back again . . .

Well, as many of you know, life is entirely unpredictable! Since I last posted, two quite unexpected things have happened.

1) I moved house. Which is really a good thing, but I hadn't anticipated moving this summer. I've actually moved back to a place I lived before--into a lovely (read "rustic") log cabin just a mile or so from my college. I'm happy to have moved, but of course it was a HUGE deal! I'm still unpacking boxes and trying to figure out how to fit all my stuff into a much smaller home. Even this has been good as I've had to weed out my things to decide what I really need or love enough to keep. So--while stressful--the move is a true blessing.

2) My nephew, Ian, who is in the Army, was very seriously injured in an IED explosion in Iraq on Memorial Day weekend. He was sent to Germany and then on to Walter Reed Hospital in DC. He's paralyzed from the 3rd vertebra down. Of course this has been unsettling and stressful for my family. But at the same time we have seen God's hand in the situation every day in many different ways. One, perhaps odd, result has been increased Joy and Peace, especially for my brother and sister-in-law, as we must rely on God's Mercy, the healing power of Christ, and the indwelling power of the Spirit. Ian will be moving to a VA rehab facility in the next few days; he's making progress: his mind hasn't been affected, he can speak though he still uses the ventilator, he has "inexplicably" experienced sensation and some movement in his shoulders. He's learning to breath on his own. So much to be thankful for.

So--what with these and other things--I haven't been blogging. Haven't even really been reading. I just unpacked The Narnian a couple days ago--have no idea how it got into the box it was in!

Things are calming down a bit, and I'm really looking forward to getting back on a schedule of reading and blogging.

So. I apologize to anyone who has visited in the last few months and seen no progress. Lord willing, I'll be back on schedule before the end of the month!

Back soon . . .

Well, here we are and another month has gone by without blogging. I was sick with some flu the last two weeks of the semester and then another week. Now I'm better, but I'm in the middle of packing to move next week. The only thing I've had energy to read is Dickens--a chapter or so at night. I'd love to think that next week I'll be able to start on Inklings again, but that may be a bit optimistic. The movers come on Friday so I have to have everything packed by then. I've done quite a bit--but still a lot more to do.

Once I get moved, though, I should be able to get back on a regular schedule. I really want to get quite a bit of reading done over the summer for the project I'm working on. And I have to build a website for a class I'm teaching in the fall (Writing in Hypertext); I may decide to create an Inklings site, which could be helpful for my course, The Inklings, which I'm also teaching in the fall. So maybe two birds with one stone--and lots of Inklings reading!

Well. Check back soon. I WILL be blogging again!

Yikes!

Well, I want to apologize for not getting posts up. It has turned out to be a pretty busy semester--which isn't really surprising--but I've had so much reading and prep on top of grading that I'm really not finding time to read for myself. And one of my colleagues has just had a baby, so I'm taking a few of her classes. And I've had to do extra reading for an Independent Study I'm directing. Anyway. It's turned out to be harder than I imagined to keep the blog going.

I hope in the next week to read the papers produced by my special topics students--and share some of their ideas here. They read CSL's cosmic trilogy and other related Inklings books, and I WILL get back to the Narnian! Only 2 more weeks of classes and then finals! I see a light shining on Inklings books at the end of the tunnel!

Fern-seed and Elephants . . . cont.

I can't believe it's been a month since my last entry! But now I'm back and hope to be more faithful; I'm pretty much caught up with grading, so I should be OK until I get my next set of exams!

I finished reading Fern-seed and will just comment on it briefly; I promised a student I'd give it to her this evening.

The book contains these lectures/papers:
1. Membership
2. Learning in War-time
3. On Forgiveness
4. Historicism
5. The World's Last Night
6. Religion and Rocketry
7. The Efficacy of Prayer
8. Fern-seed and Elephants

For our class, which read CSL's cosmic trilogy, I thought "Membership" and "Religion and Rocketry" would perhaps be most helpful. In "R&R" I found two things interesting. First, we get a glimpse of Lewis's imagination and his delight in thinking about faith in light of fantasy. He speculates that since the Incarnation took place on Earth, "It may be that Redemption, starting with us, is to work from us and through us" (91). This idea had been developed and articulated more fully in Perelandra. Having talked a bit about contact between humans and unknown races on other worlds, he says, "It sets one dreaming--to interchange thoughts with beings whose thinking had an organic background wholly different from ours, . . . to be unenviously humbled by intellects possibly superior to our own . . . , to descend lovingly ourselves if we met innocent and childlike creatures . . . , to exchange with the inhabitants of other worlds that especially keen and rich affection which exists between unlikes; it is a glorious dream. But," he says, "make no mistake. It is a dream. We are fallen" (91). This paper was published in 1958, about 15 years after the publication of That Hideous Strength; it seems Lewis' interest and delight in imaginary worlds and creatures had not abated.

Two other chapters I found especially interesting: "On Forgiveness" and "The Efficacy of Prayer." "On Forgiveness" was written in 1947; its main focus is in line with Charles Williams' The Forgiveness of Sins, which was published in 1942. It seems highly likely that the two friends, and perhaps others of the Inklings, had spent some time discussing the topic. Both reference the Lord's Prayer and conclude that if we don't forgive others, God will not forgive us. Lewis points out the difference between confessing our sins--to God and to others--and excusing our (or others) sins. "Real forgiveness," he says, "means looking steadily at the sin, the sin that is left over without any excuse, after all allowances have been made, and seeing it in all its horror, dirt, meanness and malice, and nevertheless being wholly reconciled to the man who has done it" (42). Both Lewis and Williams are very practical in their approach; Lewis admits that forgiving others, especially "to keep on forgiving," is very hard. He says the only way to accomplish this is "by remembering where we stand, by meaning our words when we say in our prayers each night 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those that trespass against us.'"(43).

This is the kind of meaty advice that I so much appreciate from these authors. This is something I have to work at; it's been especially convicting reading these works during Lent--along with all the Lenten readings on Reconciliation. "The Efficacy of Prayer" has also been encouraging (?) during Lent. I'll give you a couple longish quotes--and not say much about it:

"Prayer is either a sheer illusion or a personal contact between embryonic, incomplete persons (ourselves) and the utterly concrete Person. Prayer in the sense of petition, asking for things, is a small part of it; confession and penitence are its threshold, adoration its sanctuary, the presence and vision and enjoyment of God its bread and wine. In it God shows himself to us." (101)

Prayer is, for Lewis, God's allowing us to participate in His work:

"It seems to involve at every moment almost a sort of divine abdication. We are not mere recipients or spectators. We are either privileged to share in the game or compelled to collaborate in the work, 'to wield our little tridents'. Is this amazing process simply Creation going on before our eyes? This is how (no light matter) God makes something--indeed, makes gods--out of nothing." (102)

Lastly Lewis encourages us against the frustrations of seemingly unanswered prayers.

This little essay has been a real encouragement for me to continue in prayer and to pray very deliberately; yet I find it a bit discouraging to realize how little strength I have to persevere in real prayer. Still God is Good and Merciful, and, as Lewis notes, He knows our frailty.

Fern-seed and Elephants . . .

I'm taking a brief break from The Narnian and reading CSL's Fern-seed and Elephants, and other essays on Christianity (ed. Walter Hooper). My students are looking for non-fiction to read after reading the trilogy; one has already started The Narnian, and I thought I'd look through a few other things to see if I can suggest something for them.

The first essay in this collection (which was published posthumously) is "Membership"; I thought maybe it would shed some light on Mark in THS, which I think it may. It's an interesting discussion, first read as a lecture in 1945. Its focus is the contrast between membership in the "collective" and "participation in the Body of Christ" (13). Lewis sets up a hierarchy: Body of Christ, "personal and private life," and "collective life" (13).

He references literature to provide examples; he mentions Charlotte Yonge, who has been on my list of authors I want to read -- maybe after I work my way through Dickens. He sees Rat, Mole, and Badger (in The Wind in the Willows) as symbolizing "the extreme differentiation of persons in harmonious union which we know intuitively to be our true refuge both from solitude and from the collective" (16). This is the function of the "mystical body" of Christ, the Church (15).

One sentence did remind me of themes in the trilogy, perhaps especially in THS: "Obedience is the road to freedom, humility the road to pleasure, unity the road to personality" (18). This seems to sum up the paths both Jane and Mark had to follow too find peace and fulfillment.

Lewis's medievalism and Platonism show up here in a privileging of hierarchy over equality, though he recognizes that "artificial equality is necessary in the life of the State"; he says, "in the church we strip off this disguise, we recover our real inequalities, and are thereby refreshed and quickened" (18). He seems in this essay to value humans only partially correctly; he says, "the value of the individual does not lie in him. He is capable of receiving value. He receives it by union with Christ" (24). I think later in his career he recognizes the intrinsic value of the individual as Imago Dei; still the value is not because of anything the person does but is due to what we are as creatures. He does counter the Platonic influence with a clear statement that our eternal existence will be corporeal, which I think Christians sometimes need to be reminded of.

Then he says, " . . . as organs in the Body of Christ, as stones and pillars in the temple, we are assured of our eternal self-identity and shall live to remember the galaxies as an old tale" (23).

I've said before that Charles Williams' Arthurian poems make me feel like I'm levitating . . . Lewis's prose can sometimes have the same effect. What an amazing description of eternity--outliving the galaxies! While the "collective . . . is mortal," the individual and the Body "live forever" (22).

The Narnian, ch 5 . . .

Just the highlights tonight; between my injured hand and the Olympics I'm not sure whether I'll get the blogging done regularly for the next couple of weeks. But I'll give it a shot.

