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Talk to the Dragon: Tolkien as Translator

RMANN

AKOBSSON

n chapter 12 of The Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins ﬁnally meets the dragon

Smaug, the object of his and his companions’ quest. This encounter

with the dragon is in a sense both the climax and the anti-climax of

the story. It is also a turning point, both structurally and morally. The

story has up to this point been episodic in structure, a travel narrative

with each adventure coming on top of the previous one, as Bilbo and

the dwarves travel to The Lonely Mountain (Erebor). It has also been

morally simple for the most part, with Bilbo and his companions as un-

ambiguous protagonists, facing various kinds of evils (goblins, wolves,

spiders and hostile elves). After the meeting with the dragon, however,

the narrative becomes more unexpected, entangled, ambiguous, and po-

litical, culminating in the hostile encounter between Bilbo’s companions

and the elves and men of Lake Town (Esgaroth), and Bilbo’s subsequent

betrayal of his dwarf friends.

In this article, I will analyze the encounter between Bilbo and Smaug,

trying to come closer to the identity and the origins of the dragon. I will

show how Tolkien is acting as a translator of a kind, by which I mean that

he is using Old Norse sources not only as an inspiration for this scene,

but that he also gathers a subtext from them, making his dragon much

more ambiguous and still more frightening a brutish beast. I will argue

that Smaug the dragon might be regarded as an uncanny monster and

that this uncanny aspect of the dragon is present not only in The Hobbit

but also in its major source, the Old Norse poem Fáfnismál. Thus Tolkien

is acting as a translator not only of motifs but also of ideas, and even of

eerie feelings.

When Bilbo, and the readers of The Hobbit, are confronted with the

dragon, they are in for a surprise, as Smaug’s behaviour is somewhat un-

usual for a dragon. Dragons are an ancient and fairly ubiquitous cultural

phenomenon, the origins of which are extremely hard to trace.

Tolkien

clearly expected his readers to be a little familiar with dragons: various

statements made in the book suggest that he is addressing an audience

with some previous knowledge of said species, in theory if not practice.

This ideal audience would not have been surprised to see Tolkien’s drag-

on as depicted in the book: a huge, scaly, ﬁre-breathing, ﬂying monstros-

ity, resting on its treasure.

This is what a dragon should be like, and in

four out of the ﬁve times that Tolkien’s dragon appears it behaves more

or less as a ‘generic’ dragon might be expected to, wrecking things with-

out giving much thought to it. If anything, the dragon is pleased about

the destruction it wreaks, which is unsurprising, since dragons are evil

Ármann Jakobsson

monsters and being dangerous and destructive is their role. And Smaug,

the dragon in The Hobbit, lives up to this expectation. He turns out to be

as bestial and as monstrous as the best of dragons.

Evil monster he is indeed, but how? It is the ﬁfth scene, in which

my interest lies, the one where Tolkien’s dragon might be said to defy

expectations. Initially, the dragon is mentioned as the main antagonist

of the dwarves visiting Bilbo Baggins, as the object of their quest and

as a destroyer and killer whose death they desire. The actual encounter

with the dragon keeps being postponed as the quest proceeds, with trolls

and goblins and wolves and spiders and elves—but no dragons, until the

story is well advanced. Then, ﬁnally, Bilbo Baggins has to walk into the

dragon’s lair (happily invisible, though) and steal something from it, only

to bring the dragon’s wrath upon himself and the dwarves, who all nev-

ertheless escape from it—the dragon eats their ponies instead.

And it is

at that point in the narrative that Bilbo is again sent to face the dragon.

This time, it is awake and it speaks—and I will now have to stop referring

to the dragon as “it,” since he has started speaking.

When the dragon starts to speak, the reader cannot escape the feeling

that this is a climactic event which turns the expected storyline upside

down:

Smaug certainly looked fast asleep, almost dead and dark,

with scarcely a snore more than a whiff of unseen steam,

when Bilbo peeped once more from the entrance. He was

just about to step out on to the ﬂoor when he caught a sud-

den thin and piercing ray of red from under the drooping

lid of Smaug’s left eye. He was only pretending to sleep! He

was watching the tunnel entrance! Hurriedly Bilbo stepped

back and blessed the luck of his ring. Then Smaug spoke.

(H, XII, 211–12)

Readers are probably expected to be a bit taken back by the words “Then

Smaug spoke”, at the end of this paragraph—they are, as it were, much

like a punch-line (or surprise) of an Elizabethan sonnet.

