The sagas, a treasure to be discovered

The term "saga", which has entered common parlance, can cover a multitude of different realities. Let's not forget that sagas are typically Icelandic. They exist in their own right and are quite simply incomparable. To read them is to enter a world far removed from our own, and to discover a culture that truly deserves our attention.

To create a literary tradition, you need a language and people who know how to use it to perfection. What makes the Icelandic language unique—aside from its relative complexity—is that it has hardly evolved since the Middle Ages. This is not because its speakers are uneducated, but rather because Icelanders have always held their language in the highest regard and have benefited from their island isolation to preserve it. So much so that today, an Icelandic child could very well read—with just a few spelling adjustments—any text written in the 12th^th century in his country.

A Country with a Wide Range of Products

Before moving on to the sagas themselves, it should be noted that they are by no means the only literary works that medieval Iceland had to offer. First and foremost, we can mention the mythological texts of Scandinavian paganism, collectively known as the Edda. These texts draw on the traditions of the entire ancient North but were diligently transcribed and preserved in Iceland, largely because of the importance its inhabitants placed on written knowledge. Without the Icelanders, it would have been simply impossible for us to know Norse mythology, including Odin and Thor.

The second major form of Icelandic literature is skaldic poetry. It originated on the shores of the Baltic Sea in the 7th century^th Over the centuries, this form of poetry has, once again, become virtually an Icelandic monopoly. If proof were needed that the inhabitants of these northern lands were by no means barbarians, skaldic poetry provides it. It remains to this day, as Régis Boyer tells us, «the most complex, sophisticated, and elaborate poetry the West has ever produced.» It was the skalds—a kind of court poet—who composed these verses as eulogies to the kings or lords to whom they were attached. Generally speaking, it is an art form in which the subject matter matters little compared to the poem’s splendid craftsmanship.

Let’s now turn to Iceland’s most famous literary legacy: the sagas. Before discussing their content, we should first clarify what the word «saga» actually means. This term has been misused and, in French, can refer to just about anything, from a saga Star Wars similar to that of Napoleon. In Icelandic, «saga» simply means «to tell» or «to narrate,» and remains a phenomenon almost exclusively found in Iceland. Furthermore, it should be noted that the influences on this literature were not limited to the settlers« native Norway. Although the majority of settlers arrived on Icelandic soil, a large number of Irish (I emphasize the »r”) also settled there, having been brought over after raids, or came of their own free will with the Norwegians. The Celtic world and its storytelling culture, when blended with Scandinavian tradition, form one of the hypotheses regarding the creation of this literary form, which is unlike any other.

Neither epic, nor historical, nor mythical—but a little bit of all of them…

But then, what distinguishes a saga from an epic tale or a historical novel? First of all, it’s worth noting that, unlike the rest of medieval Europe, the sagas were written exclusively in prose. All in a language understood by everyone. If we were to define them by what they are not, these texts would be neither religious, nor epic, nor mythological, nor poetic—and certainly not historical documents; yet, a saga is a little bit of all of these things anyway. And then, there are sagas and sagas… Scholars distinguish no fewer than five different subgenres based on the subjects they cover. The sagas are not classified in chronological order of appearance, as the phenomenon is more akin to a flowering, much like the European novel throughout the 19th^th century. The sagas had to wait until the end of the centuries of Danish rule before they were truly disseminated beyond the island.

There are five types of sagas: the royal sagas, which recount the lives of Norwegian and Danish kings; the sagas of contemporaries, which serve as chronicles of historical events; and the sagas of knights, which adapt European novels to the Icelandic style. The remaining two are perhaps the most interesting: the legendary sagas and the so-called Icelandic sagas. The legendary sagas reveal the fantastical dimension of this culture, featuring dragons, magic, exotic lands, and warriors worthy of superheroes. The latter are simply the masterpieces of this literature, thanks to their dramatic and narrative artistry and their depiction of Iceland’s heroic age. They either tell the story of a noteworthy character, along with their ancestors and descendants, or they focus on a family in the broadest sense or an entire region, such as The Saga of the People of the Valley and the Salmon. When we think of a saga, this is the category we implicitly refer to. With the exception of a few sagas, the vast majority of authors remain unknown to us, even though researchers continue to put forward hypotheses.

To introduce you to Icelandic sagas, what better way than to start with the two most famous ones: The Saga of Egill, Son of Grímr the Bald (Egils Saga Skallagrímssonar) and The Saga of Njáll the Burnt (Brennu-Njáls Saga).

