Friday, July 21, 2017

Poem: The Village Choir by Anonymous

I've been a little behindhand this week, so I will just edify you with this poem, which I came across years ago in a music anthology. Old Hundredth, of course, is the "All People That on Earth Do Dwell" setting of Psalm 100, which usually isn't rendered with such verve as on the memorable occasion of the Village Choir...

The Village Choir
(After the Charge of the Light Brigade)
by Anonymous

Half a bar, half a bar,
Half a bar onward!
Into an awful ditch
Choir and precentor hitch,
Into a mess of pitch,
They led the Old Hundred.
Trebles to right of them.
Tenors to left of them,
Basses in front of them,
Bellowed and thundered.
Oh, that precentor's look,
When the sopranos took
Their own time and hook,
From the Old Hundred!

Screeched all the trebles here,
Boggled the tenors there,
Raising the parson's hair,
While his mind wandered;
Theirs not to reason why
This psalm was pitched too high;
Theirs but to gasp and cry
Out the Old Hundred.
Trebles to right of them,
Tenors to left of them,
Basses in front of them,
Bellowed and thundered.
Stormed they with shout and yell,
Not wise they sang nor well,
Drowning the sexton's bell,
While all the church wondered.

Dire the precentor's glare,
Flashed his pitchfork in air,
Sounding fresh keys to bear
Out the Old Hundred.
Swiftly he turned his back,
Reached he his hat from rack,
Then from the screaming pack,
Himself he sundered.
Tenors to right of him,
Trebles to left of him,
Discords behind him,
Bellowed and thundered.
Oh, the wild howls they wrought:
Right to the end they fought!
Some tune they sang, but not,
Not the Old Hundred.

Friday, July 14, 2017

Ensign Carey by Ronald Welch

Ensign Carey, the eleventh (and second-last) in Ronald Welch's Carey Family Series, begins unconventionally with a burglary. In a gritty Victorian London setting, an impoverished young blueblood robs the house where he was a guest the week before, then murders an accomplice who seems a little too curious about his real identity.

It quickly turns out that this character is not, in fact, our protagonist and the latest Carey whose adventures we'll be following through some pivotal moment of history... but it's a brilliant opening to one of the more unconventional of the Carey series, an opening that manages to neatly foreshadow just about everything else.

Because William Carey, our actual protagonist, is not a particularly heroic figure either. Selfish to the point that he's never felt true sympathy for another human being, William Carey is an idle young man who prefers slumming in the London underworld to study or honest work. An encounter with a billiards sharp provides William with his first real ambition: to become a billiards sharp himself, and use his skill to line his pockets.

After a drunken horse race at Cambridge goes terribly wrong, William is sent down in disgrace and forced to enlist as an ensign in the extremely uncelebrated Bengal Army. William endures his purgatory in the heat and boredom of life in India in his usual way, but trouble is in the air: not just for him, but for all the English sahibs in Bengal.

I often feel that plotting is not Welch's strong point, and as with many of his other books, this one, while never dull, is not particularly tight. But it made up for this with some terrific characters, plus opening and closing chapters that form deliciously ironic bookends for the story.

Ronald Welch's heroes usually have a character flaw to overcome, but none of the ones I've read are so close to sociopathery. William is a genuinely repulsive character, but I was impressed by how well-written he was. Welch is always showing him doing understandable or even thoughtful or brave things, and then just as you think William has grown and learned, yank! out comes the carpet from under your feet, as you learn the truly selfish motivations William has for his actions. This is not to say that William doesn't grow or learn: by the end of the story, he's risen to the occasion in a number of ways, and managed to feel sorry for someone not himself. But I was fascinated and impressed by the deftness of the characterisation here, which never completely breaks your liking for this character, despite all his avarice, low cunning, and gutsy determination to live comfortably on the misfortunes of others.

It was huge fun to have a black-sheep protagonist for a change. After all, not all families turn out generations of unblemished military heroes. But my favourite thing about this book was what Welch did with this character in the end. I'm not going to tell you exactly what happens, but suffice it to say that William does not get away with the fruits of his misdeeds. I am a huge fan of morally compromised characters in fiction, as long as the author doesn't then attempt the belly-dance of moral relativism in an attempt to get me to approve of their wrongdoing. Ronald Welch is not, on the whole, that kind of author. He's the ruthless kind, and I loved it.