It seems likely that many readers of The Hobbit would start out re-

garding dragons as belonging to the animal kingdom, mythical to be

sure, but beasts nonetheless. Tolkien’s dragon, on the other hand, is not a

beast. The moment it speaks, it becomes a character, an intelligent per-

son who is not merely governed by his bestial instincts. The dragon still

retains these bestial instincts, though. Indeed he soon refers to his having

feasted on dwarves (his exact words are: “I know the smell (and taste) of

dwarf—no one better” (H, XII, 213)—which is tantamount to canni-

balism, since dwarves are also intelligent and speaking creatures.

Thus,

Tolkien’s dragon is actually a hybrid: part man, part beast, a chimera or a

Talk to the Dragon: Tolkien as Translator

ﬁnngálkn in Old Norse.

Still, in spite of his wildness, the dragon turns out

to be quite a conversationalist: curious, polite, clever, and subtle.

When dragons start to talk, they are transposed into the world of hu-

mans, of those who possess the ability to speak and to converse. And for a

conversation to take place, the two (or more) people involved need some

common ground. Most importantly, they need a common language (and,

perhaps surprisingly but probably mainly for the sake of the storyline,

dragons and hobbits share a language in The Hobbit); secondly, they need

some common points of reference. And these turn out to be possible for

Bilbo and the dragon when they meet for the second time and start talk-

ing to each other.

It is not so much the fact that the dragon speaks that makes Bilbo’s

conversation with dragon surprising but how he speaks: the dragon is

clever and subtle and formidable in an eerie way. This opens up a Pando-

ra’s Box of new and uncanny possibilities: is the dragon perhaps human

in some way? Is he, heaven forbid, one of us?

While Tolkien was writing The Hobbit, he also composed his famous

essay “Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics” (the Israel Gollancz lec-

ture of 1936), and he was, very rarely for a serious scholar of that age,

quite preoccupied with monsters (as his essay bears witness, most would

have considered monsters folkloristic and frivolous). Unlike most of the

critics of Beowulf, Tolkien liked the hero’s monster battles, arguing that

the inhumanity of the antagonists (and their more elemental nature) is

not just a plebeian descent into folktales belonging in the nursery, but a

device which made the story larger and more signiﬁcant.

In this lecture, Tolkien also ponders the relationship between mon-

strosity and otherness, a very common preoccupation in modern monster

studies.

To simplify, we can distinguish between two types of monsters,

which are exempliﬁed in Beowulf by the dragon that Beowulf dies ﬁght-

ing and by Grendel and his mother, the monstrous antagonists in the ﬁrst

part of the poem.

There is, on one hand, the monster which is the complete Other,

as one might initially regard the Beowulﬁan dragon. A giant tarantula

would ﬁt into this category, as would Godzilla and perhaps the Alien

from Ridley Scott’s inﬂuential ﬁlm of the same name. No afﬁnity between

man and monster seems possible.

The other type is the monster as our

double, human monsters, such as Grendel. Robert Louis Stevenson’s Mr

Hyde is the obvious example but all speaking monsters belong in some

way to this category.

The same would seem to apply to shapeshifters, a

well-known category of medieval monsters, which includes werewolves

and, perhaps, berserkers.

A dragon such as Smaug is an interesting case in point. At ﬁrst sight,

Ármann Jakobsson

it (and in this context we have to refer to Smaug as “it”) seems to belong

in the category of the monstrous Other, that set of monsters who are

completely and utterly alien to us.

Of course, dragons would initially

seem to belong to the utterly alien, and it is easy to argue why, since

dragons do not resemble humans in the slightest: they are slithery, ﬂying,

ﬁre-breathing serpents. From the modern biological point of view, hu-

mans and serpents are not even slightly related—the actual relationship

between the two is considerably weaker than that which exists, say, be-

tween humans and apes, while in the Northern Middle Ages it was usu-

ally bears and wolves that were seen as somehow akin to the human race.

Still, there are also Old Norse cases of humans and serpents belonging to

the same family, including most notoriously the originally human dragon

Fáfnir, whom I will discuss below.

When Tolkien’s dragon starts to speak, it has moved, perhaps unex-

pectedly, into the other category, the monster as our double.

Smaug

then becomes Mr. Hyde, Dracula, Frankenstein’s monster—all these

well-known ﬁgures of the popular culture of the 1930’s, to which Tolk-

ien, whether he would have seen it that way or not, also belongs.

Tolk-

ien is doing new things with the concept of the dragon. He is, in a way,

neutralizing the opposition between the human and the monstrous, or, at

least, moving the dragon between categories, using it to reﬂect something

that can also be found in humans.

