Sir Degare in Translation

Degare leaves the hermit to seek his parents. He rescues an Earl from a dragon (with blows of his staff) and then gets a bevy of beauties paraded in front of him as he tries to find the woman whose hands will fit his gloves.

He knelede adoun al so swithe, And thonked the ermite of his live, And swor he nolde stinte no stounde Til he his kinrede hadde ifounde. For in the lettre was thous iwrite, That bi the gloven he sscholde iwite Wich were his moder and who, Yhif that sche livede tho, For on hire honden hii wolde, And on non other hii nolde. Half the florines he gaf the hermite, And halvendel he tok him mide, And nam his leve an wolde go. "Nai," seide the hermite, "schaltu no! To seche thi ken mightou nowt dure Withouten hors and god armure." "Nai," quad he, "bi Hevene Kyng, Ich wil have first another thing!" He hew adoun, bothe gret and grim, To beren in his hond with him, A god sapling of an ok; Whan he tharwith gaf a strok, Ne wer he never so strong a man Ne so gode armes hadde upon, That he ne scholde falle to grounde; Swich a bourdon to him he founde. Tho thenne God he him bitawt, And aither fram other wepyng rawt. Child Degarre wente his wai Thourgh the forest al that dai. No man he ne herd, ne non he segh, Til hit was non ipassed hegh; Thanne he herde a noise kete In o valai, an dintes grete. Blive thider he gan to te: What hit ware he wolde ise. An Herl of the countré, stout and fers, With a knight and four squiers, Hadde ihonted a der other two, And al here houndes weren ago. Than was thar a dragon grim, Ful of filth and of venim, With wide throte and teth grete, And wynges bitere with to bete. As a lyoun he hadde fet, And his tail was long and gret. The smoke com of his nose awai Ase fer out of a chimenai. The knyght and squiers he had torent, Man and hors to dethe chent. The dragon the Erl assaile gan, And he defended him as a man, And stoutliche leid on with his swerd, And stronge strokes on him gerd; Ac alle his dentes ne greved him nowt: His hide was hard so iren wrout. Therl flei fram tre to tre - Fein he wolde fram him be - And the dragon him gan asail; The doughti Erl in that batail Ofsegh this child Degarre; "Ha! help!" he seide, "par charité!" The dragoun seth the child com; He laft the Erl and to him nom Blowinde and yeniend also Als he him wolde swolewe tho. Ac Degarre was ful strong; He tok his bat, gret and long, And in the forehefd he him batereth That al the forehefd he tospatereth. He fil adoun anon right, And frapte his tail with gret might Upon Degarres side, That up-so-doun he gan to glide; Ac he stert up ase a man And with his bat leide upan, And al tofrusst him ech a bon, That he lai ded, stille as a ston. Therl knelede adoun bilive And thonked the child of his live, And maked him with him gon To his castel right anon, And wel at hese he him made, And proferd him al that he hade, Rentes, tresor, an eke lond, For to holden in his hond. Thanne answerede Degarre, "Lat come ferst bifor me Thi levedi and other wimmen bold, Maidenes and widues, yonge and olde, And other damoiseles swete. Yif mine gloven beth to hem mete For to done upon here honde, Thanne ich wil take thi londe; And yif thai ben nowt so, Iich wille take me leve and go." Alle wimman were forht ibrowt In wide cuntries and forth isowt: Ech the gloven assaie bigan, Ac non ne mighte don hem on. He tok his gloven and up hem dede, And nam his leve in that stede. The Erl was gentil man of blod, And gaf him a stede ful god And noble armure, riche and fin, When he wolde armen him therin, And a palefrai to riden an, And a knave to ben his man, And yaf him a swerd bright, And dubbed him ther to knyght, And swor bi God Almighti That he was better worthi To usen hors and armes also Than with his bat aboute to go

