On the Whale Road (Beowulf)
Introduction to the translation-in-progress
I’ve been fascinated by the Old English poem Beowulf since I was a teenager. Even though my primary focus was American postmodernism and the work of William H. Gass, my doctoral dissertation (2010) included chapters concerned with Beowulf. For my dissertation, however, I relied on modern-English translations of the poem. In 2012, I wrote my monograph, The “Beowulf” Poet and His Real Monsters, and tried my hand at translating the Old English for the first time. It was difficult, to put it mildly, but also invigorating. My translating for the monograph was primarily literal. Being a novelist, I wanted to try a literary translation, and I finally got around to it in 2019, focusing on the central section of the poem, the Grendel’s mother episode. The editors at EKL Review published my translation. Then in 2022, upon retiring from teaching full-time, I returned to the poem, and began translating it from the beginning.
Rather than searching for publishers as I completed each section, I decided to use the Kindle Vella platform and put the poem-in-progress out into the world myself. I managed six installments before Kindle Direct Publishing announced the closing of their Vella platform as of February 2025. At that time I migrated my translation-in-progress to this blog. The translation here appears in two parts, as I’m in the process of joining the beginning sections with the central section that I translated in 2019.
You’ll notice that I’ve changed the title from the typical, simply, Beowulf. That title is one of custom. In the codex that contains the one and only manuscript of the poem, it is untitled. We have no idea what name the story may have carried in the, likely, eighth and ninth centuries when it was perhaps a standard tale in Anglo-Saxon halls. Since I want my translation to be unique (among the approximately 350 other modern-English translations currently on record), I decided to give it a unique title, On the Whale Road, which includes a homage to Jack Kerouac and the Beats.
My secondary title — “A New & True Translation of the Poem Known as ‘Beowulf'” — reflects that my objective is to create a prose poetry version of the poem that has fidelity with the original poet’s intentions. That is, my translation is rooted in the poem’s original language, but I always have an eye (and ear) on the story’s narrative energy. The poem would be performed for a hall filled with probably boozy listeners, likely heavily armed — not to mention the capricious king himself. The poet had a vested interest in keeping his audience on the edge of their benches. So at every turn of the translation, when there are choices to be made among equally enigmatic options of Anglo-Saxon, I always choose the most captivating, or as we would say today, the most page-turning.
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BOOK I: DENMARK
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Prologue (ll. 1-52)
A Leader for the Leaderless
Halt! – And recall the spear-wielding Danes of old, whose kings gifted greatness to their people and whose princes played the role of hero time and again.
Scyld Scefing served fear to his many enemies in their very own halls, unseated the terror-struck lords and murdered their mercenary bands, even the dread Eruli. He was a foundling forlorn, though consolation would come his way as he flourished beneath the sky, rising in fame and forcing tribute from foes near at hand whose misfortune arrived via the whale road. That was a virtuous king!
After a time, a son came to court, God-sent and a tremendous comfort to the community. He sensed the distress the leaderless Danes had long endured. Thus the Lord of Life, Warden of the Wide World, granted him glory, and the renown of Scyld’s son, Beaw, burst across his father’s land. Thus a young leader, while still at his father’s hearth and privy to his wealth, would do well to lavish gifts upon his close companions so that when war erupts their loyalty can be counted on. It’s true everywhere that noble deeds enrich a man’s name.
When destiny declared Scyld’s departure, the old man, still imbued with youthful strength, was called into the Lord’s keeping. He’d commanded his companions to carry his cherished body to the surging sea, which lapped at a land he had long ruled.
A regal ring-prowed ship – ice-adorned and eager – waited impatiently at the water’s edge. The beloved leader, illustrious ring-giver, was laid by the main mast, the beating heart of the breathtaking bark. Fabulous treasures from far-away lands were brought forth. Never have I heard of a ship so fulsomely equipped with weapons of war: swords made of malice and finely crafted mail. On his breast they heaped many a marvelous treasure to travel with him far onto the frothing flood. Their great gifts – finery of a faithful flock – were no less fantastic than those given him in the beginning when he embarked upon the waves, a little child alone.
High above his head they erected a gold-bright banner and allowed the sea to guide him, giving him back to the gaping ocean. They watched with sunken spirits and heavy hearts. No one can say precisely – neither hall councilors nor noble men under heaven – who received that precious cargo.
I (ll. 53-114)
The Hell-Born Fiend
Beaw, beloved leader of his people, held the land firmly and famously for a long time after his noble father had reached another realm – then he himself fathered highborn Healfdene, who ruled the glory-greedy Scyldings, becoming ancient and battle-hardened by the end. In time, four children were born to that unrivaled ruler of troops – Heorogar, Hrothgar and Halga the Good. I’ve heard that the daughter (Yrse, I think) was Onela’s queen, or at least the War-Scylfing’s favored bed companion.
Then Hrothgar became known for his war-glory and battle-savvy so that his novice followers blossomed into a mighty warrior band. A plan came to mind: he would command that a wondrous hall be built, a marvel to outlive memory for mead-drinking and the division of war booty among young and old alike – everything God had bestowed, save for common ground and men’s lives. I’ve heard that work orders spread widely across the region summoning craftsmen of every skill to build the people’s beautiful hall. As such, it was completed in no time, this grandest of greathalls. He whose words were not questioned anywhere said the hall’s name was Hereot. True to his boasts, at banquet he gave gifts of rings, treasure galore. The hall towered tall, gabled with horns and beckoning the unholy flames of war-wrath. The day of the blade-hate had not yet been born between son- and father-in-law, sown by a long-buried hostility.
A darkness-dwelling demon, powerful with pain, had long endured the din of debauched merrymaking in the meadhall. The harpstrings sang stingingly, as did the song-shaping poet, who could keenly recount the creation of men from long ago. He declaimed how the Almighty made the earth, a lovely land ringed with water and a triumph of design when the sun and moon were set in motion there; and how He ornamented every corner with branches and leaves while animating myriad forms of life.
They lived prosperously, a chosen people, until the hell-born fiend burned with rage, became fixed on their ruin. Grendel, the grim outcast was called, infamous guardian of lonely haunts, fens and forsaken wastes. The mournful monster had dwelt for a time among his kind, all expelled by God, the marked kin of the murderer Cain. For the slaying of Abel, the Lord exacted revenge. Indeed, he extracted no joy from that evil act, only the Lord’s hostility and banishment from humankind. Thereafter were born all manner of monstrous things – ogres and evil-minded elves and ghouls who go among the dead, as well as the giants that waged war against God for ages (an outrage for which they were fully compensated).
II (ll. 115-188)
The Burning Embrace
At nightfall, the Ring-Danes’ foe fell upon the awe-inspiring house, after the beer-drinking was done. Inside he beheld the noble band abed amid their abandoned banquet – their sleep was carefree, with no thoughts of the misery men must sometimes endure. The unclean creature, cruel and ruthless, was ready at once for a savage assault and wrested thirty thanes from their rest. Proud of his plunder, he left for his lair, his hellish home, bearing on his shoulders the bloody slaughter.
In the predawn twilight, Grendel’s war prowess was revealed, and the night’s raucous feasting was replaced by woeful wailing. The famous king, long-known for his nobility, sat stunned by sorrow. The great one grieved for his taken thanes as they beheld the track of that hated haint, that soulless specter. The fight proved fierce, pernicious and persistent. The very next night he resumed his murderous rampage, dedicated as he was to death and devastation, to unmitigated malice, doling out not a morsel of remorse. Many were the men, then, who found sleeping quarters elsewhere, a room removed from the hall and its unwelcome guest, once the unmistakable signs of his savagery were made abundantly clear. To escape the fiend, the deft sought safety via distance. Thus did Grendel ravage right, ruling over all until the hallowed hall was hollow.
The Scyldings’ patriarch suffered the pain of misfortune, the misery of unimaginable woe, for an interminable time, twelve withering winters. Reports of Grendel’s crimes were recited far from the site of his unending war on Hrothgar, so that a generation of children grew up hearing of his wicked and wrathful ways. He sought no substitute for his feud with the Danes – no pact, no price could curtail this deadly curse. Hrothgar’s hall councilors needn’t hope for a radiant reprieve from the death-dealer’s claws. On the contrary, the monster – shadow-cloaked and death-draped – continued to hunt whomever he pleased, from battle-weary warriors to dewey youths, plotting and pouncing from the mist-covered wastes where he presided over a never-ending night. No one can say where hell’s messengers may meet them on their meandering path.
So, mankind’s menace, always alone, committed uncountable crimes, unending acts of evil that caused unbearable anguish. On lead-dark nights he would occupy Heorot’s lonely treasure-laden halls. Unworthy, he avoided the hallowed throne, which was to be occupied by men deemed godlike — and never would he know such adoration. The Scyldings’ heartbroken lord suffered a misery that was acute. Men granted authority debated strategems by which the courageous could defend against the sudden assaults. Desperate, they would seek out heathen shrines and make pledges to the stealer of souls, soliciting diabolical assistance in hopes of halting the nation’s destruction.
Such was the heathens’ habit of mind, their misguided hope: they imagined that turning toward hell would be their salvation. They knew nothing of God, the Maker of everything who would judge their deeds. Their ignorance didn’t allow them to ask for the Lord’s protection – He whose glory gilded the world. Woe to those who throw their souls into hatred’s burning embrace, a sacrifice that will effect nothing no matter how desperate their desire. Well, though, will it be for those who find the enfolding arms of the Lord. A protective father’s comfort and security will be theirs!
III (ll. 189-257)
Across the Waves
So Healfdene’s son suffered ceaselessly, his sorrow seething without end, the best of princes unable to move past the perpetual grief. Nothing could overturn the trouble that had been wrought, that pernicious night-evil. It clung to him, loathsome and cruel.
