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 describe 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

The Fallen World and the Fear of Monsters

Tolkien inhabits his world with many different monsters, all with the capability to easily end a person’s life. If this were the extent of the damage these monsters could cause, I think there would be at least some merit to Edmund Wilson’s claim that these creatures are not scary. However, I think Tolkien makes it clear that the true fear his monsters invoke is not merely that of physical harm but of something far deeper, namely the threat of the corruption of the soul.

Nearly every monster I can think of across Tolkien’s legendarium had their beginnings in corruption. Orcs, balrogs, Nazgul, dragons, and many more were all the direct result of Melkor’s corruption. In turn, many of these creatures seem to possess some ability of corruption in their stead. When Frodo and Sam follow Gollum into Shelob’s lair, we’re told that “they walked as it were in a black vapor wrought of veritable darkness itself that, as it was breathed, brought blindness not only to the eyes but to the mind, so that even the memory of colours and of forms and of any light faded out of thought. Night always had been, and always would be, and night was all” (LOTR, Book IV, Chapter IX). Just being in Shelob’s lair coats the mind in darkness, not just removing their ability to see light but even all memory of it in the first place; it’s a corruption of the mind, holding the potential to change the very way a person sees the world, to remove all hope or knowledge of good or joy in the world. That’s the brunt of the fear that Shelob invokes, the fact that she’s also a giant venomous spider being the icing on the cake.

We see this with the Nazgul too when they stab Frodo, the shard of the dagger lodging inside him, threatening to turn him into a wraith, to serve Sauron with no free will of his own. This threat is so advanced that the only thing that can save him is the healing of the elves. If it wasn’t for them, all hope would have been lost. What’s at stake is not just life or death in the physical sense but the spiritual as well, the danger of losing one’s own soul to this corruption, to be doomed past what the physical body can suffer. Even balrogs have a unique sway over people’s souls. When Gandalf attempts to magically seal a door shut in Moria, he notes that “the counter spell [from the balrog] was terrible. It nearly broke me.” (LOTR, Book 2, Chapter 5). Gandalf is not speaking of physical damage here but something more innate, a sorcery that counters his own to nearly break him on a deeper, spiritual level. Yes, not every creature displays such a power in Tolkien’s legendarium, but even if they don’t it remains a consistent theme nonetheless in their creation, and we see the effects of this kind of corruption among them. 

Sauron had put so much of his own will into the One Ring that it served as an extension of himself. We see this most fully when the ring is destroyed, immediately resulting in his own demise. As such, it seems that Tolkien meant for the ring to serve as an extension of Sauron’s will. Gollum, exposed to that ring for centuries, morphs into a creature that can’t even be considered a hobbit anymore. When we see him in the Lord of the Rings he’s a wicked creature, sickly and thin, who cares about nothing except for that ring. This is the danger of the ring and, by proxy, the danger that every monster presents, certainly in their origin and often in their ability, the danger that one’s own soul should be so corrupted that it would be unrecognizable, changed beyond repair. That danger is much more sobering than anything physical.

But what is the significance of this corruption? In Wilson’s critique, and many others, the idea of monsters is taken as a childish one, conjurations of the imagination that serve as nothing more than a means to scare children into behaving. They’re not real, and as such don’t deserve any real study or focus. Tolkien himself dispels this belief in the essay, “The Monsters and the Critics”, maintaining their importance to the story and our study of it. In the essay, he defends Grendel and the dragon as being fitting benchmarks for Beowulf to face, with Grendel being more human and the dragon more elemental. However, Tolkien appears to go beyond this framework in his own view of monsters with the frequent power of corruption they hold. The difference is the framework of sin and the fallen world that sin creates.

Writing with deep Catholic roots, Tolkien fills his world with the Luciferian Melkor, and it is through his corruption that nearly all of the world’s monsters can be traced back to. If Melkor is meant to embody Lucifer, as Tolkien makes clear in the Ainulindalë where Melkor's rebellion against Ilúvatar mirrors Lucifer's rebellion against God, then all of the corruption he inflicts on the world can be read as sin, twisting and changing the nature of different creatures away from what Iluvatar had intended for them. These monsters, then, are proof that Arda is fallen, that sin has entered the world. As such, the danger these monsters impose is that of sin, of bending the mind away from Ilúvatar, away from everything that is good and right within Tolkien’s legendarium. Shelob threatens to make her victim forget all light ever existed, the Nazgul corrupt the soul, the balrog threatens to break Gandalf’s will, and the One Ring succeeds in that endeavor in Gollum. All of these corruptions are a bending of will, a turning of the soul away from light and into the darkness of sin.

