Tolkien’s 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.            

 —NH

Sharing Silent Speech

Not super relevant to my post, but I thought this mural near my apartment looked similar to the illustrations of the Silmarils.

“The Palantíri could not themselves survey men’s minds, at unawares or unwilling, for the transference of thoughts depended on the wills of the user on either side, and thought (received as speech) was only transmittable by one stone to another in accord.” (Unfinished Tales of Númenor and Middle-earth, 411)

This is the final paragraph of Tolkien’s chapter on the Palantíri in the Unfinished Tales. The mention of “wills” sparked something in me, especially in relation to the discussion we had in class on Tuesday about whether the Palantíri were good or evil. Rereading this paragraph, I noticed that there was a footnote attached to it. A few pages later, I was reading Footnote 21, an elaboration by Tolkien on the nature of transferring thoughts via the Palantíri. It reads: “Two persons, each using a stone ‘in accord’ with the other, could converse, but not by sound, which the stones did not transmit. Looking one at the other they would exchange ‘thought’ – not their full or true thought, or their intentions, but ‘silent speech,’ the thoughts they wished to transmit (already formalized in linguistic form in their minds or actually spoken aloud), which would be received by their respondents and of course immediately transformed into ‘speech,’ and only reportable as such.” (Unfinished Tales, 415)

This footnote both illuminates the process of transferring thought via the Palantíri and muddies it. Jumping off the page is the oxymoron “silent speech,” which in its description seems more like thought because “silent speech” is not voiced. But Tolkien uses the term “silent speech” to differentiate this kind of communication from sharing thoughts, even writing that “silent speech” might have been spoken aloud before being communicated via the Palantíri. Silent speech is “already formalized in linguistic form in their minds or actually spoken aloud,” and so is differentiated from “full or true thought” which is not “formalized in linguistic form.” This characterizes silent speech as something more intentionally shaped (dare I say created) than thought. Where else do we see speech as a creative act? Well, Genesis.

This differentiation of silent speech from thought suggests that, in his description of the Palantíri, Tolkien figures the mind and its multitude of thoughts as a kind of nothingness out of which somethingness, or speech, arises. The mind, then, mimics the nothingness of the cosmos before creation, which Dorothy Sayers says only became nothingness when God spoke. “What I want to suggest is that Being (simply by being) creates Not-Being, not merely contemporaneously in the world of Space, but also in the whole extent of Time behind it…Or, to use the most familiar of all metaphors, ‘before’ light, there was neither light nor darkness; darkness is not darkness until light has made the concept of darkness possible” (Sayers 101). So thought is the darkness that is only darkness when the light of silent speech comes into being, and the Palantíri are the plain upon which silent speech is expressed. The instrumental role of the wills of each communicator then makes sense. Communicating through the Palantíri is only possible through an act of creation that establishes both being, the “silent speech,” and not-being, thought.

The Seven Palantíri - Art by Peter Pracownik, via tolkiengateway.net

            What nags is that this suggests that thought, as a kind of not-being, is evil, or has the potential to become evil. Even the suggestion that thought is a form of not-being bothers me, a frequent woolgatherer. My thoughts feel very much like “being” to me, even if I do not always verbalize them. This reminds me of what Sayers says about writers sharing their creations: “his creation is safe from the interference of other wills only as long as it remains in his head” (Sayers 104). Perhaps my thoughts are neutral objects inside my head, and only by sharing them do they gain the potential for good and evil.

This brings to my mind a quote from Virginia Woolf’s novel Orlando regarding the poet’s duty: “We must shape our words till they are the thinnest integument for our thoughts” (173). What a naïve and romantic thought, that a poet should craft their words to most accurately depict their thoughts! Throwing other important aspects of poetics aside, such as rhyme or meter, Woolf’s narrator takes the position that poetry’s value lies in how accurately it expresses thoughts. On the opposing side, we have the Palantíri, which appear as battlegrounds for two wills and what they wish to reveal and conceal (at least when we encounter them in The Lord of the Rings). Even our hardy hero, Aragorn, returns exhausted following his battle of wills with Sauron through the Orthanc stone. Like poetry, “secret speech” is a medium for conveying thoughts, but unlike poetry in Orlando, it seeks to conceal thoughts rather than reveal their full nature. I use the word “conceal” because that is how I envision the interaction between Aragorn and Sauron going. That said, I do not think that the secret speech is meant to conceal thought so much as it is meant to refine it. After all, who would want to reveal the entire messy contents of their mind to another (even if to spare the other person from all that disorganization)?

What increasingly emerges to me is the essential communal nature of secret speech, and the relationship between communality and good and evil. Secret speech is only necessary when one person wants to share something with another. This is also when artistic mediums like painting, writing, or music become necessary. Sayers writes that “we may redeem the Fall by a creative act” (107). In his writings about exchanging thoughts via the Palantíri, the value of the stones is not only in translating one’s disordered thoughts into secret speech, but also in sharing this secret speech with another. Sayers does not emphasize community too much in “Maker of All Things—Maker of Ill Things,” but I think it underlies this statement about the anti-Hamlets: “That is to say, it is possible to take its evil Power and turn it into active good. We can, for example, enjoy a good laugh at David Garrick” (106). Key here is the “we.” Collectively, we can laugh at David Garrick, and this turns the evil into a new form of Good. We can all detest the Amazon adaptation of The Lord of the Rings, but in discussing it with each other, we have made it Good. To further disrupt Amazon’s attempt to profit off Tolkien’s creation, we are doing so in a very low-tech way: in the classroom, and simultaneously persuading anyone who was thinking of watching it to avoid that at all costs. A clever transformation of evil indeed.

-ACB

My edition of Unfinished Tales of Númenor and Middle Earth is the following: 

Tolkien, J. R. R. Unfinished Tales of Númenor and Middle-earth. Edited by Christopher Tolkien. Houghton Mifflin, 1980. 

The Shadow with no Source

There is something that reading Augustine, Sayers, and the description of Numenor share that remains hard to articulate. The impression, after working through all three, is not simply that they are making the same argument but that they are making it defined by absence, by what is deliberately withheld, and by the theological weight that absence is made to carry.

Augustine's privation theory in Book 12 of the City of God shows that evil has no positive ontological status but is a deficiency, a falling away from being rather than a rival force. This is illustrated most precisely in Chapter 7, where seeking the cause of evil will is compared to trying to see darkness or hear silence. Darkness is known by the eye only where it ceases to see, and one does not encounter it as a thing but notices it through the failure of the faculty that requires light. Evil is structured identically: not something encountered but something registered through the absence of what ought to be present.

 

Sayers’ Hamlet analogy in Chapter VII of The Mind of the Maker explains something Augustine leaves underdeveloped; namely why passive privation becomes active depravity. When Shakespeare writes Hamlet, everything outside the poem acquires retroactively the character of exclusion, and the category of the wrong word does not exist before the right word is chosen. Not-Being, once a conscious will make it a centre of opposition, draws its power from the Being it negates, which is shown most clearly when Garrick rewrote Hamlet with good intentions and commercial success, producing a worse corruption than a malicious alteration would have, since the stronger the will behind a distortion the more power it draws back into contact with the original.

