Monthly Archives: October 2012

Beowulf

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This poem reminded me so very much of The Odyssey. It included a very similar style of delivery in that it was composed orally by yet another bard and later written down for our viewing pleasure. Of course, the story was also paralleling many aspects of the Odyssey. i believe the biggest and most obvious was the theme of the heroic figure. Beowulf turned out be yet another Odysseus-like figure, possessing super-human strength, giving him an ability to fight off things we can only speculate regarding their magnitude (fire-breathing dragon rings a bell). both Beowulf and Odysseus were famed and renowned throughout the lands for their valor, fighting spirit, and ability to persevere and traverse difficult situations. They were both father-figures for their respective reasons, leaving behind legacy and a feeling of awe to those younger than they.

I did not seem to view this book with a literary mindset. I simply proceeded to read through the epic poem, accepting demonic figure after demonic figure. I did not question exactly how Beowulf, as an old man, was able to literally break a sword against the dragon. These cinema-worthy actions simply breezed by as if I were watching a Michael Bay film. I failed to realize significant literary elements. However, I attempted to pick up on a few, one of which is the varied role of the gods. A large difference between Beowulf and the Odyssey was the role of gods in the poems. Beowulf did not hesitate to include and reference god throughout the story, however, we did not see or hear of any actual gods interacting with humans. God appeared to be more of a constant force, pushing the sails of the (figurative) boat in whatever direction he/she saw fit. God was often mentioned for creating the fates of the many characters, all presented with simple assumption.

I questioned Beowulf’s motives for travelling in search of various monsters to kill off. Was it really as simple as seeking materialistic rewards such as gold and armor? I doubt it. I believe that Beowulf based his life around the desire to prove himself. As stated early in the poem, Beowulf challenged his friend to swim days on end in the ocean to see who would be successful. This is one of the many actions taken by the famed warrior in seeking to prove himself. I believe that the poem itself is Beowulf’s attempts at pushing and proving his own courage, his own valor, his own ability.


Beowulf

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Beowulf has been a familiar text to me since grade 11; however, the translation I read back then was a different one to Seamus Heaney’s translation. What I took from my grade 11 English class was the importance of community, and the importance in making one’s fate. Also how the religion played into Beowulf, how light and dark, up and down imagery are utilize to show good vs. bad, or heaven vs. hell.

            Community, the individual boasts (warrior values), and story sharing were three themes I found that resonated throughout the poem. With the Dane’s mead-hall set up as the very first setting, which was shown to be sacred and prized, as community building and the gather spot of people was important. The place people are from, and the community of people they are associated with, are also an important trait in the poem, which can be seen through the formalities of greetings as people proudly introduce where they are from and who their family are. Another factor I thought was interesting was the warrior culture, one that echoes the dying warrior culture we see in The Odyssey and Jason in Medea. Like these men Beowulf builds on his fame and shares his exploits. In the lecture when talking about how a man sticks to his word/promise, I thought back to Jason in Medea and how one of the topics for discussion in the play is oaths. But here in Beowulf it is not quite the focus; although, like Homer’s The Odyssey they do show everyday expectations of people. Expectations such as the way to treat a guest, how to formally greet someone, how to introduce yourself, proper boasting, etc…

            The monsters in Beowulf are very interesting, along with the fact that Beowulf is being told through Christian Monks eyes, as bits and pieces are added or adjusted to make it more in tune to Christianity. Religious influence on the way Beowulf was transcribed was interesting to see as it was put onto a pagan warrior culture. The juggling of fate and god is something I thought was interesting to look at and compare.

            I enjoyed Seamus Heaney’s translation of Beowulf more than the translation I read before. I am not too sure why, but I remember not enjoying Beowulf the first read over. 


Beowulf

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Beowulf was definitely an exciting read and a nice change up from some other things we’ve read. A prevalent theme that we’ve dealt with so far is reputation and honour in life as well as in death. Beowulf wants to make sure that his actions are remembered and that his name lives on even after his death. In many ways I think parallels can be drawn between the characters of Beowulf and Odysseus. They are both deeply concerned, and at times consumed, with the notion of a strong reputation in both life and death. It can be said of both characters that their willingness to enter into harms way is predicated more on honour and respect than it is on the protection of those they set out to protect. However, at  the end of the day, the people who both Beowulf and Odysseus are helping probably don’t care so much about the motive behind their actions but rather the final outcome of their actions.