That said, it is nice to have a rather more heroic Carey in this book. The protagonist of the previous instalment, Nicholas Carey, turns up in this one to provide a foil for what William might have been if he was less selfish. Of course, Nicholas had his own character arc from apathy to sympathy in his own book, and it's interesting that in both the books Welch wrote in a Victorian setting, he was savagely critical of the vices of young Victorian men.

Another part of this critique of Victorianism crops up in the India passages. I know that the case against colonialism is often over-stated these days (at least one Indian intellectual has dedicated significant time to exploring the benefits of colonialism in India), but Welch has some thought-provoking things to say. He depicts, without overt judgement, a life of idle luxury which depends on armies of native servants to do the exhausting work of keeping the sahibs and memsahibs comfortable; and he blames the Sepoy rebellion, at least partly, on the fact that few of the British officers took the trouble to learn the names or language of their men. I don't know how historically accurate all this is (Welch's book Knight Crusader, while pretty fair considering how little scholarship had then been done on the history of the Crusader States, is not a miracle of historical accuracy), but as usual with Welch, it's even-handed and level-headed.

I particularly enjoyed this installation of the Carey Family Series. With a delightfully unpleasant protagonist, and an ending that is as ironically satisfying as anything I've every read, this book surprised me in all sorts of delightful ways.

After years out of print, Ronald Welch's Carey Family Series is briefly available in beautiful heirloom-quality limited editions from Slightly Foxed. Find Ensign Carey on their website, or better yet, check out the whole series. It's very good! Generally appropriate for middle grade and up, although this book and the next in the series, Tank Commander, include some PG-13 level swearing.

Friday, July 7, 2017

Richard II by William Shakespeare

Well, I'm back. Tasmania was, as always, wonderful, and at the Pilgrim Artists' Festival I was privileged to meet (or spend more time with) some amazing local artists: indie author WR Gingell, whose books you should definitely check out if you love fairytales, Georgette Heyer, or mysteries; acoustic guitarist Alan Gogoll; Steve and Marion Isham, who between them write poetry, produce children's books, and make amazing drawings and paintings.

During our stay, our lovely hostess Margaret (herself an award-winning oils painter, while we're on the topic) introduced us to The Hollow Crown, which somehow I'd missed seeing, or getting excited about. Splendidly-acted new Shakespeare films? True, I've never been all that interested in the history plays, but still: Shakespeare.

We only got the chance to see Richard II during our visit, but it was terrific, and having seen it, I knew I had to read the play in full.

For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings;
How some have been deposed; some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;
Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd;
All murder'd: for within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps Death his court...

At first glance, you might not think Richard II a bad king. When two noblemen come before him with competing accusations of treason, Richard tries to make up the quarrel before allowing the trial by combat to go ahead. The Duke of Lancaster's son Henry Bolingbroke is convinced that the Duke of Norfolk is guilty of murdering the Duke of Gloucester, and is willing to fight him to prove it. But just as the combat starts, King Richard cancels the match and banishes both combatants to an arbitrary period of exile.

When the Duke of Lancaster, the wise and experienced John of Gaunt, dies, Richard shows his true colours, seizing the Lancaster property to finance a war in Ireland. Enraged that his rightful inheritance should be seized by the crown during his absence, Henry Bolingbroke returns to England determined to reclaim it, by force if necessary. Meanwhile, rumours about the Duke of Gloucester's death thicken: was the murder plotted by Norfolk, or did Norfolk only cover up for someone who must not be suspected?

I'm not sure I even realised that Shakespeare had written a history play about Richard II (my tastes have always run to his comedies), let alone whether it was considered one of his best or not, but Richard II was magnificent, and as usual with a well-regarded Shakespeare play, it surprised me with a few very famous speeches. For example, this is where the This sceptr'd isle, this seat of Mars, this other Eden, demi-paradise... this England speech comes from, as the dying John of Gaunt complains about Richard's rule.

This play, like much of Shakespeare, is full of spine-tinglingly magnificent lines. In addition, I was fascinated to note that the "sceptr'd isle" speech begins a motif repeated through the play, of England as a badly-tended garden, an Eden beset by curses. Another motif, drawn out and beaten to death in the Hollow Crown version, is Richard II's view of himself as a quasi-divine figure, a type of Christ, having a divine right to rule however he wants. Against this, Shakespeare pits the insistence of Richard's barons that right to rule depends not on birth or office, but on justice. Richard fails multiple times at the beginning of the play to do justice, and it's this that naturally deprives him of his crown.

