The Allure of Elves, Or, How Love of Love

            Upon my first watch of The Fellowship of the Ring, I found myself drawn by Arwen, Galadriel, Legolas, and even low-opacity Elrond, as funny as that might sound. Elves with their ethereal glow drew me in, and in other fantasy media, elves are my go-to favorite characters when they are present (i.e. Astarion from Baldur’s Gate 3). Samwise Gamgee and I share the same enthusiasm for the Elves of lore, with us both being enchanted by the tales that we both have heard, heard by the former and seen by the latter. It truly is something that is quite odd, for in older tales, Elves are presented as some sort of mischievous creatures and not the image of serenity we think of usually in more modern media (except for Christmas media, of course, but we shan’t brush upon that in this post). So I began to wonder what really drew people like me to really like the Elves of Middle-Earth. So, using Tolkien’s own letters and the day’s lecture (plus some of my own tidbits of knowledge), I set out to find out. 

One of the key points that I came across over and over again is the nature of love and its connection to the Elves. That did not surprise me. I have seen many fans in online spaces fawn over the romance of Arwen and Aragorn, with the most notable aspect of their romance in these spaces being that Arwen gave up her immortality to be with Aragorn, her love. Arwen, upon becoming Queen of the Reunited Kingdom, gives Frodo her place on the ship to Valinor. Though this sacrifice seems like a fairytale at first, there is the “bitter and the sweet”, as Arwen described her (and Lúthien’s) sacrifice of leaving her Elven family and forging a new one with the addition of human death. Arwen and Aragorn have a happy marriage, with many children, a peaceful kingdom, and each other. When Aragron passes, she travels to Lórien and passes of a broken heart in the place where they first fell in love. Imagine the pain of heartbreak extended over millenia, where Arwen would have to endure such tragic loss and be unable to join Aragorn

Tolkien himself writes about his Lúthien and his Arwen, his wife Edith. As we have discussed, the love between them withstood much turbulence to persevere. The tale, though written as a somewhat cautionary tale, cannot help but ooze with the love he holds for his wife. He describes his tough decision: choosing between “...disobeying and grieving (or deceiving) a guardian who had been a father to me, more than most real fathers, but without any obligation, and ‘dropping’ the love-affair until I was 21” (Letters no. 43), with the addition of not regretting waiting until he was 21, but stating that it did personally affect him very much being away from Edith. Despite him being away from his future wife, the love he had for her withstood separation and the many trials he undertook on the path of their relationship. She, as Tolkien described, could have gone off many married someone else, but they found and chose each other even after years of separation, her sacrificing her prospects for his self-described “moderate degree” and "dwindling pounds” and even the chance of her becoming a widow for love and family. Such a choice seems romantic yet tragic, much like Arwen’s and Lúthien’s; it is one that could have gone another way had certain events happened, yet both Tolkien’s choice of love and Edith’s choice of love withstood trials, and it came out victorious. 

Then I thought about vampires. I think about vampires a lot, actually. Vampires, much like Elves, are so otherworldly that I cannot be helped but to be drawn to them. Louis du Point du Lac says it best in Anne Rice’s novel Interview with the Vampire:

“Do you think us beautiful, magical, our white skin, our fierce eyes? Oh, I remember perfectly what mortal vision was, the dimness of it, and how the vampire’s beauty burned through that veil, so powerfully alluring, so utterly deceiving!” (Rice 261).

This quote, which comes towards the end of the novel, is meant to dissuade a character from becoming a vampire, to which Louis attempts to contrast the nature of the vampire by saying that all that glitters is not gold. The immortal and beautiful vampires shoulder the burden of not being human, and living such long lives oftentimes alone, plagued with many tragedies. Louis speaks from a place of humanity, where he wants to preserve the little he has and the life of another, for his choice plagued him even after the events of the story.

Now, I know you’re wondering, thinking “God, Nicole, how does Interview with the Vampire fit into a discussion on the Elves of Middle-Earth?” 

Well, to that I say that immortality in both the worlds of Middle-Earth and in multiple vampire media (Anne Rice’s in particular) are essentially two sides of the same coin. Part of the reason I like vampire media so much is the issue of mortality, and the curse of eternal living. I find the mortality aspect of the immortal fascinating; those who still bear mortal issues oftentime feel miserably trapped by immortality. Louis du Point du Lac retains his “mortal nature” through the unwillingness to let his human side go; he loves, which is enough for him to stay grounded in life despite being dead. When he loses the people he loves most, all of that humanness that he kept was lost, and he was left to shoulder the burden of eternal life with no one to share it with. Louis cannot “un-become” a vampire. His curse is immortal life, and the only way to lift is to die, which is what he sought in the first place. The opposite side of the coin is the Elves, where they are able to relinquish their burden of prolonged life for… death! It is a strange paradox for Elves as compared to vampires and creatures. The more I thought about it, though, the more it made sense to me as to why I liked both creatures. 