In this chapter Jacobs covers Lewis's early years at Oxford until his first (temporary) appointment which began his career as a don. The focus is on Lewis's relationship with Mrs. Moore and the friendships established during this time.

While Lewis had (and was required to have) rooms in college, he set up house with Mrs. Moore and apparently spent nearly every spare moment there, going in to college for lectures, to meet with his tutors, and to spend the night in his rooms--he had to be in by curfew! We learn that he could work in the midst of chaos and interruptions and be productive in such circumstances, which, according to Warnie and others, were constant in the household. It seems clear that Lewis's "affair," at least at this time, was an intimate relationship; he saw this as his family--at a time when his relationship with his father was quite strained. He maintained a relationship with Mrs. Moore for 30 years, caring for her as she became ill and even more eccentric than she was at this time. She is described here as "unintellectual" and "anti-Christian" (94, 95). No one seemed to understand their relationship either then or now; Jacobs says, "Indeed, this is the great mystery of C. S. Lewis's life" (93).

During these years, but being careful to keep the "home" and academic sides of his life separate, he developed several friendships which would be influential for years. Foremost of these new friends was Owen Barfield; Lewis wrote of him, "he is not so much the alter ego as the antiself" (91). They were worthy sparing partners for each other but also so fond of one another that their friendship grew through, in spite of, because of their very different ideas on many topics. [To learn more about what they called the "Great War," you might look at C. S. Lewis' "Great War" with Owen Barfield (1978), by Lionel Adey.] I love this relationship--and many of the friendships among the Inklings--because it allows for so much freedom and difference; too often, I think, we (only) see friendships between people who "have things in common." Lewis's friendships seem to have really stretched him, causing him to develop his ideas and his ability to articulate them.

Jacobs comments that Lewis joined a literary group, the Martlets, and read to them a paper on William Morris (100). I'd love to know if this paper exists and where. This brings me to the one complaint I have so far of Jacobs' book; there's obviously a lot of scholarly research here, but the "notes" appear in truncated, sometimes unclear, format at the back of the book, and there's no indication in the text itself when there may be a note available. I suppose when writing for a popular audience it's difficult to strike a balance between readers and academic documentation, but I still wish the text had included endnote numbers and the endnotes themselves were more clearly documented. However, it's an interesting and sometimes enlightening read.

The Narnian, ch 4 . . .

Chapter 4 deals with the war years; both Tolkien and Lewis served in the war. Jacobs tells us that Lewis arrived at the front lines in France on his 19th birthday (69); within just a couple of months he was suffering from "trench fever," which Tolkien also contracted.

I looked this up. It's a bacterial infection spread by body lice, and here's a description:

"trench fever was characterized by the abrupt onset of fever, malaise, myalgias, headache, transient macular rash of the torso, pain in the long bones of the leg (shins), and splenomegaly. Typical periodic cycles of fever, chills, and sweats occurred at 5-day intervals, resulting in prolonged disability that lasted 3 months or longer in young soldiers." (from eMedicine by WebMD)

Lewis was in hospital only about a month and then returned to the front lines, where he was soon wounded and out of the fighting for good.

Jacobs discusses Lewis's inclusion of battles in the Narnia stories, where, though he spares his young readers the intensity of the battles he saw in World War I, Lewis doesn't shield them from encounters with frightening dangers in fighting against evil armies nor from experiencing the pain of fallen comrades. Jacobs says, "I suspect he risked the forthrightness [in The Last Battle] because in just a few pages he would have Aslan call all the humans and other creatures into the New Narnia, his everlasting kingdom" (74).

However, when Lewis was in the war, and then returned home with his injuries, he wasn't yet a believer; he didn't yet have a hope of an everlasting kingdom, and he must have suffered greatly. Jacobs notes that letters to several people briefly note this though Lewis doesn't dwell on the after-effects. He did apparently suffer from recurring nightmares (75), which was common. I remember as a young girl being startled from sleep by my father's tortured screams in the darkness; then my thumping heart would slowly regain its rhythm while I listened to my mother's soothing whispers comforting him till his sobbing stopped. It occurs to me that perhaps this element of comfort may have had something to do with Lewis's rather strange relationship with Mrs. Moore. I'll have to think about that.

After returning home, Lewis learned that his friend Paddy Moore had been killed in the war. He had made a commitment to care for Paddy's mother and sister should this happen, and we know that he kept his commitment; Jacobs will probably talk more about this later. One thing that I really admire about Lewis is that he seems to have been a man of his word--both before and following his conversion. I wonder if his love of Norse mythology and Spencer, etc. had helped to instill this code of honor in him. We see it in the "Lewis" character in That Hideous Strength who plods on to Ransom's house through a barrage of evil influence because he doesn't want to let down his friend.

Jacobs brings us up to the publication of Lewis's first book, the poems in Spirits in Bondage. He notes that these poems contain contradictory elements: "the metaphysical pessimism" of Housman and Kirk, as well as the fantastic elements of Morris and Yeats (77). He sees these poems as evidence that the 2 halves of Lewis's brain ("the analytical and the imaginative")have divided completely and that the "imaginative half is dying," overcome by "philosophical pessimism" (80).

This chapter closes with the end of the war; Warnie and Jack have both survived, as has Tolkein, but many, many young men they had known were gone, and the war had a profound effect on all the survivors. Jacobs ends with a quote from a letter by Wilfred Owen, whose haunting poem "Dulce et Decorum Est" is perhaps his most well-known; it saddens me to think of so many talented young people, who may have become poets, artists, writers, inventors, teachers, etc., that have been lost to both the necessity and the folly of war. And so very thankful for those who arrive home safely.

The Narnian, ch 3 . . .

In this chapter we get Lewis's final years of schooling before university, and these were the best years in many ways for him, as he lived and studied with the "Great Knock," William Kirkpatrick. Here Lewis's logical and debating skills were honed, and he thoroughly enjoyed the freedom from the torments of his earlier schools.

His reading included "popular fiction, classic English novels, all of his classical, Italian, and German literature . . . [and] the greatest English poets" (63). His favorite reading was "Spenser's Faerie Queene . . . . "the prose and verse narratives of William Morris" . . . . and "everything he could find by Yeats" (63).

Jacobs quotes from a letter from Lewis to his friend Arthur Greeves:

"never since I first read [Morris's] 'The well at the world's end' have I enjoyed a book so much--and indeed I think my new 'find' is quite as good as Malory or Morris himself. The book . . . is George MacDonald's 'Faerie Romance,' Phantastes" (63).

I've chosen The Well at the World's End for my 401 students for later in the semester; I'll have to remember to point this out to them.

Jacobs points out that during his stay with Kirkpatrick, Lewis adopted a "materialist view of myth"; to him all myths, including the Christian myth, grew out of the natural processes and events in the world (48). Lewis himself wrote, "The two hemispheres of my mind were in the sharpest contrast. On the one side a many-islanded sea of poetry and myth; on the other a glib and shallow 'rationalism.' Nearly all that I loved I believed to be imaginary; nearly all that I believed to be real I thought grim and meaningless." (49)

I've known people like this, who deeply appreciate the beauty and delight that Lewis encountered in myth and poetry, though they may encounter it in different ways. It is a balm to them in their otherwise grim and meaningless lives. It saddens me. And makes me thankful for the grace of integrity in true Christianity.

After reading this chapter, I wished I had read it before I re-read the trilogy. All the way through THS, I was wondering if McPhee was modeled on someone Lewis knew; B[arfield], Humphreys, Tolkien, and Williams are all mentioned by name. Jacobs claims that Kirkpatrick is the model for McPhee as well as for Professor Kirke in the Narnia stories. It makes sense--wish I'd made the connection myself!

The Narian, ch 2

Chapter Two deals with the succession of boarding (public) schools the Lewis boys attended; we learn that Warnie was a "blood," a member of the often vicious ruling class of boys who were merciless in their treatment of lesser beings like Jack (though by the time Jack came to Malvern, Warnie had moved on to another school). In this hierarchy, the boys in power could demand that the others did whatever they were told; they became servants and whipping boys. This "fagging" left a lasting negative impression on Jack and other victims of schoolboy brutality. Jacobs notes that, as a result of the fagging system, George Orwell was "energized . . . politically" and adopted a sort of socialism, while Lewis turned inward and withdrew "from the political realm" (34). He also points out that this system led to a desire in some boys to become part of the "Inner Ring," which Lewis portrays so well in Mark Studdock in That Hideous Strength (35).

Jacobs recounts Lewis's experience at Wynyard College school during his pre-teen years; here "real Christian faith became part of his life for the first time" (37). But this faith, which he admired because he saw the sincerity of those who taught it, was experienced by him as a strenuous faith of works. During this time, too, he was influenced by two views of religion that undermined his faith in the truth of Christianity. First, Jacobs tells us, as Lewis read the Classics he began to wonder if Christianity might not be just as false as the pagan religions, and then he meet a woman, Miss Cowie, who "today would be called a proponent of New Age spirituality" (38). Lewis wrote: "She was . . . floundering in the mazes of Theosophy, Rosicrucianism, Spiritualism, the whole Anglo-American Occultist tradition" (38). In these concepts he found an expanding idea of spirituality, which made no rigorous demands on him; Jacobs says, "Freed from the burdens of prayer, by the time he left Malvern Jack had ceased to be a Christian" (40).

The chapter ends with a discussion of Lewis's intense search for "Joy," which drove him throughout his later teen years to flee from the unrewarding rigors of traditional Christianity and to search for "a world where delight was still possible" (42).