As scholars have noted, the notion of the talking dragon comes from

the poem Fáfnismál, as well as from Völsunga saga where Fáfnismál is used as

a source.

This is hardly surprising, since Tolkien himself actually says

in The Monsters and the Critics that “dragons, real dragons, essential both to

the machinery and the ideas of a poem or tale, are actually rare. In the

northern literature there are only two that are signiﬁcant. . . . we have but

the dragon of the Volsungs, Fafnir, and Beowulf ’s bane” (MC, 11).

The clue is almost superﬂuous: for anyone who knows both The Hob-

bit and Fáfnismál, the conversation between the hero and the dragon in

the former is obviously modelled on and inspired by the latter.

As an

extension of this observation, I will argue that the uncanny aspects of the

monster Smaug, how it is familiar and unfamiliar at the same time,

are

also present in Fáfnismál and that Tolkien is, as it were, translating them

to suit the needs of a modern novel.

Fáfnismál is a part of the story of the dragonslayer Sigurðr in the

Poetic Edda. Sigurðr killed the mighty dragon Fáfnir, but, as the Eddic

poems are for the most part more interested in conversations than deeds,

this is not really the main subject of the poem, which instead focuses on

Sigurðr’s conversation with the dying dragon. Fáfnismál, even in compari-

son with other Eddic poems, is obscure to the point of being completely

bafﬂing. For example, Sigurðr starts off by cleverly concealing his name

Talk to the Dragon: Tolkien as Translator

(calling himself “g

fvgt dyr” [a noble animal]), only to reveal it unneces-

sarily a little later.

Throughout the poem, readers will be prone to get an eerie feeling

that the dragon is somehow outwitting Sigurðr, as Smaug also outwits

Bilbo in The Hobbit, or at least thinks he does, even though the hobbit

certainly has the last laugh. In Fáfnismál, the dragon certainly has the up-

per hand in the beginning. Though in his dying throes, he asks aggressive

and clever questions, mostly attempting to wrest out of the young hero

the identity of the man who he thinks has put him up to this (the dragon’s

own brother Reginn), whilst warning him against the curse of the gold.

The dragon’s last words are that if Sigurðr is not careful, they will both

end up being killed by the same man. That would entail a strange shar-

ing of fate for the dragon and his slayer, but, as the myth of Fáfnismál has

it, they do have a lot in common: not just Reginn, but the gold and the

violence by which they live. Fáfnir was, according to the Eddas, originally

a human who was transformed into a dragon to keep his gold safe. Thus

in Fáfnismál we do not have a dragon as a complete Other. In fact, the

dragon and the hero might be said to share a curious afﬁnity with each

other, even a family relationship, since they both have an intimate con-

nection with Reginn.

Tolkien, when writing his narrative of the encounter with the dragon,

is, in a sense, acting as translator. He is not translating Fáfnismál directly

to English,

but he is translating its essence for inclusion in a modern

novel (and for all its medieval learning The Hobbit is quite modern and

was arguably ahead of its time in 1937).

His dragon, although its hu-

man origins remain unspeciﬁed, is strangely and unnervingly human,

like Fáfnir. And Bilbo, faced with the daunting experience of having his

ﬁrst talk with a dragon, resorts to the same methods as Sigurðr does, that

is speaking in riddles. Clearly humorously alluding to Fáfnismál, the nar-

rator applauds Bilbo’s decision to speak in riddles: “This of course is the

way to talk to a dragon, if you don’t want to reveal your proper name

(which is wise) and don’t want to infuriate them by a ﬂat refusal (which is

also very wise). No dragon can resist the fascination of riddling talk and

of wasting time trying to understand it” (H, XII, 213).

While Bilbo does a slightly better job with the riddles than Sigurðr,

he still unintentionally reveals some things to the clever dragon that he

did not want to, who realizes from one of the riddle-names Bilbo invents

for himself that he has received the hospitality of the people of the lake

town Esgaroth.

The conversation actually gets close to comical at one point when

Bilbo becomes lofty in his riddle-making, while the dragon keeps inter-

rupting him with down-to-earth remarks, much in the way of a gruff

school-teacher, or King Haraldr hard-ruler during the ﬁrst performance

Ármann Jakobsson

of Magnússdrápa hrynhenda.

One example:

“I come from under the hill, and under the hills and over

the hills my paths led. And through the air, I am he that

walks unseen.”