In his distant home, a great man among the Geats, Hygelac’s thane, heard of Grendel’s misdeeds. Among men, back then, his might was unmatched, so too his nobility and his strength of character. He commanded that a sturdy seaworthy ship be outfitted for a crossing upon the swan-road to the war-king, the worthy prince who was in need of equally worthy warriors. Clever-headed men declined to dissuade him, though he was dear to them. Rather, they hailed him a hero, confident in the signs they studied. The born-leader selected from among the Geats the best and boldest – fourteen seasoned soldiers – and led his troops to the heavy-timbered ship. The warrior knew the ways of the sea and marched them to the water’s edge.
The time had come, and the boat waited upon the water. Floating just beyond the high beachhead. The eager warriors, noisy in their excited chatter, leaped above the twisting tide onto the boat. Each bore a splendid array of war-gear, stowing it in the bosom of the stout-timbered ship. The glad warriors were launched, then, on their glorious journey.
Wind-driven across the waves, the ship flew like a foam-plumed bird for a full day – until the sea-voyagers sighted land. Before the curved prow rose glimmering cliffs, abrupt bluffs, and fanning forelands. Then their sea-crossing had come to an end. The Weder Geats hastened to the hard ground, tying tight their ship, shaking out their mail-shirts, and gathering their war-gear. The crossing was easy, and, pleased, they thanked God.
From the high seawall, a Scylding watchman, charged with guarding the coast, counted as gleaming shields were carried across the gangway, followed by other worthy war-gear. Worry threatened to wreck him: he must know the minds of these well-armed men. Heavy shaft in hand, Hrothgar’s man boldly rode down to the strand to interrogate this newly arrived band:
Halt and identify yourselves! You chain-mailed men who have steered your ship here along the sea-path, skillfully crossing the deep. Long has it been my duty to dwell at land’s end and monitor the sea for hostile mariners who mean harm to the Danes. No shieldbearing warriors have disembarked so boldly, not without displaying some sign that they’d been granted permission. I have never beheld a man in battle-gear of greater stature – nowhere on earth is there such a fearsome figure. Unless his physique and even his fine face deceive, he is no mere hall hanger-on propped up with battle panoply. Now, before you advance farther into the land of the Danes, I must know where you came from – I must be convinced you are not false-hearted spies. Don’t hesitate, seafaring foreigners, and take me seriously when I say I must know your place of origin.
IV (ll. 258-319)
The Shining Hall
Their leader, who was eldest and wisest, unlatched his lockbox of language and answered: We are from Geat-land, hearth-guardians of our lord, Hygelac. My father’s name, Edgtheow, was synonymous with nobility, and known by people of many nations for his bravery in battle. He outlasted many bitter winters, proving their better, before leaving his home deep into old age. His memory lives on among the wisest advisers everywhere. We seek your leader, Healfdane’s son, lord and protector of his people. Our intentions are noble. Provide us your wise advice. We are on an errand of great import to the legendary leader of the Danes; and have nothing to hide, I assure you.
You must confirm if what we have heard is true, that among the Scyldings dwells some sort of destroyer, an enigmatic enemy who reveals his rage in the terror he brings on dark-black nights, unspeakable acts resulting in shame and slaughter. I have advice for Hrothgar that comes from a kindred spirit, a way for he who is wise and good to vanquish this villain and cool his accumulated cares, a remedy that will bring sweet relief. Otherwise he will eternally endure this troubled time, this everlasting season of distress, dwelling there in that high hall, gleaming emblem of his greatness.
Before speaking, the coast-warden, stalwart servant upon his steed, considered that a shrewd shield-warrior must be able to distinguish between words and deeds. Said: My sense is that your war-band is here on behalf of the lord of the Scyldings. Go forth, then, bearing weapons and armor. I shall be your guide. What is more, I shall command my young men, on their honor, to keep safe your ship against any ne’er-do-wells – this freshly tarred vessel on the beach – so that the stout timbers of its curved keel can easily return you, esteemed sea-farers, over the deep currents to your home coast in Wederland. May your noble intentions buy you protection in battle so that each of you comes through unharmed.
They then proceeded. Their boat floated quietly. The broad-beamed ship was at anchor and firmly secured with ropes. Golden boar images gleamed above their cheek-guards. The fire-hardened ornament was an added protection, and the grim masks were a reflection of their war-ready hearts. The troop hurried as one and soon beheld the high, timbered hall, magnificently trimmed in gold. Earthbound men held that it was the best-known building under heaven. Home of a powerful king, its brilliance beamed across many lands. The brave-hearted guard pointed out the straightest way to the shining hall, pride of the people. Turning his horse, the singular watchman shared these words: The time has come for me to depart. May Father Almighty look upon you all with favor in times of strife and bring you through it whole. I return to the seaside to resume my duty guarding against hostile troops.
V (ll. 320-370)
Audience with the King
The road, paved in stone, showed the group the way. Their iron mail was hard, hand-linked, and that shining war-gear made an unmistakable statement. Outfitted as they were, in their terrifying gear, they went directly to the hall and straight away placed their shields, which were wide, circular and sturdy, against the outside wall of the building. Weary from the sea, they rested on benches, their armor loudly announcing the arrival of brave men. These men of the sea stood their ash-wood weapons together, gray tips pointing up. The troop was impressively armed.
A fellow, uncowed, inquired of their origin: From where have you carried these gilded shields, these gray shirts of mail and grim-looking helmets, an armory of battle-ready spears? I am Hrothgar’s herald and servant. Never have I seen a gathering of men, foreigners too, whose deportment was so daring. I trust your motives in seeking Hrothgar are honorable, an expression of courage – not because you are needy exiles. The clear leader of the Weders, he of noble bearing, speaking firmly from beneath his helmet, answered with these well-chosen words: We are Hygelac’s close companions, table-mates. Beowulf is my name. I desire to explain my errand to Healfdane’s famous son, your lord, if he would be gracious enough to grant the time and allow an audience. Wulfgar – a leader of the Wendals, well-known for his war-skills and wisdom – replied: I shall approach the friend of the Danes, the Scyldings’ chief and ring-giver, and communicate your quest, as you ask, then quickly bring back whatever response the best of men cares to give.
With that, he went confidently to the place where Hrothgar, haggard and gray-headed, sat among his most-trusted men. The stalwart messenger, shoulders squared, stood before the lord of the Danes. He knew the ways of these noble people. Wulfgar spoke to his lord as one does who is a reliable retainer: Standing just outside, come from across the wide sea, are men of the Geats. This warrior band calls Beowulf their leader. They seek, my lord, a conference. I encourage you to grant their request, gracious Hrothgar. By the worth of their war-gear they warrant consideration. Their chief, without question, is a warrior worthy of respect.
VI (ll. 371-455)
A Single Request
Hrothgar, defender of the Scyldings, declared: I last saw him when he was but a boy. His honored father was named Ecgtheow, and it was to him that the Geat Hrethel gave his only daughter. Now the son, grown strong, is calling on a dependable friend. Those who have traveled across the sea, delivering gifts to the Geats to demonstrate our goodwill, report his hand-grip to be that of thirty men, giving him great advantage in battle. My hope is that he has been sent to us, the West Danes, by the grace of God to contend with Grendel’s terror. This good man shall receive great rewards for his courageous spirit. Quickly now, bring them in to see the assembled kinsmen. Say to them also, the words meaning they are welcome among the Danes.
Wulfgar went to the hall door and issued this summons: I have been instructed by the leader of the East Danes, a victorious king, to say he knows your noble lineage, and, stout-hearted seafarers, you are welcome guests. You may now go – in battle-gear, face-plates raised – to see Hrothgar. Leave behind your war-shields and -shafts until the conversation is concluded.
The powerful one rose from among his many powerful men, a loyal band. Some were instructed by their savvy leader to stay and watch the weapons. Promptly they walked as one, guided under Heorot’s roof. The bold one, stone-faced beneath his helmet, went forward until he stood in the center of the room. Beowulf spoke – his chain-mail shone, a war-net artfully woven by a master smith:
Hail to you, Hrothgar. I am Hygelac’s kinsman and subject. I have performed many magnificent feats in my youth. In my fatherland this affair with Grendel became well known to me. Seafarers say that this hall, the finest of such strongholds, stands vacant and worthless to warriors after the light hides in the night sky. All of my people, from the noblest to the most common, said I must place my uncommon strength at your service, great Hrothgar. They witnessed my return wearing my enemies’ blood after capturing a clan of giants, five strong, and slaughtering them, as I had water-monsters in night-waves. The Weders’ strife was mine to remedy, whoever meant them harm. They deserved utter destruction. And now with Grendel, that fiercest of fighters, shall I alone settle the score with the ogre.
To you now, prince of the Bright-Danes, shelter of the Scyldings, I must make a single request – do not deny me, fortress of fighting-men, proud prince of the people, now that I have come so far, I be allowed alone to purge Heorot, beside my band of worthy warriors. Furthermore, it is my understanding that the fierce foe brazenly forsakes weapons. Thus, in the spirit of honorable Hygelac I shall bear into battle neither shining sword nor gleaming shield. Rather, I shall wrestle the hateful wraith, grip against grasp, a fight that will leave only one of us living. Then he who is taken in death must trust in the Lord’s judgment.
I suspect, should he succeed, he will eat us Geats with gusto, as he has so often done the bravest Danes. No, my head shall not require a shroud, should death seize me, for it will be covered in blood as he carries off my gory corpse, intending, I should think, to make a meal of me. The solitary swamp-walker will eat it heartily, fouling his fen-hollow with the feast. My body then will be beyond your care, and, too, your worry. Should I be taken in battle, send to Hygelac my war-shirt, a finely wrought garment that has faithfully guarded my breast. It was handed down from Hrethel, the legendary work of Weland. It shall go as fate intends.