 

What both texts leave unresolved is whether the agent is culpable if the defection of will was constituted rather than caused. Augustine's two-men thought experiment argues that only the will itself can explain why one falls and the other does not, but a will whose defection has no efficient cause is also a will whose defection has no prior condition, and Sayers's Hamlet analogy sidesteps rather than answers this, since poems do not have free will and misquoters are not fallen creatures in the theological sense.

 

Ultimately, Tolkien combines both the doctrine and the tension in the Meneltarma. The sacred mountain is defined by absences so systematic they read as some form of theological argument: no building, no altar, no tool, no weapon, no word except the king's at three prescribed occasions. The silence on the summit, so profound that a stranger ignorant of all Numenorean history would not have dared to speak aloud, renders Augustine's darkness analogy in spatial form, where the sacred is felt through the complete withdrawal of everything that would ordinarily mark a place as significant. Sauron's temple introduces not a different religion but the wrong relationship to the same reality, what Augustine in Chapter 8 describes as inordinate love, and the will that places itself at the centre of worship rather than its object is precisely the Anti-Hamlet figure Sayers identifies, constituting itself through active opposition. 

 

Although Sayers argues that the act of recovery is structurally identical to the Incarnation, taking catastrophic material and transmuting it through creative interpretation into a new form of good, and Christopher Tolkien's work assembling fragments into continuity is this act at the philological level. Of all the great heirlooms of Numenor, only the Ring of Barahir survives, passed through the Lords of Andunie to Elendil and eventually to Aragorn. The fall is not undone, but something carried through the catastrophe and arrives in the Third Age still recognisable as what it was, just as the record itself exists against the avoidance of most survivors who refused to study Numenor because it bred only useless regret. 

- RS 

 

Temptation and Technology

         The Akallabeth narrative in The Silmarillion deals with classic mythological themes like fall, temptation, evil, and the fate of mankind. It seems to mirror the Fall from the Garden of Eden in Genesis 3. After reading it for the first time, I was tempted to simply conclude that the Númenóreans disobeyed the one, essential commandment not to sail westward in much the same fashion that Eve ate from the forbidden tree. However, I find that accounting—especially considering our discussion in class today—to be insufficient. Tolkien is offering a much broader meditation on the desire to escape death and the dangers of creation. He warns the modern reader to be wary of false promises and new technologies that claim to set us free from the shackles imposed on us by our own mortality. The Númenóreans drank from that particular poisoned chalice. 

            They darkened their own skies by hungering for “the undying city that they saw from afar, and the desire of everlasting life to escape from death.” (Silmarillion, 396). This is their downfall. Tolkien, through the tale of the Númenóreans, depicts a fallen world in which man has allowed evil to slip through his defenses. If they had only known their place, not bothered themselves with visions of power and glory, and certainly never set out on an adventure that would bring about their undoing, the Númenóreans would have enjoyed the fruits of paradise for their long and prosperous lives. Unfortunately, the human condition is to always shoot for a little more than we ought to, get completely out over our skis and spend the rest of our days trying to get back to the moment right before everything went sideways. Life is a journey back to the place from which we fell. We probably will never get there. But, in my opinion, Tolkien’s lost civilization of Númenór allows his readers to imagine a possible justification, an endpoint for the confusing project we call life. 

            The academics in The Notion Club Papers believe that Númenór is a real and accessible place. Lowdham attempts to provide a way for his fellow club members to get back to Númenór through the restoration of old myths and old tongues. As the narrative breaks off, Lowdham and his compatriots are preparing to embark on a journey through both time and language, bracing themselves for the difficulties that await them. It will be a long and treacherous journey. Nevertheless, it seems to all those involved a worthwhile endeavor. Reading The Notion Club Papers earlier this quarter, I was reminded of the late night, ambitious discussions I often have with my friends that seem fraught with danger and tend toward conclusions we did not anticipate. 

            In lecture today, we discussed the idea that these kinds of arguments and discussions often resemble journeys. An argument does have an endpoint—an ultimate resolution that both parties are aiming towards—but contains within it no guarantee that the participants of the argument will arrive at a destination. It’s easy to get sidetracked. It’s fairly common to hear someone refer to “the turns of the argument” or ask that certain points be made more clear for those listening. This understanding of what an argument is invites the interpretation that all arguments, and perhaps stories, lives, and many other such things, rest on a proper ordering of their component parts. Language enables this ordering, allowing us to describe different elements of our lives and imbue them with meaning. A shadow is but a shadow, unless we start enumerating its component parts. Then, by carefully selecting a few appropriate adjectives, we can turn it into an evil, sinister shadow—one that heralds approaching evil and the eternal destruction of mankind. Those few words are themselves instruments of creation, used to bring structure to something that otherwise would remain a shapeless, nameless blob…well actually that is just as much as an act of creation as describing it as evil is but I hope I am making myself clear. 

            All this is to say, language constrains us. Our capacity to describe and interpret our collective experiences is defined by our linguistic capabilities. This cuts two ways. Before taking this course, I might have concluded that these constraints somehow make language less important, deadening the mystical essence that defines our lives and allows us to appreciate fantasy stories. By simply describing something, we drag it through the mud of language and turn it into some disgusting, deformed thing–a laughable imitation of the original, indescribable experience. However, I now believe the opposite may be true. Language, when properly handled, can transport us into new worlds and open ourselves to new civilizations. Words and phrases are like containers, packed with meaning and history. After all, as we discussed in class, Hamlet is just a bunch of words and phrases strung together in a certain order. Yet, as most of us know, it is simultaneously so much more than that. Shakespeare brought those words and phrases to life. That is his creative act.

            Returning to a discussion of themes, I wish to conclude by emphasizing the role that Akallabeth plays in Tolkien’s project. This course has sharpened up my appreciation for the many layers present in Tolkien’s mythology. His work operates on several levels—imaginary, historical, and mythological—that are still relevant for all of us. In the Akallabeth, he engages with the eternal question of what happens when one tries to escape death. It is a cautionary tale. Tolkien is concerned about the growing power of technology and the ways in which it acts upon those who use it, molding and shaping their moral character. Sauron persuades the Númenóreans into committing human sacrifices by convincing them that they can achieve immortality if they only set aside most of their principles. People can do terrible things if they believe it will get them what they want. Tolkien does believe in Goodness but he allows for the possibility that man can be turned away from the path of righteousness. On the one hand, we can choose to exercise our Free Will in damaging ways. Like the Númenóreans, we can disobey sacred commands handed down from on high. Or, and I believe this is the far more informative lesson for today, we can be manipulated and led astray, often without our knowledge. 