In gratitude he did kneel And thanked the hermit for his weal, Swearing to search far aground Until his father and mother were found. For in the letter was written thus That by the gloves know he must His mother's true identity. If she were alive he would see That her hands those gloves would fit, And on none other's could they sit. He gave the hermit half his wealth The remainder he kept for his health And took his leave with his lot. "No," said the hermit, "you shall not! Your quest for kin would go off course Without good armor, without a horse." "No," he replied, "by Heaven's King, I'll start out with a simple thing!" He cut down, gnarled and great To carry as he sought his fate, A good sapling of an oak; With this weapon, such a stroke He gave that even the strongest man With good arms could not withstand The blow and crumbled to the ground; Such a pilgrim's staff he found. Then the hermit blessed the boy And he departed in sorrow, not joy. Young Degare made his way Through the forest all that day. No one was present with him to commune, Until the hour was well past noon; Then he heard in a valley below The awful noise of a great blow. Toward the sound he rode eagerly: Wondering what there was to see. An earl of that land, aggressive and strong, And the nobles who had ridden along, Had hunted deer at some cost: For all their hunting dogs were lost. There stood a dragon most ugly Filled with venom, a creature unholy, Of wide throat and fangs so great, His long tail was a fearsome trait. Bitterly his wings did beat As he trampled with lion's feet. His nostrils blew smoke to the skies As from a chimney fires rise. The noblemen he had torn apart Both men and horse felt death's dart. The dragon began to attack the Earl Who defended himself, and fought to hurl Stiff strong strokes with his sword: On dragon-hide, these were scored. But every blow came to nought: The dragon's skin was as iron wrought. The Earl scrambled from tree to tree Hoping that he could run free— And that dragon challenged the mettle Of the Earl in that battle. All this young Degare did see; He said, "I'll help, for charity!" Seeing Degare's approach, The dragon left the Earl to broach Great yawns and a rumbling bellow As if he would Degare swallow. But Degare was so strong That with his staff, great and long, That monstrous forehead he battered: And every forehead bone was shattered. In an instant the dragon fell down But by whipping his tail around He struck with a blow so fleet, That it swept Degare off his feet; But Degare quickly rose again And with his cudgel blows did rain On the fiend, smashing each bone, Till the dragon lay dead, still as stone. On humble knees the Earl now gave Thanks to him who had fought to save His life. Degare followed this lord Back to his castle for his reward. The Earl made Degare his guest, Offering him all he possessed, Rents, treasure and even lands, Were placed into Degare's hands. To this answered Degare "If you will, put on display This land's ladies for me to behold Maidens and widows, young and old, And other noble damsels sweet. If these gloves happen to meet The lady whose hands they will fit I'll take your lands and my quest quit; But if an exact fit is not found Then I'll leave and not stay around." Before him were many women brought From far-flung countries they were sought: Each one tried the gloves to don But none was able to put them on. Retrieving the gloves, Degare Prepared to continue on his way. The Earl did what a nobleman should And gave Degare a steed that was good And noble armor, of rich design Which Degare wore and looked fine, And a palfrey for to ride And a servant to take his side, And gave to him a sword most bright, And dubbing him made him a knight, Swearing by Almighty God That Degare should be a lord, Worthy to employ arms and horse Instead of using his staff's crude force.

Videos for College Admission

So Tufts is now allowing applicants to supplement their applications with short YouTube videos. I watched most of these and they're pretty painful, though there were one or two clever ones. Too much song and dance to get into the school of one's choice or great alternative to standardized testing? Here are two of the better ones ... but more links (if you want to watch more shameless self-promotion) here: http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2010/02/22/education/tufts.html





Then there's that hilarious sequence in Legally Blonde where Elle Woods' admissions video for Harvard Law is assessed by a stuffy admissions committee (starts at 4:59):
 

More Sir Degare in Translation

The hermit takes Degare to be fostered by his sister in the city for the more nurturing environment but takes him back after ten years to provide him ten years of solid grounding in unmarketable knowledge. Degare, in the meantime, has grown up into a comely young lad who is strong of arm. All is revealed to Degare about his past.

The heremite held up bothe his honde An thonked God of al His sonde, And bar that child in to his chapel, And for joie he rong his bel. He dede up the gloven and the tresour And cristned the child with gret honour: In the name of the Trinité, He hit nemnede Degarre, Degarre nowt elles ne is But thing that not never what hit is, Other thing that is neggh forlorn also; Forthi the schild he nemnede thous tho. The heremite that was holi of lif Hadde a soster that was a wif; A riche marchaunt of that countré Hadde hire ispoused into that cité. To hire that schild he sente tho Bi his knave, and the silver also, And bad here take gode hede Hit to foster and to fede, And yif God Almighti wolde Ten yer his lif holde, Ayen to him hi scholde hit wise: He hit wolde tech of clergise. The litel child Degarre Was ibrout into that cité. The wif and hire loverd ifere Kept his ase hit here owen were. Bi that hit was ten yer old, Hit was a fair child and a bold, Wel inorissched, god and hende; Was non betere in al that ende. He wende wel that the gode man Had ben his fader that him wan, And the wif his moder also, And the hermite his unkel bo; And whan the ten yer was ispent, To the hermitage he was sent, And he was glad him to se, He was so feir and so fre. He taughte him of clerkes lore Other ten wynter other more; And when he was of twenti yer, Staleworth he was, of swich pouer That ther ne wan man in that lond That o breid him might astond. Tho the hermite seth, withouten les, Man for himself that he wes, Staleworht to don ech werk, And of his elde so god a clerk, He tok him his florines and his gloves That he had kept to hise bihoves. Ac the ten pound of starlings Were ispended in his fostrings. He tok him the letter to rede, And biheld al the dede. "O leve hem, par charité, Was this letter mad for me?" Ye, bi oure Lord, us helpe sschal! Thus hit was," and told him al.

Both his hands he did raise The hermit, thanking God with praise, Into the chapel bore the boy, And rang the holy bells for joy. Putting the gloves and treasure away, He christened with child without delay: In the name of the Three-in-One "Degare" he named this son, For "Degare," this name of his, Means "One who knows not who he is" Or "Something that was almost lost"; Thus, with this name the child was crossed. A holy life the hermit led. He had a sister who was wed To a merchant and they did dwell In a city where they lived quite well. Shortly the child to her was sent With the silver that was meant To care for it. He told her there To feed and raise the child with care, And if God the child allowed Ten years of life, the hermit vowed That he himself the child would raise, Instructing him in holy ways. Brought into the city with care Degare now grew up there. The hermit's sister with her loved one Brought him up as their own son. By the time he was ten-years old, He was a child fair and bold, Courteous, kind, and nourished well; The best that did in that region dwell. He well believed, that his father Was the merchant and his mother The merchant's wife, the hermit too He assumed to be his uncle true. For ten years he with them sojourned, Then to the hermit's house returned, Who received the child with joy, For fair and noble was the boy. As ten more winters passed them by, The hermit taught him doctrine high; And when the boy reached twenty years Stronger he was than all his peers, Indeed, no one in all the land, Against his blows could make a stand. Then the hermit, the truth did speak That the boy might his fortune seek: For strong of arm and a sage Scholar he was for his age. The hermit returned the gloves and gold That he had guarded in his household Except for the sum of ten pounds sterling Which had been spent on the fostering. The letter he gave the boy to read And thus he found out all, indeed. "For the sake of charity, Dear uncle, was this letter for me?" "Yes, by our Lord, who helps us so!" All he told so the boy would know.

