On Wearing a Corselet in a Fight

Readers and friends know I'm a fan of northern epic literature and the sagas, and I swoon over Beowulf--what a hottie!

Anyway, I'm occasionally caught reading yet another analysis of the symbolism, customs, yada, yada, you know the stuff master's theses are made of...within Beowulf, the poem.

The latest, not that current really, is one I've read before from a book call God's Handiwork, and I just had to share this statement made by Richard J. Schrader, the author. He's discussing Beowulf's struggle with Grendel's mother, and he writes, "He [Beowulf] is saved from her knife by God and his corselet as she seeks to avenge (wrecan) her son...."

Now, what I'm thinking here is that it's a fine thing to have God on your side in a fight, but it's a damn, fine thing, nonetheless, to be wearing a corselet!

The Story of San Michele

Anyone who keeps track of my reading list at the right knows that I recently finished "The Story of San Michele," by Axel Munthe. I had an ulterior motive for reading it; it was recommended for all who plan to visit the Isle of Capri, which I plan to do in a few days.

Axel Munthe was a Swedish physician who, in his youth, traveled on holiday to Capri (say that with the accent on the first syllable) and fell in love with it. His book, The Story of San Michele, defies definition. Loosely, it is an autobiography, very loosely. It might be called a memoir if it did not cling so dearly to the dream of Dr. Munthe's to dwell in and restore San Michele.

The book's copyright is 1929, and Axel Munthe wrote it in his elderly years, but having been to Italy once before, I know that the charm and vibrancy of his descriptions are accurate for the modern nation, and I can't wait to see Capri for myself.

"I sprang from the Sorrento sailing-boat on to the little beach. Swarms of boys were playing about among the upturned boats or bathing their shining bronze bodies in the surf, and old fishermen in red Phrygian caps sat mending their nets outside their boat-houses. Opposite the landing-place stood half-a-dozen donkeys with saddles on their backs and bunches of flowers in their bridles, and around them chattered and sang as many girls with the silver spadella stuck through their black tresses and a red handkerchief tied across their shoulders. The little donkey who was to take me up to Capri was called Rosina, and the name of the girl was Gioia. Her black lustrous eyes sparkled with fiery youth, her lips were red like the string of corals round her neck, her strong white teeth glistened like a row of pearls in her merry laughter. She said she was fifteen and I said that I was younger than I had ever been. But Rosina was old, "é antica," said Gioia. So I slipped off the saddle and climbed leisurely up the winding path to the village. In front of me danced Gioia on naked feet, a wreath of flowers round her head, like a young Bacchante, and behind me staggered old Rosina in her dainty black shoes, with bent head and drooping ears, deep in thought. I had no time to think, my head was full of rapturous wonder, my heart full of the joy of life, the world was beautiful and I was eighteen. We wound our way through bushes of ginestra and myrtle in full bloom, and here and there among the sweet-scented grass many small flowers I had never seen before in the land of Linnaeus, lifted their graceful heads to look at us as we passed.

"What is the name of this flower?" said I to Gioia. She took the flower from my hand, looked at it lovingly and said: "Fiore!"

"And what is the name of this one?" She looked at it with the same tender attention and said: "Fiore!"

"And how do you call this one?"

"Fiore! Bello! Bello!"

She picked a bunch of fragrant myrtle, but would not give it to me. She said the flowers were for S. Costanzo, the patron saint of Capri who was all of silver and had done so many miracles, S. Costanzo, bello! bello!

A long file of girls with tufa stones on their heads slowly advanced towards us in a stately procession like the caryatides from the Erechtheum. One of the girls gave me a friendly smile and put an orange into my hand. She was a sister of Gioia's and even more beautiful, thought I. Yes, they were eight sisters and brothers at home, and two were in Paradise. Their father was away coral-fishing in "Barbaria," look at the beautiful string of corals he had just sent her, "che bella collana! Bella! Bella!"

"And you also are bella, Gioia, bella, bella!"

"Yes," said she.

My foot stumbled against a broken column of marble, "Roba di Timberio!" explained Gioia. "Timberio cattivo, Timberio Mal'occhio, Timberio camorrista!" and she spat on the marble.

"Yes," said I, my memory fresh from Tacitus and Suetonius, "Tiberio Cattivo!"

We emerged on the high road and reached the Piazza with a couple of sailors standing by the parapet overlooking the Marina, a few drowsy Capriotes seated in front of Don Antonio's osteria, and half-a-dozen priests on the steps leading to the church, gesticulating wildly in animated conversation: "Moneta! Moneta! Molta moneta; Niente moneta!" Gioia ran up to kiss the hand of Don Giacinto who was her father confessor and un vero santo, though he did not look like one. She went to confession twice a month, how often did I go to confession?

Not at all!

Cattivo! Cattivo!

Would she tell Don Giacinto that I had kissed her cheek under the lemon-trees?

Of course not."


--from the opening chapter of "The Story of San Michele" © renewed 1957

Wine in the West III

Continued…

"The use of alcohol in later Neolithic Europe should not be separated from the overall cultural picture of which it was just a part. As Sheratt explains:

The spread of the drinking complex--a common emphasis on sets of vessels, often combined in graves, which in several cases are so distinctive stylistically as to have given their name to whole cultures--took place during a period of unusually rapid social, cultural and economic change. During this time, Europe was opened up--both literally, in terms of the further deforestation of its landscapes, and metaphorically, in terms of its new contacts and social opportunities. Fundamental to this processwas the increasing importance of livestock, and the emergence of male warrior elites whose sub-culture was portrayed in the characteristic combination of weaponry and drinking vessels in their graves. [my emphasis]

"Alcohol in this early phase of European life was a rarity, and in the more northerly climes various sugar-producing substances were pressed into the service of producing intoxicating brews. Organic residues from later prehistoric vessels show that cereal grains, honey and fruits were all mixed together to make a composite drink which was at once a mead, an ale and a fruit wine. The use of this new liquid intoxicant may initially have been combined with opium or hemp, but it was soon to establish itself as the primary intoxicant of Western culture, a position it still maintains."

