An excerpt from the novel in the English translation was published in The Reykjavík Grapevine (Issue 14, Sep 8, 2006).
From The Beatle Manifesto:
Introduction in which the narrator reminds of his existence
A spectre is haunting the streets of the world, the spectre of the Beatles.
It’s as if the earth is preparing itself for a wild drum solo.
Huge flocks of kids appear, with nothing to lose but their virginity.
Parents and headmasters, vicars and barbers – in short, all those who fear for their lot – now consider a holy alliance.
…
It began something like that, the Beatle Manifesto, which was supposed to supplant all other manifestoes, the Communist Manifesto, the address to the nation, and of course the school rules.
The rules hung in a frame on the wall beside the blackboard in the classroom. They contained nothing worth knowing and I could never be bothered to read them.
The only advantage to them was that I could see Helga’s face reflected in the glass. From there I could extract her with a mental magnifying glass, although now I have no idea where she is.
It was I, Jóhann Pétursson, who wrote that manifesto – I introduce myself here at the very outset because I have previously featured on the pages of this author.
He does nothing more than write down what I say, but takes all the credit for it and collects the royalties that by rights should accrue solely to me.
But that’s the way the cookie crumbles.
We fictional characters have no rights. We play all kinds of silly pranks and then the authors appear in the papers and say even more stupid things about us. Maybe we should take legal action and sue them, the way everyone else in society does.
Then you would read in the papers: Fifteen fictional characters sue an author, and conferences would be held: Characters held a meeting at Hótel Saga. Where else should they meet?
I see Bjartur from Summerhouses arriving by taxi with two bald-headed men who both claim to have created him, but he completely disagrees, and Hamlet is a bag of nerves at the bar, totally confused by all the people he has been.
And so on and so forth.
I trust that you forgive me this presumptuousness, but I have had to suffer internment in a drawer for I don’t know how long. I was put there when the author could no longer be bothered listening to me. Yet I was far from having finished what I had to say.
I am well aware that it would look much cooler to come out of the closet, but I haven’t been in any closet, just in a drawer, the drawer of an old desk whence I rise like a spectre from the pyjamas of time, to tell you this tale.
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