LoveStar by Andri Snaer Magnason Page A

when so much of life remained unexplored here on earth. It sounded like a reasonable question. Yet even today not everyone is reconciled to the events of that day and some cannot look at the moon without shuddering and thinking of the astronauts lying up there in a gray crater. It is less well-known that on that very day LoveStar was born. The man who has had a greater impact on the world than any moon landing could ever have had. The man who converted dead space into the climax of life with the magnificent LoveDeath program. The man who found love, not for himself, but for the whole world. The man who will always be linked to love and death in the memory of mankind.
    â€œWhat do you think?” asked the author, looking over his shoulder but taking care not to meet LoveStar’s eye.
    LoveStar looked over the text and read a sentence aloud.
    â€œâ€˜It is less well-known that on that very day LoveStar was born.’ That’s news. I myself didn’t know I was born that day.”
    Blushing slightly, the author cleared his throat. “I felt we should link you in better with major events.”
    â€œAren’t there enough major events?”
    â€œNot in your youth.”
    â€œIsn’t it a cliché? To link someone’s birth to a major event? You know I wasn’t born that day; I was born the day the Reynimelur brothers died of exposure on Kjolur.”
    â€œThe Reyni-what?”
    â€œThey ran out of petrol in a blizzard and froze to death because they were only wearing T-shirts.”
    â€œNever heard of them,” said the author, scratching his head.
    â€œNothing was ever found but their bones and the skeletons of their jeeps. Someone had stripped the cars of anything valuable: engine, tires, winch, radio, all stripped. The remains can still be seen up above the Krakshraun lava field. The remains of the cars, I mean.”
    The author waited patiently but was plainly not listening. He put himself in persuasive gear. “As I said, I wanted to place you in a larger, more international context. The Reynimelur brothers are hardly headline material abroad.”
    â€œBut it’s not true; I wasn’t born that day. It contradicts the documentaries, the homepages, and the other biographies.”
    The author shrugged. “Then we’ll correct them; it won’t take more than a couple of minutes to update your date of birth.”
    â€œBut it’s not right!”
    â€œThe year’s right, which is more than can be said of most celebrities.”
    LoveStar stood up and regarded the author who was staring at the floor. “No! Not even the year is right! Must I change my date of birth just because you want to begin the story this way and not that? This chapter has nothing to do with me! It’s bullshit! There was no television in the maternity ward when I was born.”
    â€œIt’s a question of mood. The guys at iSTAR said we needed to sharpen up the image.”
    â€œWasn’t my birth enough of a major event in itself?”
    â€œYes, of course, but . . .”
    â€œIt’s so predictable! To draw breath just as they breathe their last. Why did you have to link my birth to such a depressing death?”
    â€œThat comes later, in the chapter called ‘The Father of Death.’”
    â€œâ€˜The Father of Death?’ Is that supposed to be me?”
    â€œLoveDeath was your idea . . .”
    â€œWill you please leave me alone! Will you please get out!”
    â€œShould I make changes?”
    â€œYou’re not writing another word of this book!” announced LoveStar with finality. “The Mood Division should stay away from literature. It’s supposed to sell books, pep them up, not write them.”
    â€œGOOD!” yelled the author, now looking LoveStar straight in the eye. “I’m not allowed to talk to friends from your childhood or schools, that’s to say if you had any friends.