I already tried looking up this question on Reddit, but was only shown linguistic features which specify that the inscription is neither West nor East Germanic. I have heard that the inscription on the Gallehus horns is (Pre-)Proto-Norse, but I cannot identify any linguistic features in it which would indicate innovations from Common Germanic. Does its classification have something to do with the rhotacism of final sibilants? TIA.

getting good detail information on learning OHG seems hard to found.

Have been interested in the topic quite recently. There any good academic books on the topic worth recommending?

Now I'm working on ELF. I noticed that Elves in Anglo-Saxon England: Matters of Belief, Health, Gender and Identity. has been mentioned a lot. It looks like a very detailed one. I'm especially interested in medieval germanic folklore and legends, besides Deutsche Mythologie, is there any other book recommended?

Just exactly as stated above: is the idea that; Mercurius Hranno, the deity name found on the base of a statue found near Bonn, Germany, would be connected to Hrani (a later name of Odinn), tenable or not? Hranno, from at least what I’ve read, seems to mean some variation of “harsh/rough”, so a Germanic variation of Mercury with an epithet calling attention to particular severity or roughness of character at least appears to me to seem like it could be representative of Odinn, especially with the potential for correlation in Mercurius Cimbrianus. Is the asserted connection between these figures in contemporary scholarship a reach or is it plausible?

The ninth book of the Iliad comes after seven books filled with defeat after defeat for the Greeks. Achilles was right: without him, the war to conquer Troy is lost. The damage Agamemnon did to the honor of the light-footed hero turned out to be a fatal mistake. The fate of all Greeks hangs in the balance. The Greeks' main problem is that their enemies know it too. The "high-hearted Trojans" (as they are described by Homer), strengthened by victory after victory, have already left the safety and security of their high walls and moved to the attack. At the end of the previous book (the eighth), night falls on the Trojan camp, a thousand fires illuminate it, and the soldiers, led by Hector, wait for Eos, goddess of dawn, to announce the coming morning and the resumption of fighting, hoping this battle will be the final blow to the Greeks parked alongside their hollow ships.

Agamemnon convenes all the heroes of the Greek camp for an urgent war council, in which he allows all the speakers to berate him. Nestor, the legendary king of Pylos, is the main speaker who pours out his anger on the pride of the king of kings, which has caused Achilles to refuse to fight. What is amazing is that Agamemnon agrees with everything being said. He recognizes and fully admits his mistake. His desperation at the outcome of the war has brought Agamemnon to a place where he can put his immense pride aside, for the main concern is that the Greek camp not be eliminated. He even offers his fellow men an unbelievable proposal: he is ready to admit defeat and return home. The Greeks refuse. They have only one solution in mind: to appease Achilles.

To this end, Agamemnon intends to shower the most splendid gifts he can on the hero—if Achilles returns to battle. Seven golden tripods (Did Achilles sign up for a film school?), many captive women who will serve as sex slaves for him, the woman who was stolen from him at the beginning of the story and whom Agamemnon swore he did not take to his bed, silver, gold, jewelry, and what not. Agamemnon is so desperate that he not only promises Achilles the hand of one of his own three daughters—and that the hero will choose the one he wants—but he even promises Achilles seven cities that are not technically under his, Agamemnon's, own rule. The naked truth is that this is exactly what Achilles was waiting for.

Would it surprise you to learn that the expedition to Achilles fails?

Despite all the excuses that Achilles provides as to why he will not return to the fight, one explanation stands above all and provides a glimpse into the man's psychology: it is not the woman he fancied so much and that was taken from him by Agamemnon, not his love of life, not even the disgrace he experienced when—while always leading the warriors at great danger to himself—he did not get the reward that is his due. What troubles him most, driving him to such paralyzing wrath, is the fact that the Greeks did not seem to recognize that without him they have no hope of winning. It was the way Agamemnon (in book one) dismissed Achilles in front of the whole camp and mocked him. This is the glory he asked for himself and which was tarnished by those Achilles perceives as lesser men than him. And Achilles, we should never mistake this, thinks that everyone is less than him. And rightly so, as the events proved. In other words, Achilles secretly, actually not even so secretly, is satisfied with the situation the Greeks have found themselves in. He doesn't care how many of them die at the hands of the Trojans. He doesn't even care if the Greek ships catch fire. He is aware that it was only thanks to him leaving the battlefield altogether that Hector, hero of the Trojans, dared to venture as far as the Greek camp.

Beowulf, the other epic hero I want to talk about today, is never that complex or obnoxious. Why?

