Thanks for your question, per - there’s a few misprisions here that I’m happy to help with. Just curious if we have any idea about this stuff, though my guess is that anything we do think is perhaps just speculation given the age of the Book. Sorry for the long-winded questions…I\\\’m not a scholar. Were the monks actually creating this stuff or were they just writing down verse that they had learned/heard from the non-literate English folk (perhaps the wealthier segments of the ruling classes), who were bitching, in very clever and thoughtful ways, about their loss of agency and influence? Or maybe a bit of both? Did they do it as sort of a demonstration project, a teaching tool, a state of the art example of writing for other monks? Since The Wanderer was sort of jumbled up with the rest of the writings and riddles in the rest of the book and some of other writings touch on many of the same themes as the Wanderer (primarily bemoaning the loss of a way of life), would it make sense that they wrote it as sort of a historical document of particularly English/Anglo-Saxon culture, a culture that had been diminished due to Danish influence throughout the land? Also, there is the question of actual authorship. My primary question is this: given that writing was a tedious, laborious grueling task for the monks, do we have any idea why would they spend their time writing this stuff down given that the book was generally not a religious text? Did they do it to bring pleasure to themselves or others through reading? That doesn\\\’t make sense to me since exerting so much effort on such a \\\”worldly\\\” thing doesn\\\’t seem in line with monastic life. ![]() This was a period of relative calm, though England was split between Anglo-Saxon and Danish (Viking) rulers. My understanding of it is that it is a very early book of largely secular poetry and riddles written/scribed by Benedictine monks in the tenth century just prior to the Norman Conquest. Reading your translation and the various comments about it in this thread made me curious about the Exeter Book as I don\\\’t know much about it. ![]() It\\\’s so enigmatic and mysterious because of its age and the difficulty of fully understanding it because of this fact. I\\\’ve always really loved this piece ever since I first read it long ago in an English Lit class in college. It will be well for those who seek the favor, So says the wise one, you don’t hear him at all, Raw showers of ice, who doesn’t hate humanity? (97-105)Īll shot through in misery in earthly realms,įortune’s turn turns the world under sky.Īnd this whole foundation of the earth wastes away!” (106-10) Night-shadows benighten, sent down from the north, The clash of winter, when darkness descends. Gear glutting for slaughter - we know this world’s way,Īnd the storms still batter these stony cliffs. “Tracks of the beloved multitude, all that remains Many war-slaughterings, and speaks these words: (88-91) Until they stand empty, the giants’ work and ancient,ĭrained of the dreams and joys of its dwellers.” (85-7)Īged in spirit, often remembering from afar Graveled in the ground, tears as war-mask. Washed clean of joys, his peerage all perished,įerried along the forth-way, others a raptor ravished Gnashed by frost, the buildings snow-lapt. There walls totter, wailed around by winds, Like you find, here and there, in this middle space now. When the world and its things stand wasted. Who’s wise must fore-ken how ghostly it has been Until the inner fire seizes its moment clearly, “That one bides their moment to make brag, Nor too fearful nor too fey nor too fee-felching,Īnd never tripping the tongue too much, before it trips them. Not too heart-heated, not so hasty to harp, “No one can be wise before earning their lot of winters When I ponder pervading all the lives of humans, “Therefore I cannot wonder across this world To that one who must send more and more, every day,Ī bleary soul back across the binding of waves. Gulls ghost-call - I don’t know their tongue too well, Greeting kindred joyfully, drinking in the look of them Ice and snow hurtling, heaved up with hail. Sea-birds bathing, fanning their feathers, This one enwraps his lord and kisses his lord,īlurry in time now, one thrived by the throne. Joys all flown, vanished all away! (29b-36) This one lists the hall-lads swilling rings, Kindred pulled away, how many winters now?Ī frigid fastness, hardly any fruits of the fold. Just as I ought fetter my inborn conceit, Hold onto the hoards, think whatever - (8–14)Ĭlamp down grim mindings in their coffer, To whom I dare mumble my mind’s understanding.įor anyone to bind fast their spirit’s closet, Slaughter of the wrathful, crumbling of kinsmen:īewail my cares. So spoke the earth-stepper, a memorial of miseries The way of the world an open book always.” (1–5) Many long whiles, treading the tracks of exile.
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