James rumford beowulf text

What you have heard before is nothing.” So begins this strikingly illustrated adaptation of Restricting his vocabulary almost exclusively to words with Anglo-Saxon origins, Rumford ( ) fashions a type of epic language: “It was then that Wiglaf showed his true heart-strength. Shieldless, with seared hands, he stuck his gleaming sword into the dragon. This freed Beowulf, who drew a knife from his belt and buried it deep inside the fire-snake.” Rumford's own “heart-strength” comes through in his art, pen-and-ink and watercolor illustrations that convey the ninth-century action with 21st-century immediacy. Large panels offer detailed views of pivotal scenes, and Rumford's expert use of line generates an almost visible degree of motion; when Grendel's mother menaces Beowulf, he seems virtually to fall as she advances with her ominously curved knife. Behind the art and text panels in the first two sections lurks the dragon that is to prove so crucial in the end; in the concluding section, increasing numbers of crows foreshadow Beowulf's death. A very skillful presentation. Ages 9-12.

Hardcover - 978-0-399-24391-2

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I wrote þas lytele boc—this little book—to celebrate the publication of Beowulf, A Hero’s Tale Retold, which I wrote and illustrated back in 2007. I had intended to make only a few copies of Beobunny for friends, but now in the year 2012, with the ease of print-on-demand publishing, I decided to offer it to a wider audience. Wider? Well, as wide an audience as a book written in Old English can muster spoofing The Tale of Peter Rabbit.

What do the tales of Peter Rabbit and Beowulf have to do with each other? For one thing, both are very, very English. And for another both are very, very scary. I remember the first time I heard The Tale of Peter Rabbit. I was four. The neighbor kid had a vinyl recording of someone reading the story. When the story was over, I was horrified to think that, having totally identified with Peter Rabbit, I might find myself running for my life not from mean Mr. McGregor but from mean Mr. Wilcox, who lived two doors down. As for Beowulf, by the time I got around to reading it—fifty years later—I was brave enough not to be scared by the words but I could imagine how frightening this poem must have seemed to Anglo-Saxon ears centuries and centuries ago, how awful the bone-crunching consonants of our lan

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