The issue of humanity is essentially the same. Elves are aspects of the humane, where they express a “devoted love for the physical world” as Tolkien says in Letter 181. Even so, their immortality allows them to watch, caring from afar while shouldering the care. In another letter, Tolkien describes it so:

“The Elves were sufficiently longeval to be called by Man 'immortal'. But they were not unageing or unwearying. Their own tradition was that they were confined to the limits of this world (in space and time), even if they died, and would continue in some form to exist in it until 'the end of the world'. But what 'the end of the world' portended for it or for themselves they did not know(though they no doubt had theories). Neither had they of course any special information concerning what 'death' portended for Men. They believed that it meant 'liberation from the circles of the world', and was in that respect to them enviable. And they would point out to Men who envied them that a dread of ultimate loss, though it may be indefinitely remote, is not necessarily the easier to bear if it is in the end ineluctably certain : a burden may become heavier the longer it is borne.” (Letters no. 245)” 

    The burden can only be lifted through such a human thing like death. 

I am drawn to vampires mainly due to their connection to humanity. Oftentimes, the expression of love, whether it be the last remnants of humanity or showcases of lust through the mechanizations of vampirism. It is why I really like Interview with the Vampire, for the struggle for humanity and the lament of losing it was paramount, and that drew me in. Conversely, it is also why I was drawn to the Arwen and the Elves. The sacrifices they are willing to make for their loved ones shows more humanity than anything. Sacrificing one’s eternal life for love made for such a compelling yet heartbreaking tale that I would not have helped to be drawn. Love is one of the things that makes humans truly human; Christian doctrine (at least, the part that I went over in another class) even dictates that love comes from God, and the love that God gives proves His Creation. Love is a human response, and to love is to be human.

—NPM

Love and Loss, or the Life of a Wraith

The idea that death was a wound has always seemed obvious to me. I have been fortunate enough not to have lost many people who are close to me, but the ones I have lost so far have hurt deeply. While the “Gift of Eru Illuvatar” sounds like a gift on paper, experiencing it does not make it feel much like a gift. When reading the Athrabeth, Finrod’s arguments sounded noble and high minded, but Andreth’s arguments made a lot of sense to me as a human. As a human, loss is certain, and that feels far more like a curse than a gift. With my disposition towards death being bad, I am captivated by the stories of Beren and Luthien and Aragorn and Arwen. From my negative view on death I can’t imagine what kind of strength of love would have Arwen and Luthien trade endless life for the certainty of loss and a grave. Finrod explains it from the Elves’ view, that immortality may not in fact be all positives, an immortal being with just a fëa (spirit) and no hröa (body) is a fate worse than death, as one remains bound to Arda. However, I still struggle to understand how the type of endless life that the Elves possess and knowing you will see your family and loved ones again, even with its drawbacks, can be a worse bond than the certainty of grief that Andreth faces.

It really stuck with me in class when it was said that, “She traded endless twilight for the brightness of one mortal lifetime filled with love, laughter, scraped knees, bedtime stories, and the wild, irreplaceable joy of watching her child grow.” Neither the marriages of Beren and Luthien or Aragorn and Arwen are “happy ever afters,” they both involved bitterness and loss. The story of Aragorn and Arwen is especially sad as Arwen dies alone in the now abandoned forests of Lorien. As she says during the tale “As wicked fools I scorned them, but I pity them at last. For if this is indeed, as the Eldar say, the gift of the One to Men, it is bitter to receive." (Appendix A, Part I) Finrod can speak of it as a gift, for he will never have to face the loss, which Arwen understands now is why Humans speak of it as a curse, yet she knew it was a certainty when she made her choice and chose it all the same. 

This is where Letter 43 enters the picture. On the surface it may come off as a grumpy letter about the failings of love and the inherent limitations of the genders, but going under that I think it is cutting to the core of what marriage is. As humans we are going to die, getting married is guaranteeing yourself or your partner an immense amount of pain in death, and yet choosing to get married anyway. Choosing not to get married would save you some pain, but it would be like choosing not to interact with the world. With that logic we could try and forgo all bonds of relationships with others to escape pain, but then we would be like wraiths. Not interacting would be the worst of both worlds, one would be like a wraith described by Finrod as a fate worse than death, but then still dying anyway. It would be like receiving that one day of a human life time and choosing to waste it. In today’s world that could look like refusing to make friends because friends can leave or refusing to fall in love because it will inevitably cause pain. The point is not that these refusals fail to save us from pain, to some extent they might, but they will also prevent us from experiencing the things that would make the pain worth bearing. As Haldir states in the Fellowship of the Ring “and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.” (Book 2, Chapter 6) I am beginning to wrap my head around the fact that maybe loss is what makes love so special. When Edith died, Tolkien wrote Luthien on her grave and when he died, Beren was inscribed under his name on the tombstone. The entire story of The Lord of the Rings is only possible because of the very marriage between Beren and Luthien. The descendants that result from Luthien trading that eternal twilight for one human day and a child, with all of the joy and sadness attached, play key roles in Sauron’s defeat. 

