In the introduction to Kevin Crossley-Holland’s translation of the Norse Myths, there’s a really interesting paragraph describing the mindset of the ancient Norsemen. Crossley-Holland quotes a stanza from Hávamál, a poem from the Codex Regius (basically the Norse version of the Biblical book of Proverbs, a list of wisdom and advice for how to live life). It says, in this stanza, ‘Cattle die, kinsmen die, I myself shall die; but there is one thing I know that never dies: the reputation we leave behind at our death.’ Crossley-Holland goes on to explain how the Norse believed that, though their fates were woven by the Norns and could not be changed, they could decide how they lived their lives, and that this was of great importance to them. Striving for heroism and fame that would live on after their death was their only chance at some form of immortality. Crossley-Holland points out how there is this kind of fatalism and inevitability in many of the myths, including and especially in the idea of Ragnarok, the inescapable shadow that looms over even the happier endings.
In “Mythology: Timeless Tales of Gods and Heroes”, Edith Hamilton reiterates this point: “The only sustaining support possible for the human spirit...is heroism; and heroism depends on lost causes. The hero can prove what he is only by dying. The power of good is shown not by triumphantly conquering evil, but by continuing to resist evil while facing certain defeat.” She goes on to say that heroic death was “not a defeat, but a triumph”.
So, we have a fatalistic culture that values resisting the inevitable, even while knowing resistance is futile. And then we have Loki.
Loki is a trickster and a schemer and, eventually, a symbol of evil. He’s not meant to be sympathetic: back when these myths were first told, Loki’s gender-fluidity and sexual exploits would have been regarded with “distaste, rather than amusement” by listeners. He’s described as being good-looking but evil, cunning and capricious. He’s a slippery fellow: he’s a shapeshifter who doesn’t obey the confines of gender or even of species; he is the son of a giant but brother of a god. Sometimes he is simply mischievous, like when he cuts Sif’s hair; other times, like when he helps cause Balder’s death and prevents him from returning from Hel, he’s a lot darker and edging towards evil. (I personally think he’s fascinating and complex and there’s plenty of good stuff to analyze there, but I also think at the end of the day he was not really meant to be a sympathetic character).
Loki doesn’t face things head on. Loki’s main schtick is getting out of stuff: he talks the dwarves out of taking his head and gets away with his mouth being sewn shut; he gets the other gods out of sticky situations multiple times, such as when he turns into a mare to distract Svadilfari; at the end of the world, he will escape his bonds to join in the chaos and destruction of Ragnarok. He literally turns into a fish to try to evade consequences by physically wriggling out of Thor’s grip.
I don’t have a revelation here, really, it’s just interesting, on deeper reflection, to see how Loki’s very character is set in juxtaposition to the fatalistic, heroic Norse ideal: Loki evades rather than resists. It could be argued that evasion is a type of resistance, I suppose, but I don’t think that really holds up in this context.
(Disclaimer: My musings are just that, musings, and I’m not making any claim that they’re true or correct or what the original writers and storytellers intended. I’m also speaking of the myths as literature; I know there are pagans and Loki is sometimes an important figure to them. I’m just talking about his representation as a character in the myths).