On a Writer's Country

          When we talk about the writer's country we are liable to forget that no matter what particular country it is, it is inside as well as outside him.  Art requires a delicate adjustment of the outer and inner worlds in such a way that, without changing their nature, they can be seen through each other.  To know oneself is to know one's region.  It is also to know the world, and it is also, paradoxically, a form of exile from that world.  The writer's value is lost, both to himself and to his country, as soon as he ceases to see that country as a part of himself, and to know oneself is, above all, to know what one lacks.  It is to measure oneself against Truth, and not the other way around.  The first product of self-knowledge is humility, and this is not a virtue conspicuous in any national character.
          St. Cyril of Jerusalem, in instructing catechumens, wrote: "The dragon sits by the side of the road, watching those who pass.  Beware lest he devour you.  We go to the Father of Souls, but it is necessary to pass by the dragon."  No matter what form the dragon may take, it is of this mysterious passage past him, or into his jaws, that stories of any depth will always be concerned to tell, and this being the case, it requires considerable courage at any time, in any country, not to turn away from the storyteller.

-Flannery O'Connor, "The Fiction Writer & His Country"

Light and Darkness in Flannery O'Connor's "The Artificial Nigger"

Light and Darkness in Flannery O'Connor's "The Artificial Nigger"

               In "The Artificial Nigger," Flannery O'Connor uses a number of devices and various images to show her reader grace, the overarching theme of the story.  To effectively show this, she uses age and youth, happiness and misery, the contrast of being lost and found, image and likeness, and danger and safety as well as a tightly packaged combination of all of these elements.  The most prominent motif, however, is that of light and darkness.  O'Connor guides her reader through the narrative using light and darkness as well as shadows, which seem to represent an in-between, or at least incomplete, state.  The resulting grace for Mr. Head in the forgiveness of his sins and in his redemption, after having come through darkness to the light, is evident at the end of the story and serves well to illustrate the result of the journey that got him there:

Mr. Head stood very still and felt the action of mercy touch him again but this time he knew that there were no words in the world that could name it.  He understood that it grew out of agony, which is not denied to any man and which is given in strange ways to children.  He understood it was all a man could carry into death to give his Maker and he suddenly burned with shame that he had so little of it to take with him.  He stood appalled, judging himself with the thoroughness of God, while the action of mercy covered his pride like a flame and consumed it.  He had never thought himself a great sinner before but he saw now that his true depravity had been hidden from him lest it cause him despair.  He realized that he was forgiven for sins from the beginning of time, when he had conceived in his own heart the sin of Adam, until the present, when he had denied poor Nelson.  He saw that no sin was too monstrous for him to claim as his own, and since God loved in proportion as He forgave, he felt ready at that instant to enter Paradise. (132)

The result is nearly the same for Nelson:

Nelson, composing his expression under the shadow of his hat brim, watched him with a mixture of fatigue and suspicion, but as the train glided past them and disappeared like a frightened serpent into the woods, even his face lightened and he muttered, "I'm glad I've went once, but I'll never go back again. (132)

The end result is salvific grace for Mr. Head- and arguably common grace for Nelson- and the reader is to understand in these lines that salvation is something to be attained and that it is not man's doing that brings him to it, but God's gift by His grace.  The importance of salvation is underscored when O'Connor tells her reader that Mr. Head "felt that he knew now what time would be like without seasons and what heat would be like without light and what man would be without salvation" (129).  O'Connor uses light, darkness, and shadow throughout the story to illustrate God's grace, as it relates to providence and glory, in a way that serves as the impetus to guide the story as well as to reveal the significance of the metaphor and how each character is portrayed in their response in respect to different lighting conditions.

               After reviewing a great deal of the criticism from the last few decades, there seems to be agreement that O'Connor uses light and darkness in many of her stories and two novels, and that she also is concerned in many of her works with grace and redemption.  Frederick Asals's 1982 book, Flannery O'Connor: the Imagination of Extremity, discusses "the duality of images" in O'Connor's works, noting that they play off of each other to create a whole.  For example, light and darkness, according to Asals, could be seen as seemingly antithetical motifs, but ones that really work one with the other to create an overarching frame within which grace can be understood (90).  Richard Gianonne's 1989 contribution to O'Connor scholarship, Flannery O'Connor and the Mystery of Love,  includes his discussion of love as it relates to favor and grace in many of the short stories and the two novels, and Edward Kessler's Flannery O'Connor and the Language of the Apocalypse discusses in detail the use of metaphor in general in O'Connor's writing.  Dozens of other books and articles make up the scholarship on O'Connor, but what seems to be missing specifically is an analysis of light and darkness as they function in relation to grace, providence, and glory in "The Artificial Nigger."  This omission seems strange because O'Connor herself said in a letter that "The Artificial Nigger" was her favorite story, so one would naturally have thought that all avenues of this story have been explored (O'Connor, Habit 101).  There is ample treatment of light and darkness, and also of grace, in the criticism, but the themes seem to have been considered separately for the most part, while the story begs for them to be read together.  Before considering a potential reconciliation of the two themes and suggesting they should be read as one, however, a close reading of the text at three major points in the story must be conducted in which the following will be considered: light and darkness, as the motif functions, during the morning, the day, and the night.

               At the beginning of the story, moonlight fills the room when Mr. Head wakes in the middle of the night, and he sees "half of the moon five feet away in his shaving mirror, paused as if it were waiting for permission to enter.  It rolled forward and cast a dignifying light on everything" (103).  Only half of the moon is visible to Mr. Head in the mirror, which indicates an incompleteness and seems to suggest that the story is beginning in brokenness, possibly alluding to the state of the characters.  Where the story will end up is not exactly clear, but the half-moon element illustrates a flaw by demonstrating incompleteness, though the moon rolling forward suggests that progress will be made and change will nonetheless occur.  Noticeable here too is that the moon is shining light into the room by way of the mirror, which also lends to the idea of incompleteness or detachment in that the light is reflected.  The final noteworthy part of these lines is that O'Connor chooses to describe the light as dignifying, which has far more implications than light itself in its undignified state.  With the light reflected from the mirror, in which only half of the moon is visible, O'Connor shows this detachment, but then immediately describes the moonlight as dignifying, suggesting that it is somehow set apart.  The Oxford English Dictionary (OED) defines "dignify" as a "confer[ring] of dignity or honor upon" something ("Dignify").  Furthermore, the OED notes that the word "confer" carries with it a meaning of bestowing, as in the bestowing of grace, upon something ("Confer").  With this in mind, then, one can understand that this moonlight coming indirectly through the window can ostensibly signal two things simultaneously: first, sinful, broken man, detached from truth and incomplete in his fallen state, and second, God's grace being manifest here in the "dignifying light" coming through the window to fill the room.  Here is a case of that which is within (the room) and that which is outside (the creation).  This idea sets apart for the reader a sense of "otherness", though the reader cannot immediately discern which is exactly "other."  It is this conflict that O'Connor seeks to reconcile in the story.  In the end, though, this "otherness" is sin and complacency and is contrasted with grace and glory, which are the result first of divine ordinance, but also of action.  In the room, things are in the norm, but outside, everything seems to be chaos.  It is in this chaos that God works in His providence and gives grace.

               Having seen this light that comes through the window and illuminates the room, the reader is then confronted on the next page with the fact that the "only dark spot in the room was Nelson's pallet, underneath the shadow of the window" (104).  There is a spot in the room that the light does not touch, and it happens to be under the very window through which it comes.  There is a sense of passing over this spot, as the light cannot physically touch it, nor is it intended to.  In the sentence that immediately precedes this one, O'Connor writes of Mr. Head that "He might have been Virgil summoned in the middle of the night to go to Dante, or better, Raphael, awakened by a blast of God's light to fly to the side of Tobias" (104).  With this in mind, it is not a stretch to suggest that what O'Connor seeks to imply here is that the moonlight is God's light and that it is this very light that will awaken him in the night and serve as a guide.  The fact that this light passes over the dark spot that is Nelson's pallet- the "only dark spot in the room" (emphasis mine)- but fills the rest of Mr. Head's room, seems to reveal that Nelson is in a way rejected from the beginning of the story, with no opportunity to have grace bestowed upon him.  So here is a clear foreshadow of what is to come; that is, Mr. Head's guidance by light that leads to saving grace, and Nelson's accompanying Mr. Head with no chance for the same.  O'Connor uses light here to clearly mark the two characters from the beginning.  This description of Nelson's pallet covered in a dark shadow, then, points the reader in a clearer direction to the outcome of the story and completes the light metaphor mentioned above; the two images- both light and darkness, a flood of light and a passing over- must be viewed together to allow for a complete picture, as each intensifies the meaning of the other, just as the meaning of sin and grace function in the same way.

