Whose Mythology Is This?

Tolkien's account of creation opens with the Ainulindalë, the Elves' telling of how the world was sung into being. The passage that describes this moment reads: 

Then the voices of the Ainur, like unto harps and lutes, and pipes and trumpets, and viols and organs, and like unto countless choirs singing with words, began to fashion the theme of Ilúvatar to a great music; and a sound arose of endless interchanging melodies woven in harmony that passed beyond hearing into the depths and into the heights, and the places of the dwelling of Ilúvatar were filled to overflowing, and the music and the echo of the music went out into the Void, and it was not void. (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, ed. Christopher Tolkien [Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2014], 15)

What stopped me in this passage is the final clause: and it was not void. The Void is, by definition, empty. And yet. What the Ainulindalë does in that final clause is let us see, for a moment, that Tolkien’s work as a philologist and his work as a myth-maker are part of the same story. Read against Tolkien’s philological work, the Ainulindalë stops being a work of fiction and starts looking like scripture. 

The surprise, when you read the biblical texts alongside the Ainulindalë, is how much Tolkien didn’t have to invent. In Job 38:4-7, God answers Job out of the storm with a series of rhetorical questions about creation, one of which slips in a strange detail: 

⁴ “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?
    Tell me, if you understand.
⁵ Who marked off its dimensions? Surely you know!
    Who stretched a measuring line across it?
⁶ On what were its footings set,
    or who laid its cornerstone—
⁷ while the morning stars sang together
    and all the angels [NIV note: Hebrew the sons of God] shouted for joy? (Job 38:4-7 NIV)

            The morning stars singing, the sons of God shouting for joy—Tolkien’s Ainur are already here, in embryo. The difference is structural: in Job the angels sing while God creates; in the Ainulindalë, the Ainur sing, and the singing is the creation itself. That difference matters: in Job the angels are witnesses to a creation they do not make, while in the Ainulindalë the Ainur are sub-creators whose song is the thing itself. This is Tolkien’s own word, ‘sub-creation’, and he means it theologically: to make is to participate in the Maker’s making. And Job is the generous account here; the other accounts say less, not more. 

            Genesis is the starkest example. The opening verses gives us creation in its quietest form; there is no music and no chorus—only God’s voice: 

¹ In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. ² Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.

³ And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. ⁴ God saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness. ⁵ God called the light “day,” and the darkness he called “night.” And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day. (Genesis 1:1-5 NIV)

There are no singers here. No morning stars, no sons of God, no chorus, only the voice of God moving over the deep. And yet the tradition knows they were there. Job tells us the morning stars were singing; other texts, such as Jubilees, fill in what Genesis leaves out. What Tolkien does in the Ainulindalë is put everything in one place. The scattered tradition: Genesis's formless deep, Job's singing stars, Jubilees's angelic orders, is gathered into a single account. This is what compilers and commentators have always done: gather the scattered fragments of scripture into a single telling. Tolkien is doing the same work, in the same register. And this move is not only something Tolkien does at cosmogonic scale. He does it with single words, single names, single lines of Old English poetry.

The clearest example is Eärendil. The name comes from a single line in Crist I, an Old English religious poem Tolkien read as an undergraduate at Oxford: 

Eala Earendel engla beorhtast ofer middangeard monnum sended

[“Hail Earendel, brightest of angels, / sent to men over Middle-earth.”]

(Crist I, lines 104-5)

From this one line, Tolkien grew his entire mythology. Tolkien took the word and imagined. What makes his move scholarly genius is in the transformation of Earendel into Eärendil. To scholars of Old English, the meaning was unimportant; to Tolkien it was the beginning. Tolkien created a half-elven hero sailing the heavens carrying a Silmaril, who becomes the Morning Star, Venus. This is the work of a philologist at the highest level, taking the inherited tradition of Old English poems and scripture, understanding and iterating upon them, to create a mythology that is our own. The work Tolkien does to create the story of Eärendil is of the same type he does to tell the story of creation in Ainulindalë. Tolkien draws upon the writing itself. Look to the Ainulindalë passage we started with, which features four clauses beginning with ‘and’, piling up like the verses of Genesis 1. These stylistic features create a new story that immerses the reader in totality. From this, his work stops being fiction and starts looking like scripture. The understanding of “Whose mythology is this?” is shaped to really be our own as we travel deeper into Faerie.