This all brings two things to mind: First, it frustrates me no end when Christianity is lived in this stultifying, barren way, and many Christians do live like this, beating themselves up all the time for their fallen nature and sinful behavior; that made me think of the film, Martin Luther, where Luther is constantly living in fear of God and bemoaning his sins--his confessor tells him that he's not so wicked as he tries to make out and that he's never confessed anything that was even interesting! The priest then tells Luther to look to Christ, to bind himself to Christ, and find mercy. It often seems to me that Christians who live this life of constant self deprecation are in fact egocentric and not looking to Christ; He is to be the focus of the Christian's life, not ourselves, not our sin, not our failings. This, to me, is liberating.

And Second, I find it interesting that later in life two of Lewis's closest friends would be Owen Barfield, a theosophist, and Charles Williams, who for a time was a member of the Golden Dawn and very interested in occult (secret) organizations and practices. Both of these men remained orthodox in faith but their Christianity allowed for the very sort of expansion the young Jack was seeking, yet he never followed that path with them.

rest from blogging . . .

No blogging for a few days. I've sprained my wrist/thumb . . . on my right hand! So doc says ice it and stay away from computer! The ice and meds are helping, but it's SO hard not to be on the computer! But I'll be able to get a lot of reading done since I can't really do anything else--like housework.

Back to the Inklings on Monday I hope.

The Narnian

Just read the intro and ch 1 in The Narnian: The Life and Inagination of C S Lewis, by Alan Jacobs. I'm actually listening to it on my iPod while I read the book, the audiobook is read by Alan Jacobs, so that's kinda cool.

Jacobs says that while his book is "almost a biography," his aim was to write "the life of a mind, the story of an imagination." An early indication of this is his focus on CSL's experience of solitude, beginning with the death of his mother. Jacobs looks at the results of this: reading lots of books, creating imaginary worlds with his brother, and developing a sense of self that allowed Lewis to act as an individual. He reminds us that Lewis said he wrote children's books because nobody wrote the sort of books he wanted to read. Another interesting effect of CSL's early collaboration with Warnie is what Jacobs identifies as Lewis's quality of "syncretism": "a taste for syncretism is one of his cardinal traits, and it ultimately became for him a matter of theological principle" (13). He ties this in to the way in which the Lewis boys blended their individual worlds: Warnie's India and Jack's Animal Land are, he notes, blended into the one world of Boxen. I don't think I ever really understood this before, and I look forward to seeing what Jacobs makes of this in Lewis's later writing.

He quotes from Barfield's essay, "The Five C. S. Lewises," which I don't recall reading--so that will have to go on the list. Jacob's suggests that one distinctive quality of Lewis's mind was his "willingness to be enchanted . . . . an openness to delight, to the sense that there's more to the world than meets the eye, to the possibility that anything could happen to the one who is ready to meet that anything" (xxi). Again, I'll be interested to see what he makes of this regarding Lewis's fiction. I think, having just re-read the trilogy, that I see evidence of this in Jane and Mark in That Hideous Strength; at first neither of them is ready to "see" reality, but Lewis develops their characters until they both can let their guard down and accept, with delight, what is real and true; then they become the sort of people who can live lives of obedience and fulfillment.

Well, the book is good so far, and I'm enjoying Jacobs reading voice--though it's so smooth that I dozed off for a couple minutes. But that's not his fault--it's been a long day.

That Hideous Strength . . . the ending

Lewis's apocalyptic ending always amazes me. I thoroughly enjoy the destruction of Belbury brought about by the disintegration of language and the revenge of the brutalized animals. I can relate to the people, after the meal, listening to speeches they'd rather not have to hear and only half attending. Then startled into paying close attention when something out of the ordinary is said. I love it that the speakers each believe they are perfectly coherent until they see the astonished faces of the others. Feverstone in this scene is truly diabolical; he gets to a safe place and then watches with sadistic pleasure as the others panic and are trampled. Of course, he gets what's coming to him when he is buried in the landslide. The biblical allusion here to Babel is, of course, perfectly fitting and perhaps sheds light on the biblical story itself. The urge of reprobate humans to become as gods is not new in the scientific age--nor is the demonic temptation and arrogance which lures humans in to this desire. Lewis's story exposes it in our real world as well as in the world of the novel; he so clearly depicts the sometimes imperceptible stages that lead to the downward spiral out of grace.

I'm always so relieved when Mark begins to question the N.I.C.E., and when Frost tells him to trample the crucifix, he has a complex reaction, but it's here that he begins to wonder if there's some truth in Christianity. If there's not, why make such a big deal out of defying it?

The final scenes in St. Anne's are beautiful and satisfying; I really appreciate that they depict humans, especially the women, as nearly mythic creatures themselves. While the old myths are coming to life with the visiting Oyeresu, new myths are forming. A new Pendragon will become the Head of Logres, and these very "normal" people will continue as its protectors. Lewis is very clear that "normal" humans are much more than we generally perceive them to be. He says elsewhere that the people we take so much for granted in everyday situations are indeed creatures (he uses that word advisedly) whom, if we saw them for what they truly are, we would be tempted to worship or abhor and flee from in terror. He shows us these two extremes in That Hideous Strength and does it in so winsome a manner that readers, too, may be drawn in to the camp of grace, as Mark is in the end.

My students will be re-reading one book of the trilogy--whichever each one chooses--and branching out to other Inklings books in the next few weeks; I'm interested to see what they choose to focus on and what insights they will have.

In the meantime, I'll be reading Charles Williams and The Narnian . . . so more on that later.

That Hideous Strength . . . cont.

I'm through ch 13, and there's way too much to comment on. So I think I'll note a few places where I've seen Mark and Jane mirroring each others reactions or responses to their different situations. While we tend to "side" with Jane, neither character is really in the right; both are still "young" as the narrator tells us numerous times.

Of course we've seen their struggles in regard to joining a community: Mark trying desperately to get into the inner circle at Belbury, and losing any moral compass he may have had, and Jane repelled at first from St. Anne's because of her desire for autonomy. Even when she is nearly "in," she responds out of wrong desires, and Ransom must sharply tell her to stop. It is not for the sake of obedience or submission itself that she must join but for love and reverence toward Maleldil. When she is not capable of this, Ransom tells her she will be allowed to join because of her regard for him--at least for a time.

Jane, at first, hesitates to try to bring Mark to St. Anne's, because she still sees him as completely separate from herself and she can't imagine him wanting to be there; later she comes to pity him and, finally, she can draw him in with love. Mark can't imagine Jane at Belbury; when he thinks of her he recognizes the coarseness of the workings there, but when he is arrested, he has a moment of complete self-absorption in which he imagines her submission to his grandiose ideas; he sees her as the ultimate trophy wife, a hostess who will smooth the way to his success.

They have,too, similar responses to religion, and both experience a sort of conversion when confronted with the reality of death. Jane is put off by the trappings of religion--by church, yet she is drawn to the beauty and intensity of what I can only call Faith--as exhibited by Ransom's relationship with the eldila and Maleldil. Jane thinks, "Maleldil might be, quite simply and crudely, God. There might be a life after death: a Heaven: a Hell. The thought glowed in her mind for a second like a spark that has fallen on shavings, and then a second later, like those shavings, her whole mind was in a blaze . . ." (231)

Mark identifies himself as an atheist and has no sympathy for superstition, yet he undergoes a transformation while he is under arrest at Belbury. First we learn that Wither and Frost want to condition him to have a "change of heart"; Frost will tell him about the real Masters of the inner circle, the real intelligences behind the speaking head. But by the time Frost gets to him, Mark has already recognized his own folly in all his life seeking to get "in," to be admired, and though he realizes that he can't even determine to resist, he is in a sense humbled. At the brink of submission to reality, and thereby to God himself, he, too, experiences an almost lunatic temptation, as Jane had in the Director's room. He feels, first "a strange sense of liberation . . . . The relief of no longer trying to win these men's confidence" (264), and then "desire . . . took him by the throat" (265) and he is drawn by the "infinite attraction of this dark thing" (265) into a perverted fascination with the Darkness itself; he even feels a sort of kinship with Wither! He finally comes to himself and realizes he has been under some kind of attack--something like Lewis felt in the beginning of Perelandra--by the dark eldila. On the next page he experiences "a sort of peace," and we're told: "He wanted Jane; he wanted Mrs. Dimble, he wanted Denniston. He wanted somebody or something" (267). Rejecting the Dark and desiring the Good, he falls asleep.

It's interesting that though their paths appear so different, both Jane and Mark are growing into the Truth. Both have to give up their false assumptions about themselves in order to become their true selves and find true freedom and admiration.

Well, I haven't even mentioned Merlin and the tramp--one of Lewis's most brilliant pieces of story-telling I think. I'm thankful for the humorous element at this part of the book which is so intense!

That Hideous Strength . . .

I'm reading again--just took a break and thinking about the book. I'm so relieved that Jane has met up with the Dennistons. I realize how silly this is on one level--since I've read the book how many times?! And I know the outcome. But I think it's kind of like the character of Rochester in The Eyre Affair; the characters relive each episode as it is being read by someone in the "real" world. And he says that each time he experiences it--even though he knows the ending--he experiences the original joys and sufferings. But he says he doesn't mind because any joy he experiences with Jane is worth any amount of suffering. In the "original" ending of Jane Eyre, in the Eyre Affair, she does not marry Rochester. How could anyone even imagine such a thing! Anyway, that seems to be the way I re-read this book, which makes it rewarding and satisfying every time!

Well, just wanted to post that while I was thinking about it. Back to reading now.

