Some things in literature are inexplicable.

Some things are difficult to adapt to.

Some things a lady doesn't tell.

My thoughts fly to the old Icelandic storytellers who created our classics, whose personalities were so bound up with the masses that their names, unlike their lives' work, have not been preserved for posterity.

From the very first, my countrymen have followed my literary career, now criticizing, now praising my work, but hardly ever letting a single word be buried in indifference.

It is a matter of simple fact that Icelanders have always been notoriously indolent.