Icelandic writer Ásta Sigurðardóttir had a fondness for self-presentation that took her contemporaries’ breath away. All her short stories reflect a tension between, on the one hand, the longing for normality, security, and bourgeois acceptance and, on the other hand, rebellion, a need for freedom, and a deep-seated rejection of bourgeois values.She loved to perform, but no-one else should write her roles for her. Journeying is a recurrent motif in Ásta Sigurðardóttir’s texts, and her characters are alone, in both a physical and an existential sense. Her late texts lack the intensity that characterised her first short stories. The pride, the self-assertion, the queenly arrogance are gone. The gaze is dull, self-hatred is dominant. There is no longer anything worth describing.


A Russian violinist is due to play at Hotel Borg, a restaurant that tends to be jumping, where it is usually smoky and noisy, and full of lively erotic transactions. The restaurant is a meeting place for the young men and women of 1950s’ Reykjavík, a town that underwent drastic expansion during both the war and the post-war years. The oldest generations in town have just about lost track of who is who. But everybody knows who Ásta Sigurðardóttir is.