            Marshall McLuhan famously argued that the medium is the message, that the information conveyed by some technology is secondary to the effect that it has on the user. He was writing as the introduction of television into the American home upended domestic life, creating a culture in which sitting around watching Gilligan's Island with Grandpa became a way—perhaps the way—to connect with one’s family. In other words, technology transforms how we interface with our world, changing our behavior. Tolkien’s Palantíri—or, for us moderns, our IPhones—crack open brand-new channels of communication, collapsing distances, allowing people to communicate with each other instantaneously, and placing all available information at our fingertips. I can find out, with just a few strokes on the keyboard, when and where Tom Petty was born. Does that make for a better world? Do I really need to know that? As Thoreau put it in Walden, we may be in “great haste to construct a magnetic telegraph from Maine to Texas; but Maine and Texas, it may be, have nothing important to communicate.” 

            - ES

The Gift of Death and The Envy of Life

Continuing with the comparison to the Catholic canon from our discussion of the Ainulindale, Akallabeth mirrors the fall of man described in Genesis 3.  This is fairly obvious with the prohibition of sailing to the west, the rejection of that prohibition, and the outcome of death because of failing to listen to the Valar, but there are some distinct differences that highlight the questions of why we die and why we would fall into evil if we live on paradise.Again, since Tolkien was trying to replicate the existing Christian myth in his own sub-creation, the differences must highlight truths instead of confusing them.    

Akallabeth, like Genesis, claims that Iluvatar gave the Numenoreans death, but unlike is Biblical counterpart, this happens before the fall.  The first description gives death a negative connotation,"But they did not thus escape from the doom of death that Iluvatar had set upon all mankind, and they were mortal still." Later on the same page, though, the narrator calls it, "the gift of death" denoting that death itself is positive in some way, especially since it occurs pre-fall.   

In Genesis 3, Adam and Eve seem to know about the concept of death since the Snake tempts them by saying they will not die but instead become like God, but it is unclear whether or not they have the ability to die in Eden. Death is not mentioned until God lists the punishment for Adam where the idea of returning to dust is in conjunction with working the fields. This line also seems to imply that Adam was mortal beforehand, but now he must do hard work until he dies. The one line which contradicts this reading is verse 22 where God claims, "The man has now become like one of us, knowing good and evil. He must not be allowed to reach out his hand and take also from the tree of life and eat, and live forever." This implies that Adam would have lived forever had he not fallen, but the Hebrew word translated as "forever" is le'olam, which can also be translated as "a long time". This would be consistent with the Akallabeth reading of man living a long time but never getting sick.  

The question of the fall becomes more interesting as Genesis and Akallabeth seem to diverge after this; In Genesis, Adam and Eve do not question the prohibition of the tree until tempted by the snake whereas in Akallabeth, the Numenoreans ask the Messengers themselves why they should not fear death before Sauron appears.  We had discussed in class that Sauron is more akin to a demon or devil worshipper than Lucifer himself, whereas Morgoth is the Lucifer stand-in for the Numenor and Middle-Earth.  Even though Sauron acts as the tempter, before he arrives we are told Morgoth had already "cast his shadow on the world". This fits well with the broader idea of temptation being a constant force and not necessarily a one-off event as represented in Genesis 3.  Perhaps Adam and Eve were always tempted and acted so quickly by the Snake's temptation because they had thought about this before. This would be tthe same level of escalation for the Numenoreans who we see questioning the Valar and then only taking action to sail west once Sauron arrives.

So the question still remains as to why? To answer this, we should characterize death more thoroughly. 

1. Even though death is a gift from Iluvatar, the Numenoreans do not see it that way.  They envy the Valar who do not die, and it is this comparison that makes them question.

2. The reason the Numenoreans envy the Valar for not dying is because they think by dying they are going in with "blind trust" and "knowing not what lies before us".  It is the fear of not knowing. 

These two things seem to make light of the possibilities of why one would fall from paradise.  First and foremost the unequal treatment strikes one as being unjust instead of diverse.  For this comparison I thought of Cain and Abel's story in Genesis 4 rather than Genesis 3. Because God had praised Abel's gift and not Cain's this jealousy led to Cain murdering Abel. This idea of envy leading to murder is a consistent theme which we see in Feanor's story of the Silmarils as well as the story of the ring, particularly Gollum's story.  You could almost read Cain and Abel as an alternative fall story as it isn't until Cain kills is he sent out from the land, another sinking of Numenor.   

All of this is backed by the idea of the envy coming from a lack of understanding and a wanting of information. In Eden, Adam and Eve wanted knowledge to be like God, the Numenoreans wanted knowledge to be like the Valar, and Cain wanted to be like his brother Abel. This particular envy is the envy to be something other than oneself, the envy of being another. It's wasn't just wanting to know, but wanting to be.  It is against the harmony of creation, and if anything, it is the clearest example of what the discord of creation looks like. I was struggling to figure out exactly what discord looked like, but this idea of envying the being of another seems to somewhat fit.  

The Akallabeth notes, "But for all this, death did not depart from the land, rather it came sooner and more often".  

It is not that death was the issue, as death was an essential part of mortal being, but an agonizing death. But the Numenoreans and those in Eden did not understand this. 

I'm not sure if it fully answers the question we left hanging at the end of class, but this idea of envying the essence of another and wanting to become that, to deny your own creation, seems to be on some track given Tolkien's myth and Genesis.

-Gabby Bayness

The manipulation of the Numenoreans

This journey we have taken so far in class has led us to many discussions regarding the method behind Tolkien’s writings, his motivations, and how Tolkien’s stories spin a new tale of mythology, fate, beauty, and free will. But in Tuesday's class we had an opportunity to discuss the origins and beginnings of evil in Tolkien’s universe. This discussion of evil and striving towards the light centered around the Elves and how they navigated Tolkien’s world. 

In these stories the Elves can be seen navigating through the darkness and towards the light. The Eldar, or the group of elves who decided to embark on this immense journey to possibly reach Valinor represent a group of people who are seeking the light. An interesting discussion and stance can be taken on these Elves representing those who are seeking enlightenment. The question therein lies, what is this enlightenment? What are they truly seeking? Could it possibly be that these Elves were turning their back on darkness and evil and attempting to find the goodness in the world that Tolkien had created. 

It is said that some of the Elves that embarked on this journey after the capture of Melkor never made it to the land of immortality, instead they stayed behind in middle earth and are the elves we come to later interact with and know in the Lord of the Rings stories. These elves get coined as dark elves, whereas the elves that completed the journey towards the light are known as the elves of the light. Commonly, but not in all cases, the dark elves that stayed behind are portrayed as having dark hair, and the elves that completed the journey to Valinor are seen with having perfectly white hair. 

These elves, with their stunning white hair, are said to be wise beyond their years. Having reached the light at the end of the journey they not only received immortality but they received the greatest gift of all which is knowledge. This knowledge is something that was their greatest advantage and set them apart the most from those who were mortal and left in darkness. This idea of them getting enlightened is metaphorically portrayed through the description of their transition. But it gets cemented symbolically through seeing the light of the trees. Once they see the light of the trees they transcend into beings that are fully enlightened. 

