Durran Durrandon Posted October 19, 2017 Share Posted October 19, 2017 While we are here and exploring Sunset Sea and subterranean water ways as metaphors for the weirwood net, I think it is a good idea go back and look at the Dothraki, and specifically their myths around the Womb of the World, the lake at the base of the Mother of Mountains. Daenerys is told that the lake has no bottom, connecting it with the subaquatic nether realm. Moreover, we have the Dothraki legend that the first man emerged from the lake, riding a horse. I have speculated that the Dothraki Dosh Khaleen are connected to the weirwood net and that much of their eschatology derives from this. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Wizz-The-Smith Posted October 20, 2017 Share Posted October 20, 2017 On 14/10/2017 at 2:32 AM, ravenous reader said: This is a clip from the movie to which Durran Durrandon was alluding; it's rather evocative (there's even some 'silver seaweed' evolving into magical tree roots as underworld portal at 2:46) : Hey RR. Great post, and I particularly like this video clip that @Durran Durrandon and yourself have highlighted. Nice spot with the silver seaweed, love that, there were also a few other things I noticed that reminded me of asoiaf. The seals and lighthouse at the beginning of the clip reminded me of the skinchanging House Farwynd and their cadet branch House Farwynd of the Lonely Light and their ability to take the form of seals, the little girl in the clip also shape shifts into a seal. The orbs of light throughout the clip made me think of the Shee/Sidhe and the tales of them travelling throughout their realm, following or watching mortals in the form of wind/rustling leaves/elements. The raven watching from the tree had me thinking of the many ravens in the novels and especially the greenseer Bloodraven watching events unfold from the eyes of the weirwoods. The white tree sitting atop the hill/hollow hill was reminiscent of BR's cave with the entrance allowing one access into the underworld, and of course the white tree on its own screams weirwoods. At one point there was a young boy and his dog who join the aquatic realm via a well, much like the wells in the books offer a route into the underworld, additionally the white dog has similarities to Ghost the white direwolf. They then emerge into a cave that is full of roots much like BR's cave and of course High Heart. Finally the giant that is awakened made me think of the giants that wake from the earth in the books and when he strides out into the open sea it's like he is like the Titan of Braavos. All very cool, thanks for posting the clip. On 14/10/2017 at 2:32 AM, ravenous reader said: Finally, this is a very beautiful tune I happened upon (you can find a copy of the translation on you tube). It's about a woman attempting to extricate herself -- using the power of song, or 'killing word' -- from the clutches of the 'Each-uisge' -- the Gaelic mythic equivalent of ''the deep ones' or 'squishers' capturing unwitting victims via a kind of 'bodysnatching,' one might even call it 'skinchanging,' whereby the rider of the magical 'sea-horse' becomes irretrievably stuck or fused to the back of the horse, who plunges under the sea, drowning the hapless rider in that deep (green) sea: Wow, this is a truly beautiful tune, great find, thank you for posting this link as well. I've been researching some of the creatures one would find in the aquatic mythologies and of course the Each-uisge is one of the legends I have read about. There are other legends that are extremely similar to the Each-uisge, those being the Backahasten and the Kelpie. The name Bäckahästen means brook horse; and is the name of a mythological horse from Scandinavian folklore. She would appear near rivers in foggy weather, and whoever decided to ride on her back was unable to get off again. The horse would then jump into the river, drowning the rider. Basically the exact same story as the Each-uisge. In Celtic folklore shape-shifting horses are called kelpies, and it is thought that Bäckahästen may in fact be a kelpie. When reading I actually came across another creature from Scottish mythology by the name of Ashrays, or Water Lovers, which seem extremely similar to the Others and/or ice dragons in a number of ways. They are completely translucent water creatures that are often mistaken for sea ghosts. Furthermore, they are completely nocturnal and when they are captured and/or exposed to sunlight Ashrays supposedly melt and leave only a puddle of water as remains. That all seems very much like when Sam kills the Other and additionally the description of ice dragons...... Quote You can do it, you can, just do it. And then he was stumbling forward, falling more than running, really, closing his eyes and shoving the dagger blindly out before him with both hands. He heard a crack, like the sound ice makes when it