Music as Creative Force

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

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

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

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

—CO

The Discord of Creation

            Towards the end of Thursday’s lecture, we were given some audio examples of the Music of Creation and the music of Melkor. While I do have a fondness for two of the Creation pieces we listened to — Jupiter being something I played back in high school and Ma Vlast being one of my personal favorite Romantic era pieces — I gravitated towards Melkor’s music more. Perhaps it is because I am, in fact, a metalhead, and metal is one of my favorite genres of music; I thought “Into the Storm” is a good song, with good instrumentation. In my mind, I did not really understand why it would be considered an example of the Music of Melkor, as “Into the Storm” was not the discord-filled piece of music I would expect the Music of Discord to be. 

            So this got me thinking about what really is Melkor’s music, and is it really as disharmonious as it is presented? Surely there is one clear answer, for Tolkien writes it in The Silmarillion: 

“Some of these thoughts he now wove into his music, and straightway discord arose about him, and many that sang nigh him grew despondent, and their thought was disturbed and their music faltered; but some began to attune their music to his rather than to the thought which they had at first. Then the discord of Melkor spread ever wider, and the melodies which had been heard before foundered in a sea of turbulent sound” (16).

The Music of Melkor is discord. It is discordant, unharmonious yet has a strange power over the other Ainur, to the point where they join in in singing Melkor’s music. It is persuasive, much like the serpent to Adam and Eve when they ate the apple in the Garden of Eden. It is different from the Music of The One, as the thoughts that make up Melkor’s music were as a result of Melkor thinking differently than Ilúvatar’s song. It is the antithesis of The Song of Creation, where creation is the elves and men, the rivers and the greenery and all that is good in the form of a pleasant melody sung by all of the Ainur. We can, with very reasonable judgement, say that the music of the Ainur is much more akin to sacred music than not. After all, Tolkien, in a letter to his son, remarks upon the well of which the fidelis are supposed to draw “nourishment” from, the story which all other stories come from. If there is no Genesis, then there is no rest of anything, really. 

            The story of Genesis has much importance in the mind of Tolkien, that is certain. But why does the music sound the way it does? Why does Melkor’s music sound the way it does?

            I am of the belief that there is some degree of bias in this point of view, for Tolkien expressed his fondness for Genesis and his disdain for the “modern” music of when this letter was written (1945). He tells his son that “I read eagerly all the details of your life, and the things you see and do — and suffer, Jive and Boogie-Woogie among them. You will have no heart-tug at losing that (for it is essentially vulgar, music corrupted by the mechanism, echoing in dreary unnourished heads)...” using the concept of brain nourishment that was introduced earlier. To me, the concept of “Boogie-Woogie” being “vulgar” was odd, as I see it more as music that the older generations look towards as music that is pure and uncorrupted while they push that rock and other harder forms of music, much like “Into the Storm”, is vulgar and the antithesis of all that is holy. In other words, what the music of Melkor is is derived from the person who is making the judgment. For Tolkien, the music of discord seemed to be more akin to the loud and fast melody of big-band jive and the boogie-woogie bugle boy. If anything, the concept of Jive being hailed on the same level of vulgarity and discord as the Music of Melkor feels more akin to the satanic panic of the 80s, where the older generation viewed Twisted Sister and Motley Crue as what I can deem as “Melkorian” — it was loud, brash, fast, and unlike anything before it, hymns and jive and all.

The Music of Creation for Tolkien is derived from his love of the Book of Genesis and an appreciation of classical music, for he writes in the Silmarillion,  “Then the voices of the Ainur, like unto harps and lutes, and pipes and trumpets, and viols and organs, and like onto countless choirs singing with words, began to fashion the theme of Ilúvatar to a great music…”, a combination of instruments usually used in more classical arrangements. Brass is used in a melodic way in The Planets while they are used in a seemingly disjointed and even crazy way in Jive. Harps, lutes, organs, and viols are connected to religious music and hymns sung during mass. This is no mere accident, as describing the music more akin to the hymns of the Bible emphasizes the holy nature of this music. Paired with the similarities between the Ainulindae with both the books of Genesis and Jubilees, it cannot be denied that there is Catholic musical influence as well as classical music influence in the Music of the Ainur. It is beautiful, do not get me wrong, and it does feel appropriate for music of the Gods. However, the vague nature of the Music of Melkor does indeed leave some room for question. For Tolkien it would have most likely been the music of which he speaks of to his son, the popular music of the time if you will. In class on Thursday it was power metal, and to some of my classmates it would be the “sounds” of Lou Reed. 

And yet, I find myself enjoying the music of Melkar more. I find myself more drawn to thrashing, layered guitars and groovy basslines and sharp drums — think Metallica, Megadeth, Slayer… the list goes on and on. Even now as I am writing this I have Stone Temple Pilot’s Core blaring in my headphones. It may be that my head is “unourished”, too cut off from the well of knowledge and creation and corrupted by the vulgarity of rock n’ roll. However, I find a rhythm, a beat, harmonies and melodies. Even a song that I would consider “Music of Melkor” in the sense of disharmony and lyrics, Megadeth’s “The Skull Beneath The Skin”, is a personal favorite of mine due to the way it sounds. It is discord making its way into harmonies, something that, while seen as the antithesis of creation, itself is a creation of something that is appealing to my unnourished mind. I like discord in my music, but that does not lead me to turn towards evil. To me it is the music that drives my creations like my writing and even this assignment. While the music can lead to the misery, in my eyes the discord is discord only to those who judge it so. 

 

-NPM

(Also, Melkor’s Music to me is more akin to Lou Reed, like most of my classmates have said.)

Whose Mythology Is This?

Tolkien's account of creation opens with the Ainulindalë, the Elves' telling of how the world was sung into being. The passage that describes this moment reads: 

Then the voices of the Ainur, like unto harps and lutes, and pipes and trumpets, and viols and organs, and like unto countless choirs singing with words, began to fashion the theme of Ilúvatar to a great music; and a sound arose of endless interchanging melodies woven in harmony that passed beyond hearing into the depths and into the heights, and the places of the dwelling of Ilúvatar were filled to overflowing, and the music and the echo of the music went out into the Void, and it was not void. (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, ed. Christopher Tolkien [Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2014], 15)

What stopped me in this passage is the final clause: and it was not void. The Void is, by definition, empty. And yet. What the Ainulindalë does in that final clause is let us see, for a moment, that Tolkien’s work as a philologist and his work as a myth-maker are part of the same story. Read against Tolkien’s philological work, the Ainulindalë stops being a work of fiction and starts looking like scripture. 

