::Cue dramatic radio announcer voice:: When two unparalleled authors face off in an epic translation battle, only one can take the throne. Who will wear the laurels, and who will be the loser? Welcome to…Heaney vs Tolkien: The Beowulf Battle.
…All right, maybe translations of a 1,300-year-old poem don’t feel like a reality TV competition to you, but they do to me. If you read my last post, you’ll know I’m talking about two translations of the Old English poem Beowulf—one by J.R.R Tolkien and the other by Irish poet Seamus Heaney. To me, a great translation would include elements of Old English poetry like alliteration, repetition, foreshadowing, kenning, litotes, and caesura. It’s a pretty high bar. Ready to find out which translator won my Old English Epic Poetry Battle?
And the judge says…NEITHER!
That’s right. Neither of them is enough like Old English poetry to please me. There. I’ve revealed my unrealistically-high expectations. Now you can judge me if you want. But first, let me take a minute to describe each translation style and give you two examples from the text. Then you can make your own assessment and heckle me at your leisure.
Heaney’s Beowulf: A Vivid Poem
Seamus Heaney did try to make his translation similar to Old English poetry. It’s highly descriptive, and he breaks up the lines like a poem. He uses alliteration and caesura whenever it’s convenient. You can tell he took his inspiration from Old English poetic style.
However, he abandons the Old English conventions when it becomes too much of a stretch. Also, his word choice fails to preserves the archaic feel of the text. He uses bold words that catch the attention by their modern sound. It may be a deliberate technique to make the translation feel fresh and relatable, but I think something wonderful is lost when the style no longer reflects the setting.
Don’t get me wrong: I really did enjoy his translation. It’s vivid and sonorous, perfect for reading aloud like the original poem would have been. Many parts remind me of the translation of The Iliadand The Odyssey I read by Richmond Lattimore—manly, picturesque, and gory. Let me give you two examples from the poem, the first from when Beowulf is boasting of his battle prowess, and the second from the end of Beowulf’s battle with the monster Grendel.
Beowulf’s Boast, Heaney’s Translation
Time and again, foul things attacked me, Lurking and stalking, but I lashed out, Gave as good as I got with my sword. My flesh was not for feasting on, There would be no monsters gnawing and gloating Over their banquet at the bottom of the sea. Instead, in the morning, mangled and sleeping The sleep of the sword, they slopped and floated Like the ocean’s leavings. (39)
Grendel’s Defeat, Heaney’s Translation
…Then an extraordinary Wail arose, and bewildering fear Came over the Danes. Everyone felt it Who heard that cry as it echoed off the wall, A God-cursed scream and strain of catastrophe, The howl of the loser, the lament of the hell-serf Keening his wound…(53)
Tolkien’s Beowulf: A Formal Prose
Tolkien’s translation of Beowulf is completely different from Heaney’s. First of all, it’s not even a poem! It’s a literal translation straight to prose. In his defense, Tolkien didn’t intend his translation for publication. Instead, what we read is a copy of his teaching notes from Oxford, where he taught Old English literature. The only reason we have the privilege of enjoying it is because his son Christoper compiled and edited his father’s notes and publish them after Tolkien’s death.
I must say that the translation itself is wonderful despite the fact that it’s not a poem. Tolkien does a great job capturing that grand, archaic feel of the Old English period. The words he chose feel ancient and weighty, perfectly fit for the subject material. In fact, I bet he used words exclusively derived from Anglo-Saxon rather than French or other later additions to English. He was such a brilliant linguist that he could easily have highlighted the ancient feel in that way. So while the translation isn’t a poem, it’s still a delightful rendering that feels like Rohan. Behold the examples:
You can tell the translation is an academic endeavor when you flip through a copy of Beowulf: A Translation and Commentary. You’ll notice pretty quickly that only a quarter of it is translation, and the rest of it is commentary—almost 300 pages of commentary from Tolkien’s lecture notes and from other scholars chiming in on the translation. If that’s your cup of tea, you’re going to love this book. If not, enjoy the translation and skip the commentary.