Towards the end of the Athrabeth, after Andreth argues that maybe Eru is a far off king letting princes do as they will, Finrod speaks of something stranger: the Creator entering into Arda and healing it from within. Over the course of the discussion they have logically arrived at the idea of the Incarnation. In Christianity, God does take a body, a hröa, as Jesus Christ and allows it to be destroyed on the cross. If death is a wound, it is something that God entered his own creation to share with us. If Jesus dies with us, then death must somehow be a gift. That's a part of the class that I am still processing, and the idea of death still scares me and I suspect it will for a long time, but maybe Finrod is right, and death is what makes life meaningful. Wouldn't a single day that changes be more meaningful than an eternal, never changing twilight?

—EN

Old Hope: Re-enchantment in a Disenchanted World?

“Elves and Men are just different aspects of the Humane,” Tolkien noted in Letter 181. That is to say, he did not construct and depict Elves and Men as two separate and independent species. Rather, in Middle-earth, Tolkien was observing and portraying two different modes of human existence.

“Death” functions as the anchor where these two modes of being both meet and diverge. Mortal Men are doomed to die, while Elvish “immortality” is not truly eternal life. Elves will also perish eventually, but only with the end of Arda. Death for them is so distant as to become almost unimaginable, producing a mode of existence that ostensibly resembles infinity. Their distinct modes of being yield two radically different psychologies, in which Men and Elves experience history differently, approach Eru differently, and ultimately participate in Arda differently. More importantly, both of these worldviews can still be found within modern humanity itself. Tolkien’s construction of Men and Elves is therefore not escapist mythology, but a genuine reflection — even a prophetic reflection — of real-world human existential conditions.

At the turn of the millennium, philosopher Susan Buck-Morss argued that the central project of the twentieth century had been “the construction of mass utopia.” The crisis of modernity was the collapse of traditional authority — religion, monarchy, transcendence itself. In response, humanity attempted to construct dreamworlds of its own.

For a moment, it seemed as if we had succeeded. Not because our dreams had been fulfilled, but because we once again believed that history possessed meaning, direction, and destiny. History had its subject — not one guaranteed by God, but one discovered and justified by humanity itself: technological progress, revolution, liberation, communism (even fascism, in the case of the Third Reich). The world remained enchanted because it still appeared intelligible, and because we believed ourselves to be progressing toward a future already visible on the horizon.

In both premodern religious societies and the ideological dreamworlds of the twentieth century, one finds a profound sense of confidence, and even passion (fanaticism, in its extreme forms).Where one knows that the world is unfolding toward a clear future—or simply that it is unfolding at all, rather than stagnating or repeating itself—there is little room for weariness.

“There is no weariness in the eyes of the Elves” (“Athrabeth” 316).  The Elves, in many ways, resemble this enchanted condition. In the Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth, Andreth’s anxiety and despair stand in stark contrast to Finrod’s almost instinctive certainty. Finrod possesses an unwavering trust in Eru and in the coherence of His Creation. Everything belongs within the design of the One. Even death, for the Elves, ultimately remains part of a meaningful cosmic order.

This is the crucial point: although Elves will eventually perish with Arda, they never truly experience death as existential anguish. Death remains comprehensible, integrated into the structure of the world. Moreover, the death of the Elves comes with the death of the world itself. They are never burdened with confronting the terror of an unknown world (or afterlife of soul) continuing without them.

Men, however, are different. As Andreth says: “we have no certainty, no knowledge” (“Athrabeth”311), Men are perpetually haunted by uncertainty because death may arrive at any moment. They cannot rehearse or prepare for its arrival, nor can they fully conceptualize what lies beyond it.

If Elves embody a state of enchantment, then Men embody disenchantment. They no longer possess confidence in the intelligibility of the world. In its place emerge frustration, melancholy, and radical skepticism. And this condition feels profoundly reflective of our own age.

After the collapse of the twentieth century’s dreamworlds since WW2 and Cold War, humanity was once again thrown into a vacuum of authority and meaning. We no longer believe that history necessarily progresses toward a utopian redemption - we have even begun to distrust the very idea of progress itself. We have lost our dreams, and in many cases, we have even become exhausted by the very act of dreaming itself. Suddenly Andreth’s questions no longer sound mythological — they sound exactly contemporary:

Are we the Children of the One?
Are we not cast off finally?
Or were we ever so?
Is not the Nameless the Lord of the World? (“Athrabeth” 320)

While the Elves are still speaking of Eru, Estel, and divine Creation, Men have begun to suspect that the foundation of these may already be broken. This is what makes Tolkien’s portrayal of Men astonishingly prescient. Writing within the twentieth century — an age still filled with ideological passion and historical confidence — Tolkien had already begun imagining the spiritual condition of the twenty-first: life in a disenchanted world.

