Dear Dorothy

Dear Dorothy,

I remember that you scorn all things handwritten – you type everything, I remember, even though your handwriting is lovely and straight, like white picket fences, birthday candles, and pushpins on the corkboard above your bed – but perhaps you will find some empathy within you to read this. I can imagine you now, wherever you are, reading this, perhaps at your desk, or perhaps at a café at your lunch break. Perhaps you have a cup of coffee – it looks black because it fits your personality, but I know you put three teaspoons of sugar inside it, I know that about you – and perhaps you are pulling a cigarette out of the slim silver case from your handbag. I see you exhaling the smoke in a long, lazy cloud. You used to blow it into my face, and you would toss your head back, laughing, when my eyes began tearing up. I coughed, you didn’t. I remember that about you.

I remember many things about you. Your name was Dorota officially, on your letterheads, followed by your degree, your department, and the name of our university. Dorota was serious and grim, who, standing at six feet could look down at professors with her fierce black eyes lined like a cat’s, and you were Dolly to fools who thought they could control a wild thing like you, and because I knew better, you were Dorothy. You were Dorothy to everyone, and I am no exception. You, Dorothy with the formidable surname, a jumble of eastern European syllables impossible to say, intimidating in typeface, of wild beauty when dragged out in ink by your hand.

I remember you in fits and bursts, Dorothy, glimpses of you in the throngs on the plaza, dark colors, exquisite hair, lips marked with a poisonous red. I still look for you in the crowds, and sometimes I see you thrown to pieces and scattered amongst strangers, your smart black shoes, your swift and purposeful walk, your haughty bark of laughter. I remember the smell of your perfume – you puffed it onto me once to see if I could be dangerous and elegant like you, it didn’t work – but nobody wears it like you do, Dorothy.

I remember the first time I saw you. It was September and it was warm, and you were lounging on the glade, shoes flung aside, book in your lap, cigarette between your fingers. I sketched you in red colored pencil. You didn’t know this at the time, didn’t see me because I was an insignificant speck of an individual, but I was shaking with anxiety. When I told this to you, you laughed at me, of course.

I had amassed an embarrassing amount of sketches of you, Dorothy, by the time we met. Do you remember that windy April morning? The wind carried my sketches your way, and you collected them, handed them back to me, and teased me because I was one of your many admirers. Somehow, I dared to ask if I could paint you, and perhaps because you indulged every opportunity to be worshipped, you took me to your lair.

Dorothy, you swallowed me whole. You picked me up by your fingertips and dropped me down your gullet. I was lost the moment I crossed the threshold, into your house, the sacred box, a too-small cave for a dragon queen, draped with deep reds and hung with neat photographs of enchanting places familiar to you, arcane to me. This is the chamber of Dorothy, but you laughed and dug your elbow into the pillow and peered at me with your venom eyes.

I recall it was during a hot spell in the spring, and the window was cracked open, and only for you. You didn’t offer me a drink or anything, and you, you could fan yourself with my sketches if you liked, and slip out of your costume to reveal armor and naked skin, scales of a terrible, beautiful beast that I could not hope to comprehend. I felt silly even taking off my scarf, and so I suffered there in your room, breathing in the heady, nauseatingly powerful odors of flowers plucked from the side of the mechanical engineering building smudged along every surface. Dead flowers swooning in the corner, wilted and browned, still belching their fragrance – and I was growing faint and you laughed as you put your clothes back on.

When I close my eyes I perceive you – a tall, dark woman with a quick, straight gait, loping across campus with books under one arm, a cigarette wedged between oxblood lips. I can paint you with a few quick strokes of India ink and have it recognizable, Dorothy, but it isn’t you. I’ve tried. I’ve created you in ink and paint and charcoal, worked your dark lipstick into the paper and canvas, sometimes smudged along with my ring finger, other times straight from the bullet, dangerous and bold like you were. I picked the flowers, redolent and pressed them against your image – smutty, slutty fragrance, lacking in elegance, inadequate to describe you.

Dear Dorothy, these are for you. Sketches, all, but fitting of the brevity of our acquaintance—and you don’t think much of art, anyways. I was too frightened – and still, I am frightened – to say you were my muse, but you were, you who scorned art and love and beauty, frivolities and pointless indulgences. I remember this about you. You, who had an engine in place of a soul, as you told me one time when I tried to read you poetry – I remember this about you.

