My mother first read Beowulf to me when I was about 6 years old. She had returned to college that summer to work on an additional minor in drama. One of the courses she was enrolled in was a class called Oral Interpretation. To practice she decided to present the entire story of Beowulf to me by reading it aloud.
In hindsight, a case may be made that the story was at the very least rated “R” for violence (Not to mention the incestuous heritage ascribed to tragic Viking mythology) but I would argue that Wiley Coyote was subjected to far worse treatment on a far greater number of occasions. – Besides I was allowed to close my eyes when she recited the gory passages.
Now to a casual observer, there could be no more pastoral scene then a mother sitting on a blanket next to a gooseberry bush with her son on her lap. The rapt attention I paid to the slaughter of Beowulf’s men in the hall was only eclipsed by mother’s rendition of Beowulf ripping Gwendolyn’s arm off and using it as a club.
As a young man I devoured the story and reveled in it. Later, during an afternoon nap, I dreamed that I was a hero, a true giver of rings.
Actually, now that I think about it, I should be glad that my mother decided not to share the arrow scene from Deliverance with me that same summer.