               Also interesting is that in the very next paragraph, the slop jar that stands near Nelson is described as having come "out of the shadow and made snow-white in the moonlight, appear[ing] to stand guard over him like a small personal angel" (104).  This immediately establishes the guiding theme and suggests the type of journey the men will take by showing the angel as a guiding, protecting figure, and the "snow-white" imagery as Christ's propitiation for sin, covering black with white and pouring light into darkness.  The imagery of the slop jar coming from shadow into light represents Mr. Head's transition from a life of sin into a life of grace.  The shadow seems to suggest that Mr. Head- like everyone else- without salvation, lives a life in the shadow of something greater.  It also seems to illustrate his humanness.  Consider, for example, the vertical line of being as O'Connor might: hell at the bottom (dark), life on earth in the middle (shadow), and heaven at the top (light).  It makes sense, then, that Mr. Head would not be coming from darkness to light, but from a shadow to light, as the slop jar appears to emerge out of a shadow, white as snow.  He has not been judged absolutely sinful and thus in hell, but sinful nonetheless and thus his sort of in-between state, redeemable but still sinful.  
               The slop jar's proximity to Nelson is important to recognize too, as it stands over him like an angel.  But since the jar stands angel-like over Nelson, who is covered in darkness- though arguably a darker shadow than Mr. Head and not pitch-blackness- and at the same time it stands in the room with Mr. Head, O'Connor uses this imagery to illustrate common grace; that is, that all men experience God's grace to a degree simply because grace exists, though common grace differs greatly from saving grace, which will be expanded later.  But suffice it to say for the moment that Nelson's spot is in darkness, underneath a shadow, and this immediately separates him from Mr. Head, whose space is filled with the dignified light from the moon.  The image of the slop jar itself must also be considered on the basis of what it is in relation to what it does.  The slop jar is used for waste and of potentially two different kinds, both disgusting in their own right.  On the one hand, the slop jar can be seen as a jar used for kitchen purposes; it collects waste from food scraps and the scrapings from pans and also probably dirty dishwater.  On the other hand, if the slop jar is seen as a sort of chamber pot- which seems more likely, though either case makes the point- then it is a receptacle for human waste.  Regardless of what it is used for, the slop jar is nasty and dirty and disgusting and represents the darkness and nastiness and completeness of human sin.  That the jar is "made snow-white in the moonlight" is foreshadowing.  It glows because God's grace, made manifest in the moonlight, shines on it and lights the outside of the jar; the receptacle that is naturally soiled inside is made white as snow.  When Mr. Head and Nelson leave the room, the characters travel into the city together, guided by light in various forms- that is, moonlight, sunlight, lights on the train, etc.- to the true light that is recognized in salvation, salvation attainable only by God's grace that makes the filthy clean.  But although they share the experience, the outcome- as will be seen- is vastly different for each character. 

               During the day trip to the city, O'Connor guides her reader on the journey by continually referring to the light conditions through which the characters travel.  It seems that they are under a blanket of light the entire time they are away from home, and it begins when the moonlight is described in the room in the beginning of the story.  Then, as the two reach the junction to catch the train, the reader is told that "A coarse-looking orange-colored sun coming up behind the east range of mountains was making the sky a dull red behind them, but in front of them it was still gray and they faced a gray transparent moon, hardly stronger than a thumbprint and completely without light" (108).  At the junction, the description seems to suggest that the moon has faded and the sun is becoming dominant.  The idea here is ostensibly that the half-darkness of the moonlight pulled Mr. Head and Nelson onto their journey and now the more powerful sun is functioning to push them, or at least guide them, onward; as the moon goes down, the sun comes up and offers more reliable light for guidance. 

               The language that O'Connor uses here is interesting in describing the sun as coarse-looking.  If one takes "coarse" to mean "ordinary" or "common," as the OED in part defines the word, then the sun appears to be nothing more than a source of light- and un-noteworthy light at that- and at first glance seems insignificant ("Coarse").  Likewise, if "coarse" means the opposite of fine, or "rough," as the OED also suggests, then what O'Connor gives her reader in this description is empty, nothing more than blank description that tells the reader that the sun was ordinary, though a little rough looking when it was coming up, like a man climbing out of bed early and fighting off a good sleep ("Coarse").  But surely that cannot be what O'Connor means here.  The description is so pointed all throughout the story that the meaning here must be uncovered, and when looking at this one adjective, it seems unclear indeed what she means by it.  One suggestion, however, is that the sun only appears coarse.  What it actually is is unknowable, and at the same time irrelevant.  The idea, like in the reflected moonlight at the beginning of the story, is not what the sun is, but what it reveals. 

               While the moonlight in the beginning suggested the idea of sin and imperfection by way of reflected illumination, the sun here casts light in a way that directly reveals it.  When the sun comes up, the light it spends is more thorough and pervasive, as it is direct and far more powerful than that of the reflected moonlight.  So the  moon being described at the end of the sentence as being "completely without light" is not problematic in the least, as might be contested, as the light of the sun shows the degrees of power and the effect that light can shed on a situation.  For example, the moonlight, being reflected and incomplete, shows the potential for God's grace.  The light is dignifying, but it is incomplete.  Here, the sun is powerful and the light it casts is direct.  The sunlight, then, serves to reveal sin, a recognition of which is necessary for grace to be complete, as by grace sin is forgiven, but the revealing of the sin is still necessary; that which needs covered by grace must be recognized in order for the covering to be possible.  So it makes sense that the reflected light of the moon fading into nothingness, being replaced by the sun, occurs.  Indirect light is replaced by direct light and this transition is necessary to understand the light as revealed at the end of the story.

               Before discussing light of the evening at the end of the story, however, one more element of light that is described during the day must be analyzed.  Once in the city, in the full daylight, Mr. Head tries to squash Nelson's enthusiasm for having been born there by sticking his head into the sewers to show him the nastiness and describe the reality of the city, the endless, pitch black sewers that gurgle beneath the surface, ready to suck a man down endless tunnels (117):  "He described it so well that Nelson was for some seconds shaken.  He connected the sewer passages with the entrance to hell and understood for the first time how the world was put together in its lower parts.  He drew away from the curb" (117-118).  In this realization, he understands for the first time the image of hell.  He looks down into the sewer, into the darkness and emptiness and seemingly never ending tunnels and his eyes and mind are opened for the first time.  In a sense, he is living in light to a degree at this point, as he is on the surface looking down, and the realization is not yet complete, rather only a hint at what is to come, which, short of grace and repentance, is death and hell, the great pitch-black.  Considering the function of the sunlight that is mentioned above, it seems obvious that if that light is used in the story to reveal sin and all that constitutes it and all that results from it, then O'Connor here uses pitch-blackness to thrust the reader's head into the sewers with Nelson as a reminder of light's opposite.  It is in darkness where sin exists unchecked, but in the light is where it is revealed, able to be confessed and forgiven.

               When Mr. Head and Nelson return home from the dark city, the moon again is shining and, having been "restored to its full splendor, sprang from a cloud and flooded the clearing with light. . . . The treetops, fencing the junction like the protecting walls of a garden, were darker than the sky which was hung with gigantic white clouds illuminated like lanterns" (131).  Mr. Head has at this point experienced his salvation and this is his Eden, his home, enclosed and protected, away from the dark city.  The language that O'Connor uses here shows the moon again, only this time its light is not reflected, but is direct.  Just as the sun flooded the landscape earlier in the day, so now the moon floods the clearing and causes the clouds to appear as if hanging like lanterns.  While the sun exposes sin in the story by flooding the earth with light on a hot, uncomfortable day in the South, the moon conversely shows grace and mercy.  This moonlight is the same as it was in the morning, but this time the dignifying light is direct, while retaining that soft quality that is more calming and restful than the aggressive sunlight.  There is a sense of completion here at the end of the story, and the resolution is unique, as it suggests a kind of finality for Mr. Head.  He was guided by the light of both the sun and the moon on his dedicated journey, from which he could not part, and he received God's grace, not by anything he had done, but by God's goodness alone.