VII (ll. 456-498)
A Gathering of Heroes
Hrothgar, guardian of the Scyldings, said: You have assumed this quest, Beowulf my friend, from a sense of obligation, as well as kindness. Your father provoked a pestilent feud when he murdered Heatholaf, guest of the Wylfings. Then, afraid of war, his Weder clan was wary of having him. So over the swelling waves he came, seeking the people of the South Danes, the honorable Scyldings. I was a new ruler of the Danes at that time – yet my youthful hand held a wide-ranging realm, a land rich with heroes. Heorogar, my elder brother, had died–Healfdene’s heir, my better, dead! I paid the price of ancient treasure to settle the feud. The sea’s back bore it to the Wylfings, and he pledged an oath to me as repayment.
It is dispiriting to acknowledge to anyone how my heart is weighted with humiliation, sunken with shame to think what devastation Grendel’s attacks have brought to Heorot, laced with his hatred and hostility. My hall-troop has been decimated, my personal guard diminished, their fate to be swept away by Grendel’s grasping hate. God could quickly quell this deadly enemy’s deeds.
Often, drunk and full of beer-boasts, warriors would declare over cups their intention to await combat in the hall, meeting the horror of Grendel with their own horrible blades. Come morning, daylight revealed the noble hall’s benches dripping with blood, wound-gore everywhere. Death dispatched my dearest companions, taken from me one by one, diminishing the courageous band. Rest now, feast – feed your spirit in the hall where noble warriors like you have celebrated great victories. At once space was made for the Geatish men, a bench all their own in the beerhall, and the bold band took their seats, preening their strength. Then a serving-thane performed his duty to bring forth a decorated cup brimming with bright drink. The court poet sang clearly in Heorot as the sizable company of heroes, Geats and Weders, enjoyed themselves.
VIII (ll. 499-558)
A Public Challenge
Ecglaf’s son spoke, Unferth, seated at the feet of the Scyldings’ king, words weighted with provocation. Beowulf’s courageous coming here from across the sea irritated him in the extreme because he desired that no other man in middle-earth should accrue more daring deeds under heaven than himself. Aren’t you the Beowulf that competed with Breca on the open sea, the two of you quick to settle your quarrel, pride placing you in the deep water and risking your lives? No one, confidante or crank, could convince you two of the recklessness of your plan to row upon the open sea. There you both would accept the assessment of the sea-path, drawing the water with your arms, slipping over the surface that stretched before you: chaotic tides enkindled with winter’s temper. For seven long nights you labored against the water’s powerful pull. He bested you, Breca did, demonstrated mightier drive on the sea. Then the morning’s tide cast him upon the shore of the Heathoræmes. From there, well-loved by his people, the Brondings, he set out for his cherished homeland, where he ruled in its handsome citadel, keeping safe its citizens and its resources. Beanstan’s son followed through on his boast to beat you. So I imagine you will get the worst of it – even though elsewhere you met with success the rush of oncoming battle, grim warfare – should you dare to wait through the long night for Grendel’s grim hour.
Beowulf, Ecgtheow’s son, replied: Gee, Unferth my friend, you’ve said a lot about Breca and his harrowing time – with your beer-bathed tongue. I maintain, as a matter of truth, that I possessed mightier sea-strength, overcame more adversity on the waves, than any other man. The two of us vowed, when we were just boys, brimming with youth, that we would wager our lives out on the open ocean – thus we did. As we rowed at sea, we had at hand hardened swords, thinking we would use them to ward off whales. He was unable to drift beyond me, to float faster on the wicked waves. And I wouldn’t abandon him. Five nights we managed to stay together, until the turbulent sea tore us apart, separated by the surging swells. We battled bone-chilling storms, deepening night and a vicious north wind – everything turned against us.
The waves were wrathful. Outrage riled the sea-fish. Against their hatred I had my handmade mail, hard-woven war-gear threaded with gold, spread protectively across my breast. An especially angry beast hooked me in its horrible grip, pulling me to the depths. Nevertheless it was granted me that my sword-point should pierce the vile fighter. By my hand, the mighty ocean menace was dispatched in the frothing melee.
IX (ll. 559-661)
A Passing of the Torch
Again and again the hateful haints set upon me savagely. I repaid them appropriately with my most-trusted sword. The devious demons were disappointed in their design to devour me ’round a banquet-table near the bottom of the sea. But by morning they lay upon the beach – blade wounds from my sword had them resting peacefully. Afterward mariners could cross the high sea unhindered by their harassment. Light, God’s bright beacon, came in the east. Then the sea calmed and the wind-whipped cliffs of a cape appeared. Fate will often favor the brave, as yet unmarked for death, if their courage doesn’t falter. Thus it befell me to slay with my sword nine sea-beasts. I know of no more bitter combat contested by night beneath heaven’s arching buttresses, nor of a man in more dire circumstances caught in the ocean’s current. Nonetheless, I slipped their treacherous grip, saving my life, but worn out from the struggle. Then the sea’s surging current carried me to the land of the Finns – its frothing flood.
There are no such tales of your clashing combat, not that I have heard. Nothing at all about your dread sword. Neither you nor Breca ever achieved impressive deeds in battleplay, with swords gory with glory. My boast is no exaggeration. You, on the other hand, became the killer of your brothers, your own close kin. Your punishment will be to suffer in hell, and no amount of cleverness will save you.
I speak the truth, son of Ecglaf, when I say that menacing monster, Grendel, would never have inflicted such misery on your chief, painted Heorot in the hue of humiliation, if your mind and your fighting-spirit were as grim in battle as you yourself proclaim. But he has discovered he need not greatly fear a feud – no storm of swords – from the Victory-Scyldings. He levies his toll on the Victory-Scyldings without a tittle of mercy for the Danish people; indeed he satisfies his appetite, putting them to sleep and sending them off with no fear of fight from spear-fierce Danes. But very soon now I shall reveal to him the Geats’ strength and valor in battle. Go then boldly, those who so desire, to drink mead, once morning light – a new day’s gold-draped sun – rises in the south to shine over the children of men.
The giver of riches was rewarded with happiness then. The grayhaired and battle-savvy ruler of the Bright-Danes, shepherd of his people, believed that help had finally arrived in Beowulf, whose boasts showed his resolve.
Among and around the warriors a pleasant din developed: music, laughter, convivial conversation. Wealtheow then came forth, Hrothgar’s queen, well known for her courtesy. Glittering in gold, she greeted the men in the hall, and the dutiful wife gave the drinking-cup first to her husband, guardian of the East-Danes’ homeland – and wished him happiness in his beer-drinking, loved as he was by his people. Delighted, the king who was famous for his conquests accepted the ceremonial cup and thus initiated the feast. The lady of the Helmings then went around serving old and young (warriors all), tipping the precious pitcher herself, until the treasure-attired queen, true of heart, carried the container of mirth to Beowulf. She greeted the Geats’ leader with well-chosen words, thanking God that her desperate plea had been answered: that some noble soul would bring comfort by defeating their tormentor.
The battlefield killer, keen for the fight, accepted the brimful cup from Wealtheow and made a declaration. Beowulf, born of Ecgtheow, said, My intention when I boarded the boat with my brothers-in-arms and we launched upon the sea was that I would at once render complete relief to your kingdom, or fall a bloodied corpse in the baneful clutches of my foe. I shall accomplish this feat, marked with courage, or meet my end in this meadhall. The Geat’s speech, his well-chosen words, well pleased the queen. Aglow in gold, the cherished wife went to sit at her husband’s side.
It was then as before in the hall – the happy noise of an again brave nation, again recounting proudly (and loudly) their countless victories – until Healfdene’s son suddenly needed to seek his evening rest. No longer able to see the sun’s light, he knew the monster meant to hit the exalted hall, now that day had surrendered to night’s all-encompassing darkness, allowing shadow-draped shapes to approach unmolested. The hall-troops rose all. Then one guardian to the next, Hrothgar to Beowulf, offered him as good omen the wish for safe stewardship of the stately winehall, uttering these words: Never before have I entrusted to any other man the security of the Danes’ great hall – since raising my own hand and shield – that is, until now to you. Now have and hold this good house. Be mindful of glory, demonstrate your might, be ready for the coming wrath. Reward beyond your most ardent desires is forthcoming should you come through this courageous undertaking alive.
To be continued
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XX (ll. 1321-1382)
Retribution
Hrothgar, helmet of the Scyldings, replied [to Beowulf]: Ask not after our happiness—for sorrow again lurks in our luckless land. Aeschere, Yrmenlaf’s elder brother, is lost, my keeper of secrets and wellspring of wisdom. We stood shoulder-to-shoulder striking as one when clashing footsoldiers tried to remove our boar-crested heads. However bathed in bravery a man should be, demonstrating a nobility from olden times, that was princely Aeshere. But now a wandering blood-thirsty wight has snatched him from Hereot hoping for a rich reward. The bold terror has fled somewhere, perhaps to devour her hapless victim, I cannot say. She has avenged the crushing grip by which you caught Grendel on his last night, payment for my people’s pernicious annihilation. Something terrible has now befallen Aeschere in this feud, his future likely forfeited, as a new threat, a vicious visitant, has come to continue the deadly quarrel after a death among her clan. Many a thane knows the weight of a heart’s bitter weeping following the loss of a beloved brother-in-arms, a generous bearer of gifts. Now that hand which would have given you—all of you!—your heart’s desire is hidden from us.
It has been reported by those who work the land, and confirmed by my councilors, that two powerful prowlers have been spotted among the marshes, queer characters who rule over the waste-lands. One, according to the most reliable reports, has a feminine form, while the other misshapen outcast seems male, but larger and more powerful than any other . . . man at least: Grendel, or so he was named by the workers of the earth in days long gone. No father for the pair is known, nor whether any other fearsome creatures came before them. They live in a place shrouded in secrecy, a treacherous track thick with wolves, where windy cliffs loom above the waste-land and dark waters cascade into a tumult that races toward the nether-world. Marked off in miles, it is not far, their hoarfrosted fen, where firmly rooted woods darken the wretched water. There, kinsmen claim, flames flicker ominously upon the flood, night after night. No man lives, no matter how old or how wise, who can surmise the mere’s malignant depths. The hard-horned hart, high-stepper of the heath, pushed there by hounds, would rather surrender to the savage pack than hide—it is such an unholy place. Black waves blast toward the heavens when hostile storms further disturb the surge, salting the air as if the sky were weeping. Now you alone can save us, even though you know not this perilous place. You may find her there, this sinister creature. Dare to seek her, and if you survive the fight, I shall again reward you with the worthiest treasure of wound gold.