-Richard Rudgley, Essential Substances: A Cultural History of Intoxicants in Society ©1993, p33-34.

At this point literature extends itself to record this sub-culture of the warrior elite. The Iliad and the Odyssey are early examples in the south. Historical reports by men of great intellect, such as Julius Caesar and Tacitus, chronicle parallel cultures in the north, and written much later in the north, there is Beowulf, and yet later, Icelandic Sagas.

to be continued...

Wine in the West II

continued...

"Not long after this, another distinctive complex of vessels for holding liquids, known as Globular Amphorae, appeared over an area of Europe from Hamburg to Kiev. This new ceramic style was influenced both by Baden pottery and by the cord decoration of the steppe cultures. It is possible, on this line of argument, that their brews may have combined alcohol and Cannabis sativa in a potent infusion!"

"The popularity of heavily decorated drinking vessels continued to spread further northward into central and eastern Europe with the Corded Ware Beakers. These beakers (which are large drinking cups) were decorated with rows of cord impressions; their great cultural importance is attested by the fact that they recur again and again in the burials of the period alongside two other types of distinctive male artifacts--the flint dagger and the shaft-hole stone battle-axe."

[Bell Beaker image: click for credit]

"The final phase (c.2500-2000 B.C.) in the initial diffusion of vessels plausibly associated with the use of alcoholic drinks is marked by the spread of Bell Beakers, which first brought this type of drinking vessel to Britain and the Atlantic coasts and are often found in graves together with archery equipment and the first metal daggers."

--Richard Rudgley, Essential Substances: A Cultural History of Intoxicants in Society © 1993, p.34.

I imagine myself at graveside burdened with the corpse of my father or brother as the wind blows cold from the North Sea. How and why do I choose to bury these objects, drinking cup, bow, dagger and axe, with this man?

Not casually, I believe, was this done, but with thought and conviction. What were those thoughts? What were those convictions? The questions fascinate me.

to be continued...

Wine in the West I

"It is to the Early Bronze Age cultures of the Aegean and Anatolia (Asia Minor), in the early period from 3500 to 2000 B.C., that we must look for the immediate origins of the diffusion of alcohol throughout Europe. These communities consumed their wine from metal drinking vessels, and their more northerly neighbors of the Baden culture in central Europe have been shown by the archaeologist Nandor Kalicz to have echoed the design of these vessels in their own pottery (see fig. 7). [I substituted this image found on the internet for the figure in the book. It's also of Baden culture pottery.]

"Various features of Baden ceramics, such as their fluting, strap-handles and dimpled bases, clearly have their origins in the techniques used for shaping metal prototypes.
.
"The Baden culture not only lacked the necessary knowledge of sheet metalworking to make metal cups, but was also beyond the limits of viticulture, which only reached this area in Roman times. So the liquids consumed from their pottery imitations of southern metalware were also a substitute. They probably drank mead, rather than grape-wine." [my emphasis]
.
-Richard Rudgley, Essential Substances: A Cultural History of Intoxicants in Society©1993, p33.
.
(If interested, this book also provides a survey of early intoxicants other than alcohol.)
.
to be continued...

Lineage

Ever since I woke from my drug-induced hibernation, I've been working frantically, feverishly, furiously and some other emPHatic, Freaking "F" words on my Family tree. That's about 2--3?--weeks now--I keep track of time only randomly. The best I can say this morning is that it's Autumn.

Those who've done heritage research already know it's dangerously compelling. For those who haven't, let me tell you to clear massive amounts of time for this addictive activity if making the attempt. Like most things, I'm trying to do it on the cheap. I started with a free 14-day trial at Ancestry.com. I think I'm now into the $30 for the first month. I don't have "tree-maker" software other than nimble fingers at the keyboard transmitting to my word processing program.

I look around at my desk(s)--arranged in a functional L-fashion--and realize the research has taken over my studio. There are piles of print outs, scribbled notes with lists of siblings, dates of birth, a county map of Missouri, my calculator to figure ages quickly, my old (and pathetic) family tree book laid out. Among these is a stack of books, Sagas of the Icelanders, Njal's Saga, The Poetic Edda, and I realize I'm the descendant, the inheritor of the spirit of the folk in those books. I know now, most intimately, that I'm not just begat from the northern regions where they lived, but I care about the same thing they cared about, that is, family.

At the beginning of every Norse saga, there's always a genealogy, and usually more throughout the book as the author uses these family trees to define the characters. The sagas, unique as a literary form, shun dramatic exposition. They are about action, physical description, poetry and terse judgements like "All of his sons were accomplished men," and "...he defended himself so valiantly that he did not give way under their attack at all." But...the people of that time, familiar with heroes of these sagas could picture the character of a person if given their family tree.

To the modern reader, these genealogies seem dry. However, I'm familiar with worse from reading medieval literature, and as I became more knowledgable with saga figures, I began to appreciate these litanies of ancestral lines. In fact, I now eagerly search them for familiar names, piecing together the people in this saga with those from another.

From Bolli Bollason's Tale (trans. Keneva Kunz), here's an example of this style of introducing the relationships (characters) in a story.

"At the same time as Bolli Bollason lived at Tunga, as was spoken of earlier, a man called Arnor Crone's-nose, the son of Bjarni Thordarson of Hofdi, lived on the farm Miklabaer in Skagafjord.

Another man, named Thord, lived with his wife Gudrun at Marbaeli. They were fine, upstanding farmers with wealth in plenty. Their son Olaf was still a boy at the time and a most promising young man. Gudrun, Thord's wife, was a near relative of Bolli Bollason, as her mother was his aunt. Gudrun's son Olaf was named after Olaf Peacock of Hjardarholt.

At Hof in Hjaltadal lived Thord and Thorvald Hjaltason, two prominent leaders.

A man called Thorolf Stuck-up lived at Thufur. He had an unfriendly nature and was often uncontrollable when angry. He owned a very aggressive grey bull. Thord of Marbaeli had sailed on merchant voyages with Arnor. Thorolf Stuck-up was married to a kinswoman of Arnor's and was one of the thingmen of the Hjaltasons. He was on hostile terms with his neighbours and was used to making trouble, of which the people of Marbaeli bore the brunt...."

