(Special thanks to Dr. Wenthe for quickly providing a copy of Graham's version of this poem, reproduced below.)
I was struck by the tragic tone of "Erthe Toc of Erthe" the first time we read it. Then when Dr. Wenthe read Jory Graham's version of it in class, it reminded me of something I had read in C.S. Lewis's The Abolition of Man. This entry outlines the relationship between these poems and biblical conceptions of humanity, and how it all relates to Lewis's book.
First, the poem in two versions:
Erthe toc of erthe erthe wyth woh,
erthe other erthe to the earthe droh,
erthe leyde erthe in erthene throh,
tho hevede erthe of erthe erthe ynoh.
--Anonymous
Earth took of earth earth with ill;
Earth other earth gave earth with a will.
Earth laid earth in the earth stock-still:
Then earth in earth had of earth its fill.
--Jory Graham
The key to reading these seems to be deciphering the many uses of the word "erthe" (0r "earth", as it were). At any point "erthe" can mean "dirt", "nature", or "human flesh". All are biblical uses of the word. The Genesis author understands human flesh to have been made out of dirt, formed by God himself: "the LORD God formed the man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life" (Ge. 2:7). Thus the author of Ecclesiastes can take up the theme: "Remember him--before... the dust returns to the ground it came from, and the spirit returns to God who gave it" (Ec. 12:6-7). Finally, the book of Revelation uses "earth" in the cosmic sense: "Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and there was no longer any sea" (Re. 21:1).
These associations encourage a reading of the poems above as both primeval and apocalyptic:
"Earth took of earth earth with ill;"
i.e., the cosmos brought from the ground flesh tainted by evil.
"Earth other earth gave earth with a will."
Women bore to the world men with a will, including a will to dominate.
"Earth laid earth in the earth stock-still:"
Humans laid humans in the ground, stiff and cold. Domination resulted in death.
"Then earth in earth had of earth its fill."
This line has at least three meanings. First, humans on earth had their fill of one another. Second, humans on earth had their fill of living (in the cosmos). Third, the land in the cosmos had its fill of humanity (and decided to be done with it, metaphorically speaking).
Interestingly, this is Lewis's reading in his book, The Abolition of Man, although he is not explicit about the fact that he is echoing the poems listed above. But let's take a look.
"Flesh tainted with evil"
"I am very doubtful whether history shows us one example of a man who, having stepped outside traditional morality and attained power, has used that power benevolently" (Lewis, 66). Or, to use Lord Acton's oft-quoted axiom, "Absolute power corrupts absolutely." The point that is overshadowed by Acton's version, but permitted in Lewis's, is that the problem is not power per se, but human nature. In Lewis, the deficit is in human composition, whereas in Acton it is in the power held thereby. Thus Lewis's view holds much more closely to the poems above.
"A will to dominate"
"We reduce things to mere Nature in order that we may 'conquer' them. We are always conquering Nature, because 'Nature' is the name for what we have, to some extent, conquered" (Lewis, 71). These are the words of a man who witnessed industrial buildup, profound scientific advance, and the modernization of society that begat mechanized warfare.
"Domination resulted in death"
"Man's conquest of Nature, if the dreams of some scientific planners are realized, means the rule of a few hundreds of men over billions upon billions of men. There neither is nor can be any simple increase of power on Man's side. Each new power won by man is a power over man as well. Each advance leaves him weaker as well as stronger. In every victory, besides being the general who triumphs, he is also the prisoner who follows the triumphal car" (Lewis, 58). It comes as no surprise that these are the words of a man who has lived through two world wars, and witnessed profound changes in culture--especially in attitudes toward the value of life--as the result of Western modernization. In the face of modern science's will to dominate, Lewis cries, "Is nothing sacred anymore?"
"Then earth in earth had of earth its fill."
