Difference between revisions of "Háskóli Íslands Student Conference on the Medieval North"
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In twelfth century Europe, the translation of Arabic texts into Latin brought about a renewed interest in the proto-science known as Alchemy. I'm not an expert on medieval alchemy, but I understand that two broad goals of alchemists were to create an elixir of immortality, and to create a philosopher's stone--a substance that could transform base metals like lead into more valuable substances, like gold. | In twelfth century Europe, the translation of Arabic texts into Latin brought about a renewed interest in the proto-science known as Alchemy. I'm not an expert on medieval alchemy, but I understand that two broad goals of alchemists were to create an elixir of immortality, and to create a philosopher's stone--a substance that could transform base metals like lead into more valuable substances, like gold. | ||
| − | As I said, I'm not an expert in alchemy, but I am interested in transformation of a different kind--human transformation. Where 12th century alchemists were ultimately unsuccessful, their literary peers--writers of chronicles, histories, and sagas--were able to record (and perhaps effect) several narratives of personal transformation, describing paupers who became princes, outcasts who became bishops, and in one striking instance, an obscure priest from the remote Faroe Islands who became the king and sole ruler of Norway. In recording these narratives for posterity, the writers granted to their subjects what alchemists could not--a degree of immortality. But I'm also convinced that these narratives of personal transformation contain embedded within their pages a sort of philosopher's stone: A shared pattern or paradigm by which the transformation is effected. | + | As I said, I'm not an expert in alchemy, but I am interested in transformation of a different kind--human transformation. Where 12th century alchemists were ultimately unsuccessful, their literary peers--writers of chronicles, histories, and sagas--were able to record (and perhaps effect) several narratives of remarkable personal transformation, describing paupers who became princes, outcasts who became bishops, and in one striking instance, an obscure priest from the remote Faroe Islands who became the king and sole ruler of Norway. In recording these narratives for posterity, the writers granted to their subjects what alchemists could not--a degree of immortality. But I'm also convinced that these narratives of personal transformation contain embedded within their pages a sort of philosopher's stone: A shared pattern or paradigm by which the transformation is effected. |
| − | Today, I'd like to walk you through that paradigm, using as a case study Sverrisaga--a saga which originated here in Iceland--which tells the story of that renegade priest from the Faroe Islands (Sverrir Sigurðarson) who became the king of Norway. The prologue to Sverrisaga (written by Karl Jónsson of Þingeyrar abbey not long after the events it describes) relates how Sverrir himself commissioned the saga, and oversaw key aspects of its composition. In this sense, Sverrissaga may be considered at least semi-autobiographical, and a | + | Today, I'd like to walk you through that paradigm, using as a case study Sverrisaga--a saga which originated here in Iceland--which tells the story of that renegade priest from the Faroe Islands (Sverrir Sigurðarson) who became the king of Norway. The prologue to Sverrisaga (written by Karl Jónsson of Þingeyrar abbey not long after the events it describes) relates how Sverrir himself commissioned the saga, and oversaw key aspects of its composition. In this sense, Sverrissaga may be considered at least semi-autobiographical, and therefore also an example of medieval "self-fashioning" (which is itself a type of personal transformation). |
| + | But before we jump into the paradigm, we should know what it's arguing against. | ||
| + | |||
| + | There's a great scene in the 1975 Monty Python film, The Quest for the Holy Grail, where Arthur, King of the Britons, is riding his make-believe, coconut-clopping horse through his kingdom. He encounters a couple of cheeky peasants who ask him how he became king? Arthur responds that "the Lady of the Lake, her arm clad in the purest shimmering samite, held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water, signifying by divine providence, that I, Arthur, was to carry Excalibur--that is why I am your king!" One of the peasants rudely retorts that "supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony!" | ||
| + | |||
| + | Like most comedy, the scene is funny because we recognize an element of truth to both perspectives, held in tension with one another. In the twelfth century, as well as today, there is a persistent notion that kings are either predestined to be kings by divine ordinance, or else they only "become" kings at the moment when they are invested with a crown or a sword in an officially sanctioned ceremony. When, for example, did King Charles III become the current reigning monarch of the United Kingdom? Perhaps he was always going to be king, by virtue of his royal birth. Or, to many who watched on television, he became king at precisely 12:00 on May 6th, 2023 during his coronation ceremony. Or perhaps it was immediately at 3:10pm on September 8, 2022 upon the death of his mother, Queen Elizabeth. Or perhaps it was two days later, when he was formally proclaimed king by the Accession Council... | ||
| + | |||
| + | This belief in the inevitability of kingship, or alternatively that it is contained within a singular moment, is commonly attested within saga literature, and even within Sverrisaga itself. But a close reading of the narrative suggests that contrary to this view, becoming a king is a process that unfolds over time, often beginning in the formative experiences of childhood or young adulthood. It is a cumulative and reiterative process, something that must be sought and strived for. It is hardly ever a foregone conclusion. Even after a climactic coronation ceremony, the transformative process continues and must be reinforced, defended, and disseminated. And, as the sagas frequently note, it is entirely possible to "un-become" a king. | ||
| + | |||
| + | In the case of Sverrir Sigurðarson, at the outset of the narrative, we find a most unlikely candidate for transformation. If the theme of this conference is antagonists, outlaws, troublemakers, and rebels--Sverrir is all four of these things at various times, even after | ||
#Transformative experiences and relationships | #Transformative experiences and relationships | ||
Latest revision as of 23:04, 30 March 2026
Theme
Stirring up trouble: Antagonists, Outlaws, Troublemakers, & Rebels
Abstract
Medieval alchemists, despite great optimism and strenuous efforts, never achieved their dream of transmuting base metals into gold. Yet near the end of the twelfth century, the Icelandic abbot Karl Jónsson wrote of a transformation equally dramatic and almost as unlikely: how an obscure outlaw-priest from the Faroe Islands successfully fashioned himself into the king of Norway. Sverrisaga chronicles the contentious ascent of Sverrir Sigurðarson, arguably the most disruptive troublemaker in Norwegian history, given his central role in Norway’s civil wars. This paper uses Sverrir’s narrative to evaluate the process by which an individual is transformed from one social status into another—in this case, from renegade to sole ruler of his country.
