Ruminations on “Beowulf”, Treasure, and Generosity

My OE prof was personal friends with Irish poet Seamus Heaney, and told him to his face that she hated his translation. It is, naturally, the only translation I've read all the way through.


Today, I feel like talking about Beowulf.

One of the most fascinating aspects of Beowulf is that it is essentially a pagan heroic epic, yet it was written by a Christian for a Christian audience.  Naturally, there is an unmistakable contrast between the pagan themes inherent in the story and the Christian themes that are worked into the grain by the poet.  The theme of wealth, in particular, is one which both Beowulf and other Christian theological texts of the time period speak frequently about.

Christianity, by its very nature, focuses attention on the afterlife.  What we do on earth is important insomuch as it pleases God, works His will, and prepares our souls for Heaven. Especially in medieval Christianity, the presence of wealth was often seen as a distraction from spiritual things and a promoter of greed.  The monastic orders forsook all but the basic necessities of life in order to focus their minds and hearts on God, and the Protestant Reformers would later note how the luxuries of the papacy had perverted the office to something that was spiritual only in name.  Material wealth is of little use, said the Christians, for it cannot accompany you after death and is troublesome in life.  As Boethius pointed out,

“Money has no inherent property such as to stop it being taken away from those who possess it, against their will.”

The poet of Beowulf might consider Boethius’ statement a point well taken, as the poem is filled with battles in which the loser’s treasures invariably go to the one who defeated him.  Prowess in war is the most prized virtue, and it is assumed that the stronger man has earned the right to take whatever his strength allows him if the battle was justified for any reason.  Yet wealth serves another, vastly more important role in the society and Beowulf – it enables generosity.  Noble kings and thanes are often called ring-givers, because aside from valor in war, their honor and reputation is built on the hospitality they show to others and the ways they reward their loyal followers.  When Beowulf saves the hall of Heorot from Grendel, King Hrothgar not only lets him loot Grendel’s lair, but also heaps numerous other treasures on him and his soldiers to show the magnitude of his thankfulness and the greatness of his soul.  The poet remarks consistently how this giving of gifts marks the greatness of Hrothgar’s honor.  Beowulf then proceeds to reward his faithful followers with more gifts, not even neglecting the man who stayed on the coastline to watch their ship the whole time and was not present at any of the fights.  And when he arrives home in Geatland, Beowulf shows his appreciation to his king at home by giving him some of the treasure as well.  By such generosity, as well as fighting prowess, are men considered great in this world.

Wealth is seen as something to be used, not hoarded, and, I think, as a sort of vindication that the battle was worth it after all.  If the victor does not reward those who have helped him, he will reveal his arrogance and end up with enemies.  Those who do hoard wealth in this world inevitably lose it – in a curious affirmation of Beothius’ rule.  Grendel and Grendel’s mother have apparently raided and looted human settlements for centuries, and they lose all to Beowulf.  The dragon, too, has a hoard of treasure that does not belong to him, and so he too loses it to Beowulf.

Yet neither can Beowulf keep his winnings in the afterlife. Dying from the dragon’s wound, he commands his servant Wiglaf to find the monster’s treasure hoard for him, saying, “My going will be easier for having seen the treasure, a less troubled letting-go of the life and lordship I have long maintained” (Heaney, 185). Why? Not for himself, but for his people. His wealth is only good so long as it strengthens the people of his kingdom, and the hero recognizes that it is to his honor to leave his loved ones better off after his passing.

Fare thee well! But I shall continue to be random.

‘Tis finished. I…I confess I did not expect it to occur in such an obtuse, precipitous manner. But I’ve simply no more to say. My hope in starting a blog was that I might find that I had something worthwhile, something of real value, to add to the Internet. And perhaps, at first, I had. But not now. Not anymore.

And so, I must bow out, a dog of a writer, but a dog who knows when his tricks are old and rough.

Wherefore, David, wherefore? you ask. ‘Tis this: I have been surpassed.

And you will agree! After seeing this astounding, brilliant, beautiful, and vigorously entertaining (and subtly philosophical) videographic presentation on the Tube that is for You, what more is there to say? All that I could possibly say in my insensate verbiage is there represented in exquisite gibberish. Adriano Celentano, thou art all I could have hoped to be!

I assure, I am ecstatic with this new arrangement! My reaction upon viewing the video of Adriano Celentano’s amazing show was precisely the same as this. It was enlightenment like no other. At last, I knew! I know…

I know that nothing in the public eye (or browser) awaits me now; no fame, no place as a writer of words that others may cast their eyes upon and with understanding relish. The demiurgic beam that from my mind once sprang with numinous glimmer upon this weblog is now gray and dissolute. I shrink from the blank page, and shall try my digital pen no more.