Slow Progress on Degare

The child is left at a hermit's door. The hermit finds the child.

The maiden tok the child here mide, Stille awai in aven tide, Alle the winteres longe night. The weder was cler, the mone light; Than warhth she war anon Of an hermitage in a ston: An holi man had ther his woniyng. Thider she wente on heying, An sette the cradel at his dore, And durste abide no lengore, And passede forth anon right. Hom she com in that other night, And fond the levedi al drupni, Sore wepinde, and was sori, And tolde hire al togeder ther Hou she had iben and wher. The hermite aros erliche tho, And his knave was uppe also, An seide ifere here matines, And servede God and Hise seins. The litel child thai herde crie, And clepede after help on hie; The holi man his dore undede, And fond the cradel in the stede; He tok up the clothes anon And biheld the litel grom; He tok the letter and radde wel sone That tolde him that he scholde done.

The maiden took the child away Stealing into the evening gray, Long she journeyed through wintry night. The weather turned with morning light Then soon she was made aware Of a hermit's house of stone and there A holy man his dwelling made. With great haste, the lad she laid In his cradle at this door, And staying not a moment more, Toward home she took flight. Arriving back the next night, She found her mistress in spirits low, Weeping and crying, filled with woe, And told her all there was to share Of how she had proceeded and where. The hermit rose to morning's glow And up with him his servant also, Together, then, Matins they prayed: To God and his saints, honor they made. Then they heard a baby's yelp The child, it seemed, cried for help. The holy man unlocked the door And found the cradle on the floor; Stripping all the cloths away He looked upon the boy that day. The letter's instructions he carefully read Taking note of all that was said.

Anthropomorphism

So, in yesterday's lesson, we read three short articles from a reader put out by the Great Ape Project. My favorite of the three was Douglas Adams' piece on encounter a mountain gorilla. Apart from being the science-fiction writer that he was, Adams was also a keen activist for conservation, and his legacy is continued by his friend, the ever-present polymath, Stephen Fry.

I thought we had a decent discussion on the value and problems with anthropomorphism and that worked nicely with the way anthropomorphism is essentially a rhetorical strategy, one that shapes the world in our image through language. My favorite bit comes at the end of Adams's piece, when he re-thinks the encounter with the gorilla:

I began to see how patronising it was of us to presume to judge their intelligence, as if ours was any kind of standard by which to measure. I tried to imagine instead how he saw us but of course that's almost impossible to do, because the assumptions you end up making as you try to bridge the imaginative gap are, of course, your own,and the most misleading assumptions are the ones you don't even know you're making.... And then I pictured myself beside him festooned with the apparatus of my intelligence--my Gore-Tex caguole, my pen and paper, my autofocus matrix-metering Nikon F-4, and my inability to comprehend any of the life we had left behind us in the forest. But somewhere in the genetic history that we carry with us in every cell of our body was a deep connection with this creature, as inaccessible as last year's dreams, but like last year's dreams always invisibly and unfathomably present.

Degare is Born

More Degare. The child is born and left to Fortune's whims.

On a dai, as hi wepende set, On of hire maidenes hit underyet. "Madame," she seide, "par charité, Whi wepe ye now, telleth hit me." "A! gentil maiden, kinde icoren, Help me, other ich am forloren! Ich have ever yete ben meke and milde: Lo, now ich am with quike schilde! Yif ani man hit underyete, Men wolde sai bi sti and strete That mi fader the King hit wan And I ne was never aqueint with man! And yif he hit himselve wite, Swich sorewe schal to him smite That never blithe schal he be, For al his joie is in me," And tolde here al togeder ther Hou hit was bigete and wher. "Madame," quad the maide, "ne care thou nowt: Stille awai hit sschal be browt. No man schal wite in Godes riche Whar hit bicometh, but thou and iche." Her time come, she was unbounde, And delivred al mid sounde; A knaveschild ther was ibore: Glad was the moder tharfore. The maiden servede here at wille, Wond that child in clothes stille, And laid hit in a cradel anon, And was al prest tharwith to gon. Yhit is moder was him hold: Four pound she tok of gold, And ten of selver also; Under his fote she laid hit tho, - For swich thing hit mighte hove; And seththen she tok a paire glove That here lemman here sente of fairi londe, That nolde on no manne honde, Ne on child ne on womman yhe nolde, But on hire selve wel yhe wolde. Tho gloven she put under his hade, And siththen a letter she wrot and made, And knit hit with a selkene thred Aboute his nekke wel god sped That who hit founde sscholde iwite. Than was in the lettre thous iwrite: "Par charité, yif ani god man This helples child finde can, Lat cristen hit with prestes honde, And bringgen hit to live in londe, For hit is comen of gentil blod. Helpeth hit with his owen god, With tresor that under his fet lis; And ten yer eld whan that he his, Taketh him this ilke gloven two, And biddeth him, wharevere he go, That he ne lovie no womman in londe But this gloves willen on hire honde; For siker on honde nelle thai nere But on his moder that him bere."

