The Ring of Dark Elves by Victoria Randall (my review for Midwest Book Review)

In the introduction to her book, The Ring of the DarkElves, Victoria Randall states that composer Richard Wagner combined the ancient Viking Volsunga Saga with the Germanic Nibelungenlied legend to create his epic “Ring Cycle” operas. Randall has taken the same characters who have been singing Wagner’s arias on international stages since 1876 and placed them in a literary work. She is not the first modern writer to do this, but I can’t imagine anyone else creating a more accessible and beautiful version of these ancient narratives.

While reading The Ring of the Dark Elves, I was fascinated to discover just how much Tolkien had dipped into the same (as he put it) “Caldron of Story” that inspired Wagner. And while the Oxford don created his own mythology from what he discovered in that cauldron, I must admit that I have never been able to get through “The Silmarillion” though I’ve tried more than once. Though Tolkien’s story was his own, I’ve always felt that his prose was influenced by something very ancient; after all, he personally translated the Volsunga Saga into English and, while participating in two pre-Inkling literary circles, read it aloud in its original Old Norse.

Though Randall’s plot sticks closely to Wagner’s, and though there is certainly something a bit lofty about her prose, in my opinion it is more beautifully written than Tolkien’s. Consider the following excerpt from the first chapter describing Urda, guardian of the well of wisdom, as Odin leaves after his costly drink:

“She stood and watched until the shadows of night swallowed him. Tears blinded her own eyes, and she let them fall. So proud, she thought, so mighty, and so weak. She turned at last and went to sit beside the well in the darkness, as the stars began to shine in the cold remote sky.”

Or this one, describing Asgard:

“Scattered within the walls were other halls: Breidablik, where Nanna lived in lonely splendor now that Baldr was gone; Bilskirnir, where Thor lived with his beautiful Sif; and Vingolf, with its high seats for Odin’s wife Frigga and the other women of the Aesir. There he could just catch the movement of the leaves in Freya’s garden, where grew the tree with golden apples, the secret of the Aesirs’ youth and strength. Beside it stood Valhalla, many-doored, where the heroes lived who had been brought from many battles; his heart swelled at sight of it. Far beyond the cliffs, shrouded in cloud now on this blustery day, gleamed Bifrost the rainbow bridge, its smooth shape shifting and shining with color as it arched down to the lands of men.”

Speaking of mythological characters, Randall includes an exhaustive list of them at the beginning of the book, which is helpful, but each is so uniquely drawn in the text and introduced with such tension that the reader can easily keep them straight. It’s rare that a writer excels equally well at characterization, dialogue, and description, but Randall, a phenomenal storyteller, accomplishes this with seeming effortlessness.

Readers who enjoy stories deeply rooted in ancient myth told in in breathtakingly beautiful prose will not be able to stop turning the pages of The Ring of the Dark Elves.

 

"When snatched from all effectual AID!" Marianne Dashwood and Edward Ferrars read Cowper :)

Remember that bit in Emma Thompson's Sense and Sensibility when Marianne Dashwood (Kate Winslet) forces Edward Ferrars (Hugh Grant) to read more expressively? I never Googled which poem she was torturing him with (or was he torturing her with his monotone rendering?), but I encountered it serendipitously this morning, so I thought I'd share it here. "The Castaway" by William Cowper, last stanza. Leave it to Cowper to dwell on depressing scenarios, but leave it to Screenwriter Emma Thompson to place this bit of darkness in a hilarious scene, perfectly illustrating Marianne Dashwood's craving for emotionalism: 

Obscurest night involv'd the sky,

         Th' Atlantic billows roar'd,

When such a destin'd wretch as I,

         Wash'd headlong from on board,

Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,

His floating home for ever left.

No braver chief could Albion boast

         Than he with whom he went,

Nor ever ship left Albion's coast,

         With warmer wishes sent.

He lov'd them both, but both in vain,

Nor him beheld, nor her again.

Not long beneath the whelming brine,

         Expert to swim, he lay;

Nor soon he felt his strength decline,

         Or courage die away;

But wag'd with death a lasting strife,

Supported by despair of life.

