Verses from the Center: A Buddhist Vision of the Sublime / Stephen Batchelor -- N.Y.: Riverhead Books, 2000

Among the most important concepts that Buddhism has contributed to the world's history of ideas is the concept of śūnyatā which is often translated as "emptiness."  Commonly, we understand things in the world as falling into two ontological categories: being and nothingness.  Given this duality, emptiness is often misunderstood as simply another way of referring to nothingness.  It is, however, better understood as marking a third ontological category that is neither being nor nothingness.  At the same time, emptiness has important relations to these two standard ontological categories.  To understand emptiness, consider a chess set.  It is composed of eight white pawn, eight white pieces, eight black pawns, eight black pieces, and a board.  If we imagine a chess set sitting before us on a table we might say that there are 33 objects on the table; however, we might also say that there is a chess set on the table.  Could this really mean there are 34 objects on the table?  Not if by an object we mean something that exists independently of all other things, since the chess set exists only dependently on its 33 independently existing objects.  The chess set, while certainly existing, has an ontological status that is different from its component elements.  Buddhists call this form of existence "dependent existence" and say of dependently existing objects that they are "empty."  Among the most striking observations that has come out of the Buddhist tradition is the view that all things in the phenomenal world are empty.  This is not a doctrine that all Buddhist embrace, but it is one which was clearly articulated by the second century Indian philosopher Nagarjuna.  

Dependent existence might also come about not by a mereological relation, but by a causal dependency.  States of affairs that that currently exist only exist as a product of the prior conditions which brought them about.  They exist dependent upon their causes.  Buddhists refer to this relationship as "dependent origination."  Again, as with mereological dependence, all things in the phenomenal world originate dependently.  More simply put: all things have a cause.  All things are a result of prior conditions.  

The idea of dependent origination and emptiness appear in some of the earliest Buddhist texts, but as mentioned above, it did not take center stage in Buddhist thinking until it was highlighted by Nagarjuna.  Nagarjuna's most significant work is the Mulamadhyamikakarika which Stephen Batchelor translates as Verses from the Center.  There are several translations of the Mulamadhyamikakarika, most recently, Mark Siderits and Shoryu Katsura translated it in their work Nagarjuna's Middle Way.  Another important translation appears in Jay Garfield's The Fundamental Wisdom off the Middle Way which Batchelor recommends as "a more literal, academic translation."  Nagarjuna's work is composed of 27 chapters.  The shortest chapter is made up of six, four-line verses, while the longest chapter is made up of 40, four-line verses (at least this is how Garfield parses the text within the chapters). To illuminate the concept of emptiness, Nagarjuna discusses a variety of metaphysical topics, including time, motion, causation, actions, and the self as well as specifically Buddhist concepts like nirvana, the Buddha nature, and the Four Noble Truths.  The basic strategy of the work is to demonstrate through close logical analysis that all theories about the metaphysical concepts under scrutiny cannot be correct.  Through reductio ad absurdum arguments, Nagarjuna shows that the tools of reason cannot lead to an adequate understanding of of ultimate truth. Ultimate truth is accessible to us only after we understand this and open ourselves to a direct understanding through an intuition of the emptiness of all things in our experience.

Nagarjuna's doctrine of emptiness is a monumental achievement in the history of ideas.  From it, the numerous schools of Mahayana Buddhism emerged, particularly the Madhyamaka schools present in Tibet today and the Chinese and Japanese schools of Ch'an and Zen Buddhism.  These later school have, of course, additional important influences besides Nagarjuna. We are particularly fortunate that Stephen Batchelor took up the task of translating and commenting on the Mulamadhyamakakarika in that he brings a thorough understanding of the Tibetan tradition (particularly the Dge lugs) as well as Zen.  Furthermore,  Batchelor brings a critical Western perspective to his interpretations.  Batchelor became steeped in the scholarly study of Buddhism while studying under the Dalai Lama in Dharamsala.  He eventually felt a need to go beyond scholarship and seek out a more direct understanding of Buddhism.  Traveling to South Korea, Batchelor joined a Zen monastery, where he pursued a path of meditation.  Ultimately, he left the monastery to marry, move to England, and become a lay Buddhist.  Nonetheless, he has continued to write and lecture on Buddhism.  He has become well-known as a "secular Buddhist," seeking to preserve the practical, rational elements of Buddhism while discarding the religious, speculative, and magic elements.  Batchelor believes that only by doing this will Buddhism find wider acceptance in the West.

His translation of the Mulamadhyamakakarika is clear, crisp, and poetic.  It seems to reflect the sensibility of the Japanese haiku.  For example, he translates a verse in chapter on the self as follows:

When the Buddhas don't appear
And their followers are gone,
The wisdom of awakening
Bursts forth by itself.