XXI (ll. 1383-1472)
A Churning Sea
Beowulf, son of ecgtheow, replied: Your wisdom must inform you it is better to punish those who pile sorrow at our door than to be forlorn over a friend’s sad fate. We must all bear knowing our life in this world will end. Allow whoever is able to achieve their glory before death. For afterward, it will be their most enduring memorial. Take heart, wisest watchman of the realm—we shall swiftly take to the track of Grendel’s dam, and on this threat I will make good: She has no chance to lose herself, not in the earth’s embrace, not among the mountain’s forest, not on the sea’s sandy floor—flee where she will. Patience can be excruciating, but I know you will practice it today. The ancient one’s spirit was lifted by this bold speech, and he gave thanks to God, praised the All-Powerful.
Then Hrothgar’s mount was duly dressed, a haughty warhorse with a mane of intricate braids. The wise old king set off in a magnificent manner, leading a fine troop of linden-bearing footsoldiers. The tracks were easily seen where she had borne the best of thanes along the forest floor and directly to her dark domain. The lifeless captive had always helped Hrothgar watch over his home. The king and his company worked their way along the unwelcoming path, at times so narrow they were compelled to squeeze through one by one, then edge along a high seawall where myriad monsters made their home. He went first, with some seasoned soldiers, to spy out the land. Quickly they came to a forbidding forest where mountain trees angled above gray rock. Below, the water was grim with gore. Misery dealt a murderous blow to the Danes on that sea-cliff—to every last warrior, including the friends of the Scyldings—when they came upon Aeschere’s severed head. The bloody sea-surge boiled with gore, upon which all were drawn to gaze. Then battle-horns sounded, singing their readiness for war—and the waiting soldiers stole a moment’s rest.
The water churned with many strange creatures of the sea, while kindred monsters lay upon the rocks, the sorts of sea-serpents and wild beasts that menace mariners as they navigate early-morning channels. The creatures sank away, furious and fulminating, the second they heard the battle-horns’ sharp song. A Geat, their chief archer, used his bow to bury a war-hardened shaft in one such water-beast, cutting short its struggles. It swam slowly in the surf toward the realm of death. A barbed javelin designed for hunting boars hooked the desperate wave-roamer and hauled it onto the rocks. All gaped at the gruesome guest.
Beowulf dressed for battle, not in the least mindful of his mortality. The well-made mail, ample and artfully adorned, must safeguard his body as he searched the sea, shielding his breast when caught in the grip of war, in the malicious grasp of a murderous foe. A rare helmet—refulgent and complete with a curtain of rings covering the neck, created by a master smith of the olden days—would protect the hero’s head; and when the sandy seafloor was churned into a cloud of chaos, a boar-crest amulet would prove impenetrable to any war-sword or battleax. At this critical moment Hrothgar’s humbled advisor, Unferth, lent Beowulf a powerful aid: the specially hilted sword known as Hrunting, a nightmare of a weapon, highly treasured in times of strife. Its ferric edge was festooned with terrible tendrils, poison-laced thorns hard-varnished with the blood of the vanquished. It had proved worthy of every warrior who had wielded it in the stronghold of his enemies. Indeed, this was hardly the first time it would be relied upon to carry out an act of courage. It seemed certain that Unferth, son of Ecglaf, wanted to forget the drunken insults he had hurled at the superior swordsman, skilled in feats of strength, when he lent him the weapon. He would not dare risk his life beneath that turbulent tide—in his failure to seek fame he lost his good name forever. Not so for the other, the man wardrobed in war-gear.
XXII (ll. 1473-1556)
The Mere-Wolf
Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, said: I am eager to set off, son of Healfdene, wisest of kings and gold-friend to your men. Bear in mind our arrangement, of which we spoke before, that should I fall in fulfilling my promise, you will embrace the role of my father. Likewise, grant your guardianship to my young comrades, closest of companions, if this battle carries me off. Furthermore, beloved Hrothgar, forward to Hygelac the spectacular gifts you have showered upon me. Thus the great leader of the Geats, Hrethel’s son, when he is struck by the magnificence of the treasure, will realize that I have made the most of my time here and was richly rewarded by a gracious ring-giver. And you, Unferth, man widely known, have this revered heirloom—this hard-edged sword with its perfect blade expertly patterned after the sea. I shall bear Hrunting in my hunt for fame, or be borne away by death.
After these bold words, the much-loved leader of the Weather-Geats rushed away without awaiting reply, and the swirling sea accepted the impetuous warrior. Then daylight helped him discover the dim bottom.
Soon the grim and greedy one who had ruled that watery realm with a ravenous ferocity for some fifty years sensed that a man from above was penetrating her unwelcoming place. She clutched the warrior in her wicked claws, hoping to pierce the woven rings of his shirt, but it saved his body and his life from her searching, sickening fingers. Coming to the bottom, the mere-wolf managed the ring-clad prince toward her warren, and, in spite of his resolve, he was restrained from freeing his weapon. All the while a bevy of mysterious sea-beasts beat at his battle-mail and tore at it with their tusks as they pursued the tangled pair. Then the hero discovered he had entered some kind of hostile hall, cut off from the water and the current’s cruel grip, due to the hall’s high roof. He saw the white light of a fire, its flames flickering brightly.
The valiant visitor also saw the sickening lake-wife, duchess of this lepers’ den. He swung the ring-embellished war-sword, saving nothing back, and its aria was a hideous battle-song against her head. But the guest found that the gleaming blade would not bite, let alone prove baneful, its edge failing the imperiled prince. That precious treasure had prevailed countless times in hand-to-hand conflict, cutting helmets, hewing harnesses, delivering enemies to their doom—this was its debut failure.
Recalling his fame and retaining his courage, the determination of Hyglac’s kinsman was intact. The enraged warrior tossed to the ground the artfully adorned sword, though rigid and razor-edged. He must trust in his own tireless grip. Such is required of a man if his reputation in battle is to become legendary. He must be willing to forfeit his life.
The War-Geats’ great prince grasped Grendel’s mother by her hair, harboring no remorse for the move. Many a hard battle helped him to keep his head, and he used his swelling rage to force his lethal lover to the floor. She instantly retaliated with the grasp of her terrible talons, clawing at him. The relentless onslaught wearied the strongest of warriors, the surest of foot, so that he stumbled and fell. She put her full weight upon the visitor to her hall and brandished a short sword, its blade broad and biting, meaning to avenge her only son, her sole offspring. Across his shoulder and breast lay the braided mail, and it protected his body from being pierced or hacked. The Geats’ guardian, Ecgtheow’s son, would have perished there, beneath the wide earth, if not for his battle-tested gear, true to its purpose in helping holy God determine the contest’s victor. The Ruler of the heavens easily foresaw the right result when Beowulf again was upright.
XXIII (ll. 1557-1590 )
Striking with Fury
Then he spotted among the scattered war-gear a blade imbued with countless victories in battle, an ancient sword, strong-edged and worthy of the finest fighters. It was a choice weapon but far more than most men could wield in combat—only the hardiest of heroes could harness its special might, manufactured, as it was, by giants. The Scyldings’ bold savior drew the ring-marked blade and struck with fury, breaking the bone-rings of her neck, the ancient blade slicing straight through, her body doomed. Lifeless, it crumpled to the floor. The sword-blade glinted with gore—the swordsman with satisfaction.
A light flared, illuminating the interior, as if heaven’s own candle had pierced the pall. He surveyed the chamber, quickly turning to the wall. Hygelac’s thane, still furiously focused, took up his weapon by its heavy hilt. The blade would prove its worth once more as the warrior wished to repay Grendel for the vicious work he performed on the West-Danes. Hrothgar’s hearth-friends, fifteen dozing Danes, were devoured during a recent attack, and as many carried off as a loathsome prize for later. The fierce champion had rewarded him for that, as was evident when he found Grendel, battle-worn, in his final resting-place. He lay dead, obviously drained of life, fatally injured as he was in Heorot. His shattered corpse split wide open, suffering a sort of second brutal death upon Beowulf’s merciless sword-stroke, severing completely his head.
To be continued
Note: All artwork by the author. All rights reserved.
From Tender Buttons to the “Heart of the Country”: Gertrude Stein’s Structural Influence on William H. Gass
The following paper, “From Tender Buttons to the ‘Heart of the Country’: Gertrude Stein’s Structural Influence on William H. Gass,” was presented at the Louisville Conference on Literature and Culture Since 1900, the University of Louisville, Feb. 23, 2019, as part of the panel Material Readers and the Dynamics of Reception, chaired by Mark Mattes, University of Louisville. Other papers in the panel were “A Publication ‘edited by its readers’: Representation and Materiality in the Working-Class Newspaper Correspondence” by Emily Spunaugle, Wayne State University; and “Thirty Thoughts on Little House on the Prairie and The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian” [revised title] by Amy Gilley, Arkansas State University, Queretaro.
The author “wrote densely and brilliantly and beautifully and perversely and with intense contrivance and deep care and . . . skill” (108). Those too few who are intimately familiar with William H. Gass may have written this description regarding his contribution to belles-lettres. In fact, however, this is how Gass described one of his greatest influences, Gertrude Stein, in his landmark essay “Gertrude Stein and the Geography of the Sentence” (1973). Gass always emphatically credited Stein’s influence on his work. He discovered her in graduate school, he said, and made the study of her writing a life-long occupation. (He studied at Cornell in the late 1940s, taking the Ph.D. in philosophy in 1954; and he passed away in 2017.) Yet in all his many discussions of Stein he never expressly linked her experimental poem Tender Buttons (1914) to his experimental short story “In the Heart of the Heart of the Country” (1967). The purpose of this paper is to suggest that Stein’s early poem had a direct impact on both the substance and the structure of Gass’s story—a story that became the title piece in the collection which solidified his reputation on the national literary stage, and which became the prototype for his magnum opus, the novel The Tunnel, famously 26 years in the writing.
