So one of our recommended readings
(also discussed in class) contained a quote from Terry Pratchett and I am
therefore contractually obligated as a rabid Discworld fan to discuss it, as I
think it has resonance not only within the context of Tolkien and his works,
but how we as readers can best interact with them.
Lilith
(spoiler alert) Weatherwax is the villain of Witches Abroad, the book quoted in discussion and readings: she
sees herself as the architect of the stories, orchestrating them without stepping
into them herself. She constructs a fairytale kingdom with her citizens under
threat of imprisonment (and, in one notable case for her Cinderella-analogue’s
erstwhile coachmen, death by transformation into beetle and crushing) if they
do not act in accordance with the image: a toymaker who can’t “whistle and sing
all the day long” (Witches Abroad, 86)
is thrown into the dungeons. In doing this, she sets herself apart from the
great unfurling ribbon of Story (capital letter intended), not acknowledging that
by attempting to master the course of these tales, she is isolating herself
from them, a subcreator outside of her own creation. As said in class, Lilith
is almost Sauron-like, forcing the people around her to her will regardless of
their wishes for the sake of a greater order. She is also, as we mentioned in
class, soundly defeated, imprisoned in a hall of infinite, possibly unreal mirrors,
unable to leave until she finds the one that’s real.
And so “Lily
Weatherwax [runs] on through the endless reflections” (340).
Her sister,
on the other hand, has a different fate, one that we did not mention in class
but that needs to be addressed. Granny Weatherwax (who has spent most of the
tale dismantling the stories her sister has wrought) is imprisoned as well,
having taken her sister with her in their final battle. She escapes where her
sister fails to and it is the method of her escape that I find to be the most
telling thing:
“Esme
turned, and a billion figures turned with her.
“When can I
get out?”
WHEN YOU FIND THE ONE THAT’S REAL.
“Is this a trick question?”
NO.
Granny looked down at herself.
“This one,”
she said.
For Lilith, the ‘one that’s real’
is something outside of herself, a story or a reality that she can somehow
reach and step into. But Granny, mistress of headology that she is, knows differently. She, like Sam,
knows that she is in a story. Sam only ever wonders what kind of story he is in, instantly accepting that he is treading one
of Pratchett’s “grooves deep enough to follow” (Witches Abroad, 3). She acknowledges herself as part of the story
without hesitation and, because of this, is allowed to escape. But, if this is
true, we cannot call it a true escape, for she is not leaving behind the story,
only the shell of perfection and rigidity that Lilith made for herself and
which now acts as her tomb. One sister, having walled herself off from the
story, is now cut off from it forever while the other, having accepted it into
herself and she into it, is permitted to travel where she will.
And so should we, I think. We
cannot, as readers, be Lilith. We cannot set a wall between ourselves and the
story, observing it from outside and only looking at it rather than along it,
to use C.S. Lewis’ language from Meditation
in a Toolshed.
Perhaps ‘should’ is not the best
word. I do not mean to say that there is one right way to examine a work. But I
think that the most joy can be derived from looking along a story rather than at it. We have a lot to learn from Granny
Weatherwax in her calm acceptance that she is inherently within the story and
it within her. But the story will not force itself upon us if we are unwilling;
the beam of light will not follow you around the toolshed until it finds you.
There has to be willingness to step into it, willingness that Lilith does not
possess.
One of the
greatest pleasures for me in this class is that there has been, across the
board, exceeding willingness on the part of each individual to cast ourselves
headlong into the story. We have, as a unit, thrown ourselves straight into the
path of the beam of light and looked at it without hesitation.
Going into
this class, I was genuinely afraid. Afraid that something would be taken from
me, that a text I had loved so dearly and that had given me so much would die
under the microscope. I lost Jane Eyre
to an English class in high school, a book that I had held near and dear to me
now drained of all its joy. I nearly lost the Iliad in GTL last year (keeping the joy of it only by basically
chaining it to my heart) and I entered into this course desperate to cling to
my love for Tolkien.
But I didn’t
have to worry.
This class
has not taken the world I love so much away from me, shoving me out of the path
of the beam of light. Rather, it has opened the hole in the toolshed, widening
it and making the beam all the strong and all the larger for it. I can see the
Shire more clearly and it looks more green and lovely than I thought it could.
I can hear horse hooves thundering, horns blowing, words in many tongues, more
vividly and with greater clarity than I could before because now I understand
why they are there. I know the love, the care that went into this world, the
years of thought and the vastness of the vision that bore them.
And it’s
beautiful.
I thank you
for it.
Note: My typeface for Death is off, forgive me. Also, please
let this reflection stand as a hearty and only semi-fanatical recommendation
that anybody who loves stories needs to check out Terry Pratchett. Seriously.
Go. Right now. I’ll wait.
-Emma Pauly
Pratchett, Terry. Witches Abroad. New York: HarperTorch, 2002. Print.
2 comments:
I think your observations here are spot on, very perceptive. They immediately called to mind Sam, the one character who is most aware that he is participating in a story - one which began long before him and will continue long after - and the "hero" of the book. I wonder what Tolkien might think lies at the end of that beam into which we are casting ourselves.
I'm very glad you enjoyed the class so much!
As a fellow Discworld fan I guess I am also obligated to comment on this post. One of the interesting questions that Witches Abroad brings up is where exactly do these stories come from. The parasitic creature line notwithstanding, why do certain narratives resonate with humanity more than others? Sam's description of stories that really matter offers one approach, but there are plenty of stories that don't meet that description and yet still are embedded in our culture. I have no answers here, only questions and idle thoughts, but it is an interesting thing to ponder.
-Will Adkisson
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