The surprise, when you read the biblical texts alongside the Ainulindalë, is how much Tolkien didn’t have to invent. In Job 38:4-7, God answers Job out of the storm with a series of rhetorical questions about creation, one of which slips in a strange detail: 

⁴ “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?
    Tell me, if you understand.
⁵ Who marked off its dimensions? Surely you know!
    Who stretched a measuring line across it?
⁶ On what were its footings set,
    or who laid its cornerstone—
⁷ while the morning stars sang together
    and all the angels [NIV note: Hebrew the sons of God] shouted for joy? (Job 38:4-7 NIV)

            The morning stars singing, the sons of God shouting for joy—Tolkien’s Ainur are already here, in embryo. The difference is structural: in Job the angels sing while God creates; in the Ainulindalë, the Ainur sing, and the singing is the creation itself. That difference matters: in Job the angels are witnesses to a creation they do not make, while in the Ainulindalë the Ainur are sub-creators whose song is the thing itself. This is Tolkien’s own word, ‘sub-creation’, and he means it theologically: to make is to participate in the Maker’s making. And Job is the generous account here; the other accounts say less, not more. 

            Genesis is the starkest example. The opening verses gives us creation in its quietest form; there is no music and no chorus—only God’s voice: 

¹ In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. ² Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.

³ And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. ⁴ God saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness. ⁵ God called the light “day,” and the darkness he called “night.” And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day. (Genesis 1:1-5 NIV)

There are no singers here. No morning stars, no sons of God, no chorus, only the voice of God moving over the deep. And yet the tradition knows they were there. Job tells us the morning stars were singing; other texts, such as Jubilees, fill in what Genesis leaves out. What Tolkien does in the Ainulindalë is put everything in one place. The scattered tradition: Genesis's formless deep, Job's singing stars, Jubilees's angelic orders, is gathered into a single account. This is what compilers and commentators have always done: gather the scattered fragments of scripture into a single telling. Tolkien is doing the same work, in the same register. And this move is not only something Tolkien does at cosmogonic scale. He does it with single words, single names, single lines of Old English poetry.

The clearest example is Eärendil. The name comes from a single line in Crist I, an Old English religious poem Tolkien read as an undergraduate at Oxford: 

Eala Earendel engla beorhtast ofer middangeard monnum sended

[“Hail Earendel, brightest of angels, / sent to men over Middle-earth.”]

(Crist I, lines 104-5)

From this one line, Tolkien grew his entire mythology. Tolkien took the word and imagined. What makes his move scholarly genius is in the transformation of Earendel into Eärendil. To scholars of Old English, the meaning was unimportant; to Tolkien it was the beginning. Tolkien created a half-elven hero sailing the heavens carrying a Silmaril, who becomes the Morning Star, Venus. This is the work of a philologist at the highest level, taking the inherited tradition of Old English poems and scripture, understanding and iterating upon them, to create a mythology that is our own. The work Tolkien does to create the story of Eärendil is of the same type he does to tell the story of creation in Ainulindalë. Tolkien draws upon the writing itself. Look to the Ainulindalë passage we started with, which features four clauses beginning with ‘and’, piling up like the verses of Genesis 1. These stylistic features create a new story that immerses the reader in totality. From this, his work stops being fiction and starts looking like scripture. The understanding of “Whose mythology is this?” is shaped to really be our own as we travel deeper into Faerie.

-       BN 

Sub-Creation or Idolatry?

You shall not make for yourself an image in the form of anything in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the waters below.  (Exodus 20:4)

The true intent of the Second Commandment goes beyond the literal prohibition of images. Images in themselves are not fundamentally forbidden (otherwise, all of Christendom would have been nations without visual art -  despite earlier assumptions about Jewish aniconism, which has now been proved inaccurate); rather, what is strictly prohibited is for a man-made image to substitute for God and become the object of worship - that is, idolatry. Christianity as a monotheistic religion, affirms Yahweh the one and only true God. In either political or theological pan, idolatry carries a sense of infidelity: it is the defection into polytheistic paganism and the fabrication of false gods. Either way, idolatry is an intolerable transgression within Christian doctrine. 

As a devout Catholic, Tolkien could not have been unaware of the Second Commandment - how, then, did he understand and put it into practice himself?

In Letter 131, Tolkien clearly expressed his deep passion for myth and his grief that his own country had no stories that bound up with its own language and soil. In his envision,“myth” is supposed to be something relatively self-standing and independent from “religion” (specifically Christianity in this context). For this reason, he did not approve the Arthurian legend as an English mythology, for its explicit involvement in Christian religion.

To remedy this poverty, Tolkien set out to “create” a native English mythology (apologize for using the word “create”. Tolkien might not like it; for Tolkien, Middle-earth is less an invention than a kind of recollection of a lost world—Númenor, after all, is truly real). The opening chapter of The Silmarillion, the Ainulindalë, recounts how Eru, the One—also known as Ilúvatar—brought the cosmos (Eä) into being through the Great Music. Within the corpus of Middle-earth writings, this chapter holds a position roughly analogous to that of Genesis within the Biblical tradition. It appears almost as a self-contained cosmology, a kind of parallel universe that stands alongside, and at times seemingly apart from, the Christian world.

Ilúvatar—isn’t he a “false god” openly forged by Tolkien? He appropriates the title of “the One,” seemingly displacing God as Creator, even echoing biblical language—“Let these things Be!”alongside “Let there be light”. One might argue that no one would really believe in Ilúvatar in the same way they believe in God; yet historically, those who venerated icons at the altar did not think of themselves as worshipping idols either. To a certain extent, strictly speaking, Tolkien’s very act of writing appears to carry the risk of transgressing the Second Commandment—of substituting a man-made figure in place of the divine.