But one of the things that struck me most deeply about this play was its ambiguity. The two dominating figures are the plain-spoken Henry Bolingbroke, and Richard himself. And what a character Richard is, by the way: wilful, emotional, and weak; always performing to an audience, saving himself from the worst of his humiliations simply by bravura monologuing; and yet weirdly charming, sympathetic, and even noble in the midst of his richly-deserved trials. Richard is no clear-cut villain (indeed, Victorian productions of the play apparently used to make a saint of him), but neither is Henry a clear-cut hero. He accuses Norfolk, rather broadly, of "all the treasons for these eighteen years", and legitimises his own claim to the throne in speeches that seem increasingly threadbare and desperate; by the end, he consolidates his grip on the crown with a series of executions, but puts on a show of remorse over Richard's coffin.

Which makes this play a fascinating character study. Overall, I believe it's a veiled critique of the idea of the diving right of kings (an evaluation shared by Elizabeth I, who was so offended by the play that it had to be heavily censored). There are two theories of kingship here: Richard's theory that kingship is substantiated by its existence, and Henry's (at first), that it is substantiated by justice. As the Duke of York warns Richard early on, a king who refuses to respect his subjects' rights is laying a dangerous precedent:

Take Hereford's rights away, and take from Time
His charters and his customary rights;
Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day;
Be not thyself; for how art thou a king
But by fair sequence and succession?

If Richard takes away Henry's patrimony, he ought not to be terribly surprised when Henry takes away Richard's patrimony. And yet that first act of injustice does not absolve Henry. By not being content to regain what he has lost, by taking more than he promised, Henry founds his own kingship on the same brand of injustice that Richard committed early in the play. Although Henry begins his rebellion on a platform of limited monarchy, he ends it with something very like absolutism because at this stage he can no longer rely on justice. By the end of the play, Richard dies; but by the end of the play, it seems, he has converted Henry to his way of thinking.


Richard II is an extraordinarily rich and subtle play which I'm sure I've only scratched the surface of. And now I'm excited to dive in and work my way through all of Shakespeare's historical plays, especially now that I know where to find some excellent filmed editions to form my introduction.

The Hollow Crown production of Richard II features Ben Whishaw in a truly excellent performance and some memorable supporting work from Patrick Stewart as John of Gaunt and Rory Kinnear as Henry Bolingbroke. For some reason, it chooses to cut the Gloucester subplot entirely, an odd decision since that makes so much sense of many of the characters' actions, as well as the fun scene in Act IV where everyone is throwing down gauntlets and Aumerle has to ask someone to loan him a third. Oh well--this was otherwise very good, and you really must see Shakespeare performed to experience him properly.

Find Richard II on Amazon, the Book Depository, Project Gutenberg or Librivox.

Friday, June 16, 2017

Guy Mannering by Sir Walter Scott



John Buchan devotes six pages in his biography of Sir Walter Scott to a review of Guy Mannering, Scott's second novel: "Lovers of Scott will always dispute which is his best novel, but all will put Guy Mannering among the first three."

That was more or less my impression, as I read. Guy Mannering is a very successful work, showcasing Scott doing what he did best, and doing it at the height of his powers. As Buchan points out, Scott's first novel, Waverly, was the result of ten years' brooding - and as a novelist myself, I understand Buchan's opinion that getting Waverly out of his system liberated Scott as an artist, to invent with new gusto. There's an infectious high-spiritedness about this story - the author is enjoying himself, and so do the readers.

The story opens with a traveller going astray in the southwest of Scotland late at night, late in the eighteenth century. Young Guy Mannering arrives at Ellangowan, seat of the humble but very old Bertram family, on the same night as the birth of the new heir. Partly in fun, he takes the child's horoscope, which threatens danger to him at age five and twenty-one. And sure enough--five years later, the boy is kidnapped and vanishes without a trace.

Fifteen years after that, after a duel gone wrong, Colonel Mannering returns from India with his only child; the Ellangowan family is forced to sell their ancestral home for a song to their dishonest lawyer, the social-climbing Glossin, and young Captain Vanbeest Brown, determined to win Julia Mannering's hand despite her father's disapproval, follows the Mannerings into Scotland only to become hopelessly embroiled in Glossin's dealings with smugglers - to say nothing of the mysterious plans of Meg Merrilies, the titanic, and possibly insane, gipsy woman.

