This book is about the intrusive fear that we may not be what we appear to be, or worse, that we may be only what we appear to be and nothing more. It is concerned with the worry of being exposed as frauds in our profession, cads in our love lives, as less than virtuously motivated actors when we are being agreeable, charitable, or decent. Why do we so often mistrust the motives of our own deeds, thinking them fake, though (...) the beneficiary of them gives us full credit? Much of this book deals with that self-tormenting self-consciousness. It is about roles and identity, discussing our engagement in the roles we play, our doubts about our identities amidst this flux of roles, and thus about anxieties of authenticity. (shrink)

Near the end of Eyrbyggja saga þórir asks Óspak and his men where they had gotten the goods they were carrying. Óspak said that they had gotten them at þambárdal. “How did you come by them?” said þórir. Óspak answered, “They were not given, they were not paid to me, nor were they sold either.” Óspak had earlier that evening raided the house of a farmer called Álf and made away with enough to burden four horses. And this was exactly (...) what he told þórir when he wittily eliminated the other modes of transfer by which he could have acquired the goods. There is no question of thievery here. An Icelandic thief had to conceal the taking, and Óspak was not so craven. His taking was open and notorious, and þórir did not fail to conceive his meaning. This was a rán, an open, hostile taking. (shrink)