Lost Identity and Found Myth in The Lost Road

In the opening chapters of The Lost Road, Tolkien centers Alboin, at first a young boy curious about language and the past. He asks his father about his name: is it real? Alboin wants to know if his name means something, if it is meant to be name, and who has had it before. This echoes a few themes common to Tolkien’s work. First, Alboin seems to inherently connect his name, of course a piece of language, to his heritage. Tolkien seems to firmly believe that language has an inextricable link to culture. In the opening chapters, Alboin says just that to his father, making an assertion about ‘language atmosphere,’ and attributing language changes to ‘substratum.’ This, of course, sounds like Tolkien speaking. 

Alboin seems to be a parallel to Tolkien, carrying many of his beliefs and interests, as well as later pursuing an academic career at Oxford. Alboin also represents another one of Tolkien’s sentiments: a sense of separation from heritage. Alboin expresses this frustration with his name, and it is one his main motivating factors in his studies. Like Tolkien, he is particularly interested in the seemingly lost culture and language of the British Isles and the ‘north.’ His father mentions how the “old days of north are gone beyond recall, except insofar as they have been worked into the shape of things as we know it, into Christendom” (38). This reminded me of Tolkien’s work on Beowulf as well as Tom Shippey’s recent book on the subject. Shippey writes about how the tale may represent the death of a culture through invasion, with Beowulf’s trials representing an intense period of violence and upheaval. The epic, however, was never interpreted this way until recently, and was rather seen as motivated and catalyzed by Christian interests. This tracks with what Alboin’s father says: we only seem to understand the pre-historic north through the lense of Christianity, which produces an incomplete view. A massive amount of history, language, and culture have seemingly been lost, a mystery that consumes Alboin. Tolkien of course translated Beowulf and had particular affection for the text, and it seems reasonable to say that he was attracted by exactly this mystery. 

Indeed, Tolkien’s purpose in writing was largely to ‘fill in the gaps,’ and create a mythology for England. Unsurprisingly, Alboin has similar goals, and says that he wants “myths, not only bones and stones” (40). Alboin feels a strong pull to a culture that he feels is lost. He seems unsatisfied with Latin and Greek and instead feels a strong compulsion to speak northern languages. This reminds me of certain similar sentiments I’ve heard from Irish people learning Gaelic in recent years. These people often claim that they feel as if Gaelic is the language that they are meant to speak in and are overwhelmed with a feeling of deep cultural connection. This of course supports Tolkien’s idea that language is ingrained within groups of people and is parallel of Alboin’s frustration. He wonders “if there is any Latin in [him],” answering his own question: “not much” (38). He likes western shores, and the real sea, which is nothing like the mediterranean. Just as with Tolkien, this sense of cultural disconnection motivates Alboin to seek out language and mythology that feels more familiar. In Alboin’s case, however, this involves finding out the real history of middle earth, as the rest of Tolkien’s legendarium acts as the history and heritage that has been lost. For Tolkien, of course, his solution is sub-creation, as he is unable to locate a mythology for England. 

This distinction brings up interesting questions about the nature of myth. What is the difference between the ‘real’ myth in Alboin’s world and the imagined in Tolkien. Isn’t myth not supposed to be ‘real’ in the first place? An interesting answer, and perhaps what Tolkien would say, is that a myth is not more or less real based on its historic accuracy, but rather other factors. To make his myths ‘real,’ Tolkien tirelessly researches language in attempt to make his myths sound right. He crafts his narrative around surviving epics like Beowulf and writes prose in the style of a religious text or fable. But can such a myth achieve true authenticity? I don’t think that even Tolkien would think so. Consider language: Tolkien maintains that languages are foundational to societies, and each one is deeply connected with its ancestral speakers. When Tolkien, through an act of sub-creation, invents a new language, no such connection is possible. While Tolkien may borrow Norse and Old English in order to make such a language ‘look more real,’ it will only be attached to an imaginary people. It seems that the same would apply for myth… if Greek myths are only ‘real’ in the sense that they are intrinsically connected to Greek people through ancient Greek culture, then Tolkien’s myths certainly aren’t. England, however, does have an individualized circumstance: it seemingly does not have a national myth to begin with. In this case, does it make sense for Tolkien to create one? Could LOTR and Tolkien’s legendarium really fill that place for England? How long could it take? It seems for language and myth to be ‘real,’ or in other words legitimately connected to a group of people, it could take generations. There seems to be a requirement that both must be adequately ancient… is this necessary? 