               So Flannery O'Connor uses light in "The Artificial Nigger" to reveal both grace and sin.  From the moon, the light is dignifying, and from the sun, the light is coarse, or so it seems, anyway.  Darkness and light work together to contribute to the overall effect of the imagery, as well as to the overarching theme of grace, on which the story is balanced.  Among all of the motifs that are working together in this story- age and youth, happiness and misery, danger and safety, etc.- this motif of light and darkness seems to be the most important because of the way it seems to guide and hold the story together.

               Having seen, then, how O'Connor uses light in "The Artificial Nigger" to reveal sin and the necessity of grace to reach a saved state, as is illustrated in the last scene in which Mr. Head and Nelson return home to a kind of Eden, one must consider in regard to these things how O'Connor uses light to underscore grace, providence, and glory in the story.  Light in the story seems to suggest a very narrow path.  On the train and heading for the city, O'Connor shows how "Outside, behind rows of brown rickety houses, a line of blue buildings stood up, and beyond them a pale rose-gray sky faded away to nothing" (115).  Nothingness suggests darkness, and anything beyond the current path on which Mr. Head and Nelson are travelling is darkness and there is no light.  Mr. Head and Nelson are being guided by light, though, and on a train nonetheless- which is fixed and cannot veer off course- and are kept away from darkness.  This path to salvation is not of their doing, but God's, as the reader is shown at the end of the story.  The light is irresistible.  It draws them and shapes their trip.  So light, acting as a guide, points to the "dignifying light" in the beginning of the story and illustrates God's sovereignty over the pouring out of His grace.

               In the penultimate paragraph of the story, Mr. Head fully receives salvific grace and the description, quoted in the introduction above, suggest completeness.  Mr. Head has been saved from sin, and God's "action of mercy covered his pride like a flame and consumed it. . . . He saw that no sin was too monstrous for him to claim as his own, and since God loved in proportion as He forgave, he felt ready at that instant to enter Paradise." (132).  Mr. Head here experiences true light for the first time- ironically at night- as the moonlight, in its bestowing of grace on him, shines directly and softly on him in his Eden.  Light has revealed sin and brokenness and has fully illuminated the path to righteousness by God's grace. 

               The nature of the grace, however, as bestowed upon each character, is twofold.  To consider this properly, one must consider the last paragraph of the story:

                        Nelson, composing his expression under the shadow of his hat brim, watched him with a mixture of fatigue and suspicion, but as the train glided past them and disappeared like a frightened serpent into the woods, even his face lightened and he muttered, "I'm glad I've went once, but I'll never go back again." (132)

In his book, Flanner O'Connor: The Imagination of Extremity, Frederick Asals notes the following about the final scene of the story:

                        Yet the Edenic scene [Mr. Head and Nelson] return to and the explicit invocation of a paradise beyond the local setting are made possible only through touching the depths of a personal hell.  So too do the other major antithetical motifs of the story (sun and moon, youth and age, black and white, exterior landscape and interior world) repeatedly turn in on one another, each in the pairs of opposites transforming the other as they touch.  The result is the uniqueness of "The Artificial Nigger" among O'Connor's works: a story that ends not in violent death or estrangement or in an apocalyptic vision, but in human reconciliation and the promise of a genuine future in this world for the protagonists. (90)

If the two above quotations are compared, an important question arises.  At the end of the story, Nelson is described as being "under the shadow of his hat brim," imagery which keeps him in shadow and hidden, not lighted in the same way as Mr. Head.  Yes, his face lightens soon after, but it must be noted that it lightens, and not that he is brought into light.  The question is, then, does Nelson receive grace?

               Asals notes in the above quote that the antithetical motifs work together to produce results, so it would be easy to assume that Nelson receives the same grace that his grandfather does.  To further this idea, Asals says too that the story ends "in human reconciliation and the promise of a genuine future in this world for the protagonists" (90).  But reconciliation between whom here?  The only two options are between Mr. Head and Nelson and Nelson and God.  It must necessarily follow, then, given that Nelson is still under the shadow of his hat, that Mr. Head and Nelson are reconciled by their experience at the familial level, but Nelson and God are not reconciled.  One must treat, however, the fact that Nelson's face lightens at the end, but is not in light proper, as is related to grace.  This seems to suggest that Nelson, still in shadow- but a lighter shadow opposed to the darker one at the beginning of the story- has received common grace, opposed to the salvific grace that Mr. Head receives.  What this means is that Nelson receives the benefits of grace simply for the reason that grace exists.  God's light has effectively worked, but in different ways.  So light functions in the story to reveal sin and suggest the efficacy of grace, as the light leads and guides the characters.

               And this guiding can most likely be viewed as God's providence.  God has His divine hand over everything that takes place in the story and this presence is amplified in the last third of it.  From the bottom of page 124 to the end of the story, the language shifts drastically, as do the tone and the pace.  There seems to be desperation in Mr. Head's voice and in O'Connor's description of his thoughts.  Earlier, he functioned in the dark just fine, but now "He knew that if dark overtook them in the city, they would be beaten and robbed.  The speed of God's justice was only what he expected for himself, but he could not stand to think that his sins would be visited upon Nelson and that even now, he was leading the boy to his doom" (127).  Mr. Head is now fearful of the dark because he is beginning to live in the light and he sees the city as a dark, haunting place and longs for home, which functions as his Eden.  To further illustrate the shift in language and desperation, Mr. Head begins shouting and invoking God's name when he realizes the lost situation he is in- which of course has a few meanings here: literally lost in the city, spiritually lost in his being, and probably emotionally lost in his mind, as the seeming panic would indicate.  The resolution of the situation is likened to returning from death and Mr. Head is ecstatic when he understands that he will soon return home.  All through this episode, though, Nelson's eyes are described as cold and having no light, feeling, or interest; he was a figure standing and waiting and home was nothing (129).

               The preceding is a description of providence in its glory.  Mr. Head and Nelson are not puppets in God's play and so God does not force them into situations; rather he presides over them, knowing what will happen, always present.  In his book, Flannery O'Connor and the Mystery of Love, Richard Gianonne writes about Hazel Motes in Wise Blood and the "eternal scale" of God by which all things are measured, but the quote can serve to show a similarity in "The Artificial Nigger":

                        The design is plain and alive.  Pristine stars compose a catalytic beauty as they ply through darkness according to no will other than the desire of the source of being.  To heed the astral framework in motion is to feel the pull of divine building in the cosmos.  All one has to do is to lift one's eyes to observe the plan that sustains and controls the sum of things.  Though redemptive activity shines on high this Thursday night in Taulkinham, "No one was paying any attention to the sky" (37). (16-17)

What can be extracted and applied from this analysis of the sky in Wise Blood is that while Mr. Head is fearful of being overtaken by dark in the city and leading Nelson to his doom, all he has to do is look up.  One overarching theme in this story mirrors that of what Gianonne recognizes in Wise Blood: that all the characters have to do is pay attention to the sky, as that is from where guidance and light come.  The design is indeed "plain and alive."  The only seeming contrast in the situations is that the stars act as the guide in the night sky in Taulkinham and in Atlanta it is the sun and moon that function in this capacity.  But in both cases, feeling the pull of the divine building of the "astral framework" is paramount, and in order to feel this pull, all Mr. Head and Nelson have to do is look up.  In their sinful, unredeemed state, however, they do not seem to understand this.  But light can and does bring them through this chaos, and the idea that God's providence and His hand over their situation is key and underscores providence as it reveals God's glory in full and suggests a measure of it for the characters.