Medieval texts featuring saints, bishops and kings often depict their subjects as divinely predestined for office, or instead attribute their change in status to a single decisive event such as a battle or coronation ceremony. This tendency can obscure the many cumulative factors underlying and contributing to the transformation. I argue that Sverrir’s metamorphosis was neither predetermined nor instantaneous, but instead the result of a multifaceted process beginning in his youth and continuing throughout his contested reign. I propose a more fluid and expansive set of criteria by which personal transformation may be recognised and understood. The paper is part of a larger dissertation that uses the same criteria to assess other twelfth-century narratives of individuals in the process of becoming bishops or kings. Through this approach, I hope to lay a foundation for broader research into the ways in which individuals have redefined themselves, moved up and down the social order and in so doing, contributed incrementally to political and ecclesiastical changes in the medieval Scandinavian world.
From Renegade to Ruler: Personal Transformation and Self-Fashioning in Sverrisaga
In twelfth century Europe, the translation of Arabic texts into Latin brought about a renewed interest in the proto-science known as Alchemy. I'm not an expert on medieval alchemy, but I understand that two broad goals of alchemists were to create an elixir of immortality, and to create a philosopher's stone--a substance that could transform base metals like lead into more valuable substances, like gold.
As I said, I'm not an expert in alchemy, but I am interested in transformation of a different kind--human transformation. Where 12th century alchemists were ultimately unsuccessful, their literary peers--writers of chronicles, histories, and sagas--were able to record (and perhaps effect) several narratives of remarkable personal transformation, describing paupers who became princes, outcasts who became bishops, and in one striking instance, an obscure priest from the remote Faroe Islands who became the king and sole ruler of Norway. In recording these narratives for posterity, the writers granted to their subjects what alchemists could not--a degree of immortality. But I'm also convinced that these narratives of personal transformation contain embedded within their pages a sort of philosopher's stone: A shared pattern or paradigm by which the transformation is effected.
Today, I'd like to walk you through that paradigm, using as a case study Sverrisaga--a saga which originated here in Iceland--which tells the story of that renegade priest from the Faroe Islands (Sverrir Sigurðarson) who became the king of Norway. The prologue to Sverrisaga (written by Karl Jónsson of Þingeyrar abbey not long after the events it describes) relates how Sverrir himself commissioned the saga, and oversaw key aspects of its composition. In this sense, Sverrissaga may be considered at least semi-autobiographical, and therefore also an example of medieval "self-fashioning" (which is itself a type of personal transformation).
But before we jump into the paradigm, we should know what it's arguing against.
There's a great scene in the 1975 Monty Python film, The Quest for the Holy Grail, where Arthur, King of the Britons, is riding his make-believe, coconut-clopping horse through his kingdom. He encounters a couple of cheeky peasants who ask him how he became king? Arthur responds that "the Lady of the Lake, her arm clad in the purest shimmering samite, held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water, signifying by divine providence, that I, Arthur, was to carry Excalibur--that is why I am your king!" One of the peasants rudely retorts that "supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony!"
Like most comedy, the scene is funny because we recognize an element of truth to both perspectives, held in tension with one another. In the twelfth century, as well as today, there is a persistent notion that kings are either predestined to be kings by divine ordinance, or else they only "become" kings at the moment when they are invested with a crown or a sword in an officially sanctioned ceremony. When, for example, did King Charles III become the current reigning monarch of the United Kingdom? Perhaps he was always going to be king, by virtue of his royal birth. Or, to many who watched on television, he became king at precisely 12:00 on May 6th, 2023 during his coronation ceremony. Or perhaps it was immediately at 3:10pm on September 8, 2022 upon the death of his mother, Queen Elizabeth. Or perhaps it was two days later, when he was formally proclaimed king by the Accession Council...
This belief in the inevitability of kingship, or alternatively that it is contained within a singular moment, is commonly attested within saga literature, and even within Sverrisaga itself. But a close reading of the narrative suggests that contrary to this view, becoming a king is a process that unfolds over time, often beginning in the formative experiences of childhood or young adulthood. It is a cumulative and reiterative process, something that must be sought and strived for. It is hardly ever a foregone conclusion. Even after a climactic coronation ceremony, the transformative process continues and must be reinforced, defended, and disseminated. And, as the sagas frequently note, it is entirely possible to "un-become" a king.
In the case of Sverrir Sigurðarson, at the outset of the narrative, we find a most unlikely candidate for transformation. If the theme of this conference is antagonists, outlaws, troublemakers, and rebels--Sverrir is all four of these things at various times, even after
- Transformative experiences and relationships
- Acquisition of skills, reputation, allies, and resources
- Rituals, symbols, and formal recognition (external and internal)
- Consolidation, innovation, expansion, and setback.