He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd

         To check the vessel's course,

But so the furious blast prevail'd,

         That, pitiless perforce,

They left their outcast mate behind,

And scudded still before the wind.

Some succour yet they could afford;

         And, such as storms allow,

The cask, the coop, the floated cord,

         Delay'd not to bestow.

But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore,

Whate'er they gave, should visit more.

Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he

         Their haste himself condemn,

Aware that flight, in such a sea,

         Alone could rescue them;

Yet bitter felt it still to die

Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

He long survives, who lives an hour

         In ocean, self-upheld;

And so long he, with unspent pow'r,

         His destiny repell'd;

And ever, as the minutes flew,

Entreated help, or cried—Adieu!

At length, his transient respite past,

         His comrades, who before

Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast,

         Could catch the sound no more.

For then, by toil subdued, he drank

The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him: but the page

         Of narrative sincere;

That tells his name, his worth, his age,

         Is wet with Anson's tear.

And tears by bards or heroes shed

Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream,

         Descanting on his fate,

To give the melancholy theme

         A more enduring date:

But misery still delights to trace

   Its semblance in another's case.

No voice divine the storm allay'd,

         No light propitious shone;

When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,

         We perish'd, each alone:

But I beneath a rougher sea,

And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.

And here is the link to the hilarious moment in the film: https://youtu.be/fzQuOJIi8sI?feature=shared

 

"This must be a good book. It simply must. I haven't any choice. It must be far and away the best thing I have ever attempted--slow but sure, piling detail on detail until a picture and an experience emerge. Until the whole throbbing thing emerges."

--John Steinbeck, June 10, 1938, on writing The Grapes of Wrath

Quote from Working Days: The Journals of the Grapes of Wrath, page 25. 

I am a huge Barbara Pym fan so I was thrilled when Stephen, a UK friend and pen pal, sent me a copy of this latest Pym biography which chronicles her early years. Below is an attempted Pym-like description of the book's delivery to my door!

Jane had suggested Sophie open the package only because the younger woman had been so disappointed to discover that her name had not been printed on any of the other mail carrier’s deliveries.

As Sophie held up the contents of the package with a listlessness that bordered on derision, Jane’s heart leaped.  It was a biography of an author she held in such high esteem that each lovely Dutton edition of the author’s novels decorated her bookshelf. This public adoration was no more than she had offered to her other favored writers—Jane Austen, and J.K. Rowling included—but here in these pages might be the key to understanding the writer who had made her laugh aloud repeatedly; more frequently, it might be added, than either Jane Austen or J.K. Rowling, who were both brilliant wits.

Dear Stephen! Her UK pen pal had kindly inquired whether she had read this latest biography and when she had mentioned that no library in the Chicago suburbs had been sensible enough to order it, he insisted on purchasing one for her.

Ah, the friendship among bibliophiles! Who outside the world of those who bonded over beautifully written phrases, clever plot points, and deftly crafted characters could possibly understand a gift such as this?

Jane smiled as she arranged her Pym shelf, took a photo of the new book, and emailed it immediately to Stephen. 

 

Bits of my personal library

I've had one complaint (yes, I'm talking to you, Stephen!) about the lack of posts, so here are a few personal library photos, in very small select sections! Enjoy!

Incomplete but somewhat impressive Bronte sister shelf:

Dickens shelves, including photos from our very first Dickens reading (my literary friends aren't into social media much, but as these are photos within a photo, I thought I could get away with it). Lower right corner is a photo of my husband's plum pudding. It looks unappetizing from here but it was delicious. 

Barbara Pym shelf. When I got on Facebook more than a decade ago, I began a Barbara Pym fan club there. It has taken off so much that the membership--kept in careful check by myself and three other moderators--now boasts of nearly 1,000 people. She's a wonderful writer. 

Rosalie K. Fry shelf with the two treasures blocking all the others. 

And here are a few photos of some of the books I've written: First the Pacific Theater book surrounded by the books that provided research materials:

The Korean translation of my European Theater book--along with the earlier Spanish version--which came out late last year: 

Finally: for the past year or so I've also been writing children's stories for two of my piano students based on prompts they give me. The prompts are delightfully creative and they enjoy what I do with them. Here is one of the students, caught in the very act of reading my latest: