Acqui es una novela plan per Jarl Faidit in inglesa. Mas es solament un "first draft" : Comments are welcome. 

The greatest writer in the world

by Jarl Faidit

No one really knows how the expression came into use. Some have tried to trace it back, unsuccessfully. As far as one can remember, it started to spread around in the papers the year his second book had come out as it begun to sell amazingly well.

Actually, the papers then talked of « one of the greatest writers in the world » and slowly, probably out of lazyness, they dropped the « one of ». When his third book came out no one dared to question the fact that he was THE greatest writer in the world. Since no one really fathers the phrase, it is impossible to know what was first meant by it. It is very likely that every one understood it one’s way. Of course, Zigor Nausatu never said a word against this expression used about him. He never took any pride in it either.

In fact, apart from the words contained in his books, he never publicized any statement of any kind. If he sometimes (so seldom) appeared in public, never a word came out his mouth. Thus he might not have been the greatest writer in the world – only few people ever argued, in vain, about the matter – he certainly was the most silent writer in the world. It was said that he did not like to speak english in public and feared to be misunderstood, to say things in a way he might regret. It has been said that about him, and so many other things…

But after all, was he not the greatest writer in the world ? Had he not been so, it is likely that none of what happened to him would have been possible. Never a man has ever been the object of such worship and devotion since religion came out of fashion. After his fourth book came out any of his public apparitions provoked frenzy and madness. People had the fantastic impression that literature had found a body of flesh to present itself in front of them. A lots of them could not bear to witness such an incarnation. Some rumors have carried about that he had grown tired of such an adoration. But he himself never stated anything of the like. The frenzy reached its apex as it was announced un the press that his next book was close to coming out. Assumptions went around on what it would be about, on its length, its form, its font, its cover, its language, etc. People were betting on anything that might come from him: betting was a way to measure how much the valued him.

His silence made his fame grow bigger than it probably would have, had he talked and answered the numerous questions people were dying to ask him. In his rare public apparitions, he answered the crowd’s frenzy only with a shy nodd and a tiny grin. He joined his hands, closed his eyes, as if meditating, seemed to be about to say something and when it looked as if he were going to utter words he turned around and left. Some of the most proeminent exegetes of his work have claimed he did all that with the greatest irony. But no proof or public statement by him has ever supported this interpretation of his little public dance. For the audience looked at it as a dance.

When his fifth book came out, no one wrote about it. Reviews of his books simply stopped being printed, for they had become obsolete. What judgement could a simple critic form about one generous fragment of the work of the greatest writer in the world that he generously granted to the public ? The answer is far too obvious. There was no need to talk about his book in the literary columns for the rest of the columns of every paper was filled with implicit references, allusions, praises about the book. Economical pages dedicated most their pages to the impact of his book on the publishing business, political pages to the influence of his writing over the next elections in all the countries holding elections at the moment and after, social pages offered to the reader extended developments about everyone’s gratefulness for the coming out of such a book for it would soften the readers’ hardship and help them work out a solution to any of their problems.

After his second book, Zigor Nausatu had decided to write directly in English, probably for convenience of his readers who, for the most of them, could not wait for translations and lost patience. No one ever actually understood how his first two books could have reached such a large audience across the world being first written in basque. He himself certainly had an idea about it but his books never said a word about the issue of language. For some reasons, notwithstanding they had been written in basque, everyone felt each book read had been written in their language, though they had no notion of the basque language, not even of the basque nation. They felt the original spoke to them directly. His books spoke all languages, somehow.

Thus when the papers announced that his third book would be written directly in English, many feared his writing would lose its power, its original tone, its inimitable way to put things forth.The contrary occurred : this third book had taken a step further anything that made his literature great. And then each book continued the ascension up to the climax of the Literature. But after his fifth one the books reached so high a realm that words by others seemed derisory, laughable, ridiculous in comparison. They just did not match the greatness they were trying to describe, to highlight and to promote. Talking about his books appeared absolutely trifling, if not altogether insulting. To promote literature, what an idea !

This is why soon the papers only advertised the publication of his new books with a picture of him grinning. That was the signal everyone could rush to the bookstores to taste the new fruit. And people did. They queued for hours once the information was out.