That Hideous Strength, ch 3 and 4

Mark goes to Belbury, where he meets Wither, whose manner even at this early stage is described as "vague and chaotic." Later we'll find out why. Ironically, Belbury and the N.I.C.E. are described as "a very happy family" (51), and Mark is told, "you are among friends here" (52). He meets Bill, the "Blizzard," Hingest, as well as Steele and "Fairy" Hardcastle. Hingest has decided to leave the N.I.C.E and advises Mark to go back to Bracton; I noticed in this reading that Hingest is a gardener, which is maybe interesting in light of Jane's experience at St. Anne's.

While Mark is trying desperately to figure out if he's in at the N.I.C.E., Jane goes to St. Anne's to see Grace Ironwood. The description of the grounds there is very organic: fruit trees, a mossy path, gooseberry bushes, a lawn with a see-saw, a greenhouse, a barn, a stable, a potting shed, a pigstye, a vegetable garden, and roses (59-60). Walking through these to the house, Jane starts comparing it all to gardens she has read about in literature: the garden in Peter Rabbit, or the Romance of the Rose, or Klingsor's garden (from Parsifal), or the garden in Alice; these thoughts elicit a "memory": "The beauty of the female is the root of joy to the female as well as to the male . . ." (60), but she doesn't remember where she's read this. A few minutes later, waiting to meet Miss Ironwood, Jane opens a book and sees, for the first time, the quote she's just "remembered."

After the interview with Miss Ironwood (I wonder if my students will figure out the importance of her name), Jane is uncomfortable and not convinced that she should connect herself with the "company" at St. Anne's; while Mark is dying to get in to the inner circle at Belbury, she is worried about being drawn in to something against her will. She had, we are told, a "fear of being invaded and intangled" and a "resentment against love" (70-71); she doesn't want to lose her individuality.

Chapter 4 begins with the N.I.C.E. cutting down trees and proceeding with construction in Edgestow, which leads to the Dimbles and Mrs. Maggs being put out of their homes, and it ends with the N.I.C.E's workmen tearing up Bracton College grounds and a riot breaking out, which is quelled by the N.I.C.E. "police." Jane has a dream in which she sees the murder of Hingest; when she hears the report of the murder from Curry, she begins to think she must go back to St. Anne's, but still hesitates to become part of the company.

In this chapter, too, we meet the Reverend Straik, a member of the N.I.C.E., who believes that science will help to bring the Kingdom of God on earth; he says, "Where we see power, we see the sign of His coming" (77). I won't stop to rant about this! We get another view of Mark here as well; when he and Cosser go to Cure Hardy to write their report, we see that he is really quite different from the N.I.C.E. members. He finds pleasure in the simplicities of the small village; we're told that "Mark was not as a rule very sensitive to beauty, but Jane and his love for Jane had already awakened him in this respect" (84). Also, we find that "his education had had the curious effect of making things he read and wrote more real to him than things he saw" (85). This is interesting in light of Jane's thoughts at St. Anne's, where she relates the real garden only to gardens in literature.

I do think sometimes our students may be lead to this kind of response to the real world; too often we hedge them in with books, books, and more books, as though these were the most important and only substantial things in the world, when we really ought to be providing them with books as a means of opening up the world and helping them to interact with real people in more integral ways. At a student writing conference this afternoon, one young woman stopped afterwards to tell me how much she appreciated my "stories" in class; I laughed because I know I do tend to go off on rabbit trails occasionally, but she said the stories really encouraged her and helped her to connect what we were reading or working on to the real world--a world, though she didn't say this--that I think she and others are a little apprehensive of encountering as adults. Anyway, it made my day! And I'm always amazed when my own reading connects with my own experience. I should stop being amazed I suppose; that's one of the beauties of language and Story.

That Hideous Strength, ch 1 and 2

What a treat to be reading about Jane Studdock again! I'd forgotten how much I like this character.

Lewis tells us in the Preface that this is a "fairy-tale"; he defends this because his story begins in the commonplace, everyday world and moves into the fantastic. But even in the first chapter we get a hint of the fantastic to come when we learn of Jane's dream, though of course at this point, on the first reading, we don't understand the significance of her dreams.

The first word of the novel is "matrimony," which is one of the main themes of the book; it's hard for me to believe that Lewis wrote this as an established bachelor, quite a while before he married. He seems to have a good understanding of the different expectations and responses of both genders. Jane's doctoral thesis is to be on Donne's "triumphant vindication of the body." I wonder if this might have some bearing on my ideas of the physicality of faith; I'll have to dust off Donne and check it out.

In these chapters we meet or hear about many of the main players in the book: Curry, Feverstone (I'm wondering how soon my students figure him out.), Jewel, Busby, and Wither--and the N.I.C.E. As well as the Dimbles, Miss Ironwood, and Merlin. The two main locations are identified, too. Mark is invited to Belbury, and Jane travels to St. Anne's. There's a very descriptive section on Bragdon Wood, in which the narrator, speaking in first person, tells us he has been there once.

I noticed this time that when Dr. Dimble is telling Jane about Bragdon Wood and the Arthurian legend, he contrasts two types of people: Guinevere and Lancelot and the "courtly" people, who, he says, are not "particularly British," and the people in the "background," who are "mixed up with magic" (29). This seems to set up the division between the two groups of people in the novel--though Jane, the Dimbles, et. al., represent the true Logres, and Curry, et. al., the false. It's interesting that Merlin--the magician--is claimed by the false, but we'll see that he's not so easily classified.

Feverstone identifies 3 major problems the Progressives (and N.I.C.E.) will have to deal with. 1) the interplanetary problem--which he doesn't elaborate on, 2) their "rivals on this planet," by which he seems to mean living things, and 3) "Man himself." In order to create a "new type of man," they will have to promote "sterilization of the unfit, liquidation of backward races . . . , selective breeding" (40). Already he is trying to recruit Mark for the N.I.C.E--as a writer. He recognizes the necessity of manipulating language in order to manipulate people. He tells Mark they'll need someone who can write well enough to "camouflage" what's really being suggested and done.

It's interesting that Ransom was sent to Perelandra because he knew the language, and now Mark is being courted by the dark side because he may be able to distort language. In light of the later "Babel" episode, I'll have to be watching for other references to language; this may well be another important thread.

good class on Perelandra . . .

A short post tonight--it's been a long day.

The class tonight went really well I thought. Most of the students had done the reading--a couple hadn't quite finished the novel so we didn't read the last chapter aloud, which I had wanted to do. That's probably my favorite piece of prose ever! The last half of chapter 16 and then chapter 17. I always say that reading Charles Williams' poetry makes me feel like I'm levitating (this is re: the Arthurian poems)--and I discovered that CSL agrees with me when I was researching a couple of summers ago. But this section of Perelandra gives me that same feeling. It's almost an out of body experience!

We all agreed that CSL is an amazingly gifted writer. Such clear and concise descriptions that really pull us into the story and let us see and experience what's going on. I was amazed this read-through at the number of similes; he really piles them on, and they make whatever he's describing so clear because he uses similes that we can really relate to and have an emotional response to.

We also agreed that the evil--embodied in the Un-man--is incredibly creepy! One student noted that the book made her more aware of Satan's power, and others noted that though evil is powerful it is, as CSL portrays it, infantile and derivative--not creative and truly powerful as Maleldil is.

Some were thankful that Lewis structured the story as it is--with the "ending" at the beginning of the book. We were glad that we knew ahead of time that Ransom made it safely back to Earth; this made reading about his combat with the Un-man and his underground adventures more bearable. I especially love the chapter where he emerges from the caverns and recovers high on the mountain side--what lovely imagery and a sense of peace and accomplishment.

Several students expressed an appreciation of this literature that convicts and encourages them spiritually. It really does strengthen us for the tasks we're called to do!

Well, that's it for Perelandra--at least for now; we'll be discussing these 3 books for the next several weeks. But now on to reading That Hideous Strength.

Perelandra, 9 - 11

The pace is quickening as the Unman reveals his true nature more and more to Ransom, while continuing to speak civilly and reasonably to the Lady. Chapter 9 begins with Ransom discovering and following the trail of mutilated frogs; they are to him an "obscenity" (94), completely out of place in this idyllic world. He contemplates the fact that there are two ways only to live in the universe--to move either toward the "Beatific or the Miserific Vision" (96). While this kind of language is found in numerous medieval thinkers, including Dante, it also makes me think of Charles Williams--and more reading I'll need to do.

The Unman tells the Lady his purpose in coming to Perelandra is to teach them Death; he couches this in nearly theatrical terms--as Ransom tells us. The Unman tempts the Lady to adopt the "role" of heroine for her race; he tempts her with her own beauty (Vanity) and with the idea of glorious self-sacrifice. Ransom feels he is losing the battle; it doesn't help when he loses his temper!

While the eldila do not interfere in Perelandra, Maleldil is present, and Ransom realizes that He has always been present--it's just that Ransom has managed to ignore Him while focusing on the battle of words and ideas. Three times Ransom thinks, "This can't go on." Finally he asks, "Why did no miracle come?" (119) At this point Ransom experiences the presence of Maleldil, which grows stronger until, Ransom says, it's almost a Voice, and eventually it speaks to him.

But first, Ransom feels himself divided into two arguing selves: one is clearly guided by Reason, the other is more holistic perhaps--the narrator later names it "intuition" (123). His reasonable, or as he says, his voluble self claims that he has done all he can, that all he has to do is his best and then "God would see to the final issue. . . . He must not be worried about the final result. Maleldil would see to that. . . . One must have faith" (120).

