The Geography of Bliss by Eric Weiner

Author:Eric Weiner [WEINER, ERIC]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: TRV000000
ISBN: 9780446511070
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2008-01-02T16:00:00+00:00

I had never met a Heathen before. I didn’t know what to expect, so I decided to do what journalists call reporting, academics call research, and normal people call reading. Paganism, it turns out, was the original Icelandic religion before a mass conversion in the year 1000. That was largely seen as a business decision, and Icelanders have never been particularly good Christians. They attend church if someone is born or wed or dies, but otherwise they are, as one Icelander put it, “atheists with good intentions.”

The more I learn about Hilmar, the more I am intrigued. Hilmar—whose last name I will not even attempt to write, let alone pronounce—is the head of the Heathen faith in Iceland. Sort of the Chief Druid. He officiates at Heathen weddings and funerals. Hilmar is no ordinary Heathen, though. He is a musically talented one. He’s composed dozens of scores for films and was an early mentor of the pop star Björk.

My first contact with Hilmar the Happy Heathen is by e-mail, a small irony that makes me smile. He says he’s busy—possibly with human sacrifices, I suspect—and can’t meet for a few days.

Finally, the day arrives and we meet at my hotel lobby. Hilmar walks in and introduces himself with a hardy, Heathen handshake. He has a fuzzy, unruly beard and kind eyes. Around his neck is a small silver pendant: the hammer of Thor, the Norse god. We sit down at a nearby café and order drinks. Me green tea. Him cappuccino. Funny, I think. I didn’t know that Heathens drank cappuccino.

Hilmar is shy, almost painfully so. He looks down when speaking, which he does in a barely audible murmur. I keep leaning closer to make out the words. He’s wearing a heavy green coat, which he leaves on during our entire conversation.

Hilmar seems like a man from another time. I’ve met people like this before. People whom I can easily picture walking down the streets of Elizabethan London or turn-of-the-century New York. It’s not only their appearance—a walrus mustache, for instance—but their body language and verbal tics that make them seem chronologically out of place. I place Hilmar in the early 1800s. I can picture him composing his music by lamps fueled by whale blubber.

As I said, Hilmar’s life revolves around his two loves: paganism and music. I’m unsure how to broach the former, so I start by asking about the music.

When Hilmar was eight years old, he’d listen to a relative, a professional musician, play the violin. He practiced ten hours a day. This struck young Hilmar as too much work. How could he be a musician and not work so hard? he asked his relative. Become a composer, was the reply. And so Hilmar did. He’s dabbled in other fields over the years but keeps coming back to his music. Haunting, beautiful music.

Hilmar operates at the level of the sublime. The quotidian—parking his car, paying his bills—doesn’t interest Hilmar at all. So invariably he parks poorly and forgets to pay his bills.

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