“So I can well believe,” said Smaug, “but that is hardly

your usual name.”

“I am the clue-ﬁnder, the web-cutter, the stinging ﬂy. I

was chosen for the lucky number.”

“Lovely titles!” sneered the dragon. “But lucky numbers

don’t always come off.” (H, XII, 212)

Bilbo is obviously trying to impress the dragon, as a young man might

wish to impress a paternal ﬁgure, whereas one cannot really imagine one-

self trying to impress Godzilla.

Both Bilbo and Sigurðr run into trouble because their dragons are

slippery, their answers unexpected and both gently goad their heroes

into revealing more: Smaug by snorting “lovely titles!”—whereas when

Sigurðr claims to be both motherless and fatherless, it is Fáfnir’s turn to

snort: “af hverio vartv vndri alinn” [what wonder begat you?] (stanza

3).

Both dragons also warn the hero about the treachery of his com-

rades. And, as The Hobbit has it, Bilbo was in dire risk of falling under the

dragon’s spell (H, XII, 214).

The subtext about parentage in Fáfnismál aids in rendering the drag-

on no simple monster.

It is no coincidence that the dragon begins by

asking about Sigurðr’s parents, since Sigurðr has actually been brought

to Gnitaheiði by his foster-father and mentor, Reginn, who is the brother

of the dragon Fáfnir. As Reginn’s brother, Fáfnir easily becomes a sur-

rogate parent to Sigurðr as well, and their conversation bears witness to

it: this dragon is not merely a monster in the wilderness. He is a teacher,

a respectable ﬁgure, and he also has magical powers.

He is a thing of

sorcery and that means that he is terrible. The dragon-spell is not only a

gimmick that the dragon possesses to make him a more formidable ad-

versary. It also reminds us that there is in the hearts of others (certainly in

the hearts of the dwarves, and, as it turns out, also in the heart of Bilbo) a

tiny essence of the dragon, that draconitas which made it possible for Fáf-

nir to turn himself into a dragon.

As Jonathan Evans has remarked, the

main function of the dragon in the Old Germanic world was as a legen-

dary or even mythic symbol of greed,

and in The Hobbit we have a good

example of this in the tragic fate of the master of Esgaroth who dies from

“dragon-sickness” in the epilogue of the narrative (H, XIX, 285).

There is one major difference between the two protagonists. Bilbo is

afraid, as described shortly before he meets the dragon: “It was at this

Talk to the Dragon: Tolkien as Translator

point that Bilbo stopped. Going on from there was the bravest thing he

ever did. The tremendous things that happened afterward were as noth-

ing compared to it. He fought the real battle in the tunnel alone, before

he ever saw the vast danger that lay in wait” (H, XII, 205). Bilbo’s pas-

sage through the tunnel is loaded with symbolic meaning, as everyone

would recognize in our post-Freudian age.

We do not even really need

to be inspired by Freud to see the tunnel as an image of birth: in the tun-

nel, Bilbo is born as a hero. What does he then meet in the bright world

beyond? He enters the lair of the dragon, the brightness of which is ex-

plained by the treasure, and encounters a big strangely familiar creature

that is intimidating and whose motives are unclear.

This Freudian birth imagery is connected to the idea that the dragon

may become a somewhat twisted paternal ﬁgure to the hero, not only

in Fáfnismál, where the dragon is actually the brother of Sigurðr’s fa-

ther-ﬁgure Reginn, but also in The Hobbit. One way for a budding hero

to become a man is slaying a dragon, as Sigurðr Fáfnisbani does (and

Ragnar, the hero of Ragnars saga loðbrókar as well), an idea that Tolkien

must mainly have gathered from Fáfnismál. It clearly has an added signiﬁ-

cance that Fáfnismál starts with Fáfnir asking his slayer about his birth.

He wants to know not who Sigurðr is, but whose son he is. And after

that, Sigurðr and Fáfnir spend the ﬁrst ﬁve stanzas of the poem repeat-

ing the words “father” and “son”. They go on to discuss the curse of the

gold and Sigurðr’s eventual death. Sigurður seems somewhat at a loss as

to how to acquit himself when conversing with dragons throughout the

dialogue with Fáfnir, but he still wants to gain wisdom from this wise old

creature.

The ﬁrst thing he asks him is about the origins of the norns

who “kjósa m

þr fra m

gum” [sunder mother and son] (stanza 12).

Birth, fatherhood, motherhood and death seem to be foremost in Sig-

urðr’s mind when faced with the dragon.