-       BN 

Sub-Creation or Idolatry?

You shall not make for yourself an image in the form of anything in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the waters below.  (Exodus 20:4)

The true intent of the Second Commandment goes beyond the literal prohibition of images. Images in themselves are not fundamentally forbidden (otherwise, all of Christendom would have been nations without visual art -  despite earlier assumptions about Jewish aniconism, which has now been proved inaccurate); rather, what is strictly prohibited is for a man-made image to substitute for God and become the object of worship - that is, idolatry. Christianity as a monotheistic religion, affirms Yahweh the one and only true God. In either political or theological pan, idolatry carries a sense of infidelity: it is the defection into polytheistic paganism and the fabrication of false gods. Either way, idolatry is an intolerable transgression within Christian doctrine. 

As a devout Catholic, Tolkien could not have been unaware of the Second Commandment - how, then, did he understand and put it into practice himself?

In Letter 131, Tolkien clearly expressed his deep passion for myth and his grief that his own country had no stories that bound up with its own language and soil. In his envision,“myth” is supposed to be something relatively self-standing and independent from “religion” (specifically Christianity in this context). For this reason, he did not approve the Arthurian legend as an English mythology, for its explicit involvement in Christian religion.

To remedy this poverty, Tolkien set out to “create” a native English mythology (apologize for using the word “create”. Tolkien might not like it; for Tolkien, Middle-earth is less an invention than a kind of recollection of a lost world—Númenor, after all, is truly real). The opening chapter of The Silmarillion, the Ainulindalë, recounts how Eru, the One—also known as Ilúvatar—brought the cosmos (Eä) into being through the Great Music. Within the corpus of Middle-earth writings, this chapter holds a position roughly analogous to that of Genesis within the Biblical tradition. It appears almost as a self-contained cosmology, a kind of parallel universe that stands alongside, and at times seemingly apart from, the Christian world.

Ilúvatar—isn’t he a “false god” openly forged by Tolkien? He appropriates the title of “the One,” seemingly displacing God as Creator, even echoing biblical language—“Let these things Be!”alongside “Let there be light”. One might argue that no one would really believe in Ilúvatar in the same way they believe in God; yet historically, those who venerated icons at the altar did not think of themselves as worshipping idols either. To a certain extent, strictly speaking, Tolkien’s very act of writing appears to carry the risk of transgressing the Second Commandment—of substituting a man-made figure in place of the divine.

Nevertheless, it is clear that Tolkien himself believed that God permits and even encourages His people, while remaining faithful to Him, to create and cherish other mythic figures; legend-makers are not necessarily idolatros. This point can be further illustrated through a detail in the Ainulindalë: 

“Now the Valar took to themselves shape and hue; and because they were drawn into the World by love of the Children of Ilúvatar, for whom they hoped, they took shape after that manner which they had beheld in the Vision of Ilúvatar, save only in majesty and splendour. (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, “Ainulindalë”)

This excerpt forms an antithesis to Genesis 1:27—“God created mankind in his own image” (personally, I take it as a parallel device Tolkien employed in purpose). In Genesis, Man is the mirror-image of God, the self-portrait of the Creator; whereas in Ainulindalë, the formless Valar were incarnated in the manner of Man: the divine, in turn, becomes the mirror-image of Man.

Although the text does not explicitly state whether mankind was created in Ilúvatar’s own image, it nonetheless implies a more complex dynamic: Man is not merely a passive bearer of divine likeness, but also an active participant in shaping how the divine is perceived through visible forms. The relationship between Creator and Creation is therefore far more intricate than it first appears, and far more worthy of reflection than a unilateral model of resemblance.

The metaphor of “self-portrait” I used above is quite dubious upon closer examination. When we describe Man as God’s self-portrait, we are in fact reducing ourselves - animate beings - to inanimate objects. The fundamental difference between God the Creator and human craftsman lies precisely in the fact that the Creator can bring forth life, while man-made idols are nothing more than lifeless, immovable wood and gold, “having eyes but cannot see, having ears but cannot hear.” Regarding ourselves as merely an inanimate artwork of God is therefore a profanation of His creative power. 