For Lewis, to say that "humans on earth had their fill of one another" is the same as saying both "humans on earth had their fill of living" and "the land in the cosmos had its fill of humanity." Consider the first of these in light of the following:
"The price of conquest is to treat a thing as mere Nature. Every conquest over Nature increases her domain. The stars do not become Nature till we can weigh and measure them: the soul does not become Nature till we can psychoanalyse her... As long as this process stops short of the final stage we may well hold that the gain outweighs the loss. But as soon as we take the final step of reducing our own species to the level of mere Nature, the whole process is stultified, for this time the being who stood to gain and the being who has sacrificed are one and the same" (Lewis, 71).
"Having our fill of one another" took its ugliest form in Hitler's Final Solution, mentioned, perhaps, obliquely here (cf., "final stage"). It is in this sort of senseless violence that Lewis sees that our race has had its fill of living. But the most striking conclusion he reaches, also insinuated by the anonymous medieval poet and Jory Graham, is that in exterminating our own kind we bequeath the victory thought to belong to the 'winner' to nature itself:
"At the moment, then, of Man's victory over Nature, we find the whole human race subjected to some individual men, and those individuals subjected to that in themselves which is purely 'natural'--to their irrational impulses. Nature, untrammelled by values, rules... all humanity. Man's conquest of Nature turns out, in the moment of its consummation, to be Nature's conquest of Man. Every victory we seemed to win has led us, step by step, to this conclusion. All Nature's apparent reverses have been but tactical withdrawals. We thought we were beating her back when she was luring us on. What looked to us like hands held up in surrender was really the opening of arms to enfold us for ever" (Lewis, 67-68).
It is a chilling conclusion to reach, and one that accounts for the solemnity of the poems above. It is not insulated from moralism, for that is Lewis's point: we must adhere to the traditional morality which, he argues, cuts across cultures and history (Lewis, Appendix). If we accept the dilemma he has presented, the alternative is dire:
"Nature will be troubled no more by the restive species that rose in revolt against her so many millions of years ago, will be vexed no longer by its chatter of truth and mercy and beauty and happiness" (Lewis, 68).
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Spiritual Sexuality and Sexual Spirituality
In light of our discussion of Pearl, it seemed prudent to draw attention to the fact that there is a long tradition, even in works heavily influenced by Christianity, to pay, if not bawdy, then at least an edgy (by Christian sexual ethical standards) kind of attention to sexuality in discussions of spirituality. Indeed, it seems that most today who would call themselves Christians are uncomfortable with the notion that spirituality is sexual in any way, though many would admit that sexuality is decidedly spiritual. While this is not necessarily a contradiction, it seems to indicate that an investigation of the sexualization of spirituality--because it is often considered taboo, or at the very least, in bad taste--is warranted.
Because so much contemporary literature that converses with the medieval period has been influenced by the Inklings, it seems natural to turn in that direction to begin an investigation. For this entry, let's simply focus on C. S. Lewis. Although his works pertaining to Narnia are most popular, The Great Divorce, an allegory on the passage of souls from heaven to hell, speaks volumes more on sexuality and spirituality.
Note first that one of Lewis' characters, a ghost who has a "red lizard" on his shoulder, a lizard that whispers in his ear. Says the ghost to an angel who inquires about the ghost's sudden move to return to hell,
"Yes, I'm off... Thanks for all your hospitality. But it's no good, you see. I told this little chap," (here he indicated the lizard), "that he'd have to be quiet if he came--which he insisted on doing. Of course his stuff won't do here: I realise that. But he won't stop. I shall just have to go home." (Lewis, 99-100)
The angel offers to silence the lizard, to which the ghost readily agrees until he realizes that the angel is really offering to kill the lizard.
At this point, it becomes indubitable that Lewis' intent here is to symbolize lust. First, the entire tableau is preceded by the narrator's discussion of lust with George Macdonald. Second, the lizard happens to be red, which has long been the color of lust and its consequences, e.g., adultery (think Hawthorne, for example). Third, the man's response to the offer to kill the lizard is telling. Although he intimates that the lizard is "embarrassing," he also recoils from the thought of killing it, and goes so far as to make the excuse that he would have "to be in good health for the operation" (Lewis, 101).