Beowulf’s Boast, Tolkien’s Translation
Thus many a time deadly assailants menaced me grievously. With my beloved sword I ministered to them, as it was meet. In no wise had they joy in that banqueting, foul doers of ill deeds, that they should devour me sitting around in feast nigh to the bottoms of the sea; nay, upon the morrow they lay upon the shore in the flotsam of the waves, wounded by sword thrusts, by blades done to death….(28-29)
Grendel’s Defeat, Tolkien’s Translation
Clamour new arose ever and anon. Dread fear came upon the northern Danes, upon each of those that from the wall heard the cries, the adversary of God singing his ghastly song, no chant of victory, the prisoner of hell bewailing his grievous hurt. (35)
No Clear Winner
So what do you think? Do you prefer one over the other? If you’re pining for poetry, Heaney’s is superior. If you love the ancient feeling of monsters and dragons, then Tolkien may be what you’re looking for. While I can’t say which translation is better overall, I can confidently say that both are worth reading.
Now to find a perfect third translation. Let the Old English Epic Poetry Battle continue.
Youth is wasted on the young, and college classes are wasted on college students. When I was a junior in college, I took a History of Modern English class that seemed, at the time, drier than dust and older than dirt. To this day, all I can remember is lengthy discussions about “the great vowel shift” and the word “schwa”—both of which are far too niche to be interesting here.
However, we also translated some bits of the epic poem Beowulf from the Old English. I don’t mean Shakespeare’s English—that’s called Early Modern English. I mean Oooooold English. Like, basically Anglo-Saxon. At the time, I didn’t care about Beowulf, so this assignment was just another task. But looking back, I wish I’d soaked up more from that class (and all my classes, for that matter.) I worked hard and retained little. Again, college is wasted on college students.
To Teach Is to Learn
It wasn’t until I taught British Literature myself that I actually learned how to enjoy Old English poetry like Beowulf. By then, I’d fallen in love with Tolkien, which made Beowulf feel like a side story from Rohan. I taught the elements of Old English poetry, which isn’t anything like English poems today. No rhymes, no meter; just pure, raw, primal descriptions that use a handful of poetic devices.
For example, Old English poetry uses alliteration, repetition, and foreshadowing for dramatic effect. But it also uses kenning (two words combined to make a new, more descriptive word, like whale-path or swan-road instead of sea). It also employs litotes (understatements for dramatic effect) and caesura (a pause or break in the middle of each line, with alliteration on both sides of the caesura).
High Expectations for Beowulf
These conventions of Old English poetry may seem drier than dust and older than dirt to you, but I think they’re totally hip! I love that Old English poetry had its own set of rules to follow—not as rigid as sonnet form, perhaps, but very specific expectations for working within the genre. It gave the poets a framework to work in and gave the listeners (most of these stories were passed down verbally before being written) an enjoyable predictability in the style.
After teaching these characteristics, my expectations for a translation of Beowulf became very high—perhaps unrealistically high. In a quest to find one that meets all the criteria, I’ve read two translations in the past year. The first was a translation by J.R.R. Tolkien himself, the master linguist. The next was by Northern Irish poet Seamus Heaney, who won the Nobel Prize in Literature for his poems. If anyone can pull off a great Beowulf, it’s these guys, right?
Right?
The Cliffhanger
I hate to leave you hanging, desperately wondering which of the translations was truer to the Old English poetic tradition and which one I preferred overall. If you find yourself losing sleep over the question, here are some ideas: read and rate the books yourself, and read my series on Old English heroism. It discusses the heroic aspects of Beowulf’s character—as well as Robin Hood, Superman, and Harry Potter—in light of the characteristics of an Old English hero. A little niche, perhaps, and older than dirt for sure, but definitely not drier than dust.
Next time I’ll be bringing my verdict as well as some rather gruesome quotes from the books themselves. Instead of overwhelming you with their awesomeness (and word count) in this post, I thought you’d prefer to wait. In the meantime, enjoy the extended caesura between posts. See you next time!
Today I’d like to share with you a poem by Richard Wilbur. If you were around last year on Past Watchful Dragons, you’ll know I shared many of my favorite poems with you then, so we’ll consider today a bonus poem.
