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

Ainulindalë: Poly or Monotheist?

Tolkien was a devout Catholic his entire life. It seems almost impossible for a creation story from such a man, unique as it was, to have absolutely no influence from his religion. The Ainulindalë has heavy overtones from the first creation story in Genesis. Just as God first creates, so does Eru, “The One”, or Iluvatar, create. Of course, while God created the heavens and the earth, Iluvatar has created his thought children, the Ainur, or the Holy Ones. And here we arrive at the question: what, exactly, are the Ainur? They have sort of Godly powers, yet also angelic-like attributes. What exactly are they, and how exactly do they fit into the religion, so to speak, of the world of the Lord of the Rings?

Tolkien relies heavily on his belief that things in the world are spoken into creation. Part of this plays into the importance of his languages in his world, how his languages came to him, and then from there his world was created. Without his languages, there would be no Middle Earth, and no Lord of the Rings.

This idea that creation is spoken also appears in Genesis, chapter 1. In His creation of the heavens and the earth, God says, “Let there be light,” (Gen.1.3) and then light is created. God speaks, and only after He says out loud what He desires in His creation, is it then created. Without His words, there would be no light.

With this spoken power of creation, in Tolkien’s creation story, in the Ainulindalë, the central god figure, Iluvatar, uses his thought-children to create the world. An interesting detail in this story, however, is that Iluvatar, instead of speaking the Ainur, his first creation, into existance, he thinks them into existence. After that, he speaks to them, teaching them harmonies and music. The Ainur sing to him, and they are all in harmony, at least at first. They have all come from Iluvatar, and all that they know is from the part of his mind from which they came.

It is interesting that they come from him because it seems that, beyond teaching the Ainur all that they know, Iluvatar does not do much creating himself. He tells “to them things greater and more wonderful than he had yet revealed” (Silmarillion, p. 54-55), through a new and marvelous musical theme, however after he creates the theme, the Ainur, by singing, create the world instead. And then when they finally do go down onto the world, it has not actually been created according to how Iluvatar has dictated yet. In order for the world to become as splendid as Iluvatar revealed to them through song, they have to create it themselves.

The Ainur are perhaps part of Iluvatar, and they all carry a part of himself within them, however, are they simply extensions of himself? He created the plans for the world, and showed the plans to the Ainur, much like an architect with their designs, and then left it for the Ainur to create, like the architect to their builders. Does this count as creating it himself? Whether or not it does, this shows that the Ainur have within them some power of creation, or perhaps subcreation. They are able to create things themselves.

Angels, on the other hand, do not seem to possess this power of even subcreation. In the Bible, it is only God that creates things. Adam names things, but only God creates them. Even in the Jubilees, the angels that are created do not themselves create the specific aspects of the world that they are assigned to, they just seem to take care of or represent their part. Angels may come from God, but they do not seem to be as connected to Him, or as much a part of Him, as the Ainur are to Iluvatar.

Finally we have reached the question, what are the Ainur? Are they some sort of angel? Must an angel not have the power of subcreation for it to stay as an angel? The Ainur seem to be, perhaps, more powerful than an angel, simply because of their powers for subcreation, but they do not necessarily seem to be on the level of a God, simply because Iluvatar is so much more powerful and knowing than they are. They can only create within what they have learned from him, and within his designs. Even Melkor, who wanted to become as powerful as Iluvatar, and create his own independent universe for and by his own power, was not able to do so without Iluvatar somehow being more powerful, and creating a melody that even the dissonance of Melkor could not ruin.

So are the Ainur some more powerful form of an angel? Yet another similarity with angels is that they sing. What are angels most known for? They are most known for singing praises to God. The Ainur also sing, and through their singing create the world.

Iluvatar tells the Ainur, after he has unveiled to them the great musical themes, that “since I have kindled you with the Flame Imperishable, you shall show forth your powers in adorning this theme, each with his own thoughts and devices, if he will. But I will sit and hearken, and be glad that through you great beauty has been wakened into song,” (Silmarillion, p. 55). To some extent, he is leaving the Ainur to their own powers, which he has bestowed upon them. In this way they seem to be more than angels, with their power, yet less than full-fledged gods.