This creates an interesting dynamic between the valor and the mortals who inhibit middle earth. The most intriguing discussion we had in class was whether or not the valor should be envied by mortal men. For we know that the valor have amassed immense knowledge and have been fully enlightened, but these same valor who have grown up surrounded by the light of the trees also experience no knowledge of death or morality to begin with. So, they end up having things and abilities that mere mortals do not, but are also completely unaware of what is truly the main motivating factor of mortal life, which is death. 

It is through this encounter that the jealousy of the mortal elvish descendants, or Numenoreans, begins. Knowing that they cannot live forever, and knowing that they have direct ancestors who have received this great gift of immortality, it is clear to see how jealousy arose. Even though they were given a life that lasted much longer than that of an average mortal man, and also were blessed with incredible height, strength, and fighting prowess, there was still this idea that there were those who were immortal, and they were being excluded from this group. The Numenoreans were the most powerful inhabitants of middle earth. They dominated man for centuries, and were feared by all, even Sauron at one point. But, as the story goes they fell to the deceit of Sauron, who told them of Melkor and promised them everlasting life, something they had been previously denied. Sauron, the true embodiment of evil thus took over and began not only leading these people, but he became worshiped. 

This leads perfectly into the discussion held around the source and power of evil. Sauron represents evil because he is the embodiment of someone who would purposefully corrupt and marr that which is good in the world. Sauron’s greed and lust for power led him to completely dominate the will of others. He was able to be this all controlling figure, influencing every decision of the Numenoreans is a perfect representation of evil at work in middle earth. Sauron exerted all of his force, manipulation, and power onto others and got them to do his will. 

So, with Sauron representing all that is evil in this world, he convinced the Numenoreans to disobey their godlike figure. This was wittily represented by the Babycandian diagram we were shown. Sauron got the Numenoreans to think like the baby in the diagram, challenging the validity of the Valor. It was this line of thinking that led them to the attempt to destroy the Valar. But obviously the Valar prevailed and destroyed the Numenoreans and also Sauron, sending him back to middle earth where he would begin work again to try and overtake the mortal world. So, Sauron represents this true and pure form of evil. The ability for one to completely control and use another for their own benefit or gain is what true evil is. 

TJG

I Love it When a Plan Comes Together

The choices of master Ar-Pharazôn drive his civilization into destruction by evoking the heavy hand of God. Tolkien writes, “Ar-Pharazôn hardened his heart, and he went abroad his might ship” (Akallabêth). And with that hardening, because of that fateful exercise of free will, the Numenorean fleet seems to become destined to break the ban of the Valar. And it becomes ever more clear that Ar-Pharazôn’s personal decision is what comes to rule the fate, or doom, of the Numenorans, as Tolkien makes this explicit when the fleet reaches the shores of Valinor. As the fleet comes within view of the holy shores and Ar-Pharazôn gazes upon their sacredness, Tolkien seems to say that even now they could still withdraw and the Numenorans be sealed. The fate of Numenor was never written. It is dependent entirely upon what Ar-Pharazôn decides as he approaches the white shores under a swift sunrise. As Tolkien describes it, “doom hung by a thread,” the thread of choice (Akallabêth). Had Ar-Pharazôn decided to turn back in that moment, perhaps his civilization would have survived. Indeed, this was almost the case, “For Ar-Pharazôn wavered at the end, and almost he turned back. His heart misgave him when he looked upon the soundless shores […]. But pride was now his master.” (Akallabêth). And instead, Ar-Pharazôn decided to step upon the holy land and declare it for his own. And thus, the thread was cut, and the doom of his people sealed by his decision. “Ilúvatar showed forth his power, and he changed the fashion of the world” (Akallabêth) 

It seems the reason for one man’s decisions having such an agency, as to draw forth the hand of Eru, is because of the gift Ilúvatar bestowed to Men in their creation: “They should have a virtue to shape their life, amid the powers and chances of the world, beyond the Music of the Ainur, which is as fate to all things else” (Silmarillion). Unique among the beings of the world, Men are not bound by the fate cemented in the Music. They have the power to “shape their life” outside the determination of the Music in a way none else can. This, coupled with the Valar granting Men such power and majesty in the Numenorans, seems to create a situation where Men can live so untethered to the Music, that, if they feel so emboldened and so chose, they may challenge the Music itself. That must be what draws Eru’s intervention, that these Men were no longer living beyond the Music, but about to actively disrupt it. 

At the same time, it seems difficult to say whether or not all that was part of the divine plan of Eru or if he interceded to ensure his divine plan remained secure because Men had the potential to disrupt it so. It seems Eru himself would not need to intervene, to change “the fashion of the world” unless it were the latter— that Men’s free will was so powerful that Ilúvatar himself needed to step in to make sure his grander design survived (Akallabêth).  

Another time we see such direct intervention from Eru is before the Music had been sung, before the fate of the world and all those except Men had been cemented. It seems here, before fate was written, Melkor— whom the Numenoreans interestingly title, “the Giver of Freedom”— may have expressed the foreshadowing of free-will, which would have been exclusive to this point of non-time and explains why Eru would not directly intervene later even given all the wanton destruction Melkor would sow across the world, as that would all be part of the Music. There, before the beginning, as the children of Ilúvatar sang in harmony, in accord, “It came into the heart of Melkor to interweave matters of his own imagining that were not in accord with the theme of Ilúvatar; for he sought therein to increase the power and glory of the part assigned to himself” (Ainulindalë). Eru begins to react to this much like the world does to the choices of the Numenoreans, as “about his throne there was a raging storm” (Ainulindalë). Melkor continues to attempt to assert himself and disrupt the Music with his own, but it “seemed that it’s most triumphant notes were taken by the other and woven into its solemn pattern” (Ainulindalë). Indeed, in response to the “discord of Melkor” whose music had “little harmony,” the harmony of the other Ainur is completely disrupted, and Eru himself intervenes twice (Ainulindalë). Finally, in response to these attempts at usurpation, Eru delivers the third and final theme before he declares, “And thou, Melkor, shalt see that no theme may be played that hath not its uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite. For he that attempteth this shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful, which he himself hath not imagined. […] And thou, Melkor wilt discover all the secret thoughts of thy mind, and wilt perceive that they are but a part of the whole and tributary to its glory” (Ainulindalë).

