I sometimes place myself imaginatively in people’s positions, historically. Today, I have been trying to imagine sitting in a boat, rowing, for a month at a time, eating fermented milk that tasted nothing like yogurt. You wake up, row, then pass out at some point from fatigue, sitting on a not very comfortable bench. The night, perhaps, is spent floating. Then you do it again. You never change your clothes, and of course deodorant has not been invented yet.
Eventually you make it, say, to Paris. You and yours invade, and everything is possible. You can take anything you see. You can take any woman you see. She can be your wife, or you can simply have your way, then it is done. You take jewelry, religious icons, clothes, and food. You take slaves (derived from “Slav”: Russia is derived from a Viking word).
The raid ends, then you and your compatriots, possibly bolstered by some women and shackeled human beings, sail/row back to Norway/Sweden/Denmark. You spend the winter months doing little.
What sort of life is this? Is it a good life? An ironic and obvious question I ask myself from time to time is: “should the Scandinavians pay reparations for the Viking Age?”
History needs to be viewed from a detached perspective. None of us are innocent. None of us are free, absolutely.
Personally, reading history makes me sad. One can see so clearly what could have been done, and wasn’t. Ah: it is what it is.
The orthodox narrative as far as the Vikings is that they forced loose collectives to become kingdoms. Louis the Sixteenth descended from a line that began, if memory serves, after the first sack of Paris.
Anger and greed are always on the menu. Everyone reading this, in all likelihood, should count themselves lucky. We can still end life on earth, but damn if we haven’t achieved a lot of peace in the meantime.
Enter yourself in history, and see what was done, by whom. Saintliness is in rare supply, and the obvious and gratuitous satisfaction of other desires on ubiquitous display.