At this point, I am somewhat confused as to Tolkien’s goals… does he really believe he is creating England’s national myth? He seems to know better than anyone how such myths are not only tied to ancient, common language, but also to long periods of shared history. In this way, it seems impossible for Tolkien to just create a ‘myth’ by himself. But then what is his purpose? Does he hope his work will last long enough to be ancient? Is he encouraging us to become sub-creators ourselves?

Check out this cool map from reddit that claims Tolkien modeled Middle Earth after Ice Age Europe!!!

—JW

Subcreation and Free Will

In this post, I’d like to discuss the relationship between the ability and right of creation and free will in The Silmarillion.

Free Will, by Tolkien’s own definition, is “derivative, and is . . . only operative within provided circumstances; but in order that it may exist, it is necessary that the Author should guarantee it, whatever betides: sc. when it is ‘against His Will’ . . . at any rate as it appears on a finite view.” (Letters 294) Within the legendarium, this could be equated with the right to sub-create, as Tolkien further explains that “He gave special ‘sub-creative’ powers to certain of His highest created beings: that is a guarantee that what they devised and made should be given the reality of Creation.” (Letters 295) In his letters, Tolkien is making reference to the Catholic God when he discusses the Maker who "gave special ‘sub-creative’ powers”, while in The Silmarillion, the equivalent is Eru/Ilúvatar, as he “showed to [the Valar] a vision, giving to them a sight where before was only hearing; and they saw a New World made before them.” (QS 5) What distinguishes the divine being in Tolkien’s mythology from non-deified ones, in this case, is the power and right of creation — that is, world-making. Yet, this power and “Will” is not excluded entirely from the children of Eru, since even Melkor's discordance in the Great Music, with his resentment and jealousy, remained in the melody and eventually became part of it. It is valid to claim, then, that sub-creation, or “Free Will,” endowed upon elves and human beings, is an extended part of sacred creation. However, the product of sub-creation does not always correspond to the theme of creation, with Melkor as an apt example. This being the case, the power of sub-creation will not be withdrawn from the sub-creators, nor will their products or creatures be unmade, which Tolkien calls “a guarantee that what they devised and made should be given the reality of Creation.” (295) I find this dimension of the permitted sub-creation and its physical, material realization in the world, particularly intriguing. From this perspective, what results from sub-creation is just as concrete and “real” as those that emerge from divine creation. Can we then, in this particular context, arrive at a common understanding that Free Will in Tolkien’s theory is a decisive force, a driving potential that is capable of transcending the sub-creators themselves?

It is necessary to bring Fëanor into this discussion at this moment. During class discussion, someone raised the point that the creation of the Silmarils involves the capturing of the light from the Trees, which raises questions about the originality of the gems. Indeed, despite the fact that the Silmarils are considered a masterpiece that even Fëanor himself is unable to remake, they are not created entirely ex nihilo, as what is essential to the Silmarils is the light of the Trees they contain. The Silmarils, then, could also be interpreted as products of Free Will, as Fëanor, their creator, is endowed with the talent that leads him to become a kind of sub-creator who draws upon an originary element (i.e., the light of the Trees) and incorporates it into his own work. After Varda consecrated those gems, it seems that the Silmarils truly transcend the sub-creation from which they originate and become genuinely sacred objects. This can therefore tie to the question raised in class discussion of whether the Silmarils are alive or possess consciousness. One passage in QS that bears on this question is the fact that the Silmarils would burn those of evil intent who dare to lay their hands on them, such as Morgoth, which makes them capable of functioning as instruments of judgement. Even till the very end, those jewels remain uncontaminated and pure, still refusing the touch of the dishonorable. Fëanor, the creator of the jewels, with Free Will being granted to him, is fully capable of falling and turning to a darker path; yet, the product of his Free Will,  his sub-creation, would not fall or be disgraced because of his deeds. In this case, the Silmarils bend to no will but their own or the will of the divine. When the story of the Quenta Silmarillion comes to an end, the Silmarils remain forever beyond the grasp of the Children of Ilúvatar, which also indicates that their fate is even beyond the reach of the Valar, let alone the elves and men. While it is guaranteed that the products of sub-creation will never be deprived of their material existence within the world, regardless of the intentions behind their making, the ultimate fate of the Silmarils is reflected in the resting places they come to occupy.

