Matters of Perception: Material Entanglement and Deception in Snorra Edda

The Prologue unfolds in four movements: a biblical creation narrative;2 Faulkes, ‘Pagan Sympathy’, p. 287. ProlSnE, ch. 1 (p. 3). an account of the shared properties of earth and animal life;3 ProlSnE, ch. 1 (p. 3). This passage features in R, U and W, with little variation in content and lexis. a reflection on human attempts to read the material world after losing knowledge of God;4 ProlSnE, ch. 1 (p. 3). and an encyclopaedic mapping of the world paired with a euhemeristic history linking the Norse gods to humans who migrated from Troy to Scandinavia.5 ProlSnE, chs 3–11 (pp. 4–6). Of these, the second and third are most pertinent here, turning on the nature and properties (eðli, náttúra)6 W and R have the same usage of eðli and náttúra in their manuscript versions; U, however, uses náttúra instead of eðli. of matter (efni),7 R, W and U are consistent in their use of efni. the correspondence of these properties between plant and animal life; and human contemplation of the material world (hugsuðu, undruðusk, þýddu, skilðu, vissu, gáfu, tǫlðu):8 This lexis remains fairly stable across the manuscript versions.

The shared properties of earth and animate life are not only material – water is likened to blood, grass to hair, and rocks to teeth and bones10 These material correspondences are all also attested in skaldic kennings, which employ water as a base-word for blood (anon., Líknarbraut 37, SkP VII, 271–3), hair/plumage as a base-word for grass (anon., Bjarkamál in fornu 3, SkP III, 499) and rocks as a base-word for teeth and bones (Sturla Þórðarson, Hákonarkviða 29, SkP II, 721) (and vice versa). – but also spatial and temporal. Liquids (blood or water) reside near the surface of both the earth and body, while grass and flowers decay annually, just as animals and birds moult. This evocation of body-as-microcosm is notably de-anthropocentric: correspondences are drawn between earth and animals, with humans featuring in the text only as detached observers, and under the catch-all category of kvikvendi (living creatures). As Faulkes notes, though the analogy of body-as-microcosm has a long history in European literature (for example, Ambrose, Gregory, Isidore, Macrobius, and Alain de Lille), ‘usually the analogy is made with the human body’.11 ‘Pagan Sympathy’, p. 288.

The entanglement of earth and animate life introduced in the Prologue forms a central narrative logic in Gylfaginning and Skáldskaparmál. Snorra Edda envisions a world where nonhuman entities and bodies are materially interconnected, and where the environment is not a passive backdrop to human or divine actions, but an active participant in mythic events. For instance, when Hár describes how all kinds of animal, vegetable, mineral and microbial life grieved for Baldr’s death at Frigg’s behest (to enable Baldr’s retrieval from Hel), he explains: ‘En allir gerðu þat, menninir ok kykvendin ok jǫrðin ok steinarnir ok tré ok allr málmr, svá sem þú munt sét hafa at þessir hlutir gráta þá er þeir koma ór frosti ok í hita’ (‘They all did that, the humans and living creatures and the earth and the stones and trees and all metals, just as you will have seen that these things cry when they come out of frost and into heat’).12 Gylf., ch. 49 (p. 47). Here, Hár asserts that the material properties of the nonhuman world correspond to human behaviours (thawing/melting parallels weeping) and act as evidence of the truth of his narrative.

Material entanglement is yet more pronounced in Gylfaginning’s cosmogonic narrative.13 A vernacular theory of geothermal activity may inform this creation myth (M. Nordvig, ‘Creation from Fire in Snorri’s Edda: The Tenets of a Vernacular Theory of Geothermal Activity in Old Norse Myth’, in Old Norse Mythology – Comparative Perspectives, ed. P. Hermann, S. A. Mitchell and J. P. Schjødt (Cambridge, MA, 2017), pp. 269–88). This suggests that the presentation of matter in myth could reflect conceptions of the rules of nature. The creation of the cosmos is driven by the interactions of various substances: poisonous fluids flow from the river Elivágar and harden into ice; moisture rises from the poison and freezes into rime, which increases layer upon layer across the void of Ginnungagap. As sparks and molten particles fly from the fiery region of Muspell into Ginnungagap, the rime melts and drops, coalescing to form the frost-giant Ymir and cow Auðhumla, from whose teats run four nourishing milk-rivers.14 Gylf., chs 5 –6 (pp. 10–11). At each stage, materials (liquids, gases and solids) interact and transform, converging to create and sustain life. Clunies Ross notes that the passage carefully attributes Ymir’s genesis to the ‘power of the source of the heat’,15 Prolonged Echoes I, 155. allowing for a Christian interpretation in which God is the ultimate (if unstated) source of this power. Yet the focus on material interactions and processes also aligns with a cosmology in which life emerges through complex and haphazard material entanglements rather than divine intervention alone, as Abram observes.16 Evergreen Ash, p. 51.

