A Ghostly Link between Tolkien and Charles Williams?

I was reading Charles Williams' 1945 novel All Hallows' Eve yesterday morning. It's a rather spooky story, the first chapter of which is told from the point of view of a ghost, a young woman named Lester Furnival. At first she doesn't realize that she's dead, that she's been killed by a plane that crashed on the streets of London in the last days of the Second World War. She walks the streets of a ghostly version of London. She encounters her husband, who is still alive, and for a moment they are able to see each other. But he vanishes, as if the living are as ghostly to the dead as the dead are to the living. She then meets a friend, also dead, whom she had been on her way to meet when she had been killed. 

In the second chapter, Lester's husband, Richard, is walking through London several months after the war has ended. His wife has been dead and buried for a while now. Then suddenly he sees her.

She was [there]. It was along Holborn that he was walking, for he had half-thought of going that night to look for Simon’s hall or house or whatever it was. And there, on the very pavement [i.e., sidewalk], the other side of a crossing, she stood. He thought for the first second that there was someone with her.... They stood on either side that Holborn by-way, and gazed [across the street at each other].

I then recalled a letter from 3 April 1944 in which Tolkien recounted a visit he made to his hometown of Birmingham and his old school, King Edward's, two days earlier. Unhappy about the damage done to the city by Nazi bombs and (even worse) by the modern architecture of (too many) new buildings, he writes, "I couldn't stand much of that or the ghosts that rose from the pavements" (Letters #58 p. 101). 

Now it's nothing new or surprising that someone who survived the Great War should speak of ghosts, or even write about seeing the ghosts of the dead on the streets of London, and its well-known that Tolkien lost two extremely close friends to the Somme, both of whom he knew from King Edward's School. They were not all, of course. Over 1,400 students and masters served, and over 250 died. Tolkien will have known a good many of these. 

What I found interesting is that on 10 November 1943, Williams had read two chapters of his new novel All Hallows' Eve to Tolkien (Letters #51b p. 89). By the middle of October, according to his biographer, Grevel Lindop, Williams thought he had about twenty-five percent of the novel done (Lindop p. 379). So the first two chapters (out of ten) sounds about right for what Williams read to Tolkien. Years later Tolkien would claim that he had been "in fact a sort of assistant mid-wife at the birth of All Hallows Eve, read aloud to us [i.e., Tolkien, C. S. Lewis & other Inklings] as it was composed" (Letters #259 p. 489). Tolkien and Lewis both provided feedback, but, Tolkien avers, that Lewis was the greater influence. Still, Tolkien seems to remember himself as quite engaged with the book. 

So, we have Tolkien speaking figuratively about ghosts rising from the pavement in war damaged Birmingham just under six months after Williams had read to him about a ghost appearing on the pavement of war damaged London. This could just be a coincidence, and it probably is, but it might also be a recollection, conscious or not, of some strange and striking writing by Charles Williams.

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Grevel Lindop. Charles Williams: The Third Inkling. Oxford University Press 2015.

"I will bear Frodo, though I do not know the way."

So I was reading Tolkien et la mémoire de l'antiquité, or Tolkien and the Memory of Antiquity. It's a recent very interesting book by Isabelle Pantin and Sandra Provini on Tolkien's reception of Greek and Latin sources like Vergil's Aeneid. 

"il s'agisse ... pour Frodo d'accepter le fardeau de l'Anneau plutot que de jouire d'une existence paisable dans le Comte."

"for Frodo ... it is a question of accepting the burden of the Ring rather than enjoying a peaceful existence in the Shire."

The word fardeau means burden. That's what caught my eye. It made me think of a line in the famous "To be, or not to be" soliloquy in Hamlet Act 3 Scene 1. Hamlet asks "who would fardels bear?" That is, "who would bear burdens?" (if they didn't have to).

Me being me, I immediately began reimagining crucial moments in The Lord of the Rings. 

At Rivendell:

"I will bear fardels," [Frodo] said, "though I do not know the way."

And on the slopes of Mt Doom:

"Come, Mr. Frodo!" he cried. ‘I can’t bear fardels for you, but I can bear you."

 

Foalókë & The Digital Tolkien Project -- How it Helps my Work, part 2

At the end of last year I shared a post on how The Digital Tolkien Project helps my work, in particular in studying the story of Túrin as told in The Book of Lost Tales. I now have a little more to show on the same subject, picking up more or less where I left off.

Parallel to this use of Turambar is that of Foalókë, the other name in the title. Tolkien employs Foalókë eighteen times in this story (Tauber, “‘Foalókë’ in The Book of Lost Tales. ”). The first two times come when the narrator is giving the title at the beginning (LT II.70). The last sixteen all occur after Túrin has met the dragon and the dragon has won his hoard (91, 94-99, 103-04, 105-06, 108, 108). Significantly, for according to the “Qenya Lexicon” Foalókë designates a lókë, a dragon, who guards a foa, a hoard (“The Qenya Lexicon” 38).[1] The single use of just lókë, moreover, is found precisely at the narrator’s transition from characterizing lust for gold as a trait common to all dragons to identifying and explaining the actions taken by Glaurung in pursuit of his lust: “Thus it was that this lókë….” (LT II.85). Túrin becomes Turambar and Glaurung becomes Foalókë in the same scene.