When the Creator’s Creation is not a lifeless object but a multitude of living beings, the relationship between the two can no longer be taken as a simple hierarchy of subordination. On the one hand, the Creator gives form and life to his Creation; on the other, the Creator also relies on his Creation’s recognition and faith to establish his image and authority. It is not only Man that relies on faith in God, but God also, in a sense, depends on Man’s faith. Created in the image of God, Man is given the divine responsibility for completing Creation. 

Tolkien approached this divine duty through what he called “sub-creation.” According to him, the truly faithful shall not merely “worship the great Artifact,” but rather realize his or her potential as a “sub-creator”, a “legend-maker” (Mythopoeia). Beyond obedience and reverence lies a higher state of devotion, “sub-creation.” It entails an active engagement with, reflection upon, and even questioning of the Truth (when needed) that God represents. 

Tolkien’s Ainulindalë was by no means composed to replace Genesis—how, then, could Eru Ilúvatar be an man-made idol who challenges, or even displaces God? Rather, Ainulindalë serves as a likeness of Genesis - a likeness of Truth that channels the terrestrial with the divine, guiding Man toward the Truth. 

It’s worth noting that this is not an original interpretation and practice of the Second Commandment unique to Tolkien. Both waves of Byzantine Iconoclasm ended in the victory of the iconophiles. In their defense of icons, John of Damascus argues that “since our analogies are not capable of raising us immediately to intellectual contemplation, we need familiar and natural points of reference.” (John of Damascus, 26) God’s revelation would not spontaneously descend from above to those who wait passively, but must be acquired through active engagement in a dialogue with the divine. The image—as a likeness of the archetype—is a reflection of the divine and a vessel of God’s revelation.

The “image,” in a narrow sense, refers to the icons placed in churches (the icon of Christ). Yet in a broader sense, it encompasses any form of interaction between the faithful and God: Job’s questioning of God when confronting unexplained suffering, or Tolkien’s own act of writing as a form of “retrospection” of the Creation in Genesis. The image does not lead the believer astray from faith, as the iconoclasts feared; rather, it grounds a more genuine understanding of, and more intimate relationship with, God. After all, how could true faith possibly fear the believer’s reflection upon it?

-YC

Work Cited:

Tolkien, J. R. R. The Silmarillion. Edited by Christopher Tolkien, Houghton Mifflin, 2001. ISBN 978-0-544-33801-2.

Tolkien, J. R. R. The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien: A Selection. Edited by Humphrey Carpenter and Christopher Tolkien, Houghton Mifflin, 1981.

Tolkien, J. R. R. The Silmarillion. Edited by Christopher Tolkien, Houghton Mifflin, 2001. ISBN 978-0-544-33801-2.

The Holy Bible: Genesis. New Revised Standard Version, Oxford University Press, 1989.

The Holy Bible: Exodus. New Revised Standard Version, Oxford University Press, 1989.

Tolkien, J. R. R. “Mythopoeia.” In Tree and Leaf, HarperCollins, 2001.

John of Damascus. Three Treatises on the Divine Images. Translated by Andrew Louth, St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2003.

Melkor's Music of Discord & Lucifer

    In the “Ainulindalë,” Melkor attempts to take over Ilúvatar’s music of creation with his own music. His music sows discord within Ilúvatar’s music, and he separates himself from Ilúvatar and the rest of the Valar. This can be compared to Lucifer’s fall from grace as he chooses power and ambition over God and the other angels. The “Ainulindalë” uses music as an instrument of creation that reveals the plans and nature of those creating it. Melkor’s music reveals his nature and intentions, and these map onto those of Lucifer quite well. 

    When Ilúvatar begins his song, the Ainur are a part of it. Similarly, in the book of Job, the angels are present as God creates the world, since it includes that “the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy” (38:7 NIV). Music is included in both creation accounts, even though it accompanies creation in the biblical account while being the creation mechanism in the “Ainulindalë.” The Ainur and the angels both have a role to play in creation. However, “it came into the heart of Melkor to interweave matters of his own imagining that were not in accord with the theme of Ilúvatar; for he sought therein to increase the power and glory of the part assigned to himself” (16). Melkor’s desires are for power and glory. He wants what belongs to Ilúvatar to belong to him, so he creates his own original ideas, but they do not mesh with Ilúvatar’s ideas. Melkor’s arrogance and selfishness prevented him from joining with the rest of the Ainur in Ilúvatar’s themes. In the book of Isaiah, Lucifer has similar desires for power: “You said in your heart, / ‘I will ascend to the heavens; / I will raise my throne / above the stars of God’” (14:13a NIV). In both instances, these feelings are described as coming from Melkor’s and Lucifer’s hearts. Something about a change in the heart makes them incompatible with Ilúvatar and God. Lucifer, though, does not just want to increase his own power and glory but wants to be greater than God. Even though he did not say this directly, he said it in his heart, which was enough for God. This means God sees what is in his angels’ hearts and takes action. Ilúvatar, however, saw the effects of Melkor’s heart, i.e. his music, before taking action. However, in both instances, the desires of Melkor and Lucifer are similar. 