Notice the phrase "as was spoken of earlier." There is no earlier in this saga; those are the first four paragraphs. The author is, therefore, referring to another story when "Bolli Bollason lived at Tunga," thus reminding his listeners/readers of the events and people in a previous tale.

Now, what I was saying...I realize, though over a millenium separates me by birth, I AM these people. Not only do I care to know these ancient lineages in order to understand the story, I'm just as fascinated by my modern family relationships. And I'm not the only one, but one of a kindred, and my "folk" have not, in over that millenium and more, not much changed their style of sharing the information. Compare this letter written by a relative of mine (a family treasure, by the way) to the saga example above.

"Then next came Wesley and all I know about him (don't remember ever seeing him) is that my dad said he and Grandpa D. (Henry) never got along too well; they both had "Ditzenberger tempers" and often had regular fist fights, so when he got old enough he left home and eventually settled in Oklahoma and there he married a part-Indian girl by the name of Captolia and they had one daughter named Myrtle, who used to visit Grandpa and Grandma Ditzenberger every few years--she was a pretty blonde with real curly hair, so she must have taken after Uncle John, my grandfather, and Uncle Bert as far as her curly hair was concerned but she was wild as an Indian and Grandma couldn't handle her and I think she sent her home to her mother one time after a short stay. As I recall what Dad said, Uncle Wesley had died and her mother, Captolia, didn't have much control over her...."

That was written by a woman with the surname of Stonebreaker more than twenty years ago. Lineage, action, physical description, these were her stock in trade, same as the saga writers. The pretty blonde, daughter of a part-Indian girl and the son of a German immigrant named Ditzenberger, the girl no one could handle, was my grandmother (Granner), who died in 1992. From her I inherited my height and my cheekbones. Maybe I inherited other things as well, but I'll leave the character traits to the judgement of others.

Egil's Saga

Here’s an example of the dusty analysis, 54 pages, I choked my way through in preface to reading Egil’s Saga.*

These stories are familiar….

…their understanding of the consequences of foolishness and folly, especially in its relationship to character, is uniquely plain, unvarnished and direct.

Thus Icelandic sagas and tales seem far removed from modern literary subjectivity, and yet, the gossip and the comments of other characters supply a practical and readily understandable psychological context. Characters speak up. They say what they want and what their intentions are. Other characters disagree with them and judge them. The saga writer sometimes remarks upon public opinion concerning these events. The result is that the sagas are psychologically complex and yet economical in their analysis.

…turn the page to begin the saga. YeeOW!

Egil Skallagrimsson strides to the shore of the tumultuous Northern Atlantic, cuts the ropes mooring his brother’s ship and extorts his release into humanity’s fray, through which he hacks his way like a god.

"Economical in analysis"? Nay! Extravagant, it’s that. “Plain”? No. There’s nothing “familiar” about this story. In the familiar world, no one intentionally pukes out his guts into the eyes, ears and mouth of his host. Neither does one begin his reign of terror with murder at age seven or ransom his own head with a poem to a king or insist on standing in place of a weaker man in a duel. Far from being familiar, Egil’s Saga is extraordinary, both in history and in the nature of a man.

Nearly napping by the time I finished the introduction (yaa-awn) and began the saga, I was definitely not napping once the story began. With Egil Skallagrimsson, I laughed:

(On earning his life in exchange for a poem)

Ugly as my head may be,
The cliff my helmet rests upon,
I am not loathe
To accept it from the king.
Where is the man who ever
Received a finer gift
From a noble-minded
Son of a great ruler?

(On his own old age)

My head bobs like a bridled horse
It plunges baldly into woe.
My middle leg both droops and drips
While both my ears are dry.

I thrilled:

(on taking revenge) Bern-Onund ran up to the shrubs. He was wearing a helmet, carried a shield in one hand and a spear in the other, and was girded with a sword. But it was Egil, not a bear, that was hiding in the shrubs, and when he saw Berg-Onund he drew his sword. There was a strap on the hilt which pulled over his hand to let the sword hang there. Taking his spear, he rushed towards Berg-Onund. When Berg-Onund saw this he quickened his pace and put the shield in front of him, and before they clashed they threw their spears at each other. Egil darted his shield out to block the spear, at such an angle that the spear glanced off and stuck into the ground. His own spear struck the middle of Onund’s shield and sank in so deep that it stuck there, making it heavy for Onund to hold. Then Egil quickly grabbed the hilt of his sword. Onund began to draw his sword, but had only pulled it half-way out of its sheath by the time Egil ran him through with his sword. Onund recoiled at the blow, but Egil drew his sword back swiftly and struck at Onund, almost chopping his head off. Then Egil took his spear out of the shield.

Hadd and Frodi ran over to Berg-Onund when they saw he had been felled. Egil turned to face them. He lunged at Frodi with his spear, piercing his shield and plunging it so deep into his chest that the point came out through his back. He fell over backwards dead on the spot. Then Egil took his sword and set on Hadd, and they exchanged a few blows before Hadd was killed.

I cringed:

(at seven years old, upon losing a game to an older boy) Thord handed Egil an axe he had been holding, a common type of weapon in those days. They walked over to where the boys were playing their game. Grim had caught the ball and was running with the other boys chasing him. Egil ran up to Grim and drove the axe into his head, right through to the brain.

I lauded:

(surprising his son in supporting him at the Althing) From the assembly, a band of men was seen riding alongside the river Gljufura, their shields glinting. They rode into the assembly led by a large man wearing a black cloak and gilded helmet and carrying a shield decorated with gold by his side. In his hand he held a barbed spear with its socket embossed with gold, and he was girded with a sword. Egil Skallagrimsson had arrived with eighty men, all armed for battle.

I marveled:

(on working a curse) He took a hazel pole in his hand and went to the edge of a rock facing inland. Then he took a horse’s head and put it on the end of the pole.