Whether or not they serve the purposes of minor gods is still uncertain, however, and so is the answer for if the Ainulindalë is a polytheist or monotheist story. The Ainur serve their purposes, those of creation, and of song. Through their creation, however, one thing is clear: that they are the thought-children of Iluvatar, and that he trusts them with the world.

-CS

It’s Time to Start the Music

           Lots of mythologies have creation stories detailing how the world was formed, and by whom it was made. Tolkien’s Legendarium is no different, with the very first pages of The Silmarillion illustrating the creation of the Ainur by Eru’s very thought followed by the Music of Creation. The topic we ended class with on Wednesday revolved with what exactly the music of the Ainur might sound like, and how exactly music might function as a method of creation. I think that it’s necessary to mention that the Ainur’s music accomplishes no actual creation. Tolkien himself acknowledges this in his letter to Milton Waldman: “These latter [Valar] are as we should say angelic powers whose function is to exercise delegated authority in their spheres (of rule and government, not creation, making or re-making” (Letters 146). Rather, it’s through their singing to the themes set forth by Eru that they establish their domains. Ulmo sung most of water, Manwë the air, and Aulë the earth, and so these were their spheres. Music functions as a method of imparting knowledge and influence over specific areas, but it in no way creates. The Ainur were granted a vision of the creation their music had wrought, but it is in fact their responsibility to actually produce this vision. Arda is not made through the Music of Creation, but by the will of Eru, and the Ainur who entered Ëa had to shape the world and sub-create in order to achieve the vision granted to them.

            In the Ainulindalë, there are specific references to Time, suggesting that by existing outside of Ëa, Eru and Ainur exist outside of time. The story told to the elves by the Valar specifically note that Eru “chose a place for their habitation in the Deeps of Time” (Silmarillion 7) and that before the creation of the world Eru and the Ainur existed in the “Timeless Halls” (Silmarillion 10). While the word timeless could be construed in a way where it is possible that time still existed in the primordial dwelling of Eru, in an early draft of the Ainulindalë Tolkien writes that “there was Ilúvatar, the All-Father, and he made the first Ainur, the holy ones, the offspring of his thought, and they were with him before Time”(HME 5 171). Taken to mean existing without time, the narrative structure of the Ainulindalë seems to fall apart. Without Time, there could be no chronological series of events, at least as we could understand it. However, I realize that The Silmarillion is told by the elves, who also would not have a concept of events happening without time. It would be like a human being able to imagine exactly what 4D, 5D, …, nD  space would look like: not possible. Therefore, the narrative delivered might be the best attempt at reconciling their inability to comprehend timelessness. However, timelessness has an interesting implication on the Music of Creation, because theoretically , without the chronological structure that time gives to the story of creation, the music of the Ainur might have been one great chord that heralded in the creation of the world. A “big bang” of sorts, with grandeur on par with God saying “Let there be light” or even Eru saying “Ëa! Let these things Be!” (Silmarillion 9).

            Let’s consider the opposite , where time maybe does have some meaning in the Void. Music is definitely an interesting method of creation because of the narrative quality that music has. The themes set forth by Eru give the Ainur a basis of sorts for their music, and from these themes the Ainur develop variations and harmony that represent some concept of creation. The narrative value of the Ainur’s music is distinctly seen when Eru gives them the vision of what they had made, and the vision showed them a series of events, a history. However, when some of the Ainur came into the world, the vision likely diverged from the events depicted in Tolkien’s Legendarium. This is like the difference in what a composer intends when writing music versus what performers interpret when reading the music. Inevitably, a performer will put a personal touch on the music: they could change the volume of parts of the music, manipulate the tempo, or even make alterations to solos a composer might have included.

