Bro, This Is Not The 'Beowulf' You Think You Know
This new translation of the ancient epic poem drags it kicking and screaming into the 21st century, giving us tales of blood, guts and glory told as if over beers in a loud sports bar.
Okay, sit still. I have a lot of things to say about Maria Dahvana Headley's new book, Beowulf, and I'm gonna try to say them all right now.
The first thing I need to tell you is that you have to read it now. No, I don't care if you've read Beowulf (the original) before. No, I don't care if you loved it/hated it, if it traumatized you, if it ruined and/or energized the English language for you, or ruined you for translations or whatever. I don't care what you think of when you think of Beowulf in any of its hundredstranslations because this — — version, Headley's version, is an entirely different thing. It is its own thing. A remarkable thing that probably shouldn't even exist, except that it