In Tolkien's essay, “On Fairy-Stories”, he notes that one of the primary uses of fairy stories is one of recovery, illuminating truths about our world that have been lost or obscured through overfamiliarization by depicting them in a new light. This is the purpose of these monsters, to illuminate the truth of sin Tolkien believes to exist in our world. Wilson critique engages these monsters only at their surface, namely their role as fiction. Monsters aren’t real, but monsters are sin, and that sin, to Tolkien, is very real, and should be feared.

-MC

Spiders, Slinkers & Stinkers

One might argue that Shelob is only comparable to other monsters because of her size: spiders are somewhat scary, but the level of fear they inspire is limited by their small size; in contrast, Shelob is an extremely large spider, so the fear she causes must just be that of a normal spider amplified by her size. I would venture against this opinion—I think Shelob’s size changes the monster’s and victim’s function. When we are afraid of a spider, part of that fear comes from its size: spiders are very hard to spot and one could be near you right now and you wouldn’t know. But Shelob’s size detracts from this part of the fear—Shelob cannot hide as easily or creep up on you without you noticing. 

However, size does matter when it comes to rationalizing this fear. If I see a small spider, I may be afraid, but I am also aware that I probably shouldn’t be afraid. Unless I am in Australia, the spider next to me probably does not contain a deadly amount of venom, and even if it bites me, it is likely no more than a short-term pain, and spider webs are nothing but an annoyance to me. I am more deadly to the spider than the spider is to me; even though I may be afraid, I know I will most likely be fine. This calming aspect doesn’t apply when we increase the size of the monster—since Shelob is very large, her venom is more dangerous to me, her webs are strong enough to catch me, and she is more than capable of eating me if she so chooses (which she would). 

Another aspect of the rationalization of fear is that the victim’s role (what would otherwise be the observer’s role) changes. It is possible that a small spider may try to bite me, but it is clear that I am not the intended typical victim—this would be a small bug, maybe even a smaller spider. To Shelob, Frodo and Sam are “small bugs,” meaning you shift the role of Shelob from a pest to a predator and, therefore, simultaneously shift the role of Frodo and Sam from annoyed or disturbed individuals to credible prey.

I think the reason why we would consider a Shelob a monster while we might not consider a scarier animal—maybe a lion—as such, instead only calling it a “beast,” is that a lion is not a mythological animal, it is simply a lion. But Shelob is not simply a spider, although she is described, among other characteristics, as a spider. In “Monster Culture (Seven Theses),” Jeffrey Jerome Cohen describes monsters as “disturbing hybrids” that do not fit into neat categories; they are somewhere between different known forms but are themselves unknown (6). Similarly, Douglass argues in Purity and Danger that transgressing boundaries destroys order and can potentially threaten danger (3), leading one to condemn, ignore, attack, or fear the transgressor (39-41). According to these views, we consider Shelob a monster because she transgresses the boundary of what it means to be a spider (i.e. she is too big to fit under our definition of a spider). Furthermore, Shelob disrupts the preexisting order: Frodo and Sam are no longer simply hobbits but are closer to Shelob’s bug prey. 

It seems to me that this is the same reason why Gollum is considered such an interesting monster and why he tends to make readers or observers so uneasy. Gollum acts in this same way, transgressing known boundaries: he is a hobbit, but we are not aware of him as a hobbit originally (in The Hobbit he is not described as a hobbit); we only learn this from Gandalf’s interrogation. One could argue Gollum transgresses the boundary of a hobbit by being unrecognizable as a hobbit, both physically and culturally—he likes eating his animal food raw. 

On the other hand, one could say Gollum is such a good monster because he transgresses the boundary of what it means to be a monster. On the one hand he is a figurative monster, using his powers for evil and being a generally vile creature.  At the same time, we naturally feel pity for Gollum. Sam divides Gollum into Slinker and Stinker, and while we do think of Stinker as a monster, we also think of Slinker as a hobbit—one could call Gollum part monster and part hobbit. Sam rightfully points out that Stinker becomes the dominant half on the way to Mordor, so it might be that we feel pity for the hobbit half. But it also could be that we feel pity for Gollum because he is not trying to be evil, he just wants the power—he is addicted to it—and on top of that he is not very good at using this power. Gollum has owned the “one ring to rule them all” and has simply been living in a cave, hidden from the world. The ring does not give Gollum any power but has been dampening his power since he found it. Gollum’s love for the ring is so strong that it ends up destroying the thing he loves most in the world (the ring) as well as himself. So, since we know Gollum is destroying himself just as much as he is destroying others, we cannot help but feel sorry for him.