In turn, the violent, ‘civilising’ act by which Óðinn, Vili and Vé create the ordered world illustrates this principle of material entanglement, as they convert Ymir’s flesh into earth, bones into cliffs, teeth into stones and blood into sea.17 Gylf., ch. 8 (pp. 11–12). This episode parallels learned conceptions of the scalar relationship between body and natural world. Even if Snorri’s narrative is coloured by Neoplatonist ideas (see P. Dronke and U. Dronke, ‘The Prologue of the Prose Edda: Explorations of a Latin Background’, in Sjötíu ritgerðir helgaðar Jakobi Benediktssyni 20. júli 1977, 2 vols, ed. Einar G. Pursson and Jónas Kristjánsson, (Reykjavík, 1977), I, 153–75 (p. 172); Faulkes, ‘Pagan Sympathy’, p. 288; Nordal, Tools of Literacy, pp. 273–77), the presence of a native Norse narrative which figured the world as created from an anthropomorphic body is suggested by allusions in Grímnismál (40–1) and Vafþrúðnismál (21). This episode of body-becoming-environment brings to mind Stacy Alaimo’s concept of transcorporeality, the idea that human and nonhuman bodies are inseparable from the environments they inhabit.18 Bodily Natures: Science, Environment, and the Material Self (Bloomington, IN, 2010), p. 2. This lens allows us to view these transformations not merely as metaphors but as expressions of an outlook in which living beings and landscapes continuously co-create and transform one another.19 Abram has likewise implemented transcorporeality in his discussion of the creation myth (see Evergreen Ash, pp. 53–4); cp. also Waters, ‘Myth and Materiality’, p. 185.

While Ymir’s dismemberment is a particularly vivid example, transcorporeality is not confined to creation narratives: bodily fluids also frequently produce changes in the landscape. When the gods bind the Fenris-wolf, for instance, a sword is used to prop open the wolf’s jaws; the wolf howls terribly and saliva runs from his mouth, forming a river.20 Gylf., ch. 34 (p. 29): ‘hann grenjar illiliga ok slefa renn ór munni hans’. In Þórr’s fight with Geirrøðr, Þórr wades through a river rising above his shoulders. He looks up and sees that Geirrøðr’s daughter, Gjálp, has straddled the river, and ‘gerði hon árvǫxtinn’ (‘she made the river rise’),21 Gylf., ch. 18 (p. 25). an oblique phrase sometimes interpreted as a reference to her urinating in the river.22 E. Marold, ‘Mythical and Metaphorical Landscapes in Skaldic Poetry’, European Journal of Scandinavian Studies 57.1 (2017), 218–37 (p. 232). In both examples, fluids transcend their bodily origin and become an enduring part of the natural world: beings are not materially separate from their environments, but rather seep into and co-constitute them.

Liquid confluence is also productive in the creation of cultural resources, such as the iconic mead of poetry. After the resolution of the vanir–æsir war, both sides spit into a vat, mixing their spittle (‘hráki’) as a sign of truce. From this mixture, the æsir create Kvasir, the embodiment of wisdom. Kvasir travels widely, disseminating his knowledge, until he is killed by two dwarves who mix his blood (‘blóð’) with honey (‘hunang’) to create a mead (‘mjǫðr’) that bestows poetic and scholarly intellect on its drinkers. The mead changes hands – passing from the dwarves to the giants, and finally to Óðinn, who secures it by spending three nights with a giantess before escaping in the form of an eagle, and regurgitating the mead (‘spýtti hann upp miðinum’), making it available for gods and men.23 Skm., chs G57–G58 (pp. 3–5). The narrative is characterised by productive transformations through different materials (liquids and solids), states (inert and animate) and bodies (gods, animals and humans). Moreover, it underscores the recognition of material value within mythic communities: the gods create Kvasir not only as a symbol of the truce, but also to prevent the potent material of mixed spittle from going to waste; the dwarves kill Kvasir for his blood, a vital ingredient for their brew; and the giant Suttungr recognises the mead’s worth as recompense for his father’s death. These cycles of transference and transformation affirm a cosmological perspective where matter is perpetually productive, transformative and intertwined with cultural meaning.