I’ve been presenting papers at the Louisville Conference for, I think, fourteen years, and for the last decade or so my papers have focused exclusively on William H. Gass. Since discovering the Master in 2008 I have become a self-described Gass scholar and disciple—the only one I believe. I must credit the conference specifically for this paper topic. I’m ashamed to admit that until this past year I hadn’t read Tender Buttons. It had been on my must-read list for decades, but last February while browsing the new books in their usual spot on the third floor of the Humanities Building, outside of conference registration, I happened upon a critical edition of Tender Buttons, edited by Leonard Diepeveen, and as soon as I flipped it open I experienced something like déjà vu. Simply, the look of Stein’s text on the page was uncannily similar to the physical appearance of Gass’s “In the Heart of the Heart of the Country,” an odd plot-less tale carved up into sections, some brief, some longer, each with its own subtitle. Being well aware of Stein’s influence on Gass in general, I immediately became suspicious that Tender Buttons served as a model for “In the Heart,” and I’ve spent the past year investigating that belief (in fits and starts of course).
When I submitted this paper proposal to the conference committee last summer, I hypothesized that Stein’s influence on the piece was mainly structural—thus my title—but the further I’ve looked into it, I believe the connections are even greater.
A quick refresher on Tender Buttons, which was first published in New York by the avant-garde press Claire Marie in 1914. It is divided into three parts—Objects, Food, and Rooms—with each part being further divided into subtitled pieces, some as brief as a few words, others consisting of several paragraphs. At a glance, Tender Buttons appears to be prose, but Stein called it poetry (more on this to follow). It has the reputation for being all but incomprehensible—although many have taken a stab at unlocking its meanings, including Gass in the essay previously mentioned. Diepeeven states it plainly in the introduction to his critical edition: “For many readers, one could not read Tender Buttons, or understand what it was . . .” (10). I believe his for many readers is generous: most, nearly all would probably be more accurate. The trouble begins immediately with the opening section “A Carafe, That Is A Blind Glass.”:
A kind in glass and a cousin, a spectacle and nothing strange a single hurt color and an arrangement in a system to pointing. All this and not ordinary, not unordered in not resembling. The difference is spreading. (33)
Similarly, Gass structured “In the Heart of the Heart of Country” as a series of small segments or vignettes, each with its own subtitle (some of which repeat). Among the subtitles are “A Place,” “Weather,” “My House,” “Vital Data,” and “My House, My Cat, My Company.” They vary in length from a single sentence to multiple paragraphs. The story’s first-person narrator is an aging poet who goes about describing his town, his neighbors, and himself; however, there is no easily discernible plot. As far as I know, I’m the only person to see the structure of Tender Buttons in “In the Heart,” and that may be because on the surface, and from the start, Gass invites readers to make comparisons to Yeats’s poem “Sailing to Byzantium” (1928). The story begins, “So I have sailed the seas and come . . . to B . . .” with “B” standing for both a small Indiana town, Brookston, and Yeats’s Byzantium. Moreover, Yeats’s poem is about old age and the struggle to keep one’s artistic flame burning while one’s body slowly deteriorates toward death. Gass’s narrator is an aging poet who is “in retirement from love.” He says, “I’ve lost my years. . . . I’m the sort now in the fool’s position of having love left over which I’d like to lose; what good is it to me now, candy ungiven after Halloween?” (173). So, thematically, there are definite correlations between Yeats’s poem and Gass’s story, in addition to the overt clue Gass provides in the opening sentence.
What is more, critics have noted that there are the same number of sections in the story as there are lines in “Sailing to Byzantium,” a fact that Gass did not dispute. In an interview Gass said, “It was pointed out by some anal observer [Larry McCaffery] that the sections of the story and the lines of the poem are the same [thirty-six]. And that’s true . . . That’s a little kind of imposed formality that I did to help shape the work” (qtd. in Hix 48). However, Gass’s acknowledgment is troublesome for a few reasons. McCaffery’s counting is based on the version of the story which appeared in the 1968 collection of the same title, a version which has been subsequently reprinted on numerous occasions, including in The William H. Gass Reader this past year. Yet in its original published form, in New American Review in 1967, the story had significantly fewer sections, only thirty. It’s possible that the difference in the number of sections (and other differences) are the result of editorial intervention; that is, perhaps the changes were necessary for its inclusion in the journal, to pare it back, for example, due to space limitations. The definitive answer to that question may lie in the massive Gass archive at Washington University in St. Louis, an archive which contains tens of thousands of pages (or more) of manuscript drafts, letters, and other material. I have visited the archive a handful of times and have spent perhaps a dozen hours seriously reading through the material there, but suffice it to say I’ve barely scratched proverbial surface.
Nevertheless, the archive’s contents provide the other reason I’m dubious about Gass’s acknowledgment that the number of lines of Yeats’s poem provided a guiding structure for “In the Heart of the Heart of the Country.” Among Gass’s papers are myriad drafts of the story which suggest his initial writing of the piece was fairly conventional, meaning that he composed long chunks of text, and then later he cut up and rearranged these smaller chunks until the story achieved its final form (well, one of its final forms). What is more, Gass played with numerous versions of the structure that resulted in its having fewer than thirty-six sections, the number necessary to match Yeats’s number of lines. Gass made numbered lists and plugged in the various fragmented vignettes; then toyed with moving around the pieces. Some of these numbered lists suggest he had in mind twenty-four subtitled pieces (see figures 1, 2 and 3). Another list, more detailed and messier, reveals that Gass considered the pieces falling into four broad categories, A through D, (reminiscent of Stein’s three categories) of eight vignettes each for a grand total of thirty-two, four short of Yeats’s thirty-six lines (figure 4).
Fig. 1. Photograph of a handwritten page by William H. Gass as part of the drafting of “In the Heart of Heart of the Country.” Washington University Archives. Photo by the Author.
Fig. 2. Photograph of a handwritten page by William H. Gass as part of the drafting of “In the Heart of Heart of the Country.” Washington University Archives. Photo by the Author.
Fig. 3. Photograph of a handwritten page by William H. Gass as part of the drafting of “In the Heart of Heart of the Country.” Washington University Archives. Photo by the Author.
Fig. 4. Photograph of a handwritten page by William H. Gass as part of the drafting of “In the Heart of Heart of the Country.” Washington University Archives. Photo by the Author.
Fig. 5. Photograph of a manually typewritten page by William H. Gass as part of the drafting of “In the Heart of Heart of the Country.” Washington University Archives. Photo by the Author.
At this point in his career Gass wrote on a manual typewriter, so the rough drafts of “In the Heart” are on full-size sheets of paper; however, while revising he might rewrite the same paragraph, or part of a paragraph, multiple times on the same sheet (see figure 5, which became part of a long vignette subtitled “Education” in the latter half of the story, in both the 1967 and ’68 versions, section 21/32 and 16/30, respectively). Each of these pieces is suggestive of the index cards Gertrude Stein used to write, by hand, and arrange Tender Buttons (see Appendix B of Diepeveen’s critical edition). So it isn’t that their writing processes were similar while originally drafting their poem and story, but through the process of revision Gass seems to have pared down his longer chunks of text to crystalline bite-size bits of a similar heft to Stein’s index cards, at least in some cases. Gass invested a significant amount of time in considering and rearranging these bits of text, as evidenced by the numberings and revised numberings in the margins of the drafts (figure 6). Without further examination of his papers, I can’t say how pervasive this kind of paring down was in the process of writing “In the Heart,” but I can say it wasn’t wholly unique to this short story. His technique of isolating single paragraphs or parts of paragraphs and revising them again and again, often on the same sheet of typing paper, can be seen in the archive for other works. I can attest to the novella Willie Masters’ Lonesome Wife (1968) and parts of The Tunnel (1995). For that matter, a kindred technique became part of the published draft of Middle C (2013), whereby the protagonist, Joseph Skizzen, works on rewriting the same brief paragraph throughout the novel, rearranging sentences, substituting words, until he has it perfect. In fact, the reaching of the paragraph’s final form is a kind of climax in the novel.
Fig. 6. Photograph of a manually typewritten page by William H. Gass as part of the drafting of “In the Heart of Heart of the Country.” Washington University Archives. Photo by the Author.
I want to return to Stein’s profound influence on Gass, which he made no bones about. In his “Fifty Literary Pillars,” in which Gass identified the books (and authors) who were most influential on his development as a writer, he listed Stein’s Three Lives and said, “I knew I had found the woman my work would marry” (54). Anyone who knows Gass at all probably knows that his greatest influence was the German poet Rilke. It’s true that Rilke is everywhere in Gass’s work, and he wrote a book about the difficulty of translating Rilke (Reading Rilke, 1999), which he tried his hand at himself. Gass said that Rilke helped to solidify ideas he’d had for years which he’d gotten from other great writers, like Stein: “. . . I had certainly come across and become enamored of Gertrude Stein a lot earlier and Flaubert somewhat, also—they all came together; Rilke just brought them together. . . . He sort of coalesced it all for me.” In particular “Rilke discovers that the poet’s aim is to add something to reality rather than comment on it or express something, to be something” (Ammon 161). Ultimately, said Gass, “you have an [art] object sitting there which is the result of this big cycle from objects observed by the poet or painter and it’s not that the painting is about anything; it is a transformation and a new object in the world” (162).
This concept is key to understanding Gass’s work. His stories, novellas and novels are not interested in advancing a plot via narration—as one would normally think of as the defining feature of fiction—but rather his stories, novellas and novels are interested in being works of art. The characters and their actions (the term plot doesn’t really apply) are a means to an end, and that end is to create a unique piece of literary art. This core artistic aim in Gass can be traced to Gertrude Stein’s philosophy of aesthetics, and Tender Buttons may be her most pure expression of that aesthetic. By the same token, “In the Heart of the Heart of the Country” may be Gass’s starkest example of the sort of fiction he would become infamous for, fiction which downplayed the typical foci on character development and plot, and instead emphasized stylistic components and thematic repetition.
