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“Letters cannot speak for themselves”. 14 This means that the narrative I am working on is on at least
two levels. On the one hand there is Pálsdóttir’s own “unforeseen” narrative, preserved in her
letters. On the other hand there is the narrative that I, who know how everything went, construct
from her letters. And from other sources, for instance the letters of other family members, memoirs,
censuses, parish registrations, newspapers, eulogies, history books.
This brings us to Ken Plummer’s argument that at “the heart of personal document research is the
life story – an account of one person’s life in his or her own words.” 15 However, as he formulates so
appropriately:
Life stories always hurl us into a dual focus on history; into a concern with time in the
life – of how it is lived over phases, cycles, stages; and with time outside the life – of how
the ‘historical moment’ plays its role in any life’s shape. 16
Even though Pálsdóttir’s letters are fragmented they form a story of her life, a story that is
historicised and contextualised by me. Hence, I am “hurled” into “dual focus on history” where there
is a personal life story with inner “phases, cycles, stages” on the one hand but on the other is the
outer “’historical moment’”, the grand narrative of process, change and rupture. Weaving these
narratives together is challenging because neither does the historian (I) necessarily want to follow
that canonized route nor does the narrative (the letters) preserved automatically follow this
paradigm of historical account – the grand narratives of history. As Decker argues: “Letters … [do not]
generally conform to anything like self‐evident story lines.” 17
Furthermore, letters past may be skillfully and even eloquently written but that does not mean
they reflect on life in a philosophical or literary way. Such letters, preferably written by known people
such as writers, politicians etc. are usually the most admired and most used. However, most
preserved letters, in particular familiar letters, recite everyday events and what was thought to be
newsworthy at the time of writing. In 1957 a selection of Páll Pálsson’s correspondence was
published. Its aim was to give an idea about Pálsson, his friends, relatives and times, but, in the
apologetic words of the editor: “This is all in fractures, snapshots from daily life but not a coherent
history.” 18
Such incoherent histories and “snapshots” of daily life were once deemed as “trivial” and
unworthy as Gerber has discussed in relation with 19 th century immigrant letter. Subjects as “health,
family gossip, friendship, personal inquiries and so on” were generally edited out of books containing
immigrant letters but are now considered important evidence about past lives. 19 This is what Sigríður
Pálsdóttir’s letters, and her life story, is about.
The incoherent story and the trivial
When Sigríður Pálsdóttir wrote the first letter to her brother she could not anticipate that their
correspondence would last for more than fifty years. From the very beginning and right to the end
she wished they lived nearer each other and that they could meet and talk instead of using letters.
Almost all her life she believed that this might come true.
Pálsdóttir’s letters cover a long period of time but they do not tell consistent life story. Her
narrative is thoroughly set in time and space, moulded by her social circumstances in different
periods of life. There is rupture and change in her life. There is death. She moves between regions.
And there are gaps and silences that must be “read” and interpreted with the help of other
narratives and sources. There is for instance an interesting six years gap during her first marriage,
1833–1839. She simply stopped writing, leaving that to her husband, who was a friend of her brother
As mentioned above only one side of the correspondence is preserved since Pálsson’s letters are
missing. His voice is only an echo in her letters. And the 250 letters are not evenly distributed over