And when they were finished reading the book, it was not talked about at all. Words couldn’t come to terms with his words, with his world. Our languages appeared too dull to describe his world. Everyone felt it though not everyone could have put it that way. Only a few daring and talented ones managed to formulate this new law of language and of nature. It appeared possible only to speak about, around him and his work, not to speak of him or of his work. Of him, of his work, nothing was utterable. Everything was unworthy.

***

It is almost impossible to trace back the origin of the idea. Some say – God only knows why and on what ground ? – his wife expressed it first. It might be true, or not. Who knows ? No one. The idea nonetheless filled our world with joy and solace for it did at last build some sort of brigde above the growing gape between our world and his books. It would hopefully help the public get a taste of the everyday genius. It would very likely make him realize his mission towards his readership and wash the enigmatic grin off his face. It would perhaps unriddle huge parts of his greatness.

The idea was to give the public direct access to the intimacy of the creation. For that purpose it was thought that the best would be to give the public the opportunity to witness the gestation of the writing in its everyday practice. For a long time the idea remained as such, unconnected to any practical solution. The solution came from him, somehow. His publisher had never realized that where he lived was already a statement in favor of such an innovative experiment, almost a begging call for it.

After the success of his second book, Zigor Nausatu had bought an old theaterhouse in Reykjavik, very far from Garazi, his hometown. He needed a peaceful place where no one would bother to him, so he picked Iceland because he did not know a word of Icelandic and thought it would make any conversation impossible. So says a character in his fourth book. Many read it as a confession about his moving north to this remote island. I think this is nonsense !

He had bought a building called Tjarnabio which he had adjusted to his needs. The wings of the scene had been converted into a three levels private library. The scene held the rest of his books – a few thousands – and his working office : there was a desk, somes chairs, a comfortable Voltaire-chair for his reading, a coffee-table by it and a large and welcoming sofa. The top floors were turned into very neat accomodations with everything needed. He could have his family live around him while working on the scene. It is still debated whether he might have sometimes actually used the hall as a theater or a movie theater. We will never have a satisfying conclusion to the debate. We might as well just drop it.

From his room, on the second floor, he had a nice view upon a little pound, called “tjörn”, full of ducks and swans and on an old church on the other side which the locals called « free » for unknowned reasons. A character in his seventh novel says he does not like the grey building seen from the window of his study. Some think it is a clear reference to the city-hall seen for the windows of Tjarnabio. Now we know it could not have been the case and it was too simple a reading.

Few people knew about his living north in the Atlantic and his publishers made sure it was never disclosed on any printed paper. As a matter of fact an agreement had been made with the local authorities never to mention his presence in any language other than Icelandic. He thus became what the locals call « Islandsvinur » amongst many, with no further honours. It would have remaind so had his publisher not found the solution to the question of disclosing genius publically.

The device was designed by a local artist whose name is to remain untold, for he afterwards became world-famous. It consisted in a large piece of very thick glass closing the scene from bottom to top and from wall to wall so that it was separated from the stalls hermetically. The glass had been designed so thickally that no sound was to leak out of the scene into the audience nor from the audience onto the scene. The curtains were set on the audience’s side to be open or close at the conveniance. Any access from the audience part into the house was walled and closed. A tunnel was dug with its entrance next to the church across the pound leading directly into the audience room. It was worked out this way so that the public would access the place from far away without knowing where in the town they were as they entered the theatre room. That way the writer’s privacy would be kept unviolated.

Nothing at all was advertised. How people managed to hear about the opportunity to witness the master in the midst of his creation it is not possible to say for the information spread probably through many ways. At first, the audience was admitted from early morning until late at night and for a reasonnable price. They had to eat and drink outside for no beverages nor food of any kind – especially gums – were allowed in the theatre. Thus the hunger and the thirst only regulated the flow of viewers. Once out to eat or drink, or powder one’s nose, as it were, one had to pay another entrance fee and to queue again to be admitted a another time.

The most fanatical readers could starve for hours. Due to the success of the attraction, it was decided to open a few nights as well. Some would sometime stay without drinking, eating or relieve themselves for almost fifty hours in a row. Falling asleep would get you expelled for it was seen as a mark of disrespect to the master. The other viewers themselves had to expell the sleepers for sleeping was not forbidden as a written rule. It was just despised as a lack of resistance to the necessity of nature. And we all know art should master nature: therefore the love of art should lead you to master nature as well !