Curiously, Bilbo too when he confronts the dragon, starts thinking

about his own father, who is otherwise a shadowy ﬁgure in The Hobbit,

and, indeed, in The Lord of the Rings: “Perhaps something will turn up.

‘Every worm has his weak spot, as my father used to say’” (H, XII, p.

211). By remembering things that his father told him, he ﬁnds the weak

spot on the dragon’s belly, making his father a part of his confronta-

tion with the dragon. In The Hobbit, the dragon is certainly not such a

palpable father ﬁgure as Fáfnir is in Fáfnismál, but I would contend that

the subtext is still there, as is evident in the passage quoted above where

Bilbo’s riddling talk is tested by the dragon. From Fáfnismál Smaug carries

with him some of the aura of an evil ancestor, familiar and unfamiliar at

the same time, and his uncanny status in the conﬂict owes something to

this “ancestry” of the text The Hobbit as a “translation” of Fáfnismál. Were

it not for the ambiguous and perversely paternal role Smaug has, Bilbo

Ármann Jakobsson

might not have needed to bring his biological father into the lair with him

to confront this antagonist.

The parental role of the dragon is less overt in The Hobbit than in

Fáfnismál and it is important to keep in mind that the dialogue between

the two dragons and their antagonists also differs in many other respects.

Even so, one might still say that Tolkien has picked up themes and even

an uncanny atmosphere from Fáfnismál and thus translated the old poem

into a narrative ﬁt for his own tale.

The most important thing that Tolkien gained from Fáfnismál is that

the conversation between the dragon and the hero and the intellectual

game they play moves the dragon from one monster category to the

other. The dragon is no longer merely terrible and bestial, he now also

becomes uncanny, strange and yet familiar, human and yet not human,

acting almost as if he is Bilbo’s parent and teacher and not merely a

monster in the wilderness. An uncanny relationship is thus established

between the hero and the dragon. The duel with the monster becomes a

duel of wits, an idea not perhaps central to the Sigurðr myth as such but

certainly central to Fáfnismál.

Tolkien is translating not only the conversation between budding

hero and dragon from the Old Norse, but also that dialogue’s alarming

sub-text. Tolkien’s dragon becomes both monstrous and uncanny. His

intelligence and his command of language, his strange familiarity, makes

his appetite for dwarves, his cannibalism as it were, seem more eerie and

more subtly frightening. This monster is not just terrifying, it is a part

of us. We can talk to it because there is a revolting but real connection

between man and monster.
N

OTES

This article was originally written as a paper for the International Medi-

aeval Conference in Leeds and presented in a session organized by Carl

Phelpstead (with him and Dimitra Fini as the other speakers) in July

2007.

1 Tolkien wrote The Hobbit in two stages and the last part of the novel

only after having been approached by publishers (Carpenter 183–84;

this has been challenged by Rateliff I, xi–xviii). I have argued pre-

viously (Tolkien og Hringurinn, 41–42) that this part of the narrative

completely transforms the book, as it enhances both its structural

complexity and its irony, as the ﬁght at one point suddenly is not be-

tween good and evil anymore but rather between various factions of

the good races; see also Shippey (Road 76).

2 I am treading the path of recent monster theory (Cohen 4) by

Talk to the Dragon: Tolkien as Translator

examining the monster both as a construct and a projection. The

idea of Tolkien as a ‘translator’ in a sense pervades the work of T.A.

Shippey (see esp. Road) as well.

3 The most extensive study of Indo-European dragon slaying myths is

Watkins, (esp. 297–303).

4 E.g. “If you have ever seen a dragon in a pinch you will realise that

this was only poetical exaggeration applied to any hobbit” (H, I, 27);

“Dragons steal gold and jewels, you know” (H, I, 32); “dragons must

sleep sometimes, I suppose” (H, I, 35).

5 Smaug is described in H, xii, 205–6 and again on page 212–16.
6 This probably seems rather wicked to most readers, except Iceland-

ers, who have been eating ponies for centuries.

7 This would depend on how cannibalism is deﬁned. On the one hand,

dragons and dwarves do not belong to the same species. On the other,

one sapient (talking) animal eating another violates the same norms

that cannibalism does, as C.S. Lewis, Tolkien’s friend and ally, sug-

gests in The Silver Chair (113).

8 On this Icelandic monster type and its metaphorical use, see Einar

Sigmarsson.

9 See e.g.: “Triumph over the lesser and more nearly human is can-

celled by defeat before the older and more elemental” (MC 34).