In some sense, the Music of Creation somewhat mimics the creation story of the Christian religion because in Jubilees, God creates all of the angels on the first day. The angels, notably, have a sort of domain, such as “angels of the spirit of fire,” “angels of the spirit of the winds,” and “the angels of the spirits of cold and heat and winter and springtime and harvest and summer” (The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha 55). God’s angels and Eru’s Ainur function in two very, very key ways: they both sing and they have domains. Angels’ primary purpose might be to minister to God, but in the beginning the Ainur almost exclusively sang for Eru. Now, when developing his Legendarium–or discovering it, as he has claimed on several occasions–Tolkien writes of a pantheon that “can yet be accepted– well, shall we say baldly, by a mind that believes in the Blessed Trinity” (Letters 146). While he was an ardent opponent to Allegory, and furiously denies any purposeful Allegory within his Legendarium, there is a glimmer of similarity between Tolkien’s creation story and that of the Christian religion.

-NP

great music, 10/10 would listen to again

“But when the Valar entered into Ëa they were at first astounded and at a loss.” 

The existence of Ëa begins with the world’s first gotcha moment. Enter the Valar, mighty and musical and desiring this new world that they have sung, and what do they find? Darkness. The world is unformed and uninhabitable. The vision of the world was just that, a vision, leaving the question: What was the point of the Great Music?

The Great Music of the Ainur seems to be the fundamental act of creation, yet the real formation of the world does not begin until the Valar enter the world and get to work. In all their laborious struggle to create a suitable habitation for the Children and right the wrongs of Melkor, they strive to achieve the vision of the Great Music, only to find in the end that “all things were in hue and shape other than the Valar had at first intended” (Tolkien 12). What then, was the point of the Great Music in the first place? Even though by taking part in the music and seeing the vision the Valar know “much of what was, and is, and is to come” (6), they are also surprised by the way things turn out and make decisions that catalyze tragedy. 

Leaving aside the function of the Great Music as providing a system of fate (which takes us into free will territory), I want to examine the connection between the Great Music and thought. The Ainur themselves come from Eru’s thought, and their music is the pure expression of thought reflecting “that part of the mind of Iluvatar from which he came” (3). As the Ainur listen to each other sing, they increase in understanding of each other (and thus of the mind of Iluvatar), and consequently grow in harmony even while they sing apart. The Great Music is their first major chance to express that harmony and sub-create together. Note that in what Christopher Tolkien labels as version B of Ainulindalë, the music sounds good to Eru because the “flaws in the music were few” (emphasis added). The Ainur are not in perfect musical unity, but their harmony is enough for Iluvatar.

Melkor, on the other hand, is purposefully in disharmony with the others. He effectively reveals his thought through his music, thoughts that are “unlike those of his brethren” (4), thoughts that have come to him because he spends so much time alone in the Void. Melkor’s evil is rooted in his separation from the Ainur’s unity. His discordant music brings chaos and cacophony, giving rise in turn to the violent elements in the world and presumably heralding Melkor’s own destructive role on earth. Melkor’s given motivation—a desire for glory and power—is the motivation of one who sees only himself, and not the unity of the others. As a result, disharmony is woven into the fabric of the world; chaos breaks through the original order of the music.

It seems that thought is tied to harmony, or lack thereof. By describing music at the creation of the world, Tolkien invokes the Pythagorean idea of a heavenly harmony that orders the heavens. Music is an “ordering force of the universe” (Flieger 57). Melkor’s very act of disruption, which rejects the principle of order for which the music stands, is the embodiment of chaos. Thought, it would seem, is the driving force between order and chaos.

The Great Music is the thought that provides a foundation of order (with some chaos) for the world before it even comes into being. It is the blueprint that assures us that everything has a place, though the finished product is not quite identical, what with the confusion of the Valar and the actions of those pesky humans who seem to give no thought to the Music’s design. Without the Great Music, there cannot be a world. I would argue that it would be impossible for Eru to send the Flame Imperishable into the Void and for the Valar to begin their labors if not for the Great Music, or some other form of thought. Thought must come before action. Order must come before being.

The same thing happens in the Bible. In John, the Word is with God from the beginning, and through the Word, all things are made. “Let us make mankind in our image,” says God. Only after he expresses his thought, his word, he forms humans out of dust.  The Greek logos, from which we get word “had the force of order, principle of organization, harmony. It meant something very close to music in the Pythagorean sense” (Flieger 59). The Word and the Great Music have similar functions, being indicative of thought and order that must come before said thought can be reified.