               This story can be taken in so many different directions in a close reading, but the most prominent is that of light and darkness functioning as the vehicle by which the narrative is driven.  Mr. Head's salvation is a lifting of a veil and allows him to see the world exactly like it is.  He recognizes the separation of sin and death and hell from heavenly and Edenic things.  He receives grace from God and feels the weight of his sin, and even more so the forgiveness of God in love and is at that moment ready to enter Paradise.  Mark McGurl, in The Program Era: Postwar Fiction and the Rise of Creative Writing, notes that "O'Connor could be said to have written the same perfectly crafted short story again and again.  No wonder, then, that they sometimes seem pre-packaged for close reading in the classroom" because, as noted in the few lines before this quote in McGurl's book, Alfred Kazin said that "Each story was complete, sentence by sentence.  And each sentence was a hard, straight, altogether complete version of her subject: human deficiency, sin, error" (144).  Since O'Connor sought to guide and direct her reader and carefully crafted each element to her stories, blending them to create a tight, close-knit story, the light motif in "The Artificial Nigger" is not only evident, but intended and arguably stands out the most in directing the reading of the story.  The other elements contribute and are not to be overlooked, but should be incorporated to have the most complete picture of O'Connor's intent.  In this story, salvation is light and is attained on a lighted path, and the reader would do well to pay attention to this imagery.

Works Cited

Asals, Frederick. Flannery O'Connor: The Imagination of Extremity. Athens: The University of Georgia Press, 1982. Print.

"Coarse." The Oxford English Dictionary. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013. oed.com. Web. 12 Dec. 2013.

"Confer." The Oxford English Dictionary. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013. oed.com. Web. 12 Dec. 2013.

"Dignify." The Oxford English Dictionary. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013. oed.com. Web. 12 Dec. 2013.

Giannone, Richard. Flannery O'Connor and the Mystery of Love. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1989. Print.

Kessler, Edward. Flannery O'Connor and the Language of Apocalypse. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986. Print.

McGurl, Mark.  The Program Era: Postwar Fiction and the Rise of Creative Writing.  Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2009.  Print.

O'Connor, Flannery.  "The Artificial Nigger."  A Good Man is Hard to Find and Other Stories.  Orlando: Harcourt, 1955.  103-132.  Print.

O'Connor, Flannery. The Habit of Being. Ed. Sally Fitzgerald. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1979. Print.

Works Consulted

Asals, Frederick. Flannery O'Connor: The Imagination of Extremity. Athens: The University of Georgia Press, 1982. Print.

Basselin, Timothy J. Flannery O'Connor: Writing a Theology of Disabled Humanity. Waco: Baylor University Press, 2013. Print.

Brinkmeyer, Jr., Robert H. The Art and Vision of Flannery O'Connor. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1989. Print.

"Coarse." The Oxford English Dictionary. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013. oed.com. Web. 12 Dec. 2013.

"Confer." The Oxford English Dictionary. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013. oed.com. Web. 12 Dec. 2013.

"Dignify." The Oxford English Dictionary. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013. oed.com. Web. 12 Dec. 2013.

Edmondson III, Henry T. Return to Good and Evil: Flannery O'Connor's Response to Nihilism. Lanham: Lexington Books, 2002. Print.

Eggenschwiler, David. The Christian Humanism of Flannery O'Connor. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1972. Print.

Gentry, Marshall Bruce. Flannery O'Connor's Religion of the Grotesque. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1986. Print.

Giannone, Richard. Flannery O'Connor and the Mystery of Love. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1989. Print.

Gordon, Sarah. Flannery O'Connor: The Obedient Imagination. Athens: The University of Georgia Press, 2000. Print.

Hardy, Donald E. Narrating Knowledge in Flannery O'Connor's Fiction. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2003. Print.

Johansen, Ruthann Knechel. The Narrative Secret of Flannery O'Connor: The Trickster as Interpreter. Tuscaloosa: The University of Alabama Press, 1994. Print.

Kessler, Edward. Flannery O'Connor and the Language of Apocalypse. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986. Print.

Martin, Carter W. The True Country: Themes in the Fiction of Flannery O'Connor. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 1969. Print.

McGurl, Mark.  The Program Era: Postwar Fiction and the Rise of Creative Writing.  Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2009.  Print.

Muller, Gilbert H. Nightmares and Visions: Flannery O'Connor and the Catholic Grotesque. Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1972. Print.

O'Connor, Flannery.  "The Artificial Nigger."  A Good Man is Hard to Find and Other Stories.                 

Orlando: Harcourt, 1955.  103-132.  Print.

O'Connor, Flannery. The Habit of Being. Ed. Sally Fitzgerald. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1979. Print.

O'Connor, Flannery. Mystery and Manners: Occasional Prose. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1969. Print.

Ragen, Brian Abel. A Wreck on the Road to Damascus: Innocence, Guilt, and Conversion in Flannery O'Connor. Chicago: Loyola University Press, 1989. Print.

Seel, Cynthia L. Ritual Performance in the Fiction of Flannery O'Connor. Rochester: Camden House, 2001. Print.

Shloss, Carol. Flannery O'Connor's Dark Comedies: The Limits of Inference. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1980. Print.

Stephens, Martha. The Question of Flannery O'Connor. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1973. Print.

Whitt, Margaret Earley. Understanding Flannery O'Connor. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1995. Print.

Every Beowulf an Original

Every Beowulf an Original:

An Analysis of Two Beowulf Translations and Their Postmodern Elements

           

            Probably the most interesting element about Beowulf is that the modern reader cannot read the poem with new eyes.  What is fascinating is that a poem, the original composition of which scholars cannot date, in a single manuscript which has been so badly damaged,  has generated so many interpretations in its various translations that one cannot be as close to the text as would be necessary to have a proper reading and understanding of it, such that the poet would have desired and only his immediate audience may have achieved.  But the mystery of the poem also provides its greatest element: it now exists in multiple translations, each very much different, each with a specific audience in mind, and each filling in gaps in the poem as the translator sees fit.  The poem in a sense exists outside itself, outside of time, and thus the modern audience can revel in both the frustration of figuring out what it all means and the joy of approaching the text in so many ways through translation as to keep it fresh; indeed, each reread of the same translation can alone effectuate these feelings, and they are furthered when considering a number of translations.  What this allows, then, is a text that is postmodern in its nature.  The poem is essentially living after the end or in ruins; it is untimely, multitemporal, and polychronic simultaneously; it exists in so many translations that its ontological and semantic nature is skewed.  Beowulf is necessarily a postmodern text, and when considering the poem in translation, each offers a new, vibrant reading that is equally as valid- with some qualifications, of course- as all the others, reinventing the poem for the reader each time and indeed existing as more than a translation, and rather as an individual poem in its own right.

            Two translations were published recently at relatively the same time, one on each side of the century mark: R.M. Liuzza's Beowulf: A New Verse Translation in 1999 and Seamus Heaney's Beowulf: A Verse Translation in 2001, and shortly after, reviews of each were published and often by the same critic.  In general, each version of Beowulf received its due, but the recognition of the differences quickly came into view.  Heather O'Donoghue, in her review in Translation and Literature, noted that "comparisons have indeed been inevitable, but not necessarily odious, because these two productions could hardly be more different in their objectives and achievements.  Though he would probably not claim it, Heaney has provided precisely the substitute for or the re-creation of the original poem which Liuzza disavows " (250).  Before addressing and attempting to further the reviews in scope, however, I think it is necessary to address the idea that the translation of an untimely poem is really an original poem in itself and to offer a relatively thorough close reading on a dynamic section of each text so that it can be referenced in discussing the postmodern Beowulf.  The selected text for the close reading is lines 86-98 in both the original Old English and the two translations.  Certain words from the Old English will be analyzed, and the following selection is provided for reference:

Ðā se ellengǣst earfoðlīce

þrāge geþolode, sē þe in þȳstrum bād,

þæt hē dōgora gehwām drēam gehȳrde

hlūdne in healle; þǣr wæs hearpan swēg,

swutol sang scopes.  (ll. 86-90)

This passage is obviously translated differently in Liuzza's version than it is in Heaney's, but what is interesting is that in some ways it differs greatly and in others on a smaller level.  The lines are those in which the reader is first introduced to Grendel, just before he attacks Heorot.