Yet Tolkien does not simply advocate a return to enchantment, and this becomes clearest in the “Old Hope” of Men.

According to Andreth, some believe that Eru himself will enter into Arda and heal the Marring of Melkor from within history itself. Since Melkor’s corruption is structural and permanently woven into the fabric of the world, Arda cannot save itself through its own internal logic. Redemption must come from outside — from the foreign, the transcendent. Here, again, Tolkien redirects us to Men, the Guests of Arda, who remain perpetually disenchanted yet still long for re-enchantment, precisely because they belong somewhere beyond (transcends) the world they inhabit.

Yet the truly remarkable moment comes from Finrod. For the first time, the Elf who had previously spoken with complete certainty begins to hesitate. His language changes — he begins to say “maybe,” “I guess,” “I propound,” and so forth. He does not abandon faith in Eru’s design, but he comes to realize that perhaps the design is not something static and completed, but something gradually unfolding: Eru’s plan may not operate like a finished blueprint, and Arda itself may still be in the process of becoming.

Tolkien moves away from deterministic futurism altogether. As the Ainulindalë declares, “in every age there come forth things that are new and have no foretelling, for they do not proceed from the past.” Even Men, the Second Children, emerge as something unforeseen, beyond the vision of the Valar. And perhaps this is Tolkien’s deepest warning against modern ideological enchantment. Having witnessed the catastrophes of the twentieth century, Tolkien understood how easily attempts to restore absolute meaning, historical certainty, and collective destiny can harden into totalizing ideologies.

Thus Tolkien does not offer re-enchantment in the traditional sense. He does not secure and restore to us a stable “subject of history.” Instead, he leaves us with something more fragile, but perhaps also more humane: the possibility that meaning emerges not from certainty about history’s predetermined destination, but from our openness to becoming itself — a condition of perpetual unfolding and transcendence. In a disenchanted world, what we require is not renewed faith in a fixed historical destiny, but faith in humanity’s capacity to continue participating in an unfinished world.

- YC

Work Cited:

Tolkien, J. R. R. “Ainulindalë.” The Silmarillion, edited by Christopher Tolkien, Houghton Mifflin, 1977, pp. 15–30.

Tolkien, J. R. R. “Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth.” Morgoth’s Ring: The Later Silmarillion, Part One, edited by Christopher Tolkien, vol. 10 of The History of Middle-earth, Houghton Mifflin, 1993, pp. 303–66.

Tolkien, J. R. R. The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien. Edited by Humphrey Carpenter, Houghton Mifflin, 1981. Letter 181.

An Unexpected Gift

Thursday’s class brought forward death and tried to make sense of it as a gift and in connection to love. I think that we can use the questions and examples presented by Tolkien’s elves to help understand the love in human death from a Christian perspective. Conveniently, I have recently been spending a lot of time meditating on St. Thérèse of Lisieux's thoughts on death, specifically, her acceptance of it. Day 8 of her Novena focuses on this theme and directs our attention to the Catechism's statement about death, which describes that in “departure, which is death, the soul is separated from the body” (Catholic Church 1005). St. Therese finds comfort in this, reflecting, “well, I have no fear of a separation which will unite me forever with the good God” (“The ‘Little Flower’ Novena”). Thinking about death by focusing on a separation, a subsequent gain, and finally a unification rather than a complete loss greatly helps explain why death is a gift, yet it is easy to remain unconvinced that this gift could outweigh the loss of everything known. However, the Catechism states, this is only a temporary separation which will be undone at the end of times when souls are brought back to their bodies. This reversal, I believe, helps validate Finrod’s point in Morgoth's Ring: The Later Silmarillion, Part 1, The Legends of Aman, which argues that “the separation of fëa and hröa is ‘unnatural’” (Tolkien 330). 

In both the cases of The Fall and the ‘Marring of Arda’, the soul’s separation was unprecedented and only a result of these disruptions. However, what is unnatural is not always wrong, and this separation should not be seen as a way to cast negativity onto humans’ new existence. Andreth uses the separation of body and soul as an argument for disharmony in Man, stating that this means “his parts would not be united by love” (317) and furthermore that the body is an “imposition indeed, not a gift” (317). Well, if these bodies are a hindrance rather than a gift, it seems quite easy to understand why death would then be a gift. A release from the disharmony of our clashing body and soul, unnatural to the ground we walk on and live on. Except that is certainly not what it feels like. The love experienced through flesh, the warm sun, the shade of a tree, a sip of water, a hug from a friend, and so much more. All these experiences are examples of love experienced through the unification of body and soul, so love must exist in the union as well. The body is a gift that allows connection to all of its related creations. “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us” (John 1:14). Even Jesus Himself came to Earth in a body with a soul, which He describes as in anguish before His death, as noted in John 12:27 and Matthew 26:38. When He dies, His body is left behind, and when He returns, His body is regained. It is made abundantly clear by Thomas’s touch of Jesus that Jesus returned to His flesh, but why would He do so if the body was a true imposition? The body is a blessing that allows him to touch and interact in a way that the soul alone could not provide. Jesus’s time physically on Earth demonstrates the love held in a body through the love He gives. We can look to His human example to understand the love that unites body and soul. 