Indeed, it seems both the attempt by Melkor and Ar-Pharazôn are sourced in the same vanity. “Sauron spoke to the King, saying his strength was now so great that he might think to have his will in all things, and be subject to no command or ban” and so Ar-Pharazôn was emboldened enough to assert himself as, “King of Kings, […] to whom only Manwë alone can be compared, if even he” and to try to assert his will over the will of the Valar (Akallabêth). Likewise, Melkor attempted to assert himself over the other Valar and Eru for he “wished himself to have subjects and servants, and to be called Lord, and to be master over other wills” (Ainulindalë). In the midst of both cases, a great storm emerges, in the one case around the throne of Eru and the other over Numenor. Moreover, Eru’s rebuke to Melkor is repeated by him when he creates Men. First we have, “Ilúvatar knew that Men, being set amid the turmoil of the powers of the world, would stray often, and would not use their gifts in harmony” (Silmarillion). By stating Men would fail to use their gifts in harmony, that immediately recalls to mind the “discord of Melkor” whose music had “little harmony” and disrupted the harmony of the others, just as Men would disrupt the playing of the Music for all others. Ilúvatar continues directly into, “These too in their time shall find that all that they do redounds at the end only to the glory of my work,” which is only a different phrasing of his original rebuke to Melkor stated above (Silmarillion). 

These direct parallels and connections seem almost too explicit and poignant to ignore. Reading Tolkien, it is often our job to not believe in coincidences. While we know, “the Children of Ilúvatar were conceived by him alone; […] and none of the Ainur had part in their making,” we also know “they came with the third theme, and were not in the theme which Ilúvatar had propounded at the beginning” (Ainulindalë). It seems there could be a reason the “Elves believe that Men are often a grief to Manwë” (Silmarillion). There could be a reason Eru marks the creation of Men with the same words he used to rebuke Melkor. “For it seems to the Elves that Men resemble Melkor most of all the Ainur” (Ainulindalë). Men are one of Ilúvatar’s own compositions, but their creation only comes about after and in response to Melkor’s rebellions and sowing of discord in the Music. Perhaps Men are the product of Melkor’s actions being made “tributary” to Eru’s thought and glory. His attempt at asserting himself proved the instrument in making things more wonderful because that is Eru’s instrument and inspiration in making Men. That is not to say Melkor played any role in creating men, as we know none of the Ainur did, moreover, Ilúvatar told Melkor that he could not even imagine the wonderful things Eru would make because of Melkor’s attempts. We also know Melkor “has ever feared and hated [Men]” (Silmarillion). Perhaps the reason for this fear and hatred is because he sees in them the power he so sought from before the dawn of time made, they can work beyond the Music even Melkor is now enslaved to, and they are Eru’s rebuke made manifest. He saw in them what he wanted to have. At the very least, there are far too many coincidences between Men and Melkor and they should be discussed.

Originally I took the rebuke of Melkor and Eru’s comment at the creation of Men to mean there is no act of evil so great that it will not be made to beautify creation in the end, for “oft evil will shall evil mar” (LotR, bk. 3, ch. 11). While that remains true, it also seems clear that one or two acts of free will are so outrageous that they require Eru’s direct contestation to secure the sanctity of his divine will and plan. Eru tells Melkor none can “alter the music in my despite,” which is why it seems clear that to elicit the response from Eru that they did, the Numenoreans must have been on the verge of altering the music (Ainulindalë). Fate—the Music—cannot be changed by any Elf, nor by Melkor himself after the Music has been sung. But Men can alter it, and if emboldened and empowered enough, Ilúvatar himself may need to step in to correct the path of Eä and ensure his divine will is carried out.

Interestingly, we also know, “Nor was all foretold in the Music of the Ainur,” which leaves room for Men to live and move about beyond the constraints of the Music (Silmarillion). But in order for Eru to need to intervene, he must certainly have a divine plan that, while not foretold, Men could still disrupt with their free will. We learned that in the after days, in the time after the Music of Creation has all been sung, that “A greater still shall be made before Ilúvatar by the choirs of the Ainur and the Children of Ilúvatar after the end of days. Then the themes of Ilúvatar shall be played aright, and take Being in the moment of their utterance, for all shall then understand fully his intent in their part” (Ainulindalë). This first Music was not quite right. Or if it was perfect, then the next will somehow be more perfect. Everyone shall understand their part by the end because Eru will make his will known. The story he wanted to tell will be revealed and so everyone will be able to see how their decisions fed into his will. And where the first Music of the Ainur was but a “foreshadowing,” this second Music will “take Being in the moment” it is uttered, perhaps as this Music will be made perfected by the corrections of Men working beyond the Music in unison with the bowling bumpers like role Eru plays in guiding them (Ainulindalë). Men are free to correct the world, but have the power to undo the plan entirely if Eru does not take on this bowling ”bumpers” role. So Men are free, but maybe only so long as they are fulfilling or at least not actively undoing Eru’s will, which will require the hand of Ilúvatar to put them back on track, as we found in the Akallabêth. As free as Man may be, none “can alter the music in [Eru’s] despite” (Ainulindalë, emphasis added). In the end, only one thing is certain: “There are other forces at work in this world Frodo, besides the will of evil. […] And that is an encouraging thought” (LotR, bk.1, ch.2). 

~Tom B(ombadil)

Be Not Afraid

J. R. R. Tolkien was a devout Catholic and his faith framed many of his worldviews. It is through this distinct Catholic prism that he sub-created the epic world of Arda and subsequently, shared it with readers across the globe . In the “The Downfall of Númenór'', Tolkien takes on  man’s deepest fears and uses more biblical themes than in many other stories contained in the Legendarium. The Downfall of Númenór can be mistakenly viewed as an allegory of the downfall of man, as portrayed in the story of Adam and Eve in the book of Genesis. However, this narrow interpretation does not do justice to the nuance of Tolkein’s storytelling. The Downfall of Númenór calls to mind not one, but many biblical references, and even includes secular works, such as the story of the city of Atlantis by Plato. Indeed, the beauty of The Downfall of Númenór is that it reveals universal truths about humanity and man’s fear of death, that transcend any one religion, worldview, or period of time.  

The Númenóreans were descended from the Edain who fought alongside the Elves and Valar against Morgoth during the first age. Morgoth opposed Eru Ilúvatar, the omniscient omnipotent creator of Arda. When the last battle was won, the Valar rewarded the Edain by giving them the beautiful Island of Númenór. Númenór was West of Middle-Earth. It was the closest human civilization to the Undying Lands and separated from the chaos and despair of Middle-Earth. The Númenóreans, in reward for their fight against Morgoth, were given gifts, skills, extended life-spans, and of course, the Island of Númenór. The Númenóreans, having fought beside the Elves, had a special relationship with them for many years. In fact, the first King of Númenór, Elros Tar-Minyatur, was Half-elven. 

Unfortunately, as time went by, the Númenorians became jealous of the Elves' immortality. Both Elves and Man were created by the Ilúvatar and are called “the children of Ilúvatar”. To each race Ilúvatar gave a gift. To Elves he gave immortality and to men mortality. The spirits of the Elves were bound to the world but the spirits of Men could depart from it. Even though the Númenóreans received prolonged life spans compared to other men, the Númenóreans remained unsatisfied. In “The Downfall of Númenór, it is said that the Kings of Númenór eventually resented their ancestor for deciding to live as Man. In Tolkien’s world, immortality is understood, but mortality is not. Morgoth used this uncertainty to breed corruption and fear during the last years of Númenór. After the influence of Morgoth and his servant, Sauron, the Númenóreans, now fearful of mortality, rejected Ilúvatar and began to worship Morgoth. 