Thus, what is Free Will? It is a divinely regulated power bestowed upon the Children of Eru, which carries within it the possibility of transcendence, not for the sub-creator, but for the sub-created. What is brought into being through Free Will is not permanently bound to the fate or the moral trajectory of its maker. It is released into the divine order as an entity in its own right, subject no longer to the will of its creator, but to the deeper design of the divine plan. The Silmarils are perhaps the most significant embodiment of this, as they are born of Fëanor’s will, yet finally belonging to no will but the divine.

—YW

The Binding of the Dwarves

        In the second chapter of Tolkien’s Quenta Silmarillion, the cycle that makes up the bulk of The Silmarillion as printed, he describes how the Vala Aulë created the Dwarves. Aulë, he writes, was impatient awaiting the coming of the true Children of Ilúvatar, the Elves and the Men, and decided that he wanted to create his own speaking things to be his protégés. Working in secret, he made them hardy and in the image of the others, working in secret lest the other Valar be wary of his insubordination to Ilúvatar in doing so.

Catching him in the act of endowing them with speech, the defining characteristic of a higher being, Ilúvatar comes to Aulë and tells him that he is aware of his insubordination. Repentant, Aulë readies to strike down the Dwarves to show his loyalty, but Ilúvatar stays his hand from sacrificing his children, saying that his renewed loyalty is confirmed.

This narrative has a striking resemblance to another, more famous story of near-sacrifice: the Binding of Isaac. In Genesis, God asks Abraham to sacrifice his favorite son Isaac as a test of his faith, and, at the last minute before Abraham delivers the fatal blow, God stops him saying that his faith has been affirmed. God instead provides a ram to sacrifice in a normal way, saying that he will never expect human sacrifice and that the whole affair was a test which Abraham passed.

Both of these sacrifice narratives center on an adherent to God/Ilúvatar whose loyalty is strong but whose absolute commitment is in doubt; they are prepared to sacrifice their chief joy, their children, to appease Him; and they are instead asked to sacrifice something lesser in the knowledge of their true commitment. For Abraham, this last thing is a ram; for Aulë, it is that the Dwarves must sleep until the coming of the Elves, the divinely-ordained Firstborn. It is difficult to think that Tolkien, a devout Catholic, could not have been aware of the striking similarities between the two narratives.

This parallel is curious, however. Aulë and Abraham, as a human being, are subcreators of the kind with which Tolkien is concerned throughout his work, but Aulë is far from the only Vala that is one. They are all, together, responsible for shaping and filling out Arna in harmony with Ilúvatar’s song that first envisaged it. And it is not just that Aulë subcreated life, either: his own wife, Yavanna, created plants and, moreover, sentient animals, but she receives no such test from God/Ilúvatar. (While the Valaquenta only associates her with plant life, presumably animals are her “kelvar” that “can flee or defend themselves” that she mentions in the Quenta Silmarillion (The Silmarillion 27, 45).) Aulë feels compelled to tell Ilúvatar that he created the Dwarves in childish imitation rather than in mockery, but it is unclear in what way that distinction should make him more like Abraham than any of the Valar.

