Jewels, Light, and the Weight of Beauty in Tolkien

One of the most unexpectedly powerful threads running through our recent readings is how often jewels and beautiful objects become more than just decoration. In Tolkien, in the Bible, and in medieval texts like Pearl and Marbode’s lapidaries, gems are never simply pretty things. They hold memory. They hold holiness. Sometimes they even hold danger. What surprised me most is that these works treat beauty as something that carries moral weight, almost as if a jewel can reveal the condition of the person who looks at it.

In The Silmarillion, this idea appears most clearly in the Silmarils themselves. Tolkien does not introduce them as ordinary treasure. They contain the light of the Two Trees, meaning they preserve a kind of beauty that belongs to an earlier and purer world. They are not valuable because they are rare, but because they hold something sacred and unrepeatable. Yet the tragedy is that their beauty does not automatically inspire goodness. Instead, they awaken possessiveness. Fëanor’s love for his creation turns into obsession, and the oath he swears shows how quickly admiration can become a hunger to control. In this way, the Silmarils feel almost like a test. They reveal that beauty, when treated as something to own, can become destructive.

That pattern is echoed later in The Lord of the Rings, but with an important shift. In Lothlórien, the Fellowship encounters beauty that feels untouched, like a preserved memory of the world before it was worn down by time. Galadriel’s realm is filled with light, not the harsh light of conquest, but something softer and almost sacred. When she gives Frodo the Phial, the connection becomes even clearer: it contains the light of Eärendil’s star, which ultimately comes from a Silmaril. The same ancient light that once inspired wars and exile is now offered as a gift, freely given to someone who does not seek glory. It is one of Tolkien’s most meaningful transformations. The jewel-light of the First Age becomes, in the Third Age, not an object of obsession but a tool of endurance. Beauty is still powerful, but it is redirected toward mercy rather than possession.

Another reason jewels matter so much in these texts is that they are often connected to the idea of preservation. Light in Tolkien is constantly threatened by fading, darkness, or distance, and gemstones become a way of capturing what would otherwise be lost. The Silmarils trap the light of the Two Trees, the Phial holds the light of Eärendil, and even the pearl in Pearl becomes a symbol of something that cannot be corrupted by time. In all of these cases, beauty is not fleeting decoration, but something stored up against ruin. It is as if these objects exist to prove that the world once held a purity that evil could not fully erase.

At the same time, these readings also suggest that beauty is never neutral. A jewel can either become a reminder of divine order or an invitation to greed, depending on the heart of the person who desires it. This contrast is what makes Tolkien’s use of gems feel so powerful: the problem is rarely the object itself, but the human impulse to treat beauty as something to conquer or possess. Whether it is Fëanor’s obsession, the priestly stones meant to honor God, or the jeweled foundations of the New Jerusalem meant to glorify eternity, these texts keep returning to the same question. When we encounter something radiant, do we respond with reverence, or with hunger?

The biblical readings deepen this connection. In Exodus 28, jewels appear in the breastplate of the High Priest, set with twelve stones representing the tribes of Israel. What matters here is that the gems are not just ornamental. They symbolize identity and belonging. The people are carried into the presence of God through these stones. Beauty becomes part of worship, not as vanity, but as a way of expressing divine order. This helps explain why Tolkien’s jeweled objects feel spiritually charged. Like the priestly stones, they are crafted beauty that points beyond itself.

Revelation 21 and 22 pushes this imagery to its highest scale. The New Jerusalem is described as a city whose foundations are made of precious stones, radiant with light, filled with gold that shines like glass. It is a vision of paradise expressed through overwhelming material beauty. In that sense, Revelation suggests that the end of history is not the rejection of the physical world, but its transformation. The world becomes what it was always meant to be: brilliant, ordered, and filled with divine light. This resonates strongly with Tolkien’s constant theme of longing for a lost perfection. His characters do not just want safety. They want restoration. They want the return of something holy that once existed.

Pearl brings these ideas into a more personal and emotional register. The poem revolves around grief, but it expresses grief through jewel imagery. The “pearl” is both a literal symbol of something precious and a spiritual image of purity and transcendence. The dreamer sees a heavenly city that resembles Revelation’s jeweled Jerusalem, but he cannot enter it. That distance is what makes the poem so haunting. Beauty is real, but it is not fully accessible yet. This is the same bittersweet tone Tolkien often creates. Lothlórien is beautiful, but it cannot last. The Silmarils preserve light, but they cannot restore the Trees. The world is always reaching toward something just beyond it.