And when I told you that I loved you, you laughed in my face. I, scarcely past girlhood, an artist(you said this derisively, you were derisive of art in general) of feeble talent and creativity, no use to a civilization that marches towards the future – how dare I court you? You told me you had no need for desperate warrior artists, and would not care to read whatever lovelorn drivel I sent your way, if it was anything like how I behaved. I remember this about you.

And because I remember this about you, I can feel safe that you will never read these words or look at these sketches. The envelope may smell like the flowers – gardenias, I looked them up – but you are Dorothy, Dorota ascended to meet the new America, the new woman resplendent and powerful, and you will have forgotten me. You will not read this, and this realization comes with relief and not despair, dear Dorothy, I know this about me, because you have taught me to be this way, I know this.

I still bear the scars your claws, your fangs, your dark kisses adorned me with. Your dragon fire scorched me from head to toe, blackened and burned me until I was not me, not a person any longer, but your prey and your possession, yours to destroy and to create in an image that pleased your passing fancy. You ravaged me and you forged me and you left me.

You will have forgotten me, but I remember you, Dorothy. I loved you, I loved you, I loved you, and I wish you well.

Love,

An admirer

Serpent Imagery and Symbolism - Lura Nancy Pedrini, Duilio T. Pedrini (1966)

"Whether the serpent is the 'founder of Romanticism' is questionable, but nevertheless it is an interesting suggestion. Little research is required...to discover the profound influence the serpent has had on the thoughts and literature of all people since the beginning of time. At times, the snake is regarded as sacred, at other times profane, or sometimes as an object evoking both reverence and hatred, but the snake is rarely considered just an ordinary animal pursuing its own way of existence with no significance for man...The Romanticists were fascinated by the serpent and were interested in its symbolic and imaginative value." - Pedrini, Pedrini (1966)

As probably none of you know, one of my greatest prose projects - several works of varying lengths and at varying stages of completeness and/or development - is a project I fondly refer to as Serpents. In preparation for my efforts in actually putting some ideas down to paper, I've begun to do some more reading. I hope to compile a sort of annotated bibliography for it onto this blog.



The first book is Serpent Imagery and Symbolism by Drs. Lura Nancy Pedrini and Duilio T. Pedrini of Princeton University. It is almost precisely what it says on its cover with the small exception that...

...the cover neglects to mention that the entire book is about serpent imagery and symbolism precisely in the works of Romantic poets and only Romantic poets.

This is not exactly what I was looking for. Also, not being a huge poetry buff, I was less engaged than I had hoped to be while reading a book entirely about serpents.

As I'm not well-educated on the ways of reading books about...reading poetry...I won't attempt to write a great deal of critique or anything that resembles a review. This isn't my aim. I'm working on a project that will inevitably have a great deal of serpent imagery and symbolism, so what's said in this book, while I'm not a Romantic and don't want to be one, is still useful.

The table of contents does a fair job at delineating what, exactly, this book is about. The title will be followed either with a representative quote from that section, or a remark from yours truly. My remarks are in italics. Here it is:

I. Symbolism and Romanticism - this first chapter serves to establish the significance of the symbol as a conduit between the spiritual/intangible world and the physical/tangible world. This is especially important as Romanticism seemed, at least to me, to be a reactionary expression of dramatic and powerful imagination and creativity and emotion against scientific rationality and empiricism...or something similar.

II. The Serpent and Romanticism - "No literary movement has lent itself to a greater expression of symbolism than Romanticism; no animal has lent itself to more symbolical interpretation than the serpent..." (26)

III. Serpent Imagery in the Major Romantics - chapter III subdivides serpent imagery into six sectors, then analyzes examples from poets William Blake, William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Lord Byron, Percy Shelley, and John Keats (always in that order) for each of these categories.

1. Man's emotions
2. Man's physical and mental attributes
3. The whole man
4. Areas and aspects of Man's life and experiences
5. Natural phenomena and man-made objects
6. Pictorial detail

These sectors overlap and since I'm not well-versed (get it?) in the source material, I'll let the following quotes help me out:

"The serpent images of the first five classifications are generally expressed in metaphors and similes. The last classification does not use the serpent for comparison but only for a description of a phenomenalistic world." (38)

"...images are analyzed in light of what they state, not what they imply." (39) - Imagery conveys obvious meaning while symbolism conveys latent meaning.