Significantly, the lizard begins to talk to the ghost: "[If he kills me] you'll be without me for ever and ever. It's not natural. How could you live? You'd be only a sort of ghost, not a real man as you are now" (Lewis, 102). The appeal to the ghost's manhood here leads the interpretation. But more interesting still is the lizard's subsequent promise. "I know there are no real pleasures now, only dreams. But aren't they better than nothing? And I'll be so good... I'll give you nothing but really nice dreams--all sweet and fresh and almost innocent" (Lewis). To make a short allegory shorter, the ghost allows the angel to kill the lizard, which then turns into a white stallion (the ghost turns into a real man, who is, significantly, naked), and the man rides off on the stallion.
The point of it is simply that Lewis, as a literature scholar, is well aware of a thread in literature that equates sexuality and spirituality. And rather than merely letting sexuality remain a spiritual issue (see his chapter on "Christian Sexual Ethics" in Mere Christianity), Lewis has demonstrated that spirituality is also a sexual issue to some degree.
Because so much contemporary literature that converses with the medieval period has been influenced by the Inklings, it seems natural to turn in that direction to begin an investigation. For this entry, let's simply focus on C. S. Lewis. Although his works pertaining to Narnia are most popular, The Great Divorce, an allegory on the passage of souls from heaven to hell, speaks volumes more on sexuality and spirituality.
Note first that one of Lewis' characters, a ghost who has a "red lizard" on his shoulder, a lizard that whispers in his ear. Says the ghost to an angel who inquires about the ghost's sudden move to return to hell,
"Yes, I'm off... Thanks for all your hospitality. But it's no good, you see. I told this little chap," (here he indicated the lizard), "that he'd have to be quiet if he came--which he insisted on doing. Of course his stuff won't do here: I realise that. But he won't stop. I shall just have to go home." (Lewis, 99-100)
The angel offers to silence the lizard, to which the ghost readily agrees until he realizes that the angel is really offering to kill the lizard.
At this point, it becomes indubitable that Lewis' intent here is to symbolize lust. First, the entire tableau is preceded by the narrator's discussion of lust with George Macdonald. Second, the lizard happens to be red, which has long been the color of lust and its consequences, e.g., adultery (think Hawthorne, for example). Third, the man's response to the offer to kill the lizard is telling. Although he intimates that the lizard is "embarrassing," he also recoils from the thought of killing it, and goes so far as to make the excuse that he would have "to be in good health for the operation" (Lewis, 101).
Significantly, the lizard begins to talk to the ghost: "[If he kills me] you'll be without me for ever and ever. It's not natural. How could you live? You'd be only a sort of ghost, not a real man as you are now" (Lewis, 102). The appeal to the ghost's manhood here leads the interpretation. But more interesting still is the lizard's subsequent promise. "I know there are no real pleasures now, only dreams. But aren't they better than nothing? And I'll be so good... I'll give you nothing but really nice dreams--all sweet and fresh and almost innocent" (Lewis). To make a short allegory shorter, the ghost allows the angel to kill the lizard, which then turns into a white stallion (the ghost turns into a real man, who is, significantly, naked), and the man rides off on the stallion.
The point of it is simply that Lewis, as a literature scholar, is well aware of a thread in literature that equates sexuality and spirituality. And rather than merely letting sexuality remain a spiritual issue (see his chapter on "Christian Sexual Ethics" in Mere Christianity), Lewis has demonstrated that spirituality is also a sexual issue to some degree.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Gollum's Daisies
I noticed in Lenten is come with love to toune that one line reads “Dayeseyes in this dales.” The first word is unmistakably familiar: “daisies,” but the revelation that arises from the poem is that it is a combination of “day” and “eye.”