Afterwards he made an invocation, saying, “here I set up this scorn-pole and turn its scorn upon King Eirik and Queen Gunnhild”—then turned the horse’s head to face land—“and I turn its scorn upon the nature spirits that inhabit this land, sending them all astray so that none of them will find its resting-place by chance or design until they have driven King Eirik and Gunnhild from this land.”

Then he thrust the pole into a cleft in the rock and left it to stand there. He turned the head towards the land and carved the whole invocation in runes on the pole.

By the end, I cried:

(on the death of his son)

Myself I know
That in my son
Grew the makings
Of a worthy man,
Had that shield-tree
Reached manhood,
Then earned the claim
Of war’s arms.

Always he prized
His father’s words
Highest of all, though
The world said otherwise.
He shored me up,
Defended me,
Lent my strength
The most support.

Even in old age, Egil doesn’t give a quarter, thwarting those who thwart him, exerting extraordinary strength, flaunting superior intelligence and spewing cussedness (strangely both generous and honorable) right to his death.

I wonder if the commentator read the same story I did. Far from being “economical in analysis,” the saga is wealthy in detail and almost exaggerated in the analysis of Egil. Coming away from it, I know Egil, from motive to deed. I better understand his world and time, his gods and his folk. I can hardly wait to read the remainder of the tales.

.

*The Sagas of the Icelanders©2000 with Preface by Jane Smiley and Introduction by Robert Kellogg. In this collection from Penguin Classics, Bernard Scudder is the translator of Egil's Saga.

Siegfried faces Liudegast

After much disappointment over the Saga of the Volsungs, post pending, I'm giddy again as I read The Nibelungenlied (trans. Hatto). I'm a sucker for a well-written fight and there are few better than that one in The Nibelungenlied between Siegfried and King Liudegast. A taste:

Towards him the noble intruder galloped in fine style, and now lord Liudegast had marked him down, so that the two of them set their spurs to their chargers' flanks and vehemently levelled their spears at each other's shield, with the result that the King was soon in jeopardy. In the train of these thrusts. these princes' mounts bore them past each other at such a pace that they might have been wafted by the wind; whereupon, wheeling with splendid horsemanship, this fierce pair tried their fortunes with their swords. Then lord Siegfried struck blows that filled the plain with their sound and sent fiery sparks flying from his enemy's helmet as though from huge torches. Each met his match in the other, since lord Liudegast struck many cruel blows in answer, and the strength of each was brought mightily to bear on the other's shield.

Heart-pounding. Here's the same scene in rhymed verse (online trans. Needler). Both versions are fantastic. Thrilling, irrespective of the translation, when the original is of such quality!

Who he was I'll tell you / that rode his men before,—
A shield of gold all shining / upon his arm he bore—
In sooth it was King Luedegast / who there the van did guard.
Straightway the noble Siegfried / full eagerly against him spurred.

Now singled out for combat / him, too, had Luedegast.
Then full upon each other / they spurred their chargers fast,
As on their shields they lowered / their lances firm and tight,
Whereat the lordly monarch / soon found himself in sorry plight.

After the shock their chargers / bore the knights so fast
Onward past each other / as flew they on the blast.
Then turned they deftly backward / obedient to the rein,
As with their swords contested / the grim and doughty fighters twain.

When Siegfried struck in anger / far off was heard the blow,
And flew from off the helmet, / as if 'twere all aglow,
The fiery sparks all crackling / beneath his hand around.
Each warrior in the other / a foeman worth his mettle found.

Full many a stroke with vigor / dealt eke King Luedegast,
And on each other's buckler / the blows fell thick and fast.
Then thirty men discovered / their master's sorry plight:
But ere they came to help him / had doughty Siegfried won the fight.

Banned Books Week

Grateful Bear reminds us that this is Banned Books Week. For lists of "Frequently Challenged Books," check the American Library Association's website.

Here's from their site for the top 10 "challenged" books for 2007. I don't read from current genres much, so I've missed all these except the oldie, “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,” by Mark Twain. I notice sexual content is a common complaint, seven of the 10. Violence only made the list once!

How did Americans get into this mindset that violence is preferable to sex? More importantly, how do we get out of it?

1) “And Tango Makes Three,” by Justin Richardson/Peter Parnell
Reasons: Anti-Ethnic, Sexism, Homosexuality, Anti-Family, Religious Viewpoint, Unsuited to Age Group

2) The Chocolate War,” by Robert Cormier
Reasons: Sexually Explicit, Offensive Language, Violence

3) “Olive’s Ocean,” by Kevin Henkes
Reasons: Sexually Explicit and Offensive Language

4) “The Golden Compass,” by Philip Pullman
Reasons: Religious Viewpoint

5) “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,” by Mark Twain
Reasons: Racism

6) “The Color Purple,” by Alice Walker
Reasons: Homosexuality, Sexually Explicit, Offensive Language

7) "TTYL,” by Lauren Myracle
Reasons: Sexually Explicit, Offensive Language, Unsuited to Age Group

8) "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings,” by Maya Angelou
Reasons: Sexually Explicit

9) “It’s Perfectly Normal,” by Robie Harris
Reasons: Sex Education, Sexually Explicit

10) "The Perks of Being A Wallflower,” by Stephen Chbosky
Reasons: Homosexuality, Sexually Explicit, Offensive Language, Unsuited to Age Group

Gospel of Philip

Because Chris Knowles over at The Secret Sun mentioned The Nag Hammadi library today, thus pulling the book off my shelf, I will furnish one of the passages from these incredible manuscripts before I replace it back between the Tao Teh Ching and a collection of Confucian, Hebrew and Christian writings. The Bible, from which I also quote in this post, I'll set back on the corner of my desk where I keep it along with a novel by R.A. Salvatore (the master), from whom I study the difficult art of writing action scenes. From the Gospel of Philip:

Light and darkness, life and death, right and left, are brothers of one another. They are inseparable. Because of this neither are the good good, nor the evil evil, nor is life life, nor death death. For this reason each one will dissolve into its original nature. But those who are exalted above the world are indissoluble, eternal.