            The first close reading will be on Liuzza's translation since it was the first to be published.  Liuzza translates the lines as follows:

A bold demon who waited in darkness

wretchedly suffered all the while,

for every day he heard the joyful din

loud in the hall, with the harp’s sound,

the clear song of the scop.  (ll. 86-90)

In these lines the reader is immediately confronted with two juxtapositions.  First, there is a clear division of darkness outside and light inside the mead hall.  Second, the distinction is drawn between the suffering of a demon and the joy of a people.  Grendel, yet to be identified in the poem, but for the immediate purpose I will refer to him by name, is set up here as an outsider.  He waits in darkness outside of Heorot, suffering at the joyful sounds he hears coming from inside.  Just as Grendel is said to be a descendent of Cain, here this is underscored and he is marked as an "other," like Cain was marked by God in the biblical account.  There exists a clear division between the monster outside and the humans inside and these five lines work well to establish the conflict that runs through the rest of the poem.  Just as Grendel is "separate" and "other" in the first half of the poem, so is the dragon in the second half.  When the two sides meet, they clash hard.

            Most notable here, though, is the diction that Liuzza employs, a few words of which seem significant.  In J.R. Clark Hall's A Concise Anglo-Saxon Dictionary, "ellengǣst" is defined as a "powerful demon" (Clark Hall).  Liuzza, however, translates the word in line 86 as "bold demon."  Here Liuzza takes poetic license, but the alteration from "powerful" to "bold" is significant.  The shift in the meaning is from a capability to exercise power, strength, or force, whether realized or not, to an internalized character trait.  The emphasis is not on Grendel as only a force with which to be reckoned, capable of destruction, but is rather on Grendel as audacious, waiting, the reader is told, in darkness.  It seems like there is a certain admiration that the reader is supposed to feel when considering Grendel as bold, and the use of the word also seems to add to the suspense of the situation.

            At first glance, "wretchedly suffered" in line 87 seems redundant and the adjective seems unnecessary.  But again, like with the adjective "bold" above, the word "wretchedly" gets to a deeper meaning of how Grendel suffered.  Liuzza could well have translated " geþolode" as simply suffered, as the Bosworth-Toller dictionary would allow "geþolian" to be translated, but the verb carries with it connotations of endurance and sustainability as well (Bosworth).  To suffer is different than to face a hardship, and Liuzza underscoring how exactly Grendel suffers is not only notable, but appropriate.  Instead of the superficial meaning that may appear in a cursory reading of these lines, that is, that Grendel suffered greatly, or at least more than the degree to which one may normally suffer, which in itself is varying, Liuzza here provides his reader with another characteristic of Grendel himself.  For Grendel to suffer "wretchedly," he must have within himself an element that is wretch-like.  By Liuzza using this term to describe how Grendel suffered, he shows his reader the agony that rages inside of him.  The suffering is more than a trial, and is rather a miserable distress that engages Grendel's whole being, and that is the picture that Liuzza's use of "wretchedly" paints for the reader.  Like Liuzza's use of "bold" in the previous line that served in part to conjure emotions of admiration, his use here of "wretchedly" also carries with it undertones that suggest to the reader the possibility of sympathizing with Grendel.  The reader does not know the back story of his suffering, and especially at that of hearing the "joyful din," so the sympathetic sensibilities here are perhaps justified.

            The "joyful din" is the last element at which to look, for brevity's sake, as an exhaustive analysis of the language even in these five lines would be daunting.  The din that Grendel hears, according to the Oxford American Dictionary (OAD), is a "prolonged loud and unpleasant noise" ("Din").  But the noise in Liuzza's translation is that of a joyful noise.  The explanation lies in that the din is called joyful by the scop, so to his ear it is pleasing, but to Grendel it is a cause for suffering.  The joy and lightheartedness that the reader imagines inside Heorot, that of music and stories and the pleasantries that accompany mead-drinking, while pleasing to the human ear is anathema to Grendel; he cannot take it.  This, too, speaks to the inwardness and individual characteristics of Grendel in that the reader can sympathize.  For example, if one imagines perhaps a child learning an instrument and playing his or her way through a piece of music, occasionally hitting a wrong note, that one note in a joyous song can send a piercing chill through those who hear it, while leaving the young musician unaffected.  So here too the reader can sense the discomfort that resides in Grendel.  All the language in these five lines that concerns Grendel appeals to sympathy in the reader.

            In his translation, Liuzza creates essentially an original poem.  Yes, it is a translation of Old English and poetic license is indeed taken, but since the poem is postmodern, that is, since the poem operates outside of its original capacity since it can no longer be read with original eyes, having been informed by scholarship and multiple other translations and supplemental sources over the last few centuries, what Liuzza does here is creates his own version of the poem.  The evidence of this original creation lies in the way in which he sets about his work.  As seen in the close reading above, the language Liuzza employs directs the reader's attention to a specific way in which to read the poem, as must be expected.  A literal translation would not even be able to capture what the poet had originally intended, as the modern reader does not always know for certain what the original language was meant to convey exactly.  Thus, one translation reads Grendel as a "bold demon" and another, as we shall see, as a "powerful demon."  What Liuzza accomplishes in his translation, as seen in these preceding lines, is the filling in of a gap.  In suggesting one way in which to read the poem, Liuzza informs his reader's experience by providing one avenue of many by which to, in the present case, read Grendel's character early on in the poem, which sets up, though potentially subconsciously, a possible reading of the character throughout the rest of the poem.  Liuzza, in creating his own version of the poem, speaks to the original's functioning as untimely, multitemporal, and polychronic, which will be discussed collectively after a brief analysis of Heaney's translation. 

              Moving then to the other translation, Heaney chooses to render the same lines thus:

Then a powerful demon, a prowler through the dark,

nursed a hard grievance.  It harrowed him

to hear the din of the loud banquet

every day in the hall, the harp being struck

and the clear song of a skilled poet  (ll. 86-90)

Though I will deliberately avoid a direct comparison of Liuzza and Heaney at present, one note must be addressed, as it is common ground for each translation.  Like in Liuzza, here, as in the rest of the poem, it is evident that the story element remains the same.  The original poem has provided the framework on which to build, and each poet has used that, though to different ends.  In these lines we still see the separation of dark from light and can recognize the marking of Grendel's "otherness."  Grendel is outside and the Danes are inside; Grendel is in darkness and the Danes are in light; Grendel is burdened and the Danes are lively.  It is here, though, like in Liuzza's version, that the common elements end and the reader gets Heaney's creation and emphasis.

            Heaney translates "ellengǣst" in line 86 as a "powerful demon," which is the exact term that Clark Hall's Anglo-Saxon dictionary uses to define the word (Clark Hall).  What gives Heaney's translation its color, though, is the way in which he modifies the "powerful demon."  Heaney calls Grendel a "prowler through the dark," which suggests more than sheer power being Grendel's most terrifying characteristic.  Heaney gives movement to Grendel here, and though the reader does not know what exactly his movement looks like since an accurate description of his being cannot be provided, it seems to add to the terror and horror being pent up in him waiting to burst forth.  The OAD defines a prowler as one who "move[s] about in a stealthy or restless way, especially in search of prey" ("Prowl").  But their remains an element of incompleteness in this definition, as the intent of one who prowls must include plotting destruction of some sort by dishonorable means.  If read in this light, then, Heaney's translation really shows his reader how Grendel is pacing, tapping his foot, and making other movements to contain his rage until the proper moment.  The terror is in the action, and Heaney in delivering this language directs his reader to read Grendel in a particular way.

            The next idea to note is that Grendel "nursed a hard grievance," and here the reader is given an idea why Grendel is prowling.  If one reads "nursed" as a fostering or nurturing act, which the OAD suggests, then Heaney is providing for his reader another grasping point ("Nursed").  If Grendel is not merely sitting and waiting, but instead harbors action within him that is continually developing, then this furthers the illustration of Grendel prowling and focuses on the why element.  This does not promote sympathy for Grendel, but rather quite the opposite.  Heaney allows his reader to almost feel the rage that Grendel feels and that experience suggests a unique reading.  The nursing of a grievance leaves much to the imagination concerning the reason for the situation, but Heaney directs the reading of his version in translating the way he does and filling in gaps in his own style.