Compare this to Garfield's more "literal, academic translation:"

When the fully enlighten ones do not appear,
And when the disciples have disappeared,
The wisdom of the self-enlightened ones
Will arise completely without a teacher.

Or compare it to the Siderits-Katsura translation:

Though the completely enlightened ones do not arise and the sravakas disappear,
The knowledge of the pratyekabuddhas arise independently.

Or compare the translations of another verse in a chapter on the body.  First, Batchelor:

I have no body apart
From the parts which form it;
I have no parts
Apart from a "body."

Next, Garfield:

Apart form the cause of form,
Form cannot be conceived.
Apart from form,
The cause of form is not seen.

Finally, Siderits-Katsura:

Rupa is not found separate from the cause of rupa.
Nor is the cause of rupa seen without rupa.

One is immediately attracted to Batchelor's verses.  In most instances, they have the capacity to capture the imagination of the reader and prompt deep reflection, when the other translations seem flat or simply puzzling; however, the Garfield and Siderits-Katsura are certainly more faithful translations of the original work.  While someone not well acquainted with the concepts that Nagarjuna is explicating will certainly find Garfield and Siderits-Katsura puzzling, both translations are accompanied with helpful commentary.  So the reader is left with two options:  reading Batchelor for the pleasure of his style or reading Garfield or Siderits-Katsura to deepen one's understanding of Nagarjuna.  In defense of Batchelor, though, one might justly argue that he has done a fine job of conveying the spirit of the original and that for the most part one does not need a strong background in the Madhyamaka tradition to get a passable understanding of the force of the root text.  Still, reading Batchelor's translation alone will not leave one with a full understanding.

It should be noted, though, that Verses from the Center also contains Batchelor's very fine introduction, entitled "Intuitions of the Sublime."  The title clearly conveys Batchelor's approach to Nagarjuna.  While Nagarjuna is well-known for the incisiveness of his arguments, his final goal is to demonstrate that argumentation cannot lead us to a true understanding of the world.  This can be achieved only through intuition.  Batchelor appears to use the Mulamadhyamakakarika as an inspiration to write poetry that is often only loosely based on the root text, but which may have the ability to ignite the reader's intuitions and lead one to an understanding that a "more literal, academic translation" cannot.

Beowulf: A New Verse Translation / Seamus Heaney, tr. -- NY: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2000.

Reading Seamus Heaney's translation of Beowulf was a delight. Of course, I've never read a translation of Beowulf and not been delighted; so a more critical review of the work requires a bit more thought. This drove me to compare it to the two other translations that I have read. It's difficult to judge a translation without a good understanding of the original language -- which I certainly lack -- so I'm left to judge the work based on its translated poetry alone. On that score, Heaney's translation, for me, competes well with translations by Michael Alexander (Penguin Classics, 1973) and Francis B. Gummere (P.F. Collier & Sons, 1910). Each translation has its merits and reading them together deepens one's appreciation for each and for the poem itself.

Comparing specific stanzas in the three translations gives one a flavor of how different various translations can be. Heaney directs his readers to his translation of the opening stanza to exemplify his own approach:

Heaney:

So. The Spear-Danes in days gone by
and the kings who ruled them had courage and greatness.
We have heard of those princes' heroic campaigns.

Alexander:

Attend!
We have heard of the thriving of the throne of Denmark,
how the folk-kings flourished in former days,
how those royal athelings earned that glory.

and Gummere:

Lo, praise of the prowess of people-kings
of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,
we have heard, and what honor the athelings won!

One can immediately feel the tone that Heaney adopts: direct simple word choices, shorn of poetic pretense. In his introduction, Heaney writes: "I came to the task of translating Beowulf with a prejudice in favour of forthright delivery. I remember the voice of the poem as being attractively direct, even though the diction was ornate and the narrative method at times oblique," and later, "I am attending as much to the grain of my original vernacular as to the content of the Anglo-Saxon lines."

What Heaney rejects is the notion that a translation of Beowulf must be guided primarily by the notion that "we must labour to be beautiful." The result is a translation that reads easily and simply, and indeed, beauty flourishes in that simply. At least this is true most of time. What is sometimes lost is the remarkable, stirring phrases that appear in more self-consciously poetic translations. Compare the various translations of one of my favorite passages (lines 2550-2558), when the aged Beowulf first challenges the dragon in his lair:

Heaney:

Then he gave a shout. The lord of the Geats
unburdened his breast and broke out
in a storm of anger. Under the grey stone
his voice challenged and resounded clearly.
Hate was ignited. The hoard-guard recognized
a human voice, the time was over
for peace and parleying. Pouring forth
in a hot battle-fume, the breath of the monster
burst from the rock. There was a rumble under ground.