In the book of Genesis, Adam and Eve, were given paradise in the Garden of Eden. God gave Adam and Eve one rule in the Garden of Eden: do not eat the forbidden fruit. They were obedient for a time, but eventually, the Devil in the form of a serpent, told them the great lie, that they could become like God if they ate the forbidden fruit. Eve and then Adam, were tempted and ate the fruit. They did not become like God, but worse still, they severed their relationship with God forever. This was the downfall of man. Similarly, the Númenóreans wanted the ability to be immortal. They wanted to be like the Elves and Valar. They also desired to be divine-like, never appreciating the gift of mortality. Instead, they allowed themselves to be manipulated by Sauron just as Adam and Eve were manipulated by the serpent. 

The bible recounts multiple stories where the Israelites, God’s chosen people, turned away from God and rejected Him. A famous example is during Exodus. While Moses went up to Mount Sinai, the Israelites waiting for him in the desert began to doubt that they would ever reach The Promised Land. It is during this time that they melted gold, crafting a golden calf that they began to worship, in clear disobedience to the first commandment of God, “I am the Lord thy God, thou shalt not have any strange gods before Me.” They rejected God and showed their ingratitude for their deliverance from slavery in Egypt. Similarly, the Númenóreans, Ilúvatar’s ‘chosen people’, did not appreciate the blessings that the Valar gave them - the beautiful Island of Númenór, their extended life spans, and the various gifts and skills with which they were blessed. 

In the Genesis story of Noah’s Ark, when men turned toward sin, Noah and his family are spared from the great flood on Earth because of their trust and love for God. When the Númenóreans tried to achieve immortality by sailing West, the Island of Númenór was swallowed up in the Ocean and all the Númenóreans perished, except those who were faithful to Ilúvatar. 

“The Downfall of Númenór” also uses themes from the story of Babylon in Genesis. In the story of Babylon men erected yet another substitute for God, the Tower of Babel, which was  so tall it could reach the heavens. Their desire to reach heaven was yet another sign of man’s desire to be God-like. This angered God, so he caused all the people to begin speaking different languages, impeding their ability to complete the tower because they could no longer understand each other. Similarly, the Númenóreans desired to be Ilúvatar-like and their Island was swallowed up into the Ocean causing them to perish. 

Many aspects of “The Downfall of Númenór” have biblical themes, but Tolkien also used ideas from Plato’s classic story about the city of Atlantis. In this story, the people of Atlantis were a great naval power, who over time, declined in morality, and were consequently swallowed up into the Atlantic Ocean. Similarly,  the Númenóreas were a great Island of Naval power who were swallowed up by the Ocean when they declined in ethics and turned toward Morgoth. Some parts of the story of Númenór are entirely original. Tolkien’s distinct prose is especially captured in the intricate detail in which he describes life on Númenór in “The Drowning of Anadûne”, “A Description of the Island of Númenór,” and “The Fall of Númenór,” HME 5. 

The Downfall of Númenór is not an allegory for any specific story. Instead, Tolkien wrote a mythological metaphor that references many classic stories and draws universal themes about the most profound and existential questions of man. The Downfall of Númenór is steeped in the unique world Tolkien sub-created and is rich with truths about humanity. As Tolkien writes in Mythopoeia, Myth is truth, “Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light through whom is splintered from a single White to many hues, and endlessly combined in living shapes that move from mind to mind.” Tolkien’s world, “The Downfall of  Númenór”, and myths in general, are not just as C.S. Lewis said, "breathing a lie through silver," but rather, they are real and true to us now. Mythopoeia refers to the creative human author as "the little maker", who is using the light of Christ’s creation to sub-create and share with other humans. In essence Tolkien is saying sub-creation is a legitimate Creation within God's primary Creation.

As humans we are inherently flawed and we desire to be God-like because we fear death. Death is unknown and terrifying and the sower of fear is the Devil. One of the most important truths revealed in the story is how fear or acceptance of human mortality affects us. The fear-driven Númenóreans who could not accept their mortality, rejected Ilúvatar, and ended up destroying themselves. It is no coincidence that the primary and most powerful moral of Tolkien’s "The Downfall of Númenór" is also the most repeated phrase in the Bible: “Be not afraid.”   

~Evita

What does the ‘Gift’ of Man do for Tolkien's mythology?

Eru Iluvatar gives a ‘gift’ to mankind, that of mortality. And Verilyn Flieger tells us in Splintered Light, earlier drafts of Tolkien’s “Music of Ainur”, Eru paired a specific task with his gift: “but to Men I will appoint a task and give a great gift.” We know that this version was eventually reduced simply ‘a gift’, and the explicit mention of the 'task' was omitted. Flieger goes on to assert that “unlike a payment or an exchange, a gift carries with it no obligation and has no strings attached.” (130) 

For Flieger, the indeterminateness of the term ‘gift’ is a tool deployed by Tolkien to remind readers that they are equally as in the dark about the fate (and purpose) of this mythological world as our own. However here I disagree with Flieger’s reading of the term ‘gift’ as an explicitly non-contractual and obligation-less concept. I draw specifically on Marcel Mauss’s sociological work The Gift (1925). 

In this text, Mauss seeks to create a foundational social theory of reciprocity and gift exchange. The main assertion of his work is that a gift is never free--the gift given is always associated with the giver: “the objects are never completely separated from the men who exchange them.” To this end, Mauss also posits that gift-receivers then enter “gift-debt”, a debt which can only be repaid by a reciprocal exchange. The two parties are thus connected socially by a reciprocal dependence. 

Using this framework, we can interpret Eru’s gift as in fact the first part of an explicitly contractual exchange, one with an anticipated return. The ‘return’ on a gift is also unique--it is not a commodifiable or monetary exchange, but rather a personal and spiritual one, an exchange befitting of the relationship between the Creator and his works. Yet if a reciprocal gift is due to Eru, a question arises: can Eru’s creation give back a gift of ‘equivalent value’ to life itself? Indeed, is this not outside of the powers of those created? Moreover, is it perhaps over proud to assume that Eru, God-Creator, is in any way dependent on his creations? 

To think through this, I draw on one more Maussian concept, the total prestation. At its core, the total prestation is about the exchange of gifts between groups rather than individuals. Equally as obligatory, total prestations also extend to rituals and even military assistance. An example in Tolkien’s mythos might be the Valar creating Numenor (Land of Gift) as a payment of the gift-debt to the First Men for their assistance in defeating Morgoth. But if this exchange is between creations, what of the ‘gift’ given by the Creator? 