Upon a day as she sat weeping One of her ladies, this perceiving, Said, "For the sake of charity, Why do you cry, please tell me?" "Ah! Gentle maid, chosen one, Help me or my life is done! Ever I have been meek and mild: But look, now I'm quick with child! If this news to any man leaks, Tongues will wag in the streets: They'll say it's fathered by my father For I've been close to no other! And if my father this rumor hears, He'll be wrecked by grief and tears And happy again he'll never be, For all his joy resides in me." Thus she did her story trace, How she got pregnant and in what place. "Fear not, Madam," her lady did say, "In secret the child will be brought away, And no one else will have a clue Of its origins, but me and you." When her time had come around, She delivered the child safe and sound; A boy it was and at his birth She was filled with joy and mirth. The lady, who the secret kept, In swaddling clothes, the child wrapped And laid it in a cradle low, Making ready at once to go. Yet his mother, faithful to him, Carefully placed under his limbs Four pounds of gold, of silver ten, She hid into the cradle then, That it of aid might one day be; A pair of gloves then took she Which from Fairyland were sent, By her lover and were meant On no one else's hands to sit: Her's alone would they fit. These gloves she put under his head. A letter she'd written she did thread Around his neck with silken strands: Thus she carried out her plans. Whoever found the child would read These lines with which she did plead: "For charity's sake if you find This helpless child, be of good mind And have him christened by a priest, And care for him ten years at least. From noble blood he descends So aid him at his own expense: Under his feet there's silver and gold. And when he is ten-years old, Make sure to give him these gloves two And tell him that wherever he's due No single woman must he love Unless her hands fit the glove; In truth, these gloves may none wear, Except the mother that him did bear."

Buzzards

Continuing with the "Animal Encounters" section of the course, we're reading a longish article, "Buzzards" by Lee Zacharias. Zacharias actually used to teach at UNCG but she's retired now. Anyway, this is a wonderful piece: the most moving thing you'll read about ugly birds.

Thoughts on "Buzzards"

Quiz 5 mins

I was attracted to this piece because it employs "non-fiction" writing about buzzards in a very unique way, by placing these factual / experiential paragraphs that go into the entire scientific description of vultures as well as how these birds have been regarded by culture / human history, next to the author's meditations / remembrances of her deceased father.

Structurally – there are three "time" frames going on. 1. Zacharias is in an empty parking lot in the Everglades 2. There are the scientific / cultural / literary : encyclopedic references to the vultures 3. Memories of her father.

Overall interpretation: (5 mins)

Why does Zacharias do this? Why "pair" her exploration of vultures with father?

Stylistic analysis (15 mins)

Group discussion [Assign passage pairs]
Each passage contains a paragraph dealing with the vulture (from some perspective) and then with her father.
How are the passages on the vultures stylistically different from the parts describing the father? In terms of content, do they connect or not connect? Are they simply placed randomly next to each other or can you discern a pattern in the structure? Do they reinforce or challenge each other in terms of meaning?
As they share findings (15 min), introduce some of the vocabulary for discussion from the rhetorical reading: such as DICTION / SYNTAX / METAPHOR / SYMBOL. Read closely at the sentence level for examples.

Final paragraph (5 mins) – becoming-vulture: studying the vulture becomes a way of expressing herself / of engaging her feelings toward her father. [Transitional object]

Tell them that this piece should be a model for assignment one.

For next lesson: we will practice more 30 sec words.

Sir Degare in Drips

A short passage that took a lot of time.

Thi knight passede as he cam. Al wepende the swerd she nam, And com hom sore sikend, And fond here maidenes al slepend. The swerd she hidde als she mighte, And awaked hem in highte, And doht hem to horse anon, And gonne to ride everichon. Thanne seghen hi ate last Tweie squiers come prikend fast. Fram the Kyng thai weren isent, To white whider his doughter went. Thai browt hire into the righte wai And comen faire to the abbay, And doth the servise in alle thingges, Mani masse and riche offringes; And whanne the servise was al idone And ipassed over the none, The Kyng to his castel gan ride; His doughter rod bi his side. And he yemeth his kyngdom overal Stoutliche, as a god king sschal. Ac whan ech man was glad an blithe, His doughter siked an sorewed swithe; Here wombe greted more and more; Therwhile she mighte, se hidde here sore

The fairy knight then disappeared. She headed back, much afeard, With sword in hand, still she wept, Returning to where her ladies slept. The sword she hid as she thought best And woke the ladies from their rest. Each was ordered on her horse And away they rode as a matter of course. Then two squires they saw at last Sent from the King, riding fast, Whose charge it was to find out His precious daughter's whereabouts. Led by them, back rode she Till safe she arrived at the abbey, And there performed the required rites, Offering masses into the night, Rituals well-ordered from first to last. After the appointed time had passed, Back to the castle the King did ride With his daughter by his side. He ruled the land as any king should: With boldness and courage his reign stood. Although all men were blithe and glad, This daughter sickened, was gravely sad, As her womb grew day by day: With heart most sore she hid away.

