Water or vatn, these are just words.

A trip out to Njardvik and Ytri-Hvannagil is the thing to put those behind you.

This stuff is alive.

The secret of writing books in Iceland is to stop writing them.

Here, one is written.

Note, as Gunnar did, the chain-linked rhymes of Icelandic epic verse rising from the stone itself. Atlantis, he called it.

Fair enough. Iceland, too, is only a name.

This is more.