The body is a gift to experience love. But how, then, can death be a gift as well? I think now is a good time to turn to Lúthien and Beren and the unique death that accompanies their love. The union of Lúthien and Beren, along with that of any elf-human couple, requires a choice not necessary between couples of the same being. The elf must give up their immortality to fully experience love and thus receive the gift of death. In this case, though the sacrifice is great, we can see death more clearly as a gift because it allows for such a powerful union. In Book 1 of The Lord of the Rings, when Aragorn tells the tale of Beren and Lúthien to the company, he says that after Beren died, Lúthien chose “to die from the world, so that she might follow him… together they passed” (Tolkien 189). I think what is to be emphasized in this story is that their union is most emphasized in their death. At least in this telling, though Beren and Lúthien share this tale, they are only described as “together” during their death. Only death was able to unite them, and is that not the greatest gift? To be united with what is loved most. The cost is what we know, but the reward remains to be fully understood, and there lies the struggle. The elves who chose mortality realized the value in death, which is love. 

Yes, death is a separation, but it also ends the separation between life and the greatest love. Furthermore, the separation of the body and soul will come to an end, and our current loss will be regained. What seems unnatural about death is remedied by all it provides, but earthly mystery makes the gift unclear, wrapped in a package most easily opened at our own death. However, it is not impossible to open the package while living by practicing faith and becoming closer to God; Arwen, Lúthien, and others, for example, were able to see the gift of the love they sacrificed for. While the love they departed for was more visible than the love between God and humans (in the sense that they were able to physically see their partner), there was still a great unknown in leaving the rest of their life behind. We can look to these elves as examples in our own experiences of death as a reminder to trust in the love that awaits.

-AHW

“But You Are Not For Arda”: Diminishment, Mortality, Memory, and Paradise

Through the different natures of Elves and Men, Tolkien sought to explore death and the proper way to interact with the world of Creation. In Letter 181, Tolkien all but confirms this when he writes:

“Elves and Men are just different aspects of the Humane, and represent the problem of Death … In this mythological world the Elves and Men are in their incarnate forms kindred, but in the relation of their ‘spirits’ to the world in time represent ‘experiments’, each of which has its own natural trend, and weakness” (Letters, pg. 341).

Beyond confirming that Elves and Men have different natures, this quote hints at why those distinctions arise on a metaphysical level: the similar “incarnate forms” and different “spirits” of Elves and Men. I believe these distinctions are critical to understanding the different roles and fates Tolkien envisages for Elves and Men in his universe. Tolkien most clearly develops these ideas in the Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth, where he introduces the concepts of hröa (body) and fëa (soul). To begin with hröa, Tolkien writes in Letter 181 that “Elves and Men are in their incarnate forms kindred,” thus implying that they share the same hröa (Letters, pg. 341). This is confirmed in the Athrabeth, when Finrod tells Andreth both Elves and Men “drew [their] hröar and their sustenance” from “the matter of Arda” (Athrabeth 309). The hröar of both Elves and Men are fundamentally of Arda. For Tolkien, both species needed this hröa to experience the world. 

        As we discussed in class, an existence as fëa only, but not as hröa, would not be satisfying. To prove this, we considered Sauron: after the Ring is destroyed, Sauron does not die. Rather, he loses his physical body, his hröa, and becomes solely fëa, taking the form of a menacing thunderstorm. Yet, in this form, he is unable to influence Arda and is blown away by wind from the West. Thus, beings need hröa to experience and influence Arda. As Ilúvatar would obviously want his Children to be able to enjoy His Creation, all beings thus have hröa. To be able to enjoy Arda specifically, their hröar need to be of Arda. This is why Elves and Men are common in this respect. They are even common in being affected by Arda Marred. Finrod tells Andreth that “you live in Arda Marred, as do we … all the matter of Arda was tainted” by Melkor (Athrabeth 309). Not even Aman has been free of the Marring since the Trees were destroyed. As a result, the hröar of Men are “weaker than they should be,” and the “health and stature” of Elvish hröar “is diminished” (Athrabeth 309). Regardless, the purpose of Elves and Men sharing hröar is clear: both are meant, at a baseline level, to experience Arda.

