The King of the Geats

Beowulf.
Now that's how I like my literature.

The epic poem, best translated by Irish translator Seamus Heaney, narrates the life and glory of the Geat warrior, Beowulf, and his many battles among the ancient Danes, the Swedes, and his own homeland. Considered as the first written novel, Beowulf brings to life an array of mythological creatures, demons and dragons that lurk in the night, as well as a vivid recollection of the medieval kingdoms of early Scandinavia. Overall, I enjoyed the relatively short poem, easy to comprehend, straightforward, and full of nail-biting, descriptive action. It had mythological influence, the perfect hero, and a great reconstruction of ancient Scandinavian culture and, on the whole, life. I really had no problem with any of the poem's mechanics, its plot, or characters. Heaney's translation was fantastic, creating a world that I could fully immerse myself into, and putting forward the words of characters like the great king Hrothgar and Beowulf himself into comprehensible statements.

Despite my adoration of the poem, I would like to bring to the surface one aspect that I believe to be important. Firstly, I noticed while reading that while Beowulf is set in an archaic and medieval Scandinavia, there are countless references to the Christian God throughout the poem. Whether the characters pray to their "Almighty Lord" or they refer to him as the only one who can decide both Beowulf and the Geat people's fate. As the poem was actually written during the Middle Ages, and the influence of Christianity would have dominated many people's lives, I can understand how the poet would allude to God and Christ. However, I believe that since the narrative is set in a time in which pagan gods commanded the religious scene and not Christianity, that it serves almost as an anachronism, the wrong religion in the wrong period of history. This "anachronism" broke the flow of the poem, I found myself stopping to consider the actual possibility of this religious philosophy in archaic Scandinavia, and it just didn't fit. By placing these allusions and mixing the faiths of these Scandinavian peoples (the Danes even declared the pagan gods as "heathen gods"), the poet creates a slightly confusing dent in an otherwise excellent piece of early Anglo-Saxon literature.

An Ode to Wuthering Heights

Wuthering Heights. You silly little novel.
Thanks for giving me nightmares.

Well, I presume this "reaction" is supposed to be leaning towards more of an academic angle, so I will refrain from getting too creative here. Let me put on my academic writing cap.

Wuthering Heights, written by Emily Bronte, proved to be another example of why I completely dislike romantic Victorian literature, and why I tend to refrain from picking up these kind of novels in the first place. The story, set in the first decades of the 19th century, alternates between the recital of a mangled and turbulent relationship between the moody, volatile Heathcliff and Catherine Earnshaw, as well as the later life of Catherine's daughter, also named Catherine, and her relationships with cousin Linton, Hareton Junior, and Heathcliff himself. Told using a loose frame narrative, in which Thurshcross Grange tenant Mr. Lockwood has former servant Nelly Dean recite the life of these characters through several narratives, the plot weaves a complex tale of passion, love, revenge, and a portrayal of early Victorian life.

As my first sentence above states, I did not enjoy this novel at all. I slogged my way through all three hundred and sixty six pages, I was uninterested and unaffected by the character's actions, I seldom cared whether they lived or died, suffered or experienced life's greatest passions. In my opinion, the story lacks a hook, something to interest me from the very moment I open to the first page, to the last moment when I finish it. Granted, I have already admitted that I am not one to enjoy Victorian literature and am particularly opposed to romance novels, so this novel being a blend of both, was not something that made me exceptionally ecstatic. Despite my bias, I believe that the novel still lacked any investment in plot or characters for the reader to experience, as I found the story dry and boring, and the characters mainly annoying, attention-seeking, and thus, I was never invested and interested in their outcomes. Furthermore, I believe the addition of a frame narrative is was an unnecessary move by Bronte. Mr. Lockwood is rarely in the story's context, nonetheless its key events or points, and should not have been included in the first place. I figure him to be a waste of a character, he is given little description and time in this novel, but rather serves as a unnecessary addition. Rather, the story should have been told directly by Nelly Dean, without the use of a frame, and instead have her recite the life of Catherine I, Heathcliff, Catherine II, Edgar, Hareton and the rest of the bunch as an entire flashback without reverting back every few chapters to Lockwood's bedside.

Despite my beliefs, Bronte's 1847 novel, revolutionary in its time, is still part of the literary canon, thought by many to be highly controversial and a Victorian masterpiece. I, however, will be tucking this story back into my bookshelf, and probably never take it out again.

Sorry Ms. Howard.

Micro Story

He’s sitting there, directly across from me, half-asleep, with his dopey face drooping and bobbing, fighting to stay awake. Early twenties, young and fresh face, snake tattoos covering his left arm and that distinct scar, the one right under his eye. That’s what gave him away, alerted the cops and put him right here, sitting amongst the commotion of the courtroom and the pounding of the gavel.

He’s sitting there without a care in the world, as if he hasn’t done a single thing wrong. As if he hasn’t taken away something precious. He’s sitting there, and I hate him now more than ever. Because I finally get to see him up close, twenty feet away. The man who took her away from me. My motherhood gone, in a blink of an eye.

He, who is sitting there, begins to stare at his hands, turning them over and over, curling his fingers into his palms. I stare at them too. I wonder if they looked the same that day, as he was stabbing and stabbing, covered in flecks and spatters of her blood. They may look clean now, but he hasn’t washed his hands of anything.

Suddenly, he looks up and begins to stare at me. Those eyes, without a soul, black and cold, looking right at me. And the judge, with his kind Southern drawl, finally speaks:

“Guilty”.

And so he, who sits there, sits no more. Becomes an unmarked grave, a body bag with no name in the prison morgue. There are no respects paid to him, no funeral procession and weeping souls, no roses on his grave. Just one mother’s justice to keep him company.