Finally, Marbode’s lapidary writings show that this way of thinking about gems was not unique to Tolkien or scripture. Medieval lapidaries treated stones as objects filled with meaning: they could heal, protect, and symbolize spiritual truths. The modern mind might see that as superstition, but what it really reveals is a worldview where nature is not neutral. The physical world is full of signs, and beauty is not separate from truth. Jewels are not just wealth, they are pieces of a meaningful cosmos.

Taken together, these readings suggest that jewels and radiant beauty are not merely aesthetic details. They are symbols of sacred longing. They represent the desire to preserve what is pure, the temptation to possess it, and the hope that one day beauty will no longer fade. Tolkien’s genius is that he takes this ancient symbolic tradition and makes it feel alive again. His jewels shine, but they also burden. They comfort, but they also tempt. They are reminders that beauty is never just beauty. It asks something of us, and it reveals what kind of people we are when we reach for it.

—Alex Schumann

Gems, Eternity, and Evil

    The main topic for the discussion in class were the Silmarils and how these gems embody eternity and light together. Gems, we decided, are supposed to be beautiful, incorrupt, and in the garden of paradise; they make visible and physical the effects of virtue. So how are the Silmarils the purest and highest embodiment of this Platonic ideal? Well, it seems we can’t see the full picture, as they are made of a material no one will know of until the Second Music of the Ainur. Only Feanor knows of this, the brightest of the Eldar in body, mind, and spirit, who was their maker. Moreso, these gems are not anything like any other in Tolkien's world. “as they were indeed living beings, they rejoiced in light and received it and gave it back in hues more marvelous than before” (Silmarillion, 67). The light, more specifically, is that of the two great trees, Laurelin and Telperion, whose creation began the Count of Time. The gems are actually made with the full light of both, which was never achieved while the trees stood due to their cycles and the “mingling hour.” Indeed, the Valar recognized the importance of such gems as well: “And Varda hallowed the Silmarils, so that thereafter no mortal flesh, nor hands unclean, nor anything of evil will might touch them, but it was scorched and withered” (Silmarillion, 67).

    These gems are thus fundamentally linked to the questions of good and evil in Tolkien’s world and provoke many questions relating to those two sides. For example, Tolkien states that for Feanor “loved the Silmarils with the greedy love.” But Feanor is not considered evil because he is still able to hold and use them until they are taken away from him. Only after the slaying of kin does Feanor become evil, with Tolkien thereby creating a separation between action and intention for evil. What makes the Silmarils most interesting, I think, is the fact they are desired by both evil and good. The Valar want Feanor to show the gems to them, while Morgoth “lusted for the Silmarils, and the very memory of their radiance was a gnawing fire in his heart.” He thus embodies that evil as we discussed in class: exerting one’s own will over the other, as he desires to make the gems his own, even if they do end up burning Morgoth’s hand when he takes them.

    But is evil then rooted in greed or coveting, rather than the exertion of one’s will? Indeed, Morgoth disrupted the Music of the Ainur “for he sought therein to increase the power and glory of the part assigned to himself.” That seems pretty greedy at a first glance. Feanor himself commits the first kinslaying as the Telperi prevent him from getting back his Silmarils, the things he covets most deeply. Finally, there are biblical parallels in that first transgression through the story of Cain and Abel: “the Lord looked with favor on Abel and his offering, 5 but on Cain and his offering he did not look with favor. So Cain was very angry, and his face was downcast.” Evil in Tolkien’s world, though, does not seem wholly rooted in greed, as certain actions such as Smaug’s destruction of Lake Town do not follow this model. But it is a common first step he uses a lot in his works, whether that be from personal biases or the source material his tales revolve around.