However, Elves and Men experience Arda in different ways, because they have different roles and different fates. As Elvish and Mannish fëar differ (Letters, pg. 341), unlike their hröar, to understand these differences and their consequences, we must look to fëar. In the Athrabeth, Tolkien explains the two key tenets of both Elvish and Mannish fëar. Elvish fëar are “bounded within … the Time of Arda” and are “unable to leave [Arda], while it lasts” (Athrabeth 331). Mannish fëar, on the other hand, “le[ave] Time … and never retur[n]” and were “not designed to stay long in Arda” (Athrabeth 331). This difference in fëar is directly responsible for the different fates of Elves and Men. Because Elvish hröa is of Arda, and Elvish fëa is bound to Arda, the Elves are therefore immortal within Arda while it lasts (Athrabeth 331). Finrod puts it best when he explains to Andreth that the Elves “belong to Arda (in hröa and fëa)” (Athrabeth 308) – they are fundamentally of Arda. Even if he dies, an Elf’s hröa and fëa both remain on Arda, so he can be reborn if he wishes. Men, on the other hand, while their hröa is of Arda, their fëa are not. As Finrod says, the “fëar of Men are not … confined to Arda” (Athrabeth 308). Rather, Mannish fëa leaves Arda after the hröa dies. Because the fëa leaves Arda, Man is mortal: his fëa is not within Arda and cannot thus be reembodied in the left-behind hröa. 

It is clearly this difference in fëa that explains the different “natural trend[s]” (Letters, pg. 341) of Elves and Men. Finrod says as much:

“Each of our kindreds perceives Arda differently, and appraises its beauties in different mode and degree. … To [Men] all things that he sees are new and strange, and in that degree lovable. To [Elves] all things are familiar, the only things that are, his own, and in that degree precious” (Athrabeth 315).

So, Elvish immortality means that to the Elves, “all things are familiar”, and therefore they are largely content with their surroundings. Further, because the Elves are immortal, they can pursue the “artistic, aesthetic, and purely scientific aspects of the Humane nature raised to a higher level than is actually seen in Men” (Letters, pg. 341) (they are exempt from much of the lower levels of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, essentially). As a result, they have a “devoted love of the physical world, and a desire to observe and understand for its own sake” (Letters, pg. 341). Men, on the other hand, because they are mortal, constantly experience new things and are thus never content with their surroundings. In the constant struggle for survival, they seek to understand the natural world not for itself but as a “material for use or as a power-platform” (Letters, pg. 342). It is this basic difference in nature that explains many of the differences between Elves and Men. For one, while the Elves are content with their surroundings, Andreth says “no heart of Man is content” (Athrabeth 307). This is precisely why Men look to nature as a “material for use.” The Eldar, then, say that Men “look at no thing for itself; that if they study it, it is to discover something else” (Athrabeth 316). Men are thus inherently curious beings (Tolkien, it seems, would be a fan of the Life of the Mind). It is perhaps this feature that makes Men uniquely predisposed to Melkorianism in the Elvish view. There is a very thin line between studying something to understand it and to use it for your own ends (as we saw with Aulë and the Dwarves and Fëanor and the Silmarils). 

The Elves’ love of the natural world instills in them their unique “weakness” (Letters, pg. 341): a deep-seated “unwilling[ness] to face change” (Letters, pg. 342) and an attendant desire to “preserv[e] the past” (Letters, pg. 342). Hence, Sauron was able to deceive the Elves into forging the Rings of Power: he played upon their desire to prevent their realms from naturally decaying over time. However, such a thing is impossible in the mortal lands of Middle-earth. We see this with Galadriel, who is an Elf and thus is of Arda. With her power boosted by Nenya, she recreates Aman to an extent in Lothlórien. Yet even her real recreation of paradise must fail, because no one can escape the passage of Time. Hence, Galadriel laments that:

“The leaves are falling in the stream, the River flows away. 

O Lórien! Too long I have dwelt upon this Hither Shore 

And in a fading crown have twined the golden elanor” (The Lord of the Rings 485).

Galadriel does not get to indulge in her escapism: she must either return to the real paradise, Aman, or remain a powerful figure in Middle-earth while accepting the diminishment of her artificial realm. In this way, Tolkien seems to be harkening back to his essay “On Fairy-Stories”: he is directly rejecting the notion that memory and stories are escapism. The usage of the Ring Nenya here is also very interesting to me. By using the Ring to stop the flow of time (in a sense) in Lothlórien, Galadriel has attempted to bend Arda to her will. To me, that seems like a distinctly Mannish activity, based on the two natures laid out previously. 

Farewell to Lórien by Ted Nasmith

Beyond the Rings, the Elves have two ways of “avoiding” the change they fear, though neither is truly effective in mortal Middle-earth. The first, more palliative than preventive, is through memory of the past and stories. The second, and more literal, is sailing West to the Undying Lands of Aman, or paradise. However, this method is in a way contingent upon memory as well: Eärendil only reaches Aman because he gets the Silmaril, which, as we discussed, is the memory of the Light of paradise in Aman before Morgoth marred it. As a natural expression of their main weakness, memory seems to be especially the province of the Elves. As Finrod says:

“In memory is our great talent, as shall be seen ever more clearly as the ages of this Arda pass: a heavy burden to be, I fear; but in the Days of which we now speak a great wealth” (Athrabeth 319-320).