Names given to worldly things are very deceptive, for they divert our thoughts from what is correct to what is incorrect. Thus one who hears the word "God" does not perceive what is correct, but perceives what is incorrect.

Hebrews 5:14 says, "But strong meat belongest to them that are of full age, even those who by reason of use have their senses exercised to discern both good and evil." Gospel of Philip is strong meat.

The Death of Beowulf

*deep sigh* Well, I finished Beowulf again, read the translation my uncle so generously sent me--thank you again--Seamus Heaney's words, richly illustrated with photographs of the very swords and helmets and byrnies and gold torques so vividly portrayed in the epic. No matter how many times I read this story, I'll always be left feeling as though I've been stabbed by the dagger of Grendel's mother right in the chest. Beowulf, generous king, brave hero, a man who lived life boldly and well, who won fame for his name, his death is noble and poignant, and his storyteller is masterful at wrenching our hearts. Here are a few selections in Heaney's version to illustrate.


[Beowulf's last words, spoken to young Wiglaf, the only one of his retinue to stand with him against the dragon that killed Beowulf.]

"You are the last of us, the only one left
of the Waegmundings. Fate swept us away,
sent my whole brave high-born clan
to their final doom. Now I must follow them."


[A portion of the messenger's report of Beowulf's death]

"...................His royal pyre
will melt no small amount of gold:
heaped there in a hoard, it was bought at heavy cost,
and that pile of rings he paid for at the end
with his own life will go up with the flame,
be furled in fire: treasure no follower
will wear in his memory, nor lovely woman
link and attach as a torque around her neck--
but often, repeatedly, in the path of exile
they shall walk bereft, bowed under woe,
now that their leader's laugh is silenced,
high spirits quenched."


[Beowulf's funeral]

The Geat people built a pyre for Beowulf,
stacked and decked it until it stood four-square,
hung with helmets, heavy war-shields
and shining armour, just as he had ordered.
Then his warriors laid him in the middle of it,
mourning a lord far-famed and beloved.
On a height they kindled the hugest of all
funeral fires; fumes of woodsmoke
billowed darkly up, the blaze roared
and drowned out their weeping, wind died down
and flames wrought havoc in the hot bone-house,
burning it to the core. They were disconsolate
and wailed aloud for their lord's decease.
A Geat woman too sang out in grief;
with hair bound up, she unburdened herself
of her worst fears, a wild litany
of nightmare and lament: her nation invaded,
enemies on the rampage, bodies in piles,
slavery and abasement. Heaven swallowed the smoke.


[The last lament of Beowulf's people.]

So the Geat people, his hearth companions,
sorrowed for the lord who had been laid low.
They said that of all the kings upon the earth
he was the man most gracious and fair-minded,
kindest to his people and keenest to win fame.

Honor and Courage

You have to feel sorry for my partner, Mr. Rivergarth. Most people have the choice to read my blog or not, but he's subjected to my oral blogs on a regular basis with no hope of escape. He's trying hard to watch his fighting match on TV, and I'm blogging my heart out about Beowulf. Poor man. Although, if you think about it, we are fascinated at that moment by the same thing, the spirit of the pagan warrior.

So I read Y Gododdin tonight, then I sat down and read Beowulf, in addition, because I wanted a refresher, especially about mead which is prominent in Gododdin. I first read Beowulf in college, freshman year, English Literature. I have since read it a couple more times. (Much of the encounter with the dragon was copy-pasted by Tolkien into The Hobbit, by the way.) I don't read it for any other reason than that it is an awesome story. It's one of those tales that the more you know about life, the more you find of life in its story.

This time around I was specifically looking for references to the symbel rite. They were there, fully elaborated by the writer, indicating that they were not, in his mind, accessories to the story, but integral to the culture of the time and the rationale of events. Years ago, before I knew much about paganism, in general, and symbel, specifically, these passages had no meaning for me. Tonight, they were diamonds.

My copy of Beowulf is contained within The Norton Anthology of English Literature, 4th ed. This volume provides a nice editorial to each work, as well as, useful footnotes. (E. Talbert Donaldson is the editor for the The Middle Ages section and the translator of this Beowulf.) It really is a joy to read. He doesn't, unfortunately, mention anything about the symbel, although the rite constitutes hearty chunks of the Beowulf text. Without mentioning the rite, though, he sensitively discusses an integral aspect, well worth quoting as one statement of a sophisticated, pagan-warrior spirituality.

Beowulf is testing his relationship with unknowable destiny. At any time, as he is fully aware, his luck may abandon him and he may be killed.... But whether he lives or dies, he will have done all that any man could do to develop his character heroically. It is this consciousness of testing Fate [Wyrd] that probably explains the boasting that modern readers of heroic poetry often find offensive. When he boasts, Beowulf is not only demonstrating that he has chosen the heroic way of life, but is also choosing it, for when he invokes his former courage as pledge of his future courage, his boast becomes a vow; the hero has put himself in a position from which he cannot withdraw.

Courage is the instrument by which the hero realizes himself. "Fate often saves an undoomed man when his courage is good," says Beowulf...

This is the heart of the symbel, the boast and the vow, spoken before the "lady" (who bears so many meanings they would require a book to discuss them all) who offers mead to the warrior. I didn't keep notes, but there are, at least, three instances of the full-blown symbel in Beowulf. Honestly, the entire story can be read as celebrating the principles of a pagan warrior exemplified in symbel and deed and of his philosophy, more than the ideals of young, bold men, but an ethos which dealt, also, with man's mortality.

But concentrating on the symbel, in section IX, Beowulf boasts of his swimming at sea, "In any case it befell me that I slew with my sword nine sea-monsters. I have not heard tell of a harder fight by night under heaven's arch, nor of a man more hard-pressed in the sea-streams. Yet I came out of the enemies' grasp alive, weary of my adventure." Immediately after, he describes the horror of Grendel and then vows, "But I shall show him soon now the strength and courage of the Geats [Beowulf's race], their warfare....The folk's guardian had heard from Beowulf a fast-resolved thought." The queen appears now to legitimize (witness? hallow? consecrate?) the symbel.