But feeling bad for Gollum does not make him less of a monster, although it does encourage Frodo to let his guard down. While Gollum is powerless over the ring, he does have some self-control that the other monsters don’t possess, which allows him to control his actions so far as they increase his chances of obtaining the ring. This means Gollum does not typically attack—unlike the other monsters that we see—which makes it easier for the hobbits to somewhat trust him—have conversation with him, travel with him—even if they mistrust his intentions. That is, since Gollum is transgressing the boundary of what it means to be a hobbit, the other hobbits may still treat him as if he was more of a hobbit than he really is. Ultimately, this is Gollum’s greatest power, and therefore what makes him such a good monster.

-C.B.

Tolkien and Metaphysics

What I find far and away most intriguing about Tolkien’s treatment of Sauron is that he does not merely give the Dark Lord a name, but a voice—an utterance that is itself a kind of magic. In The Lord of the Rings the very sound of Sauron’s words can be felt in the marrow, a resonant echo that reaches even to the hidden halls of Dol Guldur. Yet this is only one strand of a richer tapestry in which Tolkien’s philological sensibility and his belief in the creative potency of names intertwine with a world that is capable of producing physical objects of power. The One Ring, the Palantíri, and the many swords forged by the Elves are not mere artefacts; they are embodiments of word‑power made manifest in matter. From this duality we can read an argument that words are more than labels, that the essence of beings in Tolkien’s universe is partible, and that such partibility invites us to reconsider the Aristotelian notion of actuality in light of a world where form can be reshaped by name and craft.

Tolkien saw names as linguistic scaffolding on which reality is understood and conceived, which his philological work cannot have but emphasized. In this sense Sauron’s voice, is not simply a narrative device but an operation that transfigures the world (literally, in many senses, as when the world darkens when his name is mentioned). The words, imbued with the very essence of his malice, become a conduit for fear and domination. The Sindarin, “Lammen Gorthaur,” make him quite literally the “Voice of the Abomination.”

This is not an end in itself. “The magic of Faërie is not an end in itself, its virtue is in its operations,” Tolkien reminds us. The power of Sauron’s voice lies not merely in the fact that it exists but in its effect: to corrupt, to manipulate, to command. The voice is a tool of sub‑creation that works in tandem with the physical objects he creates or controls. Thus, while Sauron’s words are a form of “magic,” they are an instrument whose purpose is to create (or, in some perverse sense, create by destroying).

But Tolkien’s world is not limited to the linguistic. He also created a material culture in which objects can hold power. The One Ring, forged by Sauron in the fires of Mount Doom, is a tangible manifestation of his will. It contains a portion of Sauron’s own power, an echo of his voice that is bound to the metal. The ring does not merely represent Sauron; it is a vessel through which his voice can be felt even when he is physically absent. The ring’s power to corrupt, to bind, and to dominate is a direct translation of the linguistic potency of Sauron’s name into a physical form.

Similarly, the Palantíri—those seeing-stones—are objects that allow communication across distances. They are not merely tools; they are conduits of influence, channeling the words and intentions of those who wield them. When Sauron looks into a Palantír, he is not merely seeing; he is speaking across the stone, his words becoming a force that can be felt by those who peer into it. Thus, the physical objects in Tolkien’s world are not passive; they are active participants in a network of word‑power.

If words can shape reality and objects can embody word‑power, then the essence of beings in Tolkien’s universe must be partible. In The Silmarillion we see that the Elves, though created by Eru Ilúvatar, possess a capacity for sub‑creation that allows them to shape their own destinies. The fact that Sauron can carve his voice into the One Ring, and that Frodo can wield the ring to influence others, suggests that essence is not a fixed, monolithic property but a malleable one. The very act of naming or crafting can alter the essence of an object or being.

Aristotle’s metaphysics distinguishes between ousia (essence) and hylē (matter). In a purely Aristotelian view, the essence of a thing is immutable; its actuality is merely the realization of that unchanging form. Yet Tolkien’s world suggests a different trajectory: essence can be reshaped by the application of words and craft. The One Ring’s essence is not purely that of a simple metal band; it is the essence of Sauron’s will, condensed and made tangible. The essence of a ring can be changed if the ring is destroyed or if its name is altered—think of the destruction of the One Ring, which severs Sauron’s link to his own essence.

This has interesting implications for the modification of actuality. In Aristotelian terms, actuality is the state in which potential becomes real. In Tolkien’s world, the potential for power within an object can be actualized through the act of naming or crafting. The ring’s potential to corrupt is actualized when Sauron’s voice imbues it; it is also diminished when the ring is destroyed. Thus, the Aristotelian chain of potentiality to actuality becomes a dynamic process that can be altered by linguistic and material intervention.