Yet, while the myth exemplifies material entanglement, it may also reflect Snorri’s adaptation of his skaldic sources. Roberta Frank suggests that Snorri’s narrative of Kvasir may stem from a series of misinterpretations of skaldic kennings for ‘poetry’. Driven by his preference for kennings based on mythological allusions and names, ‘the euhemeristic determination of Snorri […] to uncover meaning in fornar kenningar (“ancient kennings”) could have led to a proliferation of such mythological figures as Kvasir, Boðn, Són, Óðrœrir, and Gillingr, and to stories lending them legitimacy’.24 ‘Snorri and the Mead of Poetry’, in Speculum Norroenum: Norse Studies in Memory of Gabriel Turville-Petre, ed. U. Dronke, Guðrún P. Helgadóttir, G. W. Weber and H. Bekker-Nielsen (Odense, 1981), pp. 155–70 (p. 158). In interpreting the kenning kvasis dreyra (blood of the ferment), Snorri may have personified the mead of poetry as the ‘blood of Kvasir’, thus incarnating a mythic figure from a poetic metaphor.25 Ibid., p. 159. Just as the gods create Kvasir from spittle in Snorri’s narrative, Snorri himself may have conjured Kvasir from ferment! Material entanglement in Snorra Edda therefore may not only be a feature of mythic ontology, but a symptom of Snorri’s intellectual project, a tool for transforming divine elements into embodied humans.26 This tendency towards transforming poetic synonyms into proper nouns is seen elsewhere in Snorra Edda (see M. Males, ‘Gylfaginning: Poetic Sources and the Structure of the Archetype’, Saga-Book 45 (2021), 119–50 (pp. 143–5) on the terms Angrboða and Jǫrmungandr).

Indeed, material entanglement in Snorra Edda often involves the convergence of substances across divine and human realms, serving as a bridge between myth and history. Mythic objects crucial to Ragnarǫk exemplify this connection. Naglfar (‘Nail-farer’), the ship that will transport the forces of chaos, is made ‘af nǫglum dauðra manna’ (‘from the nails of dead people’).27 Gylf., ch. 51 (p. 50). Naglfar is attested also in Vsp. 48. Not only do human bodies provide efni (material) for the ship, but human actions are implicated in the eschatological downfall of the gods: ‘ef maðr deyr með óskornum nǫglum at sá maðr eykr mikit efni til skipsins Naglfars er goðin ok menn vildi seint at gert yðri’ (‘if a man dies with uncut nails, that man adds much material to the ship Naglfar, which gods and men wish would be finished slowly’).28 Ibid. Hallvard Lie argues that Naglfar(i) was originally a common noun, a ship-heiti which uses nagl (nail/rivet) as a metonym for a whole ship, later reinterpreted as a mythical proper name.29 ‘Naglfar og Naglfari’, Maal og minne (1954), 152–61. If this is the case, it is striking that a subsequent tradition (either inherited or invented by Snorri) implicates human body and agency in the term: material entanglement between gods and humans thus provides the ‘etymological’ motivation of the ship-name.

Similarly, human actions have material consequences in the story of Viðarr’s killing of Fenrir. Viðarr will step one foot into the wolf’s mouth and rip its jaws apart, wearing a shoe for which the material has been collected throughout time:

The shoe is not known from any other literary source (though it has been identified on an amulet found in Wolin),31 Stanislawski, ‘Jómsvíkinga saga and Archaeology: The Presence of Scandinavians in Wolin as Source for the Legends (Abstract)’, in The Fantastic in Old Norse/Icelandic Literature, ed. McKinnell, Ashurst and Kick, II, 916. and traditions about Viðarr’s killing of Fenrir vary in the eddic record.32 In Vǫluspá 53, Víðarr stabs a sword into Fenrir’s heart. Again, by weaving mundane human actions into the fabric of divine eschatology, Snorri is working with (or introducing) a tradition that views the two worlds as interconnected through shared materiality and intent.

