Jewels don’t grow on trees. Except in the Silmarillion, when they sort of do.

My title has nothing to do with the topic of my blog post— I just thought it was clever and wanted to incorporate it somehow. Indulge me, please.

Jewels are ubiquitous throughout the Tolkien universe, and in class we discussed their inherent worth and power, which jewels in our modern world do not have. Owning or wearing a jewel may confer some level of social capital or monetary wealth, but the gem itself is simply a mineral cut in a pleasing way (or, nowadays, a product of scientific advances). Humans generally desire them, sometimes for their beauty and sometimes for their use as a status symbol, but very few people are genuinely looking to gain superpowers through possession of a colorful rock. In Tolkien, however, and often in other mythologies, jewels themselves bestow actual, tangible powers upon their bearer or owner. In Anne Bishop’s The Black Jewels trilogy, individuals store reserves of strength in their stones. Taking Eragon as an example (while resisting from passing judgment on it…), we see that jewels here have both the power to store and magnify energy. In the Silmarillion, the powers of the Silmarils are unclear. They cause most who come across them to desire them to the point of madness; they are filled with the light of the Two Trees, but what exactly that confers is vague; and they are hallowed by Varda, making them excruciatingly painful to any evil thing that touches them. After their theft, Melkor sets them in an iron crown, but rather than give him power, they instead seem to leech him of strength.[1] Later, we get a more tangible answer as to the power of jewels in Tolkien with the descriptions of Narya, Nenya, and Vilya, which were set respectively with ruby, adamant, and sapphire, and gave the bearers the ability to “ward off the decays of time and postpone the weariness of the world”.[2] Although it is still not clear if it is in fact the jewels or the rings as a whole which posses such power, we can take this to mean that jewels to some degree have power of their own. The Ring of Barahir, too, has jewels: four small emeralds.[3] But these jewels most definitely hold no power, except to identify the wearer as a descendant of first Barahir and later of Elendil.

Jewels, either with their own power or simply as markers of majesty, are clearly important to Elves and the Valar. It is written that when the Teleri came at last to Aman, the Noldor gave them many gems, “opals and diamonds and pale crystals, which they strewed upon the shores and scattered in the pools… and many pearls they won from themselves from the sea, and their halls were of pearl, and of pearl were the mansions of Olwë…”[4] Yet we find the most particular thing: when Sauron makes his One Ring of Power to rule all the others, he forges a simple gold band, with no embellishments or jewels whatsoever, besides the fire-revealed inscription. Why wouldn’t Sauron, the being who has most likely (given that his master Melkor wore them upon his head at all times) seen the glory of the Silmarils with his own eyes, put jewels on the lynchpin of his domination?

Fortunately I can’t read Sauron’s mind (what a scary place that must be), so I don’t pretend to have the answer to this question, but I think that asking it raises a huge issue that we circled about in class. It felt that we fairly well established that when approaching jewels in Tolkien, we must reposition ourselves to understand them as items of innate meaning, as opposed to seeing their value simply as a product of their placement in human social constructs. I would instead argue that jewels do not have inherent power in Tolkien’s universe, besides that which is bestowed upon them by outside sources, such as the mystical (magic, perhaps?) of the Elves or the enchantment of a Vala. Jewels are not once (at least to the extent that I have read, and I would be the first to admit that I am far from an expert on all that Tolkien wrote) described as storing energy, or striking someone with lightening, or making one who touches it stronger. They are in fact described much as we would describe them—valued for their beauty, for their rarity, for their perfection. Jewels are no different in Tolkien, they simply exist in a universe where there are creatures who can imbue them with mystical characteristics.

This is not all to say that jewels are not incredibly highly valued by the inhabitants of the World, nor that they may not place some mystical importance on them. I only fear that if we decide that jewels are simply what they seem to be, items of intrinsic power which confer characteristics onto their bearers, then we lose the opportunity to delve further in to why, exactly, Elves and Men and Dwarves and Valar and Maiar all seem to be so drawn to jewels—and by extension, why we are. Is it because they are a symbol of an individual’s mastery over the earth? Is it because they shine? Is it because they so neatly fit into metaphor and simile about light and reflection and depth? Whatever the answer, it doesn't lay in an inherent power, waiting to be tapped by protagonists.

AGB

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[1] Silmarillion, 81.

[2] Ibid., 288.

[3] Ibid., 167.

[4] Ibid., 61.