    Why does Morgoth desire the Silmarils with such ardor though? It is, I think, because of that fundamental quality we discussed in class: their eternity. That temptation to desire eternity, to be immortal, is one that Morgoth very much had. But as evil as it may seem, that temptation is not a fundamentally negative one, for it is very human. We see that quality in the author of “Pearl,” who writes this piece to eternalize his deceased two-year-old daughter, placing her in the Gates of Heaven as a pearl. This element of eternity is one Tolkien discusses a lot in his work, mainly through the contrast between the elves and men. And he presents eternity there too as not being evil, calling man’s ability to die “The Gift of Men.” Another instance of eternity would be Sam’s speech at Cirith Ungol, of “We're in the same tale still. It's going on. Don't the great tales never end?” Tolkien, however, never explicitly states why Morgoth desires such gems, and his want for them would seem irrational due to their anti-evil enchantment.

    Tolkien does take a side on eternity and its relation to good/evil though. He shows that particular evils cannot be eternal, and they will fall at some point. All of his evil threats (Sauron, Ungoliant, etc.) are all destroyed in time, mainly through their own faults working against them (Ungoliant’s hunger causing her to devour herself). While these villains have the possibility of remaining eternal (Sauron is a Maiar, a heavenly spirit), their own evil pursuits destroy that reality. The tale Sam references continues over and over again because that strand of eternity is repeated over and over again: the strand of evil falling by its own faults. That is not to say evil itself is not eternal. Indeed, it seems it always will be a presence in our world and in Tolkien's. But that’s not to say that its instances cannot be defeated.

-GG

What Smaug Reveals

Bilbo, after an unexpectedly long journey, descends alone into the depths of the Lonely Mountain to face Smaug. Moving on Thorin’s command he looks for the Arkenstone while in contest with Smaug's calculated probing, careful not to reveal too much. When Bilbo suggests the dragon must have made “bitter enemies”, Smaug responds: 

“My armour is like tenfold shields, my teeth are swords, my claws spears, the shock of my tail a thunderbolt, my wings a hurricane, and my breath death!” (Tolkien, The Hobbit, 75th Anniversary ed. [New York: William Morrow, 2012], 207)

Smaug’s language is more than dialogue. He is composing an image of earned vanity: he’s old, dangerous, and importantly, still alive! His credibility is only verified – he is everything he says he is. The speech becomes a kind of autobiography, a performance of intimidation and self-knowledge. It succeeds. In the following moments, Bilbo is frightened. Tolkien’s choice in letting Smaug present himself gives another layer of insight Beowulf's dragon cannot give us: we expect a formidable beast, but we get a personality. 

Tolkien’s choice to give Smaug a voice runs parallel to the argument he makes in a 1936 lecture, “Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics.” Tolkien’s claim is clear and direct:

“A dragon is no idle fancy. Whatever may be his origins, in fact or invention, the dragon in legend is a potent creation of men’s imagination, richer in significance than his barrow is in gold” (Tolkien, “Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics”).

Here Tolkien implicitly justifies his own work in The Hobbit, noting the parallels between it and Beowulf. He views such monsters as “essential, fundamentally allied to the underlying ideas… which give it its lofty tone and high seriousness” (Tolkien). Tolkien’s lecture takes a strong position against the critics, stating the dragon is significant full stop – he is more than what he prevents and more than the treasure he guards. He carries meaning beyond that of an obstacle as a beast. In the journey leading to the Lonely Mountain Bilbo has proven capable of outwitting beasts. What he encounters in Smaug is something more unsettling: a creature with vanity, intelligence, and self-awareness. This is not simply an animal to be escaped, but an intelligence to be confronted. For Tolkien, monsters are not incidental to heroic literature; they are the source of their gravity. Without Grendel, Beowulf is only a warrior. Without Smaug, The Hobbit is merely a journey. The monster gives the hero significance. 

The point is that Smaug does not simply oppose the heroes; he exposes them. The dragon gives significance to the story because his presence forces hidden qualities to the surface. Bilbo’s courage only becomes meaningful when measured against genuine terror, while Thorin’s nobility becomes tragic once it collapses into greed. Even after Smaug’s death, the dragon’s influence remains. When Bilbo admits he has given the Arkenstone to Bard, Thorin erupts: 

“You! You!” cried Thorin, turning upon him and grasping him with both hands. “You miserable hobbit! You undersized—burglar!” he shouted at a loss for words, and he shook poor Bilbo like a rabbit. (Tolkien, The Hobbit, 75th Anniversary ed. [New York: William Morrow, 2012], 251)