    Both Melkor and Lucifer appear also to not have been alone in their efforts. The “Ainulindalë” states, “Some of these thoughts he now wove into his music, and straightway discord arose about him, and many that sang nigh him grew despondent, and their thought was disturbed and their music faltered; but some began to attune their music to his rather than to the thought which they had at first” (16). It is possible that the discord he created led to confusion, and that is why some joined in his music. However, the “Valaquenta” does describe Melkor as having allies, making it possible that some actually agreed with Melkor and wanted to join with him over Ilúvatar. Melkor’s music also caused some to lose hope and disrupt their music, which also greatly affects Ilúvatar’s music. In Lucifer’s case, the book of Revelation gives some insight: “Then war broke out in heaven. Michael and his angels fought against the dragon, and the dragon and his angels fought back” (Revelation 12:7 NIV). The dragon in this verse is Lucifer, and the fact that he is going to war with Michael and his angels and that he has his own angels clearly suggests he has allies. Since both Melkor and Lucifer have allies, this suggests something persuasive about their music or speech. The feelings they have in their hearts, then, are common enough to resonate with others, which is why they could be problematic for Ilúvatar and God. Melkor’s music, in particular, directly threatens Ilúvatar’s music, and it is clearly enticing to some. 

    More can be said about Melkor’s and Lucifer’s natures based on the information given in the “Ainulindalë” and the Bible. Melkor’s music is described as “loud, and vain, and endlessly repeated; and it had little harmony, but rather a clamorous unison as of many trumpets braying upon a few notes. And it essayed to drown the other music by the violence of its voice” (17). Melkor’s music is dominant but lacks nuance. There is no variety to it and no dynamics other than loud. Its purpose is violence, and it does not complement other music particularly well. This reflects Melkor’s character. He is self-centered and is attempting to take control of creation, but he is not able to create music as complete as that of Ilúvatar. In Lucifer’s case, God tells him, “Your heart became proud / on account of your beauty, / and you corrupted your wisdom / because of your splendor. / So I threw you to the earth; / I made a spectacle of you before kings” (Ezekiel 28:17 NIV). Lucifer was also very arrogant and self-centered, and God saw this and threw him from heaven. For Lucifer, his nature led him away from wisdom, and God chose to make an example out of him. This means God has no place in heaven for those who try to lift themselves up before others. The role of the Ainur in Ilúvatar’s music was to create something beautiful together, which meant there was no room for one dominant voice. This aligns nicely with God’s vision for heaven, as one person lifting himself higher was enough to be thrown out.

    Music is a powerful device in the “Ainulindalë.” It shows the flow of power in creation and shows the characteristics of the performer. Ilúvatar is ultimately able to use Melkor’s music and overcome the discord, but that does not change what Melkor’s music reveals about his character. Ilúvatar knows this, and Melkor loses his good grace with Ilúvatar. Lucifer also reveals his character traits, and God loses his good grace with Lucifer. Both Ilúvatar and God have the power in these scenarios, but Melkor and Lucifer still have individual natures. Unfortunately for them, their natures are not compatible with the rest of creation. Discord can be turned into beauty, but the resolution does not change what was originally in the heart of the discord. 