Stein spoke of her narrative philosophy on numerous occasions, but her second lecture at the University of Chicago in 1935 zeroed in on this aspect of her writing process most directly. “Lecture 2” deals with the distinction between prose and poetry as they had been evolving in the modernist movement after the First World War, a movement of which Stein had been the vanguard for more than twenty years by the time she delivered her Chicago lectures. She said, as only she could,
When one used to think of narrative one meant telling of what is happening in successive moments of its happening the quality of telling depending upon the conviction of the one telling that there was a distinct succession in happening, that one thing happened after something else and since that happening in succession was a profound conviction in every one then really there was no difference whether any one began in the beginning or the middle or the ending because since narrative was a progressive telling of things that were progressively happening it really did not make any difference where you were at what moment you were in your happening since the important part of telling anything was the conviction that anything that everything was progressively happening. But now we have changed all that we really have. (17)
If I may, before modernism prose was defined by the narrative quality of cause and effect, of one event leading to another and then another and another in a story or novel, say. In modernism, however, prose has become like poetry in that there is “not a sense of anything being successively happening” (19). Prose is no longer “being a successive thing but being something existing. That is then the difference between narrative as it has been and narrative as it is now,” explained Stein (20). Or as Liesl M. Olson paraphrases the key idea in her foreword to Narration: “A ‘modern’ narrative need not have an event, according to Stein; nothing need ‘happen’” (ix-x). Thus, Stein called Tender Buttons poetry because even though it has the outward trappings of prose (sentences and paragraphs), ontologically it is poetry in that each piece stands alone as a carefully crafted, multilayered thing of linguistic art. There is no traditional narrative substructure of things happening to characters via cause and effect.
In his essay “Gertrude Stein and the Geography of the Sentence,” Gass said that Tender Buttons is written “in a kind of code . . . a coding which dangerously confounds the surface . . . [which often] effects a concealment.” This concealment, though, is key to understanding Stein’s genius, “because the object of art is to make more beautiful that which is, and since that which is is rarely beautiful, often awkward and ugly and ill-arranged, it must be sometimes sheeted like a corpse, or dissolved into its elements and put together afresh, aright, and originally” (105). This objective of art was embraced by Gass throughout his career as he frequently tried to make the ugly beautiful via the beauty of his language. In The Tunnel, the centerpiece of oeuvre, for example, Gass wrote beautifully about the Holocaust, and attempted to redeem his deplorable first-person narrator through the loveliness of his language.
Gass’s emphasis on language over plot, on style over characterization has made some readers consider his novellas and novels long prose poems, placing them in the same arena as Tender Buttons. Unlike Stein, however, Gass insisted he was not adept at writing poetry. He did say, though, that the best poets of his generation were writers of fiction, naming in particular John Hawkes, Robert Coover, Stanley Elkin and William Gaddis (Saltzman 91). It would’ve been the height of egotism to list himself, but his was a name that often appeared among them. He readily acknowledged his frequent use of devices more typically attached to poetry. Among his “quirks” he listed in his essay “Retrospection” are “whoring and metaphoring” and “jingling,” which includes his love of alliteration and limericks.
I’ll end where I began. One of the reasons it’s worth considering if Tender Buttons was a model of sorts for “In the Heart of the Heart of the Country” is because Gass stated explicitly that the short story’s structure led him to his most ambitious work, The Tunnel. He said in an interview with Bradford Morrow, “[The Tunnel] also elaborates the structure of the story in In the Heart of the Heart of the Country. [The novel’s] in sections roughly seventy pages long, instead of paragraphs. These are musically organized. There are sections within sections: It’s sectioned up like an insect or a worm.” I believe there is much more to learn about the story “In the Heart of the Heart of the Country” by reading it alongside Stein’s techniques in Tender Buttons; therefore, by extension, Stein’s enigmatic experimental poem may also whisper some clues in our ears, sibyl-like, to help us better comprehend the many levels of The Tunnel.
Works Cited
Ammon, Theodore G. “Interview with William Gass.” Conversations with William H. Gass, edited by Theodore G. Ammon, UP of Mississippi, 2003, pp. 149-170.
Gass, William H. “Fifty Literary Pillars.” A Temple of Texts, Dalkey Archive, 2007, pp. 29-60.
—. “Gertrude Stein and the Geography of the Sentence.” The World within the Word. Basic Books, 1978, pp. 63-123.
—. “In the Heart of the Heart of the Country.” In the Heart of the Heart of the Country and Other Stories. Godine, 1981, pp. 172-206.
—. “Retrospection.” Life Sentences, Knopf, 2012, pp. 36-55.
Hix, H. L. Understanding William H. Gass, U of South Carolina P, 2002.
Morrow, Bradford. “An Interview: William H. Gass.” Conjunctions, no. 4, 1983, pp. 14-29. Available online http://www.conjunctions.com/print/article/william-h-gass-c4.
Olson, Liesl M. Foreword. Narration by Gertrude Stein, The U of Chicago P, 2010, pp. vii-xii.
Saltzman, Arthur M. “An Interview with William Gass.” Conversations with William H. Gass, edited by Theodore G. Ammon, UP of Mississippi, 2003, pp. 81-95.
Stein, Gertrude. Narration. The U of Chicago P, 2010.
—. Tender Buttons. Edited by Leonard Diepeveen, Broadview, 2018.
Interview with John McCarthy: Extinguished Anthology
Last March, Twelve Winters Press released [Ex]tinguished & [Ex]tinct: An Anthology of Things That No Longer [Ex]ist, edited by the Press’s contributing editor John McCarthy. At the time I didn’t have the presence of mind to interview John about the book, but the Press has recently announced its Pushcart Prize nominees from the anthology, so I thought it would be appropriate to post an overdue interview.
John and I have known each other since around 2008 because of our mutual involvement with Quiddity international literary journal and public-radio program. I was a founding editor who eventually took a step or two back to prose reader; John was an intern who eventually assumed the role of assistant editor. When I launched Twelve Winters Press in 2012, John was quick to lend his support. Knowing his talents and work ethic I was happy to hand him the reins on an editorial project for the Press. In the winter of 2013 we sat down to a Thai dinner and brainstormed possible themes for an anthology. The ideas were flying fast and furious. I recall that I spitballed the possibility of a collection of literary zombie stories. John was … dubious. Somehow we eventually came up with the general idea of extinction, which was refined to extinguished and extinct–and John, as I knew he would, hit the ground running.
We composed the wording for the call for submissions of poems, prose poems and flash fiction, and posted it on Submittable and here and there. Then I sat back and let John and the Press’s associate editor Pamm Collebrusco do what they do so well. They meticulously read and sifted through the submissions that soon began pouring in, selected their favorites and worked through the editing process. John designed the cover and interior pages. I got involved again at the very end for an additional proofreading and to actually publish the anthology, which ultimately offered the work of 37 contributors from five countries. I couldn’t be more pleased with what John and Pamm had produced.
Here, then, is my interview with John (via email) about his editing the anthology.
John McCarthy
What attracted you to the theme of “extinguished and extinct”? What about it made you think it would yield plenty of interesting material?
Part of good writing–part of its goal–is to craft something timeless, something universal people can relate to. When I started brainstorming themes, I decided the best way to do this was to address something permanent. I thought of a line from Larry Levis’s poem, “My Story in a Late Style of Fire,” when the speaker is lamenting a former lover and explains “even in her late addiction & her bloodstream’s / Hallelujahs, she, too, sang often of some affair, or someone / Gone, & therefore permanent.” And what is more permanent than the total, absolute absence of someone or something? Extinction, death. I didn’t want the anthology to be just about a personal death. There are plenty of grief anthologies out there, but in a sense, all poetry is about longing, grieving, lamenting, or venerating the fleeting. I wanted to expand this idea of the permanence of loss to anything: things that are endangered of becoming extinct; things that are extinct that deserve a modern voice; as well as a traditional elegy for a person or thing. I wanted it to address personal emotions as well as open up dialogues about socially conscious topics such as the importance of eco-preservation as well as race and gender. I didn’t want it to be just an anthology about wooly mammoths or dinosaurs, I wanted writers to redefine or reinterpret the word extinction. I wanted them to apply this word to specific entities and abstract concepts. I wanted to make something permanent by pulling it from permanence. Levis is lamenting this woman because she is lamenting someone she lost before him, so it’s this other absence–her own experience with extinction–that inhibits her ability to be totally present with Levis, so in a way, extinction for me means seeing beyond the duality of things dead and things living. It means appreciating absence, acknowledging it in such a way that it really isn’t absent anymore. Once something is, it is forever. That’s a certain kind of philosophy with a lot of debate to it, but it was the jumping ground to a lot of great work which I received.
How many submissions did you receive (more or less)? Were you surprised by the response?
I got about 1,500 submissions in total. I wasn’t surprised considering how well the calls for submission was promoted. My surprise was with how much quality writing I received and had to sift through. I was worried that the extinction theme would generate a ridiculous amount of genre stuff dealing with zombies, nuclear fallout, all that apocalyptic stuff, which is fine in its own regard, but it was not what I was looking for with the anthology. I received a couple submissions like that, but not as many as I would have thought. I had to decline a lot of good work, too. I had 37 contributors in total, but if I had unlimited page space, I would have accepted around 50 I think. I got quality submissions dealing with everything from extinct animals, to foreign dialects, to pokemon, to jukeboxes, even rotary phones, libraries, and turn-tables. It was exciting to see so many people interpreting and reimagining these historical contexts in new voices. It was cool to look at things that are “gone, and therefore permanent,” but were given light to everything we lost.
Did ideas for any other themed anthologies come to you while reading through the submissions?