Nevertheless, it is clear that Tolkien himself believed that God permits and even encourages His people, while remaining faithful to Him, to create and cherish other mythic figures; legend-makers are not necessarily idolatros. This point can be further illustrated through a detail in the Ainulindalë: 

“Now the Valar took to themselves shape and hue; and because they were drawn into the World by love of the Children of Ilúvatar, for whom they hoped, they took shape after that manner which they had beheld in the Vision of Ilúvatar, save only in majesty and splendour. (Tolkien, The Silmarillion, “Ainulindalë”)

This excerpt forms an antithesis to Genesis 1:27—“God created mankind in his own image” (personally, I take it as a parallel device Tolkien employed in purpose). In Genesis, Man is the mirror-image of God, the self-portrait of the Creator; whereas in Ainulindalë, the formless Valar were incarnated in the manner of Man: the divine, in turn, becomes the mirror-image of Man.

Although the text does not explicitly state whether mankind was created in Ilúvatar’s own image, it nonetheless implies a more complex dynamic: Man is not merely a passive bearer of divine likeness, but also an active participant in shaping how the divine is perceived through visible forms. The relationship between Creator and Creation is therefore far more intricate than it first appears, and far more worthy of reflection than a unilateral model of resemblance.

The metaphor of “self-portrait” I used above is quite dubious upon closer examination. When we describe Man as God’s self-portrait, we are in fact reducing ourselves - animate beings - to inanimate objects. The fundamental difference between God the Creator and human craftsman lies precisely in the fact that the Creator can bring forth life, while man-made idols are nothing more than lifeless, immovable wood and gold, “having eyes but cannot see, having ears but cannot hear.” Regarding ourselves as merely an inanimate artwork of God is therefore a profanation of His creative power. 

When the Creator’s Creation is not a lifeless object but a multitude of living beings, the relationship between the two can no longer be taken as a simple hierarchy of subordination. On the one hand, the Creator gives form and life to his Creation; on the other, the Creator also relies on his Creation’s recognition and faith to establish his image and authority. It is not only Man that relies on faith in God, but God also, in a sense, depends on Man’s faith. Created in the image of God, Man is given the divine responsibility for completing Creation. 

Tolkien approached this divine duty through what he called “sub-creation.” According to him, the truly faithful shall not merely “worship the great Artifact,” but rather realize his or her potential as a “sub-creator”, a “legend-maker” (Mythopoeia). Beyond obedience and reverence lies a higher state of devotion, “sub-creation.” It entails an active engagement with, reflection upon, and even questioning of the Truth (when needed) that God represents. 

Tolkien’s Ainulindalë was by no means composed to replace Genesis—how, then, could Eru Ilúvatar be an man-made idol who challenges, or even displaces God? Rather, Ainulindalë serves as a likeness of Genesis - a likeness of Truth that channels the terrestrial with the divine, guiding Man toward the Truth. 

It’s worth noting that this is not an original interpretation and practice of the Second Commandment unique to Tolkien. Both waves of Byzantine Iconoclasm ended in the victory of the iconophiles. In their defense of icons, John of Damascus argues that “since our analogies are not capable of raising us immediately to intellectual contemplation, we need familiar and natural points of reference.” (John of Damascus, 26) God’s revelation would not spontaneously descend from above to those who wait passively, but must be acquired through active engagement in a dialogue with the divine. The image—as a likeness of the archetype—is a reflection of the divine and a vessel of God’s revelation.

The “image,” in a narrow sense, refers to the icons placed in churches (the icon of Christ). Yet in a broader sense, it encompasses any form of interaction between the faithful and God: Job’s questioning of God when confronting unexplained suffering, or Tolkien’s own act of writing as a form of “retrospection” of the Creation in Genesis. The image does not lead the believer astray from faith, as the iconoclasts feared; rather, it grounds a more genuine understanding of, and more intimate relationship with, God. After all, how could true faith possibly fear the believer’s reflection upon it?

-YC

Work Cited:

Tolkien, J. R. R. The Silmarillion. Edited by Christopher Tolkien, Houghton Mifflin, 2001. ISBN 978-0-544-33801-2.

Tolkien, J. R. R. The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien: A Selection. Edited by Humphrey Carpenter and Christopher Tolkien, Houghton Mifflin, 1981.

Tolkien, J. R. R. The Silmarillion. Edited by Christopher Tolkien, Houghton Mifflin, 2001. ISBN 978-0-544-33801-2.

The Holy Bible: Genesis. New Revised Standard Version, Oxford University Press, 1989.

The Holy Bible: Exodus. New Revised Standard Version, Oxford University Press, 1989.

Tolkien, J. R. R. “Mythopoeia.” In Tree and Leaf, HarperCollins, 2001.

John of Damascus. Three Treatises on the Divine Images. Translated by Andrew Louth, St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2003.

Melkor's Music of Discord & Lucifer

    In the “Ainulindalë,” Melkor attempts to take over Ilúvatar’s music of creation with his own music. His music sows discord within Ilúvatar’s music, and he separates himself from Ilúvatar and the rest of the Valar. This can be compared to Lucifer’s fall from grace as he chooses power and ambition over God and the other angels. The “Ainulindalë” uses music as an instrument of creation that reveals the plans and nature of those creating it. Melkor’s music reveals his nature and intentions, and these map onto those of Lucifer quite well. 

    When Ilúvatar begins his song, the Ainur are a part of it. Similarly, in the book of Job, the angels are present as God creates the world, since it includes that “the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy” (38:7 NIV). Music is included in both creation accounts, even though it accompanies creation in the biblical account while being the creation mechanism in the “Ainulindalë.” The Ainur and the angels both have a role to play in creation. However, “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” (16). Melkor’s desires are for power and glory. He wants what belongs to Ilúvatar to belong to him, so he creates his own original ideas, but they do not mesh with Ilúvatar’s ideas. Melkor’s arrogance and selfishness prevented him from joining with the rest of the Ainur in Ilúvatar’s themes. In the book of Isaiah, Lucifer has similar desires for power: “You said in your heart, / ‘I will ascend to the heavens; / I will raise my throne / above the stars of God’” (14:13a NIV). In both instances, these feelings are described as coming from Melkor’s and Lucifer’s hearts. Something about a change in the heart makes them incompatible with Ilúvatar and God. Lucifer, though, does not just want to increase his own power and glory but wants to be greater than God. Even though he did not say this directly, he said it in his heart, which was enough for God. This means God sees what is in his angels’ hearts and takes action. Ilúvatar, however, saw the effects of Melkor’s heart, i.e. his music, before taking action. However, in both instances, the desires of Melkor and Lucifer are similar. 

