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.

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 Murrays, 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

“Tears Unnumbered Ye Shall Shed”: Subcreation, Free Will, the Fall, and Grief

At its core, the stories in The Silmarillion are Tolkien’s exploration of a prideful “desire to make things” (Shippey 273) through subcreation, free will, and the fall. Tolkien all but confirms this at the end of Letter 153, where he wrote:

“I might say that in my myth I have used ‘subcreation’ in a special way … to make visible and physical the effects of Sin or misused Free Will by men. Free Will is derivative, and is [therefore] only operative within provided circumstances; but in order that it may exist, it is necessary that the Author should guarantee it, whatever it betides … He gave special ‘sub-creative’ powers to certain of His highest created beings … Of course within limits, and of course subject to certain commands or prohibitions.” (Letters, pg. 290).

Beyond confirming the motivation behind the stories in The Silmarillion, this quote hints at what I believe to be the core theme of this part of The Silmarillion: the possibility for subcreation to become sin as a result of free will. Tolkien elucidates this most clearly as he discusses the Valar and Fëanor. Many of the Valar, alone or with others, engage in distinct acts of subcreation throughout The Silmarillion (putting aside the fact that all participated in the Ainulindalë). Varda forges the stars (both generally and specifically just before the awakening of the Elves). Yavanna subcreates the trees, beasts, the Ents and the Eagles (with Manwë, and with the Ents, Eru’s sanction), and the Two Trees (with Nienna). Aulë subcreates the many ores of Arda, the Two Lamps (with Varda) and the Dwarves (with Eru’s retroactive sanction). Together, the Valar fashion Valinor, the Pélori Mountains, and the city of Valimar after Melkor’s attack on Almaren. Melkor subcreates the Orcs, Wolves, Trolls, and Dragons. After Arda is made physical, Melkor and the rest of the Valar subcreate at cross purposes as they try to shape Arda into their respective desired forms. Fëanor, of course, subcreates the Silmarils and many things besides. This propensity for subcreation in and of itself shows its importance in Tolkien’s world.

However, three specific episodes of subcreation stand out from the rest: Aulë’s subcreation of the Dwarves, Fëanor’s subcreation of the Silmarils, and Melkor’s subcreation of the Orcs, as they delineate when, to Tolkien, a subcreative fall can occur. Aulë attempts to create (not subcreate) the Dwarves because he is impatient for the coming of the Children of Ilúvatar, and wants students to teach his crafts. After Aulë makes them, however, Ilúvatar reminds him that he cannot create independent life with its own free will; the Dwarves would live only when Aulë thought of them and otherwise be idle. From this, we can glean two ways in which subcreation can be criminal: if the subcreator attempts to usurp the role of the Creator, and/or if the subcreator creates beings but does not give them free will (either through coercion or lack of power to do so). Melkor’s “creation” of the Orcs by corrupting Avari Elves is similar to Aulë’s in both of those aspects (though Melkor denies the Orcs their existing free will as corrupted Elves, while Aulë is unable to give the Dwarves free will as he lacks the ability). Both let their “pride of making” drive them to intentional criminality. However, they differ in one critical respect: intention. Melkor subcreates the Orcs out of a desire for power and to dominate Middle-earth. Aulë, meanwhile, subcreated the Dwarves out of a desire to spread his arts; he explicitly tells Ilúvatar when confronted that he “did not desire … lordship” over the Dwarves (The Silmarillion 43). This, I think, is why Aulë can be redeemed while Melkor cannot: he had good intentions even though he did a bad thing. This lines up with Letter 153, where Tolkien says that “things [are] not necessarily evil, but … the nature and motives of the … masters” (Letters, pg. 284). So, it is intention that can make a redeemable action irredeemable, consigning the doer to a subcreative fall