Reputation in the Odyssey and reputation in Beowulf are viewed slightly differently, and even though both characters in both poems value their reputation, what the author’s are saying about reputation are on opposite ends of the spectrum. Odysseus’ desire to spread his fame is the root of his troubles as it causes the cyclops to put a curse on him.
In Beowulf, however, the desire to have fame in death and always be remembered is the difference between him attempting to fight the dragon and choosing instead to let someone else handle the situation. One of the most major sections in The Odyssey comes when achilles is talking to Odysseus in the land of the dead and tells him that even with all his fame in death, he would much rather be alive and be nobody than be dead. This passage underpins the message of the entire poem and reinforces the idea that fame is nothing to die for. Life, in The Odyssey, shouldn’t be traded for any amount of fame our honour. Beowulf’s death definitely doesn’t fit this mould, and it sends the opposite message. Death is the ultimate sacrifice, and anybody willing to step into a position of power must also be willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. The poem begins with a description of a man who is cut down in his prime defending his people and the poem ends with the word fame.

 

intentions

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If Oedipus has a tragic flaw, then it’s surely beside the point to talk of “pride” or the like. Or at best it’s incidental.

For what’s striking about Oedipus’s predicament is how hard he has tried to avoid it. It’s not as though he ends up killing his father and sleeping with his mother by accident, out of some negligence or lapse. Rather, he’s spent the better part of his life trying to ensure that he never sees his parents again. All from the very best of intentions.

Oedipus is in every sense of the term (except the one that counts) a “good guy.” He works ardently for both public and private good, and is loved by all for his efforts. He wears his heart on his sleeve and never shirks responsibility: “Here I am myself [. . .] I am Oedipus” (7, 8). Called upon to resolve the trauma Thebes is suffering, to rid the city of the plague, he pledges to do his best in every way, and to put all of his formidable energy to work. He feels his people’s pain: “I have wept through the nights, you must know that, / groping, laboring over many paths of thought” (78-9). He’s no distant tyrant, savoring the delights of power and luxury. He feels personally invested in the search for the old king Laius’s murderer, even though it happened before he arrived in the city, even though it would be easy enough simply to blame the people who were there then for burying the trauma at the time.

In short, Oedipus is the very model of the ideal modern politician. Would that there were more like him. And not only because at the end he (almost literally) falls on his sword for something that was not really his fault, assuming responsibility for a disaster he never intended to bring about and circumstances that he could never have avoided.

Except that the irony is that if it weren’t for his impeccably good intentions, everything would undoubtedly have turned out very differently. It was only because he fled Corinth, seeking to avoid his fate, that he met Laius at the crossroads. And it was only because he solved the Sphinx’s riddle, so freeing Thebes from the monster’s malevolent presence, that he can marry Jocasta and taint her, too, with the blot of incestuous union.

In other words, it’s not just that his good intentions don’t save him. They are what get him into all this trouble in the first place. They are his tragic flaw.

All too often over the past decade or so, politicians have tried to cloak themselves in the defence of good intentions. Some years back David Runciman wrote a marvelous article about Tony Blair, who appealed always to his own high-minded humanitarianism and sense of conscience as exculpation for the disasters that ensued on his watch. Indeed, in part this was precisely his justification (for example) for the war on Iraq: yes, the people in their hundreds of thousands demonstrated in the streets against military action on such a shaky foundation. But the Prime Minister argued that the fact that he went to war anyway (whether or not he "sexed up" dodgy dossiers and the like en route) showed that he was not some populist swayed by the views of the many. He was a principled man who followed his own sense of right and wrong.

My colleague and friend Max Cameron at the Centre for the Study of Democratic Institutions would no doubt applaud this concern for morality and ethics amid--and against--the tumult of democratic politics.

There's no need to doubt the intentions. We might even be prepared to admit that Blair was and is a "good" man. Precisely the kind of good person that some want to see more of in politics. But if Blair's example alone isn't enough, then Oedipus the King reminds us of the bad that good men do.

Or to put it another way: this is a further argument against meritocracy, our contemporary form of what the Greeks themselves called "aristocracy."

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intentions

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If Oedipus has a tragic flaw, then it’s surely beside the point to talk of “pride” or the like. Or at best it’s incidental.

For what’s striking about Oedipus’s predicament is how hard he has tried to avoid it. It’s not as though he ends up killing his father and sleeping with his mother by accident, out of some negligence or lapse. Rather, he’s spent the better part of his life trying to ensure that he never sees his parents again. All from the very best of intentions.