    Both Melkor and Lucifer appear also to not have been alone in their efforts. The “Ainulindalë” states, “Some of these thoughts he now wove into his music, and straightway discord arose about him, and many that sang nigh him grew despondent, and their thought was disturbed and their music faltered; but some began to attune their music to his rather than to the thought which they had at first” (16). It is possible that the discord he created led to confusion, and that is why some joined in his music. However, the “Valaquenta” does describe Melkor as having allies, making it possible that some actually agreed with Melkor and wanted to join with him over Ilúvatar. Melkor’s music also caused some to lose hope and disrupt their music, which also greatly affects Ilúvatar’s music. In Lucifer’s case, the book of Revelation gives some insight: “Then war broke out in heaven. Michael and his angels fought against the dragon, and the dragon and his angels fought back” (Revelation 12:7 NIV). The dragon in this verse is Lucifer, and the fact that he is going to war with Michael and his angels and that he has his own angels clearly suggests he has allies. Since both Melkor and Lucifer have allies, this suggests something persuasive about their music or speech. The feelings they have in their hearts, then, are common enough to resonate with others, which is why they could be problematic for Ilúvatar and God. Melkor’s music, in particular, directly threatens Ilúvatar’s music, and it is clearly enticing to some. 

    More can be said about Melkor’s and Lucifer’s natures based on the information given in the “Ainulindalë” and the Bible. Melkor’s music is described as “loud, and vain, and endlessly repeated; and it had little harmony, but rather a clamorous unison as of many trumpets braying upon a few notes. And it essayed to drown the other music by the violence of its voice” (17). Melkor’s music is dominant but lacks nuance. There is no variety to it and no dynamics other than loud. Its purpose is violence, and it does not complement other music particularly well. This reflects Melkor’s character. He is self-centered and is attempting to take control of creation, but he is not able to create music as complete as that of Ilúvatar. In Lucifer’s case, God tells him, “Your heart became proud / on account of your beauty, / and you corrupted your wisdom / because of your splendor. / So I threw you to the earth; / I made a spectacle of you before kings” (Ezekiel 28:17 NIV). Lucifer was also very arrogant and self-centered, and God saw this and threw him from heaven. For Lucifer, his nature led him away from wisdom, and God chose to make an example out of him. This means God has no place in heaven for those who try to lift themselves up before others. The role of the Ainur in Ilúvatar’s music was to create something beautiful together, which meant there was no room for one dominant voice. This aligns nicely with God’s vision for heaven, as one person lifting himself higher was enough to be thrown out.

    Music is a powerful device in the “Ainulindalë.” It shows the flow of power in creation and shows the characteristics of the performer. Ilúvatar is ultimately able to use Melkor’s music and overcome the discord, but that does not change what Melkor’s music reveals about his character. Ilúvatar knows this, and Melkor loses his good grace with Ilúvatar. Lucifer also reveals his character traits, and God loses his good grace with Lucifer. Both Ilúvatar and God have the power in these scenarios, but Melkor and Lucifer still have individual natures. Unfortunately for them, their natures are not compatible with the rest of creation. Discord can be turned into beauty, but the resolution does not change what was originally in the heart of the discord. 

 -KW

Melkor Did Nothing Wrong… Well, Maybe a Few Things?

Now before I start, I should warn you that I am likely about to spew heresy, and probably have already done so. Here we go.

Let’s begin first with Eru, or Iluvatar as he is known in Arda (and Tolkien does say “he,” which presumes that Iluvatar created the concept of gender before even creating the Ainur, but I am wandering into dangerous territory here. Besides, I’ll cut Tolkien some slack and observe the context of the time period and religious reference). He is primordial and original, creator of creation and of things to come. There is no existence previous to Iluvatar, and he is the beginning of all things. Given Tolkien’s observance of his own Christian worship in the process of writing about Middle-Earth, it can be reasonably inferred that Iluvatar here is synonymous with God.

Moving on, then, to the Ainur. They are Iluvatar’s first creation, “offspring of his thought, and they were with him before aught else was made” (Silmarillion, pg. 3). They are Iluvatar’s angels, and in the Book of Job the angels “shouted for joy” as God created the world (Job 38:4-7). Melkor is one of the Ainur. He had been given out of all the Ainur “the greatest gifts of power and knowledge” (Sil., 4). What sets Melkor apart from the rest of the Ainur is his desire “to bring into Being things of his own” (Sil., 4). This brings Melkor into contention with Iluvatar and the Ainur, as his independence gets woven into his music. The “discord of Melkor” begins to spread, discouraging some of the Ainur and influencing others. In this way, Melkor resembles the fallen angel: Lucifer.

 

But (and here is where things get dicey) is Melkor a spitting image of Lucifer? Can the two of them be completely and perfectly synonymous? Has he even done anything wrong?

The short answer is no. But, if you’re still reading, you want to hear the long answer.

 

There is, of course, the war in the heavens to deal with. The discordance of music in the Ainulindale parallels this conflict. Melkor and Iluvatar wrest for control of the sonority with each other, until Iluvatar reveals his total control of the situation and Melkor is defeated. Iluvatar tells the Ainur and Melkor especially that “no theme may be played that hath not its uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite.” Melkor is “filled with shame, of which came secret anger” (Sil., 6). Why the shame and anger? On the surface, it appears to be because Iluvatar singled out Melkor out of all the Ainur for his actions. But the reaction is not repentance, but shame and even resentment. This implies that Melkor finds himself justified and Iluvatar’s authority unfair. But why bother trying to see things from Melkor’s point of view?