An inverted relationship, where divine actions alter human environments, is evident in the Útgarða-Loki narrative: Þórr is told that the horn from which he drank terminated in the sea, and his efforts to empty it caused a drop in water levels, which are ‘nú fjórur kallaðar’ (‘now called the tides’).33 Gylf., ch. 47 (p. 43). While there is no extant poetic source for the Útgarða-Loki narrative, eddic allusions indicate that it was known (Ls. 60, 62; Hrbl. 26; Hym. 37). A similar connection between mythic event, environment and nomenclature is drawn in the episode of Loki’s punishment. Poison drips on Loki’s face, bound in a cave. Though his wife Sigýn catches most of the drops with a basin, every time she empties the basin, poison falls on Loki and he writhes so violently that the earth shakes: we are told that ‘þat kallið þér landskjálpta’ (‘that is what you call an earthquake’).34 Gylf., ch. 50 (p. 49). This explanation also appears in the prose coda to Lokasenna. Such aetiological links between mythic acts and natural phenomena suggest a cosmos where divine and human worlds are materially interwoven, implicating bodies with environments at extraordinary scales. Even animal bodies are affected: before he is caught and bound, Loki turns himself into a salmon to elude the gods. Þórr grabs the salmon, catching hold at the tail, and Hár explains that ‘er fyrir þá sǫk laxinn aptrmjór’ (‘this is why the salmon tapers at the rear’).35 Ibid.

The most striking example of the gods’ actions shaping the properties of the human world is perhaps the story of Fenrir’s binding. The æsir attempt to constrain the wolf with various fetters, two of which Fenrir breaks: the narrative thus concerns material fragility, illustrating the vulnerability of the gods without adequate resources to protect themselves from external threats. The third fetter, Gleipnir, is successful. Forged by the dwarves at the gods’ behest, it is crafted from six impossible materials: the sound of a cat’s footfall, a woman’s beard, the roots of a mountain, the sinews of a bear, the breath of a fish and the spit of a bird.

Hár’s explanation connects materiality to truth (‘dœmi’, ‘trúa’, ‘sǫnn’, ‘jafnsatt’), and, like the Prologue, uses materiality to explore human perception (‘þótt þeir sé sumir hlutir er þú mátt eigi reyna’). It further plays with the limits of conceivable materiality, suggesting that the absence of these substances in the human world attests to their prior use in mythic events: intangible materials (a cat’s footfall, a fish’s breath) and substances which contradict the perceived rules of nature (a woman’s beard, the roots of a mountain, the sinews of a bear, the spit of a bird) were once palpably real. At the same time, the narrative foregrounds the quality of dwarven craftsmanship and the ability of the æsir to procure objects whose materiality will safeguard them (albeit temporarily) against destructive forces.37 These narratives position the gods’ actions in a mythic past preceding the human present. Yet, tales of human materials influencing the gods’ fate suggest human action occurs contemporaneously with the gods, before Ragnarǫk. Gylfaginning’s treatment of materiality is therefore also an interesting lens through which to consider Snorri’s presentation of mythic time.

These examples illustrate how materiality in Snorra Edda acts as a common thread between human and divine existence. The text envisions a cosmos where gods and humans are inextricably linked through shared matter and action: mythic events ripple through human reality, just as human bodies contribute to mythic objects. And yet, while materiality is key to understanding the relationship between bodies and environments, and between human and divine worlds, it also becomes a site of deceit and uncertainty.

Material deceptions serve to highlight the intricate relationships between language and reality, perception and comprehension. The Útgarða-Loki narrative exemplifies this use of deception, through its continual subversion of material and cognitive expectations. The story begins with Þórr and his companions (Loki and Þjálfi) overnighting in a strange hall, with a side chamber and an entrance at one end that spans the entire width of the building. When morning comes, Þórr meets a giant named Skrýmir, who reveals that the group have spent the night in his mitten, a visual gag that underscores the narrative’s interest in playing with frames of reference that initially elude our perception. Skrýmir accompanies the æsir, offering to share the food in his knapsack with them. While Skrýmir sleeps, Þórr struggles to open the bag, grows frustrated and strikes the giant. Skrýmir wakes and asks ‘hvárt laufsblað nakkvat fell í honum’ (‘whether a leaf had fallen on his head’).40 Gylf., ch. 45 (p. 38). This occurs twice more, with the giant interpreting each blow as an acorn or twigs. A bewildering conversion of force seems to occur: Þórr’s intentional, mighty blows become the coincidental, drifting fall of plant matter.