In his work, The Hobbit, author and linguist J.R.R. Tolkien addressed this construct in a riddle, given in Gollum’s cave:
“An eye in a blue face
Saw an eye in a green face.
‘That eye is like to this eye’
Said the first eye,
‘But in low place,
Not in high place.’”
The answer is “’Sun on the daisies,’” as Gollum gives it. As such, it constitutes not only the answer to a riddle, but a kind of pun. “Sun” is the “day’s eye.”
Tolkien must have been aware of this. Indeed, a similar name formation arises in his flower, “kingsfoil.” The first half is obvious: “king.” “Foil” is a much more complex term. It may mean something like “to impede,” also “blade.” There is an aspect of it that connotes fragrance, from its root in Latin fullare, “to clean cloth.” Finally, it can mean “leaf.” As such, it stands for a variety of regal elements: a sword, a clean piece of linen, a rebuttal or tactical impediment of some sort (reaching perhaps, but the product of strategy and wisdom in governing; the product of a decree, maybe), a leaf, which is often an element of heraldry. In The Lord of the Rings, kingsfoil is the plant that begets healing to the wounded time and again, and which forms a significant part of (King) Aragorn’s heraldry after the War of the Ring.
Another two-part flower-name construct appears in English in the word “buttercup,” which, according to OED, is thought to be a combination of still two other two-part constructs, “butterflower” and “gold-cup” (or possibly “kings-cup”). Many other flower names I researched arose from Old French. “Rose” is actually from Latin. But there may very well be more English flower names that envelope older words with which we are familiar. Inquiry in this direction might well prove worth the effort.
In his work, The Hobbit, author and linguist J.R.R. Tolkien addressed this construct in a riddle, given in Gollum’s cave:
“An eye in a blue face
Saw an eye in a green face.
‘That eye is like to this eye’
Said the first eye,
‘But in low place,
Not in high place.’”
The answer is “’Sun on the daisies,’” as Gollum gives it. As such, it constitutes not only the answer to a riddle, but a kind of pun. “Sun” is the “day’s eye.”
Tolkien must have been aware of this. Indeed, a similar name formation arises in his flower, “kingsfoil.” The first half is obvious: “king.” “Foil” is a much more complex term. It may mean something like “to impede,” also “blade.” There is an aspect of it that connotes fragrance, from its root in Latin fullare, “to clean cloth.” Finally, it can mean “leaf.” As such, it stands for a variety of regal elements: a sword, a clean piece of linen, a rebuttal or tactical impediment of some sort (reaching perhaps, but the product of strategy and wisdom in governing; the product of a decree, maybe), a leaf, which is often an element of heraldry. In The Lord of the Rings, kingsfoil is the plant that begets healing to the wounded time and again, and which forms a significant part of (King) Aragorn’s heraldry after the War of the Ring.
Another two-part flower-name construct appears in English in the word “buttercup,” which, according to OED, is thought to be a combination of still two other two-part constructs, “butterflower” and “gold-cup” (or possibly “kings-cup”). Many other flower names I researched arose from Old French. “Rose” is actually from Latin. But there may very well be more English flower names that envelope older words with which we are familiar. Inquiry in this direction might well prove worth the effort.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Religion in "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight"
This post is in response to the comments at the end of class regarding Gawain's tirade on "womanly wiles" by using examples from the Bible. I agree that this speech feels out of place. Throughout the poem, Gawain acts respectfully toward women—at least toward the woman he encounters—and it is not a stretch to imagine him as an advocate for equality. However, this image is dashed at the end when he presents as a truth that, in general, women are less trustworthy, following the tradition of Eve.