The Actively Engaged Reader

I’d like to expand further on the notion on our discussion of whether the story ever really ends for us.  More specifically, I’d like to focus more on whether we have control over the merge of the Primary and Secondary world, what this means towards how a story ends, and how our knowledge of particular subjects affects our ability to let the Secondary World become part of the Primary World.

We know from Tolkien’s essay “On Fairy Stories” that an effective fairy story does not require suspension of disbelief but simply belief; that is, we become so devoted to a story that the Primary World and Secondary World merge together.  If a story ends, is it because this merge has separated, or does the merge separate because the story ends?  We have spent so much time discussing the end of the story today as if it is a passive process (as if the ending occurs despite us) even though we have spent the last quarter engaging in active, often tactile projects to contribute to Tolkien’s “majestic whole”.  By engaging actively in this activity, we are continuing the story for ourselves.  We refuse to allow the story to end because we actively ensure that the merge between Primary and Secondary World does not drift apart.  On one hand, this could mean that the ending of the story for the reader is not the responsibility of the author, as the reader chooses whether he or she will continue to engage. On the other hand, this could also mean that the end of a story is the responsibility of the author (Tolkien’s responsibility) in this case, because the author must develop a secondary reality that encourages the reader to engage after the words on the page have ceased.  Maybe the best summary of this statement is that whether the story ends is both the responsibility of the reader and the author simultaneously – the author to initiate and promote continued engagement with the story, and the reader to constantly seek ways to actively participate.

The breadth of the responsibility of the author is arguably a little bit heftier than that of the reader, as people, being people, are incredibly varied interests and desires.  The author must find some way to appeal to a varied group of individuals to engage them all equally, to encourage them to continue the story. This is certainly one of Tolkien’s great successes – that despite how unique people can be in their likes and dislikes, his works have fascinated a vast audience.  Perhaps he has succeeded in this by appealing to what we appreciate commonly.  This further supported by a converse of appeal to commonality; for example, on Monday, some individuals noted that they didn’t completely connect with the Tolkien’s work because his dogmatic involvement of his religion (forgive me if I have incorrectly summarized what anyone has said and please correct me if I have not quite captured the sentiment).  Perhaps it is too heavy a burden on an author to expect them to appeal to everyone, to be able to engage all readers in continued active reading.  And of course, this ignores the fact that authors are human and tend to have a motive in their works; Tolkien’s was to create a “fundamentally religious” work (Letters 142).  If authors suspend their aim in creating the fairy tale, will it still have a strong purpose?  Does there need to be a message in a fairy story that embodies the beliefs of the author if, as Tolkien says, story-telling is a natural human act that will probably occur inevitably?

From this it clearly stands to reason that while there are factors that allow an author to engage all of his audience, there are also factors that are detrimental to this process.  I wonder where an increase of knowledge fits in this spectrum.  Does knowledge increase the likelihood of an individual to merge the Secondary and Primary World?  I think some would argue no, it actually acts as detriment.  The more a person is aware of the world, the less likely they are to accept something that is in a secondary reality; the more a person knows, the more cynical.  However, this argument illustrates a misunderstanding of how Tolkien expects fairy-tales to function; that is, the author cannot create a world outside of natural law, because that would require suspension of disbelief.  It’s correct to say that a more knowledgeable person would be less likely to suspend disbelief, but as that is not the goal of creating a fairy tale, and not the method by which the Primary and Secondary World merges, it is inaccurate to say more knowledge is detrimental to engaging a fairy tale.  I’d prefer to think that more knowledge actually makes it more likely that a reader will believe a good, effective fairy tale, because they better understand the purpose behind it and appreciate a consistency with the Primary World in better detail.  They can better grasp nuanced topics.  If we employ C.S Lewis’s toolshed analogy, more knowledge simply means we have a wider beam of light to help us see even further along and at everything.

Speaking for myself, I know the knowledge I have gained from this class, has allowed me to better believe Tolkien’s story.  Because of what I have learned, particularly because of an active, academic pursuit to expand Tolkien’s universe with the finals projects, the Primary and Secondary Worlds have merged more permanently for me.  I understand what is required for me to prevent the separation of those two realities, and I, for one, have no intention of letting the story end.
 
- Kariana Weis

Let's Be Honest About Free Will

Free will, as we understand it, is not a thing that exists in Tolkien’s universe.  

It is true, the Ainur love the Children of Iluvatar because of they are “strange and free”[1]. However, this description interestingly follows shortly after Tolkien writes that the Ainur “know much of what was, and is, and is to come… Yet some things there are that they cannot see… for to none but himself has Ilúvatar revealed all that he has in store…”.[2] The Ainur may not know all that will happen, but this is only due to their imperfect knowledge of the Music; Ilúvatar, on the other hand, has already determined the play that is to come, that of life in the World. Thus we have two conflicting accounts, one of two races loved for their ability to exercise free will, and the other of a World whose history is written in advance.