 -KW

On Darkness and Tongues

Tolkien's Tree of Tongues

“One sees that the thing which attracted Tolkien the most was darkness: the blank spaces, much bigger than most people realize, on the literary and historical map.” (Shippey, 30)*

          I would like to explore this remark by Shippey using the language of the Dwarves (Khuzdûl) as a vehicle. Of the languages we read about, I was most fascinated by the Dwarf language because of the secrecy surrounding it. Khuzdûl is notable for its absence from the shared knowledge of the peoples of Middle-earth. It is described as a language that is as dark in its origin “as is the origin of the Dwarvish race itself” (The Lost Road, 194).  With this sentence, Tolkien defines both the Dwarves and their language as originating in darkness. I want to investigate Khuzdûl as an example of Tolkien’s interest in blank spaces and darkness. I found multiple inconsistencies in how Khuzdûl is described across the readings we did for class, and I am wondering if these inconsistencies are deliberate (as perhaps a reflection of the philologist’s job of considering multiple possibilities to fill blank spaces) or are mere mistakes, which is unlikely considering how intentional Tolkien is in his world-building. I do not expect to come to a definitive answer, but maybe this will invite others’ opinions and thoughts.

           In Appendix F, Tolkien writes the following about the Dwarf tongue: “Yet in secret (a secret which unlike the elves, they did not willingly unlock, even to their friends) they used their own strange tongue, changed little by the years; for it had become a tongue of lore rather than a cradle-speech, and they tended it and guarded it as a treasure of the past…in this history it appears only in such place-names as Gimli revealed to his companions; and in the battle-cry which he uttered in the siege of the Hornburg…Their own secret and ‘inner’ names, their true names, the Dwarves have never revealed to anyone of alien race. Not even on their tombs do they inscribe them.” I plan to refer to this passage multiple times in my post, so it is placed here, at the top, for easy reference.

            I would like to examine this concept of Khuzdûl as a language that is “dark.” When the Fellowship travels through Moria, the most notable aspect of the scenery is the heavy darkness. It is very easy to associate the dwarves and their language with darkness, as they dwell underground. Yet Gimli is quick to dispel the misconception that Dwarf dwellings are dark. In fact, the dwarves devised such powerful technology that Moria of old “‘was not darksome, but full of light and splendour, as is still remembered in our songs’” (LotR bk. 2, ch. 4). The technology of Moria was so advanced that the dwarves created artificial light that resembled that of “'sun and star and moon'” (LotR bk. 2, ch. 4). So, although Moria is dark when we encounter it in The Lord of the Rings, it was not always so, and its light was not merely that of lamps but that of the cosmos. Something is disturbing about this concept of technology that can imitate the light of “sun and star and moon.” In Genesis, God’s first act of creation is to create light by separating the light from the darkness. By crafting these imitations of natural light, the dwarves of Moria imitated God’s act of creation and disrupted the structure of creation by introducing natural light where it was not meant to be. The darkness that the Fellowship finds in Moria feels like a reversion to the mountain’s natural state, but this too is painted as extremely unsettling, if only because we as readers feel that something went wrong here long ago, and something could go very wrong here in the future.

Perhaps the darkness in Moria feels so oppressive because the place lacks the language that belonged to it. In one of Gimli’s remarks, we can see that Moria, the dwarves, and Khuzdûl are intertwined. When Gandalf is trying to find the right word to open the doors to Moria, Gimli explains the impossibility of recalling the word that might unlock them: “what the word was is not remembered. Narvi and his craft and all his kindred have vanished from the earth” (LotR bk. 2, ch. 4). There is a great sense of loss here. The dwarves as a race are not extinct, and neither is their language, but a certain way of life, life as it was lived in Moria, has vanished. This way of life cannot be brought back, even by dwarves who return to try and do just that. When Balin tried, the place (through the Balrog) rejected them. To continue the Genesis parallel, Moria seems a Garden of Eden for the dwarves. The dwarves overzealously imitated creation, and forces beyond their control intervened. Their race, language, and stories were allowed to survive, but any attempt to return to Moria, to that Edenic state, was destined to fail.**

"The Eastern Arches" by Allen Lee

To return to the language, it is important to note that Khuzdûl is a “lore language.” This implies that it is not commonly spoken even amongst the dwarves. The tongue “has changed little over the years,” perhaps because it is not a “cradle-speech.” I think we are all aware that spoken languages change quickly. I will provide the overused example of slang. Today, there is always a new word or phrase that emerges from the internet and into common usage. For Khuzdûl to have changed little over the years implies that it is not spoken enough to undergo the constant alterations that most languages experience. It seems to me that the only way for Khuzdûl to change little over the years is for it to be this rarely spoken lore language, but if this is so, how is the language preserved?

