The novel Slóð fiðrildanna in an English translation. Also published by:
Anchor in New York, 2001.
Faber and Faber in London, 2001.
Thorndike Press in Thorndike in 2001 (in Thorndike Press Large Print Women's Fiction Series).
From The Journey Home:
Hands which were ignorant of what lay in store for them, eyes innocent of what they should see, afraid of nothing. An open smile and thick, coal-black hair, combed back. Of average height, I think, with broad shoulders.
I think.
When I try to picture him in my memory the first thing I see is the silhouette of his hands against white paper. He is sitting at the old desk which we bought in a moment of extravagance at an outdoor market that spring and installed by the window facing the garden. He’s holding a pen. Dusk is falling. He turns to me when I bring him hot water for his tea. All I can see is the smile in his eyes.
“Jakob, it’s getting dark,” I say, lighting the lamp on the table beside him.
The twilight trickles in slowly and silently, wrapping itself around my feet, mantling our bed on the other side of the room. He shifts the pen between his fingers when I lean down and touch him. I see the shadow on the pages in front of me.
“Shall we walk down to the lake?”
Leaving the lamp on, we set off, walking hand in hand. When we came down to the boats, which have been drawn up on the shore, I see a yellow gleam from the window up on the hill. I turn to him to point out the light but he has disappeared.
Darkness falls on the boats. I am still holding the shadow of his hand.
The Journey Home. New York: Pantheon Books, 2000, p. 85-86)