We can reconcile this conundrum by reflecting on the Ainur might understand being “free” to be. For the Ainur, and especially the Valar, life must be a rather boring affair. It would be akin to watching a movie only after reading an extremely detailed synopsis of the film on Wikipedia—we can appreciate the story, the directing, the acting, the costuming, but the main dramatic effect is gone. We know how this ends. We know that after Luke falls down an airshaft, Darth Vader will lean over and rasp out, “I am your father”, and then Luke will scream and make a crazy face. It’s entertaining, on some level, especially if you haven’t seen it in a while, but not suspenseful, not dangerous, not free. Luke will always fall down, Darth Vader will always say those words, and Luke will always scream. Likewise, Melkor will always rebel, Beren will always fall in love with Lúthien, and Lalaith will always die of a pestilence. Valar know the story of the World. They know the fate of the Quendi. Men are a little more mysterious, but not by much.

Given this, I can almost imagine Manwë being pleasantly surprised when he finds that Melkor has been secretly building Utumno: “Oh, interesting, I literally did not see that coming. That’s a nice change from the usual. That really throws an unexpected kink into things! Although it does make sense, since I do know that eventually we’re going to chain him up.” Obviously, it’s impossible to know exactly what each of the Valar knows or does not know, and it could be that enough of the everyday trivialities of life are outside of their precognizance to make life interesting to some degree. But imagine if you knew, in broad brush strokes, the major events of your life, and of those around you, and of your family. Suddenly life becomes a trial of going through the motions, of fulfilling stories you know are coming.

From this point of view, the description of the Children of Ilúvatar as being “free” is more understandable. They are free, in a sense, in a way that the Valar are not. Elves and Men do not know that is coming. The future for them is mysterious, shrouded in mists. It is true that Elves have some gift of foresight, but only if they choose to use it—in other words, they can read a little ahead in the Wikipedia synopsis, but only if they want to. In Tolkien’s universe, free will means only to act without knowing that every action is predetermined, even though this is in fact the case.

In light of our new definition of free will, how can we approach the drowning of Númenor, that event which seems to cause the Valar such grief? When Manwë sends messengers to the Númenóreans in an attempt to reassure them of the rightness of their ban from Aman, the Men ask of the immortals: “Why should we not envy the Valar…? For of us is required a blind trust, and a hope without assurance, knowing not what lies before us in a little while…”[3]. Here we see that not only are Men envious of the immortality of Elves and the Valar, but also of their gift of foreknowledge. It is hard, the Númenóreans say, to meander sightlessly about the world, not knowing if one’s choice to marry X was correct, or if one should have married Y instead. “Should I have moved to Eldalondë? Perhaps my business would have done better if I had stayed in Rómenna…” etcetera, etcetera.

According to our earlier conclusion that the Valar might in fact envy the Children of Ilúvatar their lack of foresight, this unknowing walk into the future must seem downright pleasurable to those who have seen the history of the World unfold. In fact, the Valar in some respects get to share in Men’s experience of blindness, as they say in response to the above question: “Indeed the mind of Ilúvatar concerning you is not known to the Valar…”[4]. Of all of the Music that was sung before the creation of the World, it is uniquely Men (although Dwarves too seem to be outside of the Music, perhaps?) in whose making the Valar had no part; they are only of Ilúvatar’s will, and his Gift to them is therefore not understood by the Ainur. For beings who spend literally thousands, if not millions, of years simply waiting for a story they already know to unfold, the excitement of not knowing Men’s narrative (at least in its particulars, for they must be able to see some of the general motifs from the large events involving other races that they do know) would be the most entertainment they have had in a very long time. Especially in the story of Akallabêth, when Men are behaving so irrationally and therefore unpredictably, we can imagine the Valar sitting around at a garden party in Lórien, animatedly discussing what those Númenóreans will do next. The drowning of Anadûnê was indeed inevitable, as it was woven into the Music by Eru, but perhaps in the context of Arda, where all is predecided, the rebellion of the Men of Númenor was about as free as it gets.

Penitentially, 

AGB

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[1] Silmarillion, 18.

[2] Ibid, 18.

[3] Silmarillion, 265.

[4] Ibid, 265.