Not every single element in this book works. There are two perfunctory attempts at romantic subplots in which, together with the young ladies involved, the author evidently lost interest early on; a comic relief character who is reduced to a one-note gag, and some backstory set in India which is unconvincing, and rushed in the telling, especially compared to the quality of the main story. None of Walter Scott's admirers - and he counted John Buchan and GK Chesterton among them - would have suggested that Scott always hit his mark. "He was a chaotic and unequal writer," Chesterton observes, but, with equal truth: "We have learnt in our day to arrange our literary effects carefully, and the only point in which we fall short of Scott is in the incidental misfortune that we have nothing particular to arrange." Scott aims to shoot the moon. Of course, he doesn't always succeed. But when he does!

I think the thing I appreciate most about Guy Mannering is how it spans, and welds together, a number of different genres. This kind of thing is usually difficult to do well, but Scott makes it work. There's a wide streak of comedy-of-manners here, little different from the kind of thing you might expect to find in Anthony Trollope - the funeral scene in Edinburgh, for instance. Then there's a good bit of lightly fictionalised travel writing, the kind of thing Scott excelled at, since he spent much of his youth in the Border Country and knew its landscape, its people, and its pasttimes. And all this is used as the scaffolding for the romance of a lost heir, mysterious gipsies, dangerous smugglers, murder and robbery.

I'm a connoisseur of fine romance of this type, and in my youth I was frequently impatient with all the other stuff Scott insisted in mixing in with it. Today, I'm beginning to understand that you simply cannot be impatient when reading Scott. The power of those sudden gleams of romance ("They are coming," said she to Brown; "you are a dead man if ye had as mony lives as hairs") depend on the "slow bits" for their effect. They are like a bomb going off under the reader's feet. You never know when it's going to happen. You might have given up hoping that it might happen. And then, shazam. John Buchan defined romance on several occasions (including in his six pages on Guy Mannering) as being "strangeness flowering from the commonplace", and the commonplace is necessary to ground the strangeness: to make it believable, and to give it real emotional heft when it does happen. That's why the backstory in India (a hectic muddle featuring a duel, a raid, a capture, and a death of shock all on the same day) seems so unsatisfying: as romantic as it is, it seems completely unhinged from normality. It has nothing to ground it. But for the majority of the book, the romantic bits do seem thoroughly tethered to reality - and that's the main reason why the book works as well as it does.

Not that there aren't other reasons. There are plenty of characters to love. Meg Merrilies is unforgettable, Dandie Dinmont makes you want to cheer and feel that everything will be alright every time he appears, Gilbert Glossin is a terrific, sympathetic, yet oh-so-evil villain, and many of the others are excellent too.

Oh, and there's the hilarious moment that a quotation from Sheridan's The Critic turns up. It's an audacious, fourth-wall-breaking, tongue-in-cheek moment (which sadly only makes sense if you've actually read The Critic, which YOU SHOULD).

Needless to say, I thoroughly recommend Guy Mannering. It's a book that will definitely reward your patience.

Find Guy Mannering on Amazon, the Book Depository, or Project Gutenberg.

Friday, June 9, 2017

Poem: In the Huon Valley by James McAuley

At the moment, I don't have a vintage novel to review: I'm working my way through another Walter Scott, Guy Mannering. It's one I've never read before, but it's been fun so far. I have my suspicions about this Captain Brown character. I think we may have met him before *eyebrow waggle*.

Anyway, I look forward to reviewing that when I get the chance - hopefully next week! In the meantime, I want to share a poem - another of James McAuley's, since this year is his centenary.

James McAuley is perhaps most famous for the Ern Malley hoax, but he ended his life in Tasmania, as a professor at the University of Tasmania in Hobart. Southwest of Hobart is the beautiful Huon Valley, the centre of Tasmania's apple and cherry industry, a green rolling valley bordering the Huon River. I've spent many happy months in the Huon Valley, and later this month I'll be heading back to participate in the Pilgrim Artists' Festival, where I'll be giving a workshop on fiction writing.


As I'm looking forward to seeing old friends and familiar scenery, it might be a good time to share James McAuley's poem about this lovely place...

In the Huon Valley

by James McAuley

Propped boughs are heavy with apples,
Springtime quite forgotten.
Pears ripen yellow. The wasp
Knows where windfalls lie rotten.