Oedipus is in every sense of the term (except the one that counts) a “good guy.” He works ardently for both public and private good, and is loved by all for his efforts. He wears his heart on his sleeve and never shirks responsibility: “Here I am myself [. . .] I am Oedipus” (7, 8). Called upon to resolve the trauma Thebes is suffering, to rid the city of the plague, he pledges to do his best in every way, and to put all of his formidable energy to work. He feels his people’s pain: “I have wept through the nights, you must know that, / groping, laboring over many paths of thought” (78-9). He’s no distant tyrant, savoring the delights of power and luxury. He feels personally invested in the search for the old king Laius’s murderer, even though it happened before he arrived in the city, even though it would be easy enough simply to blame the people who were there then for burying the trauma at the time.

In short, Oedipus is the very model of the ideal modern politician. Would that there were more like him. And not only because at the end he (almost literally) falls on his sword for something that was not really his fault, assuming responsibility for a disaster he never intended to bring about and circumstances that he could never have avoided.

Except that the irony is that if it weren’t for his impeccably good intentions, everything would undoubtedly have turned out very differently. It was only because he fled Corinth, seeking to avoid his fate, that he met Laius at the crossroads. And it was only because he solved the Sphinx’s riddle, so freeing Thebes from the monster’s malevolent presence, that he can marry Jocasta and taint her, too, with the blot of incestuous union.

In other words, it’s not just that his good intentions don’t save him. They are what get him into all this trouble in the first place. They are his tragic flaw.

All too often over the past decade or so, politicians have tried to cloak themselves in the defence of good intentions. Some years back David Runciman wrote a marvelous article about Tony Blair, who appealed always to his own high-minded humanitarianism and sense of conscience as exculpation for the disasters that ensued on his watch. Indeed, in part this was precisely his justification (for example) for the war on Iraq: yes, the people in their hundreds of thousands demonstrated in the streets against military action on such a shaky foundation. But the Prime Minister argued that the fact that he went to war anyway (whether or not he “sexed up” dodgy dossiers and the like en route) showed that he was not some populist swayed by the views of the many. He was a principled man who followed his own sense of right and wrong.

My colleague and friend Max Cameron at the Centre for the Study of Democratic Institutions would no doubt applaud this concern for morality and ethics amid–and against–the tumult of democratic politics.

There’s no need to doubt the intentions. We might even be prepared to admit that Blair was and is a “good” man. Precisely the kind of good person that some want to see more of in politics. But if Blair’s example alone isn’t enough, then Oedipus the King reminds us of the bad that good men do.

Or to put it another way: this is a further argument against meritocracy, our contemporary form of what the Greeks themselves called “aristocracy.”


Posted in Uncategorized

intentions

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If Oedipus has a tragic flaw, then it’s surely beside the point to talk of “pride” or the like. Or at best it’s incidental.

For what’s striking about Oedipus’s predicament is how hard he has tried to avoid it. It’s not as though he ends up killing his father and sleeping with his mother by accident, out of some negligence or lapse. Rather, he’s spent the better part of his life trying to ensure that he never sees his parents again. All from the very best of intentions.

Oedipus is in every sense of the term (except the one that counts) a “good guy.” He works ardently for both public and private good, and is loved by all for his efforts. He wears his heart on his sleeve and never shirks responsibility: “Here I am myself [. . .] I am Oedipus” (7, 8). Called upon to resolve the trauma Thebes is suffering, to rid the city of the plague, he pledges to do his best in every way, and to put all of his formidable energy to work. He feels his people’s pain: “I have wept through the nights, you must know that, / groping, laboring over many paths of thought” (78-9). He’s no distant tyrant, savoring the delights of power and luxury. He feels personally invested in the search for the old king Laius’s murderer, even though it happened before he arrived in the city, even though it would be easy enough simply to blame the people who were there then for burying the trauma at the time.

In short, Oedipus is the very model of the ideal modern politician. Would that there were more like him. And not only because at the end he (almost literally) falls on his sword for something that was not really his fault, assuming responsibility for a disaster he never intended to bring about and circumstances that he could never have avoided.

Except that the irony is that if it weren’t for his impeccably good intentions, everything would undoubtedly have turned out very differently. It was only because he fled Corinth, seeking to avoid his fate, that he met Laius at the crossroads. And it was only because he solved the Sphinx’s riddle, so freeing Thebes from the monster’s malevolent presence, that he can marry Jocasta and taint her, too, with the blot of incestuous union.

In other words, it’s not just that his good intentions don’t save him. They are what get him into all this trouble in the first place. They are his tragic flaw.

