Lost at Sea

PILGRIM AT SEA by Par Lagerkvist. 116 pages. Random House. $3.95.

Giovanni grew up in a devout home "where in every room an emaciated man hung dying for our sake." He automatically accepted ordination as a priest (the novel never makes clear in what country or what faith) and never questioned his vocation until one day he hears the confession of a veiled married woman yearning for a sexual love that her husband cannot supply. As the woman's words and fragrant breath filter through the grille of the confessional, Giovanni is strangely excited. "I did not yearn to rest again in the safety of God's embrace, in his light and peace. I wanted to burn in the fire of love."

Burn he does, in the bedroom of his penitent for many a clandestine night. But love of woman, like love of God, can eventually cool. The mysteries of the confessional stripped away, the couple see each other for what they are: rather drab, aging, unattractive people. The "holy night of love" turns into a quarrelsome hell. The lady returns to the church. Giovanni, now defrocked, joins a ship of cutthroats, who plunder and murder but who, at least, have no illusions about themselves. "The sea is the only thing I do feel is holy," says Giovanni. "However it may storm and rage, I thank it. Because it's cruel and hard and ruthless, and yet gives peace. Surrender utterly to the sea and cease fretting about right and wrong, truth and falsehood, good and evil. Become as free as the sea; surrender to uncertainty as the only certainty."

Swedish Novelist Par Lagerkvist may be a little too much at sea himself. His mystical message does not differ much from the amoralism of a Robert Ruark or a Mickey Spillane. But since it comes from a Nobel prizewinner and is dressed up in the proper symbolism, it has already been hailed in Europe as the last word in existentialism.

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