From a Gift in Death to the Gift of Death: Túrin and the Doom of Men

In The Book of Lost Tales death is not the Gift of Ilúvatar to Men, at least not in the sense we usually think of it, and perhaps not at all. The spirits of Men do not leave the world for points unknown outside the physical universe. They are just as bound to Arda as the Elves. Just as the Elves do, Men go to the Undying Lands upon their death. There Fui Nienna judges them based on their deeds while alive, and she sends them to various afterlives within time and space where they will remain until the world ends. While Nienna's role with Men is set up as parallel to Mandos' with the Elves, unlike the Elves, Men never return to life and the Great Lands (Middle-earth) as the Elves do.

With the Sketch of the Mythology first written in 1926 it becomes apparent that Tolkien's conception of death for Men has begun changing. The Sketch was meant to provide background for The Lay of the Children of Húrin, which allows us to conclude that the Lay would very likely have seen death in the same way. Now, Men depart the world entirely after a time spent in Mandos, which seems to house the spirits of both kindreds, though apart from each other. No role for Nienna is mentioned. No one knows where the spirits of Men go after Mandos or who has charge of them once they leave. It is the same in the Quenta Noldorinwa of 1930 and its successors later in the mid-1930s, the Ainulindalë and the Quenta Silmarillion of 1937.*

The Book of Lost Tales says that death is "one with this gift of power" given to Men by Ilúvatar. "This gift" has already been described earlier on the same page:

"But to Men I will give a new gift, and a greater," [said Ilúvatar]. Therefore he devised that Men should have a free virtue** whereby within the limits of the powers and substances and chances of the world they might fashion and design their life beyond even the original Music of the Ainur that is as fate to all things else. This he did that of their operations everything should in shape and deed be completed, and the world fulfilled unto the last and smallest.

(LT I.59)

Now the Sketch and the Quenta Noldorinwa do not mention this, since their accounts of the Music are almost non-existent, but the Ainulindalë does, with a very interesting difference, which appears in bold:

"But to Men I will give a new gift," [said Ilúvatar].  

Therefore he willed 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. And of their operation everything should be, in shape and deed, completed, and the world fulfilled unto the last and smallest.

(Lost Road 163).

By adding these words here Tolkien brings death to the fore and gives it (at least) equal weight with the power bestowed by Ilúvatar, which was previously not the case. He also binds the experience of the hearts of Men, which are within this world while yearning for another that is attainable only through death, to the astounding power or virtue he is giving them within this world. 

Without these new words here, the declaration later on in both texts that death is one with this power/virtue, death seems concomitant with the power or perhaps even a limit placed on it, as it does in "The Music of the Ainur." With these words, however, Men's power almost seems to proceed from their mortality and freedom from the circles of Arda. Indeed the word "freedom" is by far the most significant change in this latter sentence.

"The Music of the Ainur" in The Book of Lost Tales reads: "It is however of one with this gift of power that the Children of Men dwell only a short time in the world alive, yet do not perish utterly for ever..." (LT 59). 

The text of the 1930s Ainulindalë reads: "It is one with this gift of freedom that the children of Men dwell only a short space in the world alive, and yet are not bound to it, nor shall perish utterly for ever" (Lost Road 163).

The emphasis has shifted here. In "The Music of the Ainur," the power/virtue gifted to Men is of primary importance. Death comes along with or limits this power. In the Ainulindalë death is at least as important, and probably more so, because the power derives from the nature of Man's relationship to death.

Parallel with this development, as it were, we find the evolving story of Men. In The Book of Lost Tales Men are few and more often than not treacherous and hostile. The Elves, the Noldor in particular, look down on Men from the moment the Valar tell them that someday Men will exist (LT I.150). The stories of Túrin and Tuor play key roles in the narrative and are told at length, but The Book of Lost Tales belongs to the Elves even more than the Silmarillion does. That Men are meant to play a crucial part in the defeat of Melkor and the completion of Ilúvatar's plan for the world is equally clear. The elves telling the man, Eriol, these lost tales in the frame narrative know this, and Ulmo's attempts to bring Elves and Men together, especially in "The Fall of Gondolin," demonstrate it. Túrin's life is a catastrophe. Tuor fails to save Gondolin. And Tuor's son, Eärendil, also fails because he arrives too late. (If you are wondering why I've not mentioned Beren, it's because in The Book of Lost Tales he is an Elf, not a Man.)

Throughout the 1920s the significance of Men continues to grow, however. Tolkien spends the first half of the decade almost exclusively on Túrin and his family in The Lay of the Children of Húrin and the second half on The Lay of Leithian, in which the decision to recast Beren as a Man brings death into the story of Beren and Lúthien in a very different way than had been the case in The Book of Lost Tales where both Beren and Lúthien had been Elves. Eärendil now succeeds in his mission to persuade the Valar to rescue Middle-earth from Melkor. Perhaps most telling of all is the growth in importance of Túrin, not during his life -- which remains disastrously horrifying -- but after his death. His afterlife becomes a matter of apocalyptic prophecy. Beginning in The Book of Lost Tales it is prophesied that he will return at the end of time to fight in the Last Battle against Melkor. The Sketch develops this further, making him the one who will slay Melkor on that day, thus avenging himself and his family. The Quenta Noldorinwa and the Quenta Silmarillion go further still. Túrin will not only avenge himself and his family, but all Men.