I found this in a post from author Jonathan Rogers. Wilbur’s poem is short and vivid. It reminds me of myself when I was a younger writer…and, to be honest, it reminds me of my current writer self, too. As the title suggests, he gears the poem toward writers, but I think the application is wider than that. Whatever your creative outlet, I think you’ll relate to Wilbur’s imagery of a starling, a ship, and the struggles of artistic expression.
To all my fellow creators out there, I hope this post give you the courage to “[clear] the sill of the world.” Best of luck!
Recently I had an literary epiphany. Two stories I’d known for decades finally collided with each other in my mind and fused into a new idea: I saw two ways to approach revenge when I contrasted Edmond Dantes with Shakespeare’s Prospero.
The Comparison Catalyst
I’d seen Shakespeare’s The Tempest performed at a theater when I was in high school, but I recently read it again. I was surprised how much of the plot I’d forgotten, not to mention the characters and themes. I’d also read The Count of Monte Cristo in college and forgotten most of it, so I listened to the unabridged audiobook last summer. I couldn’t believe how long it was, but the intricate plot made it worthwhile. Still, I didn’t notice any similarities between the stories.
Then a few months ago, I watched the 2024 BBC adaptationof The Count of Monte Cristo. It wasn’t terrible, but they butchered a 52-hour story down to three hours, thereby reinforcing my life motto: The Book Was Better. Reading The Tempest right after that was the literary catalyst that synthesized my comparison of Edmond Dantes and Prospero. The ideas just clicked. Prospero’s mercy contrasts sharply with Edmond Dantes’ stubborn determination to complete the destruction he started. Both men set out to get revenge, thinking it will bring peace to their bitter hearts. But in the end, only one man is truly at peace.
The Count of Monte Cristo and The Tempest Recaps
If you’re a bit rusty on the plots, here’s my quick review of the stories. In The Count of Monte Cristo, Edmond Dantes is lied about and betrayed by three men. Consequently, Dantes is thrown into a horrible prison for 14 years, and by the time he escapes, his fiancé has married one of his betrayers, and the other two men are rich and successful. However, during his time in prison, Dantes had learned about a vast treasure which gives him unlimited power to recreate himself in French society. He uses his new position to bring humiliation and destruction to his betrayers and their families.
Meanwhile, in The Tempest, Duke Prospero is betrayed by his usurping brother, Antonio, and others. Prospero escapes with his life and his young daughter, but they become stranded on an island for 12 years. While stranded, Prospero teaches himself magic from a book until he finally has a chance at revenge. He summons a storm that sinks a passing ship containing the guilty men, who swim to his island for refuge. After putting them through stressful and difficult situations to test their hearts, Prospero reveals himself as the deposed Duke. They beg his forgiveness, which he grants before throwing his book of magic into the sea and returning home with his daughter at last.
So Many Similarities
There are so many similarities that I wonder if Dumas had The Tempest in mind when he wrote The Count. (Or maybe both were thinking of the Old Testament story of Joseph.) Prospero and Dantes were both betrayed by jealous men who profited from their disappearance. Both become powerful in spite of banishment—one by magic and one by money—and transform themselves so much that their own friends don’t recognize them when they return. Both are intent on revenge to punish the men who robbed them of years of their lives. Both finally get the perfect opportunity to put their vengeful plans into action. But that’s where their paths diverge.
Critical Contrasts
Dantes wants revenge because three men had robbed him of his marriage to Mercedes. But after Dantes’ vengeance causes Mercedes’ husband to kill himself, Dantes still doesn’t marry her. His heart is too cold, and his love for her is overpowered by his hatred of his enemies. He doesn’t stop his master plan until every man and his family have been utterly destroyed—an action that has ripple effects and costs the lives of a series of innocent characters.
Prospero, too, achieves the chance to restore his dukedom by destroying the men who had betrayed him. He settles instead for teaching them a lesson and then forgiving them. He even contrives a meeting between his beloved daughter and the son of his enemy, the king, knowing that they will fall in love. Prospero tests their love and then blesses their union. His dukedom is restored without the guilt of all-consuming vengeance.