For me, because this speech feels out of place, I try to think about the author’s intent with assigning these assertions to Gawain. Overall, this poem has a strong Christian undertone. From the beginning it is clear that one of Gawain’s greatest virtues is that he is a good Christian. He has the image of Mary printed on the inside of his shield. He tries to follow in Jesus Christ’s footsteps by sacrificing himself for the whole. He prays constantly. This is why when Gawain talks about women using Biblical references, I get the feeling that it is the author’s attempt to drive home the relationship between mortality and spirituality. As we discussed in class, Gawain does pretty well for himself under the circumstances. However, he still blames himself for his one misstep of accepting the girdle because, he says, “For mon may hyden his harme, bot unhap ne may hit” (line 2511). I feel that he is concerned because even though he has done a good job as the mortal that he is, his soul, the part that will eventually ascend to heaven (hopefully), might be smeared. A misdeed can never be erased because it follows the eternal soul; after Gawain sheds his mortal body, he will have to face the immortal judgment.
It is interesting to compare Gawain’s strength in keeping his life and in essence respecting his temple, to his will in keeping his Christian soul clean. It is almost as if the more he wants to live and take care of his body, the less his morals can be kept. Personally, I feel that the way he acts could be the only way to come out of this situation with the least amount of injury in both respects.
Also, it might be significant that this whole ordeal starts as a Christmas game, and also ends at Christmas—the holiday that celebrates the birth of Christ.
For me, because this speech feels out of place, I try to think about the author’s intent with assigning these assertions to Gawain. Overall, this poem has a strong Christian undertone. From the beginning it is clear that one of Gawain’s greatest virtues is that he is a good Christian. He has the image of Mary printed on the inside of his shield. He tries to follow in Jesus Christ’s footsteps by sacrificing himself for the whole. He prays constantly. This is why when Gawain talks about women using Biblical references, I get the feeling that it is the author’s attempt to drive home the relationship between mortality and spirituality. As we discussed in class, Gawain does pretty well for himself under the circumstances. However, he still blames himself for his one misstep of accepting the girdle because, he says, “For mon may hyden his harme, bot unhap ne may hit” (line 2511). I feel that he is concerned because even though he has done a good job as the mortal that he is, his soul, the part that will eventually ascend to heaven (hopefully), might be smeared. A misdeed can never be erased because it follows the eternal soul; after Gawain sheds his mortal body, he will have to face the immortal judgment.
It is interesting to compare Gawain’s strength in keeping his life and in essence respecting his temple, to his will in keeping his Christian soul clean. It is almost as if the more he wants to live and take care of his body, the less his morals can be kept. Personally, I feel that the way he acts could be the only way to come out of this situation with the least amount of injury in both respects.
Also, it might be significant that this whole ordeal starts as a Christmas game, and also ends at Christmas—the holiday that celebrates the birth of Christ.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Introducing Kate Rusby
I'd like to introduce you all to a British musician, Kate Rusby, whose revival of an old British folk tradition brings to light several elements of Middle English poetry. In this entry, I will reference music from her albums The Girl Who Couldn't Fly and Underneath the Stars.
For starters, Kate does a nice job telling tales in song. Both albums contain several tracks that could just as easily have been adventures included in any of the poems we've read this semester. "The Blind Harper" is a witty bit about a blind harper (weird, I know) who steals the king's horse and gets paid--by the king--to do it. "The Goodman" tells the story of a husband who repeatedly comes home to fishy circumstances that are simplistically explained by his apparently playful wife.
Thematic content on both albums closely matches that which we have seen in Middle English lyrics: nature, women and religion. Religion is more scarce than the other two, limited to references to marriage and prayer. Women are probably the major topic of Kate's music, from "Mary Blaize" to "Polly" to "The Daughter of Megan." Waiting for the return of true love, especially from commercial voyages or foreign war, seems to be a major theme, again, hearkening to the Middle English lyrics we've read.
Kate's treatment of nature contains one striking difference from the medieval mindset: she looks on certain natural phenomena with much less fear and much more fondness than would the average medieval villager. Consider the darkness of the forest in Sir Orfeo, and one is struck by Kate's lyrics:
"Here is a tale of the trees in the wood
They were never that pleased on the land that they stood
So they upped and they walked on as far as they could
'Til they felt the sun shine on their branches...