Thorin, the king of Erebor, the formal speaker who proudly sang the “Far over the misty mountains cold” song all the way in Bag End is now at a loss for words after realizing what Bilbo has done. His speech being reduced to “You! You!”, Thorin is completely bewitched by Smaug, even after his death. The treasure, and everything connected to Smaug has now been internalized in Thorin. This internal pressure erupts when Bilbo tells him about the Arkenstone. The authority and restraint are gone from the Thorin we first meet. What we see instead is possession, anger, and fixation on what belongs to him. Smaug’s influence survives even after his death because the treasure itself has become infected by him. Tolkien’s dragon is not simply a beast to be defeated and moved past. Read alongside Psalm 90, which promises the faithful man “shall trample under foot the lion and the dragon” (Psalm 90:13 DRA), The Hobbit tells a different story: the dragon leaves something behind. Thorin carries Smaug out of the mountain with him. The greed that once belonged to the dragon now reshapes the king under the mountain himself.

Bilbo’s revelation under Smaug is quieter, but just as important. By the time he reaches the Lonely Mountain he has already survived trolls, goblins, spiders, and Gollum. Those encounters prove Bilbo can escape danger. Smaug is different. The dragon cannot simply be outrun or tricked in the same straightforward way. He speaks, probes, and attempts to uncover Bilbo’s intentions. The confrontation becomes psychological. What emerges in Bilbo during these exchanges is not sudden heroism, but composure. Bilbo enters the mountain terrified, yet he continues carefully and intelligently in the presence of overwhelming power. He keeps returning to Smaug despite fully understanding what waits for him below. Earlier monsters reveal Bilbo’s resourcefulness; Smaug reveals maturity. By descending alone into the mountain and confronting an intelligence far greater (and older) than himself, Bilbo stops feeling like a lucky hobbit dragged into adventure and begins to stand independently from the dwarves themselves. 

This change becomes fully visible with the Arkenstone. Bilbo ultimately gives it to Bard not because it benefits him, but because he recognizes something Thorin no longer can; treasure has begun to matter more than people. Smaug therefore leaves the opposite mark on the two characters. In Bilbo, the dragon reveals restraint and moral independence. In Thorin, he reveals possession and greed.

            -BN 

What’s the deal with the Silmarils

We talked most of class about gemstones and how they relate to both J. R. R. Tolkien and biblical stories. Much of our discussion focused on the medieval Christian understanding of gemstones as fragments of heaven. This idea connects strongly to Tolkien’s legendarium through the Silmarils, the Arkenstone, the intricate metallurgy and gemstone work of the Elves and Dwarves, and of course the Rings of Power, to name a few. I have always been slightly confused about the Silmarils, because they are so desired by individuals within Tolkien’s world, but they do not have a clearly defined power, with two notable exceptions: the empowerment of Eärendil’s ship, and then judging by the incident with Maedhros and Maglor, they also harm those who do not take them rightfully. In The Silmarillion, there was this one passage about the Silmarils that I found very interesting. 

When Maedhros and Maglor attempt to steal the Silmarils, 

the jewel burned the hand of Maedhros in pain unbearable…he cast himself into a gaping chasm filled with fire, and so ended; and the Silmaril that he bore was taken into the bosom of the Earth…Maglor could not endure the pain with which the Silmaril tormented him; and he cast it at last into the Sea…it came to pass that the Silmarils found their long homes: one in the airs of heaven, and one in the fires of the heart of the world, and one in the deep waters (323). 

This passage reminded me of the power of the Ark of the Covenant, as demonstrated by the story in 2 Samuel 6:1-7. The Ark is being transported and one of the oxen carrying it stumbles. One of the attendants of the Ark, Uzzah, reaches out to steady it and is struck down for the irreverent act of coming into contact physically with the Ark. God’s anger is described as burning Uzzah and killing him, in what sounds to me like how the Silmarils burned Maedhros’ hands and wounded him. An important difference here is that the Ark in both Christianity and Judaism, is a vessel for God. It is an extraordinarily divine presence. The Silmarils, although they do contain the essence of the Two Trees of Valinor, appear to be just gems, extraordinarily beautiful ones, but certainly not sacred vessels in the same way the Ark of the Covenant is within biblical lore. Perhaps this accounts for their limited ability to smite, as Maglor and Maedhros were not killed by the Silmarils. Maedhros threw himself off a cliff, certainly the pain of carrying the Silmaril was an inciting factor, but Maglor just threw the gemstone into the ocean, implying that Maedhros did not necessarily have to die for his act of stealing the Silmarils.