There was laughter of warriors, voices rang pleasant, words were cheerful. Wealhtheow came forth, Hrothgar's queen, mindful of customs, gold-adorned, greeted the men in the hall; and the noble woman offered the cup first to the keeper of the land of the East-Danes, bade him be glad at the beer-drinking, beloved of the people. In joy he partook of feast and hall-cup, king famous for victories. Then the woman of the Helmings went about to each one of the retainers, young and old, offered them the costly cup, until the time came that she brought the mead-bowl to Beowulf, the ring-adorned queen, mature of mind. Sure of speech she greeted the man of the Geats, thanked God that her wish was fulfilled, that she might trust in some man for help against deadly deeds. He took the cup, the warrior fierce in battle, from Wealhtheow, and then spoke, one ready for fight--Beowulf spoke, the son of Ecgtheow: "I resolved, when I set out on the sea, sat down in the sea-boat with my band of men, that I should altogether fulfill the will of your people or else fall in slaughter; fast in the foe's grasp. I shall achieve a deed of manly courage or else have lived to see in this mead-hall my ending day." These words were well-pleasing to the woman, the boast of the Geat. Gold-adorned, the noble folk-queen went to sit by her lord.

Notice that the queen "thanked God" in this overtly pagan rite. That's typical during that time and the whole-hearted confusion survives to modern days. There's a "preacher" in Colorado (of Colorado Springs persuasion, sadly), encouraging people to pray for rain during Obama's Dem. nomination acceptance speech, which is to be held outdoors in Denver. If it sounds like witchcraft, that's because it's based on the same pagan principles. Charles Guignebert said it well enough in his book, Ancient Medieval and Modern Christianity (1961), "...Western peoples in the early centuries of the Christian era never really understood the Christian dogmas, nor have they understood them since....The Western peoples have, strictly speaking, never been Christians," and "Christians in name, but bearing the impress only of the Christian legend and nourished upon formulas passively repeated, these men--the vast majority of professed Christians--remained actually pagans...."

As for Y Gododdin, I haven't come across any editorials--yet--implying that the entire poem, practically from the first word to the last, is one long celebration of the symbel pledges offered and honored by the three hundred warriors who rode off to battle, pretty sure they weren't coming back alive. The historical time frame is right for it, though. Events in Y Gododdin, composed by Aneirin in Old Welsh, are supposed to have occurred around 595-600 A.D. At least one event in Beowulf, in Old English, is dated at around 520 A.D. Christianity was nominally introduced by the Romans, but had not penetrated very far north during this time--think Hadrian's Wall. Ninian initialized a mission to the Picts around 400 with limited success. Columba had more success in 563. Comparing these dates, you wonder Christianity is mentioned at all in either composition.

Aneirin's song is a collection of homages to three hundred warriors who set out from Edinburgh (Eidin) to fight overwhelming odds in the south against folks we might call Englishmen. Y Gododdin is a loose composition compared to Beowulf, which tells a story in logical sequence, and, thus, the Gododdin lacks the exposition of ideals we find in Beowulf, but not the ideals. There are fewer references in Y Gododdin to our lady, who suggests we're dealing with the symbel rite, but she's not entirely absent. Another aspect of Y Gododdin, besides the maiden reference, that points solidly to the symbel is the appearance of the drinking horn, typical in the Scandinavian mead ritual.

from verse 16
he passed the drinking-horn round in his palace. The first brewing of bragget was his;

from verse 47
A chain of iron about both ankles, caused by mead, by horn, by Catraeth's raiders.

As for references to mead drinking, in general, the poem would be much less in meaning and length if they were omitted. The Cult of Mead seems to be at its height in Y Gododdin. It not only seals the vows of these men, it provides their reward (reference to the afterlife? maybe...) and emboldens them for battle.

from verse 2
Diademed, to the fore at all times, breathless before a maid, he earned mead.
Rent the front of his shield, when he heard the war-cry, he spared none he pursued.
He'd not turn from a battle till blood flowed, like rushes hewed men who'd not flee.

(These translations are by Joseph Clancy, by the way, copied from the online text of Y Gododdin. There's another online text by a different translator, but I haven't finished that version yet. It's substantially different, although there's still a lot of mead!)

from verse 3
He would spare neither mail-shirt nor shield; none could, on mead he was nourished,
Ward off the stroke of Cadfannan.

from verse 11
They drank mead, gold and sweet, ensnaring; for a year the minstrels were merry.

from verse 13
A man went to Catraeth at morn; he guzzled mead-suppers at midnight.
A disaster, keening of comrades, his campaign was, hot-blooded killer.

from verse 97
He was grim in combat and before he was covered with clods of earth
Edar earned the right to drink his mead.

One gets the idea (and this goes on and on, verse after verse). The concept of mead emboldening the warrior, which we read so boldly in Y Gododdin, is not altogether absent from Beowulf. Near the end, when Beowulf faces the dragon, a single warrior finds the courage to aid his king. The other men have abandoned Beowulf and wait for the outcome, but "Wiglaf spoke, said many fit words to his companions--his mind was mournful: "I remember that time we drank mead, when we promised our lord in the beer-hall--him who gave us these rings--that we would repay him for the war-arms if a need like this befell him...."

Wiglaf gave his word, consecrated it with mead, most likely offered by a lady, and when the time comes, it is his memory of that vow which gives him courage. Maybe I'm stretching, but I think it can be said that "on mead he was nourished," as in the language of Y Gododdin. You might say he was also ensnared, obligated by the vow given while drinking mead. Like Donaldson said about Beowulf, "When he boasts, Beowulf is not only demonstrating that he has chosen the heroic way of life, but is also choosing it, for when he invokes his former courage as pledge of his future courage, his boast becomes a vow; the hero has put himself in a position from which he cannot withdraw." To use a quote of a quoter (because the book I'd love to get my hands on starts at around $230), Eric Wódening quotes Bauschatz from The Well and the Tree: World and Time in Early Germanic Culture, "symbel is the ritual drinking feast at which the participants try to place themselves into the flow of Wyrd through the binding of words and deeds. In other words, it is a means by which the deeds of now are linked to those of the past."