All too often over the past decade or so, politicians have tried to cloak themselves in the defence of good intentions. Some years back David Runciman wrote a marvelous article about Tony Blair, who appealed always to his own high-minded humanitarianism and sense of conscience as exculpation for the disasters that ensued on his watch. Indeed, in part this was precisely his justification (for example) for the war on Iraq: yes, the people in their hundreds of thousands demonstrated in the streets against military action on such a shaky foundation. But the Prime Minister argued that the fact that he went to war anyway (whether or not he "sexed up" dodgy dossiers and the like en route) showed that he was not some populist swayed by the views of the many. He was a principled man who followed his own sense of right and wrong.

My colleague and friend Max Cameron at the Centre for the Study of Democratic Institutions would no doubt applaud this concern for morality and ethics amid--and against--the tumult of democratic politics.

There's no need to doubt the intentions. We might even be prepared to admit that Blair was and is a "good" man. Precisely the kind of good person that some want to see more of in politics. But if Blair's example alone isn't enough, then Oedipus the King reminds us of the bad that good men do.

Or to put it another way: this is a further argument against meritocracy, our contemporary form of what the Greeks themselves called "aristocracy."

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Thoughts on Beowulf

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Talk about contrast from our last book! Fate plays out exceedingly well for Beowulf, compared to Oedipus. Both men are good intentioned and heroic, but fate deals Beowulf the better hand by far. He’s a hero in the old fashioned sense, being incredibly strong and courageous, defeating monsters and saving lives. Something that stuck with me was the constant emphasis on glory. This isn’t a new theme in this course, but I still feel the need to comment on it. The thing with glory and fame for me is that, as much as Beowulf is emphasized as a perfect hero in many ways, his motives seem much less honorable when they seem to be done simply for the glory. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, as there’s little fun in a perfect character who isn’t at least a little selfish or flawed. I guess I’m just wondering at the definition of a hero. We’ve spent all this time wondering at the definition of monster, we may as well think about hero as well. If we were to presume Beowulf’s only motive for killing all those monsters was fame, we would probably think of him as slightly less heroic. But if we say his only motive was to bring peace, and the glory simply came as a bonus, he’d seem more heroic for his selflessness. In the poem, I think Beowulf has a fairly healthy dose of both, but this is just for the purpose of my wonderings. Since this was written, how has the general definition of ‘hero’ changed? Just something to think about, as a “modern hero” is probably fairly different from Beowulf, evil dragons and monsters aside.

Beowulf reminded me of The Odyssey in many ways. They’re both poems, of course, and the main characters can be easily compared and contrasted. Odysseus was made to seem heroic because of his wisdom and cunning, while Beowulf was glorified by his strength and bravery. They both achieved fame and admiration in the end, prominently though adventure and overcoming monstrous obstacles. However, one significant difference between the two is that Beowulf does not seem to change much. His character doesn’t have a drastic change of perspective or understanding, I’d say, the same way Odysseus does.

On a side note from the text itself, I have to say to was nice to have pictures on the side, childish as that sounds. They didn’t contribute much to my understanding of the text itself, but there was definitely some interesting historical context to be found.


Beowulf the Dane!

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Prior to Arts One, I had already read Beowulf. It is an absolutely epic poem, and regarded as the longest standing piece of English Literature (albeit Old English…). It tells of the triumphs and tragedies of Hrothgar and beyond; and how Beowulf fought the antagonizing monster, Grendel. There have been a variety of translations and unfortunately I didn’t get the chance to purchase the curriculum assigned version; however I have read at least 4 different translations of what is, essentially the same tale.

Before this school year had started, I had looked ahead at the reading list and the sight of Beowulf brought me much excitement. It is the perfect piece of literature to encompass the theme of “monsters” as well. It also has come connections back to previous material we have studied; such as Genesis. Grendel, one of the three monsters Beowulf encounters, was a descendant of Cain, of the noteworthy fratricidal story in Genesis.  The term monster was one that referred to birth defects, which were  interpreted as an ominous sign from God—a sign of evil or of bad things to come.

An aspect that I thoroughly enjoyed in Beowulf is that the description of Grendel never comes full circle. It is up to the reader to form in their head what Grendel looks like. We get all sort of adjectives (subjective to the translation you read), but it is truly up to your imagination in the end. My only really beef with Beowulf as a text is that it seems all the characters are pretty one-sided… they all have respective foils and their seems to be a lack of ambiguity in all of them. Mind you, it is an ancient text and it doesn’t follow the expectations of literature today, but it would have been nice to see some questionable motives from Beowulf. As it stands, the text convinces one of the complete evilness of Grendel. The dragon’s tale is possibly ambiguous but it never gets enough development for us to care for it.