Tolkien’s Jewish Question

Although perennially opposed to directly explicit allegory, Tolkien himself states in letter 176 “I do think of the ‘Dwarves’ like Jews.” The Jews are a group that may seem at first left out of Tolkien’s reluctantly allegorical and religiously influenced work. The Christian connections are explicit, as the world can easily be interpreted in a Christian liturgical context; such context gives the story all the more meaning, but does it not leave out then entire groups from Tolkien’s fantasy? Tolkien’s extended allegories it seems also have elements of Nordic and Jewish theology, leaving room for further engagement on multiple religious tracks.

There are several features of the Dwarves that enhance their “Jewishness,” but the first that I will discuss, perhaps the most evident, are the negative stereotypes. The Lord of the Rings is itself already in a pseudo-medieval context, so this lends a good frame for viewing treatment of various races. What common ground do Elven stereotypes of Dwarves have in common with Medieval European stereotypes of Jews? Tolkien based his Dwarves on the traditional mythological Germanic Dwarves, as recounted in Old Norse Sagas (particularly those of Snorri). These characters physically were shorter than other races, had larger and hooked noses, and their curly hair was often red (a common trope to indicate the Jewishness of a character). Furthermore, Dwarves, especially Tolkien’s Dwarves, are greedy and proud creatures who care primarily about gold and its acquisition, as well as stashing it. The Dwarves, like the Jews, are noted craftsman, workers of stone and metal.

Politically, the Dwarves are highly insular, worrying little of matters outside their own nations. Although they do sometimes take sides, they are very hard to sway often accused by the Elves of being stubborn as the rock they so adore. Historically, the Jews were political wildcards as well; European states often did not know what sides Jews would take in conflicts, if any, and it was hard for them to involve themselves politically in much outside their own “nations.” In Tolkien’s world this neutrality is especially evident regarding the rings; Sauron is unable to subjugate the Dwarf ringbearers, and these incredibly powerful objects have little effect on them, merely increasing their avarice and desire for wealth.

The Dwarf communities also exist in parallel with European Jewish ones; Dwarves, like Jews, tend to live in smaller communities near or around communities of Elves or Men. Although the Dwarves and Jews adopted the languages of the countries within which they lived, they retained their own private language for use within their own communities. Tolkien’s Dwarves speak heavily Semitic-influenced language, Khazad, which heavily follows Hebrew phonology. Here there actually lies an important distinction between the Jews and the Dwarves, and that is that Khazad is a highly conservative language, essentially unchanged since its origins, whereas the Jews in Europe generally spoke Yiddish, an incredibly dynamic and fusion language. Yiddish exists in many dialects and varieties, taking on local vocabulary and characteristics from the countries in which the various Jewish communities lived, with some varieties more Slavic or more Germanic, although they all retained a large Hebrew influence. Why does Tolkien draw this distinction? For one, Tolkien may have just wanted a clear difference between Dwarves and Jews, to avoid too much overlap. Perhaps he did this to reflect population trends- Dwarf populations have massively decreased in Middle Earth, and they are almost dying out, whereas Jewish communities continued to grow in Europe until Zionism and the Holocaust.

Zionism brings up another great comparison between Jews and Dwarves: the search for a homeland. Both groups live in diaspora and in the shadow or larger, foreign communities, so we often see the desire to found a homeland. The first example of this is in The Hobbit, where Thorin seeks to lead a pilgrimage of sorts to reclaim the Lonely Mountain, a “lost homeland” of the dwarves. Moria is yet another example, with an even more Zion-like status. Moria was founded by Durin in the Years of the Trees, which essentially serve as Middle Earth’s biblical age. However, Khazad-dûm was eventually lost to the dwarves, and the various Dwarf/Orc wars over it could possibly be interpreted as analogous to the crusades. It’s hard, however, to think of an analogue for Durin’s Bane, the Balrog, and perhaps there isn’t one. An attempt to construct one might be done by looking at Gandalf in this situation; I would postulate that Gandalf is the British Empire, who destroys the current power occupying the area, and makes the land safe for the Dwarves/Jews to return. This would imply that Durin’s Bane is the Ottoman Empire, however this does not function historically very well, as the Ottomans (and Muslim empires in general) were in fact kinder and more hospitable to the Jews than many European powers, allowing them to peacefully coexist as dhimmi (People of the Book). Maybe Durin’s Bane is something nobody expects, like the Spanish Inquisition?

As a final point in closing, I think is worthy of note is how the Dwarves are driven from their lands- and that is generally by fire. Dragons drive them from Erebor and the Grey Mountains, and a fiery Balrog drives them from Moria. The Dwarves’ history of being genocided mirrors the Jews, in fact, the Holocaust is literally Greek for “death by fire.” True, The Hobbit, detailing Smaug’s genocide of the Dwarves at Erebor, was written prior to the Holocaust, the other events are all detailed in The Lords of the Rings and The Simarillion, which of course were written many years after the Holocaust.

