Annotation #18

Gardner, John Champlin. Grendel. New York: Random House, 1985, c1971.

    The old poem Beowulf has been dissected by any number of scholars over the centuries, and not having nearly the expertise, I won't attempt it myself. Gardner's specialty was in medieval literature, and so this re-telling of the poem from the monster's--rather than the hero's--perspective certainly was well-informed, and also has inspired many examinations in terms of Christian versus pagan symbolism, and so on. Like so many flawed criticisms, however, these scholarly speculations simply are window-dressing for common human dilemmas that have shown up in stories from the beginning, and aren't really necessary for enjoyment or understanding of the story. Gardner, as steeped as he was in his studies, knew this, and thankfully Grendel takes shape in the form of a novel, written carefully in poetic but plain-spoken sentences, and requiring no foreknowledge of Beowulf or its history.

     Grendel is Gardner's way of paying proper respects to the monsters of the original story, who were sorrowfully neglected in order to paint the hero's picture of Beowulf, the seemingly infallible savior of the Danes. Whereas the original gave short shrift to the monsters, Grendel is all about their loneliness and their living outside of human (or any other) society. While generally not conflicting with the original poem, Grendel does provide a showcase for the outsider's view that is blandly written off as "evil" in the first story. Beowulf himself is not even written of until he comes along like an unexpected tornado at the end and kills Grendel.

     Having lived with a mute beast of a mother and having no one to converse with, Grendel somehow manages to think intelligently, and even to speak in humans' language, though in few of his encounters does anyone seem to understand his speech. Having most of his time to prowl and spy on humans, however, gives him ample chance to narrate the story. From the very start, he introduces us bit by bit to his place in the world:

But deer, like rabbits and bears and even men, can make, concerning my race, no delicate distinctions. That is their happiness: they see all life without observing it. They're buried in it like crabs in mud. Except men, of course. I am not in a mood, just yet, to talk of men (3).

So Grendel, like humans, is gifted (or cursed) with the ability to reason. This makes his loneliness all the more terrible, however, since there are no others quite like himself, and humans find him monstrous.

In the beginning, Grendel holds no animosity for humans. Quite the opposite! On at least one occasion, he tries to join a gathering, only to have them flee in terror. Also, they (and their livestock) happen to make for good eating. So, resigned to being outcast, he spies intently on them, watching as Hrothgar builds a kingdom, particularly with the help of the Shaper, a blind, singing poet who does as much to build the community and kindle its people's spirits as anyone. Grendel begins to feel contempt for the humans, as he watches them kill each other in battle, yet still find a way to get along and hold a community together. (Funny how Grendel can kill humans, yet not be welcomed either as a victor or as the conquered.) He notes that none of the other animal races are foolish enough to kill their own.

What seems a cruel and random universe to Grendel seems to be something else to the humans. As weak and petty as they are, they persist in their lives and their singing of tales, constructing something other than what Grendel sees. He's frustrated at their having something he cannot have:

    "Why can't I have someone to talk to?" I said. The stars said nothing, but I pretended to ignore the rudeness. "The Shaper has people to talk to," I said. I wrung my fingers. "Hrothgar has people to talk to."
     I thought about it.
     Perhaps it wasn't true.
     As a matter of fact, if the Shaper's vision of goodness and peace was a part of himself, not idle rhymes, then no one understood him at all, not even Hrothgar. And as for Hrothgar, if he was serious about his idea of glory--sons and sons' sons giving out treasure--I had news for him. If he had sons, they wouldn't hear his words. They would weigh his silver and gold in their minds. I've watched the generations. I've seen their weasel eyes.
     I fought down my smile (45).

Bitterness becomes Grendel. The Shaper very clearly defines the scourge of their tribes as the monster named Grendel, and the real creature is only too angry and willing to play along with it. After all: "I had hung between possibilities before, between the cold truths I knew and the heart-sucking conjuring tricks of the Shaper; now that was passes: I was Grendel, Ruiner of Meadhalls, Wrecker of Kings! But also, as never before, I was alone" (69).

Grendel then sets about on his "war" against Hrothgar and his thanes, or warriors, over a course of years, killing mercilessly when he pleases, and taunting Hrothgar and one of his would-be champions, Unferth. Without quite realizing it, he stimulates the people to overcome his own "brute existent." He eventually (briefly) finds someone he can reason with, the dragon who he manages to visit once through some unknown mechanism of despair and descent. The dragon, who sees all of time (past, present, future) and is capable of reason far beyond Grendel, being able to understand Time and Space like no one else, further explains to Grendel just what the Shaper's role is:

"They sense that, of course, from time to time; have uneasy feelings that all they live by is nonsense. They have dim apprehensions that such proprositions as 'God does not exist' are somewhat dubious at least in comparison with statements like 'All carnivorous cows eat meat.' That's where the Shaper saves them. Provides an illusion of reality--puts together all their facts with a gluey whine of connectedness. Mere tripe, believe me. Mere sleight-of-wits. He knows more than they do about total reality--less, if anything: works with the same old clutter of atoms, the givens of his time and place and tongue. But he spins it all together with harp runs and hoots, and they think what they think is alive, think Heaven loves them. It keeps them going--for what that's worth. As for myself, I can hardly bear to look" (55-56).

Despite (or perhaps because of) his capacity for reason, the dragon somehow also has a dim and bitter view of the world. His advice: "...to seek out gold and sit on it" (63).

In some ways, though very little detail is given of him, the Shaper plays as much a role in this story as anyone else; the novel could be seen as a meditation on the role of the arts in overcoming society's challenges. Much of Grendel's bitterness seems directed at the old blind man, whom he could have killed at any time:

"He takes what he finds," I said stubbornly, trying again. "And by changing men's minds he makes the best of it. Why not?" But it sounded petulant; and it wasn't true, I knew. He sang for pay, for the praise of women--one in particular--and for the honor of a famous king's hand on his arm. If the ideas of art were beautiful, that was art's fault, not the Shaper's. A blind selector, almost mindless: a bird. Did they murder each other more gently because in the woods sweet songbirds sang?
Yet I wasn't satisfied. His fingers picked infallibly, as if moved by something beyond his power, and the words stitched together out of ancient songs, the scenes interwoven out of dreary tales, made a vision without seams, and image of himself yet not-himself, beyond the need of any shaggy old gold-friend's pay: the projected possible (41-42).

So there is a kind of respect or admiration there, but Grendel just can't bring himself to enjoy anything beyond the moment of surprising or killing. He has nowhere to find comfort except for his view that all of the world must suffer the harsh realities he finds in nature. But the humans keep daring to prove him wrong and find comfort in themselves, so he needs to keep trying to ruin their existence for them, to show them how cold and unforgiving the universe can be. Even upon his death at the hands of Beowulf, he declares to the anyone who might be listening that it is all accident, that it could happen to anyone.

I can hear the gears working in the minds of every Christian reading this. "Grendel didn't believe in God, but the people did, so they triumphed in the end." Bosh. The people had faith in each other. Gardner, undoubtedly aware of all the pagan/Christian influences of the story, keeps his hands off, not even mentioning any god or gods throughout the work. What pervades this work, along with his other works, is what the original really boiled down to, a kind of humanistic storytelling. You can pinpoint its origins to wherever you want, but the gist of it is Gardner's idea of moral fiction, meaning that through learning and nurturing, humans can overcome the harsh and unforgiving nature we live in. Grendel either could not bring himself to accept this, or was not allowed to. Poor Grendel.

All contents, except where otherwise noted, are copyright Andrew Lee Hunn.

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