For after the enlightenment, came this.

Fallow as my brain is, I shall follow in the steps of the one mentor left to me whose example holds the promise of my future. I shall walk his way (in English and Italian). Because now, I just ain’t got nobody.

Adieu…adieu…I do adieu to you…

(I’m sorry, Sam, I’m so, so sorry.)

Musings on “The Mabinogi”: Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed

Recently I finished reading the cycle of Welsh tales commonly mis-called The Mabinogion, but which is properly called the Mabinogi. Full of strange wonders and bold figures, they have influenced many other legends and authors for centuries.

They’re also bewildering, nonsensical, and outright deranged.

(But they’re also “culture,” so you get to pat yourself on the back for making it through them!)

Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed

In this first branch of the Mabinogi (as they are called), it will be helpful to remember that in Welsh, w’s are pronounced like long u’s, by which I deduce that his name is pronounced POO-will. Any person knowledgeable of Welsh is more than welcome to correct me in these matters.

The first story about Pwyll I have heard retold in various places, Stephen Lawhead’s Merlin being one of them. I like it, though it doesn’t appear to have much of a “point.” To make recompense for an unintended breach of courtesy, Pwyll switches places with Arawn, lord of the Otherworld (called Annwfn), and is tasked with ruling his kingdom for one year and a day, while Arawn does the same for Dyfed. Arawn uses his power to cause them each to appear like the other, so no one will suspect the switch. Pwyll rules excellently, and even defeats one of Arawn’s enemies, another king named Hafgan. When the year is up and he and Arawn switch places again, Pwyll returns to Dyfed and asks his subjects their honest opinion on “his” recent ruling style. They say it has been better the past year than ever before, and Pwyll decides to continue those policies. The end.

That’s it, and it’s kind of nice, but there don’t seem to be any lasting effects of the adventure. I do like that Pwyll and Arawn both remain totally honorable when it comes to each others’ wives. Pwyll and Arawn’s queen get along very well (remember, she believes he really is Arawn), but every night he turns his back to her and neither touches her nor talks to her until the morning. Arawn is surprised to learn this from his wife at the end, since he had not bound Pwyll by any such oath, but Pwyll is just that kind of guy.

There is actually another story in this first branch, telling of the strange way that Pwyll meets his wife Rhiannon, the birth of their son Pryderi, and the near loss of the same. She’s a smart, feisty character, who deserves to have more stories told about her, and she frequently bails Pwyll out of stupid decisions. Stupid decisions such as promising a guest to their wedding, named Gwawl, any gift he requests, only to have said villainous guest request Rhiannon herself. For some reason Pwyll can’t refuse, and is forced to give up his fiancé in order to keep his honor. That’s the kind of stupid logic I don’t like in these stories. I know a man’s word of honor is supposed to be all-binding, but it seems that Gwawl’s request itself is a horrible breach of the guest-host relationship and need not be honored. Such as it is, Rhiannon must go with Gwawl, but not before devising a plan by which Pwyll can come after her, trap Gwawl in a magic bag, and along with his men dance around in a circle kicking the bag until Gwawl is so beat up that he begs for mercy and gives Rhiannon back.

Way to handle things the honorable way, Pwyll.

The last part of the story involves the birth of their son and his mysterious disappearance while still a babe. The women tasked with taking care of him blame Rhiannon and accuse her of killing him in her sleep. Despite her appeals to reason and the support of her husband, the king, the council of nobles believes her guilty. Her punishment is to stand by the gates to the settlement, tell her story to everyone who passes, and offer to carry any newcomers up to the court on her back, like a mule. This punishment continues for a few years. Then we discover that the infant has appeared in a stable belonging to another noble couple, who raise the boy as their own. As the boy grows older, they realize that he looks an awful lot like King Pwyll. So, being honorable, they take the boy to the court, where he is welcomed with joy and accepted as the lost prince. Rhiannon is relieved of her unjust punishment, and names her son Pryderi (pryder means “delivered of my anxiety”).

There will be more about him later.

Myst-Making: The Art of Sub-creation in “Myst: The book of Atrus”

[N.B. Though I do discuss the themes of the book in a detailed manner, I have included no real plot spoilers.]