The Elvish desire to recall memories of a higher past is directly contrasted with the Mannish desire to explore the present and future throughout The Silmarillion. When Beren enters Doriath, he is described as “doomed to roam,” and “lonely still to roam” (The Lord of the Rings, pg. 251). Lúthien, meanwhile, dances happily on the greens of Doriath, singing to the music of Daeron. When the Green-elves of Ossiriand first find Men, they tell Finrod that Men are “hewers of trees and hunters of beasts; therefore [they, the Green-elves] are their unfriends” (The Silmarillion 142). While the Green-elves seek to exist in harmony with Arda, and venerate the past beauty in which they found it (and preserve it), Men seek to understand that beauty and use it

Man’s hunger for new things becomes Man’s “weakness” (Letters, pg. 341) when it becomes excessive hunger. We are told that the Men who arrived in Beleriand, fleeing from the East, “were eager to learn the lore of the Elves” (The Silmarillion 147). This makes sense, as the lore of the Eldar would constitute new knowledge. This is shown more directly with Beren. As he retrieves a Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown, he is overwhelmed by its Light. He is the first mortal to behold the Silmarils, and suddenly, he is captured by the desire to have more, and so he decides to cut the other Silmarils from the crown (The Silmarillion 181). This insatiability leads to the awakening of Angband, the loss of his hand, and eventually, Beren’s very death. The idea of paradise comes in here as well: the Silmarils, as we discussed, are the memory of the Light of paradise. Perhaps Beren’s sudden desire is a rekindling of the Mannish desire to attain the Light over the sea they are unable to possess. Beren is not satisfied with one Silmaril, with the memory of the Light of the Trees; rather, he wants to gather all three Silmarils, all the Light of the Trees left on Arda, all of their paradise that is physically left. 

Beyond Beren, Faramir tells Frodo that the Kings of Gondor died out because they spent their days “in high cold towers ask[ing] questions of the stars” (The Lord of the Rings 886). They thus became too focused on the mysteries of Arda and the stars, and ancient heraldry, and not focused enough on the outside world. Their desire for knowledge became unbalanced in one particular direction. The Stewards, Faramir says, have been “wiser” for that very reason: “they recruited the strength of our people from the sturdy folk of the sea-coast” and focused on defending Gondor (The Lord of the Rings 886) while also preserving Gondor’s lore (Denethor, for example, is very learned). Thus, Tolkien thinks Men should pursue new things, knowledge, and stories of the past, but there is a limit: as with Galadriel, memory should not become escapism; the outside world still exists. In this way, Tolkien harkens back to “On Fairy-Stories” once again. While both Man and Elf may rely on memory and stories for sustenance and empowerment, neither can use them to ward off the inevitable flow of Time.

- WRM

The Differences of Life and Death

One of the first things I noticed when rereading the books in preparation for this class was the importance of age and time. In the first couple chapters Tolkien heavily emphasizes the importance of certain ages and birthdays for hobbits, and makes sure to let the reader know the age of the hobbits that are going to be important in the story. In Letter 214 he goes on to discuss how important birthdays are to hobbits and many of their customs on what happens for their birthdays and the parties that they have. We also learn that the ring has powers that help prolong life as well, which I think is another interesting piece to the puzzle of the power of the ring. A huge question this brings up is why are birthdays so important to hobbits. 

On the opposite end of the spectrum we have the elves, who are not literally immortal, because they can be killed, but live for so long most of the time that relative to Hobbits they might as well be. They have something that many humans, and hobbits desire, but it does not necessarily seem like the best thing in the mind of Tolkien. In Letter 208 Tolkien warns us about “confusing true ‘immortality’ with limitless serial longevity. Freedom from Time, and clinging to Time” (267). It’s interesting because he brings this up when talking about death as a theme across the series, and I think it is interesting how Time is capitalized here and almost personified. It is almost as if it is something that chases both humans and hobbits, but elves are free from that burden. 

Tolkien also states in the same letter that “Death is not the Enemy” (267). He uses personification again by capitalizing Death. Even though he makes this claim, he is clearly not saying that Death is always a good thing, but instead that it is not always a bad thing, which is very important to note given how prevalent death throughout the stories. He goes on to say “the Elves call ‘death’ the Gift of God (to Men)”. It is almost as if each one wants what the other has. Calling death a gift is not the way many people would see death as, especially when it comes suddenly and without warning. But I do not think that is the type of death that Tolkien, or the elves are talking about when they call it a gift, because elves can experience death in this manner the same way that humans do. 

