The Liar by Martin A. Hansen – Thoughts on Papyrus

The Liar [1950] – ★★★★1/2

You say the most important thing as indirectly as possible in your story, and that is how you truly capture the attention and interest of your reader. In this classic novel by Danish author Martin A. Hansen (1909-1955), our narrator is schoolmaster Johannes Vig (Lye) living on one very small Danish island of Sandø  – “a molehill in the sea”, and we all become “Nathanael”, an imaginary addressee of the schoolmaster’s sporadic diary-entries. While teasing and taunting his reader, Johannes details the natural beauty of the island and comments on its most illustrious inhabitants and their relationships. Local beauty Annemari wants to break off from her long-term beau Olaf, who is now away from the island. Olaf has been involved in a tragic boat incident some years previously, where one man died, and is apparently not the same anymore. Meanwhile one engineer Harry takes Olaf’s place in Annemari’s life, but the situation appears complex as Olaf’s return is imminent. As the novel so insidiously progresses, the question becomes: what is the place or role of our narrator, mysterious Johannes Vig, in all these happenings? Is his narrative reliable?, and if not, can we differentiate truth from fiction? While evoking the best of the epistolary literary tradition, notably George Bernanos’s The Diary of a Country Priest and Hjalmar Soderberg’s Doctor Glas, Hansen penned an existential novel about the gradual finding of meaning in the fleetness of life, and coming to terms with the passage of time in a remote place where time has stood still.

The story begins with fog enveloping the small island, surrounded by blocks of ice, which already anticipates the arrival of spring. And, through this mist we can barely discern our narrator, whose personality and intentions are shrouded in just as thick foam of mystery. As a trusted man on the island who took priestly duties, Johannes has his hands full: he has to make sense of the behaviour of the “rose of Sandø”, Annemari, who is seemingly caught between two, or possibly more, men; help a poor local boy in need of urgent medical treatment for tuberculosis; and ward off flirtations coming from the wife of the most influential man on the island. We find out about the Sandø inhabitants from Johannes’s subjective viewpoint, and his position of authority and trust soon unsettles us, rather than instils our admiration, especially when his narration turns to apathy and trouble-to-come: “for when you reach the limits of meaninglessness, you find that all is a battleground where two forces fight, and there isn’t no man’s land”, writes Johannes. His diary can be that of a saint, devil, both or neither.

It is what is left unsaid by the narrator that is, paradoxically, the most powerful in this story as it is that which awakens our curiosity, fuels our imagination and plants doubts in our minds. It is as though Johannes is often on the cusp of revealing to us something of essence, some important piece of information that would explain everything, but chooses not to at the last moment. So, we never know where we stand with the narrator as his apparent outward benevolence towards others, such as kindness to one barwoman and little Tom, Annemari’s son, is sometimes replaced with his “devil-talk” and disturbing thoughts. The narration takes us from the mundane and the immediate to the spiritual and the eternal in the blink of an eye as light-hearted descriptions of nature morph into deep philosophical discussions that signal doom and ponder the insignificance of life: “man is an immigrant in his own birthplace, a passing guest in his own home, a fleeting being on earth”; “have we fleeting souls any lasting place other than in the moment in which we marvel at existence?”

In its essence, The Liar is post-war outpouring of existential angst and depression camouflaged as a series of personal diary entries. In making sense of the island, its topography and natural characteristics, the narrator attempts to find meaning and significance of this life in general. After such an event as war that annihilates everything on its path, making everything a history virtually overnight, it is hard to believe that we have control of anything or have a true lasting impact on anything. And, even when Johannes’s job as a school-teacher enables him to make small contributions to the development of children under his care, he then sees his past pupils, Annemari and Olaf, seemingly forgetting his doctrines, drifting like satellite planets away from his domain, escaping his orbit and setting off on their own unpredictable course. There is one wide world beyond the confines of the small island. That large, wide world is now full of unheard-of technological advances that would soon come knocking at the door of Sandø, that is still steeped in pagan superstitions. This thought is hard to take in.

The introspective, psychologically-intense narration barely hides sexual frustration and possible erotic longing on the part of Johannes. Here, we again do not know where the narrator stands and who may be the object of his attraction, or even what his present romantic or sexual relationship could be. We only know there is definitely something going on. Our guesswork is not merely a curiosity – it is a way for us to pinpoint the narrator’s true personality. Johannes is undoubtedly clever and knowledgeable, and it is his insight into others that unsettles and intrigues us, making us think that the man may be pulling strings behind scenes, as in a puppet theatre. However, when it comes to himself and some women in the story, the narrator seems to always reach the limits of his talent of insight and observation. Every person writing and presenting his account to others wants to present themselves in the best possible light (even unconsciously). Is that what the narrator is doing here?

The loneliness of Johannes is evident (at times alleviated by his faithful dog Pigro), but that is also tinged with barely perceivable hostility or a sense of competition among male residents. On one claustrophobically-small island, that is probably almost inevitable. The modernity and future is represented by forward-thinking, dashing young man Harry, an engineer and a stranger to the island, while strong and homely Olaf, who can be mistaken for some Odyssean hero, stands for the island’s traditions, pagan mysticism and a farmer’s way of life. Johannes may be found somewhere between these two men, and, hence, at the symbolic crossroads, though, through his religious upbringing, he still inclines towards Olaf. However, it is most curious that Annemari chooses “exotic” and “progressive” Harry over “understandable” Olaf. If Annemari symbolically represents Sandø, it is also then clear what path Denmark and its people will follow in the the forthcoming years after the war.  

🐦“Everything is as it should be”, the narrator finally says, but it sounds more like “so it goes” by Kurt Vonnegut. In a circular fashion, the story reaches its end through the symbolism of birds, hunting and the coming of spring. The Liar is a haunting story with one unreliable, progressively disturbing, first-person narration set on one isolated Danish island, and is a towering achievement of its author, who managed to produce a full novel out of first a short story and then a radio play. His perseverance paid off since he believed in his story, and perseverance also served Johannes, but at what cost? Again, invoking the hunting metaphors, one may ask what had to die so one can live? Hope is found, but not without a ton of nostalgic melancholy following close behind. But, the again, isn’t it also true that we appreciate light so much because we also have the experience of darkness?