Subject: In Iceland, One Man Strives to Protect Traditions Date: Published: 8/13/86 112 lines Source: Wall Street Journal. Copyright Dow Jones & Co. Inc. In Iceland, an Island of Eccentricities, One Man Strives to Protect Traditions --- By Thomas F. O'Boyle Staff Reporter of The Wall Street Journal DRAGHALS, Iceland -- Sveinbjorn Beinteinsson, his furrowed face hidden beneath a beard that resembles an old Viking shield, takes a deep breath and begins to recite the poetry of his ancestors. "As long as life lasts," the old man sings in his native Icelandic, "I will love women and horses and be drunk most of the time." Finishing the recital, he sits before a coal stove in his cabin, where he lives alone, except for some 50 sheep and three cats. And, of course, a dozen old Norse gods. A carved wooden hammer, a replica of Thor's, hangs on the front door; inside the cabin, portraits of Odin, Loki and the other deities Mr. Beinteinsson (pronounced baintainsown) worships decorate the walls. "For me this is a patriotic religion, something I have inherited from my forefathers," he says, explaining his pagan theology. Worship of the Norse gods is a recognized religion in Iceland, the oldest faith on this ancient and isolated island. "I see myself as a protector of our culture, a protector of our traditions," he adds. Mr. Beinteinsson, "the high priest of heathendom" as he is widely known in Iceland, is "viewed as a crackpot," asserts Jon Baldvin Hannibalsson, a member of Iceland's Parliament. "He's too eccentric to have much of a following." Yet in a land of eccentricities, Mr. Beinteinsson is the ideal defender of the faith, someone who personifies the preservation of culture that appeals to all Icelanders. Children read the old tales in school, stories of adventure and war and love. Fine restaurants still serve horse meat, once a staple of the Viking diet that Christian missionaries tried to eradicate as a pagan ritual. This eerie island also breeds superstitions. According to a survey by the University of Iceland's psychology department, 55% of all Icelanders believe in elves and other supernatural notions. In one community, four workers were hurt by flying shards when they tried, unsuccessfully, to blow up a boulder blocking a road. Residents then persuaded the Public Works Department to take a detour, swerving around the boulder that they believed to be inhabited by elves. Then there's the language. The tongue all Icelanders speak is almost identical to the one their ancestors spoke 1,000 years ago, the original old Norse once common to all Scandinavia but incomprehensible to present-day Swedes and Danes. "The Icelandic language has remained remarkably pure over the centuries," says Baldur Jonsson, whose job it is to make sure it stays that way. As chairman of the Icelandic Language Committee, Mr. Jonsson and his colleagues invent words to keep the language current. For "computer" comes "tolva," an amalgam of two Norse words meaning a digit and one who fortells the future. For "television" comes "sjonvarp," a throwing out of pictures. And for "helicopter" comes "styriflaug," a steerable flying thing. Iceland's isolation has contributed to the purity of the language. There has been almost no immigration for 800 years. Iceland had its first death from acquired immune deficiency syndrome, or AIDS, just last year and its first armed robbery in 1984. Even with this isolation, however, Mr. Jonsson finds it a constant struggle to protect the Icelandic lexicon from foreign influence. "We are very concerned about preserving our traditions because we are so small," he says. A rich literary heritage also has helped preserve the language. Icelanders began telling stories about their experiences soon after settling the island toward the end of the ninth century. A few centuries later the sagas had been written down, with authors often adding a little fiction to embellish the history. Today that body of literature is the source of tremendous national pride in a country that has the most bookshops, per capita, in the world. The monuments many Icelanders visit are the empty spaces where once the great scenes of the sagas were acted out. And, often in those sagas, men would defend themselves not with their fists but by making up verses. Poetry, too, is the chief source of Mr. Beinteinsson's fame. He has tried to revive an old genre called "rimur," songs in rhymed stanzas that recount the lives of saga heroes or celebrate Icelandic traditions. The old man has written six books of his own rimur, although he has no formal education. On days when he isn't tending his sheep, Mr. Beinteinsson makes the 90-mile trek south to Reykjavik, the capital, over bone-jarring dirt roads, to read his poetry to audiences. Most times, however, Mr. Beinteinsson can be found on his remote hillside. He has lived in Svinadalur -- Icelandic for "pig valley" -- his entire 61 years. Weeks can go by before another human being visits the cabin. According to Mr. Beinteinsson's faith, the gods will one day die and the world, consumed in fire and sinking into the ocean, will experience Ragnarok, the last day. Iceland faced what appeared to be its own final day some 200 years ago, when the island's population sank to such a low number that Denmark considered evacuating the few remaining inhabitants. But Iceland survived. "Our culture is very strong," Mr. Beinteinsson boasts. "It will always survive." (This article is made available here by Dow Jones Co. for the personal and non-commercial use of callers to this bbs, in the hope that it will be of some help to those who are suffering from the disease and others who are seeking to help them.)