10 Many monsters of popular culture seem at ﬁrst to belong to this type,

although perhaps wrongly, with King Kong as a good example (one

may keep in mind that the famous 1933 ﬁlm is contemporary to the

The Hobbit).

11 Tolkien’s Orcs are a good example, however deformed they are made

to look by the ﬁlm make-up artists.

12 This category of human monsters would also seem to incorporate

the Old Norse giants, who are not only the gods’ main antagonists

but also their ancestors and relations by marriage, see e.g. Jakobsson

(“Contest”).

13 And yet, as Samantha Riches has recently reminded us, animals in

literature are never wholly similar to and never entirely different from

humans (199).

14 Tolkien preferred not to think of dragons as animals (“as a sober

zoologist,” as he phrases it himself) (MC, 11).

Ármann Jakobsson

15 On the monster culture of the 1930s, see Skal (esp. 113–209).
16 On Tolkien’s recurrent interest in dragons, see Rateliff (II, 525–34).

He later created a second and very different dragon, Chrysophylax

Dives, a character in Farmer Giles of Ham (published 1949, but actually

written in 1937, in the midst of Tolkien’s preoccupation with drag-

ons). Chrysophylax is in some ways even more human than Smaug,

although he retains some bestial qualities.

17 See e.g. Shippey (Road, 82; Author, 36).
18 This is an hyperbole, as demonstrated by Evans (221) but Tolkien is

not entirely wrong; these are the two most important dragon char-

acters from Old Germanic culture and undoubtedly the ones that

he used when creating Smaug. Only Fáfnir in Fáfnismál speaks, but

the Beowulf dragon may also be said to possess a somewhat human

personality; when its cup has been stolen, it does not only scour the

vicinity, searching for the thief, it also goes to its treasure mound to

see if it has not simply mislaid it.

19 I am not suggesting that Fáfnismál is the only model for Ch. 12 of The

Hobbit; other inﬂuences have also been noted but are of less interest

to this study.

20 In his 1919 essay, Freud deﬁnes the uncanny as that which is famil-

iar and yet strange, thus frightening (CPW XVII, 220). As Royle has

recently shown, Freud’s depiction of the uncanny is complex and

full of ambiguities, but this simple deﬁnition will have to do for our

purposes.

21 Norrœn fornkvæði (219–20).
22 Fáfnismál is in itself a very complex narrative and it is also a part of a

complex narrative cycle where the most complicated part is the mo-

ment between the dragon-slaying and the double marriages that later

take place between Sigurðr, Brynhildr, Guðrún and Gunnarr (see e.g.

Andersson).

23 In the same way, he is not directly translating Beowulf when he bor-

rows from it theft of the golden cup for The Hobbit (and Tolkien some-

what disingenuously denied having been thinking of Beowulf at all

when he wrote that scene, see Letters (31).

24 Its lack of a preaching tone is comparable to the contemporary works

of Enid Blyton who became somewhat unfairly notorious for adopt-

ing her audience’s point of view. For good arguments as to how Tolk-

ien is very much a twentieth century novelist, see Rosebury (147–57)

Talk to the Dragon: Tolkien as Translator

and Shippey (Author, 310–18).

25 Morkinskinna, (116–18).
26 Shippey has also remarked that the “familiarity” of Smaug’s speech

suggests an unsettling connection between man and monsters (Road,

84).

27 Norrœn fornkvæði (220).
28 Evans has noted that the motif of the dragon as a transformed man

serves to ambiguate the categorial binarism of the opposition be-

tween man and monster and thus it is also possible to see the hero

and the dragon as “doubles” (250–56; see also Lionarons).

29 As Tom Shippey has noted the dragon’s speech has echoes of the

“aggressive politeness of the British upper class” (Road, 83; Author,

37–38).

30 This is suggested already in the ﬁrst chapter by his reaction to the

song of the dwarves (H, I, 25).

31 Evans (263). He also discusses monstrous transformations of greed in

depth in his excellent study of the Old Germanic dragon (248–61).

32 As Freud explains (CPW V, 397), he is not claiming any originality in

spotting these symbols; he expects e.g. narrow passages and closed

doors to be recognized as well-known or obvious symbols for the va-

gina. Even though Freud and Tolkien were far removed from each

other as scholars, it is not unlikely that Tolkien was at least aware of

the possibility of such an interpretation.

33 Cf. Evans (265).
34 Norrœn fornkvæði (221).

ORKS

ITED

Andersson, Theodore M. The Legend of Brynhild. Ithaca: Cornell Univer-

sity Press. 1980.

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