Thoughts on the Feast of Tongues

Structure of the Fable – repetitive in two parts.
Seems to be a fool – but really ends up using the occasion to engineer a clever rhetorical discourse: Theme – appearance / reality / foolishness – deeper wisdom
So – using the strangeness of the tongues- Aesop – a slave – gains a "voice" in a community where he wouldn't otherwise have the power or right to speak. In this sense, the animal tongues, dead and prepared – afford him a voice.

The communion of the meal – a gathering that isn't as "formal" as a philosophical discourse or a scholarly gathering (like class). The meal symbolizes hospitality / communion / fellowship / the opportunity for Exantus to show his wealth – and thus, Exantus is able to dictate the terms of the feast – first order the "best meat" and then the "worst meat". Yet this gathering turns into a philosophical discourse- where questions of value "what is good" and who gets to evaluate – a slave in this case – comes to the fore. So food, is used, as the site for discussion about abstract values: and indeed, we often evaluate food and build systems of value around food.

Yet what of the animals? In all this speaking, the most prominent symbol – the disembodied tonges that are themselves mute symbols that are interpreted BY Aesop (to his own gain), that cannot speak because they are dead, that cannot be EXPECTED to speak because they are "animal" force their way into the tale. They are the strange centerpiece of a fable that features animal (parts) without giving the animal voice. And in this tale about speech, and how speech is itself slippery and creative, the silent animal tongues appear to be mute witnesses to the cleverness of human speech. In speaking about the tongues, does Aesop speak on behalf of animals? For it is HUMAN nobility and mischief that he speaks about. How can an animal tongue, sold as meat in the market represent the human tongue, which is, in Aesop's own speech so demonstrably different from the mute tongue that IS meat. Indeed, Aesop never "bites his tongue" while presenting these animal tongues for food (the scholars commend or condemn the tongues but do they eat it?) – the occasion to consume meat allows him to transform these animal tongues into metaphors for human tongues.

LOGOS – Aesop's "cleverness" – his "logic" on display.
ETHOS – the "fable" – does it show us a deeper moral truth? Does it refer to something culturally identifiable and significant?
PATHOS – do we find it in how Aesop the slave, becomes the protagonist? Or can we find it in the disembodied tongues of silent animals – does that move us?

Some post lesson thoughts: While most students seemed to understand the main thrust of the fable, very few were willing to venture thoughts about how animal tongues feature in complicated ways in the passage. I had to do some heavy-handed explication given this unwillingness, although my leading questions did, on a few occasions open up the text a little for the kids. It occurred to me that while we often speak about food from a "human" perspective - ie does this taste good etc, or if you're Guy Fieri, "This is money!" - the "Feast of Tongues" suggests how food can become the basis for philosophical speculation, without departing too far from the embodied presence of the dead animal parts in front of you.  Anyway, while I'm not sure what the intellectual impact of all this was, they kids certainly were enthusiastic about the speaking activity.

Sir Degare Goes On

Then a fairy knight, a rape, and a prophecy.

Than segh hi swich a sight: Toward hire comen a knight, Gentil, yong, and jolif man; A robe of scarlet he hadde upon; His visage was feir, his bodi ech weies; Of countenaunce right curteis; Wel farende legges, fot, and honde: Ther nas non in al the Kynges londe More apert man than was he. "Damaisele, welcome mote thou be! Be thou afered of none wihghte: Iich am comen here a fairi knyghte; Mi kynde is armes for to were, On horse to ride with scheld and spere; Forthi afered be thou nowt: I ne have nowt but mi swerd ibrout. Iich have iloved the mani a yer, And now we beth us selve her, Thou best mi lemman ar thou go, Wether the liketh wel or wo." Tho nothing ne coude do she But wep and criede and wolde fle; And he anon gan hire at holde, And dide his wille, what he wolde. He binam hire here maidenhod, And seththen up toforen hire stod. "Lemman," he seide, "gent and fre, Mid schilde I wot that thou schalt be; Siker ich wot hit worht a knave; Forthi mi swerd thou sschalt have, And whenne that he is of elde That he mai himself biwelde, Tak him the swerd, and bidde him fonde To sechen his fader in eche londe. The swerd his god and avenaunt: Lo, as I faugt with a geaunt, I brak the point in his hed; And siththen, when that he was ded, I tok hit out and have hit er, Redi in min aumener. Yit paraventure time bith That mi sone mete me with: Be mi swerd I mai him kenne. Have god dai! I mot gon henne."

Then she saw such a sight: Coming toward her was a knight, A young man, noble and comely; A scarlet robe upon his body; Fair were his form and face; He appeared with such charm and grace; With well-shaped legs, feet and hands: There was no other in the King's lands More attractive than was he. "Damsel, welcome you must be! Be not afraid of any of us: As a fairy knight, I've come thus: It's in my nature with arms to appear To ride a horse with shield and spear. Therefore, be you not afraid No weapon have I but sword displayed. I have loved you many a year And now alone I find you here, We will make love before you go, Whether it brings you joy or woe." Then, nothing could she have done But weep and scream and try to run; Her body, at once, he began to seize, And did his will just as he pleased. Thus he snatched her of maidenhood, And afterwards above her stood. "Beloved," he said, "gentle and mild, I know that you will be with child; Indeed, you will give birth to a boy; So take my sword in your employ. When he's all grown and has the might To wield it: Give it as his right, So that he with sword in hand May seek his father in every land. The sword is good and well-wrought Once, when I a giant fought, I broke the point in his head; And later, after he was dead, I took it out—and so I vouch— I have it here in my pouch. Perhaps in the future there will be A moment when my son meets me: By my sword, him I'll know. Have a good day! I now must go."

More Degare

Here's more from Sir Degare, bringing us up to line 88:

That ryche Kynge every yere wolde A solempne feste make and holde On hys wyvys mynnyng day, That was beryed in an abbay In a foreste there besyde. With grete meyné he wolde ryde, Hire dirige do, and masse bothe, Poure men fede, and naked clothe, Offring brenge, gret plenté, And fede the covent with gret daynté. Toward the abbai als he com ride, And mani knyghtes bi his side, His doughter also bi him rod. Amidde the forest hii abod. Here chaumberleyn she clepede hire to And other dammaiseles two And seide that hii moste alighte To don here nedes and hire righte; Thai alight adoun alle thre, Tweie damaiseles and ssche, And longe while ther abiden, Til al the folk was forht iriden. Thai wolden up and after wolde, And couthen nowt here way holde. The wode was rough and thikke, iwis, And thai token the wai amys. Thai moste souht and riden west Into the thikke of the forest. Into a launde hii ben icome, And habbeth wel undernome That thai were amis igon. Thai light adoun everichon And cleped and criede al ifere, Ac no man aright hem ihere. Thai nist what hem was best to don; The weder was hot bifor the non; Hii leien hem doun upon a grene, Under a chastein tre, ich wene, And fillen aslepe everichone Bote the damaisele alone. She wente aboute and gaderede floures, And herknede song of wilde foules. So fer in the launde she goht, iwis, That she ne wot nevere whare se is. To hire maidenes she wolde anon. Ac hi ne wiste never wat wei to gon. Whenne hi wende best to hem terne, Aweiward than hi goth wel yerne. "Allas!" hi seide, "that I was boren! Nou ich wot ich am forloren! Wilde bestes me willeth togrinde Or ani man me sschulle finde!

Every year the wealthy King Would hold a ritual gathering, To remember his wife's loss Who buried in an abbey was That stood by a forest side. With a great host he would ride, To sing dirges and masses both, Poor men to feed, the naked to clothe, Offerings were brought in great store, And monks were endowed with food and more. Toward the abbey he did ride With many knights by his side, His daughter also with him rode: They made the forest their abode. Then to her ladies the maiden cried And ordered that they there abide. For to answer nature's call, She the journey had to stall. From her horse alighted she, With two damsels for company, She dallied there far too long For forth had ridden all the throng. They would have up and followed so But did not know which way to go. Indeed, the wood was rough and thick And every path seemed to trick They headed south instead of west: And in upon them the trees pressed. Into a land now they crossed Knowing well the way was lost. From their steeds they came down And began to cry on strange ground Wailing together, they shouted out, But their cries brought none about. Since it was hot before midday; Upon the green, down they lay In the shade of a chestnut tree For they knew not what was to be. Both ladies in waiting fell asleep, Leaving their mistress the watch to keep. This lady went gathering flowers Listening to birds sing for hours So far from them wandered she That she got lost eventually. For her maids she did yearn But did not know how to return. A return she hoped to trace and tread But farther off she wandered instead "Alas!" she said, "that I was born! Now I know I am forlorn! Beastly teeth my bones will grind Before any man should me find!"

Translating Degare

So, I meant to work on Sir Degare as one of the three romances that I'll talk about in a book chapter (which I'm adding to the thesis in lieu of my Malory chapter). But I got caught up with the possibility of teaching the poem in the future and not being able to find a modernized version of it. So, I've set out to modernize the romance, with a lot of help from the glosses in the TEAMS text edition, the MED, and with inspiration from Nevill Coghill.

Lysteneth, lordinges, gente and fre, Ich wille you telle of Sire Degarre: Knightes that were sometyme in londe Ferli fele wolde fonde And sechen aventures bi night and dai, Hou thai mighte here strengthe asai; So dede a knyght, Sire Degarree: Ich wille you telle wat man was he. In Litel Bretaygne was a kyng Of gret poer in all thing, Stif in armes under sscheld, And mochel idouted in the feld. Ther nas no man, verraiment, That mighte in werre ne in tornament, Ne in justes for no thing, Him out of his sadel bring, Ne out of his stirop bringe his fot, So strong he was of bon and blod. This Kyng he hadde none hair But a maidenchild, fre and fair; Here gentiresse and here beauté Was moche renound in ich countré. This maiden he loved als his lif, Of hire was ded the Quene his wif: In travailing here lif she les. And tho the maiden of age wes Kynges sones to him speke, Emperours and Dukes eke, To haven his doughter in mariage, For love of here heritage; Ac the Kyng answered ever That no man sschal here halden ever But yif he mai in turneying Him out of his sadel bring, And maken him lesen hise stiropes bayne. Many assayed and myght not gayne.

Listen, Lords, noble and free, As I tell of Sir Degare: Once there were knights in the land Great numbers were on hand Who sought adventure by day and night, In order that they should prove their might; And this too was Sir Degare's cause: I now will tell what man he was. In Brittany there was a king Who wielded power over everything Staunchly he carried sword and shield And many feared him in the field. Truly, in battle, or tournament, In jousts arranged for amusement There was no one, who had the mettle, To move him an inch in his saddle, Or fling him down from mount to mud, So strong he was of bone and blood. This King, he was without heir Except for a maid, noble and fair: Her gentleness and great beauty Were famed throughout each country. This daughter he loved as his own life: In bearing her, the Queen his wife Had, in birth pangs, her life lost. And when the maid her childhood crossed Royal sons let him know, Emperors too and Dukes also, That they desired her to wed: For her inheritance they were mad. To these suits the King would reply That no man should with his daughter lie Unless he might in a joust Himself from his saddle oust, And from the stirrups loosen his feet: Many tried and left in defeat.

More if I make progress this term!

Speaking of Tongues

In the fluctuating world of adjunct teaching, I may get a class cut in the Spring semester. Classes start on Tuesday and I'll only know on Monday whether or not the class is on.  Of course, this really is no big deal as I'm teaching several sections of the class, so it's not as if I've spent the past months prepping in vain. But in lieu of that class, here begins the blog version of "Arguing with Animals."

I decided to begin the first lesson (after laying out the syllabus in the first first lesson) of my Animals course with this little excerpt. It's a (free) translation of a late fifteenth C. English "Life of Aesop" that was printed by Thomas Caxton. It's about Aesop being smart alecky, serving tongues when his master asks for him to buy the "best" meat and cleverly explaining why, and then serving tongues (again) when his master tells him to go out for the worst meat, and justifying himself. I came across this piece during a medieval retreat where this passage was explicated in brilliant terms by Peter Travis. It inspired me to see whether freshmen would have interesting things to say about this odd little fable that demonstrates how philosophical argument and the embodiedness of meat come together in a most unexpected way.

Arguing with Animals

I'm teaching a second level composition class this semester and I've designed the course to focus on animals in rhetoric. It's a speaking intensive class (which means students get to practice speaking ... a lot) so I thought it'd be interesting to call it: "Arguing with Animals." Over the next semester, I intend to post here about the texts and lessons, since teaching these courses are such all-consuming endeavors. I've scanned .pdf copies of most of the texts and I'll put links to copies: people who want to read along and comment, are most welcome to do so.

Here's my course description:

"Animals utter different voices; none can speak—for this is the characteristic of man, for all that have a language have a voice, but not all that have a voice have also a language." (Aristotle, The History of Animals)

This speaking-intensive composition course focuses on animals and "animal-issues." Over the course of the semester, we will read diverse texts that feature animals in a range of rhetorical contexts. The first section of the course, "Animal Encounters," invites you to think about how various authors use language to describe encounters with all manner of non-human animal life. Next, in "Animal Rights," we will examine how rhetoric has been used to petition on behalf of and against animal welfare. The third section of the course, "Topical Animals," will allow us to practice using animals in argument in a series of debates. Finally, we will think about how animal depictions have often been used to govern the boundaries of what we call "the Human." Through informal speaking activities, debates, formal presentations, and writing projects, we will speak and write about what it means to interpret animal voice and silence through human language.

New Light

And not expecting pardon,
Hardened in heart anew,
But glad to have sat under
Thunder and rain with you,
And grateful too
For sunlight on the garden. (Louis MacNeice)

She glitters in the light. Half-awake, almost freed from the clasp of forgotten dreams, I catch a moment of beauty: streaks of gold, copper, pale-brown, and off-white fuse in an illuminated tapestry woven by the morning sun. Lit and shadowed, she is a cubist matrix of uneven shapes, the softness of her form broken in an uneven jigsaw. The light probes her from sleep. She rises unsteadily from the warm cushion, stretching out into the new day before padding from her bed and clattering off on the hardwood floor. I try to drift back to sleep, hoping for comforting dreams that I'll recall and narrate in detail, but her noises intrude. Toenails strike the floor, sharp short staccatos as she circles the room. Then the low whimpers and whines begin; she noses me. She wants to be let out. She needs to pee.

When Sourdough was a puppy, our wakings were rigidly routine. Then she slept, crated, in the kitchen of our student-slum apartment and the first thing I'd do in the morning would be to leash her and take her down two-flights of stairs into the Lansing cold to pee. Half-awake, we'd crawl back up and I'd put on the coffee. Then, for about fifteen minutes, we'd do drills: basic obedience commands rewarded with rich bits of dehydrated liver and compacted meat, a sequence of maneuvers that culminated in long "sit-stay" exercises. I spoke an abbreviated dialect of "obedience"—single words punctuated by imprecise hand gestures—and she replied with fluid movements. We repeated the exchanges ad nauseum, as inanely as one repeats niceties in bleary-eyed early morning conversation. Filled with coffee and the hope of a common grammar, we'd then take a mile-long walk, the first of three we took daily. Back in the apartment, she'd settle in after a bowlful of kibble as I'd start working on the dissertation: she would sniff around the apartment, bounce in and out of her crate, and usually end up curling up at my feet.

In the loneliness of long days without human contact, as I wrote an obscure monument to psychoanalysis and medieval romance, Sourdough was a constant companion. With Edna away at MSU most of the day, and us away from New York, even further away from Singapore, my only communion with human life was electronic: the unfathomable mysteries of computer mediated communication, masked by the façade of humanizing interfaces—Facebook, gmail, blogs—were my link to the world. But the desire for another world—for the silent warmth of touch, for speechless breathing, and the quiet murmur of a beating heart—bound by the same physical space persisted. Only Sourdough kept this world a constant reality. We shared space and the contact between with fur and skin, has produced a bond between us. In Corporal Compassion, Ralph Acompora describes "symphysis," the "sense of sharing with somebody else a somaesthetic nexus experienced through a direct or systemic (inter)relationship," as a term for sympathy of a "more densely physical orientation." Snared by with troublesome words, untangling difficult meanings and attempting to ground the abstractions of improbable connections in concrete prose, I found a much-needed world in the symphysical throbbing of muscular life at my feet.