Degrees of Hope
In the end, both men long for death but choose to continue living in hope. Dantes had planned to kill himself after reuniting two young lovers whose lives he saved. He knows that one good action was hardly enough to “tip the scales” of the evil his revenge has caused, and he believes he has nothing else to live for. The only thing that stops his suicide is learning that he’s loved by a young woman he had rescued earlier. With more doubt than certainty, Dantes chooses to sail off with her in hopes that her love will redeem him from the guilt of his revenge.
Prospero, however, is sure of his joy. He is heading home, his daughter is deeply in love, and his dukedom is restored. Even so, before he leaves the island to resume his old life, he says that every third thought will be of his grave. Why? Not because he regrets the extent of his revenge, like Dantes. Instead, I think he’s just tired. Done with magic, he throws his book of spells into the sea. He’s lived to see his fortunes restored and his daughter happily married. What more could he wish for? Prospero is content.
They say there are only a handful of plots in the world. Isn’t it fun to see how different authors spin them into stories that are so similar and yet profoundly different? I’ll be on the lookout for more “mashups” in my reading, and I hope you will too.
Proof number 793 that I’m an old soul: I resonate with a poem that laments the evils of progress…from 100 years ago.
On my latest reading of C.S. Lewis’s The Pilgrim’s Regress, I came across this powerhouse of a poem in the last chapter. He hooked me with the very first line, but it took me a few more passes to get a better grasp of his overall pattern and meaning. I assure you, it was well worth the effort.
WAIT!
I saw you trying to sneak off when I mentioned that the poem took a little effort. …What? You were just going to grab your reading glasses and thinking cap? All right, carry on.
Since you’re all in, let’s start with a short synopsis of each stanza and then ever-so-briefly unpack the poem to see not just lament but also hope. Here’s my synopsis:
1: Skyscrapers and cities—Creation is dead, but God will recreate it. 2: Social Media and entertainment—Thought is captive, but God will free it. 3: Science and progress—Earth is changed, but God is changeless.
And here is Lewis’s masterful poem:
Iron will eat the world’s old beauty up. Girder and grid and gantry will arise, Iron forest of engines will arise, Criss-cross of iron crochet. For your eyes No green or growth. Over all, the skies Scribbled from end to end with boasts and lies. (When Adam ate the irrevocable apple, Thou Saw’st beyond death the resurrection of the dead.)
Clamour shall clean put out the voice of wisdom, The printing-presses with their clapping wings, Fouling your nourishment. Harpy wings, Filling your minds all day with foolish things, Will tame the eagle Thought: till she sings Parrot-like in her cage to please dark kings. (When Israel descended into Egypt, Thou Didst purpose both the bondage and the coming out.)
The new age, the new art, the new ethic and thought, And fools crying, Because it has begun It will continue as it has begun! The wheel runs fast, therefore the wheel will run Faster for ever. The old age is done, We have new lights and see without the sun. (Though they lay flat the mountains and dry up the sea, Wilt thou yet change, as though God were a god?)
…Wow, right? My first thought was, “I couldn’t agree more,” which was shortly followed by, “What would poor Lewis think about artificial intelligence and smart phones?” But that’s a discussion for another time. For now, let’s take a quick peek at each stanza and celebrate the hope that God offers to a broken world.
1: Skyscrapers and cities—Creation is dead, but God will recreate it.
The scars of human “progress” mar countless landscapes, and skyscrapers scrawl the sky with the lie, “Metal trumps nature.” We’ve killed so much of creation, and there’s no going back. Like Adam’s apple, the choice is irrevocable.
But there’s good news today just like there was in the Garden. God didn’t reverse time and prevent the fall; instead, he looked forward to the day He would undo sin’s effects and resurrect what had died. As with salvation, so with creation. God will remake the world, and it will be even better than we could imagine.
2: Social Media and entertainment—Thought is captive, but God will free it.