The obvious answer is through writing, but even this is deceptive.  Khuzdûl is barely described as a written language. When the Fellowship finds Balin’s grave, there is an inscription in Daeron’s Runes, which were used in Moria of old. The inscription (“Balin son of Fundin Lord of Moria) is “written in the tongues of men and dwarves” (LotR bk. 2, ch. 4). The inscription is written in Daeron’s Runes, used in Moria of old. Gandalf can, apparently, read these runes. Also written partially with Daeron’s Runes is the record of Balin’s time in Moria (LotR bk. 2, ch. 5). Gandalf can read some of this document (also written in Elvish and the runes of Dale), but it is not specified whether he is reading the parts written in Elvish, in the runes of Dale, or in Daeron’s Runes. Also complicating the Dwarf tongue as a written language is the true names of the dwarves. We know that the dwarves never write out their true names, but they presumably share them with other dwarves. This implies that the preservation of true names depends entirely upon an oral tradition, or that perhaps true names are known only to their bearer and die with the dwarf. This attitude around names implies a language that takes on the mortal nature of its speakers, incorporating an acceptance of darkness and blank spaces.

The final point of confusion for me (that I will discuss in this post) about Khuzdûl is that “the Dwarves have skill and craft, but no art, and they make no poetry” (The Lost Road, 194). This statement is straightforward enough, but conflicts with what Gimli says about the preservation of Moria and its splendor in “our songs” (LotR bk. 2, ch. 4). The dwarves have songs, implying the existence of verse, and presumably in their own language. In fact, one of my favorite pieces of verse in the book is one that Gimli recites about Moria (LotR bk. 2, ch. 4). This is recited to the Fellowship in common speech, but I would assume that it was originally composed in the dwarf tongue. I loved this piece of verse for its rhythm and reverence. If the dwarves have songs, how can it be said that they “make no poetry” (LotR bk. 2, ch. 4)? This implies a difference between songs and poetry, but both are composed in verse, and when Gimli recites his verse about Moria, it is described as a chant, which seems like something in between.

            What are we supposed to do with all of these contradictions regarding Khuzdûl? It is the “dark” language of a civilization that attempted to bring the light of the sun underground and suffered for its greed. The written aspect of the language is kept in shadows, and its preservation in an unchanged form is both due to and threatened by the fact that its speakers can only speak it amongst themselves, and even then speak it rarely. If Tolkien was attracted to darkness and omission, the dwarf language seems the embodiment of this darkness and omission in that the details about it are contradictory and inconsistent. It is also, perhaps, an embodiment of the contradictions in Dana Gioia’s poem: “The world does not need words,” yet “to name is to know and remember.” The few bits of dwarf speech in The Lord of the Rings are place names, and these place names carry with them a great potency. The name of Moria contains within it all of the lore surrounding this place, and we get to see that in Gimli’s yearning to behold the mythical land. Yet the true names of dwarves are not known, nor remembered. The potency of a Dwarf’s true name is found in the fact that it is secret and fleeting. I have come to view the language of the Dwarves as an expression of what was simultaneously fascinating and frustrating for Tolkien about philology. Shippey writes “What, then, had happened to England and the English during those ‘Norman centuries’ when, it might be said, ‘language’ and ‘literature’ had first and lastingly separated” (30). Khuzdûl is a language that expresses the fascination and frustration of the separation between language and literature, and maybe that is why the mystery is better left unsolved.

-ACB

*I have an earlier edition of Shippey, so page numbers are different. I have cited LotR by book and chapter number, and have listed other works by Tolkien in my works cited, as I have earlier editions of those than the ones the bookstore had for class. I didn't feel the need to specify my edition of LotR, since book and chapter number are consistent throughout the editions.

**The dwarves were successful in re-colonizing Moria during the fourth age, which I think could either defeat my Genesis parallel or add dimension to it. Information about the successful retaking of Moria is in The Peoples of Middle Earth, which I do not have a copy of.

Works cited:

Shippey, T.A. The Road to Middle Earth. Houghton Mifflin Company, 1983.

Tolkien, J. R. R. The Lord of the Rings. First published 1954-1955.

Tolkien, J. R. R. The Lost Road and Other Writings: Language and Legend Before the Lord of the Rings. Edited by Christopher Tolkien. Ballantine Books, 1987.