If we assume, as Tolkien must have, that there is an underlying order to the world, and that thought is the source of order, then thought must come before action. The Great Music must precede Ëa; the Word must precede Creation.

The question, then, is not “Why Great Music” but rather “Why Great Musicians?” The Great Music, after all, comprises individual voices in harmony. Personhood lies at the heart of the creative act; it is the Ainur, Eru’s thought personified, who sing the order of the world. When individuals like Melkor erupt into discord, the whole music is affected. The harmony of the music points not just to order, but also to the relationships between persons: if order is at the foundation of creation, personhood and the relationships between persons is at the foundation of order. What does this mean for the world that Tolkien has created? What does this mean for our own? Why Great Musicians?

To come full circle, we can narrow this question down even further, to “Why Valar?” Not only is thought personified, but it then takes form and enters into the world, binds itself to the world, in order to build it. Personal engagement is required in order to engage in the sub-creative act; the Ainur who stayed behind do not get any part in the physical forming of the world. The Valar are no Jesus(es?), but they certainly seem to run parallel paths. Both are presented as agents of an ordering force underlying Creation. Both enter into the world which they played a part in creating. But here the differences begin, for the Valar are tied to the world, while Jesus overcomes the world. The Valar are fallible and withdraw from Middle-Earth, while Jesus is God and very much in the thick of things. So sure, the Word became flesh, but why must the Music?

Order and creation, personhood and incarnation. The issues presented by the Great Music have weighty implications for the way we view creation, and I’ll readily admit that I don’t have answers to the questions I’ve raised. But if even the Valar were astounded and at a loss, I think I’m in good company.

KY

Works Cited

Flieger, Verlyn. Splintered Light: Logos and Language in Tolkien’s World. Kent State University Press, 2002.

Tolkien, J.R.R. The Silmarillion. Ballantine Books, 1977.

Creation begets Sub-Creation

From Mythopoeia: 

“Although now long estranged,

Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.

Dis-graced he may be, yet is not de-throned,

and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned:

Man, Sub-creator, the refracted Light

through whom is splintered from a single White

to many hues, and endlessly combined

in living shapes that move from mind to mind.

Though all the crannies of the world we filled

with Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build

Gods and their houses out of dark and light,

and sowed the seed of dragons- 'twas our right

(used or misused). That right has not decayed:

we make still by the law in which we're made.”

Apart from Leaf by Niggle, Mythopoeia, and On Fairy Stories, the Ainulindalë is one of the essential works to digest in order to understand sub-creation, as it serves as a foundational elucidation of what Tolkien sees at the heart of sub-creation. 

When the Ainur gazed upon the Music, they were entranced. And when the grand plan was beginning to be revealed to them, they discovered the Children of Ilúvatar, products completely of Eru’s own making, and “when they beheld them, the more did they love them” (Ainulindalë). Beholding the habitation and the Children, their “hearts rejoiced in light, and their eyes beholding many colors were filled with gladness” and “many of the most mighty among them bent all their thought and their desire towards that place” (Ainulindalë). Looking upon Creation, the Ainur “had become enamored of the beauty of the vision and engrossed in the unfolding of the World” (Ainulindalë). Knowing of the great love stirring in their hearts, Eru invited the Ainur to enter into the Creation, if they should so chose. But their entry was conditional: “It is the necessity of their love, that their power should thenceforward be contained and bounded in the World, to be within it for ever, until it is complete” (Ainulindalë). Despite this heavy toll, “many of the greatest and most fair [Ainur] took leave of Ilúvatar and descended into it” (Ainulindalë). Even Melkor, perhaps overwhelmed by the beauty, had been convinced himself at first “that he desired to go thither and order all things for the good of the Children,” in spite of the constraint it would place on his power (Ainulindalë). Upon entering, each Ainur picked up his own Niggle’s leaf. Ulmo took up mastering water, Manwë the air and winds, and Aulë the fabric of the earth. And from their love and through their efforts, they began hoisting in the Creation they had seen, and prepared the habitation, Eä, for the Children of Ilúvatar. 

