Ac him se mæra mod getwæfde, bælc forbigde.

[and he, the most high, troubled their minds and humbled their pride.]


I know I probably shouldn’t feel productive, but I do. 

I got two-and-one-thirds pages translated so far today, and I started at about 11.  And I took a lunch break.  And it’s only 5pm now.  That’s, like, 100 lines. 

Hm, when I write it out like that, 100 lines doesn’t seem like that much.  Not when one considers the epic 2937-line length of the poem, at least.  When I started this dissertation endeavour, I never fooled myself into believing I would actually translate the entire goddamn thing, even if Clare has faith in me that I can.  I can only do my best.

Maybe I shouldn’t count my chickens and all that.  But I definitely feel as if I’m getting better at translating.  I’m starting to learn the vocabularly a bit better, so I don’t have to look up every. single. word.  I know with time I will pick it all up.  Sort of like I did with Middle English but much harder because barely any of the words even remotely resemble what they do in Modern English in Old English.  But I’m sure it will come.  Better yet, I’m getting the hang of Old English poetic grammar. 

Thank. God.


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