The Model Saga

Visit The Saga of Egill, Son of Grímr the Bald tells the story of Egill’s ancestors’ conflicts with Haraldr the Fair-Haired, the king who unified Norway. Because of his tyranny, his family fled to Iceland and settled there in a fjord in the western part of the country, north of Reykjavik. Egill was born there, and, to be honest, he was rather ugly. From childhood onward, he displayed his strength and, above all, his bad temper. Around the age of ten, he killed a friend who had dared to beat him at a ball game. A regular participant in Viking raids from England to the Baltic, he was taken prisoner by King Eirik of Norway, who was then in exile. He had to compose a poem in his honor in a single night and recite it flawlessly if he hoped to save his life. His skaldic poem was so beautiful that the king let him go.

After several adventures in Norway, where he earned a solid reputation as a warrior, he returned home to Iceland as a man who was both respected and feared. In his old age, he watched helplessly as one of his sons died. Preferring to let himself starve to death, he resolved to compose a posthumous poem for his son. As he composed it, his strength returned. He composed another upon hearing of the death of his friend Arinbjörn. He finally died in his ninetieth winter, having become completely senile.

As we can see, attempting to summarize a saga is a daunting task, given that it is, at its core, nothing but storytelling. And many adventures have been omitted here. There are no lulls or elements that should not be part of the story. This, then, is what is considered the saga of the Icelanders that served as the model for all the others. It must have been immensely popular for so many copies of this work to have survived. The author of this saga remains anonymous, but scholars almost universally agree that it was written by Iceland’s most famous writer: Snorri Sturluson.

Poetry at Its Core

As for the composition itself, it suggests that this saga was built around the three poems we cited above. Indeed, Egill likely existed historically. We know that he was one of the greatest skalds of his time, and he is generally credited with authoring the poems mentioned in extenso in the saga. Everything seems to have been done to incorporate and highlight these highly sophisticated poems and to portray this man, who turns out to be a poet first and a warrior second.

The prominence of poetry in this tale should serve to demonstrate once and for all that the Scandinavians were by no means—or at least not solely—bloodthirsty brutes bent on plunder. For the narrative interweaves elements of Egill’s cruelty—such as when he bites through his enemy’s throat—with the most sophisticated poetry. In any case, he is a hero who defies categorization and who, far from being a valiant knight, sometimes triumphs through cunning or justice, is quick-tempered, and, above all, quite ugly!

The story thus takes us all over the ancient Scandinavian world and presents us with a glimpse of everyday life. The presentation is factual, realistic, and straightforward; the author avoids unnecessary detours, and the narrative moves directly toward its goal. It features technical terms specific to agriculture, navigation, and law, all presented without embellishment. There is nothing epic about the sagas—just flashes of heroism amid an everyday life that is, all things considered, mundane, in which the theft of a horse can easily turn into a Greek-style tragedy. In the sagas, there is no need to force tragedy; it arises naturally from everyday life.

Realism trumps fantasy

To tell the truth, the authors of the Icelandic sagas shun exaggeration and the fantastical. Admittedly, the latter can resurface—for example, when, centuries later, Egill’s skull is unearthed and proves to be simply unbreakable. On the contrary, a raw realism dominates an uncompromising view of humanity, without failing to move us. How can one not be touched by the sadness of this Viking devastated by the death of his son? Even then, the author does not succumb to sentimentality but, above all, paints a portrait of a man alone with his grief. Nor does the author wallow in melancholy when depicting the old age of a senile Egill.

There’s no point in dwelling too long on misfortunes, joys, and sorrows. The guiding principle here is, above all, dynamism and efficiency; action comes first. Egill never really stays in one place for long; he tirelessly travels the known world, for that was the only way the Scandinavians of old believed one could live. An individual is defined first and foremost by his actions; therefore, heroes cannot afford to stop being heroes. This tale will serve as a model for future sagas, for it already contains all the themes that subsequent sagas will repeat and, in some cases, magnify.

The masterpiece of an entire literary tradition

The second saga we’ll discuss is perhaps the most important; it is certainly, on its own, the masterpiece of this literary tradition: the Saga of Njáll the Burnt (Brennu-Njáls Saga). Its popularity was such that the first name Hallgerdr—after a woman in the saga—had to be banned because it had become too common. An incredibly rich saga, it features more than two hundred different characters across three hundred pages, and its story is so dense that it would certainly have warranted a dozen separate tales.

This saga tells the story of Njáll’s family and that of his friend Gunnar of Hildarendi. It is said of the latter that he «could jump higher than his own height, fully armed, and he could jump no less far backward than forward; he swam like a seal, and there was no contest in which anyone felt it necessary to measure themselves against him; it was said that he had no equal.» Furthermore, he wields his weapons so swiftly that it seems as though he is fighting with three weapons at once. His wife, Hallgerdr, has a very bad temper and tries to sow discord between Njáll and her husband. This leads to multiple murders and acts of vengeance, but also to legal proceedings in which Njáll demonstrates his wisdom and knowledge of the law.

But Fate is relentless, and Gunnar will die alone on his farm, besieged by some forty men, though not without putting up a fight worthy of legend. For their part, Njáll and his sons will be swept up in a dark tragedy by the force of implacable Fate. Murders, trials, and acts of vengeance follow one after another until he and his sons perish in a fire at their farm, attacked by about a hundred men in a matter of family vengeance. Subsequently, his stepson Kári methodically exacts vengeance for Njáll and his family, pursuing the murderers across Iceland, Scotland, and Wales.

This saga perfectly illustrates the diversity of this literary genre. In fact, through historical and archaeological research, it has been possible to confirm the existence of some of the protagonists and the veracity of certain events, notably the arson of a farm in southern Iceland around 1010 following a feud. Gunnar also existed. He must have been a sort of local hero during that same period, as was the pitched battle that took place at the Althing (the island’s legislative and judicial assembly) at that time, during a high-profile trial.

Encyclopedic knowledge

Unfortunately, the author of this saga remains unknown to us, but some research suggests that it may have been written by an Icelandic bishop in the 13th^th century. One thing is certain: the author possessed a vast knowledge of both Icelandic literature and works from the rest of Europe. This becomes clear as the text unfolds, particularly through references to the fantastical elements found in the legendary sagas, as well as through the inspiration the author draws from Christian literature. This narrative was constructed from certain historical elements, to which events necessary for the story’s progression were added. The whole is interwoven with Icelandic oral traditions as well as local and foreign literature.

As we’ve said here, the rule is one of dynamism. Everything must race at breakneck speed toward the expected, tragic conclusion. At certain pivotal moments, this speed combines with the drama, making some passages unbearable because they are so steeped in dark tragedy. The narrative unfolds in crises: the death of Gunnar and that of his friend Njáll. Beforehand, events build and simmer until they explode violently. Then, the consequences are quickly listed before the story moves on. There’s no time to reflect on the events; the author prefers to leave us with tragic, tender, and sometimes comical images, for even in the most oppressive moments, black humor comes to the reader’s rescue in a distinctly Icelandic way.

Fate as the Chief Deity

The narrative unfolds like a chain in which every link inexorably drives the characters toward their tragic fate. They have no choice but to go with the flow and rush toward their doom, as Fate demands. But the mechanism is subtle. One gets the impression that at any moment, the bloody denouement could be averted and the tragedy put on hold. Yet the course of the story resumes relentlessly each time, crushing the characters in a torrent of blood, murder, vengeance, and, of course, death.

Each character is driven by an obsessive idea that propels them to the very end: the desire to dominate and possess in some, Hallgerdr’s rage for exclusive love, Gunnar’s devotion to friendship, or Njáll’s passion for order and justice. Their unshakable convictions drive them to expend a frenzied energy, while Njáll—the only one who is truly clear-headed—ultimately walks willingly toward his death by refusing to fight, fully aware of his fate. This lover of order and wisdom knows at that moment that he no longer has a place amid the frenzy of battle and prefers to let himself die in the fire at his farm.

It is an intense work that blends tragedy (of course), hatred and friendship, murder, forgiveness, and high-profile trials. The characters do nothing more than carry out, more or less consciously, the decrees of almighty Fate—that law written in advance, which, incidentally, is the etymology of the word in Icelandic (for-lög). As evidence, the text is peppered with these colloquial expressions from the time, all of which convey the same meaning: no matter what I do, Fate has the final say.

But that doesn’t mean they are deeply pessimistic fatalists. On the contrary, they are filled with boundless strength; they are driven by an unshakable conviction. They know that a fragment of the sacred lives within them and that to reject their Destiny would be to dishonor it. All the while, they take great care to leave a legacy of accomplishments behind so that no one will forget them. This idea is perfectly captured in the Hávamál, an ancient Scandinavian poem: «Possessions die, / Parents die, / And you, too, will die; / But reputation / Never dies— / The good reputation one has earned. / Possessions die, / Parents die, / And you, too, will die; / But I know one thing / That never dies: / The judgment passed on every death.» Thus, the characters all seek to be söguligr, worthy of an epic saga.

As you may have realized, the Icelandic sagas are much more than tales of bloodthirsty warriors. It would be wrong to portray them as dark tales in which poor souls struggle against a hostile natural world and an implacable Fate. On the contrary, they possess a rare vitality, a wild energy that carries the reader along from beginning to end. But the sagas are also remarkable works in more ways than one—through the narrative virtuosity of their authors, their evocative power, and a worldview that portrays humans with complete honesty, without seeking to pity or judge them. Ultimately, sagas are simply an original reflection of a unique society—one that is well worth our attention.

Discover «The saga of Icelandic literature», an introduction to the series «Icelandic Letters,» as well as the first episode of the series, «The Icelandic Miracle,» in Le Regard Libre No. 55.