What man has not boasted or made vows while drinking his mead? Many of which he was later obligated to honor? That's the crux, then, isn't it, honoring the vow. I think the men at Edinburgh spent a year drinking mead, preparing to face their deaths and gain immortality, pagan immortality, the enduring fame of their honor and courage.

Uhgh, Rushdie

Uhgh. It's not often I can't gut out a book, no matter how poor, to the end, but I've been defeated by Salman Rushdie's Enchantress of Florence. I keep telling myself I can do it, but it's been days since I picked it up, and it's glaring at me like some evil beast of trivial literature. I am halfway through, but that doesn't lay any obligation on me, correct? Am I right? I mean I don't HAVE to finish every book. Today, I free myself of guilt, and I declare that I'm NOT GOING TO READ IT!

Funny, though, that Guignebert, whom I'm reading at the same time, formidable and dense, hasn't gotten me down. I'm nearly done, and as the timeline approaches the Enlightenment, with which I am naturally more familiar, it's becoming more, not less, enjoyable.

So scat Rushdie! I've got two books to choose from for my second reading--I always read two at once, because I leave one book upstairs and one down--The Romance of the Rose and The History of Scotland, both of which I'm itching to get my hands on. I expect The Art of Courtly Love to come in the mail today or tomorrow. I might wait to choose once I've sifted through that.

Ah, it's wonderful to be free again!

Essential Substances

I just finished reading Richard Rudgley's book, Essential Substances: A Cultural History of Intoxicants in Society. The book is a light read. Rudgley surveys time and place, describing the intoxicant use of different societies, including interesting details (fun facts) about the complexes of tools and rituals which accompany drugs. Although Essential Substances isn't as rigorous as his Lost Civilizations of the Stone Age, it demonstrates, as Lost Civilizations does, his ability to see through stone walls of bias, hypocrisy and stereotypes. Rudgley, in Essential Substances, extends his exposure of dogmatic, anthropological research by reminding us that drugs, while condemned in American society, are nearly ubiquitous in time and place, and we can't understand our ancestors and neighbors unless we understand their intoxicant use, which differs dramatically from the modern, American experience.

Mr. Rudgley, write me another. Send me an email, because I have a topic for you.

Mechthild's Passion

I finished the Bequine section in my book and have moved south to Italy and in time to read a selection of equally remarkable texts by equally remarkable women, but Mechthild is so captivating that I am drawn back to refresh my soul!

In the Flowing Light of the Godhead, there appears a dialog between the Soul and the Senses. Her method of leading her reader through her reasoning is powerful, and I will--did in a short story--copy her, not in the form of the dialog, but in the structure she uses to move the argument of her position. Ha! I make her sound cold and analytical! She's not. It's only the writer in me who deconstructs. The reader in me remains roused and hot. Perhaps hotter because I appreciate her skill as well as the art.

Mechthild's passion is stripped, so to speak, and lies exposed at the end. The reader, who's had the pleasure of indulging in the dialog up to her thesis, will recognize that every word shudders with meaning. She doesn't waste a single breath and each one is an intense gasp.

Soul:
Lord, now am I a naked soul
And Thou a God most Glorious!
Our two-fold intercourse is Love Eternal
Which can never die.
Now comes a blessed stillness
Welcome to both. He gives Himself to her
And she to Him.
What shall now befall her, the soul knows:
Therefore am I comforted.
Where two lovers come secretly together
They must often part, without parting.

Prince Bertram the Bad

I love children's books and own way too many. They are currently taking up most of the closet space below the stairs, but a few of the most cherished sit in my studio where I can fawn over them. One of these is Prince Bertram the Bad by Arnold Lobel. Its copyright is 1963 and my older sister's name and an old address and phone number are written on the inside cover, so I assume it was hers first. The back cover was lost at some point, but I repaired it with a stiff piece of cardboard, which was 'decorated' and signed by the child who 'loved' the book after I did. The book, however, remains in my hands, and I treaure it.

Most people are familiar with Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak, also copyright 1963, but fewer have heard of Prince Bertram, although the stories and illustrations share many similarities. Both these authors are also the illustrators, and the styles are remarkably similar, right down to their muted color palettes. Both books are about naughty, little boys who experience a magical transformation and return to their families reformed and happy. In Max's case, he dreams that he sails to an island of scary creatures. In Bertram's case, a witch turns him into a dragon.

Sendak's story is really an illustrated poem, and his language is rhythmic, simple and forceful. I can attest, from vast experience, that it is a delight to read out loud. Lines like this never sound dull to the ear, and the tongue rolls over them with pleasure no matter how many times one recites it in a night or that month or that year, "And when he came to the place where the wild things are they roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws...." Pure joy.

Lobel's story reads more like a fireside tale with clever details and wonderful adventures. Bertram's naughty antics are really very cute. For example, "The royal cook would not speak to Prince Bertram. He had thrown four spiders into the chicken noodle soup." After being turned into a dragon, he's miserable in the castle so Bertram runs away, and the result is reminiscent of Max's encounter with wild beasts, "There was a big forest near the castle, where many lions and porcupines and other beasts lived. The animals growled and roared at him, and they ate all of his gingersnaps."

Sendak's book, Where the Wild Things Are, enjoys current popularity, and you can find it in bookstores, but I've never seen Lobel's book ,which is equally delightful, in a Barnes & Noble. I have a couple ideas why the difference in popularity, but I'm only guessing. Truly, Lobel's story has greater depth; Prince Bertram does a good deed, which redeems him, but Max just gets lonely and wakes up. Also, Lobel's illustrations have more variety and are as clever as hell. Prince Bertram as a dragon is adorable. Anyway, if you have young children and don't own Where the Wild Things Are, you're a schmuck, but if you want to really be cool, you'll buy Prince Bertram the Bad and read that out loud, as well. Your kids will remember and love you forever.