The incarnate mind, the tongue, and the tale are in our world coeval. The human mind, endowed with the powers of generalization and abstraction, sees not only green-grass, discriminating it from other things (and finding it fair to look upon), but sees that it is green as well as being grass. But how powerful, how stimulating to the very faculty that produced it, was the invention of the adjective: no spell or incantation in Faerie is more potent. And that is not surprising: such incantations might indeed be said to be only another view of adjectives, a part of speech in a mythical grammar. The mind that thought of light, heavy, grey, yellow, still, swift, also conceived of magic that would make heavy things light and able to fly, turn grey lead into yellow gold, and the still rock into a swift water. If it could do the one, it could do the other; it inevitably did both. When we can take green from grass, blue from heaven, and red from blood, we have already an enchanter’s power—upon one plane; and the desire to wield that power in the world external to our minds awakes. It does not follow that we shall use that power well upon any plane. We may put a deadly green upon a man’s face and produce a horror; we may make the rare and terrible blue moon to shine; or we may cause woods to spring with silver leaves and rams to wear fleeces of gold, and put hot fire into the belly of the cold worm. But in such “fantasy,” as it is called, new form is made; Faerie begins; Man becomes a sub-creator. (Tolkien, “On Fairy Stories,” pg. 8 )

Recently I reviewed the novel Myst: The book of Atrus, in which an arrogant man named Gehn eagerly instructs his son, Atrus, in the nearly-lost magical Art of D’ni Writing belonging to their now-ruined civilization. This Art, and much of the novel’s themes, works as a fairly literal metaphor for J.R.R. Tolkien’s idea of sub-creation, which is elaborated in the above quotation.

The Art of Writing in Myst: The book of Atrus

To re-cap from my review of the novel: The Art of D’ni Writing, called “the art of precise description,” is beautifully literal: when a D’ni writer describes a world, that world comes into existence, and is called an Age. A special paper and special ink are required, as is the special D’ni language in which to write, but still, what is written becomes real. If the writer describes well—that is, precisely, accurately, with detailed knowledge of the elements, physics, wind patterns, tectonic movements, etcetera, and with perfect attention to cause and effect—the Age that comes into being will be stable and fertile, filled with a self-sustaining environment and possibly peopled with whole cities and kingdoms that regard him as a god. But if he writes not well, if he makes mistakes, writes contradictions, if his writing does not have internal consistency, then his Age becomes unstable and eventually collapses into nonexistence. If any changes are made to the Book that describes an Age, those changes will become manifest in the Age itself—for better or for worse!

Sub-creation and the philosophy behind Christian fantasy

Now, when we write fiction, we are inventing new places and new persons, but the question must always be brought up of whether we truly create anything in our thoughts from scratch, or whether the source of all our thoughts is really somewhere else. The Christian, for instance, believes that every thing is from God and in God’s power; thus when a Christian writes a story, he acknowledges that even his ideas are not truly his own, for his brain is not his own, nor his soul—all belongs to God, the All-Powerful (the originator of all power).

Only one act of creation was ever ex nihilo, and that was the one of Genesis which started it all. Everything else is a shadow of that creation, a trying to understand it and the Creator. I write about a character that is drawn from my experiences with the people God has created, and I imagine new places and vistas only because I have seen the ones brought about by God. No human invention is truly original. As George MacDonald wrote,

One difference between God’s work and man’s is that while God’s work cannot mean more than he meant, man’s must mean more than he meant. For in everything that God has made, there is layer upon layer of ascending significance; also he expresses the same thought in higher and higher kinds of that thought: it is God’s things, his embodied thoughts, which alone a man has to use, modified and adapted to his own purposes, for the expression of his thoughts; therefore he cannot help his words and figures falling into such combinations in the mind of another as he himself had not foreseen, so many are the thoughts allied to every other thought, so many are the relations involved in every figure, so many the facts hinted in every symbol. A man may well himself discover truth in what he wrote; for he was dealing all the time with things that came from thoughts beyond his own. (quoted in “Imagination” in The J.R.R. Tolkien Handbook by Colin Duriez, pages 129-130. Emphasis mine.)

Tolkien wrote that the highest form of fantasy was sub-creation, the creation of a fictional, secondary world that had enough depth and detail to maintain the “inner consistency of reality.” The idea of suspension of disbelief may be the most basic form of this idea, as it involves avoiding gross contradictions and disregards to logic in order to allow the receiver of the story to believe in it at the level the story requires. In sub-creation, however, the world-building itself is one of the most important of the story’s elements. A new world is created with its own geography, its own stars, its own trees, its own winds, and they all must make sense together. Yet they need not be mere copies of our own world. Rather, we are encouraged to let the laws of nature inspire us to imagine other ways they might be.