Perhaps it is worth looking at the particular way in which Abraham-as-subcreator is relevant to his relationship with God: as progenitor and patriarch of the Israelites (and the Ishmaelites!). So, too, is Aulë the progenitor of the Dwarves. Even if he was more consciously involved in his subcreation than Abraham would have been as a father, it is in that role that Ilúvatar casts him. They are his children and he is their father (The Silmarillion 45). And, it is worth noting, both of them were prepared to sacrifice the very children that made them subcreators to demonstrate their loyalty to God/Ilúvatar’s plan that did not seem to involve their subcreations.

Still, how is this different from Yavanna’s living animals that could perceive and interact consciously with the Earth? Was she not also their progenitor? The difference appears to be that the “speaking peoples,” which Ilúvatar did not appear to Aulë until he confirmed that the Dwarves were to be, were themselves capable of subcreation independent of their creator (The Silmarillion 44). While Ilúvatar reminds Aulë that he would have been incapable of making the Dwarves independent himself, that is clearly his design and is ultimately granted. Such free will, however, gives them the capacity to stray from what higher or prior powers might want of them. Indeed, Yavanna is deeply concerned that the Dwarves will wreak havoc on her designs in pursuit of their own creations, but Manwë reminds her that this is not substantively different from what the Elves and Men will do as well.

The parallel, then, appears to be this: the subcreators of those who themselves wield the capacity to subcreate must be in alignment with God’s will. St. Augustine writes in The City of God that evil cannot create anew but merely corrupt, and Tolkien seems to be more or less in alignment with this belief throughout his work. Melkor seems as though he should have some power of subcreation, but in exacting his evil, he is far more concerned with ruining the creations of his fellow Valar and corrupting servants from among the Maiar (Balrogs), Elves (Orcs), and Men that already existed prior to his involvement. As T.A. Shippey observes in The Road to Middle-Earth, Tolkien also seems to want the fundamental character of his actors to remain more or less static, with their traits in some way inborn. This is, as Shippey remarks, in tension with the (Augustinian) idea of corruption, but not entirely so if not read too strongly. If only good can create, how can one create something meaningfully better than oneself? Free will, perhaps, but the influence (even if not overriding determination) of nature makes the goodness of their progenitor nonetheless seem like a matter of great importance. If Abraham or Aulë were not sufficiently good, how could their descendants be expected to be so?

Indeed, Tolkien places much emphasis on the parentage and origins of the various characters in the Quenta Silmarillion as defining their behavior. The fact that Fëanor does not share a mother with his siblings is presented as a key fact in determining their inability to get along, and his background also seems to inform his refusal to grant the Valar a Silmaril even when it could save the trees Telperion and Laurelin and his decision to slay the Teleri.

It may also be worth considering how this idea figures into Tolkien’s idea of himself as a subcreator of a mythic world, in the subcreation of which he expected others might participate. Tolkien is clear that he is not overly concerned with making his world perfectly aligned with proper theology—it is, as he insists, ultimately literary and not historical—but he is nonetheless scrupulous in endowing it with as solid a groundwork as he can make for it, both in its harmony with Catholic cosmology and as an apparent historical artefact. Not all who have come after him to Middle-Earth have been so diligent, but their creations are elevated by his original efforts.

 