There they did stand, and there they did stay
When there came a young boy who was running away
From a mad world, a bad world, a world of decay
And it's comfort he sought in their branches...
...the trees kept him safe in their branches" (Kate Rusby, "Little Jack Frost").
This is a far cry from Orfeo's experience of the enchantment of the forest. Kate's trees are not dark, but instead uproot themselves specifically for the purpose of moving toward the sunlight. Rather than occluding a friend, they become friends to a runaway who is not afraid of the world in the trees, but who is instead fleeing the world outside the forest. As his friends, they keep him safe in their branches.
To add to the friendly nature phenomenon, Kate's song "Moon Shadow" is an encomium to her shadow in the moonlight, portrayed as a close friend. One has to wonder how the superstitious medieval mindset may have thought of this.
Humor is not absent either. In similar kind to the irony of "Of all creatures women be the best" Kate gives us "Mary Blaize." A few good lines:
"Good people all with one accord remember Mary Blaize
She never wanted one good word from those who spoke her praise...
She strove the neighborhood to please with manners wond'rous winning
She never followed wicked ways unless when she was sinning
At church in silks and satins new with hoop of monstrous size
She never slumbered in her pew but when she closed her eyes" (Kate Rusby, "Mary Blaize").
The hilarity of this piece hinges primarily on common-sense tautologies that introduce a subtle English irony. For more delight, listen to the entire song. It's speedy rhythm sounds anything like the eulogy that the lyrics indicate it is.
Finally, some linguistic bits of Middle English remain in Kate's lyrics. "Bonnie House of Airlie" begins with, "It fell on a day," cf. "Gamelyn" line 81, in which "Gamelyn stood on a day" is clarified in the margin as "one day." So much the better. Kate's use of "on a day" is then a throw back to Middle English. The net effect is to produce songs that seem old, even when they aren't. Kudos to this enterprising musician. Give her a listen.
For starters, Kate does a nice job telling tales in song. Both albums contain several tracks that could just as easily have been adventures included in any of the poems we've read this semester. "The Blind Harper" is a witty bit about a blind harper (weird, I know) who steals the king's horse and gets paid--by the king--to do it. "The Goodman" tells the story of a husband who repeatedly comes home to fishy circumstances that are simplistically explained by his apparently playful wife.
Thematic content on both albums closely matches that which we have seen in Middle English lyrics: nature, women and religion. Religion is more scarce than the other two, limited to references to marriage and prayer. Women are probably the major topic of Kate's music, from "Mary Blaize" to "Polly" to "The Daughter of Megan." Waiting for the return of true love, especially from commercial voyages or foreign war, seems to be a major theme, again, hearkening to the Middle English lyrics we've read.
Kate's treatment of nature contains one striking difference from the medieval mindset: she looks on certain natural phenomena with much less fear and much more fondness than would the average medieval villager. Consider the darkness of the forest in Sir Orfeo, and one is struck by Kate's lyrics:
"Here is a tale of the trees in the wood
They were never that pleased on the land that they stood
So they upped and they walked on as far as they could
'Til they felt the sun shine on their branches...
There they did stand, and there they did stay
When there came a young boy who was running away
From a mad world, a bad world, a world of decay
And it's comfort he sought in their branches...
...the trees kept him safe in their branches" (Kate Rusby, "Little Jack Frost").
This is a far cry from Orfeo's experience of the enchantment of the forest. Kate's trees are not dark, but instead uproot themselves specifically for the purpose of moving toward the sunlight. Rather than occluding a friend, they become friends to a runaway who is not afraid of the world in the trees, but who is instead fleeing the world outside the forest. As his friends, they keep him safe in their branches.
To add to the friendly nature phenomenon, Kate's song "Moon Shadow" is an encomium to her shadow in the moonlight, portrayed as a close friend. One has to wonder how the superstitious medieval mindset may have thought of this.
