The
Secrets of Fame i’ve been looking almost ten years now for my little book. in this little book i wrote down everything that happened to me in the last quarter of the last century. i put all my ideas, even all my secrets, mine and those of the people around me. i knew they could turn out to be very, very good for me, and not so good for other people. and that’s the situation now, i’ve been asked to recall that time when i took a group of youngsters and led them from the dregs of icelandic street culture into an international community of the creative and intelligent. in a similar way to how foreign minister ásgrímsson has managed to make iceland a military power in the vicinity of the great powers, mighty enough to attack other nations, and in doing so to drive home the truth that the cod wars taught us icelanders: that we can defeat anyone. there was a time when these youngsters looked to me just for typing, which i’d learned in faraway places serving emperors and bigwigs. it was then up to me to try to figure out what they wanted to say becuse it was mostly unintelligible nonsense about bad taste and death, how it changed into world domination. i think so! can’t be certain though since i can’t find my book. the youngsters had artistic tendencies, and these tendencies showed themselves in the form of music, art and poetry. they did most of this themselves, outside the typing which i handled. i often heard from them how you could ruin birthday parties by puffing cigars, or scare cats with rock-hard clubs. fortunately i never went to any of their tasteless parties, where they gave each other awards for their tastelessness. bourgeois tastelessness i’d have assumed. i don’t remember much from this time actually, i forgot quickly, the youngsters got out of the daily grind and became bohemians for a few years, they haven’t approached me again until now, when they asked me to recollect the secrets of fame, which i wrote in my little book. and the little book was always kept in my jeans pocket. in the back pocket. |
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