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[1] With foalókë Tolkien is likely thinking of OE hordweard, “guardian of the hoard,” a poetical word used several times of dragons in Beowulf (Fulk et al. 2293, 2302, 2554, 2593; “DOE: Hord-Weard”). It’s not impossible that Tolkien intends lókë to remind the reader of the treacherous and deceptive Norse god, Loki. He thus implies to the reader the untrustworthiness of a dragon through the similarity of the sounds.

Túrin's "tide of ill" in The Book of Lost Tales (LT II.87)

In The Book of Lost Tales the narrator of Túrin's story says of his choosing to pursue the orcs who had taken Failivrin (Finduilas) captive says that his life could have turned out differently if he had done so. As the last clause of sentence indicates, the dragon, Glomund (Glaurung), was of the same opinion and refused to let that happen.

Maybe in that desperate venture [Túrin] had found* a kindly and swift death or perchance an ill one, and maybe he had rescued* [Finduilas] and found* happiness, yet not thus was he fated to earn the name he had taken anew, and the drake reading his mind suffered him not thus lightly to escape his tide of ill. 

(LT II.87)

That last phrase--“to escape his tide of ill”--is quite lovely, but as enigmatic as it is evocative. Does tide here allude to the unstoppable tides of the ocean, or does it mean time or season as in yuletide? The latter meaning is older by far. Old English tid** appears in the Old English version of Bede's Ecclesiastical History of England, in the gospel of Matthew in the Lindisfarne Gospels, and in Beowulf (147). The former is not found before the 14^th Century. 

In The Book of Lost Tales Tolkien uses tide in both senses, but mostly in reference to the sea. The context, however, normally contains one or more other words that establish the connection to the natural phenomenon. 

So, for example:

"but the Ainur put it into [Tuor's] heart to climb from the gully when he did, or had he been whelmed in the incoming tide" (LT II.151).

"The went the Man of the Sea out when the tide began to creep in slow and shallow over the long flats" (LT II.317)

"When that tide again forsook the Hungry Sands..." (LT II.318).

But there are examples where it refers to time. Thus, high-tide*** in the first example below refers not to the sea but to a high-time, that is, a time of celebration or festival, like Christmas. And day-tide**** in the second means simply daytime.

"this year you will celebrate the death of Karkaras with a high-tide greater than even before, O King" (LT II.231).

Of this converse of Eriol and Vairë upon the lawn that fair day-tide came it that Eriol set out not many days thereafter (LT I.95).

Some of the poetry from the war years, which Christopher Tolkien includes in The Book of Lost Tales, also signifies time by tid:

Still their old heart unmoved nor weeps nor grieves, 
Uncomprehending of this evil tide, 
Today’s great sadness, or Tomorrow’s fear 

(LT II.296)

So, again, which meaning of tide is Tolkien using here? While it could be a figurative use of tide to suggest the overpowering, irresistible force of evil, as it is at LT II.232--"valiantly they warded the palace of the king until the tide of numbers bore them back"--the "tide of ill" which the dragon has in mind is the calamitous life of woe and sorrow to which Melkor had cursed Túrin and his family. As the narrator indicates earlier in the sentence by saying that Túrin and Finduilas might have "found happiness," he is thinking about a span of time, not being swept away by the force of a moment. Tolkien being Tolkien, however, he might mean both (as a reader rightly commented below).

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*In less archaic English we would say "would have found" for "had found," and "would have rescued" for "had rescued" and "would have ... found" for "had ... found."

** “Tide, N., Sense I.1.” Oxford English Dictionary, Oxford UP, December 2025, https://doi.org/10.1093/OED/5003698957.

*** “Day Tide, N., Sense 1.” Oxford English Dictionary, Oxford UP, September 2025, https://doi.org/10.1093/OED/9829095802.

**** “High Tide, N., Sense I.1.” Oxford English Dictionary, Oxford UP, September 2025, https://doi.org/10.1093/OED/1021614943.

Once Upon A Time at City Hall

About 20 years ago a friend invited me to attend her wedding ceremony at down at the Municipal Building down at City Hall in Manhattan. When we arrived, there were people lined up all down the corridor waiting their turn. No party was larger than five or six people. Space is limited of course. 

As I stood looking down the hallway, I saw people of every color, every race, speaking dozens of different languages and wearing the traditional wedding attire of at least as many ethnic and religious groups. Nor was everyone wearing the traditional dress of their own group. My friend, who was of the whitest of white wasp DAR stock, wore a beautiful red silk qipao (Chinese wedding dress) she had custom made. After the ceremony we went to have dim sum in Chinatown. Quite a few Chinese women came over to ask my friend about her dress and compliment her on it. 

I think about that day a lot. We were all different but all the same. We all just let each other be whatever else we were besides New Yorkers or Americans. I don't think I was ever as proud of being an American, because what I saw was the dream America dreams of itself, even if the waking reality has rarely measured up to the dream for a lot of people, even if it's becoming more and more of a nightmare for those who aren't white and those who believe in that dream.