As previously stated, it is not like elves are immortal, it is more so aging at a far slower rate. When elves call death a gift, they are talking about not having the burden of a long life, and instead being able to live a life in a shorter time period, and die of old age at an age that elves would consider young. But we do see the importance of long life to the elves, as it is a big deal when Arwen gives up her long life in order to be with Aragorn. After reading what Tolkien said about elves at first it would not seem like a sacrifice, because elves seem to somewhat envy the short lives of men. But I think the difference is there is an actual choice here. It is easy to say I wish I grew older faster, or that my species had a shorter life span, because that leaves the decision out of your hands. It puts the decision in the hands of the creator and you are powerless to change it either way. But when you have the chance to change it yourself, and decide to either put  yourself in harm's way, or give up long life, the decision becomes a lot harder because you are making the choice to give up time yourself. Without knowing what the future holds, you do not even know everything you are sacrificing, which truly makes it a difficult decision.

-RL

Eowyn as Healer

The Character Eowyn in the Lord of the Rings has always been a topic of great discussion. Questions have been mostly centered around her slaying of the dragon and her choice of becoming a healer. Some may say that Tolkien downgraded her for assigning her the role of a “nurse” instead of staying in battlefield as the woman fighter she has been. However, the act of healing holds immense power of its own, but unleashes in a different way.

Themes of healing and restoration have been shown in many places of Tolkien’s world. First, Aragorn has proven himself to be the king by showing healing powers, since the hands of the king are the hands of the healer. His arrival in Gondor saves the people and the White Tree also, which withers but thrives after the war. The restoration taken place in his city demonstrates that Aragorn has the ability of a gardener and a healer, setting things into place, in a wider sense. 

The Three Rings, Nenya, Vilya, and Narya, as comparison to the One Ring, have the power of rehabilitation, instead of domination or seduction of one’s mind. When Elrond describes them, he says that “those who made them did not desire strength or dominion or hoarded wealth, but understanding, making. and healing, to preserve all things unstained.” The Three Rings reflect the mind of their maker, Celebrimbor, who, as the heir and last in line of the House of Feanor, the ruler of Eregion, desires to seek a glimpse of hope in the Second Age and to preserve the lands of the elves remained. The Three Rings are never possessed by Sauron and are uncorrupted. Celebrimbor has also made an Elfstone, which is later given to Aragorn. It may symbolizes the friendship and trust between men and elves, and of hope, which is passed down through this elven gem.

Healing has been associated with care and pity. The healers cure the bodily wounds of their patients, and often they cure them in ways more spiritually. Gandalf talks about the Pity and Mercy of Bilbo to Frodo, and believes that he has been rewarded, since “he took so little hurt from the evil, and escaped in the end.” 

Nienna, as a queen of the Valar, is acquainted with grief and mourning, but also pity and courage.  Her tears may bring healing and she has cried for the destruction of the Two Trees, but cannot heal their wounds. It is said that Gandalf has been her greatest pupil and learned many things from her, such as pity.

Together, those examples illustrates that healing and pity are often associated with each other, and they lead to hope, even though sometimes hope seems to be thin. Celebrimbor was tortured and killed by Sauron in a cruel fashion and his lands were lost. But the Three Rings are never found by the enemy, and they have shown their use in the long years of the Third Age. They help Rivendell and Lothlorien to remain hidden, and aid their bearers, such as Gandalf, in war. Aragon, who possesses Celebrimbor’s Elfston, is both a king and a healer. Nienna, who is a substantial symbol of pity and healing, teaches Gandalf that killing is not the only way to fight evil. 

Eowyn may be inspired to think in similar ways. Her change in role is not shown so abruptly as many readers would think. Before the arrival of Gandalf and his companions in the hall of Theoden, Eowyn watches in despair the decay of Theodon, the death of Theodred, and Wormtongue’s poisonous influences. Eowyn is described to be fair, “fair and cold”, when Aragon first sees her, in which warmth is lacking. But out of love and duty she stays to care for her uncle even though Wormtongue is implied to have a desire for her. Her love for the King and uncle, for Rohan, has always been a motivation for her, before battle, on battle, and after. She and Meriadoc face inrecognition when they ride to fight, since they are both rejected by the King. The pair’s motivation is also similar, they both holds love for King Theoden and their people, and fight not for dominion nor revenge, but for love and duty.  

In the House of Healing, Faramir expresses his love for her and says that “do not scorn pity that is the gift of a gentle heart.” Eowyn transforms from a shieldmaiden who remarks that she does not heal to a healer, “and love all things that grow and are not barren.” In this sense, her love also “grows”, first from loving her kindred and people, to a wider love that encompasses all growing livings. From the war, she begets an appreciation of the living things, restores and loves, since she wishes to be loved, not pitied. Faramir also promises that he does not offer his pity, but love.

The power of healing is a gentle gift for those who have love in their heart and not darkened by the war with Sauron, who left many things destroyed and families apart. When people questions whether Eowyn has been degraded, they neglects the overall theme of the trilogy and the fact that she also fights, just like Celebrimbor or Gandalf, and slays the monster, an accomplishment men have not achieved. The duality behind these three characters does not reduce them, but heightens their abilities and helps to complete their character arc.

        --J.X