IV. Serpent Symbolism in the Major Romantics - chapter IV strays from the format of III where each category is discussed in that precise order of poets. Some of them don't have examples in all categories. The categories in IV are subdivided and themselves progress from positive symbolism of serpents to negative.

1. Idealism
1. Imagination
2. Benevolence
3. Pantheism
2. The Fall of Man
1. Serpent as beguiler
2. Woman as serpent-beguiler
3. Materialism
1. Analytic reason
2. Empiricism
3. Sensuousness
4. Man against Man
1. Enmity
2. Literary criticism
5. Institutions against Man
1. Kings and kingcraft
2. Priests and priestcraft

"The reader, then, is permitted to see the Romanticists' view of a world deteriorating from a perfect, idealistic condition of love, innocence, and harmony to an imperfect, materialistic condition of hatred, guilt, and discord." (75) - Astute readers of The Smiling Spider (or of Tolkien or of Norse mythology or of ANYTHING about serpents besides Romantic poetry) will recognize that this link between serpents and materialism, the physical world, etc is very obvious, especially with the strong association of serpents with mineral wealth (GOLD! Dragons hoard GOLD! Serpents are, by nature, voraciously greedy.)

"No animal has lent itself to more symbolical interpretation than the serpent." (75) - I feel as if this exact sentence was used earlier on in the book (it was) but that the serpent is used to symbolize both extremes is a testament to its versatility and its great symbolic value.

Summary and Conclusions - the bulk of this slim book was systematic analysis of the works of Blake, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, and Keats in the previously delineated categories. But, at the end, there is a bottom line:

"Literature and art, in general, are abundant in symbols because the creative man is aware of the conflict between conscious and unconscious forces." (135) - well...obviously. To go even further, symbols reconcile conscious and unconscious, tangible and intangible, etc...

"...[symbols] probe the unconscious and give to themselves and the world a better meaning of life." (136)

But the real, real bottom line:

"Whether the serpent is the 'founder of Romanticism' is questionable, but nevertheless it is an interesting suggestion. Little research is required...to discover the profound influence the serpent has had on the thoughts and literature of all people since the beginning of time. At times, the snake is regarded as sacred, at other times profane, or sometimes as an object evoking both reverence and hatred, but the snake is rarely considered just an ordinary animal pursuing its own way of existence with no significance for man...The Romanticists were fascinated by the serpent and were interested in its symbolic and imaginative value."

Two Serpents - an Analysis of the Duality of the Midgard Serpent and Jormungandr in Norse Cosmology and Eschatology

Two Serpents

The serpent as an antagonist is a ubiquitous theme in world religion – agents of evil and chaos, serpents and their allies threaten the forces of good and order in near Eastern, Greek, Biblical and other Indo-European canons (Calvert Watkins, How to Kill a Dragon). Norse mythology contributes the Midgard serpent and Níðhöggr the dragon to this cohort. The source material typifies the two as beings of destruction, enemies of humanity and societal comfort and order, separate, unrelated examples of the same trope. Snorri describes them both: the Midgard serpent encircles the world, biting his own tail, and is Þórr’s antagonist, while Níðhöggr rends the World Tree from below and wreaks havoc at the end times (Snorri Sturluson, Edda). They appear as independent entities – spatially separated, with non-intersecting mythological roles – and both agents of chaos, enemies of cosmic harmony. However, further depictions of the serpents in the source material suggest otherwise – the primary descriptions are too superficial, and belies an interpretation of the serpents as an integral pair with a close symbolic relationship in spite of their distinct mythological. Closer analysis reveals a close duality between the two serpents, whose equal and opposite roles in the Norse cosmogony defines them as endpoints on the spectrum of cosmic order – Jǫrmungandr as a symbol of order, and Níðhöggr of chaos.