breaks beneath a man’s foot, and then a screech so shrill and sharp that he went staggering backward with his hands over his muffled ears, and fell hard on his arse. When he opened his eyes the Other’s armor was running down its legs in rivulets as pale blue blood hissed and steamed around the black dragonglass dagger in its throat. It reached down with two bone-white hands to pull out the knife, but where its fingers touched the obsidian they smoked. Sam rolled onto his side, eyes wide as the Other shrank and puddled, dissolving away. In twenty heartbeats its flesh was gone, swirling away in a fine white mist. Beneath were bones like milkglass, pale and shiny, and they were melting too. Finally only the dragonglass dagger remained, wreathed in steam as if it were alive and sweating. Grenn bent to scoop it up and flung it down again at once. “Mother, that’s cold.” “Obsidian.” Sam struggled to his knees. “Dragonglass, they call it. Dragonglass. Dragon glass.” He giggled, and cried, and doubled over to heave his courage out onto the snow. [ASOS, Samwell I] And then the ice dragons..... Quote “Of all the queer and fabulous denizens of the Shivering Sea, however, the greatest are the ice dragons. These colossal beasts, many times larger than the dragons of Valyria, are said to be made of living ice, with eyes of pale blue crystal and vast translucent wings through which the moon and stars can be glimpsed as they wheel across the sky. “Whereas common dragons (if any dragon can truly be said to be common) breathe flame, ice dragons supposedly breathe cold, a chill so terrible that it can freeze a man solid in half a heartbeat.” [AWOIAF] Add to this the short story George wrote, mainly the pool of water left after the Ice Dragon had died....... Quote ''When they left the house that night, there was no ice dragon to be seen. Only the huge dark corpses of three war dragons and the smaller bodies of three dragonriders in black and orange. And a pond that had never been there before, a small quiet pool where the water was very cold. They had walked around it carefully, headed towards the road.'' [The Ice Dragon] Hmmm, ghostly, nocturnal, translucent water creatures that leave a puddle when killed.....the Ashrays description certainly caught my attention. Anyway, great to see you posting again, interesting as always. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
ravenous reader Posted October 22, 2017 Author Share Posted October 22, 2017 On 10/19/2017 at 9:57 PM, Weirwood Ghost said: The sea in mythology represents the underworld or the unconcious, the place where the hero/heroine goes to process, navigate and have part of one's self die in order to return to the outer world. What manifests in this process is a person coming up to the surface, back to conciousness after a trial or transformation: from naivete to wisdom (or saying killing the boy to become the man). If Ygg is Yggdrisil the tree of life of Nordic mythology which lies between the gaps of Fire (thunder) and ice (sea), then perhaps the old Gods (Ygg) are the conduit between the Red God (Fire above - outer world) and The Great Other (Ice below - inner world). Going below the sea is also a metaphor in mythology of cycling through the life-death-life cycle of what it means to exist. Relationships go through this process - for example where couples face an aspect of ugliness in the other and want to run away; but in order for there to be life there needs to be a small death within the psyche of the couple, say the death of a judgement, a viewpoint or an internal naive assumption, in order for the couple to come back together to the life part of the cycle better knowing one another. The weirwoods have their roots in the underworld where transformation takes place. Their trunks and branches of the outer world, and products of their trunk and branches are used to carry the winds, the bows, the housing of animals and cotf. The weirwoods, the oaken trees, the blackwoods, all exist as a means of balance, which when you think about it, is what the life force of nature is about. @Weirwood Ghost -- that's an eloquent expression of the psychoanalytic perspective of what it means to be 'under the sea/see'! Couldn't have said it better myself . You might like this poem: Diving into the Wreck First having read the book of myths, and loaded the camera, and checked the edge of the knife-blade, I put on the body-armor of black rubber the absurd flippers the grave and awkward mask. I am having to do this not like Cousteau with his assiduous team aboard the sun-flooded schooner but here alone. There is a ladder. The ladder is always there hanging innocently close to the side of the schooner. We know what it is for, we who have used it. Otherwise it is a piece of maritime floss some sundry equipment. I go down. Rung after rung and still the oxygen immerses me the blue light the clear atoms of our human