Research and writing is an isolating, hermetical activity with which I hide from the world. The gregarious confidence of sharing ideas, of speaking vague premonition into sharp insight has always been absent in my experience of exploring this world of words. Shyness, insecurity, fear of judgment and embarrassment knot together, paralyzing when the occasion to speak about ideas arises. This has occurred several times in my fledgling (but already floundering) academic career. I've found myself blanking out during my Oral exams ("I'm sorry, I can't go on"), caught tongue-tied in an academic retreat ("can't think on my feet"), snatching at quick-receding thoughts when unexpected questions arise on panels ("another faux pas").

Words, however, come easily with Sourdough. Speaking to myself on our walks, mostly under my breath but quite often out loud, I mutter to the golden retriever pacing by my side. To my uncomprehending audience of one, I am relaxed enough to extemporize ideas and review arguments. And when inter-species tension arises from the impossibility of speech, dog speechlessness is more comforting. Just a slight tilt of my head to the side, and a careful glance at Sourdough, and all is well again in the world. Faced with belligerent questions during a conference talk, I imagine I am becoming-dog by holding my head in a side tilt and hope that the same primal instinct that drives intellectual aggression will be defused by an even more ancient bodily response.

I lie awake at night, after having to visit the bathroom, thinking about the prospect of joblessness with an English PhD. Unable to go back to sleep, I grasp at desperate scenarios: being unemployed, another year adjuncting, teaching middle-school in Greensboro, returning to what we left behind in Singapore. Sometimes, I sit at my computer and type out non-academic sentences such as these, hoping to find another way into the world. And when I do sneak back under the covers, it is Sourdough's heavy breathing and occasional gurgles that lull me, finally, back to sleep and uncertain dreams.

But there are certainties that come with the morning: the pattering of paws on hardwood floor and the hope for a glimpse of beauty glittering in new light.

Going Behind the Scenes

We watched Me and Orson Welles yesterday and I enjoyed it thoroughly (Yes, there's a High School Musical connection in Zac Efron and there were giggling teenage girls in the row behind us who were probably there for Zac: but our desire for Shakespeare and Orson Welles works through circuitous routes, so ...). Anyone who has spent some time with Shakespeare's Julius Caesar or sat through Orson Welles' cinematic work (both as director and actor) would appreciate this film, because it examines how staging Shakespeare as an anti-Fascist political tract was really revolutionary in the 1930s, how Welles' megalomania often overshadowed his art, and how his stubbornness drove his creative vision.

It led me to think about some things that I've watched recently and how they deploy the "movie about the play" trope quite differently. My big generalization: More recent representations of a "behind the scenes" sensibility are more willing to think about the creative process as fraught with risks that place the production in some kind of jeopardy whereas older films about the "show biz" tend to keep the creative process in the sphere of rarefied perfection.

So, some of the things that I've been watching (Me and Orson Welles, Nine, A Midwinter's Tale, Slings and Arrows, and if one thinks about a sports event as a kind of orchestrated performance, Invictus) use our fascination with the "behind-the-scenes" production of a film / play to create the suspense and tension. With numerous hiccups in the production process, the question "Will the play go on?" lingers over these films.

On the other hand, there are the Fred Astair-Ginger Rodgers films that we've been watching. We've watched three so far -- Top Hat, Swing Time, and Shall We Dance. We started watching them because we were intrigued with Astair's dance virtuosity and the original dramatic contexts of songs that have become staples in this household. But a constant in each of these films is Fred Astair's role as a performer, usually (and predictably) as a talented singer-dancer who stars in some Broadway / West End extravaganza. The song and dance numbers that are "staged" within the film thus sit awkwardly as show-pieces that have little impact on the plot (much like how "feature artist" numbers in Bollywood films work). Unlike the newer movies that dramatize the creative process as fraught with anxiety (will the show go on?) and tension (conflicts between directors-admin / actors-directors / actors-other actors), Astair's movies always show him gliding through his role as a performer; instead, the dramatic tensions lie in comedic complications that arise outside the creative process.



[On another note: My love affair with "Cheek to Cheek" has another filmic connection: that wonderful scene in the English Patient where the denizens of the villa take the dying, stretchered Count Almasy out for a romp around the house and into the rain ... can't find a quick vid of it though ... ]

So, having made the observation, I recognize that I don't really have an explanation for this difference. I guess historical distance allows movies about productions to be more cynical and savvy about the creative process. Perhaps societies that are post-industrial (and thus somewhat divorced from the processes of "making") are more interested in the psychic dramas that haunt the making of films and that this is best presented by exploring what can go wrong in the production process. Or, as Edna suggests, no longer is it taboo in valorize the angst involved in the creativity in an "everyone needs a shrink" culture. Surely there are also socio-political realities that influence this mode of fictionalizing the creative process: though I'm too ill-informed to even suggest these. At any rate, the 1952 musical, "Singing in the Rain" is now something that I've got to watch (apart from catching short segments on TV, it's never held my attention) as it's about movie making and promises to be more cynical than the Astair films.