Tolkien’s treatment of Sauron offers a rich case study in the interplay between language, matter, and essence. The Dark Lord’s voice is a magical operation that does not exist in isolation but functions within a broader system of word‑power. The physical objects he creates—most notably the One Ring—are not merely artefacts but embodiments of that power, channels through which his voice can be felt even in his absence.

These observations invite us to reconsider the Aristotelian notion of actuality. In Tolkien’s universe, the essence of a creature or object is not immutable; it can be reshaped by name and craft. The process of sub‑creation—whether through the forging of a ring or the naming of a place—transforms potential into actuality in ways that Aristotle would have found both familiar and novel.

-NFH

Worship, Language, and the Liturgy

One of Tolkien's most stunning innovations seems to be his ability to create fairy in a manner which retains its alignment with christian theology while incorporating an understanding of the real mythos in the great works of English Heritage. It seems that for Tolkien Language exists as a form of a roadmap to an understanding of that which is holy. Language itself therefore becomes a format of subcreation. On this blog a post raises the question of whether “worship” in Tolkien's framework is evil due to the fact that the word is only used in negative contexts throughout the books. While the post continues in an analysis of Tolkien's concept of “following” which in some way demonstrates an alternative to “worship”. Furthermore this piece examines how true and noble reverence is illustrative of the key role of free will in subcreation. Thinking about this problem led me to think about Tolkien's naming of his gods and the power of language and names throughout Tolkien relative to the problem of what worship constitutes. In his project, Tolkien acts as a reverent sub-creator in naming and following preexistent lists of names that once within them held a story. Furthermore, in attempting to reconcile this problem with Tolkien's understanding of the reality of his stories which he insisted existed not only within the world as he created them but within the words which he drew from. Language is a consistently fluxing phenomenon and Tolkien understood it as such, however it also seems that for his universe, words possess a latent power and might themselves be considered worship.  

We might start with the fact that Tolkien's philology is by nature not secular, and it might be helpful to, in lacking an understanding of a field which has essentially died in the modern godless present by comparing it with new ideas regarding Language. Philology has been replaced by more critical methods of the analysis of language. In particular the emergence of a completely atheological understanding of the interconnectedness of words seems to have hints of Tolkien's understanding of subcreation, insofar as that linguistic relationships seems to very clearly be illustrative of the idea that names and words themselves contained multitudes and might only be understood by the way the weave together with others in a web of intricacies. Essentially this idea would fully legitimize the understanding presented by Tolkien that within words there are worlds which are both grounded and their own. However, to Tolkien the subcreation of these worlds themselves would be an act of divinity. Rather than a corruption and a twisting as is illustrated by the acts of Melkor, it instead acts as something holy and transcended. As such, the names themselves as presented in the Valquenta, have power and this is where Tolkien very clearly bifurcates from the more modern presentations of linguistic analysis insofar as he seemingly finds that certain points within language contain a divine richness. Even in the reverence with which names are dealt with in the stories convey this. The summoning of ages past and the communication of relationships are not the only thing that words hold for Tolkien, but these microcosms that modern theories mainly seek to analyze are present within Tolkien  “mr. frodo” is the easiest example. Furthermore Tolkien does much better as shows us a world contained in words, and his fascination with the naming of gods and that ephemeral sensation. Rather than attempting to logically and rationally explain such a phenomenon Tolkien attaches it to the material world through the divine.

The practice of saying names and the presence of songs is an essential component of not only Tolkien’s storytelling method, but also the manner in which the plot unfolds. The beauty of Sam's song stands tall in the tower of art, and also communicates what Tolkien's vision of worship might actually be. The liturgy here becomes useful. In essence the reason that the liturgy is such an important element of Christianity is that it is what retains and fuels the presence and faith of god. The action of reading and of song, are holy within this framing. The liturgy and act of language also intersect with Tolkien's project of the sub-creation of a mythology for England. The main manner in which christianity existed and persisted within the creation of England was through the continual recitation of the psalms and this core practice of Christianity. Language contains holiness and it is in this framework  that we can better understand what Tolkien sees as worship. The practice of subcreation through language exists in a striking parallel with the ideals of the bringing of Glory to God displayed within the early English mythos. Absent the images of a dying and martyred Christ, Anglo-Saxon iconography shows a noble Christ on the throne in glory and power adorned by the beauty of God's creations. In such a manner, Tolkien's worship is the practice of the power within those words, the act of song was a spiritual experience, and maybe the earliest one possible, the act of sub creation is that in echoing of the creative processes of beauty from their roots, unlike the theft of the lights, words function as paths and echoes of gods glory, and the worlds we make from that are as real as the transcendent nature of godliness itself. For Tolkien, speech itself becomes mighty words that have magic. How do we make stories and songs real? By telling them, guided by the path and practice of linguistic beauty.

—PR