air. I go down. My flippers cripple me, I crawl like an insect down the ladder and there is no one to tell me when the ocean will begin. First the air is blue and then it is bluer and then green and then black I am blacking out and yet my mask is powerful it pumps my blood with power the sea is another story the sea is not a question of power I have to learn alone to turn my body without force in the deep element. And now: it is easy to forget what I came for among so many who have always lived here swaying their crenellated fans between the reefs and besides you breathe differently down here. I came to explore the wreck. The words are purposes. The words are maps. I came to see the damage that was done and the treasures that prevail. I stroke the beam of my lamp slowly along the flank of something more permanent than fish or weed the thing I came for: the wreck and not the story of the wreck the thing itself and not the myth the drowned face always staring toward the sun the evidence of damage worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty the ribs of the disaster curving their assertion among the tentative haunters. This is the place. And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair streams black, the merman in his armored body. We circle silently about the wreck we dive into the hold. I am she: I am he whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes whose breasts still bear the stress whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies obscurely inside barrels half-wedged and left to rot we are the half-destroyed instruments that once held to a course the water-eaten log the fouled compass We are, I am, you are by cowardice or courage the one who find our way back to this scene carrying a knife, a camera a book of myths in which our names do not appear. Adrienne Rich, 1929 - 2012 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Bluetiger Posted October 27, 2017 Share Posted October 27, 2017 Speaking of the Sea... From The Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien: Quote Now they laid Boromir in the middle of the boat that was to bear him away. The grey hood and elven-cloak they folded and placed beneath his head. They combed his long dark hair and arrayed it upon his shoulders. The golden belt of Lórien gleamed about his waist. His helm they set beside him, and across his lap they laid the cloven horn and the hilts and shards of his sword; beneath his feet they put the swords of his enemies. Then fastening the prow to the stern of the other boat, they drew him out into the water. They rowed sadly along the shore, and turning into the swift-running channel they passed the green sward of Parth Galen. The steep sides of Tol Brandir were glowing: it was now mid-afternoon. As they went south the fume of Rauros rose and shimmered before them, a haze of gold. The rush and thunder of the falls shook the windless air. Sorrowfully they cast loose the funeral boat: there Boromir lay, restful, peaceful, gliding upon the bosom of the flowing water. The stream took him while they held their own boat back with their paddles. He floated by them, and slowly his boat departed, waning to a dark spot against the golden light; and then suddenly it vanished. Rauros roared on unchanging. The River had taken Boromir son of Denethor, and he was not seen again in Minas Tirith, standing as he used to stand upon the White Tower in the morning. But in Gondor in after-days it long was said that the elven-boat rode the falls and the foaming pool, and bore him down through Osgiliath, and past the many mouths of Anduin, out into the Great Sea at night under the stars. For a while the three companions remained silent, gazing after him. Then Aragorn spoke. 'They will look for him from the White Tower,' he said, 'but he will not return from mountain or from sea.' Then slowly he began to sing: Through Rohan over fen and field where the long grass grows The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it goes. 'What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you bring to me tonight? Have you seen Boromir the Tall by moon or by starlight?' 'I saw him ride over seven streams, over waters wide and grey; I saw him walk in empty lands, until he passed away Into the shadows of the North. I saw him then no more. The North Wind may have heard the horn of the son of Denethor.' 'O Boromir! From the high walls westward I looked afar, But you came not from the empty lands where no men are.' Then Legolas sang: From the mouths of the Sea the South Wind flies, from the sandhills and the stones; The wailing of the gulls it bears, and at the gate it moans. 'What news from the South, O sighing wind, do you bring to me at eve? Where now is Boromir the Fair? He tarries and I grieve.' 'Ask not of me where he doth dwell -so many bones there lie On the white shores and the dark shores under the stormy sky; So many have passed down Anduin to find the flowing Sea. Ask of the North Wind news of them the North Wind sends to me!' 