And I soon perceived that often, in one church father, was found just the contrary of what was in another church father.
And that Aristotle reviled Plato, and that Cicero tried to make sense of it all, and could not.
And after that I, in three, four years, had read through all the books which they had in the monastery, and had contended all night long with all the monks in the monastery, I knew no more of that which I wished to know than on the day when I had buried my dear father.
The old good-natured fat Abbot Aelfrik however--he was of noble race, and had formerly been a warrior at the court of the Scottish King, and loved me--often said to me,
"Give up these searchings Fridgifa"--for he willingly called me by my heathen name when we were alone. "Thou must believe, not question. And drink often, between whiles good ale or wine, and sing a song to the harp"--for he had taught me harp playing, in which I had great delight, and which he loved much, and everyone said that none could play the harp like me in all Scotland; "and forget not either often to throw the lance at the target in the monastery garden. Much book reading withers the body."
And I remembered that my dear father's last words had been just the same. And often and often I stole away to my dear father's hill, brought forth the hammer, exercised myself in hammer throwing by star light, and sat then for hours before the cavern, and listened to the roar of wind, wood, and wave.
And now it often seemed to me as if, in such moods, I came nearer to the truth than through all the books of the Christian priests, and heathen philosophers.
And I almost believe I shall not stay much longer in the monastery.
Especially since, lately, a skald from Halogaland visited the monastery, and told of the life at the court of King Harald; of his lordly royal hall, in which twenty skalds by turns play the harp.
And how the boldest heroes ever willingly enter his service.