It’s easy to draw on a few apparent characteristics and jump to a conclusion; but Tolkien goes beyond that, his comparison of the Dwarves and Jews is far-reaching, relating them not just in their stereotypes, but their politics, anthropology, language, and history. Those who might attribute shared negative traits (avarice specifically) to anti-Semitism would do well to read a letter Tolkien wrote in response to a German publisher’s inquiry into his lineage: “But if I am to understand that you are enquiring whether I am of Jewish origin, I can only reply that I regret that I appear to have no ancestors of that gifted people.” We would all be well reminded that Tolkien showed vice in not just the Dwarves, but in all races: Man, Elf, Hobbit, and Maiar alike.

SB Chhabra

Prayer and the Presence of God

The first thing that struck me as odd in the selected readings for today’s class was the very different effects the phrase“ A Eleberth Gilthoniel” seems to have. Facing a ravenous spider preparing to make Frodo into a feast, Sam utters the words and imbued with strength and courage that rivals Turin. (Lord Of The Rings 729) This would suggest that the words are source of internal comfort and bravery, despite Sam lack of knowledge about their origin. In other instances, the words seem have supernatural properties. (Or at least as supernatural as LOTR gets) Frodo invokes the words at the ford while being chased by the Black Riders. Not only do they seem physically harmed by the phrase but the river suddenly rises in response and sweeps the horsemen away. (Lord Of The Rings 214)

We decided to understand the invocation of these elven words as prayer. Silent prayer is undoubtedly allowed and encouraged in the Catholic religion. However, there is not an instance in Tolkien’s story where the characters engage in silent prayer or speak the Elven name of Varda in their minds. It seems that if they expect a response they must voice the words. We’ve talked in class about how prayer and praise in Tolkien’s eyes is the highest form of sub-creation in response to God’s creation. Spoken prayer is a connection to God through mimicking his creation and proudly declaring faith. God spoke the world into existence and Illuvatar weaved together Arda out of music. The most proper sub-creation in response is then both speech and song, which also happens to be the only way Eleberth is ever mentioned in the story. In an unrelated class, while reading Genesis, a central question was the significance God’s method of creation. Stepping into God’s remarkably snug shoes for a moment, I think that the method of speech was chosen because it reflects conviction and intent. Once God declared the world’s existence, there was no taking it back. Speech reflects commitment to the subject. Frodo and Sam’s invocation of the words is an outward declaration of their faith, which is important to Tolkien. In Letter 250, Tolkien implores his son to outwardly declare his faith through prayer and praise and renew his commitment to God every day. The fact that it takes praises spoken to convey no lack of conviction to elicit inward and supernatural responses from above is Tolkien’s way of reminding us that we should wear our faith on our sleeves.

Tolkien speaks about how he understands our relationship to God in Letter 89 through the analogy of a dust mote bathed in a ray of light. He mentions “And the ray was the Guardian Angel of the mote: not a thing interposed between God and the creature, but God's very attention itself, personalized.”(Letters 89) This imagery interestingly shows up in The Lord of The Rings when describing the place where Faramir and his men, at the time the most at risk men in Middle-Earth, take refuge. “The level shafts of the setting sun behind beat upon it, and the red light as broken into many flickering beams of ever-changing colour…”(Lord of The Rings 674) However, the light the most evidently serves as our guardian angel is language, most specifically Elvish.  In Tolkien’s story, language so often connects us with God. As aforementioned, it engages us in the same method of creation that God himself used, which has some spiritual significance. It is also true that the chanting of Elvish literally draws the attention of God or supernatural beings. It is curious that the prayers are always mentioned in Elvish, with no mention of Varda or a common speech translation of Elbereth. We tried to explain this by relating Elvish to the way Latin is used in Elvish tradition. I think the history of the Elves more accurately describes the power of Elvish in function of the story. The Elves are the only creatures to have come in constant and prolonged contact with the Valar. Much is made of how the Valar taught the Elves who came to Valinor. In some sense, one can infer that they created with each other, communicating in Elvish which gives some spiritual meaning to the language.  However, it is curious that Sam, who has no training in Elvish, is able to utter the words in times of peril. It implies that despite the language gap the Valar help all of Eru’s children. Using prayer to create in the fashion of God seems to put us in his presence.

-Javon Brown