“Harpy wings,/Filling your minds all day with foolish things,/Will tame the eagle Thought…” Oof. Guilty. In ancient myths, harpies (huge, loathsome bird-women) came and snatched the food from hungry warriors, leaving their filthy stench and refuse behind. Lewis saw the same being done to quality content and deep thought, leaving only stupefying amusement or trashy thrills behind. And this was before the internet!
But again, there is hope. Thought is a caged parrot, but God will free her. God purposed Israel’s bondage in Egypt and its release to the Promised Land. He can unlock the cage of social media, Hollywood, and AI; He can restore Thought to its former majesty.
3: Science and progress—Earth is changed, but God is changeless.
You can hear Lewis’s scorn at the seeming inevitability of progress. The man who thinks science is unstoppable is like a kid who throws a snowball from the top of a hill and expects an avalanche to cover the world. Progress declares, “We have new lights and see without the sun.” In other words, the gods can keep their fire—we’ve made our own. Little do they know, their faith is misplaced.
But Lewis offers one more word of hope: God won’t be outmoded like some human idea. The world may change and destroy itself, but it could never change or destroy its Maker. He is no mere god. He is Creator and Redeemer. He is above our petty self-destruction.
So the next time I’m tempted to feel satisfied with a rusty cityscape, sit and doom scroll through YouTube, or buy into a new trend, I hope I’ll pause a minute and think of this poem. The present always feels like the apex of society until we consider that we’re a mere blip on the radar, just a spark in the wind. Comfort comes from knowing that God is sovereign over it all.
This week I finished re-reading C.S. Lewis’s The Pilgrim’s Regress, and guys—it was thrilling. Seems like an odd description for a spiritual allegory from almost a century ago, but it’s true. I’d read it before, maybe during high school, so I found plenty of stars in the margins from my younger self. But this time around, I added more.
So. Many. More.
The More You Know
What was the difference? A better knowledge of Lewis’s spiritual biography. I’m now familiar with some of the philosophical and moral hurdles Lewis had to reject in order to accept Christianity, and Lewis spends most of this book describing and debunking those hurdles. Even though he writes about them in allegorical terms, I was able to track with most of them because I’d already read his non-allegorical version: Surprised by Joy.
The Pilgrim’s Regress is the first book Lewis published after becoming a Christian, so it was filled with foreshadowing of so many of his later books and thoughts. It was like going back in time and meeting one of your best adult friends as a teenager—you can tell it’s the same person, but the flowers you enjoy in their personality today are still seedlings in their younger self. I had a similar feeling when I read his letters to Arthur Greeves. Simply delightful.
How to Enjoy The Pilgrim’s Regress
I think nearly any Lewis lover could relish reading Regress, but a few preliminaries would increase enjoyment and reduce confusion. Here, in compounding order, is how you can get the most out of this book. Any one of these is a good enough reason to read it, but the more you can stack up, the more you’ll enjoy it.
Love C.S. Lewis.
Know the story of his conversion.
Have a pretty good knowledge of classic and British literature as well as the pervasive schools of thought before and during his day.
Be fluent in Latin and a few other modern and ancient languages that he casually sprinkles in here and there.
Alternately:
Love C.S. Lewis.
Read the afterword that he write to explain his own allegory.
Google anything that feels like a quotation or reference.
Also google anything in a foreign language.
I pretty much took the alternate approach, and it worked out just fine.
Your Mission, Should You Choose to Accept It
If you feel motivated to read the book, then hop on over to ThriftBooks or your favorite book site and nab a copy today. In my next post, I plan to write about a poem from the last chapter of Regress. If you’ve read the book by then, you can sit in the front of the class and wave your raised hand like Hermione Granger.
And, just between you and me, you’ll be my favorite.
Will you despise me if I admit that, while I’ve loved reading since I was a wee child, I’d never been much of a Charles Dickens fan? I know. It’s heresy. He’s one of the greats, and I had tried (from time to time) to love him, but to no avail.
I struggled through A Tale of Two Cities as forced reading in high school and had to teach Great Expectations as a student teacher in college. Then I fastidiously avoided the rest of Dickens’ works after college. I’ve been very ashamed of myself.
But then came Pickwick.