In Fëanor, Tolkien exemplifies subcreative fall: he begins with the intentions of Aulë, but gradually becomes more and more akin to Melkor (through Melkor’s corruption), showing that even well-intentioned subcreators can fall. Young Fëanor is described as “work[ing] with delight, foreseeing no end to [his] labours,” showing he takes joy in his work, just as Aulë does (The Silmarillion 65). However, there are also seeds of “Melkor-intention” in Fëanor: he desired to “master minds” rather than to “understand” them, and was only restrained from doing so, from seeking domination rather than art, by his wife, Nerdanel (The Silmarillion 64). Melkor, as he seeks to sow distrust between the Valar and the Noldor, explicitly seeks to play on this trait (The Silmarillion 68). As a result of Melkor’s rumors, that seed of “Melkor-intention” starts to grow. Fëanor becomes increasingly prideful and possessive of the Silmarils: he wears them only at “great feasts” and keeps them locked away under guard at all other times (The Silmarillion 69). He permits only his father and sons to see them, depriving the rest of Valinor of their beauty. He forgets “that the light within them was not his own” – elevating himself from subcreator to Creator (The Silmarillion 69). The most important aspect of Melkor’s corruption, however, is that he tells the Noldor of weapons, and they begin forging “swords and axes and spears” (The Silmarillion 69). By introducing weapons to the Noldor, Melkor turns their subcreation from art into weapons of war and power. Noldorin subcreation then becomes fully Melkorian. Melkor causes a subcreative fall that precedes, and itself causes the actual fall of the Noldor: without swords, Fëanor could not have been exiled for threatening Fingolfin, and then everything plays out differently. Additionally, without swords, the Kinslaying of Alqualondë would not have happened. This is significant, as the Kinslaying is what caused the fall of the Noldor (not their departure from Valinor): Maglor calls his lament of Alqualondë “the Fall of the Noldor” (The Silmarillion 87). 

The Kinslaying at Alqualondë by Ted Nasmith

Of all the episodes of subcreation thus far in The Silmarillion, the only two in which this desire for power was present are Melkor’s and Fëanor’s. In every other episode, the subcreation is driven by desire for art or to protect others. In those episodes, none of the subcreators loses any of their power as a result of their subcreation. However, Fëanor and Melkor, who have experienced a subcreative fall, do. Included in the Prophecy of the North is the provision that: 

“those that endure in Middle-earth … shall grow weary of the world with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after” (The Silmarillion 88). 

The fulfillment of this Prophecy occurs just as predicted in The Lord of the Rings, when the Dominion of the Elves ends, the Elves either go West or fade into the forests, and the Dominion of Men begins. Similarly, of Melkor, we are told that: 

“as he grew in malice, and sent forth from himself the evil that he conceived in lies and creatures of wickedness, his might passed into them and was dispersed, and he himself became ever more bound to the earth” (The Silmarillion 101). 

As a result, it seems like there are consequences to a subcreative fall. Such a fall necessitates turning from art to power. It is therefore fitting that the consequence of a subcreative fall is the loss of power: what the doer sought, they lose. The sense I get, especially from the description of Melkor’s diminishment, is that this occurs because power requires coercion. Varda subcreates the stars, sets them in motion, and lets them be. Melkor, however, seeks to pervert Arda to his will specifically. So, he constantly has to expend his power keeping what he has already corrupted in its unnatural state. 

As Tolkien said in Letter 153, these subcreative falls can only happen because Ilúvatar has instituted free will, and “guarantee[s] it, whatever it betides” (Letters, pg. 290). These subcreative falls result in significant grief and suffering. However, as we know from the Ainulindalë, everything that occurs in Eä serves to increase its beauty. But how can grief be positive? Tolkien answers this question through the Vala Nienna, whose sole province is grief. Nienna mourns “every wound that Arda has suffered in the marring of Melkor,” but she does not “weep for herself” (The Silmarillion 28). Rather, her weeping, her grief is transformative: “those who hearken to her learn pity, and endurance in hope” and “she brings strength to the spirit and turns sorrow to wisdom” to those in Mandos (The Silmarillion 28). Nienna, then, transmutes suffering into wisdom, hope, and pity, all positive qualities. Nienna is counted among the Aratar, the High Ones of Arda, so Tolkien clearly felt that her role of grief-transmutation was essential. This is supported by the pivotal role Nienna plays at times. First, she weeps on Ezellohar before Yavanna’s subcreation of the Two Trees (The Silmarillion 38). Nienna’s grief-borne wisdom is thus made prerequisite to the reestablishment of light and the beginning of the Count of Time in Arda. Second, her tears wash away the stain of Ungoliant (The Silmarillion 79) from Ezellohar.  Meanwhile, Ungoliant’s Unlight was able to overcome Tulkas’s strength and Manwë’s sight. Nienna is therefore extremely powerful.

The sole named recipient of Nienna’s grief-borne wisdom we have is the Maia Olórin, whose “ways took him often to the house of Nienna,” where he learned “pity and patience” (The Silmarillion 31). Uncoincidentally, he is the “wisest of the Maiar” (The Silmarillion 30). Olórin, of course, is Gandalf. In Middle-earth, Olórin “was the friend of all the Children of Ilúvatar, and took pity on their sorrows; and those who listened to him awoke from despair and put away the imaginations of darkness” (The Silmarillion 31). Gandalf, then, is to the people of Middle-earth what Nienna is to those in the Halls of Mandos. Perhaps that is why Tolkien remarked that Gandalf was the only one of the Istari to complete their mission. Through Nienna, then, and through Gandalf her trainee, the grief and suffering arising from free will can be turned towards ends of beauty, cleansing, and wisdom. And so the beauty of Eä is increased.