Immediately his other self recognizes the falseness of this way of thinking; if Maleldil's will is to be done on Perelandra, Ransom must DO it: "Ransom and the Lady were those hands" (121) which would accomplish the task. This made me think of a quote from St. Terese of Avila:

Christ has no body now on earth but yours,no hands but yours, no feet but yours,
yours are the eyes through which Christ's compassion is to look out to the earth,
yours are the feet by which He is to go about doing good
and yours are the hands by which He is to bless us now.

Ransom realizes he is the miracle Maleldil has sent to Perelandra, and he moves to the certainty that he can and will physically fight to destroy the body of Weston, thereby erasing Satan's footprint on Perelandra.

Lewis gives such a clear picture here of our task as members of Christ's body; he says,

"As the Lady had said, the same wave never came twice. When Eve fell, God was not Man. He had not yet made men members of His body: since then He had, and through them henceforward He would save and suffer." (123)

Ransom must do his part, but Maleldil has said that His name, also, is Ransom; if Ransom avoids his path and his responsibility, Perelandra will still be redeemed but at a terrible price. And Ransom is given grace to accept his role.

This whole concept is so encouraging to me--daunting but also energizing. God has work for us to do--real, physical work. Sometimes this means physically avoiding temptation or physically putting ourselves in the path of grace, but it means being active, doing what God commands, in faith that He is with us. It also means what Charles Williams call "Co-Inherence" and "Substitution"; we're not responsible only for our own journey but for the others we meet on the way. We are the bringers of redemption--though Christ is the Redeemer. Lewis says, after Ransom has thought all of this through and is prepared to do battle, that Ransom "had been delivered from the rhetoric of his passions and had escaped into unassailable freedom. . . . Predestination and freedom were apparently identical" (127). Now there's something for a Presbyterian to think about! It seems clear, also, that Faith and Works are one. Perhaps from the predestination comes the Faith and from the freedom the Works. I'll have to think about this more--this is just writing as the thoughts come to me. I'm enjoying blogging!

Perelandra, cont.

I read chapters 5 through 8 today; I have to speed up to get this done before Monday night class! Here we see the cosmic importance of the Incarnation on Thulcandra, when Maleldil took on human form; no longer will hnau be created in a variety of form; all will follow the same pattern. Though of course the Green Lady of Perelandra is quite different from her terrestrial counterparts, but most of the difference is in her experience of living on an unfallen planet--and her close communication with Maleldil. She tells Ransom she is the Mother of her children to come--and Ransom begins to get an idea of his mission though he doesn't know what his role will be in helping to prevent a catastrophic fall on Perelandra. At first he thinks the eldila will aid him as on Malacandria, but he later learns that the eldila are not communicate with the "new" worlds.

The Green Lady is already "growing older" from her conversations with Ransom; she says, "I thought that I was carried in the will of Him I love, but now I see that I walk with it" (60). The concept of free will is one that Weston/Unman will work to develop.

She and Ransom see a flash of light as something falls from Deep Heaven into the sea; Weston has arrived.

The Lady and Ransom spend the day on the Fixed Land, looking for the King; Ransom now thinks that the King will be the key to the preservation of Perelandra, but he's nowhere to be found. Instead they encounter Weston; this scene always makes me smile--he's traveled through space dressed as a 19th c. explorer complete with a pith hat! What was he thinking? Of course he has a gun and his old superiority complex--though now his thinking has "evolved" and he no longer believes in the mere continuation of the human race. Now his faith is grounded in "emergent evolution": "The forward movement of Life--the growing Spirituality--is everything" (78). His goal is "pure Spirit" (79); Ransom asks if this spirit is personal, and Weston's demeanor changes to give us a hint of what is going on. He makes some pretty creepy comments about being "guided" and a "force" rising up in him (80). He is completely overcome with his megalomania and calls the force into himself; "Then horrible things began happening" (82). We get one frantic plea for help from the "real" Weston and then that terrifying scene of the black Perelandrian night descending on Ransom and Weston's body.

In chapter 8, the true battle begins with the Unman's conversation with the Green Lady; he tells her about the women of our planet whose minds "run ahead of what Maleldil has told them"; they are like, he says, "little Maleldils" (91). The chapter ends with Ransom feeling something in the air--some airy suggestion of victory, and he concludes that he has come merely as a witness to the battle, which will end with victory for the Lady and her race. He's in for a rude awakening . . .

It's so convicting to listen to the Unman's arguments--to recognize the various elements of our sin and rebellion; it's so disheartening to realize that our nature is truly bent--even our understanding of and seeking after "good"; and it's so encouraging to realize the extent of God's love and mercy in re-establishing communication and communion with us.

Perelandra, cont.

Chapters 3 and 4. Here we get the account of Ransom's arrival on Perelandra and first encountering its ultra-sensuous nature. The prevailing color, as he is nearing the surface, is "golden or coppery" (31); I think I remember reading that the metal copper (and probably gold as well) was associated with the goddess and the planet Venus, but I can't find that reference at the moment. I'm sure it's somewhere in Michael Ward's book--but that will have to wait for another day.

Lewis's narrative and descriptions in this book are full of allusions to the goddess; in ch 3 the planet itself is described as a "warm, maternal, delicately gorgeous world" (32), in which "excessive pleasure" is "communicated to [Ransom] through all his senses at once" (33). And yet it is all pleasure with no accompanying feelings of guilt.

Here we get the descriptions of the floating islands, the balloon fruit, and the bubble trees. The only fear Ransom has is that his reason may be in danger because of the overwhelming nature of his sensory experiences (37). Lewis sets up a dichotomy between reason/rationality and the senses/desire; when reason prompts Ransom to enjoy the balloon fruit a second time, he refrains from doing so: Lewis, the narrator, tells us ". . . something seemed opposed to this 'reason.' It is difficult to suppose that this opposition came from desire . . . " (38). It may be difficult to suppose . . . but it looks like this is exactly what Lewis is proposing. Does this have some connection to the fact that our reason is as "bent" as our other faculties? Do our senses and intuitions sometimes point us to the truth or toward integrity? What is the desire that directs Ransom's actions? A desire for moderation or to acknowledge satiety? Well, this chapter has given me plenty to think about.

In chapter 4 we begin to meet the inhabitants of Perelandra--the dragon, the dolphin-like fish--and we get our first glimpse of the Green Lady. And Lewis asks, "Were all the things that appear as mythology on earth scattered through other worlds as realities?" (40). After bathing under the bubble trees, Ransom "had a sensation not of following an adventure but of enacting a myth" (42).

Perhaps living as a Christian is both an adventure, which it frequently is, and an enactment of the True Myth, as Tolkien described the Gospel story of Christ's death and resurrection. And if Lewis is right here, it isn't reason--or at least not merely reason--that ought to guide our behavior. We need a cleansing and heightening of our perceptions and desires in order to respond with integrity to our surroundings and circumstances. Ransom got this from the bubble fruit; how do we access it?

Perelandra . . .

I've just read the first 2 chapters of Perelandra (actually I listened to them on my iPod--but I had the book with me to mark it up). I haven't read it in a year and a half; it's always such a delight to reenter these stories!

I love it that Lewis puts himself into the book as a character; it reminds me of very early novels where the author positions himself as an editor of a recently found manuscript or the letters of a recently deceased friend or something--in an effort to establish it as a factual work.

The first chapter recounts Lewis's approach to Ransom's cottage and his difficulty in continuing to go on. His account shows that his Reason compels him to go forward in opposition to his Emotions, but he intimates that it's a bit more than mere Reason; at one point he actually turns back, but then, he says, " . . . reason or conscience awoke and set me once more plodding forwards" (11). So his conscience is at work, which tells us it is a moral battle--not purely rational. And one emotion impels him forward as well--his friendship with Ransom; he doesn't want to let down his friend.

Ransom identifies the cause of Lewis's mental battles as the bent eldila of our planet; it has been, in fact, a spiritual battle all along. Lewis's strength of mind--his rationality--has really helped him do the right thing, but he hasn't recognized the true nature of the struggle. Ransom says,

"When the Bible used that very expression about fighting with principalities and powers and depraved hypersomatic beings at great heights . . . it meant that quite ordinary people were to do the fighting" (21).

And Lewis protests that surely this means a "moral conflict," by which I think he means a "mental" conflict which can be overcome through Reason. But Ransom thinks differently--there may be times when the moral conflict must be resolved through physical action--even physical combat as we see later in the story.

And this is setting the stage for my inquiries re: the physicality of faith. Maybe Ransom (or Lewis) will give me some language to use in describing this.

On another note, I did a little research and found out that the Schiaparelli Ransom mentions is Giovanni Schiaparelli, an Italian astronomer well known for creating the most detailed map of Mars of his time (1877)! And, while I didn't, in my very cursory investigation, find that he had theories about Venus, he did apparently have the very theory about planetary rotation that Ransom discounts--only about the planet Mercury.

Out of the Silent Planet . . .

Well, I'll have to put Tolkien on the back burner for a few weeks while my class reads C S Lewis's "Cosmic" Trilogy. We met for the first time tonight, and most of the students haven't read the trilogy before; a couple of them have, which is good because they are noticing new things this read-through. But all of them are noticing themes and ideas in the novel. Our discussion made me realize how important it is to understand that Lewis was a medievalist--and that he uses medieval concepts throughout the trilogy. Then the problem is to figure out if Lewis believed this understanding leads to a better comprehension of "truth." It always makes me re-think our modern conceptions of democracy; how does this fit in to the way the universe really works? I believe in democracy, but I think it limits our perceptions of nobility--and perhaps of reality itself.