—JZ

Free Will, the Valar, and Tolkien’s Cosmogony

    Something that we discussed for the majority of class on Tuesday was the nature of creation, goodness, and free will within the world of The Lord of the Rings and its broader mythological foundation in The Silmarillion. The cosmogony that Tolkien presents dramatizes the tension between divine intention and free will. Melkor/Morgoth, introduced discord into the world, and disagreed with the supreme creator Eru Ilúvater. It seems however, almost as if Melkor/Morgoth could not help it as Tolkien writes that the Valar “comprehended only that part of the mind of Ilúvatar from which he came” (Ainulindalë). In a way it almost seems as if the fall was inevitable. This begs the question, if Eru Ilúvater did not want treachery and covetousness into the world, why did he create Melkor/Morgoth the way that he did? In addition Melkor/Morgoth, are not the only Valar that are capable of being disobedient/rebellious, as demonstrated in the incident where Aulë created the dwarves in an overstep of his authority.
    In Tolkien’s cosmogony, evil is not a rival power that is equal to good. It arises instead as a corruption of an ultimately good creation which is a very Christian idea, echoing both the fall of Lucifer (the rebellion of a favored son/angel), and the garden of Eden (in which a perfect creation is ultimately corrupted). Tolkien does not just replicate Christian doctrine in his literary works, however. I would argue that while Tolkien may have taken inspiration from a variety of sources, including potentially Paradise Lost which we discussed in class, there is no one to one parallel between a single cosmogony and Tolkien’s metaphysics.
    An example of an interesting case is the Valar. What are they, and do they have free will? Some in class proposed that they were akin to the Greek gods, and some said the saints, still others proposed angels. Each of these comparisons captures something true, but none are perfectly correct. The Valar are not objects of worship, which distinguishes them from deities in polytheistic systems, but they appear to each have control over a different aspect of the world, for example Ulmo with water, and Yavanna with the Earth in they way that deities do in polytheistic systems. The Valar, unlike polytheistic deities, are also subject to a singular higher authority that is the ultimate creator. The comparison to saints is also limited as saints are human elevated by holiness, but the Valar are primordial beings who existed before the physical world. Saints may have some degree of closeness to God, but not in the same way the Valar do to Eru Ilúvater. The Valar almost seem to be extensions of Ilúvatar’s will, as shown in the quote referenced earlier from Ainulindalë ((so are they closer to the Christian Trinity in that way?) (But that wouldn’t make sense because then the creator would have an aspect of evil within him?)).
    Tolkien himself refers to them as angels on occasion in Letter 153, but that also does not seem quite right (193-194). The Valar have a degree of creative participation in the world that goes beyond traditional roles of angels within Christianity as messengers, servants, and occasionally warriors, but they “cannot by their own will alter any fundamental provision” (what counts as a fundamental provision?) (194). This question of what counts as a fundamental provision implies that the Valar can only do things that agree with the will of Eru Ilúvater, but then that would mean that the fall of Morgoth/Melkor and the creation of dwarves by Aulë was in fact a part of Eru Ilúvater’s plan. Tolkien also refers to a ”Divine Plan for the enablement of the Human Race” which further complicates this picture (194). Characters appear to have destinies, and there are prophecies which implies at least some degree of predestination, while still including a dynamic development of events in which choice is a key aspect. According, once again to Letter 153 (there’s a lot of good stuff in there) “it is the Pity of Bilbo and later Frodo that ultimately allows the quest to be achieved” (191). Taking that into consideration, while combined with Tolkien’s later metaphysical creation, the fate of the world does not depend on these larger forces, instead what matters are small choices towards mercy. It is the decision on multiple occasions to spare Gollum, for instance, that ultimately leads to the destruction of the One Ring.
    While writing this post I kept thinking back to Tolkien’s own almost ambivalence as to whether or not to delve deeper into his work on a metaphysical level. He tells Peter Hastings, when pressed about his theological underpinnings, that Hastings might be taking things too seriously. The internal consistency and depth of his world however, really does invite rigorous analysis. Tolkien himself may caution against over-systematizing what is, a work of imaginative sub-creative fiction, and itself an action of free will, but it is still deeply interesting to do so. This tension may in fact actually mirror the themes that Tolkien explores. Just as the Valar cannot fully comprehend Iluvatar’s mind, readers will never be able to fully decode Tolkien’s work completely, according to how he may have wanted, no matter how much one reads of his letters/work. As shown by the extensive parenthetical questioning within this blog post, there are no answers, only further questions, and more room to play within Tolkien’s world. 

—JM

Citations

Tolkien, J.R.R. The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien. Houghton Mifflin, 1981.

But What Does That Mean?

    I left Tuesday’s class feeling quite stuck. Mind scrambled from a multitude of word paths, I looked to my notes to find a similar landscape. Thought after thought regarding the Ainur and their status of being, but no conclusion about what, to put it bluntly, is going on with them. While writing this reflection, I thought about what started this process, which was our human tendency to understand and prescribe meaning to everything, even when it is not there. Let me first make clear that I do not think “lack of meaning” is the reason the Ainur, and many other aspects of the LOTR universe, do not fit perfectly into theology. I do not think we are digging at nothing, even though that might be an easier conclusion to land on (and one I was tempted towards when reading Tolkien's Letter 153 to Peter Hastings). What I hope to accomplish in this post is an analysis of metaphor and allegory so as to have a frame to assist in confronting Tolkien's own allegory.