[I started this blog, thinking I was going to toss up a Winnie the Pooh quote today--Pooh is one of my dearest characters--and look where I ended up!]

Light Reading

I've been reading (very slowly) the book, Medieval Women's Visionary Literature, ed. by Elizabeth Alvilda Petroff. The anthology covers an impressive number of different styles and a long time period, roughly 1300 years, so I'm never sure what to expect next when I turn the page.

Here's an excerpt (by no means typical except in its excellence) from The Flowing Light of the Godhead, written by Mechthild of Magdeburg (1207-1282; Germany), translated by Lucy Menzies. I wrote in an earlier post about Marguerite Porete. Both of these women, Marguerite and Mechthild were Beguines. If you're 'into' European literature of this period, you'll recognize the style of amour courtois in Mechthild's writing.

5. Of the torment and reward of Hell

My body is in long torment, my soul in high delight, for she has seen and embraced her Beloved. Through Him, alas for her! she suffers torment. As He draws her to Himself, she gives herself to Him. She cannot hold back and so He takes her to Himself. Gladly would she speak but dares not. She is engulfed in the glorious Trinity in high union. He gives her a brief respite that she may long for Him. She would fain sing His praises but cannot. She would that He might send her to Hell, if only He might be loved above all measure by all creatures. She looks at Him and says, "Lord! Give me Thy blessing!" He looks at her and draws her to Him with a greeting the body may not know--

Thus the body speaks to the soul
"Where hast thou been? I can bear this no more!"
And the soul replies "Silence! Thou art a fool!
I will be with my Love
Even shouldst thou never recover!
I am His joy; He is my torment--"

This is her torment,
Never must she recover from it
But must ever endure it
And never escape it.

FSM

I've been reading The Gospel of the Flying Spaghetti Monster (GFSM) by Bobby Henderson. It's chockfull of quotable statements, and it's been a test of my willpower not to blog on it incessantly. If I don't put up at least one GFSM excerpt, though, I'll go mad! So here's from a section called A Guide to the Holidays (Pastafarian refers to a member of the Church of the FSM):

"HOLIDAY encompasses pretty much all of the big commercial holidays celebrated by the other religions. Holiday stretches over most of December and January, and it is interesting to consider how much this Pastafarian religion has spread over the last couple of years. In fact, many schools and businesses refer not to the "Christmas season," but to the Pastafarian "Holiday season" instead. This is strong evidence of our rapid growth, and we feel that a special thanks should go out to Wal-Mart, who rejected the Christian phrase "Merry Christmas" in favor of the Pastafarian greeting "Happy Holidays." We appreciate your support."


editorial note 1: I was going to title this blog Gospel, but backed off that idea because I was afraid of what kind of ads Goggleads might start putting up on my site. You can't be too careful these days. All kinds of nutcakes out there.


editorial note 2: I had to look up how to spell chockfull.

My Library

I've been entering my books into a widget called LibraryThing, which I've added to this page (see over to the right). I've wanted to catalog my books for a long time, and this widget is perfect for doing that. Once they're entered, I can sort by name, date, author, subject, etc. Really nice for a bibliophile like me. Also, I can share my library with my family and internet friends!

The widget is entirely too simple to use (good), but my books are not so simple to find (bad). Simple enough when I enter a book I've bought from Amazon or Barnes & Noble in the past 10-15 years, but not so simple when I try to enter a copy of The Hobbit that I've had since 1975. There are a LOT of editions of that kind of book! I've done my best to stick to the correct copyright dates, but if some are fudged, I'm not worrying too much. I've picked the closest to my edition, trying not to give the impression I have a book that I don't. My trouble is that my books are from just about any source possible.

Some books I got from my parents' library. Mom is a voracious reader and always has been. That's what people did back in the 30s without TV and so on; they read. Dad, too, is a literate guy. He has a master's in English literature. Between the two of them, I grew up with mounds of books of all kinds of subjects, no holds barred actually. I read Louis L'Amour in between helpings of Shakespeare and Dickens. I read Corbett and Kipling and fell in love with India. I read Jonathan Bach and became a pop philosopher in my teens. I read Tolkien, of course. Even more influential, I read Heinlein! I read gardening memoirs for breakfast or Jane Eyre on the bus to and from school. I snuck out of bed at night to hide in my closet to read, read, read, novels of Pearl Buck and Hemingway and London, field guides of rocks and birds, poetry of Dickinson and D. Thomas (who remains my favorite poet), fantasy of Stewart, sci-fi of Asimov, satire of Swift, philosophy of Hegel, classics of Twain and older ones bound in red leather, even smut I found in a parking lot, anything! I devoured my elementary school library, then ate up the one in my high school, too.

I acquired quite a few books during my college years. The best part about college was that I got to read for class and there was a huuuuuge library right in my path to the student union!!! I read my textbooks like they were novels. It didn't matter whether it was physics, calculus, biochemistry or geology. They were words and sentences and paragraphs, and it was all interesting to me. I also pursued sci-fi more intensely in college. That's when I met Mr. Card and Ender. Nevertheless, Thorby was my first, and I won't ever forget that thrill.

Some of my books are from yard sales. Mom was once an avid garage-saler. Along with my grandma and my sister, the four of us spent Saturdays scrounging. Mom would buy boxes, literally, of books and then she would read through the boxes. When I finished a book and was looking around for my next prey, I could go in the living room where she kept a box near the couch and rummage until something caught my eye.

Of course, some of my books are from used bookstores. Nothing better than to sort through the racks of discarded treasures and find something like my copy of Petra by Iain Browning. Though as I said above, these books are sometimes old editions and now bothersome to enter in the LibraryThing. Wichita, unfortunately, isn't a great place for used bookstores. They run for a while, but nearly always fail. These days, I'm mostly an Amazon hound where I can buy used books for just as cheap. (I have four books en route. :P)

Please enjoy my listings. Every book I enter I have read and many I have studied or read more than once, sometimes more than twice. I can't get them all entered at once, naturally, but I'll be adding over time.