For the same reason that we pay attention to any of the other Ainur: they represent a facet of Iluvatar’s thoughts. And what does Melkor have that the other Ainur don’t? There are many things we can call it - rebelliousness, discordance, dissent. But we must remember that Melkor is born out of Iluvatar’s thought: Melkor has inherited Iluvatar’s desire for creation. Naturally, creativity will come at odds with other notions of conception, and this is where the discord comes from. However, the root of what Melkor represents is not pure malice, but a desire for independence and creation. It is this desire for free creation that gets undermined by Iluvatar and the other Ainur, which leads to Melkor’s shame and anger. It is a struggle between creativity and order, between originality and foresight. Melkor is an artist, and cannot stand it that his artistry is not truly his but Iluvatar’s. 

There is, of course, one other thing Melkor holds besides the pride of an artist. It is greed. A desire to hold and possess. And at face value, this is sinful. We should not be greedy, we should give and not take, and so on. But Melkor is born from Iluvatar’s thought. Melkor’s desires are also Iluvatar’s own. Iluvatar says it himself: “nor can any alter the music in my despite.” The music of the world is all Iluvatar’s, and none of it is actually individually Melkor’s (much to his consternation). And this, perhaps, is the thing that complicates the issue: all the Ainur, Melkor included, are different facets of Iluvatar. We cannot read Melkor’s desire to possess unless we read the same thing in Iluvatar, and that threatens a theological dilemma. 

So I’ll conclude by saying that Melkor does not seem to be a spic and span copy of Lucifer, and as such, Iluvatar is also a more complicated deity than simply a virtuous creator. Indeed, it could be said that Iluvatar is the most conceptually complex character possible, as all contradictions and opposites in the world live conjoined in the plans of Iluvatar. 

- CLP

Music as Analogy: Melkor and the “Discord”

In Ainulindale, Eru demanded the Ainur to make a Great Music together, in harmony. Thus I wonder if we may connect the Ainur’s Music with the classical music of real life, as an extended metaphor, when discussing the fall of Melkor. Christopher Tolkien did not choose to add a frame to the story of creation, but the elves who noted down the tale may have used music as a way of understanding in the first place, since none of them were there to witness Creation and could not perceive what it was like in the Void, or outside of the World.

At first, it is remarked that the Ainurs sang “only each alone, or but few together”, which seems that they are only capable of  singing monotonic tones or  melodies together in the same pitch. Perhaps it resembles the parallel octaves etc. in unison or round, such as the Parallel organum. Tolkien used the word “unison” to describe the state of the Ainur’s Music, when they gained deeper understanding of their brethren.

Comparing it with the music history, gradually the Ainur performed more sophisticatedly. Instead of simply singing in unison, they would move gradually toward a more complex polyphonic music, featuring two or more lines at the same line, while each may be considered as a melody of its own. Their voices are thus balanced and varied, in melody and rhythm.

When Illuvatar declared that they should make “in harmony together a Great Music”, the voices of the Ainur became greatly diverse. No longer they sang in unison, but like “unto harps and lutes, and pipes and trumpets, and voils and organs…” These are the metaphors of the elves, since it would be hard to imagine any being singing as if they are the instrument themselves. But,  in analogy, the singing of the Ainur at this stage may be compared to a symphony orchestra, where people form parts and follow the melodic direction of that specific part. The Ainurs who lead and those who follow may be differed into the Valar and the Maiar.

If such is the real-life representation of Illuvatar’s Great Music, what may be suggested about Melkor and his discordant ideas? One major use of dissonance in classical music is to separate various harmonic intervals by inviting uneven pitches so that each interval has its own sense. Intervals that sound harsh and do not blend in are the dissonant intervals. Melkor might have started by creating a dissonant interval when he had the thought of heightening himself, refusing to be in accord with others.

But Melkor did not stop by creating the discord alone. Others who were near him were also affected by his music and decided to “attune their music to his”, which reminds me that another way of breaking the harmony is to add a tone or chord to the music that is not in the original key, or create a out-of-tune division of a whole tune, so that it sounds higher or lower of the original version. The latter sparks me as a possibility when I read Letter 153, in which Tolkien explains that Morgoth made the Orcs as a mockery of the Children of God. It is not Creation, but a distortion of the original being, twisted and ugly. Melkor, when he became to glorify himself, gradually lost the ability to create, shown especially when he took form and descended into the World. As a metaphor, here, the dissonance he and his followers created may have been just a mockery as well.

Ironic that although Melkor tried hard to adopt his dissonance for his own use, the tone, along with the harmony of other Ainur, becomes part of the whole.

It may be quite difficult to create dissonances in a piece of music in the real world, since the means described earlier are few and demand a certain degree of skill, or, in this case, cunningness. Melkor was the Ainur that had the greatest power then, equipped with a wide understanding of music and knowledge, so his place and ability suited well with the discord he created. He may have planned his melody with great intention, leading others along, not just by adding a few notes therefore. 

But the power of Illuvatar was not defeated by the dissonance Melkor created. Instead, the Great Music became more sorrowful, more diverse, sometimes full of chaos, yet on a whole, more beautiful, with his influence, which was of course beyond his expectation. Just like an Orchestra, dissonance was a part of the music, and may be used to heighten the diversity and beauty of the piece when mastered carefully. The World had Evil, Shadows, loss and wrath, because of Melkor, but his was not the Creator, and the World could not have ended so. Through the sadness, there were harmony, glory and hope. Illuvatar showed mercy when he chose to encompass all of the Music, and he again demonstrated this godlike mercy when Melkor made the Orcs. Although they were created as distorted version of elves and men, they still came into being and were permitted to live.

All the Ainurs are thoughts of the Creator, and Melkor was the one that had the most power and was most gifted. His music was tolerated and woven into the greater Music that he was not aware of. This explains the limitation of Ainur’s Free Well. They may be given the choice to become evil and have the chance to act out their parts, each choice came with a price. Like a discordant melody, though it may lead for a while and threaten to let other’s astray, harmonious love shall ultimately take its place.

--JX

When three is not three

“Until now, science could arise only on this solidified, granite foundation of ignorance, the will to know rising up on the foundation of a much more powerful will, the will to not know, to uncertainty, to untruth! Not as its opposite, but rather — as its refinement!” - Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil, Part 2.

