ABSTRACT
As a young boy I often spent time in the shop of our local printer. The printer sometimes tried to supplement his income by printing comics. He would receive reams of unbound comics that contained the pictures without words together with an original master copy that contained a dialogue. He then translated the original into Icelandic, set the text in lead blocks using a spider-like machine that always seemed to be falling apart, and, finally, ran the reams through the press, thus adding the newly translated text to the pictures.