The medieval epic poem Beowulf provides us with a glimpse into the Scandinavian world of the seventh or eighth century AD. Although it is considered England's earliest epic, England itself is not mentioned at any point. In the opening lines of the poem, we learn about the desolate palace of Hrothgar, king of the Danes, of Heorot, which has been attacked for twelve winters by a terrible monster named Grendel. Each and every night, when the moon appears, Grendel slips into Heorot to attack, slaughter, and carry the bodies of Denmark's brave warriors to his lair. Twelve winters pass in terror, with most of the king's loyalists fleeing far away from the monster's wrath and hatred. That is until the coming of Beowulf, a fierce young warrior of the Geats. What is fascinating about this epic, certainly compared to the Iliad, is the complete absence of any psychological complexity in the hero of the work. Beowulf is the perfect hero, which is another way of saying—quite the dull person.

If Achilles is faced with a choice—to return to his home and die in the bosom of his family as an old man or to stay in Troy and die a glorious death that will gain him worldly fame (we still talk about him, right?)—Beowulf is the embodiment of a flat character. He is the strongest warrior the world has ever known, as we are told repeatedly. Unlike the disorder and scheming that reign in the Greek Olympus, Beowulf is God's chosen, and therefore his efforts to kill Grendel will surely succeed. And they do succeed. Even when Grendel's mother arrives (I swear I'm not making this up), and she turns out to be an even more terrifying monster, he also slaughters her with relative ease. I mean, he almost loses, but in the end—naturally prevails.

Many scholars have debated over the years to what extent the Christian declarations in the poem and the relentless invoking of the Christian God and his justice, declarations and appeals that appear every few lines in this poem, are authentic to the original pagan poem or if they are actually a late editing by a Christian poet—perhaps a monk—who inserted them into the text so that the poem would fit more easily in the Christian era. I have no way of offering an educated opinion, because even the language in which the work was written—Old English—is completely foreign to me. Still, I wish to presume to say something about that Christian-Pagan divide, well aware of my lack of real scholarly knowledge or expertise. Do you mind?

I have no idea if the Christian poet who edited the poem was the first writer who put on page the stories and legends about Beowulf, stories and legends that must have circulated from Northern Europe all the way to Saxon England. The world of Beowulf, no matter how often that anonymous poet interweaves it with appeals to the Almighty Christian God, is a pagan world of glory, of honor, and of monsters. This fact is always maintained—visible to the reader or hidden, but never too far away. Consider this: before the coming of Beowulf to the rescue, when the Danes' efforts to defeat Grendel fail, they immediately fall back to praying to their ancient stone gods, whom—the Christian poet tells us—they will meet in the hell that awaits them for this outrageous heresy.

In the Odyssey, Homer describes the monstrous Cyclops as uncivilized. The poet of Beowulf emphasizes that Grendel is unloved and unlovely. While Grendel is of human descent, he is an offspring of the hated Cain. For a hardened war poem about fearless warriors who kill monsters barehanded—which is how Beowulf killed Grendel—love seems to be a key concept in their worldview and crucial to their survival. Is the reference to love in the poem another, later Christian addition to what is a harsh, unmerciful pagan world? I doubt it, as the reason given for its centrality has nothing to do with the Christian gospel.

A young prince, says the poet at the beginning of the poem, should "So use his virtue, give with a free hand while in his father's house, that in old age when enemies gather—established friends shall stand by him and serve him gladly. It is by glorious actions that a man comes by honor in any people."

And so, love is of practical use. A good king is always described as a "ring-giver," a ruler who distributes the loot with his loyal followers. And Beowulf, most beloved by all, accepts that fact wholeheartedly. The dullness of his character can be largely attributed to his predictability—as "Falsity in those days had no place in the dealings of the Danish people."

In 1971, the American author John Gardner published the novel Grendel, a retelling of the poem Beowulf In 1971, the American author John Gardner published the novel Grendel, a retelling of the poem Beowulf from the perspective of the monster. The voice that Gardner gives Grendel is surprisingly moving. It is not the voice of a villainous character but one that acts like an element of destruction. It’s not cruelty that drives Grendel to feast on the Danes. Not even hunger—or just hunger. It’s just what he does. With delight and also shame. This is the way he is created. His image is likened to Cain, the first murderer.

It was only after reading Gardner’s novel that I began to think about the Beowulf/Achilles equation in a new light, and the more I did, the more I became—what? Ashamed myself? While we are talking about fantastical works here, it’s still important to realize how our need for a complex character could blind us. It’s almost like going on a date with someone who is just so nice. And mentally sane. So-called good person. Not too loud or rude or insecure. And you’re having a good time together. It’s fun in a comfortable sort of way. Not bad comfortable. Just not roller-coastery. So nice and cozy, in fact, that you never call that sane person again… Because who needs that, right?