In class and discussion, we questioned if someone could learn a myth older, not only if they would remember it but if it would stick in their brain as something innately true, even in its untruth. I know D'Aulaires' Book of Greek Myths to be false — to be myths in both senses of the word —, but my parents put that book on tape so often that “In olden times, when men still worshiped ugly idols, there lived in the land of Greece…” still rings true to me. The cadence of the words still sounds in my ears as truth even in falsity. The music still compels me.

But how can something be both true and false at the same time? We also discussed the unchanging and objective quality of music: if it is made from math, how can it be wrong? Three is three is three… unless it’s not. In this quote, Nietzsche questions the very foundations of our epistemological claims. Take the example of music: we know a song to start on a three-count, but it will never really start there, there will always be a millisecond off, a certain impreciseness. Sounds will always be a little discordant, even if barely perceptible to the human ear. But if a music director were to narrow in on making sure that the notes begin at exactly three seconds, he would miss the human character of the music, the experience of hearing a song. To Nietzsche, it is impossible for life to exist except on the basis of subjective perspectival experiences. Either way, something is lost: three is not really three, at least in the way we’d like it to be.

To say three is so simple is belies a lie; it implicitly admits that the search for truth tacitly accepts not only ignorance but falsity. If the material world only ever approximates the world of forms, why must we insist on the forms themselves? Nietzsche would answer that we have a powerful call to ignorance, a weakness that prevents all but the most powerful from accessing reality, a new philosophy. I would say that this impreciseness is a symptom of the Fall but our good natures still allow us to access a certain truth, even if it is obscured. Our knowledge of good is like Plato’s remembrance; our past life is pre-lapsarian.

This brings me to another question we raised: can we perceive Melkor’s discord? If Melkor’s revolt is like Lucifer’s rebellion, if discord is evil, then we present the same problem that we have in Christian theology: the origin of this evil. Iluvatar/harmony/good/God/order exists first in this narrative — it is not the chaos of Hesiod’s Theogony. And thus, a departure from this good is not a separate thing, but a negation of the good itself [how does this happen? I am not satisfied with Augustine’s explanation and am deeply confused]. I don’t even think that it has to be a complete negation, as Iluvatar asserts that it still has an ultimate source in him (17) [thus can anything be truly evil? The Fall? Augustine’s unprompted thievery of the pear?]. However, I think that not only can we hear Melkor’s discord (if a hampered version), but in fact, all we hear is Melkor’s discord. Everything is built on this mix of unity and negation: three is never quite three.

To return to youth: other philosophers would answer that we are not able to believe myths in the same way as adults because we have a different relationship to truth and falsehood. In Plato’s Republic Book VII, Socrates suggests banishing everyone over ten from the city to create a “just city” out of an unjust one might be possible. Of course, this is patently preposterous: it is comical in the same way a city without meat can be called the “City of Pigs.” And yet we are primed to accept this preposterousness; we accept that a city must have both no adults and no families and yet must still have procreation for the creation of new citizens. There is something inherently illogical at the root of fallen societies. Put in sharp relief, we are not as likely to believe, but as children, we are lulled into a false sense of security — we are habituated into a certain self-delusion. Even as adults, we survive on this delusion, both because it makes us comfortable and because it is necessary to move through the world as functional beings. We are always in a cave, one of our own making. However, new myths don’t stick to adults in the same way they do to children because we have already been taught to accept a certain flavor of falsehood in our youth. In fact, we are so accustomed to this delusion that even the pursuit of knowledge involves a sort of tacit ignorance.

Art adds another layer of abstraction. As Plato says again in his Republic, artists are second-order liars — every move from Form to material to representation of material distorts it: every creation is a type of lie. Putting this in conversation with Tolkien’s sub-creation is practically impossible (yet another case of Neoplatonism being paradoxical). Perhaps putting the two together raises the question: how can sub-creation be possible among such fallen souls? How can we at once be likened to Iluvatar in our creative capacity and yet corrupted by Melkor’s discord in every facet of our minds? Perhaps Plato would have preferred creation remain unthought, a potentiality in Iluvatar's mind never quite reached.

- KW

Melkor's Fall

        In the Ainulindalë,* Eru Ilúvatar inspires his first creations, the Ainur, to make music based off of a theme he provides. This music intends to bring the entire universe into being, in Ilúvatar's name. However, one Ainu, Melkor, uses his own theme to create discord (Ainulindalë, The Silmarllion). Some would attribute this moment to be the cause of his Fall into Darkness, because it is a strong first sign of things to come, but the truth is more complicated. Melkor's Fall is not marked by his disruption of the Ainulindalë, nor a singular snap from "good" to "evil," but rather by a slow progression towards evil that, eventually, had some final and decisive moments. In addition to his greed (which initially caused him to disrupt the Music) (Ainulindalë, 4), his growing resentment and his inability to collaborate with others are what ultimately contribute to his Fall.

        Before addressing Melkor's Fall itself, we do need to address the role of Theodicy in this discussion. Eru Ilúvatar initially stops Melkor's disruption by showing that he has ultimate control over the music. For one thing, he could stop all the singing, including Melkor's, just by "[raising] up both his hands and in one chord... the Music ceased." He then lectures Melkor about how no one would be able to alter his music in a malicious way without his permission (Ainulindalë, 5-6). Since Melkor was acting in contempt of Ilúvatar, his statement seems to imply that the music Melkor made was actually under Ilúvatar's control. On an initial level, that is solid evidence that Melkor disrupting the music was not actually a Fall at all. However, Melkor does eventually go on to legitimately Fall into Darkness, so Eru's statement about the amount of control he has seems slightly suspicious. The other option is that Eru's power over the Ainur is finite, and while he may have control over the music of creation, and be able to limit their powers when they enter into Arda (Ainulindalë, 10), he still can't keep Melkor from committing acts of true evil. The problem is that both Eru intending for Melkor to work evil and Eru's powers being finite are both difficult ideas to accept. For the sake of evaluating Melkor's Fall, however, I will be examining his descent more from the perspective that Eru does not have total control over him. More specifically, Melkor exerts many signs of apparent free will, regardless of whether he actually possesses it, so I will mostly be examining his Fall as if he chose it entirely himself. 