And for those who have yet to see the movie version; be warned. It is chocked full of cheesy cover-ups and the animations falls right into the uncanny valley….

Anyways, definitely an awesome read. Looking forward to going to town on the essay for it! (Sorry Oedipus, Beowulf is more of a man than you’ll ever be.)

 


Beowulf: Gratuitous monsters

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After I have finished diligently reading my texts and sit down to write this blog, I usually feel obligated to create some sort of commentary on the profound subtext. I feel the need to talk about what this REALLY means and why some character is a metaphor for the complexities of life etcetera etcetera. I mean, that is one of the main points of ArtsOne after all, and I like doing it. But sooner or later I have to admit my inner 10 year old self still has just as much power as my university self when it comes to thinking about literature.

The point is, Beowulf is gratuitously cool. I think later i’d like to talk about how such a classic, now cliched type of story attracts our attention, but for now i’d like to talk about whale beasts! And underwater battles! And dragons! And sword fights! Maybe I identified with this style of descriptive poetry, maybe I am a sucker for this type of  imagery. Whatever it is, the idea of a hero diving under the water on a stormy ocean to kill nine (NINE!) sea monsters still makes me want to find a stick and run around the forest killing imaginary foes.

This leads me to some more respectable ruminations. Beowulf is proud and confident. He eschews weapons for bare hands. He is the original hero. Again, we see a hero getting rewards and fame using his brute strength. But there is an intersting contrast between him and Hrothgar. Hrothgar is an old man who can’t defend his kingdom. He is helpless in the face of challenge. And yet he is still portrayed as a “good king.” It is not strength that makes him good, but wisdom and kindness. If I had to pick a theme for this tale, i’d say it centres around ideas of young and old, and how we carry ourselves as time passes. The poet seems to place more value on the feelings of pride and bravery than pure strength in itself, and while he recognizes that Beowulf is strong, he spends more time on his heroic nature than is actual physical nature.

And there is depth here, without a doubt. Often old Hrothgar will take half a page at the end of a battle or before a feast to reflect on the danger of having too much power, the fragile nature of life, and other such ideas. All his premonitions and predictions come true, and although they were nice, I was sometimes left wondering what they were meant to accomplish in the broader storyline. Beowulf dies, and some wars will probably happen. People will continue to get power and then die. Is this story just a cool story with monsters? Are we MEANT to take more from it? I’m not sure.

God is still around too. Everything Beowulf does is aided by (one) God, and made possible by God. It seems we’ll never shake this God fellow.

See you tomorrow!

 

Beowulf

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Prior to this course, I had never read Beowulf.  In all honesty, I had no idea what it was even about, and my only perceptions of it came from my friends’ reviews of the terrible animated picture (which I never saw) and my mother’s distaste for the work. Needless to say, I was not excited.

However, upon reading the tale, I noticed just how religious of a work it was. From my past recollections, I would never have guessed that there would be so many references to Christianity, especially as during this time, there was still widespread pagan belief. The descriptions of Grendel coming from the sin of Cain was very strange, considering the context of the time. I feel as if latter individuals added in the Christian descriptions in order to fit their religious beliefs.

When Beowulf asks to see the dragon’s gold at the end, as well as the curse upon the objects, I found that this held religious connotations as well. It signifies not only the importance of selflessness, but also reflected the idea of Heaven. Heaven does not necessarily mean Christianity, as Germanic pagans believed in the afterlife as well. By having only those who have no desire to possess the riches have the ability to hold them signifies the “exclusivity” of the afterlife. This idea reflects the Christian ideology, however, as only those following in the path of Christ can be saved. This Christian ideology reflects not only religious beliefs, but also the idea that those with pure intentions will hold the riches in life.

Near the end, I was surprised at how the death of Beowulf was not only the death of a hero, but also symbolized the death of a civilization. As the Geats are left defenseless, and the onslaught of the Swedes coming, it demonstrated the demise of greatness. This greatness is not only left to a particular society, but in general. Just as life inevitably ends, all good things eventually perish as well.

To be frank, Beowulf    was nothing like I expected. The amount of symbolism and references, combined with such a beast of a protagonist, shockingly gave me a very pleasurable and enjoyable reading experience. In the end,  Beowulf    symbolizes not only the fallibility of life, but also the merit that each individual must find within himself.