In my reading of The Lord of the Rings, I have always sort of understood Valinor to be a kind of heaven, or at least the closest thing to heaven within Tolkien’s universe. This assumption was for the most part guided by the fact that Valinor is often referred to as the Blessed Land in text. Having now also read Revelation 21-22, I was very struck by the similarities in the description of both Valinor and biblical heaven. In this passage of Revelation, the city of Jerusalem is “coming down out of heaven from God,” and the kingdom of Eden is restored to Earth. The holy city is described as being like a very precious jewel, like a jasper, clear as crystal, the city as gold. The passage also declares “blessed are those who wash their robes, that they may have the right to the tree of life and may go through the gates into the city.” This passage reminded me of the descriptions of Valinor. In The Silmarillion when Eärendil goes to Valimar, the city at the heart of Valinor, Tolkien writes, “The dust upon his raiment and his shoes was a dust of diamonds, and he shone and glistened as he climbed the long white stairs” (318). Similar to the other passage describing Jerusalem, Valimar is beautiful and even the dust in the streets is like diamonds. In addition, the passage from Revelation about the tree of life, echoes how in Valinor there were the Two Trees which bring light (and are the source of the Silmarils). In this sense, the Silmarils can be understood as fragments or remnants of Tolkien’s heaven, much like medieval Christians imagined gemstones as earthly traces of the divine. Valinor also has the added parallel with heaven in that only particular people are able to get in. In biblical heaven it is the virtuous, while for Valinor it’s the elves and the ring bearers, who are rewarded for their suffering with the closest thing to Paradise in Tolkien’s universe.

The way that Tolkien treats the gemstones of Middle Earth, parallels the medieval Christian understanding of gemstones as not of humankind. The final home of the Silmarils is one in each of the three aspects of the world; they are not to be possessed by man.  A lot of the most powerful gems and artifacts were made by stronger, or powerful races than man, the Elves and the Dwarves for instance. The beauty of the Silmarils is such that it suggests a connection to a reality beyond the mortal world, which reinforces the idea discussed in class that gemstones can be understood in some contexts to be fragments of something heavenly and transcendent.

—JM

The Fall of the Noldor

            The downfall of the Noldor can be attributed to a variety of factors. For instance, the fall is often attributed to their refusal to heed the words of higher powers: Ulmo cautioned Turgon to “‘love not too well the work of thy hands and the devices of thy heart’” (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 125), but when Tuor came as an emissary of the Valar to deliver Turgon from his city, Turgon had become “proud” and he “trusted still in [the city’s] secret and impregnable strength, though even a Vala should gainsay it” (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 240). In addition, the fall could come from their desire to create facsimiles of paradise: Fëanor created the Silmarils to preserve the glory of the Blessed Realm (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 67); Celebrimbor and the smiths of Eregion crafted the rings to make Middle-earth as fair as Valinor (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 287); and Turgon built Gondolin to mirror the beauty of Tirion (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 240). I argue, however, that these factors fundamentally stem from the same source: the desire of the Noldor to possess their own gems and, through them, claim mastery over their own selves.             The Silmarillion describes the Noldor as those who first discovered, shaped, and carved the gems of the earth (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 60). At first, they “hoarded them not, but gave them freely, and by their labour enriched all Valinor” (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 60). But as the noontide of Valinor waned, and the words of Melkor wound in their hearts, the Noldor grew proud: they forgot “what they had and knew came to them in gift from the Valar” (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 68), and they viewed their gems and their crafts as possessions to be owned only by themselves. The Lays of Beleriand highlights the covetous nature with which the Noldor grew to value their crafts: Fëanor uses possessive pronouns to describe them (“our gems are gone, our jewels ravished” (Tolkien, “The Flight of the Noldoli from Valinor,” line 103; emphasis added)) and reframes the gifts they fashioned for the Valar as the work that should have remained theirs (“to contrive them gems and jewelled trinkets / their leisure to please with our loveliness” (Tolkien, “The Flight of the Noldoli from Valinor,” lines 85-6; emphasis added)). These possessions, however, are not simply a sample of their crafts: they are also a representation of the people of the Noldor themselves. This symbolism is best encapsulated by the Silmarils: The Silmarillion describes the Silmarils as crystal that is to the “body of the Children of Ilúvatar: the house of its inner fire, that is within it and yet in all parts of it, and is its life” (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 67). Thus, when Fëanor laments that the jewels have been “ravished,” he implies that the Noldor themselves have been violated. His accusation extends beyond Morgoth: even the Valar, to whom the Noldor once freely gave their treasures, become participants in the corruption of the Noldor’s own being.

