4.5★s
“Eternity isn’t within my reach. Compared to you, Hekla, who are the daughter of a volcano and the Arctic sea, I am the daughter of hillock and heath!”

Miss Iceland is a novel by Icelandic author, Auður Ava Ólafsdóttir. It is translated from Icelandic by Brian Fitzgibbon. She was delivered by the local vet and named after a volcano, quite against her mother’s wishes, by her volcano-mad father. Her mother later said of Hekla: “that there needs to be… chaos in the soul to be able to give birth to a dancing star…” From a very young age, she was determined to be a writer.

In 1963, twenty-one-year-old Hekla Gottskalksdottir, slim and beautiful, takes the coach from Dalir to Reykjavik with a plan: she will find a job, a place to live, and she will write. On the bus though, she catches the eye of a middle-aged man, who feels sure she would do well in the Miss Iceland pageant. No, thank you.

She looks up her two best friends: Isey, married with a baby; Jon John who, with his sewing machine is set to make a name for himself in wardrobe for theatre, but this queer feels very much the misfit in 1960’s Iceland.

Despite the deep faith her two friends have in her work, there’s no instant, or even gradual, success to be had in Reykjavik. In her waitressing job, she is poorly paid and subject to constant sexual harassment. Her manuscripts are rejected by publishers; instead, entry into the Miss Iceland pageant is regularly recommended. Jon John finds he is no freer in the city than in Dalir.

Her new boyfriend, a librarian and frustrated, aspiring poet, who firmly believes “For every thought that is conceived on earth, there is an Icelandic word”, is unaware of Hekla’s literary ambitions: “Does he know about the wild beast that’s running loose inside you and waiting for you to release it? Does a poet understand a poet?”

Isey asks: “’Which do you want the most, to have a boyfriend or write books?’ I give it some thought. In my dream world the most important things would be: a sheet of paper, fountain pen and a male body. When we’ve finished making love, he’s welcome to ask if he can refill the fountain pen with ink for me.”

Ólafsdóttir clearly demonstrates the invidious position, in the early 1960s, of women and gay men within the homophobic patriarchy prevalent in many countries, but especially one as insular as Iceland. Her characters are forced to take pragmatic steps to survive, if not really thrive.

Ólafsdóttir’s prose is quite sparse and understandably has a Nordic feel; the characters are a bit quirky; and the place names will be a tongue-twister for readers not of Scandinavian extraction. Familiarity with the many Icelandic and Danish poets and authors might well enhance the enjoyment of this novel, but it is not absolutely necessary. This is a bit deeper and darker than the cover picture and English blurb seem to suggest, but certainly a beautifully written, moving read.
This unbiased review is from an uncorrected proof copy provided by NetGalley and Grove Atlantic