It won't be surprising then to find that Men as a whole become more prominent in the background to the Great Tales. While the majority of Men in the wars of the First Age still side with Melkor, there is now more than one group of Men, the Men of Dor-Lómin, who prove loyal to the Elves. The House of Hador, from which both Túrin and Tuor (now first cousins) descend. The House of Bëor, to which Beren belongs, appears, as does the House of Haleth, which Túrin comes to lead before the end. These three groups become the Edain, "the Fathers of Men," and as a reward for their sufferings and their service against Melkor, the Valar create for them an island of their own called "Andor," which means "The Land of Gift," but which those who dwelt there came to call Númenor. Though the Númenóreans also receive greater lifespans than other Men, they have an increasingly difficult time accepting that death is a gift, or understanding it even though they do accept it. In both "The Fall of Númenor" and "The Lost Road," the texts of the 1930s in which Tolkien created Númenor and with it the Second Age, death comes to be explicitly spoken of as a gift, "which cometh to Men from Ilúvatar" (Lost Road 25). Even Elendil himself, who accepts that it is a gift, nevertheless seems at a loss to grasp how that is so:

"But Death is not decreed by the Lords: it is the gift of the One, and a gift which in the wearing of time even the Lords of the West shall envy. So the wise of old have said. And though we can perhaps no longer understand that word, at least we have wisdom enough to know that we cannot escape, unless to a worse fate."

(Lost Road 65)

Significantly, the power/virtue we have seen associated with death in earlier texts goes unmentioned. Yet another power receives attention. For Sauron -- also called Thû or Sûr in these texts -- promises the Númenóreans dominion over the earth and eternal life within the world. These he calls "the gifts of Morgoth," which he claims the Valar are keeping from them, but all Men need to do to get what is rightfully theirs is to conquer the Undying Lands (Lost Road 15). This goes rather badly. Númenor is destroyed utterly. Its king and army who "had set foot in the land of the Gods were buried under fallen hills, where legend saith that they lie imprisoned in the Forgotten Caves until the day of Doom and the Last Battle" (Lost Road 15).

This last detail recalls the fate of Men after death in The Book of Lost Tales. All except the most wicked are said to be waiting "in patience till the Great End come" (LT I.77). That they wait patiently suggests they are aware that they have something to do at the end. But what? This may refer to the Second Music in which all Men will participate (LT I.60; Lost Road 163). Yet there may be something else or something more. I would argue that they, too, are waiting for the Last Battle. It's certainly true, as we saw above, that after The Book of Lost Tales Men leave the world entirely after a time in Mandos. But if Túrin can return from Mandos for that battle, why not his fellow Men whom he is fighting to avenge? 

In The Legend of Sigurd and Gudrún, yet another text of the 1930s, Tolkien invents a prophecy that Sigurd, a character with a significant influence over the character of Túrin, will return from Valhalla at Ragnarök and slay the Midgard Serpent, thus saving the world. With him will come the einherjar, the mortal warriors chosen at death to fight alongside the gods at the Last Battle. As Christopher Tolkien observes, it is very difficult not to see Túrin now in Sigurd, since there is no such prophecy about him in Norse mythology and he does not return (S&G 53-54, 63-64, 184) The influence is now flowing from Túrin to Sigurd. And as we also saw above, the prophecy that Túrin will return to fight that day is present from the first telling of his tale in The Book of Lost Tales. Even when every other detail of Túrin's afterlife disappears after The Book of Lost Tales, the prophecy about the Last Battle not only remains, but is further elaborated and given greater significance, from his only being present at the battle in the first version to his being the avenger of all Men in the Quenta Noldorinwa and Quenta Silmarillion.*** 

Nor is this all. Túrin's replacement of Fionwë as the slayer of Melkor accomplishes much more than vengeance. For Fionwë, his prophecy says, "shall destroy the world to destroy his foe" (LT I.219). Túrin, however, saves the world. (Be honest. You never saw that coming.) In the same way, Tolkien's rewritten Sigurd saves the world. In fact, Túrin makes possible the healing of Arda. With Melkor dead, the Silmarils are recovered and returned to Fëanor, who, coming back from Mandos himself, unlocks them and allows Yavanna to use their light to revive the Two Trees. The world is remade.