Yes, I want to do an anthology dealing with the opposite of this anthology. “Things not yet existing.” I want to see how imaginative and prophetic writers could get with things that don’t yet exist in the world or how curet existing things might get reimagined in a contemporary context. Obviously, I would worry about receiving too many hard science fiction submissions, but I would open it up to any extrapolation of the idea dealing with things that are existing currently. Like maybe a Latino president would be an awesome prophecy, a new kind of rug that floats around the house, maybe a new way of giving birth, or escalators to the moon. I would really look for inventiveness. I would also like to do an anthology of short stories or formal verse at some point. I always have ideas, always looking for platforms to execute them.
How did reading submissions and editing the anthology impact your own writing?
I love working with the persona poem and the elegy. I think it is fun to piggyback off of other persons or events in time. It helps develop a stronger sense of empathy within the work. It was a good exercise to work and edit other people’s interpretations of their personas and the elegies. There is so much you can do with projection. Memory is the world within the world. Working with this anthology helped me access, explore, and appreciate that inner world.
John McCarthy has had work appear or is forthcoming in RHINO, The Minnesota Review, Salamander, Jabberwock Review, Midwestern Gothic, Oyez Review, and The Pinch among others. He is an MFA candidate at Southern Illinois University Carbondale. He lives in Chicago, Illinois, where he is a contributing editor at Poets’ Quarterly and the assistant editor of The Museum of Americana and Quiddity international literary journal and public-radio program. Follow him @jmccarthylit.
Interview with J.D. Schraffenberger: The Waxen Poor
I don’t recall the exact year that I met Jeremy Schraffenberger (2005? — give or take), but it was definitely at the University of Louisville during its annual literature and culture conference. I chaired a critical panel on which Jeremy was presenting a paper. As the day progressed and we ran into each other here and there, we discovered that while we both enjoyed academic writing, creative writing was our true passion — mine, specifically, fiction, and his poetry. Over the years we often met up in Louisville, and when my first novel, Men of Winter, came out in 2010, Jeremy was kind enough to help me set up a reading in Cedar Falls, Iowa, as part of Jim O’Laughlin’s Final Thursday Reading Series. By then Jeremy (who publishes and edits under the initials J.D.) was on the tenure track in the English Department at the University of Northern Iowa and part of the editorial masthead of the North American Review. In the summer of 2013 I was able to return the favor and arranged for Jeremy to come to Springfield, Illinois, to be a “Poet in the Parlor” at the historic Vachel Lindsay Home; while he was in town, he also gave a fascinating talk on the history of the North American Review and its fast-approaching bicentennial (in 2015) — the talk was hosted by Adam Nicholson at The Pharmacy Art Center.
In 2012, I established Twelve Winters Press with the intention of using it to bring out my books, or keep them in print, and to bring out the literary work of others. Last winter I contacted Jeremy about possibly working with the Press on some sort of project under his editorial direction — and much to my delight he informed me he had a collection, The Waxen Poor, that he was interested in publishing. He sent me the manuscript, which I was able to read (again, much to my delight) before meeting him in Louisville for the conference this past February. After his reading in the beautiful Bingham Poetry Room in Ekstrom Library, we sat down to cups of coffee in the Library’s Tulip Tree Café and discussed his collection and made plans to bring it out this summer.
I’m happy to report that The Waxen Poor is indeed out. See Twelve Winters Press’s Poetry Titles page for full details.
I interviewed Jeremy via email about his intriguing collection, which includes poems published in such notable journals as Brevity, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Notre Dame Review, and Prairie Schooner, among many others. What follows are his unedited responses to my questions. When I had the honor of introducing Jeremy at the Vachel Lindsay Home, I said that I always enjoyed his readings because he was the sort of poet that I respected most: one who takes his poetry seriously but not himself. I believe this engaging combination of qualities is apparent here.
What’s the time span represented by the poems in The Waxen Poor? That is, how early is the earliest poem and how recent the most recent?
The earliest piece in the collection — and the one that really sparked this whole project — is the prose poem “Full Gospel,” which was originally published in the summer of 2006 in Brevity and was later reprinted in Best Creative Nonfiction. I bring this up only because I find the question of genre interesting. I originally wrote “Full Gospel” as a poem, but then as I started to revise, I became less and less interested in lines and line breaks and more and more interested in segmentation or braiding as a way to craft the piece. I can’t say that I was consciously blurring generic boundaries — I was just trying to write something true — but I’m still not quite sure how to categorize it. Is it an essay? A poem? A prose poem? In the end, I suppose, that’s not terribly important, but insofar as it might reveal something about the composition process — in this case, I think, how memory is organized — I think it’s an intriguing question.
Two other early pieces are the first one in the collection, “Brother Tom,” and the last, “Born for Adversity.” It was important, I think, that I knew where I was heading as I wrote and revised. I would certainly not consider The Waxen Poor a novel in verse, but I did feel that there was something of a narrative arc, if not an actual plot — even if it remained subtextual — that guided me along as I worked. I had a clear sense of the beginning and I knew the end, and so the challenge became what to do with the long expansive middle. As Margaret Atwood wrote, “True connoisseurs … are known to favor the stretch in between, since it’s the hardest to do anything with.”
The most recent poem in the collection is the sequence of “Judas” poems, which came as something of a surprise to me as I wrote them. I hadn’t expected to cast “Brother Tom” as a Judas character, but there it is. Sometimes you can’t — and maybe you shouldn’t — control your characters. You can see that I’m trying to complicate Judas/Tom, though, by calling him “A man of tradition, assassin of the ages, / My translator, my traitor, my Judas, my friend” — the same kind of complication I’m attempting to bring to the entire collection. These “Judas” poems came to me about three years ago, and so The Waxen Poor represents five years of work.
Did you set out to write a collection around the topic of “Brother Tom,” or did the concept of collecting them develop over time? Either way, can you describe the thought process behind the collection?
In my mind The Waxen Poor was always a cohesive project. After “Full Gospel” I began organizing individual pieces around the character of “Brother Tom.” I wanted to explore this fraught relationship between two brothers, each of whom is like the other but also quite different — one a poet, the other struggling with mental illness. The poems are meant to be both personal and more broadly mythological, and I’ve tried to balance (or “harmonize” might be a better word) the experiential with the imagined, the everyday with the elevated. You could also say that the project is in some ways a coping mechanism, like Eliot’s “fragments I have shored against my ruins.” That is, how are we to deal with the pain and suffering in the world but through our art? When trying to understand and contend with something like mental illness, some of us turn to art, to poetry, for answers.
Many of the poems seem to be highly personal in their subject matter. Can you discuss the process of tapping into those emotions via the creative process?
As I said, I see the collection as something of a coping mechanism — but then in some ways, all art functions as a mechanism of this kind, even if you’re not dealing with emotionally fraught subjects. What do we make of this world around us and all of the various experiences we have? How do we give our lives any kind of meaning but by forming it, shaping it? Even the most experimental, appropriative forms of conceptualism in which all subjectivity has been evacuated are ways to cope.
That said, there are some poems in The Waxen Poor I can’t read in public anymore because they’re too emotionally difficult for me to get through, but I think that probably means something important is happening. I try to tell this to my creative writing students, that if something is too painful to write, you should write it, not for the sake of therapy — though that might end up being part of it — but because when a poem is difficult in this way, you’re getting near something that you care deeply about, even if it’s in ways that you can’t quite articulate yet. When we find a form for our pain or confusions, we’re allowing others to identify with it, with us. We’re letting our readers in.
The form of these poems varies considerably, and there are even some prose poems included in the collection. Can you discuss the interplay between subject and form for you as a poet? For example, how much one influences the other?
I’m a formalist insofar as I believe that form is meaning. To sever the two is to do a deep violence to the poem — and to misread it entirely. I think it takes a long time before this insight, which is easy enough to say and understand intellectually, sinks in deeply enough for it to be true as a writer. Or at least this has been the case for me. The prose poem is a perfect example of this fusion between form and meaning. I never set out to write the prose poem sequences you find in this collection. Rather, I discovered that this was the form the poem had to take — especially the somewhat surreal ones in which the thoughts and images and phenomena all seem to tumble forth, like consciousness itself. Likewise, some of the unrhymed sonnets in the collection were discovered. That is, as I began writing, I felt the rhetorical movement of the sonnet happening, the turn, and so I began shaping it accordingly. This means paying attention to more than just the “subject,” more than what the poem is supposedly “about,” and opening yourself up to different ways of knowing.
But there are a handful of exceptions. The poem “Abecedarian Advice” is a received form that I didn’t “discover” but rather imposed on myself as a challenge. And the four “Meds” poems are acrostics that spell out the names of the antipsychotic drugs “Haldol,” “Thorazine,” “Zyprexa,” and “Lithium” down the left margins of the poems. I like the way these formal experiments turned out because I found that I ended up thinking about things I never would have thought about before. The somewhat arbitrary restraint can ironically be very liberating. In fact, I think the acrostic is the most underrated form. With other forms, like the sonnet, for example, you’re dealing not only with external characteristics like rhyme and meter but also an internal rhetorical shape that isn’t always the right fit for the poem. The acrostic, though, can accommodate absolutely anything. It gets a bad rap and seems unsophisticated because we’ve all written them in elementary school. But I think there’s something refreshing about the form’s simplicity.
Several of the poems in the collection had been published individually, but it seemed that you hadn’t been circulating the collection for a while. Can you discuss the history of the collection in terms of your thoughts on its publication as a whole?
Well, I did send this manuscript out into the world for a while, entering it into contests and open reading periods at a handful of presses that I like. But I’m a constant and somewhat obsessive reviser, so I pulled it back and have been working on it periodically for a few years. I’d add a poem, remove a poem, tinker with the chronology, worry over line breaks. Was it Valéry who said that a poem is never finished, it’s only abandoned? I guess that feeling had something to do with it — a desire not to abandon the poems. And because it’s a collection that I care deeply about and is in some ways very personal, I felt it had to be just right — and it had to find the right place, too, that would present it in the way I think it needs to be presented. I’d say it’s finally ready for the world, and so I’m excited now that it’s found a great home with Twelve Winters.