Initially, it seems impossible that Níðhöggr and Jǫrmungandr could be related –their paths do not intersect in either of the eddic or skaldic poetry. Two opposing terms, cosmic and chthonic, describe their spatial separation. The Midgard serpent qualifies as cosmic – he occupies the ‘deep sea which lies round all lands,’ with his tail in his mouth (Sturluson 27). Conversely, Níðhöggr is chthonic, dwelling underground – ‘Níðhöggr gnaws the bottom of [Yggdrasill],’ accompanied by ‘more snakes…than any old fool thinks,’ (Sturluson 17-19). Aside from Jǫrmungandr’s excursions ashore in tales of Þórr’s fishing trip, Þórr’s journey to Útgarða-Loki’s, and Níðhöggr’s rampage at Ragnarök, the two are bound to their respective cosmic and chthonic realms, and thus have no opportunity for direct interaction. However, this independence does not invalidate a symbolic relationship between the two.

A concept borrowed from mathematics may help examine their spatial organization and its symbolic implications. The pagan Norse cosmos occupies three dimensions, concisely and completely represented by three directions: side to side, forwards and backwards, and up and down. Combinations of these vectors make every diagonal or curved line that can exist – these three independent vectors form a set that spans the three dimensional world, forming the basis of cosmic order. The Midgard serpent encircles the worlds that occupy the horizontal plane in Norse cosmogony – two of the three vectors span that plane – while the world tree forms the vertical axis, the third. This attribute affirms Jǫrmungandr’s place among the cosmic serpents, is identity as spanning, containing the horizontal world symbolizing totality and continuity. The two combined form the basis of the cosmos, vertical and horizontal in all directions, an unbroken circle containing the world. He becomes a defining point in the construction on the mythological space, an integral element in is organization. Jǫrmungandr’s affiliation with Yggdrasil completes this abstract representation of the world. On this fundamental level, Jǫrmungandr is a being of cosmic order, rather than of cosmic chaos as he may immediately appear in the mythology.

Mathematical representation aside, Jǫrmungandr, by virtue of being the antagonist of Þórr, protector of mankind, strongly resembles a being of chaos rather than order. Þórr’s repeated encounters with Jǫrmungandr as detailed in Hymiskviða, Gylfaginning, and Vǫluspá place Þórr in the ranks of Christ, Heracles, and St. George, archetypal heroes who oppose serpents, overtly terrifying manifestations of chaos, a familiar story of triumph of good over evil. Specifically, Þórr’s ultimate battle with the Midgard serpent represents the ‘last struggle of…the defence of the world-order,’ an explicit description of this struggle between good order and evil chaos (‘Ragnarök, an investigation into Old Norse Concepts of the Fate of the Gods’, John Stanley Martin, 1972). However, characterizing the symbolism Þórr’s relationship with Jǫrmungandr purely by superficial comparison is inadequate. Further examination of the myths suggest that Þórr’s antagonism towards the Midgard serpent, perhaps in his view a manifestation of evil, is misdirected and contrary to his role as protector of the realms.

From Snorri’s description of this feud in Gylfaginning,Þórr’s first encounters the Midgard serpent during his trials at the court of Útgarða-Loki. In this myth, Þórr and his traveling companions engage in competitions or trials to earn hospitality – Þórr’s three include drinking from a horn, lifting a large cat, and wrestling a crone (Sturluson). While he and his companions ultimately fail these tasks, Þórr indeed comes close enough for Útgarða-Loki to explain the consequences of his almost success: the horn is linked to the sea, the cat is ‘the Midgard serpent which lies encircling all lands,’ and the crone is a personification of old age (Sturluson 45). Þórr’s success would have meant disturbing the whole of the sea, lifting Jǫrmungandr out of the sea, and driving backwards the natural course of aging –Útgarða-Loki within the canon remarks that ‘ “…[Þórr was] going to bring us so close to great disaster…”’ (Sturluson 44). This declaration suggests that Jǫrmungandr is directly linked to the maintenance of order, allied with the stability of the physical world and the course of life and death, items that must be preserved for normal function of the cosmos – Útgarða-Loki as the origin of this idea confirms it as canon. From this myth onwards, Þórr’s relationship with the Midgard serpent distinguishes itself from other hero-monster narratives, unique in that Þórr, the archetypal defender of order, directly contributes to chaos by engaging in this sequential fight.