The ritual component of the total prestation is interesting here. In both the “Akallabeth” and the “Drowning of Anadune” scant reference is made to the rituals associated with Eru Iluvatar (this in fact seems to be a theme throughout the Legendarium). However, we do know of three annual ceremonies led by the King, and of the ritual of silence which stands in perpetua when atop the sacred mountain of Meneltarma. These duties, besides the promise not to sail west toward the Undying Lands, seem to be the primary obligations of the Numenorians to Eru. 

With the coming of Sauron, we know these already scant ritual practices come to a complete stop, culminating with Ar-Pharazon’s construction of the pagan temple to Melkor. If the “gift-debt” to Eru could be reciprocated through the total prestation of ritual and martial deeds, then is not the ultimate folly, the spiritual faux pas, of Numenor its turn away from the ceremonies of Iluvatar? I wonder then if in fact Ar-Pharazon’s prideful sail to Valinor was simply the icing on the cake. The socio-spiritual contract of the ‘gift’ had already been broken when the Numenorians chose to stop fulfilling their ritual obligation to Iluvatar, and thus their fate was sealed. 

Returning to Splintered Light’s analysis of the ‘gift’ of Men, it seems that Flieger is suggesting that the idea of ‘the task’ and ‘the gift’ remain tacitly connected in the mythos, even if not textually. It would follow then that in Flieger’s conception, the ‘gift-debt’ of Man would be reciprocated by Man’s singular role in bringing the world to fruition. Yet since Tolkien chooses to omit this connection explicitly, I wonder if he instead wants us to ponder another possible ‘return-gift’, that of ritual obligation. Indeed, is the notion of unquestioning faith and devotion to God not close to the Christian conception of mankind’s debt to the Creator? By redacting the explicit ‘fate’ in Man’s relationship to Iluvatar and Creation, and replacing it with the spiritual obligations of 'the gift' alone, Tolkien brings his legend a bit closer to the original myth of Christianity.

-Paris Bezanis

Envy and Perversion

Tolkien’s story of the Numenoreans and their downfall demonstrates how power and perversion can become intertwined one with the other. For Tolkien, the land often defines the people. Numenor, the land of the Numenoreans, was a land of plenty, giving the Numenoreans a place to be ever satisfied by its fertile fields, lush forests, and bountiful coasts from which they could build a lasting and stable society, a sort of utopia in a sense. The Numenoreans were given the gift of long, but limited, life by Eru and the gift of Numenor so long as they obeyed the one rule of never setting sail for the Undying Lands in the West. Once the Numenoreans had established their control and founded a great civilization on the shores of their blessed island, they began to move east across the sea and explore all lands accessible to them. Their power grew and their accomplishments were beyond measure and all expectations. Because of Eru’s favor, these seafaring people became the masters of all that they set their eyes upon. These circumstances led the people of Numenor to amass fantastic power, rivalling that of the elves, Eru’s first born. Was the magnitude of this power out of harmony with Eru’s natural order and thus the antecedent of their inevitable downfall?

I would argue that the Numenorean’s voyage West to the Undying Lands was inevitable, not by the fault of Eru’s gift, but by growing jealousy that the Numenoreans harbored for the unlimited lifespan of the Eldar. The grandeur of the civilization they had created led to the cycle of hubris that plagued the later generations of the Numenoreans, and in their arrogance, closed themselves off from even those they once admired, the Eldar. Rather than the heroes the Numenoreans once aspired to emulate, the elves became hated as they served as a constant reminder of man’s one limitation, their exclusion from the undying lands and their inevitable death. Although the majority of Numenoreans became convinced of their worthiness to live an eternal life and remain on Aman forever, this was a perversion of the natural order of things and clearly went against the wishes and will of Eru. Even as Ar-Pharazon fell for Sauron’s cunning words and promises and began to aid in the sacrificing of Elendili at the bottom of Meneltarma’s slopes, the peak itself still remained pure and void of the evil down below. The gift of life that Eru bestowed upon the proud Numenoreans was becoming even further perverted as a tool to worship the darkness and further distance oneself from Eru. However, Eru’s song still continued at the peak where even Sauron dared not to tamper with the greatest symbol of Eru on the island. Despite this constant reminder of Eru’s power and presence, the Numenoreans failed to acknowledge this power, and through their pride decided to side with someone like Sauron in the hopes of even conquering the Valar. Even before the final voyage of those Numenoreans who sided with Sauron, Sauron was able to persuade Ar-Pharazon to uproot the White Tree, the symbol of the line of Kings and their loyalty to Eru. I almost do not blame the Numenoreans for their blatant defiance of Eru. Though eternal life was Eru’s to give, the natural order must be maintained and in the song of creation man was sung into existence with a limited lifespan. So, like Aule whose envious creation of the Dwarves would necessitate their being put to sleep to restore the harmony of creation, so too would Eru have to put to sleep his initially pure creation. These once pure notes had become corrupted and threatened the harmony of the creation song. But unlike the sons of Aule, there would be no later awakening for the Numenoreans as they were complicit and blameworthy in their own perversion.

Earlier I admitted that I almost do not blame the Numenoreans. This might sound quite childish, but if I found out that some of my friends were able to live forever, and I could not, I would become pretty jealous of their seeming immortality. It wouldn’t matter to me if someone said that my death is a gift because I get to escape this world, I would see that almost as more of a reason to seek out eternal life for myself. Without knowing what lies for me beyond this life, I would want to have the assurance and concrete knowledge of being able to remain on this world and have some security of what lies ahead for me. Now I know that this may lead some people to say that my willpower is weak, and I am inclined to agree with you. I don’t think I would last as one of the Elendili for much longer than a month, especially now that I know what would await me during the reign of Ar-Pharazon. Therefore, even though I do not agree with the decision made by the majority of the Numenoreans to seek out the Undying Lands, I understand why they made their decision because if given the choice between accepting my own fate to simply die, or given the opportunity to possibly change this outcome and live just as the Eldar do, I am not sure which choice I would make.

-AS

Maybe To Be or Defiantly Not To Be: Why the Númenóreans were ‘Smart’ to Break the Ban

In the famous Soliloquy of Hamlet, Hamlet ponders whether or not to commit suicide. He knows that his current life is terrible, but ultimately shies away from death because it is the unknown. Ar-Pharazôn was given a similar but crucially different choice. He lacked certainty in either case. He could be faithful and be certain of death, but then what? He, like Hamlet, does not know "what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil"(Hamlet III, 1). In the words of Tar-Ciryatan submission to death requires "a blind trust, and a hope without assurance" (The Silmarillion, 317). Ar-Pharazôn has the option of 'not to be' through being faithful, but can he choose 'to be'. This is where the situation changes because according to Sauron he can.