            When Heaney talks about the din inside of Heorot, he says that it "harrowed" Grendel.  Again, Heaney directs his reader's experience and suggests that the way in which Grendel suffered was both physically and mentally torturous.  His agony and distress is not surface-level; to Grendel the din in the hall was unbearable.  For Heaney to translate this passage and suggest that Grendel was harrowed suggests that his suffering and rage were churning inside of him like a proper harrow might churn, break apart, or pulverize a field ("Harrow").  When the reader sees that there is a "loud banquet" inside the hall, one immediately feels the sense of noise, but also that of laughter and merriment, sounds that banquets frequently exhibit.  But for Grendel the noise is a source of suffering to an unimaginable degree, and this description serves to underscore what Heaney is bringing to the fore in his translation- the description of a true monster- and in doing so invokes a sense of terror for the reader.

            Having analyzed the two translations, it is evident that each version directs the reader to read in a certain way.  Liuzza calls, in these five lines anyway, for a potentially sympathetic response from his reader toward Grendel and Heaney for a terrified response.  The differences throughout each translation are apparent when the text is closely read, but the structure of the poem remains the same, giving the overall experience a distinctly postmodern feel to it.  The poem is both familiar and different; the poem is both structured and reads differently when read closely.  The translators give the original poem unique characteristics and shape depending on their individual rendering of words and lines.  They essentially read themselves into the poem and fill in gaps, both literally and figuratively with their own idiosyncrasies.  What is unique about the poem, though, is that it invites different renderings, and each rendering is equally valid.  With a manuscript that is so badly damaged, pieces are missing or blurred or in some way unclear.  The translator's job, then, is to fill in the missing sections with as close a resemblance to what potentially was in the original as is possible.  The translator's choice to change the language to fit the context is permissible, as is the possibility of footnoting the choice in addition of substitution, or the decision to omit the words or passages completely and leave ellipses in its place, with or without a footnote.  When a translator makes these decisions, he or she takes poetic license.  This, coupled with style and diction choices, among others, really leads the translation into a version of the original, and making, to whatever degree- large or small- the poem an original creation.  Heather O'Donoghue, in her review of Heaney's translation, notes that

Heaney's translation will be read less as a translation than an original poem in its own right.  [Heaney's fans and laymen] may not know the poem in its original Old English, and may even be coming to it for the first time, intrigued by potential of an epic meeting between two great poets from the most recent and the most distant ends of the canon of 'English Literature.'" (Rev. of "Heaney" 231) 

The idea is not unlike taking a plot structure and some common elements of it in present-day literature and creating something original from  a structure.  Granted, Beowulf is a little more guided and intricate than, say, a modern-day mystery novel that borrows structure and other elements- character types, sub-plots, etc.- but is nonetheless an original rendition of the same story by its use of language and the imagery it paints for the reader.

            Another way that the renderings suggest that they are original is in the intended audience of each.  Liuzza's translation is more of an academic translation, more accessible to students and scholars while Heaney's, though scholarly as well- in its own way- is really directed to a popular audience.  O'Donoghue says that

[a] smaller group of readers will comprise those who know the poem well, in the original, and who want to know, straightforwardly enough, what Heaney has done with it. . . .  Proprietorial, even a little defensive about the poem, their concern will be with such matters as the literalness and accuracy of Heaney's translation, disguising, perhaps, anxiety about appropriation.  But with Heaney, distinctions between the roles of scholar, critic, and poet dissolve; he combines the strengths of all three in this new text. (Rev. of "Heaney" 231)

O'Donoghue also approaches Liuzza's translation in a similar manner:

But whilst recognizing that the intended audience for Liuzza's volume is more an academic than a purely literary one. . ., it would be wrong to judge Liuzza's translation simply on utilitarian principles, as either a crib for students working with the original poem, or as no more than a convenient means of assessing the poem's contents for those without Old English.  (Rev. of "Liuzza" 251)

While both versions have their own merit in and of themselves, they are nonetheless directed at two separate audiences and are received differently, as expected, by each. 

            The physical books themselves also tend to lean one way or another, and while this may seem superficial, it is nonetheless significant.  First, the praise offered on the back of each cover is from different sources, Liuzza's from scholars and Heaney's from The Guardian, The Observer, and The Financial Times, to name a few.  The front covers tell a similar story: Heaney's cover has on it the back of a warrior's head wrapped in chain mail, suggesting a focus on feuding and war, and Luizza's cover shows a cliff side that the reader is to imagine is the coastline of Denmark, suggesting a more historical approach, or perhaps a more pensive, accurate approach in some way, highlighting the scholarly aspect of the translation.  Lastly, the content of the books, aside from the poems themselves, speak to the audience.  Heaney's version includes an introduction, a note on names, the text, family trees, and acknowledgements, while Liuzza's includes a lengthy introduction, the text, a glossary of names, genealogies, a note on the Swedish-Danish Wars, five appendixes,  works cited, and recommended reading.  These two versions of Beowulf are vastly different in what they offer, both in translation and in the complete package of the whole book in which they are presented.  And both are equally great translations for equally different reasons.  Gernot Wieland wraps the two-audience idea up nicely:

The two translations clearly address themselves to different audiences, have different tones, and approach their subject matter differently, with Liuzza's being the more scholarly and Heaney's the more poetic version.  If it is poetry you want, buy Heaney's translation; if it is scholarship, buy Liuzza's.  If you want a wonderful translation of Beowulf, buy both.  (137)

The idea is that the texts function independently, but may in a sense function better collectively.  One feels a greater sense of completeness when having knowledge of what each translation has to offer and I would imagine the sense would be more complete having an understanding of many translations, not just these two, as that would inform the reader more completely and stress the uniqueness of Beowulf.

            The original Beowulf is absolutely a postmodern text and yields to postmodern thought in three ways: it is untimely, multitemporal, and polychronic.  The untimeliness of Beowulf is evidenced by the scores of translations that have come after the original.  The original poem, as alluded to earlier, is distanced from the modern reader in a number of ways.  The physical manuscript is damaged, leaving gaps for translators to either fill or leave untouched and the text is not one that can be wholly known because of this.  The text is also written in a language that is not accessible to most people.  It is not that the poem was ill-timed when it was written, but rather that the poem is and can only be understood as ill-timed or outside of time to the modern reader.  Time and damage to the manuscript have acted as the disrupting element to cause the untimeliness. 

            The poem is polychronic as a result of its untimeliness.  This is clearly seen in the fact that the poem folds different periods of time from the period in which it was written down to the first translations to the present translations.  Several hundred years separate the poem from the translations, and the dozens of translations that exist differ from each other.  So not only does the poem represent polychronicity from the standpoint of comparing the two above modern translations to the original, but also in comparison to each other and to all those translations that have gone before.  Depending on one's influences, the poem will be read far differently by one person than another.  For example, if one has a background in  Anglo-Saxon history or Old English language, he or she may read the poem differently than another.  Other elements may include having a Norse or Scandinavian historical or literary background, having seen the recent films before reading a translation of the poem, one may have read John Gardner's Grendel, or Michael Crichton's Eaters of the Dead, or J.R.R. Tolkien's The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings trilogy, or The Saga of the Volsungs or The Saga of King Hrolf Kraki to name only some.  Any combination from the above list has the potential to shape a reader's understanding and experience of Beowulf.  Gardner's Grendel can inform a reading of the character Grendel in the poem, for example, and thus the reading experience cannot be a reading of the true poem as it was initially intended.  This blending and folding of time and the reader's reaction to it and understanding of it shapes the reading and illustrates the polychronicity of the poem to underscore its postmodern nature. 

            Beowulf is also multitemporal in that it evokes multiple understandings.  Because it is untimely and polychronic, the poem is naturally multitemporal.  As evidenced in the close reading above, depending on the translation and the translator's preferences, the poem, when read with care, can be read in a number of different ways, each leading to a different result as concerns the reader's understanding of characters and imagery, among other elements.  Because each reading evokes a different understanding, guided by language or any other poetic liberty taken, the poem is a multitemporal text.