        Aside from Eru's intent, however, the fact that Eru exerts some control over Melkor's powers (and, specifically stated, what he can contribute to the music) shows that the first important factor in when Melkor fell comes from the idea that Ilúvatar intended for Melkor's contribution of discord to the song of the Ainur to happen. As he tells Melkor, "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" (Ainulindalë, 6). In the case that no theme (including Melkor's) can be played that is not in Eru's plan, it is unlikely that Melkor's introduction of another theme was the moment that marked his Fall, or even that he was doing anything other than his job. Remember that when Ilúvatar initially introduced his first theme, he instructed the Ainur to "show forth your powers in adorning this theme, each with his own thoughts and devices, if he will" (Ainulindalë, 1). Although Melkor's conflicting theme comes from a place of greed, what he is actually doing is contributing to the music. He even, as Ilùvatar points out, creates (seen-as-beautiful) ice in the process (Ainulindalë, 8). The Music of the Ainur is described, at this point in the story, to have multiple themes; Melkor's theme does seem to conflict with Eru's, but eventually, their themes actually merge, and Eru creates a third theme that uses parts of the two merged themes in its own music (Ainulindalë, 5). The result is what ultimately creates the vision of Arda that Ilúvatar shows to the Ainur (Ainulindalë, 7-9). Melkor's theme helps create Arda, he follows Eru's instruction to make choices and add his own details, and his actions are blatantly part of Eru's plan. As such, we cannot say that Melkor's discordant theme is actually something that opposes Ilúvatar, even if he was working from a place of arrogant belief in his own superiority. Melkor's actions during Ainulindalë did not mark his Fall.

        Instead, the actual cause of Melkor's Fall can be tracked through a series of events that progress towards him being ultimately overcome by his envy and greed. Chronologically, a few things happen on Melkor's path to Darkness. First, he creates the opposition to Ilúvatar's first theme; second, he is put in his place by Ilúvatar "defeating" him, and begins to foster resentment against Eru; third, Melkor begins lying to himself that he wishes the best for the nascent universe, while steadily repressing his growing feelings of avarice; then, Melkor and the other Valar go down to Arda, and Melkor begins actively coveting the realm, trying to manipulate the work of the other Valar in ways that benefit his goals. Finally, Melkor's envy gets the better of him when he sees that the Valar have taken physical forms, and he switches from trying to interfere with the development of Arda to actively trying to undo the progress that's been made (Ainulindalë). His behavior at the end of his journey is markedly different than at the beginning, demonstrating that the Fall happened; one can look at the starting and ending positions to see this difference. In the beginning of Ainulindalë, Melkor is focused on "[increasing] the power and glory of the part assigned to himself" (Ainulindalë, 4). This version of Melkor is prideful and selfish, but he desires to create things entirely of his own more than anything else. His way of chasing power is through creation.

        However, the version of Melkor that lives at the end of Ainulindalë is vastly different. When he takes physical form and begins war against the Valar, "naught might have peace or come to lasting growth, for as surely as the Valar began a labour so would Melkor undo it or corrupt it... all things were in hue and shape other than the Valar had first intended" (Ainulindalë, 12). Melkor's Fallen Form (for at the end of Ainulindalë, it is clear that he has Fallen, even if it's not obvious when) is primarily focused not on increasing his personal glory, but on tearing down what others have built. He has switched to chasing power through destruction, rather than through creation, and that contrast makes all the difference. At the point where he chooses destruction over creation, it seems like he no longer cares about what he's ruling as much as the idea of having something to rule. He doesn't even care about making something original anymore, like how with the Music he desired to create his own theme, separate from Eru's. Now, he only corrupts existing material and destroys it. His true moment of Falling was when he decided he would rather destroy what others have made rather than try to make something himself, but he had to go through many steps to deteriorate to that point. At one point, he fights with his brother Manwë and the other Valar over who has the rights to rule Arda, and "for that time Melkor withdrew and departed to other regions and did there what he would; but he did not put the desire of the Kingdom of Arda from his heart" (Ainulindalë, 11). Crucially, this moment shows that even when Melkor had the opportunity to go elsewhere in Creation (i.e. somewhere that was not Arda, that he could shape as he saw fit, just like he had wanted to do when he made his own theme in the Music), he could not stop thinking about Arda, the charge of, at that point, the other Valar. This lingering envy, the desire to break or change what others have instead of make something for himself even when given the opportunity to do as he wishes elsewhere, proves that Melkor's descent continued to occur past his actions at Ainulindalë. 

        Then, a new question arises, concerning what factors were present that caused Melkor's Fall. The biggest factor is that he does not learn the right lessons from Eru's words. After the Music has finished, Ilúvatar tells Melkor that he will eventually "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, 6). Ilúvatar's words come across as an intent for Melkor to learn a lesson about humility in this event, and his statement predicts that Melkor will, after reflection, move past this event with the knowledge of Eru's power, and a new respect for his role as a part of the whole. That is, of course, not what happens. Melkor certainly grows to know his own mind, but doing so only drives him farther down the Dark path. On a side note, Ilúvatar's intentions for Melkor (returning to the Theodical dilemma for a moment here) actually have very little to do with his Fall in this moment; even if Melkor's fall were to somehow be predestined, Ilúvatar's words themselves provide solid advice about respecting and appreciating the work of others. Aside from the factor of Melkor's already established greed, the fact that he fails to accept Eru's message shows that he is quite self-absorbed, and doesn't grasp the idea of being part of something bigger than himself. For contrast, Ulmo, Vala of the Water, when finding out that Melkor's theme had meddled with his domain to create ice and rain, was thrilled, and immediately sought out Manwë (Vala of the Sky, whose domain related to Melkor's creation of rain as well) in order to collaborate more closely with him (Ainulindalë, 8-9). On the other hand, when Melkor finds out other Valar are working in the same space as him and made something beautiful, he throws a temper tantrum.