The Ainur display an overwhelming love and awe of Creation, and through this profound respect, which comes through recognition of the validity of said awe and love, for Eru and his Creation, they want nothing more than to enter into it and do all they can to contribute and participate in it. In other words, the Ainur are driven to sub-create. Tolkien writes, “a good craftsman loves his material, and has a knowledge and feeling for clay, stone and wood which only the art of making can give” (On Fairy Stories). And that is precisely what most of the Ainur do. Melkor is in such awe and has such respect for Eru’s Creation that he is overcome with jealousy for Eru after entering Eä, as he “wished himself to have subjects and servants, and to be called Lord, and to be master over other wills” (Ainulindalë).  As a direct contrast to Melkor and a representation of the good craftsman, Tolkien presents Aulë, who is given “skill and knowledge scare less than to Melkor, but the delight and pride in Aulë is in the deed of making, and in the thing made, and neither in possession nor in his own mastery” (Ainulindalë). But both are clearly working on the basis of respect (albeit dashed by jealousy in the one case) for Creation.  

It should be noted that even Melkor, depraved as he was in intent, has the right to sub-create and his work is made no less legitimate because of his intent. “Fantasy can, of course, be carried to excess. It can be ill done. It can be put to evil uses. It may even delude the minds out of which it came. But of what human thing in this fallen world is that not true? […] Abusus non tollit usum. Fantasy remains a human right: we make in our measure and in our derivative mode, because we are made: and not only made, but made in the image and likeness of a Maker” (On Fairy Stories). Just as Man is made in the image of his Maker, the Ainur are “the offspring of [Ilúvatar’s] thought” and so they share that right with us (Ainulindalë). To borrow language from Mythopoeia, the Ainur make by the same law in which we, and they, were made. In another elucidation as applicable to Fallen Melkor as to Fallen Man, Tolkien states the Christian may guess that “in Fantasy he may actually assist in the effoliation and multiple enrichment of creation. All tales may come true; and yet, at the last, redeemed, they may be as like and as unlike the forms that we give them as Man, finally redeemed, will be like and unlike the fallen that we know” (On Fairy Stories). Even Melkor’s works are included in Creation in the end. In spite of all his perverted motives and efforts to destroy, ultimately his works will be redeemed and turned into something beautiful, beyond the comprehension of everyone else, especially Melkor. “And thou, Melkor, shalt see that no theme may be played that hath not its uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite. For he that attempteth this shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful, which he himself hath not imagined,” Ilúvatar says, “And thou, Melkor wilt discover all the secret thoughts of thy mind, and wilt perceive that they are but a part of the whole and tributary to its glory” (Ainulindalë).

Every sub-creator “wishes in some measure to be a real maker, or hopes that he is drawing on reality: hopes that the peculiar quality of this secondary world (if not all the details) are derived from Reality, or are flowing into it” (On Fairy Stories). Melkor desires to be a real maker. Aulë and the Ainur strive to have their work flow into the Creation they foresaw in the Music. Outside the Ainulindalë we have Niggle deriving his painting from Reality and, on a more meta level, we have Tolkien’s own writing of the Ainulindalë.  Essentially what Tolkien is doing with his legendarium is the same as what many of us will be doing with the fanfic/sub-creation of our final projects, which in turn is the same process the Ainur were participating in in the beginning. We are all so moved by the Creation that we all want to add in a little piece of our selves and partake in it. Even the apocryphal entries like Jubilees are sub-creations. Whether they are done in a Melkor-esque way, rooted in arrogance and attempting to assert itself as Creation, or an Aulë-esque way, a genuine attempt at participating in true Creation, is another question. But undeniably they, too, are sub-creations, which are naturally driven by respect, or a recognition of the validity of awe for Creation. All of us, from Melkor, Aulë, and Niggle, to the apocryphal writers, to Tolkien himself, are only attempting to add our bits to the Pot of Soup, the Cauldron of Story, Reality, to Creation.

~Tom B(ombadil)