Alexander:

Passion filled the prince of the Geats:
he allowed a cry to utter from his breast,
roared from his stout heart: as the horn clear in battle
his voice re-echoed through the vault of grey stone.
The hoard-guard recognized a human voice,
and there was no more time for talk of friendship:
hatred stirred. Straightaway
the breath of the dragon billowed from the rock
in a hissing gust; the ground boomed.

and Gummere:

Then from his breast, for he burst with rage,
the Weder-Geat prince a word outgo;
stormed the stark-heart; stern went ringing
and clear his cry 'neath the cliff-rocks gray.
The hoard-guard heard a human voice;
his rage was enkindled. No respite now
for pact of peace! The poison-breath
of that foul worm first came forth from the cave,
hot reek-of-fight: the rocks resounded.

To my ear, Heaney's version is certainly unencumbered by the "laboured poetry" of the Gummere version, but it is still stirring; however, in comparison to the Alexander version, Heaney's reads like a newspaper account. Nothing more exemplifies the difference than lines 2556-2568. Alexander's version best captures the ominous moment when Beowulf courageously faces his death: "...Straightaway / the breath of the dragon billowed from the rock / in a hissing gust. The ground boomed." Reading "the ground boomed" makes me want to put down my book and flee, lest I be cornered by the dragon. This is not to say that Heaney's directness and Gummere's laboured poetry do not outshine Alexander on other occasions, but on balance, for me, Alexander finds just the right poetic balance.

Regardless of the translation one choose to read, Beowulf is a stirring experience if one reads the poem slowly and thoughtfully -- aloud is best -- taking the time to let the words and images shape your experience and transport you to a time and place when honor and undauntable courage were prized above all. Heaney will do this for you and in an idiom that speaks directly to today's vernacular.

The Prose Edda / Snorri Sturluson -- NY: American-Scandinavian Foundation and London: Humphrey Miford Oxford University Press, 1923.

In the early 13th century, Iceland's great poet Snorri Sturluson collected the stories of his culture now known as The Elder Edda and worked them into retelling now known as The Prose Edda. It is divided into three self-sufficient sections: Gylfaginning or The Beguiling of Gylfi, Skaldskaparmal or The Poesy of Skalds, and Hattatal or Enumeration of Metres. These and portions of these works have been translated into English since the first attempt in 1770; however, not until 1916 was the whole of Skaldskaparmal translated. This was done by Arthur Gilchrist Brodeur for the American-Scandinavian Foundation. Brodeur's The Poesy of the Skalds appeard in the same volume with his translation of Gylfanginning. Hattatal, however, defied Brodeur's translation abilities, due to its highly technical nature. Indeed, fitting appropriate English vocabulary into the metre of the original work is likely impossible.

The Beguiling of Gylfi is the most accessible and engaging to the two translated works. It tells the story of the Norse gods, from the creation of the world to their death at the hands of the giants. While the work is certainly pagan, Snorluson introduces it by telling how the original knowledge of the Biblical story of Genesis was forgotten by the people of Northern Europe and how they constructed the Odinic myths; however, once he has established his Christian credentials, Snorluson faithfully retells the pagan stories without lacing them with foreign Christian interpolations.

The Beguiling of Gylfi recounts the exploits of Odin, Thor, Loki, Baldr, Freyja, Freyr, and other lesser Norse gods. Its stories include norns, valkyries, giants, elves, dwarves, men, shape shifters, and dragons. It provides a brief account of the story of Sigurd, Brynhild, and Gudrun. The stories are told to Gylfi by Harr of the AEsir, descendants of the Norse gods. The work provides an excellent summary of the Norse pantheon and cosmology.

The Poesy of the Skalds contains verses and some brief narratives, but is essentially a compendium of ways in which the poets of the Elder Edda referred to various gods and important subjects. Essentially, it is a handbook for poets (skalds) seeking to understand how to poetically refer to the subjects in their poems. So, for example, a young skald is directed to refer to Odin as "Allfather" and Thor as "Defender of Asgard and of Midgard" or "Smiter of Hrungnir." Baldr is "Companion of Hel" or "God of Tears." Loki is "Theif of the Giants" or "Forger of Evil;" "the Sly God" or "Contriver of Baldr's Death." Poetic references are recommended for such things as man, gold, the sky, the earth, battle, fire, etc.

The epithets for all these relate to the subject's place in Norse legends, and along with helping us understand the Norse view of the world, provide a rich summary of the poetic sensibility of the Icelandic skalds. Snorluson quotes stanzas of poetry that employ these epithets and sometimes provides us with longer narratives illustrating why the subject has received the epithet. Reading these stanzas in the context of Sturluson's poetic instruction allows us to understand why Norse poetry feels so loaded with meaning.