I'm going to be watching for Lewis's use of the medieval concept of hierarchy while I read the texts this time. I've noticed it before, but I want to really pay attention to it this time. And of course, in light of my larger project, I'll be noticing the character of Ransom--and maybe others, especially in THS--in relation to the ideas I'm developing related to the physicality of faith. How does Ransom illustrate the physical disciplines of faith? Can these be related to our lives? Is it possible to escape the (merely) cerebral conception of faith we seem to have inherited from our Enlightenment and post-Enlightenment ancestors? What kinds of "discipline" might be useful to 21st century Christians?

It's interesting to me that Divine is declared by Malacandra to be "broken" beyond repair; if he were one of the Malacandrian creatures, he would be "unmade." This leads me to question whether some Earth dwellers are truly beyond hope. Well, I guess I think there are some like this, but do we have the ability to tell who they are? Or do we follow the maxim, "While there's life, there's hope"? And it's also interesting that Weston is recognized as "bent" but still redeemable; what does this teach us about our response to people who promote ideas that are really "unChristian"? How might they be brought to an understanding of the truth? And does Lewis, in light of what happens on Perelandra, really believe these people are capable of redemption? One student asked about why Lewis chose the name "Divine." I'll have to think about this, especially in light of the development of this character in THS.

On the way to class, I saw a crescent moon with Venus underneath; it reminded me that Lewis sometimes remarked that this was Perelandra. I'm amazed at his creativity but am also reminded that this is just a reflection of the creativity of the Creator. What amazing places and stories are "out there" unknown to us?

I love the way Lewis's work leads us to think outside of the box. Out of the Silent Planet gives me new insights into what life might be like if our race had not fallen--and what we have to look forward to in the New Creation--and what we should be working toward in our efforts to redeem culture. It has nothing to do with our own comfort but with striving always for obedience and submission to God's plans for the world--or the cosmos!

"Strife" and an ending . . .

I've just read the last section (9) of The Lay of the Volsungs; it's entitled "Strife," and that's an understatement! It begins with the marriage of Brynhild to Gunnar, and all is well because she believes he was the one who rode through the fire to betroth her. But at the wedding feast, Sigurd's "confusion" leaves him and he remembers all that had passed between him and Brynhild--and knows that his impersonating of Gunnar has led to this breaking of vows. He remains silent, though, and determines to make the best of what fate has dealt him.

But Gudrun, who, while she's not a sorceress that I know of, has inherited some of her mother's spiteful and meddlesome nature, exposes the truth to Brynhild; I get the feeling she does this merely to wound Brynhild and gloat over the fact that she has the better husband. This pretty much unhinges Brynhild, who retires to her darkened room to plot vengeance.

She won't listen to Sigurd when he explains how he forgot his vows (the drugged potion he was given) and encourages her to accept her fate and appreciate what she has in Gunnar, a wealthy, powerful Burgundian king. Then she lies to Gunnar, telling him that Sigurd had slept with her when in the guise of Gunnar--and thus has broken his vows of kinship with Gunnar. The only thing that will give her "comfort" is to have Sigurd killed.

Gunnar can't kill him or he would break his vows! So he plots with a younger brother (or half-brother) who has not sworn vows with Sigurd, and he, after living on a diet of snake and wolf meat (!), kills Sigurd. Then Brynhild tells Gunnar the truth--that Sigurd had not broken his vows. And she asks for a sword--on which she falls.

The story ends with a funeral pyre for Sigurd and Brynhild, who arrive to a great welcome in Valhalla, while their spouses are left in life to mourn in shame. Sigurd looks forward to a great battle in which he, the one who has died and can not die, will be victorious; the poet tells us Brynhild will send him to battle, enacting the typical meadhall scene of the cup-bearer.

Christopher Tolkien's notes are helpful in understanding the confusions in the Old Norse texts and his father's choices in the crafting of his own poem. Included here are more of Tolkien's notes, which also shed light on the development of this Lay.

While Brynhild may be seen as a crazed, vengeful woman, Tolkien reminds us that she is really a Valkyrie humanized. She can not live with the knowledge that she has broken her vow to Sigurd or that she has been duped through sorcery into marrying Gunnar, and she can not remain married to Gunnar, having sworn to love only the "World's Chosen." Her actions are both the result of and the fulfillment of Fate.

another break from Tolkien . . .

Today I'm listening to Out of the Silent Planet. My Special topics course is reading C S Lewis's trilogy, and we'll be discussing OSP Monday night. I've read it many times, but each time I'm delighted again. To actually read or hear the words, the descriptions, the language of the Malacandrians, always amazes me again. What an imagination Lewis had! And his story telling is so concise, yet brilliant, like sparkling jewels. His descriptions so cleanly defined, so finely chiseled.

As a medievalist, I really enjoy his cosmology and his Oyéresu--the medieval "Influences" that guide the planets in their cosmic dance. And hearing the story of the rebellious oyarsa of Thulcandra, understanding the sub-lunar silence imposed by his actions, makes me mourn the loss of communication with the Heavens that Earth has experienced for nearly its whole existence and makes me think that even the earliest cosmologists had an inkling of this as they designed their geo-centric models of the cosmos.

I'm just at the part where Ransom meets the pfifltrigg who is carving his "likeness" into the stone inscriptions on Meldilorn; I appreciate so much that Lewis develops his various species with such integrity: their physical appearance, traditions, and languages seem so "natural" to them. It's not hard to accept such creatures as "hnau"; the hard thing to imagine is that they live in peace and in willing submission to Maleldil. These stories elicit that desire Lewis was so aware of himself: the desire for wholeness and for true communication.

More on Ransom later; I'm looking at him in relation to a project I'm working on, so as I re-read the trilogy this time I'm hoping to focus on some of his characteristics.

If I stop blogging now, I should just have time to finish the book and get to bed before 2:30.

Brynhild betrayed . . .

In section 8, Svikin Brynhildr, "Brynhild Betrayed," we find Brynhild living in a splendid court; her fame for wealth and beauty has spread far. Many princes have hoped to marry her, but she waits for Sigurd. Odin comes to her and prophecies that she will wed a king; to ensure that this will be Sigurd, he sets a flaming circle around her hall--a flame circle that only the "World's Chosen" can pass.

Meanwhile, Sigurd and Gudrun's wedding is celebrated:

In Gjuki's house
glad the singing.
A feast they fashioned,
far men sought it.
To blissful Gudrun
the bridal drank
there golden Sigurd
glorious shining. (143)

The guests enjoy "mead and ale" and the harper's songs. And Sigurd exchanges oaths of loyalty with Gudrun's brothers.

When the rumors of Brynhild reach the land of the Gjukings, Gundrun's mother desires yet more power for her husband and a good match for her son, Gunnar. So she encourages him to woe Brynhild for his wife. Gunnar agrees and sets out with Sigurd and their retainers on this quest, but first his mother provides Gunnar with magic potions. When they arrive at the fire ring, Gunnar's horse won't go forward, so he borrows Sigmund's, but even with this advantage he can not proceed. Sigmund agrees to go in his stead, drinking the potion which changes him so that he looks like Gunnar. He rides his own horse and takes his own sword, Gram.

Sigurd easily passes through the fire barrier and enters Brynhild's hall, announcing himself as Gunnar come to win her as his bride. Brynhild is confused and doesn't know how to answer him. She believed only Sigurd would be able to pass the fire, but Gunnar has, and her mind is troubled. However, she agrees to follow him to his land and become his wife. Sigurd gives her a ring from the trove of Andvari's gold. And the section ends with Sigurd returning to Gunnar and heading home.

Christopher Tolkien suggests that Brynhild would never have broken her previous oath to Sigurd unless she really believed that Gunnar was the "World's Chosen" as evidenced by his passing the fire wall.

So Gudrun's mother's sorcery once again confounds true love. Sigurd has no memory of his love for and oath to Brynhild, and Brynhild has been tricked into marrying an impostor. Talk about a meddling mother-in-law! Grimhild may be the model for all the mother-in-law stories that followed. But all the others seem tame compared to her!

The poetry in this section seems uneven; there are a few really lovely stanzas--mostly those having to do with Gudrun--but too much of it is heavy with harsh alliteration, and sometimes, I think, Tolkien may have done better to give us more stanzas with more music rather than condense the tale so tightly. I do think he's accomplished an amazing feat--to use the Old Norse form with modern English which in many ways is not suited to such expression. It's just that when he does it really well, I want it to continue in that vein.

Plotting and magic potions . . .

Section 7, "Gudrun," brings Sigurd to the hall of Gjuki, king of the Gjukings and Gudrun's father.

Before his arrival, Gudrun relates a dream to her mother--a disturbing dream foretelling doom; then she sees Sigurd approaching on Grani, his horse, laden with the dragon treasure. He is welcomed to the hall, and Tolkien describes the feast that follows. One of Gudrun's brothers plays a harp and sings of war between the Goths and Huns:

By mighty Mirkwood
on the marches of the East
the great Goth-kings
in glory ruled.
By Danpar-banks
was dread warfare
with the hosts of Hunland,
horsemen countless. (131)

Then Sigurd sings of his slaying of Fafnir and the waking of Brynhild. This is all very well done--Tolkien captures the atmosphere of the mead hall and the mood of the characters.

In the silence following the songs, Sigurd thinks of Brynhild, and Gudrun's brothers think of how they can get him to marry their sister.

