One of my favourite diversions when I travel is to have my picture taken beside the statues of famous historians, imagining that I, too, one day, will be immortalized in bronze by a grateful nation, gazed at uncomprehendingly by generations of school children, and used as a toilet by neighbouring birdlife. Here is a photograph of me and the statue of Icelandic historian Snorri Sturluson, erected in Bergen, Norway.
Snorri was born in 1179 and died on this date in 1241, one of the few of my profession to be thought worthy of assassination. He was born into a rich Icelandic family and married well, becoming prosperous and head of the Althing, the national assembly. On a visit to Norway he made an impression and was cultivated by those hoping to add Iceland to the King of Norway’s domain. Back in Iceland, his unionist position was not well-received by other chiefs; civil strife broke out and continued for years. Eventually Snorri was murdered, cowering in his cellar, with the connivance of the Norwegian king he had once sided with.
Snorri’s lasting fame comes from his historiography. The Prose Edda, Egli’s Saga, and the Heimskringla give us valuable information on the mythology and history (legendary and otherwise) of Iceland and Norway.
Consider yourself lucky. I’m not even a statue and birds have pooped on me.
It’s supposed to be good luck. Next time it happens, rush out and buy a lottery ticket.