Beowulf—it’s sad to say—is that kind of date. He kills monsters with his (mostly) bare hands, and he does so to save a people in need, for a king he didn’t know but respected from afar. He wants glory for himself but not at the expense of others—the opposite is true, in fact. He comes to Heorot to kill Grendel because no one else could. Essentially, he is the hero we need. A sort of Superman stripped of the neurotic Clark Kent.

If you had to pick between Beowulf and Achilles to fight alongside you and have your back in an epic war, who would you pick? I’d wager that you wouldn’t want Achilles on your side. I don’t. Because, actually, he has none. In Book 20 of the Iliad, after his best friend dies at the hands of Hector, Achilles goes back to warring with a wrath that knows no limits. He slays everyone that comes his way. He massacres so many people that he fills a river, which turns against him in an effort to drown the hero.

Before the death of his friend Patroclus at the hands of Hector, Achilles was ready to return home. He knows that the ideals of his age are hollow, and that war is futile. Beowulf isn’t capable of anything near this level of complexity. But at the same time, he isn’t vengeful. Not against people. He’ll not only fight to protect you, but he’ll also most likely convince you to stay out of harm’s way, far from the actual fighting, so he can slay the monsters himself.

I open this essay with the ninth book of the Iliad, which tells the story of the expedition to Achilles consisting of the cunning Odysseus, the elderly Phoenix, and the fearsome Ajax. I wish to go back to that expedition for a closer look.

The conversation that develops between the messengers who came to bring back Achilles and the warrior is a central moment in the plot. During the exchange, Achilles makes it clear just how much he no longer partakes in the ideals of Greek honor. The arrogant Agamemnon recognizes the grave mistake he made. Achilles will never recognize his. Each and every Greek loss only proves to him how essential he is and how unjustified the disdain for him was. There is a moment when Phoenix the elder tells Achilles about a past hero who was in a similar situation to Achilles—refusing to fight for his people because of his fury, and of the similar expedition that came to convince him to relent. The first time I read this, I found Phoenix’s story to be somewhat long-winded. It was only later that it actually clarified for me how different Achilles’ situation is. His wrath was not sent by any god (unlike the story told by the old man in which the wrath was sent from Artemis). This is a rage that Achilles has been actively and consciously working to produce and perpetuate since Agamemnon’s insult.

Achilles is not interested in the gifts of reconciliation that were promised to him. He knows his fate very well. But in order for his future glory to be worthy of his great dimensions, it will have to be attained after many torments. Achilles doesn’t mind paying the price and cares even less that the Greeks will have to pay it with him, at least for now. He still doesn’t know how high the final price will be. And so, the gods are currently encouraging him and supporting his wrath. At least the most important of them, Zeus.

In sharp contrast to Achilles, what does Beowulf have to complain about? His whole being is in perfect alignment with the war maxims of his society. Even as he is dying after slaying the dragon—single-handedly, of course, and at old age, mind you (age 70 plus)—all he can do is watch the plunder with pride, saying:

"For this, this gold, these jewels, I thank

Our Father in Heaven, Ruler of the Earth—

For all of this, that His grace has given me,

Allowed me to bring to my people while breath

Still came to my lips. I sold my life

For this treasure, and I sold it well. Take

What I leave, Wiglaf, lead my people,

Help them; my time is gone. Have

The brave Geats build me a tomb,

When the funeral flames have burned me, and

Build it

Here, at the water’s edge, high

On this spit of land, so sailors can see

This tower, and remember my name, and call it

Beowulf’s tower, and boats in the darkness

And mist, crossing the sea, will know it."

I don’t think Beowulf goes happily to his grave because God promised him a better future in the afterlife. I think he goes because, again, he’s just not that complicated of a man...

So, why should we bother to read this old poem? A poem that doesn’t specialize in complex psychology. Well, I can think of several reasons. First of all, lovers of myths and fairy tales will find a very different world here compared to the recognized ancient Greek or Judeo-Christian worlds. Secondly, lovers of poetry will find beautiful and unusual poetic descriptions, providing a closer look into the worldview of the Scandinavian warrior cultures that gave us this poetry. For instance, consider the description of the true warrior who "cuts his wealth with the sword" or the poetic terms like "salt trails" for the sea and the "sea-worthy wave cutter" for a ship.

But there is another reason, one that was lost on me the first time I read Beowulf: the tragedy that befalls the people of the invincible hero.

Beowulf ends in a mirror image of its beginning. The mighty king Shild, mentioned in the opening lines of the poem, was not just a great leader of men, but unlike Beowulf, he gave the Danes a son:

"A new leader,

Allowed them by the grace of God

...

Shild's strong son was the

Glory of Denmark."

The Geats, Beowulf's people, had no such luck. They remain kingless and miserable and eventually disappeared as a people—probably defeated, conquered, and enslaved. Just the story of their once great king remains, saved by chance from becoming just another forgotten page of history.

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