Sigurd joins the household and goes to war with the Gjukings, winning great glory. Then his thoughts turn to his own homeland and revenge for his father's death. He fits out a fleet of dragon-prowed ships and sails to his father's land, where he is merciless to his enemies. Yet, even though he has exacted revenge, his father's hall is in ruins and his people all gone. He is now king--but has no subjects or meadhall, so he returns to the Gjuking's land.

Here, in Gjuki's hall, Sigurd fulfills his kingly role as ring-giver, gift-giver, binding his retainers more closely to him:

A king sat Sigurd:
carven silver,
raiment gleaming,
rings and goblets,
dear things dealt he,
doughty-handed,
his friends enriching,
fame upraising. (137)

As Gjuki and his sons seek for a way to marry Gudrun to Sigurd in order to form a more binding alliance, he sits thinking of Brynhild; then Gudrun's mother slips out of the hall and prepares a drugged drink in a rune-carved horn. When she gives it to Sigurd, he drinks it and immediately becomes confused, forgetting Brynhild. At that moment, Gudrun enters the hall:

In came Gudrun
gleaming-robed,
as flower enfolded
fair at morning.
Sigurd wondered,
silent gazing;
his mind was glamoured,
mood confounded. (140)

And here the section ends. What a cliff-hanger! Of course, we know this is the weaving of fate--with a little help from magic potions--but it's sad to think of Gudrun, knowing from her dream that something bad is about to happen, being used as a pawn (the Anglo-Saxon's "peace bride")to help strengthen her father's power.

a new twist . . .

After reading section 6, "Brynhildr," I had to go back and look at section 5 again. I realize now that the 2 birds at the end of that section are describing 2 women: the Raven describes Brynhild and the story found in section 6, while the Finch describes Gudrun, who lives further along our hero's path:

Green run the roads
to Gjuki's land;
fate leads them on,
who fare that way. (116)

This becomes important at the end of "Brynhildr."

As section 6 opens, our hero, Sigurd, moves on toward Hindarfell:

Ever wide and wild
the wandering path'
long lay the shadow
of lone rider.
Ever high and high
stood Hindarfell,
mountain mighty
from mist rising. (118)

An adventure lies in his path; he leaves the "green road" toward the Gjuki's land--and Gudrun--and climbs Hindarfell, where he sees a ring of flames encircling the mountain top and then a shield wall and a warrior in enchanted sleep. He removes the helmet and discovers it's a woman! He hews off her armor with his now-famous dragon-slaying sword, and the enchantment is broken. The woman awakes and greats him:

Hands of healing,
hear and grant us,
light in darkness,
life and wisdom;
to both give triumph,
truth unfailing,
to both in gladness
glorious meeting! (120)

She then identifies herself as Brynhild, a Valkyrie, enchanted by Odin because she had changed the outcome of a battle. Odin has forbidden the battlefield to her and "doomed" her to marry instead; as a result she has sworn an oath never to marry anyone except "the World's chosen" (121). She tells Sigurd that in Valhalla they wait for the "serpent-slayer" (121); he then reveals his name and that he has indeed slain the dragon.

At this point the two swear faithfulness to each other, and Tolkien includes a cup-bearing ceremony, with Brynhild giving Sigurd the mead cup:

"A beaker I bring thee,
O battle-wielder,
mighty-blended
mead of glory;
brimmed with bounty,
blessed with healing,
and rimmed with runes
of running laughter." (122)

She goes on to prophecy and gives him advice, noting that his life will be short and violent. She sends him on his way, saying she will only wed a king--and he has yet to win his kingdom.

Tolkien captures several elements of Norse tradition in this section, including the shield-maiden, the mead cup, powerful runic inscriptions, and the implacable power of fate:

Faith then they vowed
fast, unyielding,
there each to each
in oaths binding.
Bliss there was born
when Brynhild woke;
yet fate is strong
to find its end. (124)

So, while I wasn't expecting Brynhild, I enjoyed this part of the poem--and it adds a layer of conflict and mystery to the whole story. What happens to Gudrun? Something must since she has, later in this book, her own "Lay." Will our hero be faithful to his betrothed? Will he win his kingdom? Will a Valkyrie be content in marriage? Hmmmmm.

Sigurd . . . dragon slayer!

Tonight I read "Regin," one of the longer sections; it's 54 stanzas in 18 pages--with 13 pages of notes. I've only read it once; I usually read the poem, then the notes, and then the poem again. But this section is quite straightforward and has a retelling of an earlier section, so, while I wish I'd had time to re-read, I think I understand most of the stanza--though as usual there are passages so tightly constructed, containing a lot of information and unusual (to me) names that they merit several readings.

We met Regin in section 1, "Andvara-Gull," where he was one of three brothers; Otr was slain by Loki, and Odin gave a trove of weregeld to the father in payment for his son's life. In this section Regin has become a smithy to the king of the "far land," to whom Sigurd's mother is now married. Regin, now the foster-father of Sigurd, re-tells the story to him--with a few changes to cloak the truth of what happened after Odin and his band had left the bereaved father.

In this telling, Regin says that his brother, Fafnir, wanted some of the gold, but their father refused, so Fafnir killed him and threatened Regin, who left to join the king's followers. Fafnir built an underground hall to house his gold; then he turned into a dragon to guard it. Regin tells Sigurd that he wants revenge for his father's death and that, if Sigurd will kill Fafnir, he can have all the "gold and glory." Sigurd is a bit wary but agrees to kill the dragon if Regin will reforge the broken sword of his father, Sigmund.

All goes according to plan--and Tolkien doesn't disappoint in relating the dragon fight. I can tell he really likes this section; he did, after all, once say that when he read the Northern tales as a child, he desired dragons with a "profound desire." (This is somewhere in "On Fairie Stories" but I don't have my copy here.)

However, once the dragon is slain, Regin begins to act a bit strangely; he keeps muttering that he will have revenge for his brother's death. He drinks the blood of the dragon and asks Sigurd to cook the heart for him! Yikes. Luckily (or as fate would have it) when Sigurd does so, he touches the cooking meat and licks his finger--and now the real magic begins! Immediately he can understand the language of the beasts, and he hears two birds talking! They say to each other that a wise man would kill the brother who wants to kill him and have the gold all for himself.

"Who a foe lets free
is fool indeed,
when he was bane of brother!
I alone would be lord
of linked gold,
if my wielded sword had won it." (114)

Sigurd is no fool, so he heeds their advice and kills Regin. He then loads the gold onto his horse (there's also a series of stanzas on the getting of this horse); before he leaves he hears the birds talking about a Hall on Hindarfell, where a beautiful maiden, Gudrun, lives:

"A maid have I seen
as morning fair;
golden-girdled,
garland-crowned" (116)

The section ends with the birds talking about Gudrun and her kin; I'm assuming our hero will set out with his new-found wealth to win the "fair maid." We'll see.

As a side note, the conversations of the birds reminded me of a book I read ages ago, Greenlanders, by Jane Smiley. I was impressed then with the "story-telling" techniques of the Inuit characters; when they wanted to give advice to a young person who was making poor choices, they would sit around the fire in the evening--the whole group--and tell stories. They never pointed out the young person or commented on his or her behavior, but the stories contained a message--and the youngster knew it and, more often than not, heeded the warning or advice. I wonder if Tolkien recognized this mode of communication from his reading of ON and OE texts. Maybe it's a "Northern" thing. Quite effective.

Our hero is born . . .

Section 4, FOEDDR SIGURDE, or "Sigurd Born," tells of Sigmund taking a young beautiful wife, Sigrlinn; he asks her,

"Say me, Sigrlinn,
sweeter were it
young king to wed
and yellow-bearded,
or wife of a Volsung,
the World's chosen
in my bed to bear,
bride of Odin?"

She had been wooed by seven princes, and, while the poem says "Sigmund took her" (93), she appears to love him.

Tolkien describes the battle in typical Old Norse or Anglo-Saxon style:

High sang the horns,
helms were gleaming,
shafts were shaken,
shields them answered.
Vikings' standards,
Volsung's banner
on strand were streaming;
stern the onslaught. (94)

Sigmund is unstoppable on the battle field; and it's really gory. In stanza 7 Tolkien describes him--fearless and covered in blood:

Fate him fended
fearless striding
with dew of battle
dyed to shoulder. (94)

But one "warrior strange" (94) appears (Christopher Tolkien's note identified him as Odin himself); Sigmund is no match for him and is cut down. Here we see Sigrlinn's attachment to Sigmund, when she addresses him as "my lord beloved, last of Volsungs" (95). As he dies, Sigmund tells her she will bear the World's Chosen and that she must collect the shards of his shattered sword and have them reforged for their son (96). Reminds us of "The sword that was broken . . . " in LOTR.

The Vikings now returning in victory, Sigrlinn disguises herself as a servant-girl and is carried off to a "far country," where in due time she gives birth to a son: "Sigurd golden as a sun shining" (97). When a wise woman learns that he is the son of Sigmund, she prophesies:

"Fair shall be fostered
that father's child;
his mother be mated
to a might king." (98)

This section contains several tropes of ON and OE poetry and saga; we see the hero in battle, driven by fate and unconquerable by men; we see his overthrow by divine intervention and his sword broken; we see the fate of women--taken in battle or enslaved by victors in war; we see the acceptance of fate or destiny--the gods' will--in both good and bad circumstances; we see the practice of fostering; and we see the prophetess, proclaiming the reversal of fortune for the son--and his mother.

Now we'll have to wait to see how this is worked out.

a very short note . . .

