Quiet Mountain Essays
Copyright ©, 2004
"Gormglaith" by Heidi Wyss
A Book Review
by
Karen Campbell
I'll disclose right off that I've known Heidi Wyss since we did 3rd and 4th form together at boarding school.
I was perpetually homesick and as I recall, she mostly missed the swirled eggs benedict at the Hotel
Intercontinental in Geneva. Her single attempt to duplicate them in the school kitchen was a disaster.
The author of Gormglaith is Swiss by birth but she's half English and speaks it better than me. Out of
university (three were involved) she spent a year running a blood analyser in a medical lab and then fled to
Paris for the dot com boom to, as she puts it, "translate software manuals from horrid techno-babble
French into corporate English". She has cousins in America and says her inspiration to write Gormglaith
began when she was flashed by a couple of girls in Chicago. Too shy to do anything about it, Heidi says she
wandered the streets on a summer evening, imagining "grrl epics unfolding one after the other, thousands of
years into the future" and first crossed paths with Gormglaith (so to speak) "at the intersection of Michigan
Avenue and Walnut Place." This can't be far from the novel's fictional site of Lakehenge in the extopian
metropolis of Fen Gryndil where, 7000 years later, Gormglaith strides out naked in front of 900 witnesses
to face Miranda, become famous and irrevocably change her life.
Gormglaith is a radical and poetic piece of work that operates on several levels, which seem to include,
A tour of a possible future world
A coming of age story
A slice of life, comedy of (grrl) manners
A psychological semi-tragedy about relationships and relations
A tale about language
A parable about the balance of ecology and technology
A feminist document that has both delighted and pissed off several well-known feminists (along with this
reviewer, who isn't famous by a mile).
We meet Gormglaith Hafgan Halsen (Celtic for "dark blue-green lake, storm in summer changing course")
in a pastoral late summer setting under elm trees, mid-conversation with her friend Findabair. Their rolling
banter deftly pulls us into the story, and a state of extreme culture shock. This is wonderfully written and fun
English dialog, but not quite any sort the reader has encountered before. As they gab, dressed in form fitting
"trews" and clunky laced boots under leafy trees replete with singing magpies, we're plunged into a world of
clannin, scollagyn and sifs, of friggs, freyas and coven, of trysts and plights. In a helpful glossary the author
remarks that she "adapted some related Celtic and Gaelic words along with assorted terms from Norse
myth (which has its feminist aspects), rare smatterings of obscure computer jargon and a couple of Dutch
and Japanese vocabulary items." This permits her to avoid invented words, and many common, everyday
ones as well. It also lends a mystical atmosphere to a narrative with a naturalist perspective.
We soon meet Gormglaith's extended family- her clannin- an interesting group of people running a farm in a
remote countryside. Their cooperative, technologically advanced yet simple lifestyle is neatly described and
generally quite appealing.
After pages of breezy dialog, we learn that her world is populated by 33 million people called Gefions (the
name's taken from the famous Norse goddess of fertility and protector of virgins). Apparently, people
gradually stopped having baby boys, integrated, then finished the job with selective recombination. In other
words, with easy access to safe and reliable geno-technology, men went extinct as auks and everyone got a
healthy, androgynous, boney, flat chested and straight waisted frame that, in a world of only lesbians,
carries limited secondary sexual characteristics (along with a slightly bigger brain and a 300 year lifespan).
In a novel utterly devoid of violence, the reader might assume that 6 billion people and an entire sex
vanished by attrition over many centuries, but this is never verbalized.
The author shifts to the detached voice of an anthropologist to sum up, "Translucent feldstone is a phrase
long abused in clannin literature and refers to her transparent cutis and epidermis, the profoundly chalken
pallor reflected by her subcutaneous fat. Blue-green veins are plainly visible, especially on the limbs. The
only terminal hair on her body is the thicket on her scalp. She is distinguished from other mammalian species
by the ubiquitous distribution of her 46,XX karyotype because clanniners, being practical and sly, have
always brought in daughters." The shock value of this, and their ghostly, somewhat creepy appearance, is
exploited throughout the story, often to highlight a theme of awareness and individuality. It's also an obvious
reference to collective perceptions concerning body shape, skin hue, and superficial attractiveness.
Many feminist and academic websites either recommended or mention Gormglaith, probably due to the high
quality and scientific literacy of the writing, combined with a positive feminist message about individual and
cooperative worth, the importance of education, non-violence and harmony with nature. The controversies,
which aren't trivial, arise from the devastating assumption this novel opens up with so matter-of-factly: Most
of today's social problems appear to have been solved, and a sustainable balance with nature achieved,
mainly through applied technology, including genetic manipulation (which by the way our ancestors have
been up to for at least the past hundred thousand years thank you very much, now on with the story).