The most significant textual suggestion for this comes in Hymiskviða, which details Þórr’s fishing trip with the giant Hymir. All renditions of this myth – Hymiskviða, and in skaldic poetry preserved in Snorri’s Edda – consistently describe Þórr’s drawing up of the serpent from the sea, their fierce locking of eyes, and, most importantly, Þórr’s intention to kill. The plot then diverges, with Jǫrmungandr escaping in Hymiskviða, and Þórr successfully killing him in Húsdrápa and others. Snorri compiles these contradicting timelines, but ultimately decides that Jǫrmungandr is free and lives on, safeguarding his version of the mythological cycle where Jǫrmungandr and Þórr must battle at Ragnarök. In this direct confrontation between god and monster, Þórr and Jǫrmungandr reenact ‘the universal opposition between the powers of the cosmos and the powers of chaos’ (Preben Meulengracht Sørenson, ‘Þorr’s Fishing Expedition (Hymiskviða)). While within this dragon-fight archetype, the heroic Þórr is the obvious opponent of chaos, in this myth, he appears to be its agent: ‘The sea-wolf shrieked and the underwater rocks re-echoed, all the ancient earth was collapsing…then that fish sank into the sea’ (Hymiskviða, Poetic Edda, Carolyne Larrington 81). Þórr strikes the serpent in this version, and in Jǫrmungandr’s peril, the greater cosmos seems to be threatened. Sorenson amends his previous statement: ‘Here, the [Midgard serpent] has its function as the boundary of the circular world, and it is inherent in this meaning of boundary that the monster is a part of the cosmic order which will be destroyed if the monster does not stay in place’ (Sørenson 131). Jǫrmungandr’s role as an integral element of the horizontal world is affirmed in the list of kennings that Bragi, god of poetry, gives in Skaldskaparmal: earth twister, girdler of all lands, necklace of earth, among others (Sturluson). Þórr’s fishing trip is then ‘an attempt to dissolve the cosmic order’ and its ultimate failure is ‘confirmation of that order’ that Jǫrmungandr’s safety and stability protects (Sørenson 132).

From this analysis of his appearances in the mythology, it is clear that Jǫrmungandr must be a creature of universal order, whose vitality directly relates to cosmic balance. But what of Níðhöggr? He is neither accounted for nor meaningfully related to Jǫrmungandr in the mythology, and is absent from the previously described mathematically-inspired model of the Norse cosmos. Níðhöggr’s role in the mythos is largely vertical: in the chronology described in Vǫluspá and Gylfaginning, he remains underground gnawing at roots until Ragnarök. At the end of times, ‘…Nidhogg sucks the bodies of the dead…’ before the world collapses, and in the final stanza of Vǫluspá, takes to the sky: ‘There comes the dark dragon flying, the shining serpent…Nidhogg flies…in his wings he carries corpses’ (Vǫluspá, Larrington 13). This upwards movement through space and time aligns Níðhöggr strongly with the vertical axis, which is already spanned by the World Tree, excluding him from contributing to the basis of the Norse world. However, this redundancy does not invalidate Níðhöggr’s contributions to the mythic cosmos. Níðhöggr’s mythological relevance is in his directly antagonistic relationship to the World Axis, the obvious symbolic vertical axis of the Norse world, which firmly align him as an agent of universal chaos, and enemy to structure and stability.

In the sparse mention of Níðhöggr in the source text present him uniformly as evil and chaotic, with nothing to recommend him as beneficial to mankind. Taking the World Tree as a symbol of universal order, Níðhöggr’s antagonistic behavior towards it directly threatens the stability of all worlds. The extensive bestiary associated with Yggdrasil contribute to its steady deterioration – harts bite its leaves; numerous serpents, Níðhöggr chief among them, gnaw its roots; and it rots from the sides – a strong metaphor for the inevitable increase in entropy of the universe (Georges Dumézil, The Gods of the Ancient Norsemen, 42-143). Moreover, Níðhöggr’s role as a destabilizer is amplified by the squirrel Ratatoskr, who runs the length of Yggdrasil passing hateful messages to and from the chthonic serpent below and the giant eagle Hraesvelgr above (Sturluson). Just as hatred breeds instability within society, the hatred that passes by way of Ratatoskr understandably weakens the tree, on top of the other physical damage that it sustains. The mythology thus aligns Níðhöggr strongly with the side of evil, presenting him as an enemy of order and a being of chaos.