The publishers themselves, from all around the world, were the first to attend the scessions, for many of them had never met the writer. They had only seen his signature at the bottom of the contracts. Quickly locals came as well. Then a lot of them saw the financial opportunity it would represent for the city to include the attraction in the touristic tours. So they did, very successfully: this attraction first put the island on the map of tourists tours, although most of those who came to see, Zigor Nausatu did not see anything else from the country. They arrived without booking a room or knowing anything about the island. There was one sole thing they knew about it and it was enough : HE was there and it was possible to see him write and live.

As the “pilgrimage” grew more and more popular the price of the fee increased tremendously. The idea was to regulate the flow of readers through an outrageously high price. The flow, nevertheless, grew bigger. Soon the hotels could not welcome all the readers, though they had no interest in resting or sleeping : all they needed was to see him and they did bother to do anything but work out the attendance. As a consequence, the waiting line soon grew so big that it went around the pound a few times.

Locals saw a great opporunity in the matter : they would offer to stand in line for some money and many families started to make a living out of it. You would book months in advance the right to access the theater a few days only after arrival: you would buy, in fact, some waiting time to the local who had done the waiting. The irony is that HE might have come and gone by this obsessed crowd everyday without even knowing all this fuss was about him and the crowd realizing HE was who he was, for he always wore a hat and the crowd was to busy longing to get in to pay any attention to any passing by character.

The audience was accepted in during the opening hours and could stay as long as they could stand to not eat, drink, sleep or use the lavoratories. People sat in a religious silence contemplating the writer as he came in and out. They watched him read, take notes, take a few steps along the scene, sit down suddenly and write something, walk out and come back in with a book. Sometimes the scene remained empty for hours, more seldom for days.

He would sometimes mess up what he had just written and throw it away, in the can or on the glass. Some people were extremely lucky to witness the miracle of creation as they saw him sit down for many hours writing, typing, correcting in a calm frenzy. His back glued to the back of his chair, the upper arms leaning on the table and the fingers dancing on the keyboard ; or the back on the back of the chair, the upper arms would be dithering as the pen ran across the sheet soon covered with the elements of his world.

These moments happened from time to time and rumors ran along the queue announcing the beginning of such a miraculous moment, the ending of it or a soon coming live creation. Some policemen had to be around on those occasions for then the crowd went beserk and could not stand to miss the event of a new addition to their world.

He usually came in the morning, rather early. He took a book and read. He often shifted from one book to another leaving the previous one open on one of the tables of the scene. He read sitting in his Voltaire-chair or leaning in his sofa or walking. He sometimes seemed to be reading aloud and maybe even scanning some verse. His right hand would beat the tempo while his steps were taken according to the beating. His reading was constantly interrupted by notes he would write down on papers, on the last page of the book or even on the page he was reading.

Preliminary work, no doubt !

Not even from the front row was it possible to see what he was reading or writting, for the distance was always too great. People nevertheless came out of Tjarnabio convinced about what he had been reading or writting and carried around legends about it. Scholars could never make out between assumptions and truths. They could never make out anything anyway.

The grand public had kown about the possibility of watching the greatest writer in the world write and read as his tenth book came out. The facilities of the island soon appeared too limited to welcome such a great number of pilgrims. It was discussed wether it would be timely and appropriate to enlarge the airport and adapt the aera around the pound to the flow of readers. It never went further than discussion since it was proved that no more money would come out of it.

Locals soon built a whole economy on his presence. Strolling sellers of hot-dogs, of beverages were making a fortune already, along with the line-waiters. Within the line some rules started to be shared among the crowd. One would not try to sneak closer to the entrance. One would watch out for all the others and all the others for each. Chairs were being lent to whoever really needed them. Anyone who needed to leave the line for many different reasons would be assured to get back her or his position. Old people were given advantage due to their weakness and to the fact that they were never sure to live long enough to see the master.

The locals had a great responsability in the institution of these rules, for the rules made it possible for them to leave the line in order to do what they had to do: go back home to sleep, celebrate birhtdays, pick up the children at school, bury some relatives, give birth, and the like; and they would not lose the benefit of the long waiting in the line.

Strange expressions arose : « to retire » meant to quit the line, « to sink » meant to finally have access to the tunnel, that meant in fact to get very close to the theatre, « to read » meant to see the line move on the other side of the pound. Usually, if you read the line, you would expect to soon « stepard » (contraction of « step forward). A « liner » was a person who had waited more than one day ; a « very liner » was someone who had been round the pound once, a « very very liner » someone who had been round twice, etc. Those who had already been accepted in and where standing in line to be admitted a second time were called the « Ones », or « of the Ones ». Those who were « of the Ones » were granted great consideration and asked many questions. They could sometimes go forth a few meters in exchange of some anecdotes from inside. Of course, some lied to get in quicker. But the locals usually managed to expell them from the line. Lying about the greatest writer in the world was a sin, especially in the line. Those liars were calles « loners ». The « hot-dogs » most of them ate all day long were referred to as « pylsog », probably under the influence of the local language. When sleeping on the chairs, they would call the chairs « sofas », probably out of irony, for those chairs were very far from the comfortable sofas we are used to.

Many other expressions came and went testifying to the strange experience of those who stood sometimes for weeks hoping to make their dream come true, that is to see the greatest writer in the world create.

***

The luckiest were no doubt those who got the opportunity to watch him proofread the opus on the verge to come out. They somehow felt that in these moments they were almost in the same position as he as they too had their eyes on his writing, though they could not read it from so far. The other difference lay in the fact that he always added words here and there, wrote remarks in the margin, suppressed a groups of words, even lines or paragraphs, that is to say wrote in and around the text. On their part, they no longer dared to do such a thing. They all had their copies of his books immaculate. Nothing added to, nothing suppressed from, nothing written around the pure and exact text. It has been spoken of a fanatically devout attitude towards his texts. That kind of qualification is to be left to the scholars who, as we all know, are but listless iconoclasts.

When reading the prooves of a book, he would always concentrate a lot more. His forehead showed wrinckles every now and then. His feet did not stand still. He crossed his legs, then uncrossed them, and crossed them again. One could sense a great concern in the general attitude of his body. On those occasions, he stayed very late into the night reading. Much later than he normally did as he only wrote and read, still inside the process of building a new book. Looking at the book finished seemed to give him extra-strength to wake later and work longer.

It is not very clear what people got out of those hours spent watching a man write, read, walk, scan, probably sigh, curse, yawn, etc. It is not certain they got any closer to the core of his writing by watching it being performed. They never knew what had been written, nor when, as they read, wether they had witnessed the invention of lines now printed or not. Assumptions have been put forth on what page one might have seen invented while in the theatre, but, again, no statement of the author never came to support those claims. To say sooth, it does not really matter. To witness the writing of a page does not change the reading of it. But this all helped the myth to develop. All the readers went back home with stories of miracles witnessed and a new and reinforced dedication to his books.

It is not sure wether Zigor Nausatu really knew about that, wether his family told him or not, if the adjustment of the theatre had been done as he was away or if he had gone away for the making of it. Anwers to those questions would be of a great assistance to understand some of the most mysterious pages of his last book, but they will never come.

He died writing, after a long night. One morning his heart stopped, his head fell on the table and his pen slipped across the paper and the table and fell on the floor. Most people were struggling to not fall asleep in the audience. The reaction was not immediate. But when they realized something had happened the frenzy and the despair urged them to smash the glass wall. It took them four hours of throwing the chairs to work out a hole in the wall. When they finally did, the body already was gone.

No one knows where it is now. No one knows where they took the greatest writer in the world. Some say he should be seeked in his books. But most of us no longer dare to open them. We feel we are not worthy of them and their world until we have found him, or what is left of him, in this world. After they took away the greatest writer in the world, Tjarnabio has been sold back to locals who have turned to a theatre again, disregarding its glorious past.

This story, it seems, is forgotten nowadays, even in the city itself were it took place. The silence around this story nevertheless is not a disregard, I prefer to think and believe it is a homage to his greatness and to our sorrow. Hopefully the scholars will never prove me wrong.

©Translation by Cyril de pins. Any use of this text without asking the author is illegal. This is a publication.