    What first drove me to this question of metaphor was Dorothy Sayers’s thinking in The Mind of the Maker, surrounding the need for metaphor in human language. Sayers explains that the only means we have to explain things is “in terms of other things” (Sayers 23). Drawing upon things, however, creates a complication as not everything perfectly matches what it is being used to describe. We struggled with this idea during class as we attempted to classify the Ainur as angels. From the power of creation to intelligence, we were always blocked from stating certainly that “yes, the Ainur are angels.” But does this make the comparison so unusable that we must dismiss it? Sayers confronts a similar problem, noting the grievances people take with explaining God in earthly terms, such as Maker or Father: “To complain that man measures God by his experience is a waste of time; man measures everything by his own experience; he has no other yardstick” (24). I take this as permission to continue with the use of our imperfect angel allegory because its flaws do not render it useless. We can still build off of our fuller understanding of angels in order to understand the new concept of Ainur. In this case, it feels okay to run with imperfection through a lack of clarity/depth. But what about when imperfection seems to come through contradiction? I think specifically of Tolkien's Letter 156, a draft to Robert Murray, where he explicitly calls Gandalf an angel (Tolkien 298). Well… we certainly know Gandalf is not an Ainur, so does this void our classification of Ainur with angels? It may feel like these two beings would have to be mutually exclusive, but this may not have to be the case. Sayers confronts a similar issue and explains that the components “of the world of imagination increase by a continuous and irreversible process, without any destruction or rearrangement of what went before” (29). This quote pertains to the example that Shakespeare did not have to destroy one work in order to create another, but I feel it can be applied to help remedy Tolkien's habit of contradictions. One explanation for allegory or writing choice does not mean the other is untrue; it just means that we have more information to clarify each statement with.

    While getting lost in Tolkien's cryptic descriptions during class, my mind drifted to another text featuring allegory and sometimes explanation. Of course, I am thinking of the Gospels, specifically the Synoptics, as John chooses not to call his allegorical tales parables, and he lacks the story that I want to bring into this conversation. In the Synoptics, the disciples ask Jesus why He speaks in confusing parables to the crowds but reserves the explanations for those close to Him. Quoting Mark, Jesus answers that He does this so that “they may be ever seeing but never perceiving, and ever hearing but never understanding; otherwise they might turn and be forgiven!” (NIV Mark 4:12). Jesus speaks of those who have hardened their hearts to God, not wanting them to seek forgiveness only after listening to Jesus. An undoubtedly confusing moment in which it appears that Jesus is withholding forgiveness from a certain group of people. I would like to begin with a focus on the first half of the quote, in which Jesus explains his motive in these parables is to create a lack of understanding for his listeners. It seems that something similar is happening in LOTR as Tolkien walks us down a road of allegory, yet no explanation. We must press further into his writings to discover an answer, and even then, we do not emerge with a clear interpretation. Is Tolkien trying to treat us like these sinners with hardened hearts? I think our initial motivation to discover the truth proves this is not the case. But what is?

    Explaining Beren and Thingol’s desire for the Silmaril, Shippey concludes this section of Chapter Seven by stating that “words overpower intentions. In any case, intentions are not always known to the intenders. This is the sense of ‘doom’ which Tolkien strives to create from oaths and curses and bargains, and from the interweaving of the fates of objects, people, and kingdoms” (Shippey 270). In such interweaving of words, it may be that Tolkien's intentions have been confused and crossed to the point of invisibility, or at least they are quite foggy. What this does not mean is that there is nothing to be found or that Tolkien meant to bar our understanding. Intentional or not, it is up to us to clear this fog and grasp what we can of the allegory so as to most fully understand what Tolkien has given to us.

—AHW