This interpretation of the serpents as a pair of opposites forms a basis for examination of their respective eschatological roles. Vǫluspá, which describes the chronology from mythic past to mythic future, reveals the fates of the two serpents and serves as the inspiration behind Snorri’s Ragnarök narrative. Jǫrmungandr’s fate is well-represented in other eddic and skaldic text, runic inscriptions, and other media – does battle with Þórr, and they both meet their demise. The Midgard serpent, leaving his place as the boundary of the worlds and forfeiting his role as a preserver of order, follows the present universe to its demise. The seeress describes total calamity in natural balance as heralds of the end times – the sun and moon are destroyed, ‘brother will fight brother…hard it is in the world, there is much adultery’ – and as the present world descends into complete mayhem, Jǫrmungandr suffers (Vǫluspá, Larrington 10). His vitality directly correlates with the natural order of the universe, and in Ragnarök, both Jǫrmungandr and the world is destroyed.

Conversely, Níðhöggr thrives in the chaos. Vǫluspá’s description of Níðhöggr is the most extensive of the sources, presenting two separate artifacts of his character. Níðhöggr’s diet is supplemented by corpses of murderers, adulterers, and oath-breakers in Náströnd, a punishing and markedly miserable region of Hel (Vǫluspá , Larrington). In the final stanza of the prophecy, Níðhöggr flies overhead clutching corpses. This organization of references to Níðhöggr – he is introduced as gnawing the World Tree from below, then still as a chthonic dweller in Náströnd, and finally flying free. While the precise meaning of his flight is unclear, the fact that he is aloft where previously he was underground is significant. That Níðhöggr, clearly capable of flight in the mythic future, spends the mythic past and present as a subterranean wretch reliant upon Ratatoskr to pass messages of spite to the eagle above, implies that he is not powerful enough to fly, or has lost the ability to fly. At the onset of Ragnarök, moral decay plagues mankind, sending more villains to punishment as Níðhöggr’s food – greed and a voracious appetite, dragon characteristics both, take over. As he feasts upon these increasingly numerous evil-doers, Níðhöggr grows stronger while the world around him descends into chaos. From the final stanza, then, Níðhöggr, clutching his food, takes to the sky, sufficiently powerful to leave his place under the roots of the World Tree. Níðhöggr, creature of chaos, thrives off the increasing entropy, the increasing degradation of society, and lives strong where Jǫrmungandr dies.

Here emerges their relationship as a pair of opposites, a serpent each a manifestation of either cosmic order or cosmic chaos. Jǫrmungandr weakens and Níðhöggr strengthens as the world around them descends into turmoil – from their direct and inverse, respectively, relationship with cosmic order, they become manifestations of order and chaos. The dragon archetype that they appear to adhere to, whether by Þórr’s misguided attempts to harm the Midgard serpent in the name of peace and safety, or by Níðhöggr’s lack of a heroic opponent, cannot adequately describe their roles in the Norse mythology. In spite of surface similarities, the two serpents’ distinct mythological roles and symbolic significance unify them as a pairwise description of the balance of order and chaos in the universe.

Works Cited

Dumézil, Georges. Gods of the Ancient Norsemen. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press,

            1973. 141-150. Print

Martin, John Stanley. ‘Ragnarǫk: an investigation into old Norse concepts of the fate of the

gods.’ Melbourne Monographs in Germanic Studies. Vol. 1. Ed. Constantin Kooznetzoff.

Melbourne, Australia: University of Melbourne, 1967. 1-147. Print.

Trans. Carolyne Larrington. The Prose Edda. Oxford World’s Classics, 2009. Print.

Sørensen, Preben Meulengracht. ‘Þorr’s Fishing Expedition (Hymiskviða).’ Trans. Kirsten

Williams. The Poetic Edda: Essays on Old Norse Mythology. Ed. Carol Larrington and

Paul Acker. Routledge, 2002. 119138. Print.

Sturluson, Snorri. Trans. Everyman. Edda. Everyman Paperback, 1995. Print.

Watkins, Calvert. How to Kill a Dragon. Oxford University Press, 2001. Print.