'O Boromir! Beyond the gate the seaward road runs south, But you came not with the wailing gulls from the grey sea's mouth.' Then Aragorn sang again: From the Gate of Kings the North Wind rides, and past the roaring falls; And clear and cold about the tower its loud horn calls. 'What news from the North, O mighty wind, do you bring to me today? What news of Boromir the Bold? For he is long away.' 'Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he fought. His cloven shield, his broken sword, they to the water brought. His head so proud, his face so fair, his limbs they laid to rest; And Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, bore him upon its breast.' 'O Boromir! The Tower of Guard shall ever northward gaze To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days.' So they ended. Then they turned their boat and drove it with all the speed they could against the stream back to Parth Galen. 'You left the East Wind to me,' said Gimli, 'but I will say naught of it.' 'That is as it should be,' said Aragorn. 'In Minas Tirith they endure the East Wind, but they do not ask it for tidings. But now Boromir has taken his road. and we must make haste to choose our own.' *** Beautiful rendition of this lay by Clamavi De Profundis: @ravenous reader, congratulations on your new blog (Unchained showed it to me on Twitter, where I dwell these days)... I took a break from The Forums, and much has changed.... I've returned to Tolkien, and I'm planning to write a whole series on ASOIAF/Tolkien conncections. I've had long discussions with LML on this topic - Numenor and The Great Empire of the Dawn, Minas Morgul/Minas Ithil, Luthien and Sansa, Sauron and The Bloodstone Emperor, Earendel and The Sword of the Morning... I've read Nietzsche, Jung and some Freud, and finally, those Graham Hancock books LML recommends... and most importantly, The Golden Bough by Sir James George Frazer and The White Goddess by Robert Graves. I'm overflowing with new ideas, and all deserve their own essays. Meanwhile, I'm translating LML's works. By the way, are you familiar with @Darry Man's essays about The Symbolic Significance of Ebony & Persimmon in ASOIAF and A Tragedy of Ice and Fire? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
ravenous reader Posted October 28, 2017 Author Share Posted October 28, 2017 On 10/27/2017 at 8:48 PM, Blue Tiger said: Speaking of the Sea... From The Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien: *** Beautiful rendition of this lay by Clamavi De Profundis: @ravenous reader, congratulations on your new blog (Unchained showed it to me on Twitter, where I dwell these days)... I took a break from The Forums, and much has changed.... I've returned to Tolkien, and I'm planning to write a whole series on ASOIAF/Tolkien conncections. I've had long discussions with LML on this topic - Numenor and The Great Empire of the Dawn, Minas Morgul/Minas Ithil, Luthien and Sansa, Sauron and The Bloodstone Emperor, Earendel and The Sword of the Morning... I've read Nietzsche, Jung and some Freud, and finally, those Graham Hancock books LML recommends... and most importantly, The Golden Bough by Sir James George Frazer and The White Goddess by Robert Graves. I'm overflowing with new ideas, and all deserve their own essays. Meanwhile, I'm translating LML's works. By the way, are you familiar with @Darry Man's essays about The Symbolic Significance of Ebony & Persimmon in ASOIAF and A Tragedy of Ice and Fire? Hi Niebieski, it's nice to hear from you and that you're enjoying your reading (quite impressive!) Thank you for that beautiful song and video -- I really enjoyed it! It reminds me of this lovely passage from ASOIAF as well as a poem by Tennyson, to follow -- Quote A Storm of Swords - Catelyn IV Let the kings of winter have their cold crypt under the earth, Catelyn thought. The Tullys drew their strength from the river, and it was to the river they returned when their lives had run their course. They laid Lord Hoster in a slender wooden boat, clad in shining silver armor, plate-and-mail. His cloak was spread beneath him, rippling blue and red. His surcoat was pided blue-and-red as well. A trout, scaled in silver and bronze, crowned the crest of the greathelm they placed beside his head. On his chest they placed a painted wooden sword, his fingers curled about its hilt. Mail gauntlets hid his wasted hands, and made him look almost strong again. His massive oak-and-iron shield was set by his left side, his hunting horn to his right. The rest of the boat was filled with driftwood and kindling and scraps of parchment, and stones to make it heavy in the water. His banner flew from the prow, the leaping trout of Riverrun. Seven were chosen to push the funereal boat to the water, in honor of the seven faces of god. Robb was one, Lord Hoster's liege lord. With him were the Lords Bracken, Blackwood, Vance, and Mallister, Ser Marq Piper . . . and Lame Lothar Frey, who had come down from the Twins with the answer they had awaited. Forty soldiers rode in his escort, commanded by Walder Rivers, the eldest of Lord Walder's bastard brood, a stern, grey-haired man with a formidable reputation as a warrior. Their arrival, coming within hours of Lord Hoster's passing, had sent Edmure into a rage. "Walder Frey should be flayed and quartered!" he'd shouted. "He sends a cripple and a bastard to treat with us, tell me there is no insult meant by that." "I have no doubt that Lord Walder chose his envoys with care," she replied. "It was a peevish thing to do, a petty sort of revenge, but remember who we are dealing with. The Late Lord Frey, Father used to call him. The man is ill-tempered, envious, and above all prideful." Blessedly, her son had shown better sense than her brother. Robb had greeted the Freys with every courtesy, found barracks space for the escort, and quietly asked Ser Desmond Grell to stand aside so Lothar might have the honor of helping to send Lord Hoster on his last voyage. He has learned a rough wisdom beyond his years, my son. House Frey might have abandoned the King in the North, but the Lord of the Crossing remained the most powerful of Riverrun's bannermen, and Lothar was here in his stead. The seven launched Lord Hoster from the water stair, wading down the steps as the portcullis was winched upward. Lothar Frey, a soft-bodied portly man, was breathing heavily as they shoved the boat out into the current. Jason Mallister and Tytos Blackwood, at the prow, stood chest deep in the river to guide it on its way. Catelyn watched from the battlements, waiting and watching as she had waited and watched so many times before. Beneath her, the swift wild Tumblestone plunged like a spear into the side of the broad Red Fork, its blue-white current churning the muddy red-brown flow of the greater river. A morning mist hung over the water, as thin as gossamer and the wisps of memory. Bran and Rickon will be waiting for him, Catelyn thought sadly, as once I used to wait. The slim boat drifted out from under the red stone arch of the Water Gate, picking up speed as it was caught in the headlong rush of the Tumblestone and pushed out into the tumult where the waters met. As the boat emerged from beneath the high sheltering walls of the castle, its square sail filled with wind, and Catelyn saw sunlight flashing on her father's helm. Lord Hoster Tully's rudder held true, and he sailed serenely down the center of the channel, into the rising sun. "Now," her uncle urged. Beside him, her brother Edmure - Lord Edmure now in truth, and how long would that take to grow used to? - nocked an arrow to his bowstring. His squire held a brand to its point. Edmure waited until the flame caught, then lifted the great bow, drew the string to his ear, and let fly. With a deep thrum, the arrow sped upward. Catelyn followed its flight with her eyes and heart, until it plunged into the water with a soft hiss, well astern of Lord Hoster's boat. Edmure cursed softly. "The wind," he said, pulling a second arrow. "Again." The brand kissed the oil-soaked rag behind the arrowhead, the flames went licking up, Edmure lifted, pulled, and released. High and far the arrow flew. Too far. It vanished in the river a dozen yards beyond the boat, its fire winking out in an instant. A flush was creeping up Edmure's neck, red as his beard. "Once more," he commanded, taking a third arrow from the quiver. He is as tight as his bowstring, Catelyn thought. Ser Brynden must have seen the same thing. "Let me, my lord," he offered. "I can do it," Edmure insisted. He let them light the arrow, jerked the bow up, took a deep breath, drew back the arrow. For a long moment he seemed to hesitate while the fire crept up the shaft, crackling. Finally he released. The arrow flashed up and up, and finally curved down again, falling, falling . . . and hissing past the billowing sail. A narrow miss, no more than a handspan, and yet a miss. "The Others take it!" her brother swore. The boat was almost out of range, drifting in and out among the river mists. Wordless, Edmure thrust the bow at his uncle. "Swiftly," Ser Brynden said, He nocked an arrow, held it steady for the brand, drew and released before Catelyn was quite sure that the fire had caught . . . but as the shot rose, she saw the flames trailing through the air, a pale orange pennon. The boat had vanished in the mists. Falling, the flaming arrow was swallowed up as well . . . but only for a heartbeat. Then, sudden as hope, they saw the red bloom flower. The sails took fire, and the fog glowed pink and orange. For a moment Catelyn saw the outline of the boat clearly, wreathed in leaping flames. Watch for me, little cat, she could hear him whisper. Catelyn reached out blindly, groping for her brother's hand, but Edmure had moved away, to stand alone on the highest point of the battlements. Her uncle Brynden took her hand instead, twining his strong fingers through hers. Together they watched the little fire grow smaller as the burning boat receded in the distance. And then it was gone . . . drifting downriver still, perhaps, or broken up and sinking. The weight of his armor would carry Lord Hoster down to rest in the soft mud of the riverbed, in the watery halls where the Tullys held eternal court, with schools of fish their last attendants. Crossing the Bar Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crost the bar. ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Bluetiger Posted October 29, 2017 Share Posted October 29, 2017 14 hours ago, ravenous reader said: Hi Niebieski, it's nice to hear from you and that you're enjoying your reading (quite impressive!) Thank you for that beautiful song and video -- I really enjoyed it! It reminds me of this lovely passage from ASOAIF, as well as a poem by Tennyson, to follow -- Thanks for sharing that poem RR! Quote Let the kings of winter have their cold crypt under the earth, Catelyn thought. The Tullys drew their strength from the river, and it was to the river they returned when their lives had run their course. They laid Lord Hoster in a slender wooden boat, clad in shining silver armor, plate-and-mail. His cloak was spread beneath him, rippling blue and red. His surcoat was pided blue-and-red as well. A trout, scaled in silver and bronze, crowned the crest of the greathelm they placed beside his head. On his chest they placed a painted wooden sword, his fingers curled about its hilt. Mail gauntlets hid his wasted hands, and made him look almost strong again. His massive oak-and-iron shield was set by his left side, his hunting horn to his right. The rest of the boat was filled with driftwood and kindling and scraps of parchment, and stones to make it heavy in the water. His banner flew from the prow, the leaping trout of Riverrun. (...) The seven launched Lord Hoster from the water stair, wading down the steps as the portcullis was winched upward. Lothar Frey, a soft-bodied portly man, was breathing heavily as they shoved the boat out into the current. Jason Mallister and Tytos Blackwood, at the prow, stood chest deep in the river to guide it on its way. Catelyn watched from the battlements, waiting and watching as she had waited and watched so many times before. Beneath her, the swift wild Tumblestone plunged like a spear into the side of the broad Red Fork, its blue-white current churning the muddy red-brown flow of the greater river. A morning mist hung over the water, as thin as gossamer and the wisps of memory. (...) The slim boat drifted out from under the red stone arch of the Water Gate, picking up speed as it was caught in the headlong rush of the Tumblestone and pushed out into the tumult where the waters met. As the boat emerged from beneath the high sheltering walls of the castle, its square sail filled with wind, and Catelyn saw sunlight flashing on her father's helm. Lord Hoster Tully's rudder held true, and he sailed serenely down the center of the channel, into the rising sun. Indeed, this ASOS passage is very reminiscent of Tolkien's description of Boromir's funeral in The Two Towers. Who knows, maybe Hoster's wake was directly inspired by that scene - or, Scandinavian Viking customs and traditions concerning the burial of kings and warriors.... Quote From The Lord of the Rings, by J.R.R. Tolkien: Taking his axe the Dwarf now cut several branches. These they lashed together with bowstrings, and spread their cloaks upon the frame. Upon this rough bier they carried the body of their companion to the shore, together with such trophies of his last battle as they chose to send forth with him. It was only a short way, yet they found it no easy task, for Boromir was a man both tall and strong. (...) Now they laid Boromir in the middle of the boat that was to bear him away. The grey hood and elven-cloak they folded and placed beneath his head. They combed his long dark hair and arrayed it upon his shoulders. The golden belt of Lórien gleamed about his waist. His helm they set beside him, and across his lap they laid the cloven horn and the hilts and shards of his sword; beneath his feet they put the swords of his enemies. Then fastening the prow to the stern of the other boat, they drew him out into the water. They rowed sadly along the shore, and turning into the swift-running channel they passed the green sward of Parth Galen. The steep sides of Tol Brandir were glowing: it was now mid-afternoon. As they went south the fume of Rauros rose and shimmered before them, a haze of gold. The rush and thunder of the falls shook the windless air. Sorrowfully they cast loose the funeral boat: there Boromir lay, restful, peaceful, gliding upon the bosom of the flowing water. The stream took him while they held their own boat back with their paddles. He floated by them, and slowly his boat departed, waning to a dark spot against the golden light; and then suddenly it vanished. Rauros roared on unchanging. The River had taken Boromir son of Denethor, and he was not seen again in Minas Tirith, standing as he used to stand upon the White Tower in the morning. But in Gondor in after-days it long was said that the elven-boat rode the falls and the foaming pool, and bore him down through Osgiliath, and past the many mouths of Anduin, out into the Great Sea at night under the stars. I think that it's important to try to find those more metaphorical, symbolic, archetypal and thematic paralels between GRRM's books and other masterpieces of literature/poetry. Right now I'm working on an essay focusing on such similarities, as I find obvious, 1:1 nods and references too boring... Ser Gladden Wylde, Elron of the Night's Watch, Sauron Salt-tongue, certain sigils and houses... I think that GRRM puts them in there just to point the reader in the right direction - to search for deeper, hidden meanings, we have to be sure, or at least nearly certain that George's read book X or is familiar with author Y. These simple nods and homages - to Tolkien, Lewis, Joyce, Shakespeare, Jordan, Wells, various other authors and works, history, mythologies, astronomy - tell us that 'GRRM knows this subject'. Then, we can start to wonder - 'ok, he knows Tolkien, but what now? What does it mean? Why does he reference him in chapter X or scene Z? What's the narrative purpose? Foreshadowing? A reponse? A commentary? Right now I'm writing essay on this topic, focusing on paralels (not 1:1 copies, which GRRM never puts into his books!) between GRRM and JRRT... when the first text is ready, should I send it to you? *** And here's a poem I find quite similar in tone to Tennyson's... 'I Sit Beside the Fire and Think', by J.R.R. Tolkien: I sit beside the fire and thinkof all that I have seenof meadow-flowers and butterfliesin summers that have been; Of yellow leaves and gossamerin autumns that there were,with morning mist and silver sunand wind upon my hair. I sit beside the fire and thinkof how the world will bewhen winter comes without a springthat I shall ever see. For still there are so many thingsthat I have never seen:in every wood in every springthere is a different green. I sit beside the fire and thinkof people long agoand people who will see a worldthat I shall never know. But all the while I sit and thinkof times there were before,I listen for returning feetand voices at the door Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
ravenous reader Posted October 29, 2017 Author Share Posted October 29, 2017 10 hours ago, Blue Tiger said: Thanks for sharing that poem RR! Indeed, this ASOS passage is very reminiscent of Tolkien's description of Boromir's funeral in The Two Towers. Who knows, maybe Hoster's wake was directly inspired by that scene - or, Scandinavian Viking customs and traditions concerning the burial of kings and warriors.... A note on Riverrun : Quote What does the first sentence of Finnegans Wake mean? Bill Fri Mar 23, 2007 6:04 am GMT Riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs. This sentence is the very first one of James Joyce's Finnegans Wake. I am quite confused by its meaning, factual or figurative alike. Cry for help. Josh Lalonde Fri Mar 23, 2007 1:04 pm GMT "Finnegan's Wake" is notoriously opaque. If English isn't your first language, I wouldn't recommend it. I certainly don't understand the vast majority of it. Here's my shot at translation: The river runs past Adam and Eve's home, by the shore and around the back to Howth Castle and its surroundings. I have no idea what a "commodius vicus of recirculation" is. Liz Sat Mar 24, 2007 7:19 pm GMT Finnegans Wake is an experimental novel full of puns which require some background knowledge and an exquisite sense of abstraction. That´s the reason why it´s extremely difficult to decipher the meaning behind these twisted words and sentences even if you happen to be a native speaker of English. It obviously isn´t a novel that I´d recommend you to read for fun. However, it could be fun if you like these kind of things. (Being a student of literature and linguistics, I had the chance of getting acquianted with this piece.) Well, I´m not sure, but: Riverrun: can be a noun and a verb phrase as well (riverrun vs. river run) past: again either a noun (past) or the simple past form of the verb "pass" (passed, but pronounced exactly as "past" Adam and Eve: that´s a church in Dublin (I´m not sure if Joyce is referring to it), on the other hand, legend has it that they are our ancestors, thus: Either: passed Adam and Eve´s Church Or: Adam and Eve´s past from swerve of shore to bend of bay: it´s sort of self-explanatory I reckon a commodius