Tag: Beowulf

Aka Beowulf

Beowulf the Cat

My cat Bella had a traumatic day at the vets on the afternoon of New Year’s Eve — poked and prodded, ear drops, rabies shot, a needle the size of a harpoon plunged into her backside, but she did not utter a cry or bat an eye. To paraphrase Seamus Heaney in line 11 of his translation of Beowulf, referring to the Danish warrior Shield Sheafson, That was one good cat.*

Bella was brave, as my Susan was brave in those last days in Intensive Care. So, on this New Year’s Eve, as firecrackers exploded outside, I had this crazy 80-proof idea that Bella is now Susan or Susan is now Bella, not sure which way it goes, but she, Bella/Susan is all I have left in this lowly bungalow on County Road 9 and so she becomes my life—(obviously an over-exaggerated and melodramatic way to put it, but prithee, dear reader, permit me)—as Susan was for thirty years, and since Susan has been gone, a year now, an endless gods-torture of loss, I hang onto Bella/Susan with a crazy kind of madness and hope.

She is one good cat. Henceforth, despite the gender difference, she is now my Beowulf.


* Seamus Heaney’s Beowulf begins thusly:
So. The Spear-Danes in days gone by
and the kings who ruled them had courage and greatness. W
e have heard of those princes’ heroic campaigns.
There was Shield Sheafson, scourge of many tribes,
a wrecker of mead-benches, rampaging among foes. This terror of the hall-troops had come far.
A foundling to start with, he would flourish later on
as his powers waxed and his worth was proved.
In the end each clan on the outlying coasts
beyond the whale-road had to yield to him and begin to pay tribute. That was one good king.


Battling grief with Beowulf

Beowulf is a cold substitute for a warm woman, the warm woman being my wife, who is now a non-being in the cold black void of death.

To try and stop from going insane and/or shooting myself, I am currently seeking refuge in literature — the classics, from Beowulf to War and Peace.

Tonight it’s Beowulf, an anonymous epic poem of 3,182 lines about a Scandinavian hero prince that was written sometime between the years 650 and 990.

What interests me is the difference in translations. English translations of any foreign language work are an almost impossible endeavor, particularly one written in Anglo-Saxon or Old English.

Beowulf has been much translated, but take the latest highly lauded translation in 2000 by Irish writer and poet Seamus Heaney, which was on the New York Times best-seller list.

Here is his version of Beowulf’s battle with the dragon (lines 2688 to 2693):

Then the bane of that people, the fire-breathing dragon,

was mad to attack for a third time.

When a chance came, he caught the hero

in a rush of flame and clamped sharp fangs

into his neck. Beowulf’s body

ran wet with his life-blood: it came welling out.

Compare that to the 1963 translation by Burton Raffel:

Then the monster charged again, vomiting

Fire, wild with pain, rushed out

Fierce and dreadful, its fear forgotten.

Watching for its chance it drove its tusks

Into Beowulf’s neck; he staggered, the blood

Came flooding forth, fell like rain.

To me, the Raffel translation (in a handy Signet Classic pocket book that actually does fit in your pocket) is more dramatic and superior to the overly praised version by Heaney (a larger, clumsier Norton paperback.)

Anyway, that’s tonight’s excursion into the escapism of literary distraction. I hope you found it interesting. Comments most welcome.

William Michelmore