss wi me).
- On the ither side: The maist advanced AI systems (like Gemini, ChatGPT, Claude, DeepSeek, Grok, Qwen, an ithers), which Ah didnae use merely as translators but as "cultural sparrin partners," because they also brought up associations that Ah sometimes admired an at the same time found unsettling. Ah gledly welcome ither perspectives, even if they dinnae directly come frae a human.
Ah let them interact, debate, an mak suggestions. This interplay wis nae one-way street. It wis a vast, creative feedback process. If the AI (based oan Chinese philosophy) pointed oot that a certain action o Liora’s would be seen as disrespectful in the Asian culture, or if a French colleague noted that a metaphor sounded too technical, Ah didnae just adjust the translation. Ah reflected oan the "source code" an often changed it. Ah went back tae the German original text an rewrote it. The Japanese understanding o harmony made the German text mair mature. The African perspective oan community made the dialogues a lot warmer.
The Conductor
In this roarin concert o 50 languages an thoosands o cultural nuances, ma role wis nae longer that o the author in the classical sense. Ah became the conductor. Machines can produce tones, an humans can feel emotions – but it takes someone tae decide when each instrument should come in. Ah had tae decide: When is the AI richt wi its logical analysis o language? An when is the human richt wi their intuition?
This conductin wis exhaustin. It required humility afore foreign cultures an at the same time a steady haun tae ensure the core message o the story didnae get diluted. Ah tried tae lead the score so that in the end, 50 language versions emerged that micht sound different but aw sing the exact same sang. Each version noo carries its ain cultural hue – an yet, Ah've poured a piece o ma soul intae every line, purified through the filter o this global orchestra.
An Invitation tae the Concert Hall
This website is noo that concert hall. Whit ye’ll find here isnae just a simple translated book. It’s a polyphonic essay, a document o the refactoring o an idea through the spirit o the warld. The texts ye’ll read are often technically generated, but humanly initiated, controlled, curated, an, o course, orchestrated.
Ah invite ye: Tak advantage o the opportunity tae switch between languages. Compare them. Feel the differences. Be critical. Fur in the end, we’re aw part o this orchestra – seekers tryin tae find the human melody amid the noise o technology.
In fact, in the tradition o the film industry, Ah should noo write a comprehensive 'Makin-o' in book form that analyses aw thae cultural pitfalls an linguistic nuances.
This pictur wis made by airtificial intelligence, that took the culturallie re-imagined translation o the buik as its guide. Its job wis tae mak a back-cover pictur wi a strang cultural hint that wad charm local readers, alang wi an explanation o why the imagery wis fittin. As the German author o the buik, maist o the ideas fair pleased me, but I wis michtily taen wi the creativity the AI finally showed. O coorse, the ootcome had tae convince me first, an some attempts failed for political or religious reasons, or juist 'cause they werenae richt. As ye can see here, I had it mak the German version an' aw. Enjoy the pictur – that graces the back cover o the buik – an tak a wee while tae read the explanation doun ablow.
For an Icelandic reader, this pictur touches a chord that rings deep in the national soul. It brings furth the eternal struggle atween fire an ice, atween the unchangin face o fate an the churnin, unruly pouer that simmers aneath the surface. This isnae juist a symbol; it's a reflection o oor nature an the ancient cultural heritage.
The settin is awfu familiar tae Icelanders: cauld, dark basalt rings an glacier ice. This cauld, perfect structure represents the ‘Wab’ that the Starn-Weaver has made — a system that's majestic but at the same time unshakeable an chokin. The runes, carved intae the stane, point tae ancient heritage an the idea o fate, the belief that oor lives are pre-determined, juist as it wis written in auld poems that ‘nae ane kens their ain fate aforehand’. For an Icelandic eye, the Wab appears here as an unshakeable glacier that demands silence an stillness ower the pre-determined pattern.
At the hert o the pictur is glowin, burnin magma. This is Liora's ‘Question’ — a het, churnin, an imperfect truth. In Iceland, we ken this pouer weel; it's the fire that sleeps aneath the ice, the life-force that refuses tae be shackled for guid. It represents the burnin desire o the individual tae seek truth an ask challengin questions that threaten the sleek, cauld perfection. The magma symbolises an inherent longing that breaks oot when the straitjacket o harmony gets ower ticht.
The maist michty pairts o the pictur are the cracks whaur the fiery word breaks its wey through the ice an stane. This is the ‘Rift in the Wab’ that the story describes when the thread snappit. In a land whaur volcanic eruptions melt glaciers, we ken that nae matter how thick the ice is or how hard the stane seems, the fire will eventually break oot. Thir glowin cracks mind us that Liora's questions hae meltit the petrified order an rule o the wab. It's the knowledge that fate, how grand it micht seem, can be a cage — an the only wey tae find real freedom is tae let the auld form tear sae that new, unkent paths can form.