When Þórr and his companions reach Útgarða-Loki’s castle, the host challenges the party to prove themselves with, in his words, some kind of art or skill.41 Gylf., ch. 46 (p. 39): ‘nökkurs konar list eða kunnandi. Loki is first to volunteer his expertise in an eating competition with Logi. Logi, however, devours not only the meat, but also the bones and the trencher. Þjálfi runs three races with Hugi; three times, Hugi wins. As for Þórr, he fails three challenges: he cannot empty Útgarða-Loki’s drinking horn, nor lift the giant’s grey cat, nor defeat Útgarða-Loki’s elderly nurse, Elli, in a wrestling match. The next day, Útgarða-Loki divulges ‘it sanna’ (‘the truth’):42 Gylf., ch. 47 (p. 42). the giant Skrýmir was Útgarða-Loki in disguise; the knapsack that Þórr struggled to open was fastened with trick wire; Þórr’s three hammer-blows did not hit Skrýmir’s head, but rather three hills in which each blow left a valley; Loki lost a speed-eating contest to all-consuming Logi (‘Flame’); Þjálfi was beaten in the race by Hugi (‘Thought’); the drinking horn which Þórr failed to drain extended into the sea; the cat Þórr could not lift was actually the Miðgarðsormr; and Þórr was beaten in a wrestling match by Elli (‘Old Age’).

The narrative exposes the inadequacy of human (and indeed divine) perception in discerning the true nature of things: while the contests purport to challenge bodily capabilities (running, wrestling, eating, drinking), they ultimately serve as cognitive tests that play with the boundaries of materiality and language, pitching the body against abstract concepts (thought, old age), mythological creatures (Miðgarðsormr) and natural phenomena (fire and sea). The audience is also implicated in the tests: we too must recognise the linguistic clues in the names of Logi, Hugi and Elli to grasp the source of their power in the narrative. This process mirrors the function of kennings, which similarly rely on the audience’s interpretive skills to uncover hidden meanings and connections.

The world that emerges from the Útgarða-Loki narrative is one where things are repeatedly not what they seem and entities defy conventional categorisation: where abstract concepts have form (thought, old age), where animals appear as other animals (the Miðgarðsormr as a cat), where objects have a kind of elasticity in scale (mittens can be houses, horns can be so long they reach into the sea), where what appears to be a body is actually a landscape (Útgarða-Loki’s head is a mountain), and where one liquid (ale) can pass as another (sea). This morphing materiality parallels that of kennings, where intangible concepts have form (the base-word for the referent ‘poem’ can be ‘wine/beer’),43 Einarr skálaglamm Helgason, Vellekla 36, SkP I, 328. where one animal can be another (a snake can be a whale),44 Ibid. 30, SkP I, 321. where objects are transformed in scale (shields are skerries, shoes are ships),45 Sigvatr Þórðarson, Erfidrápa Óláfs helga 20, SkP I, 689; Þjóðólfr Arnórsson, Sexstefja 20, SkP II, 134–5. where body-parts are topographic features (ribs are rocks, shoulders are cliffs)46 Sigmundr ǫngull, Lausvísur 1, SkP II, 626–7; Anon., Krákumál 7, SkP VIII, 730. and where shared material properties enable different phenomena to be associated within the same semantic field (as when ale is the sea).47 Arnórr jarlaskáld Þórðarson, Þorfinnsdrápa 1, SkP II, 231–2.

Entanglement and deception in mythic materiality thus illuminate a cosmology where the boundaries between entities are fluid and evolving in ways that cannot always be grasped by the observer. These processes complicate essentialist concepts of identity and ontology: if we cannot determine where one entity begins and ends due to the continual transformation of materials and bodies, then it is the relationships between entities, rather than their fixed boundaries, that define their existence.