The reader may wonder if this isn't just a slippery slope leading down to some new take on original sin. Is
she reading satire, assertion or advocacy? Is the passing reference to possibly anorexic behavior in chapter
10 meant as dark humour or a disturbing glamourization of a serious dysfunction? Are the many fetishistic
references meant to excite or inform? What about one character's comparison, late in the novel, of trystis
(love) to incest? Or the chilling description of the ID numbers everyone carries in their DNA, made by
actually quoting the precise amino acid sequence in Gormglaith's blood, then apparently treating the whole
invasive practice as perfectly reasonable? Must our descendents genetically pre-define every aspect of their
bodies in order to free themselves of concern about them? Having discussed "life" with the author while
drinking smuggled bottles of airplane wine and cleaning up splattered egg whites from stovetops, this
reviewer suspects she's using her keen sense of dark humour to keep the reader aroused and even annoyed
as she slings her pithy observations and outspoken opinions. Others have used the code-word
"thought-provoking" for these sensationalistic tactics.
By the end of chapter 2 Gormglaith, recently "ineen" (or come of age), has learnt some surprising things
about the circumstances of her birth and responds with what could be interpreted as a heartless and
opportunistic act. The next five days unfold in 18 chapters as she copes, hour by hour, with the
consequences of a decision that increasingly appears to have been rash (and the incident concerning her
past seeming more like a hushed up scandal). The perspective is focused as if the novel was carefully
written from the recollections of those who were with her, along with remarks she could have made later,
and the reader gets the impression of being constantly at Gormglaith's side for several days. One result of
this technique is that while one gets to know her personality in fine detail, Gormglaith's true character
remains something of an enigma, which adds interest and realism.
She encounters over a dozen major characters and as many minor ones. Each tends to be unique in a way
that either drives the story or helps the reader understand the world she's in. The most important of these is
Ragnhilde, the bright, enthusiastic, opinionated underachiever in the story. Born at an opportune place and
time, and 'breezing' (not unlike the Heidi Wyss this reviewer knew at school in Switzerland) she befriends
Gormglaith at her most vulnerable moment and is her firm anchor in the whirlwind she's reaped. It's never
entirely clear, to us or them, if they've been set up.
Ragnhilde's offhand description of the game 'bopsy' is a lighthearted example of the blend of natural dialog,
muted eroticism, social commentary and humour that often characterizes Gormglaith. Twins feature
prominently in the story, and provide opportunities for the author to explore her continuing themes of
awareness and individuality.
"The Hafgan Halsens' quality of life," writes the author, "was so typical as to be unremarkable, yet eclipsed
that of any ancient plutocrat." The social system is based on something called Fylgjic culture, partially
supported by an ancient set of open source computer instructions, obviously evoking the tightly defined
DNA in people's bodies. At the time of the story, Gormglaith's world is starting to literally fray around the
edges. The problem has something to do with how language interacts with the Code. Gormglaith has
expressed an aspiration to be a linguist, and aside from the tongue-in-cheek aspect, this is a poetic
metaphor of another recurring theme, a reminder of the importance of effective communication in human
affairs. The last chapter implies that language inevitably conveys some ambiguity, with daunting implications.
The plot, however, is always targeted firmly on Gormglaith, and at each turn, it's a feminist one that involves
people solving problems with empathy and reason. The most aggressive physical incident is probably when
Gormglaith gets splashed in the face with a spray of urine during a hazing ritual. She reacts by trying not to
laugh, and the reader is informed that it tastes like salty vegetable soup and vinegar. This reviewer hasn't
(yet) had the courage to ask the author if she acquired that knowledge from personal experience, but can
confirm that many episodes in the story are adapted vignettes from her own interesting life. Gormglaith
certainly has its share of erotically charged moments but this book will never qualify as erotica. It's part
lesbian science fiction, part techno-goth grrl lit.
The novel ends abruptly with Gormglaith and Ragnhilde in mid-conversation on a chilly, cloudy and windy
shoreline near her new home, "a fit day for the beach". Gormglaith makes a surprising gesture loaded with
Wyssian symbolism and we think the story's ended, but she turns to Ragnhilde and asks, "So what's in the
picnic basket?" The punchline, and Gormglaith's reaction, may leave the reader shaking her head. The literal
interpretation is satisfying dark humour but it hides a metonym, a paradox, optimistic and terrifying, a
fleeting glimpse of Gormglaith's fundamental nature, and perhaps our own.
Gormglaith's radical setting, vocabulary and deceptively linear structure will present a challenging and
rewarding read for some, but it'll be a difficult, uneven slog for others. This may depend more on individual
temperament and interest in the story than on reading skills. As feminist literature it's unceasingly assertive,
positive and controversial. As hard science fiction it offers a deeply structured, often entertaining story, at
turns inspiring and disturbing, in a unique contribution to the genre.
"Gormglaith" can be read online for free at http://www.literateweb.com/wyss.htm
Contributor's Notes...
Karen Campbell is a module leader and admissions tutor in the UK.
