Free The Great Weaver From Kashmir by Halldór Laxness

Ehrenburg as if you were talking about divine revelations, and professed your faith in the redemptive spirit that the Russian Revolution had for the arts as well as for everything else. And I listened to you like a dimwit, having never heard these writers’ names before, let alone comprehended anything concerning the redemptive spirit of the Russian Revolution.
    You were beside yourself with joy and inspiration and spoke to me in newly composed sorcerers’ chants and witches’ spells, and when you saw how dim-witted and unlearned I was you stroked my face:
    Hush, I know you,
    How little you are,
    Little and strange!
    For I am a Safir,
    From Sahara in Aharabia,
    Saba in Abaria
    And I know all;
    Abari from Sabari
    Saraba in Arabia
    And I know allallallallallallall.
    All.
    Táta,
    Come Táta,
    Come little Nótintáta
    To kiss Pótintáta
    Out in the woods.
    For my name is Máni from Skáni,
    Come from Spáni
    To see you
    Spámáni from Skáni,
    Skámáni from Spáni,
    From Skámánaspáni,
    And I’m coming to get you, get you–
    Â 
    You didn’t speak like a man, but instead like a caricature of a man or, more correctly, like a caricature of life itself; everything you said was hallucinatory and made me more and more frightened:
    Eia, I am the forest,
    The forest itself,
    The morning forest driven with dew,
    The diamond land,
    No, I am the afternoon forest,
    The throstleharp,
    The chirruping evening forest,
    The crepuscule wood
    Swathed in white fog
    Greenclad cuckoomonth
    Of the godless earthdream,
    Heavenly prurience
    Of the heathen earth.
    And all creation drinks itself drunk beneath
    my leaves.
    I am the hundredcolored fallforestsymphony;
    Behold my leaves fall;
    They fall to the earth
    And die,
    Trampled by the birder’s boots,
    While the hawks perch in white branches.
    And the sorcerer’s hounds prowl in my pale
    leafhair.
    I was a little girl, ignorant and primitive, and I could do nothing but blush. And after you left I hid my blue silk book in a place where no one could find it, and looked at my hands and started to cry.

19.
The King’s Three Sons
A L EGENDARY H ISTORY BY L ITTLE B JÖSSI
    Once there was a great king in the Southlands called Hexameter, and he had three sons with belts and swords and three golden crowns upon their heads. And so he sent them to war to fight with a terribly cruel king up north in Finnmark. And they made their way through a thick forest and were so tired and hungry in the evening that they wanted to die. And then the moon came up, and they saw a little house nearby, and in front of it was a little silver blue lake. And they went into the house, and there they found a table with a tablecloth and three fried trout and cream in three jugs. Goodness me, how the king’s sons were delighted!
Snati
F ROM THE M EMOIRS OF L ITTLE S IGGA
    Poor old Snati, who rests his head on his paws outside the storehouse door, what might he be thinking now? Remember, my dear Snati, when we were little, when we both went sledding? All of a sudden there blew such a gust that I thought trolls were coming to take me. Do you remember once when we were down by the sea gathering shells, and you hopped around me? That was such fun, dear Snati! But now you are old and I am grown up, and you lie outside the storehouse door, but I am home helping Mama in the pantry. Good-bye, dear Snati; I’m going in to kiss Mama.
In the Homefield
A F AIRY T ALE BY L ITTLE G AUJA
    Look at the little blue cuckooflower in the homefield. It’s teasing the buttercup, saying: “The calf doesn’t want to eat you, you’re so tart!” Then the dandelion comes and says, “Hush! There’s no milk in you like there is in me!”
    And because of all this the buttercup started to cry; and the cuckooflower also started to cry. But the milk in the dandelion has a terribly bitter taste. And just then the calf came up and ate the cuckooflower. And