            The initial reviews of both translations were positive, but for different reasons.  The ones referenced above were chosen because both scholars wrote excellent reviews on both Liuzza's and Heaney's translations and to quote more than a couple reviews would prove redundant and cluttered.  What most of the reviews suggest, though, coupled with a close reading of the text, is that both Beowulf in translation and the original poem are postmodern texts, and though they do not necessarily particularize that idea, it is nonetheless evident.  The language of each translation is what sets each apart from another, and a close reading of the choices the translator makes can have the most critical impact on one's Beowulf reading experience.  The poem is indeed renewed with each translation and essentially creates an original poem each time it is translated, and also each time it is read.  The nature of the original informs that of the translations and contributes a fascinating element to the entire Beowulf experience.  The poem is reinvented and changes how the reader reads it and comes to know it each time, because of both the number of entirely different translations and the intricacies of each experience rereading the same text.  Also noteworthy is that audience matters a great deal when considering multiple translations of a work.  Liuzza's version is meant to be a more scholarly one, Heaney's a more popular one, and understanding the elements that make each what it is proves important in understanding the poem as it exists in translation, considering what the translator set out to accomplish.  Both of the translations analyzed here are excellent works by men who are clearly capable of translating Beowulf and bring unique elements to their respective versions.  The text is more than a text, more than simply a poem, but rather, following with postmodern thinking, it is a work that is non-synchronous in so many ways that its always-changing nature makes for a unique study each time someone approaches it, which underscores that each version is truly an original.  In his book, Thinking About Beowulf, James Earl said "I no longer trust those who say they know what Beowulf means, or what it is about.  The poem is hedged about with so many uncertainties- historical, textual, linguistic, hermeneutic- that even the simplest and most straightforward statements can provoke a battle royal among scholars" (11).  Indeed.  And I would further that statement:  I no longer trust those who insist on one translation of Beowulf, as a comprehensive understanding of the poem can surely only come from reading them all.

Works Cited

Bosworth, Joseph.  "Geþolian." An Anglo-Saxon Dictionary.  Ed. T. Northcote Toller.  Oxford:     The Clarendon Press, 1898.  http://beowulf.engl.uky.edu/~kiernan/BT/Bosworth-   Toller.htm.  Web. 03 May 2013

Clark Hall, J.R.  "Ellengǣst."  A Concise Anglo-Saxon Dictionary.  4th ed.  Toronto: University    of Toronto Press, 2008.  Print.

"Din."  Pocket Oxford American Dictionary.  2nd ed.  2008.  Print.

Earl, James W.  Thinking About Beowulf.  Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994.  Print.

"Harrow."  Pocket Oxford American Dictionary.  2nd ed.  2008.  Print.

Heaney, Seamus.  Beowulf: A Verse Translation.  Ed. Daniel Donoghue.  New York: W.W.          Norton and Company, 2002.  Print.

Liuzza, R.M.  Beowulf.  Peterborough: Broadview Press, 2013.  Print.

"Nurse."  Def. 2b.  Pocket Oxford American Dictionary.  2nd ed.  2008.  Print.

O'Donoghue, Heather.  Rev. of Beowulf: A Verse Translation, by Seamus Heaney.  Translation    and Literature  9:2 (2000): 231-36.  Print.

---.  Rev. of Beowulf: A New Verse Translation, by R.M. Liuzza.  Translation and Literature         10:2 (2001): 250-54.  Print.

"Prowl."  Pocket Oxford American Dictionary.  2nd ed.  2008.  Print.

Wieland, Gernot.  Rev. of Beowulf: A Verse Translation, by Seamus Heaney, and Beowulf, by      R.M. Liuzza.  Arthuriana  11:3 (2001): 134-37.  Print.

Christian Language and Theme in Beowulf

Christian Language and Theme in Beowulf: Article Summary and Analysis

            Thomas D. Hill, in "The Christian Language and Theme of Beowulf," adds his voice to the decades of analysis of how paganism and Christianity function in Beowulf.  Hill suggests that although the extant criticism concerning this matter is substantial, it deserves re-examination; indeed, this theme of paganism and Christianity will most likely never be satisfactorily reconciled and will thus perpetuate a continual re-examination as others read both the elements that contribute to the analysis differently, and read themselves into the poem as well.  Hill asserts in the beginning that "most comparable early medieval epic texts are either emphatically and militantly Christian . . . or unapologetically pagan or secular in their viewpoint. . . ." (198).  Hill contends, however, that Beowulf is actually neither.  What he proposes, then, is that the poem is instead a "radical synthesis" (198) of the two, that is, Beowulf is both pagan and Christian in scope simultaneously, in language and also in theme.  Hill recognizes that his proposal will be controversial, as the idea, as far as he is aware, is without parallel in any other Anglo-Saxon or Anglo-Latin literature, but, interestingly, has parallels to Old Irish and Old Norse-Icelandic literature.

            Hill begins the body of his article by recognizing the ideological problem that the Beowulf poet faced: oldness.  Hill notes that "Anglo-Saxons . . . were deeply conservative and venerated antiquity" (198).  So the origin of the issue is that Anglo-Saxon Christians had to face the fact that at this point Christianity, especially their Christianity, was not very old, much less antiquated.  Regardless of the dating of the poem that one accepts, Hill says, "it is clear that a reflective Anglo-Saxon must have been aware that the roots of his nation and culture were pagan and Germanic and that Christianity was a relatively recent innovation among a people to whom antiquity was precious and innovation suspect" (199). 

            One way in which medieval authors remedied the juxtaposition of paganism and Christianity, then, was to just pretend that their civilization began with their peoples' conversion to Christianity and ignore everything before that date, or at least not recognize any potential significance those events may have carried.  As an illustration, Hill notes how Bede placed more emphasis on the sins of the Christians than on the "heroic accomplishments of the pagan Anglo-Saxons and Jutes" (199) in his Historia Ecclesiastica, dismissing the importance of the Anglo-Saxon past.  Hill does note, however, that an aristocrat who depended on his Anglo-Saxon lineage, instead of a monk separated from culture, would not have been so dismissive with his ancestry, but would have made sure to include what he knew to be culturally important in addition to the religious elements.

            Additionally, as concerns the antiquity of the Anglo-Saxon culture, the state was founded by pagans and lineage could be traced for many generations, whereas a Christian would be able to produce lineage of not more than three of four generations.  In this respect, one must also consider that an Anglo-Saxon Christian, though not a monk like Bede, would probably not be comfortable with dismissing his secular heritage, nor should he be expected to be, as he would have an attachment to the Anglo-Saxon history and ancestry.  Yes, there is a tradition of hostility of Christians toward the pagan past, but often thoughtful Christians, like the aforementioned non-monk Anglo-Saxon, who are confident in their cultural background and faith can recognize the importance of that past and how it has shaped their own present.  Hill considers this to be the beginning of reconciliation of the two positions.

            The Beowulf poet, Hill suggests, as a solution to reconcile the elements of a "peculiar spiritual atmosphere," came essentially to a "humanistic" view of his ancestors' paganism.  The Beowulf poet must have seen these men as having known about God, moral Law, etc. and claims this can be supported from the text itself.  "Beowulf is a remarkably consistent text in that the religious language of the poem reflects the religious knowledge of those patriarchs who lived before the covenants and the creation of Israel" (202).  Hill insists on the term Noachites for the men in the poem; there is a resemblance to Noah's knowledge of God and creation without having the revelation of the Law that would provide them the understanding of Israel.  The men, therefore, cannot be Christian, but, as Hill demonstrates in the language of their prayers, are treated as such, which is indeed warranted; the men of the poem knew God, which provides support for the religious aspect of the poem.  The point here is that spiritual atmosphere must be interpreted correctly in order to properly understand the synthesis of paganism and Christianity and also to read the poem consistently.  The poem is indeed religious, but also very pagan, illustrating the both/and nature.