Humor is not absent either. In similar kind to the irony of "Of all creatures women be the best" Kate gives us "Mary Blaize." A few good lines:
"Good people all with one accord remember Mary Blaize
She never wanted one good word from those who spoke her praise...
She strove the neighborhood to please with manners wond'rous winning
She never followed wicked ways unless when she was sinning
At church in silks and satins new with hoop of monstrous size
She never slumbered in her pew but when she closed her eyes" (Kate Rusby, "Mary Blaize").
The hilarity of this piece hinges primarily on common-sense tautologies that introduce a subtle English irony. For more delight, listen to the entire song. It's speedy rhythm sounds anything like the eulogy that the lyrics indicate it is.
Finally, some linguistic bits of Middle English remain in Kate's lyrics. "Bonnie House of Airlie" begins with, "It fell on a day," cf. "Gamelyn" line 81, in which "Gamelyn stood on a day" is clarified in the margin as "one day." So much the better. Kate's use of "on a day" is then a throw back to Middle English. The net effect is to produce songs that seem old, even when they aren't. Kudos to this enterprising musician. Give her a listen.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Recommended: the GW Medieval and Early Modern Studies Institute
Since Julia's post about the green children of Woolpit prompted a comment from me about Jeffrey Jerome Cohen's fine medieval scholarship, I thought I should mention that Professor Cohen is the director of George Washington University's Medieval and Early Modern Studies Institute, newly expanded from its beginnings last year as a seminar, and it has some very exciting events planned for this semester. Take a look at the GW MEMSI blog here for more information!
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Brave or Reckless?
Both Gamelyn and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight feature main characters or protagonists that are somewhat naive or reckless when it comes to confronting danger or the unknown. While a certain amount of recklessness could easily look like knightly bravery, I think there may be more going on than that. We talked a little bit in class this week about how Gamelyn is, in many ways, a poem about critiquing and even subverting authority - both the eldest son and the clergy. I think as we move further into SGGK, it will become evident that there is an element of that going on there too(and I will probably post about it next week). The naive attitudes of the main characters early on in both poems seem like a possible indication that English society in this time period was blind to the social and political upheaval that was coming there way. A few examples:
When Gamelyn's father dies, his oldest brother John pretends to take him and is inheritance under his wing, and Gamelyn goes along without suspicion (lines 70-73). By the time Gamelyn realizes that maybe his brother isn't quite treating him right, in lines 90-100, we get the sense that Gamelyn has been there for awhile. Later in the poem, the tables turn, and John and his men are pretty clueless about the danger that Gamelyn, Adam, and even Ote present once they have turned against him. Their ignorance leads to their deaths.
Likewise, in SGGK, Arthur seems perfectly comfortable welcoming a gigantic, magical green knight into his hall and agreeing to play a pretty dangerous game with him. Gawain enters into an agreement with the green knight that requires him to go wandering in the woods in unknown territory to seek out the green knight by himself. A lot is made of both of their bravery, but I wonder if we should be making something of their blindness to danger.
When Gamelyn's father dies, his oldest brother John pretends to take him and is inheritance under his wing, and Gamelyn goes along without suspicion (lines 70-73). By the time Gamelyn realizes that maybe his brother isn't quite treating him right, in lines 90-100, we get the sense that Gamelyn has been there for awhile. Later in the poem, the tables turn, and John and his men are pretty clueless about the danger that Gamelyn, Adam, and even Ote present once they have turned against him. Their ignorance leads to their deaths.
Likewise, in SGGK, Arthur seems perfectly comfortable welcoming a gigantic, magical green knight into his hall and agreeing to play a pretty dangerous game with him. Gawain enters into an agreement with the green knight that requires him to go wandering in the woods in unknown territory to seek out the green knight by himself. A lot is made of both of their bravery, but I wonder if we should be making something of their blindness to danger.
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