The Beguiling of Gylfi will reward anyone interested in the Norse mythology. Its gritty narratives are thrilling in a way that Greek and Roman mythology with all its glamour is not. The Poesy of the Skalds, on the other hand, will reward the more poetic reader, unconcerned with plots or narratives, but happy to read the isolated, but stirring, turn of phrase.

The Legend of Sigurd and Gudrun / J.R.R. Tolkien -- Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2009.

A couple years ago, I read in The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien that Tolkien had written poem that attempted "to unify the lays about the Volsungs from the Elder Edda," written in the Old Norse eight-line stanzaic metre. Having read William Morris's brilliant epic poem Sigurd the Volsung, I was delighted to think that Tolkien's poem might still exist, but pessimistic that it might ever see publication. Happily, Christopher Tolkien has found and edited the work and released it as The Legend of Sigurd and Gudrun. Rather than a single poem, the work is composed of two poems.

The first recounts the life of Sigurd, the greatest hero of Norse legend, describing his slaying of the dragon Fafnir and his acquiring Andvari's gold. Later, his romance with the beautiful valkyrie Brynhild, his alliance with the Niflung, and his tragic end. The second recounts the life of Gudrun following Sigurd's death. Sigurd had been enchanted by Gudrun's mother, causing him to fall in love with Gudrun and breaking his vow to marry Brynhild. With the death of Sigrun and Brynhild, Gudrun lived in sorrow, watching her family destroyed, and finally cast herself into the sea to drown.

The death of Gudrun in Tolkien's version is different from most treatments of the story. For example, in the Magnusson-Morris translation, Gudrun is washed ashore and eventually marries for a third time, living in sorrow and weaving a tapestry depicting the life of Sigurd. Tolkien's version is, however, not unique. William Morris's later work also ends with her death by drowning.

Tolkien's poetry, faithful to the Old Norse metre, is beautifully archaic and stirring, but nonetheless clear and intelligible to the modern reader. The story's unity seems to owe much to William Morris's work. In his letters, Tolkien notes having read and been influenced by Morris's romances, though he does not mention Sigurd the Volsung. It is unlikely that he did not read it, though.

Much of Tolkien's posthumous work has been of interest only to his die-hard readers. Happily, this work and his previously published work The Children of Hurin are more accessible and in line with the works that have made him famous. For anyone who appreciated The Lord of the Rings, these recent publications will be an exciting adventure back into Middle Earth and the legends upon which it was conceived.

A good bit has been said about Tolkien's appropriation of names from the Eddas for The Lord of the Rings, particularly, Gandalf and Frodo; however, I have not read commentary that has drawn parallels between the life of Sigurd and Aragorn, Brynhild and Arwen, and Gudrun and Eowyn -- parallels that are of much greater interest.

In the Eddas, Sigurd falls in love with Brynhild the valkyrie. Before marrying her he sets off to earn her love and journeys to the house of the Niblungs. There, he leads them to greatness, but is enchanted by Gudrun's mother, causing him to fall in love with Gudrun. Similarly, in The Lord of the Rings, Aragorn falls in love with Arwen the elf, but before marrying her, heads off to join the House of Theoden (the Riders of Rohan), also leading them to greatness. Furthermore, just as the Niblungs defend themselves against the Budlungs in a bloody siege in Atli's hall, so too do the Riders of Rohan defend themselves against the forces of Sauruman at Helm's Deep. Finally, in a looser parallel, just as Atli, King of the Budlungs, is married to Gudrun of the Niblungs, so too is Grima Wormtongue (Sauruman's lieutenant) seeking to marry Eowyn, daughter of Theoden.

There are, of course, dissimilarities in the story. There is no enchantress in Rohan to cause Aragorn to fall in love with Eowyn as Sigurd fell in love with Gudrun, betraying Brynhild, but the attraction between Aragorn and Eowyn surely threatens to betray Arwen. The most significant dissimilarity lies in the victory of the Riders of Rohan at Helm's Deep. Where the Niblungs are defeated by the Budlungs, the Riders of Rohan are saved by what Tolkien describes in an essay as a "eucatastrophe." Just as the besieged Riders of Rohan are preparing to end their lives in a paradigmatically Norse fashion, with an honorable and glorious, but completely hopeless attack on the enemy, Gandalf arrives with a contingent of Riders to rescue the beseiged -- a "good castastrophe."

Clearly, Tolkien is indebted to the Lay of the Niblungs, but in his hands the story is transformed into one in which hope is triumphant, but while the valor characteristic of the ancient Norse remains undiminished.