Reading is one of my favorite pastime activities. As far back as I can remember, books have been an inseparable part of my life. Before I could read myself, my parents would read me a bedtime story or play children’s stories on vinyl records.

When we were driving somewhere I would often demand a story from my mother—she made up these adorable adventures about “The Little Pussycat and His Friends”—or whoever was sitting in the front passenger seat.

“Mommy, mommy,” I would yell. “Tell us about the time the Little Pussycat…” I would pause to think about what adventure I’d like her to fabricate this time. “…moved to China!” And then she would produce a fairytale on demand.

I vividly remember the stories a friend of my father’s told us on a dark winter night once, including the hair-raising ghost story of the Deacon of Dark River.

He then recited the touching poem Skúlaskeid by Grímur Thomsen (1820-1896) about a loyal horse that dies for its master in order to save him.

My grandfather, who is more into poetry than storytelling, had actually often recited parts of this poem to me before but he had never told me about the fate of poor Sörli. I mourned that horse for days.

When my grandfather was young he was sent off to work on a farm in north Iceland. There, the ancient Icelandic custom húslestur (“house reading”) was practiced, where everyone would get together in the badstofa (living room, sleeping quarters and wool workshop all in one) in the evening after the outdoor chores were done and the man of the house would read out loud from the Bible, Icelandic Sagas or whatever book or journal was available, to entertain his family and farmhands.

My father adopted this tradition as an upgrade of bedtime stories and gathered me and my brothers in the living room after dinner and read a chapter or two from a book of our choosing, usually one of Enid Blyton’s thrilling mysteries.

A húslestur of sorts was also a part of the syllabus at my elementary school. Either the teacher or an older student would read a story out loud, or, after we had reached a higher level of reading, we would read to each other.

Reading fiction at home was also encouraged. We started a bookworm once where the goal was to read as many books as we could throughout the term.

We made a paper cutout of a worm’s head and stuck it to the wall. With every book we read its body grew longer until it stretched all around the classroom and bit its tail like the Midgard Serpent.

I was a regular both at the school library and at the municipal library where I devoured any book I could get my hands on, often competing with my cousin Eva on who could read the most books.

I was a fast reader but she was even faster. We often got the same books for Christmas so we made sure to unwrap our presents at the same time. Then we read all through the holidays.

Gradually I moved on from the library’s children and teenage books section to the adult section, where I discovered, at Eva’s advice, Margit Sandemo’s The Saga of the Ice People and became completely addicted.

A few years back I discovered that I didn’t read as much as I used to as a child and teenager. Reading schoolbooks took up a lot of my time in high school and university and after I started working, watching television in the evenings became the norm.

In an effort to turn this development around, my husband and I have made it a tradition of ours to go to the annual book market at Perlan in Reykjavík, which is usually held mid-winter, and stock up on books for a bargain price. Our rule is not to buy any book that costs more than ISK 1,000 (USD 8.7, EUR 6.2).

Then we usually read a little before we go to sleep at night, gradually moving through our collection until it’s time to go to the book market again.

I recently enjoyed Yrsa Sigurdardóttir’s Horfdu á mig (“Look at Me”; 2009)—a thriller of nightmarish proportions—and Árni Thórarinsson’s tightly-woven crime novel Morgunengill (“Angel of the Morning”; 2010) and recommend both.

Unfortunately, you have to wait a while until you can get your hands on them in your language as Sigurdardóttir’s 2007 Ashes to Dust is her most recent novel to be released in English and none of Thórarinsson’s have hit the English-speaking market so far, but the French are big fans of his, though.

But with a little bit of luck he will be among the ten authors Amazon Crossing will choose for publication in the US as part of its publication plan for Icelandic books which will be presented at the Frankfurt Book Fair in the fall.

Two authors have already been announced: Crime writer Viktor Arnar Ingólfsson, of whom I am also a fan, and Vilborg Davídsdóttir, who is my favorite Icelandic author—I absolutely love her historical novels.

This year, Iceland will be the guest of honor at the Frankfurt Book Fair, which is a major international literary event so Icelandic authors are being given a big break around the world, especially in Germany.

Iceland is indeed a literary nation and, according to recent news, reading is still a celebrated pastime activity.

Understandably. Having recently rediscovered the joy of reading in the evenings, I can heartily recommend updating the status of couch potato to bookworm.

Eygló Svala Arnarsdóttir – eyglo@icelandreview.com