Then one day, so I have been told, it happened that a young woman arrived at the place from somewhere in the west; or north; or perhaps even east. This woman was on her way to America, abandoned and destitute, fleeing from those who ruled over Iceland. I have heard that her passage had been paid for by the Mormons, and indeed I know for a fact that among them are to be found some of the finest people in America. But anyway, without further ado, this woman I mentioned gave birth to a baby while she was staying at Brekkukot waiting for her ship. And when she had been delivered of the child she looked at her newborn son and said, “This boy is to be called Álfur.”
“I would be inclined to name him Grímur,” said my grandmother.
“Then we shall call him Álfgrímur,” said my mother.
And so the only thing this woman ever gave me, apart from a body and soul, was this name: Álfgrímur. Like all fatherless children in Iceland I was called Hansson– literally, “His-son.”
—From The Fish Can Sing (Brekkukotsannáll)(1957), by Halldór Laxness (1902-1998), translated by Magnus Magnusson (1929-2007)