            A second issue in this reconciliation is that no other Anglo-Saxon or Anglo-Latin authors were at all sympathetic to paganism and its past.  This is surely an anomaly, as is also the fact that Beowulf and the other characters are not strictly pagans, but, as referred to above, monotheists, Noachites as it were.  The suggestion here is that the poet is not being so sympathetic to pagans, then, as he is to the characters as monotheists and recognition of this serves to underscore the religious nature of the poem as it relates to the pagan nature.  In this respect, the Beowulf poet is being wholly original in his claims and for this reason Hill notes that many scholars are unwilling to take the Christian language on its simplest implications.  "Thus when Beowulf says of his grandfather Hrethel when he died 'godes leoht geceas'. . . -language which in a Christian context would clearly imply that the person who died went to heaven- many scholars implicitly assume that the poet is more or less thoughtlessly using Christian formulas without careful attention to their implications" (205).  But to Hill, the poet seems actually to be using his religious language carefully.  This all contributes to the idea that the poet treats the characters as both pagan and religious and is reconciling the two positions, instead of, as quoted above, "thoughtlessly using Christian formulas."  Scholars are perhaps right to see these "Christian formulas," but the point is that they must be interpreted correctly as indicating monotheism and not necessarily Christian,

            To further reconcile paganism and Christianity and in order to have a clearer picture of the poet's treatment of this language and context, one must look outside Anglo-Saxon literature to Celtic and Old Norse-Icelandic literature, as there does not exist enough secular Old English literature to which to compare it.  This influential literature provides parallels in which one can view religion and its effects similar to that in Beowulf.  The poet's views at times in the poem does seem unorthodox concerning Christianity, but Hill calls the reader to remember that there is evidence for other unorthodox ideas in Anglo-Saxon culture, showing that this "unorthodox" reconciliation of the two positions may not, in fact, be out of line.  If there was indeed more Anglo-Saxon secular literature, then these ideas an themes may not seem quite so anomalous.  Since they do seem anomalous, however, Hill draws on Old Irish and Old Norse-Icelandic literature, both geographically close to Old English literature to show parallels.  Like in Beowulf, the heroes of Old Irish literature were depicted as monotheists in that the poets wrote them in a way that illustrated their belief that the heroes were saved and went to heaven, although the ways that were suggested by the authors were both bold and imaginative, as Hill shows.  As a broad generalization, this idea of linking Old Irish literature to Old English is appropriate, though at the individual textual level, there are admittedly differences and variations.  Old Norse-Icelandic literature is even closer to Beowulf.  Hill draws on parallels to the Vatnsdoela Saga to make his point clear.  Suffice it to say, however, so as not to draw the present discussion out further, that there is a "strikingly similar [treatment] to Beowulf. . . of 'pagan' heroes who are nonetheless committed monotheists set apart from their pagan surroundings" (208).  Viewed through this lens, one can better understand how Beowulf may not be so unique and anomalous as is commonly suggested. 

            Hill recognizes in the end that the poet must have been willing to question the authority of the established church in writing Beowulf, evidenced by both the theme and the language of the poem.  Hills also suggests that the humanistic reading of the poem is not heretical.  This is important in understanding that the poem shows a radical synthesis of pagan and Christian ideas.  There is a certain tolerance of the Christian poet concerning the pagan past and a willingness to reconcile the two.

            In his article, Hill adds his voice to what he admits is an already at least century old discussion and provides a linguistic and thematic analysis of the text, specifically concerning the Christian and pagan histories and how they are portrayed.  Hill argues for a synthesis of the pagan and Christian themes and language in the poem and suggests that Beowulf is both pagan and Christian, which identifies with postmodern thought and the both/and theme.  Hill structures his article fairly well.  He clearly introduces his idea that what he proposes as a reconciliation of paganism and Christianity is a radical synthesis of the two and recognizes that his idea will most likely be controversial, as it is not common in other Old English Literature, though it is in other world literature.  One aspect he does not mention, however, is why this would be such a controversial position.  Perhaps it would be obvious to a scholar?  This seems to be one of the only areas where he lacks in the essay.  He then unpacks this idea by showing how the two positions are juxtaposed and wraps the essay up nicely, though the transitions between the ideas are a little abrupt and difficult to follow.  The essay is one continuous argument, of course, but it seems disconnected as he moves from one point to another and fails to present a seamless argument.  That said, the writing is strong, as one would expect, and his point is well made.  It just seems that the transitions and synthesis of ideas were a little difficult to follow.

            Hill's article expands the first two essays read in the course by Allen J. Frantzen and John D. Niles, both of which concern the historical aspect of Beowulf and how the poem fits into literary history.  In the section of Niles's article on dating the poem, Niles addresses many of the same elements as Hill, such as language and rhetoric that is specifically Christian.  Hill expands this language further in his essay than does Niles, but they both recognize what Niles calls a "well-developed vocabulary of religious experience" (144).  Niles says of the virtuous pagans that "While the Beowulf poet depicts the characters of his poem as pagans, as is historically accurate, he also presents at least some of them as admirable persons" and later notes that "No authors writing in Latin during the eighth century portrayed the ancestral Germanic past in so favorable a light" (144-145).  Recalling Hill, then, one remembers that he also recognized these "virtuous pagans" and furthered the idea by labeling them Noachites and also addressed and expanded the idea that the pagan past being portrayed in a sympathetic light was anomalous to the other literature of the era.  Niles also, like Hill, draws parallels to the Old Norse literature, but Hill unpacks this further for his reader by spending much ink to support his idea.  These are just a few similarities of the two and Hill's article would have fit well with the discussion of the two history/historicism articles in The Postmodern Beowulf and would have advanced an already interesting topic and filled it in more.

            While the article itself is not postmodern, it does inform a postmodern approach to Beowulf.  The article addresses the both/and aspect of the poem and also illustrates its polychronicity and multitemporality.  Hill illustrates this by showing that the Christian ancestry could be traced to three or four generations at most, whereas the pagan ancestry for an Anglo-Saxon could be traced much farther back.  In this regard it can be seen that the poem represents the pagan past and has that feel, but it also represents the Christian present of the poet.  The religion for the characters, however, is not Christian but is, as Hill says, monotheistic nonetheless.  So Hill shows how the poem can be read in two different ways, but at the same time shows how there indeed exists a radical synthesis of the two different readings that provides a more complete reading of the text.  The Beowulf poet, considering Hill's position, allows for two different readings simultaneously, a radical synthesis of pagan and Christian.  The reader always has one foot in the pagan past and an the other in the Christian present, which allows for a very different and very lively reading.  In this way, the reader can read himself into the text, as Frantzen suggests in his article and with each reread can recognize a number of different elements that make the text seem as if it is living and breathing and changing.  The text in most respects is truly both/and, not either/or.  So the text is polychronic in that it folds two different eras together-pagan and Christian- and it is multitemporal as it evokes multiple understandings- also a pagan and Christian understanding, though with a reconciliation of the two that begs recognition. 

            I do not know what kinds of discussion that this would have led to, as the Frantzen and Niles articles do an excellent job of placing Beowulf in its literary context and touch on the same elements that Hill does; Hill just expands the argument further and fills in some gaps in the thought.  That said, I do think the article is very well written and, aside from the aforementioned issues of transition and seamlessness, is clear and adds greatly to the topic.  Though this text would have offered only a small degree of adding to the overall class, it would be an excellent article to include with Frantzen and Niles in a class not devoted to postmodernism.  If there were to ever be a class that dealt primarily with the historicity of the poem and how different historical and cultural aspects, when taken into account, can affect the reading of the text, Hill's article would provide an incredible amount of weight.

            Overall, this article expanded my understanding of the text that I have been trying to wrap my head around up to this point in the semester: Beowulf is a fantastic text that can be read in so many ways and each reading provides more information that serves to continually pull the reader in different directions.  Hill, in more depth than others I've read on this topic, showed me that there really is no one true reading of the text.  This essay really solidified this idea for me.  If read from a pagan point of view, recognizing the elements that speak to that history, the poem reads completely different than when read from a Christian point of view, understanding that the Christian poet included elements that speak to those readers.  Read in each way, the poem really speaks to each specific group.  Then when read as a synthesis of the two, if the reader keeps in mind both positions, the poem becomes actually more difficult to work out, but nonetheless provides another reading altogether.  The poem really is polychronic in that it combines two different periods of thought and culture, and it is also multitemporal in that it, aside from the multitemporality of the text itself, speaks to different readers simultaneously through language and theme.

Works Cited

Hill, Thomas D.  "The Christian Language and Theme of Beowulf."  Beowulf: A Verse       Translation: A Norton Critical Edition.  Ed. Daniel Donoghue.  New York: W.W. Norton and Company, 2002.  197-211.  Print.

Niles, John D. "Locating Beowulf in Literary History."  The Postmodern Beowulf: A Critical         Casebook.  Ed. Eileen A. Joy and Mary K. Ramsey.  Morgantown: West Virginia   University Press, 2006.  131-161.  Print.