Juices grow rich with sun.
These autumn days are still:
The glassy river reflects
Elm-gold up the hill,

And big white plumes of rushes.
Life is full of returns;
It isn't true that one never
Profits, never learns:

Something is gathered in,
Worth the lifting and stacking;
Apples roll through the graders,
The sheds are noisy with packing.

Friday, June 2, 2017

The Story of Rolf and the Viking Bow by Allen French

After reading The Elder Edda, I wasn't quite ready to leave Iceland, and I decided the time was ripe for my long-intended re-read of Allen French's The Story of Rolf and the Viking Bow, which I'd read, once, about ten years ago and remembered liking very much.

The story follows a young boy named Rolf, the son of the landowner Hiarandi the Unlucky. When an act of mercy by Hiarandi leads to his being made an outlaw, and ultimately killed by a greedy neighbour, Rolf vows to prove that his father's killing was unlawful. But when he meets the son of his father's killer, Rolf can't help liking him. Will Rolf and Grani find a way to see past their own grudges, and lay the feud to rest?

One of the things I particularly remembered about this book was that it was somewhat more than just another standard vintage adventure story for boys. Set in medieval Iceland shortly after its conversion to Christianity, The Story of Rolf is written in a rather good imitation of actual Icelandic sagas. And this goes further than thees, thous, and the occasional lapse into present tense. It also includes a tense, laconic writing style, a very arm's-length treatment of the characters' thoughts and emotions, characters bursting into the occasional skaldic verse, some crazy and unexpected (yet totally fun) fantasy elements, and a subject matter (the tension between blood-feuding and Christian forgiveness) that is also to the forefront of one of the few Icelandic sagas I've actually read, The Saga of Burnt Njal.

Looking back, I'm stunned by how well this style works for this story. The Story of Rolf  was first published in 1924, so it comes after the worst of the Victorian literary excesses, but I can't imagine that writing historical fiction in a style so spare and laconic must have seemed like an obvious decision. And to be honest, French isn't unaffected by the literary fashions of his time. Still, he was trying something pretty unprecedented in his day, and the result is a story that fuses the best of the delicious drama that characterises vintage lit, with the best of Icelandic terseness, adventure, and sheer epic awesome. There's a depth to the characters' emotions and motivations that can be somewhat lacking in the old sagas, and yet the very straightforward storytelling style strengthens what could be a shortcoming in vintage fiction.

And there are so many things to love about the book. The plot operates at a slow, tense simmer that takes you through many twists and turns, but it's always building toward a specific goal, which is how this blood feud is ultimately resolved. And I loved the resolution. One of the marks of a truly great story is a resolution that lifts it beyond itself into something higher, and The Story of Rolf has one of these. I won't spoil it, but I will say that it left me with a lump in my throat.

And also that I loved the theme. Since finishing the story, I've been chewing on one particular aspect of it--just a minor aspect--that I think this book gets wonderfully right when it comes to the concept of forgiveness. It's common to assume that forgiveness is something unconditional and unilateral. In fact, forgiveness cannot be accomplished without repentance on the side of the wrongdoer. It is the victim's duty to be ready to offer forgiveness if it is sought, and that means killing anger and bitterness and resentment; but this does not mean treating a professed enemy in every respect as if he is your friend. One must be ready to forgive, but there is no true forgiveness possible for an unrepentant enemy. I won't say more, but I will say that I was stunned and encouraged by how well (and beautifully) The Story of Rolf discusses this truth.

There were lots of other things I loved about this story. I loved the female characters--this is, of course, a solidly manly adventure story for boys and so the female characters are definitely in supporting roles--but what characters they are, fearless, determined, and wise. I loved Frodi, the peaceful smith, who winds up with a string of nicknames referring to his undeniable awesome. I loved that epic deeds are done, and narrated with such dry understatement. And I loved the characters cropping up out of old sagas.

The Story of Rolf and the Viking Bow isn't a perfect book. I would have liked to see Rolf himself have a greater character arc, for instance, and one plot device near the end was a little unbelievable. But overall, I loved this story. A brilliant bit of vintage young adult fiction.

Find The Story of Rolf and the Viking Bow on Amazon, the Book Depository, or Project Gutenberg.

Friday, May 26, 2017

The Elder Edda (trans. Andy Orchard)

"Myths, gods and heroes from the Viking world", promises the subtitle to the new Penguin edition of The Elder Edda, and from the moment I discovered it in the library a few months ago I've been waiting for a good opportunity to tuck in. My acquaintance with Icelandic literature has been fairly limited - I've read  Njal's Saga, The Saga of the Volsungs, and of course Tolkien's The Legend of Sigurd and Gudrun which doesn't really count, but I knew to expect gore, fatalism, and some of the sparest, barest, most economical writing I've ever come across.