vicus of recirculation: I can´t quite put my finger on that particular expression. I assume that "vicious circle" is implied here, among several other possible connotations. Besides, "vicus" could be a(n oblique) reference to Giambattista Vico, who was known of his circular view of history. (~ back to Adam and Eve, basically) "Commodius" might refer to "commodious". "commodius vicus" has the same short form as "curriculum vitae" that is CV, so it might refer to the course of life or history. I´m not sure I get the meaning right, that´s just my interpretation. Mysteryman Sat Mar 24, 2007 11:16 pm GMT Bill, the river Liffey weaves past Adam and Eve's church and eventually, after taking a round about route, passes Howth castle (or thereabouts). Is that good enough for you? Bill Mon Mar 26, 2007 4:25 am GMT It makes much better sense to me. Indeed, I am hesitant to read such a novel, as Liz said. I appreciate your help, Josh Lalonde, Liz, Mysteryman! Aleister93 Sat Oct 20, 2007 7:25 pm GMT As Robert Anton Wilson pointed out in "The Illuminatus Papers", the speaker in FW is obsessed with exctretory functions, so I'd call it obvious that "commodius" is amont other things, a pun on "commode," meaning toilet. also, the water in a commode moves in a circular fashion.... As for "vicus": In the history of the Roman empire, a vicus (pl. vici) was an ad hoc provincial civilian settlement that sprang up close to and because of a nearby official Roman site, usually a military garrison or state-owned mining operation. The vici differed from the planned civilian towns (civitates) that were laid out as official, local economic and administrative centres, the coloniæ which were settlements of retired troops, or the formal political entities created from existing settlements, the municipia. (wikipedia entry) "vicus" may also refer to Giambattista Vico (1668-1744). Vico believed in a theory of cyclical history. He believed that the world was coming to the end of the last of three ages, these being the age of gods, the age of heroes, and the age of humans. This opening also contributes to the effect of Joyce's novel as a whole, since it begins and ends with "riverrun" on the lips. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Finnegans_Wake Quote I think that it's important to try to find those more metaphorical, symbolic, archetypal and thematic paralels between GRRM's books and other masterpieces of literature/poetry. Right now I'm working on an essay focusing on such similarities, as I find obvious, 1:1 nods and references too boring... Ser Gladden Wylde, Elron of the Night's Watch, Sauron Salt-tongue, certain sigils and houses... I think that GRRM puts them in there just to point the reader in the right direction - to search for deeper, hidden meanings, we have to be sure, or at least nearly certain that George's read book X or is familiar with author Y. These simple nods and homages - to Tolkien, Lewis, Joyce, Shakespeare, Jordan, Wells, various other authors and works, history, mythologies, astronomy - tell us that 'GRRM knows this subject'. Then, we can start to wonder - 'ok, he knows Tolkien, but what now? What does it mean? Why does he reference him in chapter X or scene Z? What's the narrative purpose? Foreshadowing? A reponse? A commentary? Right now I'm writing essay on this topic, focusing on paralels (not 1:1 copies, which GRRM never puts into his books!) between GRRM and JRRT... when the first text is ready, should I send it to you? Please do, BT, I would love to read it -- even though I am not an expert on J RR T, although I'm an RR too... Quote *** And here's a poem I find quite similar in tone to Tennyson's... 'I Sit Beside the Fire and Think', by J.R.R. Tolkien: I sit beside the fire and thinkof all that I have seenof meadow-flowers and butterfliesin summers that have been; Of yellow leaves and gossamerin autumns that there were,with morning mist and silver sunand wind upon my hair. I sit beside the fire and thinkof how the world will bewhen winter comes without a springthat I shall ever see. For still there are so many thingsthat I have never seen:in every wood in every springthere is a different green. I sit beside the fire and thinkof people long agoand people who will see a worldthat I shall never know. But all the while I sit and thinkof times there were before,I listen for returning feetand voices at the door That's beautiful. It reminds me of Milan Kundera's concept of 'tesknota', as exemplified by Yeats: When You Are Old When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Bluetiger Posted October 30, 2017 Share Posted October 30, 2017 15 hours ago, ravenous reader said: That's beautiful. It reminds me of Milan Kundera's concept of 'tesknota', as exemplified by Yeats: Who's Milan Kundera? Tęsknota = longing in Polish. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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