A Felicitous Meeting
A few months ago, I was browsing a used bookstore and saw a short, fat copy of The Pickwick Papers on a shelf of classics. For some reason, I was drawn to it. Was it guilt over my standoffish attitude toward Dickens? Penance for not enjoying A Tale of Two Cities? Justification that the book was only $5? Whatever the reason, I bought it and started reading it.
I hadn’t even finished Dickens’ preface before I used my highlighter—twice! A kinship with Dickens was forming already. His first chapter was entertaining enough, although I think I’d enjoy it more if I were more familiar with the goings-on of stuffy old British club meetings. But since the book was originally published as a serial story in a magazine, I’m not even sure if Dickens knew were the story was heading when he penned chapter one. It was also the first book he’d published, so he was probably just cutting his authorial teeth, as it were.
His First and Funniest
I could tell that Dickens really dug into the characters and plot as the chapters went on. In the book, the four main members of the Pickwick Society go out in search of adventure and leisure together (adleisure?), and they find themselves in a wide assortment of scrapes along the way. I loved how Dickens brought back characters that you thought he’d finished with, carried on with running jokes, and developed character arcs through all 875 pages of small typeface. (!!!) It really was delightful.
I also appreciated his political activism throughout the book. Even though this is his earliest published work, his disgust for the legal system and his concern for social justice are just as apparent as they are in books like Oliver Twist (which I did enjoy as an audiobook this summer, at long last). But there were two main aspects that kept Pickwick soengaging that I found myself saying, “Just one more chapter.” My two favorite aspects are Dickens’ characterization and his wit.
A Company of Characters
The book begins with a list of character names and descriptions. The list takes up four full pages! Despite the vast number of characters, Dickens manages to keep them vibrant and distinct through dialect and personalities. Mr. Winkle wants to be seen as a classic British sportsman, but he’s really a poser and a bungler. Mr. Tupman is a hopeless romantic, with emphasis on the hopeless. Mr. Snodgrass thinks of himself as a great poet, even if no one else does. Mr. Jingle is a resourceful conman who keeps turning up in various forms—a true precursor to Count Olaf. Sam Weller is a scrappy boot shiner and philosopher who becomes a most loyal footman to Mr. Pickwick.
And Mr. Pickwick. Dear Mr. Pickwick.
He’s such an endearing old soul. It took me a while to really warm up to his benign, portly character, but by the end I wanted to give him a big hug. He’s honest and sincere, generous to a fault, principled without being pious, and equally ready for travel, fisticuffs, discussion, and supper. Everyone loves him, and so will you.
A Brace of Dickensian Descriptions
But what truly sets Dickens apart is his wit. His humor is so dry, ironic, understated, and British that it gets me every time. He rarely just says something. He thinks of an unexpected and picturesque way of describing it so that you can see it too. I’m a huge fan of British humor, so I’m delighted with the way Dickens peppers each page with wit.
As an example of characterization and wit all rolled into one, here follows a description of Mr. Magnus, a minor character who is breakfasting with Mr. Pickwick before proposing to a lady.
Down they sat to breakfast, but it was evident, notwithstanding the boasting of Mr. Peter Magnus, that he labored under a very considerable degree of nervousness, of which loss of appetite, a propensity to upset the tea-things, a spectral attempt at drollery, and an irresistible inclination to look at the clock, every other second, were among the principal symptoms. “He-he-he,” tittered Mr. Magnus, affecting cheerfulness, and gasping with agitation. “It only wants two minutes, Mr. Pickwick. Am I pale, sir?” “Not very,” replied Mr. Pickwick.
Or even this little gem:
…Mr. Phunky, blushing into the very whites of his eyes, tried to look as if he didn’t know that everybody was gazing at him: a thing which no man ever succeeded in doing yet, or in all reasonable probability, ever will.
Consider Me Converted
Since the whole book is chock-full of chuckles like this, I resorted to flipping to a random, highlighted page and including the quotes above. Trust me, you’ll find plenty more if you choose to read The Pickwick Papers yourself. Which I truly and energetically recommend.
After all these years, I think Dickens has finally grown on me.
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