Sauron, the greatest advisor to Ar-Pharazôn, claims that there is a way to achieve eternal life. Sauron's main argument is that the land of Valinor will give the king and his people the gift of enteral life. It makes sense. The people who don't die, the elves and the Valar, live in Valinor. Furthermore, look at Ëarendil, the forefather of Ar-Pharazôn. He was part human, went to Valinor and has immortality, it seems as if there is a perfect example of what Sauron is saying to be true. The rebuttal is not strong, Ëarendil "was adjudged to the Firstborn who die not"(The Silmarillion, 316). Adjudged by who? Eru? The Valar? Either way, the mysterious unseen gods who, according to Sauron, are hoarding the eternal life in Valinor. The only mortal known to have reached the land of the undying is given eternal life and is kept from returning. It seems pretty suspicious that the only outside opinion is kept away and can't come back to the land of the mortals.

So what is the counter argument? That the Valar are good and truthful, so we should trust them. Why are they good? One option is that they are, well, the gods. The gods sort of define good and evil. If the highest god says this is good, then it is. Another option is that they are kind, they gave us (the Númenóreans) a virtual paradise. They aided in the overthrow of Morgoth and his armies... who were mostly men. Oh, wait, that seems strange. We are following the same gods who are in the likeness of the undying elves against the god who closely resembles men. The gods of the elves helped a small portion of men to overthrow the god of man. All of a sudden everything seems backwards, did our forefathers pick the wrong side? Then after helping these gods fight against our own kin we a generously given land as far away as possible from other men, while still being (mostly) out of sight of Valinor. Did the Valar want us to be close to them or far from our kin? Furthermore, this land of gift is so nice and perfect one would wonder why someone would ever want to leave. Maybe, this is such a paradise because the Valar didn't want us to leave. By staying on this small island the race of man is kept separate, which would be awfully nice if the Valar wanted to ensure that our people didn't get too friendly with the other men and find out how we chose the wrong side. But we do have longer life, that is defiantly one good thing the Valar gave us. Long life only benefits us and has no outside benefits to the elves or Valar. Is the theory broken there is one good gift. How do we know it is a gift? Where does this long life come from? We are told it is because the Valar gave it to us. We had short lives then we helped the Valar and received long life. It seems one-to-one. But this is not all that has changed we have fallen into the ceteris paribus fallacy. Long life has also come to our people after living in Númenor. After being closer to the undying lands our lifespan has increased. Furthermore, those who live in the undying lands have even longer life. It is entirely possible that the reason for our long life is not a gift of the Valar but a result of where we live (This is actually the reason for the Númenórians long life in Tolkien's first draft of the fall (The Lost Road and Other Writings "The Fall of Númenor"), so this theory is not far from the truth). So the Valar might not have given us any gifts but they are still the gods, they define good and evil.

The fallback argument is that the Valar are good because they are the gods and the gods define good and evil. This seems fair, the gods made everything else they can make good and evil. Yet, it was not the Valar who made the world, they said it was someone else, Eru. This Eru has never been seen. Of the gods that have been seen on earth the most powerful is Morgoth, not any of the Valar. Sauron calls Eru a phantom devised to trick men (The Silmarillion, 325). He points out that Eru commands only what the Valar do (The Silmarillion, 325). The true God seems to be a puppet of the Valar. Eru might not exist and if so then the highest god is Morgoth, all the Valar even admits he is the best of them. The Valar might not be good because they are gods, Morgoth might be good because he is the highest god. Good and evil are flipped.

If you can't disprove the message, maybe you can invalidate the messenger. The one who is saying all this is Sauron, like the bad (evil can be contested) one. Sauron called himself king of men and attempted to destroy Númenor (The Silmarillion, 323). This advisor who is starting the conspiracy theory has not had our best interest at heart in the past. There is no argument, Sauron did bad things in the past but time has changed. Look at what has happened since. Sauron humbled himself and became a vassal of the king. Furthermore, Sauron has revealed much of his knowledge to the Númenórians (The Silmarillion, 325). He could easily not reveal knowledge, pretend as if he didn't know anything new. Sauron did reveal his knowledge to the Númenóreans, so he willingly helped them. In addition, though sacrificing to Morgoth has not cured death it had increased their wealth, or it seemed that way to them (The Silmarillion, 328). Sauron seems reformed. He helped increase the prosperity of Númenor giving his knowledge freely and showing them the ways of Morgoth.

Speaking of Morgoth, there is possibly another way to achieve enteral life if it turns out that Valinor doesn't bestow eternal life. There is also a chance that by dispatching the Valar would free Morgoth and once freed he could below eternal life of the Númenóreans (The Lost Road and Other Writings "The Fall of Númenor"). This is part of the argument of Sauron in the early versions of the tale, though not repeated in the published Akallabêth. Nonetheless, this is not an impossible concept in the modern version. The Númenóreans were worshiping Morgoth for eternal life and knew that the Valar had locked him away. It is not too much of a stretch to think that after defeating the Valar the Númenóreans could free Morgoth and then Morgoth would have the power to reward them. Even as an unspoken theory it is a possibility just in case the Valar weren't lying about the life-giving properties of Valinor. Even if they were, Morgoth could bestow a different gift so the success would be more sweet.

My point is not that Sauron was correct, he clearly wasn't (we know how the story ends). My argument is that his story is believable. In the backdrop of this argument which was likely better presented by Sauron who was known to be charismatic (how else did he ascend so quickly to head advisor). Ar-Pharazôn has a choice: he can be faithful to the Valar and live out the rest of his days and die, or he can heed the council of Sauron and attack the Valar. The first choice is certain death. The attack on the Valar is the chance at life. He might fail. The Valar could have the strength well beyond the rest of earth and repel his assault. Also, it could be true that Sauron has been lying and so Ar-Pharazôn's victory or defeat would be in vain. Then again, he might succeed. All of Sauron's arguments are logical and are quite possibly true. The Númenórians are at their highest point and easily outmatch the rest of middle-earth, so how much stronger can the Valar be?

The odds don't really matter, what matters is there is a chance at eternal life. This is Pascal's wager. If the outcomes are infinite good versus finite pain. No matter what the odds are, so long as there is a finite chance for success, the expected value is always positive (i.e. you should take the bet). Think about it, if you could roll a dice and on a six you win a trillion dollars (practically infinite) or on any other number lose a hundred, you should take the bet if you have the hundred to spend. Now lower the odds say you had a 1 in a 100 chance of winning, the prize still vastly outweighs the cost. I argue that with the information Ar-Pharazôn had, there was a very credible chance that Sauron was right, whether it was one in six or one in a hundred, he still had a viable chance of being right. Eternal life is the prize. The cost is the few years left in Ar-Pharazôn's life that could be lost if he died trying. The prize was eternal life to live many many more years than that which he would lose. Ar-Pharazôn didn't need to be convinced that the Valar defiantly were tricking him, he only needed to be convicted that there was a decent chance that the Valar had tricked him. Sauron's argument definitely provided him that chance. As such, Ar-Pharazôn made the correct bet. He threw the dice and it turned out he lost, but that doesn't make it a bad bet or the wrong choice.

- John Hopper

Sources:
Hamlet, Shakespeare (any edition)
The Silarillion, J.R.R. Tolkien. 2nd Edition
The Lost Road and Other Writings (HME 5), J.R.R. Tolkien