Some thinkers would feel sorely hampered if at liberty to use no forms but such as existed in nature, or to invent nothing save in accordance with the laws of the world of the senses; but it must not therefore be imagined that they desire escape from the region of law. (George MacDonald)

In making such fantastical alterations to our invented worlds and in trying as we can to make them consistent within that world, we gain greater appreciation for the balance and artistry of God’s creation. We know we cannot surpass Him, and we do not try to. But in emulating Him by creating in the best ways we can, we show our admiration for Him and we learn more about Him.

Every new embodiment of a known truth must be a new and wider revelation. No man is capable of seeing for himself the whole of any truth: he needs it echoed back to him from every soul in the universe; and still its centre is hid in the Father of Lights. (C.S. Lewis quoted in “Imagination” in The J.R.R. Tolkien Handbook by Colin Duriez, page 129)

How Myst: The book of Atrus engages the question of where our Ideas come from

In the novel, the two main characters hold differing views on how their magical Art works. Gehn believes that he is a god and that his Writing literally creates new worlds ex nihilo. In Tolkien’s terms, he believes he is an original Creator, and that his creation is primary (coming into existence solely by his power). This belief fuels his arrogance, blinds his critical faculties, and ultimately brings out his cruelty. His son, Atrus, eventually comes to disagree with him, believing that by Writing they are somehow Linking to pre-existing worlds. He is uncomfortable with being called a god and worshipped; he is too aware that he himself is a created being, not supernatural or omnipotent or eternal. His belief also implies the existence of an original First Creator, which the book mentions as a possibility but does not further discuss.

The book generally sides with Atrus, but leaves enough ambiguity about the nature of the Art that you cannot be completely sure how it works. For one thing, Atrus’ theory depends on the idea that there are infinite pre-created worlds; this is the only way to explain how he can Write such a specific description of an Age in a Book—a place he has never known to exist before—and then travel to it. This idea, while plausible in a fantasy setting, is nonetheless unsatisfactory, for it removes any Meaning and Purpose that comes from the uniqueness of a particular world. Further, it is confirmed that if a Writer makes changes to an Age’s Book, those changes will manifest themselves in the Age. This is how Gehn tries to fix all his Ages that are steadily falling apart. The fact that this is possible suggests that the words in the Book do hold the creative power.

And yet, one time Gehn’s revisions go too far, in a way that is not completely understood by the characters or the reader. After the latest of a series of Gehn’s revisions to the Book of Age Thirty-Seven, Atrus visits it to discover that it has irrevocably changed. The people on the island of Age Thirty-Seven, who had worshipped Gehn and Atrus and developed relationships with them over a few years, suddenly have no knowledge of them and are hostile. It’s as if Atrus has stepped into a parallel universe. This gives credence to Atrus’ theory that to change the description in a Book does not actually change that Age, but rather Links to a similar Age, one of an infinite pool of worlds.

Also challenged, quite interestingly, is Gehn’s assertion that D’ni Writing must be sparse and precise, strictly following the D’ni rules literally and avoiding all contradictions in order to work. To my mind, this is akin to building a fictional world that in all its physical laws is identical to the real world; perhaps the names and geography is different, but there is no magic, no new creatures, no impossible wonders. Gehn believes that this is all that is possible through the Art. We begin to suspect his theory when we learn that, although he follows the Rules to a T, all his Ages are unstable and falling apart. But it is not that the Rules are completely flawed, for Atrus himself follows them carefully—more carefully than his father, in fact—when creating his first Age, which is implied to be perfectly stable and self-sustaining.

However, the idea that this is the only way Writing can work is turned on its head by the discovery of the character Katran’s first Age, which seems to break all sorts of scientific laws and yet somehow is stable and incredibly beautiful. Perhaps it is a case where Poetry trumps Logic? Not necessarily—the implication is that even though Katran changed the laws of gravity (among others), she did so with consistency and purpose. This is analogous to the creation of a fantasy world with magic and other impossible features that nonetheless plays true to its own rules. Katran is the character who most purely practices the Art. And, relevant to our discussion, she is the one who perhaps most purely does what Tolkien, MacDonald, and Lewis believe is sub-creation.

I do not know if the writers of Myst: The book of Atrus were familiar with the theories of Tolkien, George MacDonald, and C.S. Lewis. Nonetheless, their sub-created world seems the perfect place in which to explore these ideas, and even if the other books in the series fail to deepen the philosophical discussion, I am still grateful for the book even bringing it up. When I write anything at all, it is an act of worship to my God, however poor due to the limitations of my heart. When I write fantasy, when I create new characters and grow them and become attached to them, it helps me get a tiny view of how God sees us. He is the great Author.