The Elder Edda comes in two parts. The first section contains mythological poems dealing with the gods, goddesses and fates of Norse myth, while the second is a cycle of poems revolving around Sigurd the Dragonslayer and his ill-fated loves Brynhild and Gudrun. I was already familiar with the Sigurd cycle from The Saga of the Volsungs, and from Tolkien's Sigurd and Gudrun (with Christopher Tolkien's excellent commentary on the same). In the Edda, the story is told in a way that seems rather more fractured and fragmented. The poetry itself often elides events, lacunae plague the text, and the poems don't always follow a logical progression: they repeat and restate events, often with significant contradictions (is Brynhild the same figure as the valkyrie who teaches Sigurd runes? was Sigurd murdered at home or in the forest?). It's not surprising that most people would just read The Saga of the Volsungs instead, which tells the story in a much more straightforward fashion. But now that I've actually read the Edda, I think this is a crying shame. In poetic form, these stories gain far more power than they did in prose; they become a grand, operatic tale of fate, compulsion, obsession and loss.

(Epic poetry, and poetry that tells any kind of story, has been out of style for hundreds of years, and it's such a shame. There are just some things you can do in poetic storytelling that you can't do in prose.)

Part 1 of the Edda, the part that deals with myths of the gods, was the part that was mostly new to me. It was also the part I had the most mixed feelings about. My two favourite poems in the whole collection cropped up here. The Voluspa, the very first poem of all, is magnificent. It tells the legend of the creation of the world and then fast-forwards into a prophecy of Ragnarok, employing repeated lines and even stanzas to build up an incredible dramatic intensity - I would recommend trying to get a copy of this book just for the pleasure of reading this poem. And then there's the game of Spot the Inkling: Tolkien and Lewis both obviously loved this particular poem. Lewis lifted whole lines from it for his poem Cliche Came Out of Its Cage, and Tolkien got the names of Gandalf, Durin, Thorin Oakenshield and the other dwarves here. (Who knew that Bifur and Bofur translate as "Trembler" and "Grumbler", while "Bombur", of course, is "Tubby"? Seems like Disney wasn't so far out with the names of Snow White's dwarfs either). And I suspect that the image of the surviving gods after Ragnarok discovering their gold playing-pieces in the grass of the newly-remade world may have found its way into Prince Caspian.

Another favourite poem from this section was The Song of Volund. You hear legends of lame blacksmith gods all over Europe of course - there's the English Weyland (obviously related) and even the Greek Hephaestos, but the Norse Volund is an elf prince seeking revenge after a brutal attack. His revenge, when he takes it, is more brutal than the original wrong, because this is a pagan story of grisly and pointless violence, but there's high drama here too and a certain kind of harsh beauty. 

Many of these mythological poems, however, have less to do with storytelling and more to do with various contests between the gods: mostly contests of lore or insult. The latter have a strong gutter element that I didn't appreciate, but the lore-contests were fascinating for the way in which they presented the Norse cosmology and philosophy. The Havamal contains some of the most detailed discussion of pagan philosophy and conduct: to read it is to step into a world that has, thankfully vanished. Pagan piety is both recognisable and alien to us today, all of it predicated upon a fundamentally hostile universe in which anyone can only trust himself: don't drink too much, don't speak too much, give gifts in an attempt to make friends, don't trust your friends, don't trust your women, and don't be ambitious:
Middling-wise should each man be
never over-wise;
for he lives the fairest life of folks
who knows not over-much. 
Middling-wise should each man be
never over-wise;
for a wise-man's heart is seldom glad,
if he is truly wise. 
Middling-wise should each man be
never over-wise;
he never knows his fate before,
whose spirit is freest from sorrow.
The poems of the Elder Edda, a record of Icelandic paganism, were written down well after the conversion of Iceland to Christianity, evidently by Christian scribes. As usual, I'm left with little doubt in my mind that they did this to preserve in the remembrance of their people not just the cultural achievements of paganism, but also the cultural failings. Norse paganism was deeply characterised by suspicion, fatalism, and violence. We ought not to take our own culture for granted or pride ourselves on our superiority. There, but for the grace of God, go we.

Find The Elder Edda on Amazon or The Book Depository.

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