- WRM

Music as Creative Force

    The Ainulindalë is Tolkien’s creation myth, told by the Valar to the Elves, and passed down by men to our time, published posthumously in the Silmarillion. As Tolkien continuous to craft a mythology for his own time and people, contiguous with the mythology he knew and loved, the story naturally parallels exactly the creation myth of the Bible. Tolkien takes the existing narrative of how the world came into being, and presses it through the filter of his extrapolation of this same mythology, through the game of telephone of the Valar and the Elves, to present a new version of what is essentially the same myth found in Genesis. There are two striking points of departure (elaboration?) from the account in Genesis, and these are the concept of sub-creation and the use of music. Sub-creation is detailed in previous posts. The participation of the Ainur in creation is more prevalent in Tolkien’s account, though its roots can certainly be found in Job, or even arguably in Genesis, with God’s “let us create.” The participation of the Ainur also comes from medieval Christian mythology, in which angels are understood to have been created first, and to have participated in the act of creation. The creation of the angels is also detailed in the book of Jubilees. The use of music strikes me in a particularly profound way. The trajectory of my undergraduate career is focused on music: what it is, how it affects us, and why it is so important. Tolkien situates music in mythology with a profoundly significant role: it is the tool and method of creation itself

    When any novice reads any of Tolkien’s work, the use of music is immediately relevant. At times it is even tedious. In The Lord of The Rings, or even The Hobbit, one can find lines of verse supposedly set to a tune that stretch on sometimes for pages. It is obvious that Tolkien finds music to be significant. In readingThe Lord of The Rings, there are many oddities like this which are not what a reader might expect. The genius of Tolkien is such that each one is justified and explained in his greater mythology. The explanation for the importance of music in Tolkien’s ancient world, of course, is found in the Ainulindalë. Music, in Tolkien’s mythology, is the language and method of creation. This has huge significance for Tolkien’s world. If creation is riddled with music, or indeed if music is the very fabric of creation itself, then the presence of music throughout Tolkien’s work is the characters reaching into a primeval language that pervades all of creation. In a real sense the world is made up of music. In singing, the characters participate in the creation. This also mirrors the idea of Tolkien’s sub-creation. To make music is to participate in creation in a significant way. It represents the act of creation itself, and creates something real. In the same way that Tolkien sees his writing as creating something “real” in a meaningful sense, by participation in God’s own creation, when the characters create music they are participating in the creation of the Ainur and creating something “real” in their music.

    Tolkien’s creation myth is inspired by the Christian creation myth, but also by medieval Christian mythology, in particular the idea of the music of the spheres and medieval angelology. In the middle ages the idea that the universe was one big instrument was very popular. The notion of the circular and rhythmic motion of the planets naturally led to the popular idea that the universe produced a music that could not be identified, but if all else was silent would be easily audible. This music was seen as an integral part of the world. It was the music of existence and of the universe. Thus the significance of music is drawn from the fact that all the world is an instrument and creates its own music, so the music is a participation in the vibration of the universe, and by extension of our souls. Essentially music is the resonant frequency of creation. It is obvious how Tolkien weaves this idea into his mythology, and this is the significant point of departure from the genesis account. Tolkien directly says that all of creation is a song, or a “theme” as it says in his text: a theme created by Ilúvatar but participated in by the Ainur. If all of creation is simply a song, and this creation is a song, then it makes sense that creation would continue to ring with this music. Beautiful music is in harmony with this “music of the spheres”, and there is music, such as the music of Melkor, which is not in harmony with this music. 

    Music is undoubtably a hugely powerful force, even today. Tolkien, in the Anulindalë, provides a fascinating explanation for why this is, in situating music is as the form and fabric of creation. But Tolkien is not inventing this idea, drawing the concepts from scripture, faith, and medieval mythology. But the real incredible work of Tolkien is in his synthesis, creating a new interpretation of existing material that is contiguous, consistent, and self contained, lining up seamlessly with existing mythology while also adding new depth. Tolkien’s work of a mythology for England is accomplished in his modern yet ancient interpretation of existing mythology. Even more significantly, he expands on mythology, weaving antiquated Christian thought into his own mythology. Tolkien’s creation and writing is a deep understanding of existing thought and mythology, in a true sense creating something very real out of what already exists, describing how he invented nothing, but received everything and only had to write what already existed.

—CO