Why does Tolkien create so many languages?

In “English and Welsh,” Tolkien claims language as a marker of identity in two distinct ways: a person’s “ethnic” identity and a person's individuality. In the very beginning of the lecture, he quotes Sjéra Tómas Sæmundsson, who when speaking of the importance of Icelandic and its preservation, said:

Languages are the chief distinguishing marks of peoples. No people in fact comes into being until it speaks a language of its own; let the languages perish and the peoples perish too, or become different peoples. But that never happens except as the result of oppression and distress.

Language define a person’s identity: to natively speak Welsh is to belong to a clearly set, distinct identity. We are different because we speak Welsh. To disrupt this cycle, to prevent or disrupt the parent teaching the child their language, is to prevent the parent from teaching their child how to be Welsh. A language is an identity marker.

Unfortunately, I erred in the prior paragraph. I said to “natively” speak Welsh: native how you and I understand it. But that is not what Tolkien believed: “'But the inherited, first-learned, language - what is usually mis-called "native" - bites in early and deep. It is hardly possible to escape from its influence.’” (The Notion Club Papers). There is, in each person, the capacity for a different, truly native language. A language that appeals to them, that perhaps comes easier to learn. As he says later in The Notion Club Papers:

We each have our own personal linguistic potential: we each have a native language. But that is not the language that we speak, our cradle-tongue, the first-learned. Linguistically we all wear ready-made clothes, and our native language comes seldom to expression, save perhaps by pulling at the ready-made till it sits a litde easier. But though it may be buried, it is never wholly extinguished, and contact with other languages may stir it deeply.

Language is not merely a distinguisher of people. Tolkien asserts in The Notion Club Papers that every language is so unique that its different qualities can never correctly suit the native speaker. We have our own language within us. Each person, and each language is an individual. A language can and should be individualistic.

Tolkien must write so many languages, because he wishes to create individuals. How could Tolkien introduce us to his world, or the characters within it, without creating different languages.

Consider when Gandalf reads aloud the original words of the ring within Rivendell:

‘This I have done, and I have read: “Ash nazg durbatuluk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatuluk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul”.’ 

The change in the wizard’s voice was astounding. Suddenly it became menacing, powerful, harsh as stone. A shadow seemed to pass over the high sun, and the porch for a moment grew dark.

A language so evil changes Gandalf, even for a moment. It darkens the porch – changing Rivendell itself. A character speaking a certain language within Mordor is the equivalent of wearing a specific type of dress in all scenes, or even just more subtly giving them a character trait. To speak a language is to speak like a person, and to, especially in this world, speak and draw on the qualities of its creators. Tolkien describes our native language, and even the languages we speak as ready-made clothes, but ready-made clothes still give you character. Your choice of brand and the designers behind it shape you in their image: Gandalf speaks the Black Speech and he and Rivendell become blacker.

But this act of characterization is most clear with Frodo: the only hobbit of the four who can speak some Sindarin, which is in opposition to the Black Speech, as when the hobbits meet Goldberry:

He stood as he had at times stood enchanted by fair elven-voices; but the spell that was now laid upon him was different: less keen and lofty was the delight, but deeper and nearer to mortal heart; marvelous and yet not strange.

Again, Tolkien makes clear the individualistic nature of languages and the power they hold over a person. Goldberry’s singing in Sindarin prompts a spell of delight for the hobbits: it is nearer to their hearts and familiar. Sindarin allows them to trust Goldberry, and allows Goldberry to trust them, as she says after Frodo sings to her: “‘I had not heard that fold of the Shire were so sweet-tongued. But I see you are an elf-friend; the light in your eyes and the ring in your voice tells it”.

Frodo is sweet-tongued because he speaks Sindarin: the ring in his voice is of the same enchantment. This is no power held by Common Tongue, as “that fold” of the Shire is not sweet-tongued. Frodo is the hero he is because, as we set up, he speaks a little Sindarin. He is different from the rest of the hobbits. Tolkien sets us up in the very beginning of the novel, through a language difference, to glean this. For Tolkien, to introduce languages is to do two things simultaneously: introduce the peoples of Middle-Earth (to be different peoples is to speak different languages) and importantly his characters: what languages they know and choose to speak defines them on an individual level as well.  

ZJ