I just wanted to say that I've finished The Eyre Affair and quite enjoyed it. I really like the way Fforde takes us into the novel itself--and sets up an interaction between the characters in Bronte's novel and those in his own. While it has some humorous scenes and interactions with text(s), it's clear that Fforde appreciates and respects Bronte's work. I think that was something I was worried about when I started the Fforde novel--that he would take the "original" too lightly. Since it's a book I've loved since I was a child, I didn't want to see it mis-applied or manipulated in an unkind way. But, while I'm glad I read this novel, I doubt that I'll re-read it--maybe bits of it. It isn't a Bronte novel--that's for sure. The characters are much more caricatures than anything Bronte ever wrote. I love Bronte's novel for its realism and depth of character development, for the fact that Jane becomes a real person for me--someone I truly admire and empathize with, for the carefully developed and intertwining plot(s), for the celebration of moral goodness and strength--and love of course.

Fforde perhaps celebrates these things, but he does so in a light-hearted--sometimes frivolous (?)--way which is very enjoyable but hardly endearing.

OK. Really back to Tolkien tomorrow!

a little break from Tolkien . . .

I did read T today, but I wanted to mention two other books I'm really enjoying, too. While I'm reading Tolkien's poem from a "real" book, I'm reading The Eyre Affair, by Jasper Fforde, via Kindle on my laptop; since Jane Eyre is my favorite book of all time, I was a bit apprehensive about reading a book like this--I didn't have a clue what he'd do with the original text. But I'm really enjoying it, except that at times the names of some of the characters bug me--they can be pretty strange (A detective named Braxton Hicks is one that comes to mind--if you've ever given birth you probably recognize this one.) But I like the basic plot, and it's a really quick read. It's interesting to think of books like Jane having different--and quite unsatisfactory--endings; I don't know yet how the LiteraTec agents manage to change things so the book has the ending WE expect. I've just read the chapter where a person from the narrative present manages to enter the narrative of Jane just as she is discovering the fire in Mr. Rochester's bedroom--and we all remember how romantic that scene was! But it becomes quite hilarious when a modern man appears in the room and enters the conversation. I won't tell you what happens--in case you want to read it--but what actually does happen is not hilarious in the least. Does make you think about how readers respond to fictitious characters and form attachments to them.

The other book I'm "reading" is David Copperfield, by Charles Dickens; its full title is: David Copperfield or The Personal History, Adventures, Experience and Observation of David Copperfield the Younger of Blunderstone Rookery (which he never meant to publish on any account). Since I teach Victorian Lit and British Novel, I've set myself the task of reading all of Dickens' novels. But I'm doing this by listening to them on my iPod. I really like this way of getting to know the books. I'm reading them chronologically, so this is the 9th one (the Christmas stories all together count as one). So far my favorite character, besides young David, is Aunt Betsey Trotwood--what a "character"! Dickens was an amazing observer of people's characteristic behaviors and speech. I've enjoyed all these novels so far, except perhaps Barbaby Rudge, which was a bit too much of an industrial and political novel for my taste--but maybe someday I'll give it a second chance.

So if you're looking for a good read--without having to think too deeply--you might try either (or both) of these. I think someone should write a novel with Miss Betsey Trotwood as the central character!

Back to T tomorrow . . .

The Death of Sinfjotla . . .

The poetry in Section 3, "The Death of Sinfjotla," is more in line with that in the Introductory Section; it's evocative of Norse or Anglo-Saxon war culture. Sigmund, with his son, Sinfjotla, as a second in command, rules his people through war and peace. There are fine depictions of Norse ships and armor, as well as feasting in the hall. Though, unfortunately for Sinfjotla, his father's wife, the queen, is out for revenge because Sinfjotla had killed her father--apparently during battle. She seems to have been taken by Sigmund as a spoil of war. At any rate, she manages to poison Sinfjotla during a banquet in the hall. This bit is very well told by T; it is formulaic, building suspense--though the original hearers of the tale would have known the outcome beforehand. This kind of telling allows for a satisfying sort of relish, watching the story unfold, all the while knowing what's to come. In the end, Sinfjotla dies, and (C T tells us in the notes) the queen is banished and Sigmund takes a new, young, wife. Sigmund sends his son's body on a ship to Valhalla, where Volsung welcomes him but reminds us that they still await the "World's Chosen" (91).

Quite a pleasant read--now we'll have to see what Sigmund's new marriage will add to the story.

Interview with Christopher Tolkien & video promo of book

Thought you might be interested in this Guardian interview with Christopher Tolkien about Sigurd and Gudrun and numerous other things . . . and a video promo by HM . . .

Andvara-Gull and Signy . . .

I’m making progress, having read sections 1 and 2. I didn’t really enjoy section 1, "Andvara-Gull" (Andvari’s Gold); I read it through and didn’t find it as musical as the introductory section, and I really couldn’t even figure out the story. Even after I read the notes and understood the story, when I re-read the section, I didn’t find it as engaging as the "Beginning." Several of the 8-line stanzas had alliteration that was too monotonous; six of the fifteen stanzas have at least four lines alliterating on the same sound. It seems heavy handed at times. And the story is so truncated that it hardly flows.

Thankfully section 2, "Signy" was a much more pleasant read—-though the story is pretty gruesome. Volsung has 11 children: twins Sigmund and his sister Signy, and 9 other sons. Signy is given in marriage, as a peace-bride, to Siggeir, king of Gautland (the land of the Geats in Beowulf), but she doesn’t love him—and he is power-hungry. So all ends badly: the 9 brothers are killed, Signy orchestrates the deaths of her children by Siggeir, and she bears a child of her brother Sigmund. She visits him in disguise in his hidden cave; the narrator asks:

Answer, earth-dweller [Sigmund],
In thy arms who lies,
Chill, enchanted,
Changed, elfshapen? (83)

What will become of this unnatural child, Sinfjotli? We’ll have to wait and see if he appears in later sections.

This section seems to be more well-crafted; it reads much more effortlessly than section 1. So I’m looking forward to more like this. It is dramatic and easy on the ear. While “Advari’s Gold” showed the Norse and Anglo-Saxon concept of “were-geld,” gold given in recompense for a person’s death, the “person” who died was the son of a god, and the story was riddled with lacunae. In “Signy” the concept of the Peace-Bride is explored in a story that leads to tragedy and the death of the groom, his children, and, finally, the bride herself. The element of “Doom” is clearly depicted here, but I’m not sure if balance has been reestablished.

Upphaf . . .

What a delightful first read! The “UPPHAF” (Beginning) of the poem, the first 8-line stanza:

Of old was an age
when was emptiness,
there was sand nor sea
nor surging waves;
unwrought was Earth,
unroofed was Heaven—
an abyss yawning,
and no blade of grass.

The alliterative stresses are on vowels in the line pairs or on repeated consonants. So you don’t read it like English poetry with iambs or whatever; instead you stress the alliterated sounds, which really adds a great deal of meaning. I read the first section of Volsungakvida en nyja, “Upphaf,” aloud and enjoyed it a great deal. The dog thought I’d lost it.

It’s the beginning, in case you didn’t get that yet, of the tale of the Volsungs. The gods build the earth and all is well until the Giants attack . In response the gods create Thor’s Hammer, with which he scatters the Giants. Then the wise woman prophesies, a rather enigmatic foretelling of Sigurd’s appearing:

If in day of Doom
one deathless stands,
who death hath tasted
and dies no more,
the serpent-slayer,
seed of Odin,
then all shall not end,
nor earth perish. (63)

The section ends with the gods feasting, rather uneasily awaiting the “World’s chosen” (65).

So far Tolkien has captured the Northern “feel” of the tale, and he’s gotten in a lot of the Norse mythology—really packed into the 8-line stanzas: Heimdal, the Sentinel of the gods; the rainbow bridge connecting Asgard and Midgard (Middle-earth); Yggdrasill, the World Tree; Fenrir, the wolf—foe of Odin; Surt, the fire-demon; and the Serpent of Midgard. So the stage is set, Now we await our hero.

Intro to Sigurd and Gudrun

Tolkien’s Sigurd and Gudrun consists of two long poems: Volsungakvida en nyja, the “New Lay of the Volsungs, and Gudrunarkvida en nyja, the “New Lay of Gudrun.” They are not translations of Old Norse poems or sagas but a re-working of the ancient Norse myths. They are in his words, from a letter to W H Auden, something he did “many years ago when trying to learn the art of writing alliterative poetry: an attempt to unify the lays about the Volsungs from the Elder Edda” (6). They are written in modern English but using the Old Norse alliterative 8-line stanza, a form called “fornyrdislag” (This “d” as those in the titles, ought to be the ON or OE “eth” but I haven’t figured out how to do that in this program yet.) J R R T mentions that he read in William Morris (another of my favorites) that these Northern myths ought to be to the British “what the tale of Troy was to the Greeks” (13). So even here we see T’s interest in providing a myth for his homeland, something some readers believe he attempted in The Lord of the Rings.

This book is edited by T’s son, Christopher Tolkien, who has included several helpful sections that will be of use to readers not familiar with Old Norse poetry. One especially nice surprise is a lecture given by his father on the subject; it is delightful to hear the topic treated in T’s own voice. There is also a substantial commentary on each poem, which I haven’t delved into yet, but these are presented as endnotes, so they don’t interfere with the reading of the poems; however, I’m sure I’ll be using them throughout my reading.

Looking forward to actually getting to the poems now but am thankful for the preparation afforded by the (rather long) Intro.

Happy New Year!

Well, I actually did read the Intro to Sigurd and Gudrun, but since it's already tomorrow, I'll wait to write my entry re: that till this evening. Just watched the Times Square Ball drop--Hooray for a new decade!