Beowulf has kicked me to the reading curb. Or rather, Tolkien’s commentary on it has – which is one part fascinating and two parts here-lemme-gouge-my-eyes-out.
Some things are easy to read in the early mornings. Other things aren’t. It’s isn’t that I’m lacking in intelligence [well …] it’s just that some things are not meant for early mornings.
A course in Old English?
And it’s not just the early mornings either; I can read this at any other time of the day and my reactions are still the same.
I feel as though I ought to pretend I’m enjoying it; to write a review with a smug little ‘I understood every jot of Tolkien’s commentary and my doesn’t ‘dugan’ have such a lovely abstract noun.’
However, honesty forces me to admit that no, I’m not enjoying abstract nouns, I’ve no desire to know about abstract nouns and I simply do not care about these abstract nouns.
I’ve felt the urge to throw the book at a wall. I haven’t. You can’t throw books at walls in the car. Or in a coffee shop. ’tis bad form.
Why continue? you ask. Life is short, DNF, swallow your pride, ignore the commentary, and pass on to that other translation of Beowulf.
I can’t. I see glimmers of hope. I want to read Sellic Spell, and when Tolkien starts explaining the cultural context/hidden meanings/subtle jests which the prose conceals, I start getting excited.
I read the tale in a new way. I see new things. A light shines with glorious illumination upon the text. All is fluttering butterflies and slain giants.
BUT THEN …
… the grammar rolls in, Tolkien goes off on a tangent, and a barrage of ancient words that looks like someone’s slammed their head against a keyboard assults my suffering eyes.
Still, I persevere.
a) because it will give me a better understanding of the tale
b) because Sellic Spell will surely be good
c) I’m avoiding Dickens.
… but at what cost?!