            Consequently, when Fëanor stirs the Noldor to flight to reclaim the Silmarils (and their lost gems), he is also urging them to escape their servitude to the Valar (“guard us here / to serve them … hath held us slaves” (Tolkien, “The Flight of the Noldoli from Valinor,” lines 83-4, 101)) and to become masters of their own selves (“‘But when we have conquered and have regained the Silmarils, then we and we alone shall be lords of the unsullied Light … No other race shall oust us!’” (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 67)). But Fëanor fails to realize that the corruption of their gems was not because they were wrought for or given to the Valar: the corruption of the gems stems from their removal from Valinor, and so the fall of the Noldor is incited by their desire to remove themselves as well. Tolkien’s translation of Pearl offers a useful theological framework for understanding the relationship between gems and souls. In Pearl, the narrator prays for God to “[m]ake precious pearls Himself to please” of “[u]s inmates of His house divine” (Tolkien, Pearl, stanza 101). The pearls are a material representation of those who have died and now reside in Heaven; they--and other gems--are pure and eternal, just like incarnated souls imbued with the Imperishable Flame. As these jewels are fragments of paradise, they belong in Heaven:

            To that high city we swiftly fare             As soon as our flesh is laid to rot;             Ever grow shall the bliss and glory there             For the host within that hath no spot. (Tolkien, Pearl, stanza 80)

Thus, in leading the Noldor out of Valinor, Fëanor is also removing what ultimately belongs in paradise from paradise. This flight is mirrored in Genesis: Adam and Eve leave the Garden of Eden to walk east into the world (“So [God] drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims…” (KJV, Genesis 3:24)), just like how the Noldor sail from the Undying Lands east to darkened Middle-earth. Yet unlike Adam and Eve, whose exile came as divine judgment after the Fall, the Noldor embraced exile willingly, choosing separation from paradise before they were cast from it. Thus, Fëanor’s stirring of the Noldor to flight is the fundamental source of their fall.             Tragically, the Noldor could have found salvation from their fall if they had returned to Valinor and appeared before the Valar in “humble lowliness” (Tolkien, Pearl, stanza 34). But most of them did not. Their fate is reflected in the fate of the Silmarils: Eärendil and Elwing were able to enter the bounds of Valinor because they possessed a Silmaril (“it was by reason of the power of that holy jewel that they came in time to … the Bay of Eldamar” (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 248)). They entreated the Valar for pardon, pity, and mercy (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 249), and the Valar lent them comfort and removed their griefs (Tolkien, Pearl, stanza 30) by providing aid to the Noldor at last. Eärendil and Elwing thus acted as messengers to deliver the fragment of paradise back to its rightful place--they were missionaries who brought a lost soul back to Heaven. Eärendil and Elwing never returned to Middle-earth because, like the Silmaril they bore, they had become things sanctified within Heaven itself; to depart would have been another fall. Maedhros and Maglor, however, were burned by the Silmarils because their ultimate goal was to keep the Silmarils out of Valinor and in their own hands (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 253). Just like the Silmarils they held, Maedhros and Maglor were lost to the world, for they refused to return to Valinor--they turned away from Heaven--where they would have found salvation for their crimes (“‘it may be that in Valinor all shall be forgiven and forget, and we shall come into our own peace’” (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, 253)).             Thus, the fall of the Noldor is a product of their very flight from Valinor. In desiring to master their gems, they desired to master themselves and so were blinded to their true natures as beings designed to reside in Heaven as part of its divine order. As a result, they refused to relinquish themselves to God and denied their own salvation.                 

—GMH