You play with both Christian and Classical allusions (and bring these together in the title and cover illustration, which you found). Why overtly connect these two traditions? What do you think is the effect of their interplay in the collection?
First, I’d say that even though I am not a Christian, Christian symbols and metaphors are culturally inescapable. And so these stories and images live with us and inform our very identities quite deeply. To deny them is to deny a rich vein of cultural and personal meaning. So, too, with the Greeks. As much as the Christian bible, the Iliad is a foundational text that we should allow to enter and affect our work, even today. In this way, I’d call myself a traditional poet — though that word “tradition” rings vaguely conservative, doesn’t it? What I mean to suggest is that I’m traditional in that I attend to the past — this great gift of literature that has been left to us — and try to make meaning of and from it. I’m reminded of something Barry Lopez wrote: “If art is merely decorative or entertaining, or even just aesthetically brilliant, if it does not elicit hope or a sense of the sacred, if it does not speak to our fear and confusion, or to the capacities for memory and passion that imbue us with our humanity, then the artist has only sent us a letter that requires no answer.” I suppose I’d say that what I’m trying to do is in this collection — and in all of my work, really — is to respond to the letter that’s been sent to us from the past, while writing a letter of my own in the present. Not to mix my metaphors, but I believe artists are not so much influenced by tradition as they exist at a confluence, where the past meets the present, like two rivers meeting.
With your wife Adrianne Finlay being a novelist, you’re a two-writer household. I suspect that creates an interesting dynamic. Can you discuss what that is like, and how it may affect your own creativity?
My wife is always my first reader — and my best. Having another writer in the house is always beneficial for when you want to know if something makes sense or sounds right. But also because there’s a mutual understanding that we each need time to do our work, and so we make time for each other in that way. Of course, a big difference is that she deals with long narratives while I deal with shorter lyrical pieces, and so we’re often trying to accomplish much different things. For Adrianne, I think, clarity is very important — as is plot — whereas I might value strangeness or obscurity in a poem. As a poet, I also think the form is just as important as the meaning — as I said before, it is the meaning — but writers of novels I think tend to be less interested — not uninterested, just less interested — in the overt music of language. Or they want to foreground something else. To dwell too decidedly on sound and language might interfere with the story. That said, we both teach fiction and poetry, and so we’re each well enough acquainted with the other’s genre to be good readers. And so, while The Waxen Poor is, indeed, a collection of lyrical poems, I do think that my work slips in and out of narrative and dramatic modes, too. That’s something I think I pay more attention to because of Adrianne.
What projects are you working on now?
What’s been occupying a lot of my creative energies lately is my work as associate editor of the North American Review. The magazine was founded in 1815, so we’re about to celebrate our bicentennial, which is really quite remarkable. I mean, how many things in the United States get to celebrate a bicentennial? It’s exciting but humbling. At any rate, I’m directing a conference to mark the occasion. We have so many great events planned, including keynote readings by Martín Espada, Patricia Hampl, and Steven Schwartz. People can find the call for papers here.
I’m also editing a book called Walt Whitman and the North American Review, which collects the seven essays Whitman published in the NAR in the last decade of his life, along with the many reviews, essays, and articles on him and his work that appeared in the magazine’s pages. Editorial work is challenging but also deeply gratifying.
J.D. Schraffenberger is the associate editor of the North American Review and an associate professor of English at the University of Northern Iowa. He’s the author of the collection of poems Saint Joe’s Passion (Etruscan), and his other work has appeared in Best Creative Nonfiction, Brevity, Mid-American Review, Notre Dame Review, Poetry East, Prairie Schooner, and elsewhere. He lives in Cedar Falls, Iowa, with his two daughters and his wife, the novelist Adrianne Finlay.
(Author Photo by Adrianne Finlay)
TWP taking submissions and Beowulf book makes its way in the world
I’m happy to announce that Twelve Winters Press, which I founded last year, began taking submissions today for its first anthology: [Ex]tinguished and [Ex]tinct: An Anthology of Things That No Longer [Ex]ist, slated for a spring 2014 release. I’m also happy to acknowledge that I’ve been joined on the Press’s masthead by two of my oldest Benedictine University and Quiddity friends and colleagues, John McCarthy and Pamm Collebrusco. In fact, John will be serving as editor of the anthology, while Pamm will be a reader and ultimately do what she does as well as anyone I know: edit and proofread the book before it goes to press. Pamm has generously edited and proofread my last three books, and is at work on the galleys of my latest novel, An Untimely Frost, probably even as I write this blog post. (Her work on my monograph, The Beowulf Poet and His Real Monsters, with all of its technical terminology drawn from a host of disciplines, copious citations, and its Old English, was nothing short of herculean — more on the Beowulf book in a moment.)
The anthology will consist of poems, prose poems and flash fiction (up to 1,000 words in length), and John is accepting submissions through November 30. Please check out and share the submission guidelines.
My monograph, The Beowulf Poet and His Real Monsters: A Trauma-Theory Reading of the Anglo-Saxon Poem, came out in March, but with the advent of the new academic year university libraries have started to add it to their collections (nearly every day a new library or two pops up on WorldCat — and, yes, I’m checking its progress, just like you would a child who’s beginning to make his way in the world). To date, libraries that have added either the print edition or ebook edition to their collection include Notre Dame, Duke, Purdue, Pepperdine, Nebraska, South Dakota, Maryland, Illinois, Wisconsin, Loyola Notre Dame, Lewis and Clark, Smith College, and Australian National University.
The book actually grew out of my doctoral dissertation, which I completed in 2009 (Zeitgeist and the Zone: The Psychic Correlation between Cultural Trauma and “Postmodern” Literature). My primary focus was American postmodernism, but I included quite a bit of research on Anglo-Saxon history and culture, and the poem Beowulf in way of support for my thesis. As almost an appendix to my dissertation I also wrote a trauma-theory reading of Beowulf; however, the Anglo-Saxon scholar on my committee wouldn’t accept my theory about the poem, so I ended up cutting that chapter. Anglo-Saxonists are notoriously uncomfortable with post-structural criticism (they tend to prefer analysis of a more traditional philological nature), so it wasn’t a big surprise that she didn’t care for my reading. Nevertheless, I’d put a lot of time and effort into it, and I felt it was valid (even revolutionary — hey, sometimes you have to toot your own horn).
Even as I was cutting the chapter, I had vague plans of bringing my theory out somehow or another (perhaps in an article). After successfully defending my dissertation, my mind switched gears back into creative writing, and I spent the next three years working on the novel that would become An Untimely Frost. I teach Beowulf every fall, so I continued meditating on the poem and my analysis of it. Then in late winter 2012 I met with an editor from Edwin Mellen Press who encouraged me to pursue writing a monograph about Beowulf and my trauma-theory reading. I accepted a contract, and in May of 2012 I began work on the project in earnest. I transported home from my classroom three copy-paper boxes of books and articles, transforming my bedroom into a Beowulf and postmodern critical theory library (it was a mess, and it was a good thing I was living alone because if I hadn’t been, I soon would’ve been).
I thought I could knock out the project in three to five months; I was wrong. I pulled quite a lot from my dissertation, but it was now three years old. An important book or article on Beowulf appears once a week or so, according to the University of Toronto, which is the epicenter of Beowulf scholarship, and to say I’d been keeping up only at my leisure would be putting it rather kindly. So I had a lot of reading to do. Also, I’d done a little translating of Old English for my dissertation, but for this monograph I felt that I needed to analyze the original language of the poem, so I set about translating numerous key sections. Much of the summer of 2012 was spent with my nose in the poem, various Old English dictionaries, and translations that I admired. I was often at my kitchen table entombed in stacks of books.
The project that I thought I could finish by September (2012) dragged on into the fall … and winter. In the meantime, two of my three adult sons had moved back home for various reasons, and it became a running joke as nearly every day they’d ask me what I was doing, and I’d say that I was finishing my Beowulf book (or I’d ask them, “Guess what I’m doing today?” to solicit their groans of skepticism), as I was in the process of finishing it for about six months. There were a thousand details to attend to to get it right. I was not a known Beowulf scholar, at all, so I was determined to make it as solid a piece of scholarship as I was able to produce. When I needed to procure supporting reviews before sending it to the press, I sought opinions from the most respected Beowulf scholars in the world, and I was grateful that James W. Earl and Robert E. Bjork, both of whose work I’d admired for years, agreed to review my manuscript. I waited, a little anxiously, for their reviews — and was considerably relieved when they were returned so favorably. (See my Beowulf book’s page to read blurbs of their reactions.)
It ended up taking ten months for me to complete the project. Shortly after its publication, Edwin Mellen’s editor-in-chief awarded it the press’s D. Simon Evans Prize for distinguished scholarship. Considering I had to cut from my dissertation the chapter on which the monograph was based, I was especially pleased with Earl’s and Bjork’s good opinions, and then the Prize. In fairness to the Beowulf scholar on my committee, my chapter paid little attention to the poem’s original language, and my analysis of the Geatland/dragon section of the poem, I knew, was undercooked (in writing the monograph, that was the section that received the most new material and most extensive revision — by the time I wrote the book, I had a clearer idea what I’d been wanting to say all along). Also, her reaction inspired me to make my scholarship as airtight as possible as it represented what the mainstream of the discipline was likely to say about my rather wild reading of the poem. I thank her in the book’s acknowledgements, and my thanks is sincere.
The press is just beginning to solicit reviews of my Beowulf book in scholarly journals, and I don’t know of any that have appeared so far. As I said, I’m gratified that universities are adding it to their collections, so hopefully some Anglo-Saxonists will begin to pay attention to it (as well as scholars and doctors in psychoanalysis and neuropsychology, which are also important aspects of my trauma-theory reading).
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