        Furthermore, a fascinating comparison can be drawn between Melkor and Aulë, "to whom Ilúvatar had given skill and knowledge scarce less than to Melkor; but the delight and pride of Aulë is in the deed of making, and in the thing made, and neither in possession nor in his own mastery; therefore he gives and hoards not, and is free from care, passing ever on to some new work" (Ainulindalë, 8). Aulë seems to be extremely similar to Melkor in that they both are fixated on creation (or, depending on what stage of his descent Melkor is in, destruction). The fact that Aulë is compared to Melkor in terms of skill and knowledge suggests that there is probably a greater similarity between the two of them in those areas than with other Valar. However, Aulë demonstrates several virtues that Melkor lacks: namely, the ability to work as part of a whole, and appreciate the creation itself (especially as a form of praise for Ilúvatar) rather than the possession of it. It is also worthwhile to note that Aulë created the Dwarves apparently against the will of Ilúvatar, at first glance in a similar manner to how Melkor vainly desired to create things outside of Ilúvatar's influence. However, when Ilúvatar confronts him about his reasons, Aulë responds that he "did not desire such lordship. I desired things other than I am, to love and to teach them, so that they too might perceive the beauty of Eä, which thou hast caused to be... the making of things is in my heart from my own making by thee" (The Silmarillion, 37-38). Even when Aulë "did a Melkor," so to speak, and tried creating things outside of the permission of Ilúvatar, he only did it out of a desire to see Ilúvatar's vision honored. He owned up to his mistake, and as a result Ilúvatar allowed him to continue with his project (The Silmarillion, 38). On another interesting side note, the conversation between Eru Ilúvatar and Aulë also adds to the Theodical discussion, because Aulë's actions are distinctly outside of Ilúvatar's plan (The Silmarillion, 38-39), which would imply that Eru is not all powerful, and therefore would also imply that Eru genuinely did not want Melkor to Fall, and could not prevent him from Falling. This probability and the comparison between the two Valar show that Melkor's Fall is largely his own fault.

        As it turns out, Eru Ilúvatar may have planned for Melkor's contribution of discord to Ainulindalë, but Melkor's Fall was likely out of his control. As such, the blame and the cause for Melkor Falling into Darkness lies with his progressively deteriorating moral standing. Over the course of Ainulindalë, he immerses himself deeper and deeper into greed, envy, and his own ego, and refuses to accept his place as part of a whole-- part of a team. By comparison, the discord that his theme causes in Ainulindalë is quite benign.

--GCE

*"Ainulindalë" refers to the text. "Ainulindalë," without the italics, refers to the event.

Hearing the Unhearable

 On Wednesday, we compared a few pieces of music and discussed what example most closely resembled the Music of Creation. Elements of the music such as the unison, harmony, choral nature of the piece, use of words, lack of words and so on all play roles into fitting what we think of as the Music of the Ainur. Tolkien presents us with the picture of the music, saying, “Then the voices of the Ainur, like unto harps and lutes, and pipes and trumpets, and viols and organs, and like unto countless choirs singing with words, began to fashion the theme of Iluvatar to a great music; and a sound arose of endless interchanging melodies, woven in harmonies, that passed beyond hearing both in the depths and in the heights.” In this description he paints a picture of the music being orchestral, choral, harmonious, but also unknowable. Matt made the argument that names and words are necessary for creation. I see this point as it makes sense in language that the power of the name has a power to it. Such as when God in Genesis gave the Light the name of Day and the darkness the name of Night. Tolkien even directly says that the Ainur are “like unto countless choirs singing with words.” Although he says that they are singing with words, he also likens the voices of the Ainur to instruments. This direct contradiction plays into the idea that the music “passed beyond hearing both in the depths and in the heights.” In other words, no matter what music we say sounds most like the music of creation, it cannot even come close to the true music because it is “so immeasurable.” Mortals cannot possibly comprehend the music as the music, the names, and the words are directly tied with Creative power that mortals have no access to. In the example of water, in which “lives yet the echo of the Music of the Ainur more than in any substance else that is in the world, and many of the Children of Iluvatar hearken still unsated to the voices of the sea, and yet know not for what they listen.” They “know not for what they listen” because they cannot comprehend it. Tolkien even describes this with the Children of Illuvatar as he says “Elves and Men were devised by Iluvatar alone” and “they comprehended not fully that part of the theme when it was propounded to them.”

              Music we have is also ineffective in encapsulating the “loud, and vain, and endlessly repeated” music that Melkor broght forth. The music that at first had “no flaws” (which is something that the human mind cannot imagine fully in and of itself) being tainted by Melkor’s attempt to “increase the power and glory of the part assigned to himself” brought forth a “war of sound in which music was lost.” The music itself was still beautiful at brought about “surpassing beauty” in which the things that Melkor brought about made it even more beautiful. Eru tells Melkor that he “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” as well as telling Melkor that he “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.” The sheer scale of the music, the elements of bringing about physical reality as well as emotion is sublime.

              All of this adds up to the idea of language and the power of language is divided into two types of power. The power of perception and the power of Creation. Mortals have the power to use language to perceive how they see Creation, and thus alter its meaning and mental image (such as how mortals can view Melkor’s additions to the song as evil or see them as challenges that make goodness a possibility). Illuvatar and his Ainur have the power of Creation and can use unknowable language to craft reality and give their power to it. It may be possible that at the end of days, these two powers of language will be used together as the second music comes to pass. Music that, compared to the Ainulindule, “has been said that a greater still shall be made before Iluvatar by the choirs of the Ainur and the Children of Iluvatar after the end of days.”

              A slightly unrelated concept I have been thinking about is that of free-will. Both for Men as Eru bestowed upon them the gift that “the hearts of Men should seek beyond the world and find no rest therein; but they should have a virtue to fashion their life, amid the powers and chances of the world, beyond the Music of the Ainur, which is as fate to all things else” as well as for the Ainur who came from Illluvatar’s thought. Melkor is described as having his own ambitions for the secret Fire and for power as “being alone he had begun to conceive thoughts of his own unlike those of his brethren.” Do these different thoughts mean he has free-will. Eru tells him that “that no theme may be played that has not its uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite” and so does this mean he as no will of his own? Men are told to “resemble Melko most of all the Ainur” but Melkor cannot create separately from Eru’s design and theme. I have no answer to this but found the comparison interesting.

-Jared Zuker