cultural commentary from the desk of Don Shewey
Thinking about Ray Bradbury takes me back to my adolescence, when my reading was omnivorous and included lots of Bradbury’s books, which ranged from science-fiction classics (Fahrenheit 451) to sentimental fiction perfectly suited to dreamy teenagers like me (Dandelion Wine). Then at Rice University I got to act in a sweet little one-act play of his, The Wonderful Ice Cream Suit. I think I played a character named Villanazul.
A very fine double issue on the theme of Science Fiction, starting with the Daniel Clowes cover. Some excellent fiction by Sam Lipsyte, Jennifer Egan, and Junot Diaz, a long fascinating “Personal History” piece by Colson Whitehead about his childhood fixation on B-movies, and several excellent short essays on sci-fi by famous writers (Ray Bradbury, who just died today, Ursula LeGuin, China Mieville, Margaret Atwood, William Gibson, and — my favorite — Karen Russell). Also a good piece about “Doctor Who” and “Community” by television critic Emily Nussbaum.
On my second day in Iceland, I took a road trip with five handsome swimmers — Fede, Jim, Michael, Ryan, and John.
We loaded into a 4×4. I drove most of the way, and the others took turns sitting in “the way-back.”
Our destination: Snæfellsnes, a peninsula 2 1/2 hours northwest of Reykjavik
The terrain along the way was beautiful and austere. Every so often, some dwelling would pop up, like this Lutheran chapel.
No one was around but we inspected the place, and the light through the stained glass windows made for radiant portraits.
This was the best place we saw all day — an astonishing cliff with gigantic volcanic rock formations — notice the contrast to the lighthouse at rear.
beautiful place for stretching and frolicking
We drove all the way around the peninsula, around the volcano in the center, which Jules Verne used as the beginning of his classic “Journey to the Center of the Earth”
We stopped for lunch in Olafsvik at a lovely cafe/restaurant called Gilith, which was deserted at 2:30. Jim asked if they were still serving lunch. The young woman behind the counter said yes, they had two choices: pig and fish. The fish was ling, served with a very tasty beet sauce.
SCIENCE FICTION
Last month, you humped around a water-stained copy of Pride and Prejudice and nobody said boo to you. In that book, some British sisters vie to get their dance cards punched. In the Shannara books [by Terry Brooks], a nuclear holocaust has wiped out almost every living thing. And “now” — two thousand years in the future — the Ohmsford siblings have rediscovered a burning green magic, germinating under the world, the past waiting to be reborn as future.
The Elfstones is so much better than Pride and Prejudice. Yet it has been made clear to you that the Austen book is a classic, while Terry Brooks is “a hack.” For school, you’ve read Where the Red Fern Grows and On the Banks of Plum Creek, books that start with prepositions and end in cornfields. They, too, are classics, and your class gets frog-marched through them single file, on a path worn smooth by a million schoolkids’ sneakers before you. English class sometimes reminds you of your field trips to Florida’s Historic Sties. “Look at that lovely imagery!” Mrs. Sicius commands, mapping a sentence about dogs on the blackboard. Every step of the way through these books is chaperoned. At the end, you write a report….
Years later, watch a new generation of children beam stories about wizards and eloquent unicorns directly onto their Kindles. They sit on the bus blabbing openly to one another about hippogriffs, pixies. Watch them walking down the sidewalk with their Quidditch brooms knocking and their shadows in the open, their spell books downloaded onto flat gray brains, these magic lovers, these children of the future.
— Karen Russell
After the redeye flight lands at Keflavik Airport, you take the Flybus into Reykjavik. One of my first stops was the bank to exchange money. It’s not strictly necessary — you can spend your whole time in Iceland without handling cash, but I like seeing different currencies, and Iceland’s is pretty cool. Check out the unusual graphics, not to mention the huge denominations, reminiscent of Italian lira. 1000 kroner is about $8.
Around the corner from the bank, we stumbled upon this institution no one had mentioned in the Reykjavik promotional material.
It turned out to be, yes, the penis museum. Not sexy at all — just a lot of specimens in jars, like this whale penis.
And objects like this lamp, whose shade is formed from a bull scrotum. The whole thing is an elaborate, tastefully done deadpan joke.
After a delicious lunch at a Turkish restaurant, it made sense to rent bikes and spend the afternoon burning off our jet lag by cycling around Reykjavik.
We checked out Laugurdalur, the large sports center where Andy would be spending most of the week competing in an aquatics championship. The adjacent botanical garden features several outdoor sculptures, including this striking “Washerwoman” by Asmundur Sveinsson, a tribute to the nearby Old Wash House where the city’s laundry used to be done.
When I arrive in a new city, I like to “walk the perimeter” to get the lay of the land. And in addition to locating the major Sights to See, I like to see how regular people live their everyday lives. So yes, there’s the famous “High Church” that becomes the navigational beacon on the Reykjavik skyline. But then there are the suburban-style dwellings, many of them poured concrete, a la Vieques and other weather-battered island settlements.
The graffiti and street art also provide some sense of cross-cultural referents.
After a lot of walking and bicycling, it made the most sense to observe the daily local custom of soaking in a “hot pot.” The public pool nearest where we’re staying had hot tubs of two temperatures on the roof. Public baths being a crucial aspect of Icelandic culture, it is imperative to shower beforehand. The protocol demands showering without swimsuits, and the signage makes very clear which parts they want to wash thoroughly.
It’s a great way to end the day. We managed to keep ourselves going until about 10:00. This time of year, there’s no point in waiting until it gets dark. It literally never gets dark. Here’s the sky at 10 pm. Even in “the middle of the night,” at 2:30 am, it’s light enough to read.
another eye opens 