If we look back now at the other details of Túrin's afterlife, which may not be as forgotten as they seem,**** we may perhaps descry the beginning of death becoming a gift. Túrin died with a great deal of blood on his hands. I am not speaking of those he killed in battle, but of those he should not have killed at all (Orgof/Saeros, Beleg, Brodda, Orlin, and Tamar/Brandir). He abandoned Finduilas. He committed incest and suicide. When he arrives in the afterlife, Nienna and Mandos will not allow him or his sister, Nienor, to enter their realm. Eventually, at the "prayers" of their parents, the Valar have "mercy" on the siblings, and purify them in a "Bath of Flame" in which "all their sorrows and stains were washed away," and they dwell happily among the Valar. Everything from the prayers of Húrin and Morwen to the final happiness of Túrin and Nienor is described in one sentence, but that is not the whole sentence. The first part of the sentence tells what has already happened, but the second shifts from past to future, briefly and powerfully delivering the prophecy of Túrin's return (LT II.116). And there the story ends, leaving the audience in silence.

Many will surely see in the prayers and mercy and the washing away of the effects of Túrin and Nienor's misdeeds and misfortunes in a bath of flame references to Christianity, and in particular to Matthew 3:11 and Luke 3:16 where John the Baptist speaks of one who will come after him and baptize with fire and the Holy Spirit instead of water. And I have no doubt that Tolkien means to invoke these ideas. But let's not be hasty. According to standard Catholic doctrine, once a person dies repentance is no longer possible. Nor, for that matter, do we see any sign of repentance. 

We may also reasonably think of Purgatory, but the cleansing of Túrin and Nienor is an exception if the only comparable event is the purification of (the Maia) Urwendi and her maidens so that they can survive sailing the Ship of the Sun. But it is quite interesting to note that their purification prepared them for something greater than they could do otherwise. In that sense it not only purified, but enhanced them. Also, since all the faithful who have not atoned fully for their sins before death go to Purgatory for a time, the cleansing by fire undergone there is not going to be exceptional, as it is here, but rather common. Túrin's "sins" -- note that Tolkien does not use this loaded word -- are by no means trivial or venial.

Even ignoring the Christian echoes in this account of his afterlife, Túrin is so stained that the gods of the dead, Nienna and Mandos, want nothing to do with him, or even with his far more sinned-against sister. Yet he shall return to fight beside Tulkas and Fionwë and to discomfit Melkor and his dragons in the Ragnarök-like battle on the world's last day. Even before his role evolves into being the slayer of Melkor and avenger of Men, it is not unreasonable to think that Túrin's purification in the Bath of Flame is more than a cleansing. As with Urwendi and her maidens, it is a preparation for something greater and more demanding.

By blending Christian imagery and ideas into this largely pagan afterlife, Tolkien evokes a greater sense of the divine than would have been the case otherwise. The cleansing of Túrin and Nienor is an unexpected act of mercy by the gods, which arises from pity in response to the prayers of Húrin and Morwen (or Úrin and Mavwin as The Book of Lost Tales calls them). Unexpected, too, is Túrin and Nienor's reversal of fortune in the afterlife, as the "doom of woe and death of sorrow" to which Melkor cursed them and their parents comes to an end with their deaths, and the tides of fate flow towards a reunion and a love that is pure and heroism of the sort to be expected from the son of Húrin and Morwen and the foster-son of Thingol and Melian (LT II.71,115-16). And maybe not from the son only. For an early, unincorporated note records that Nienor, too, will return for the Last Battle (LT II.138; she is there called Vainóni). 

It is true in The Book of Lost Tales, as it is later in the legendarium, that a destiny or fate exists which is prior to all the destinies, dooms, or curses pronounced by the Valar and Melkor, and which can shape even their actions (LT I.142, 147, 151, 209). The Valar collectively know much of things to come, but Ilúvatar did not reveal everything. Some things are hidden, some unnoticed, and some not understood because the Valar cannot understand all of Ilúvatar's mind and purpose. There are things that happen "not without the knowledge of Ilúvatar" and "not without the desire of Ilúvatar" (151, 180). He also at times prompts the Valar and Maiar in various ways, as he does Manwë, Aulë, and Urwendi to use the last of the light of the trees to build the Ship of the Sun and the Bath of Flame (180, 185, 187-88). This particular prompting is significant in two ways. First, as we know, Túrin and Nienor also enter the Bath of Flame. Second, the first rising of the sun is connected to the awakening of Men, "who were waiting for light" (237). Men, to whom Ilúvatar gave the  power to go beyond the Music, awaken with the sun's rising. Túrin, the man whose Great Tale is the first we come to in The Book of Lost Tales as well as being its most shockingly memorable, bears the brunt of the special enmity and the curse of Melkor. This dark and troubled character, who quite literally makes the worst of his fate, at least as far as Melkor's doom is concerned, is cleansed after death in the very Bath of Flame that prepared Urwendi to sail the Ship of the Sun and awaken Men. Cleansed, he will play a significant part in the Last Battle against Melkor at the end of the world. As the legendarium evolves, he will go on to be the slayer of Melkor and the avenger of all Men. His deeds that day will not heal Arda by themselves, but they will clear the way for Fëanor to return at last from Mandos and to devote his art, the gift Ilúvatar bestowed upon the Elves, to its proper end. 

Nothing Túrin did in his life merited the purification and enhancement he received after death. Quite the opposite in fact. (This is even truer of Fëanor who suffered far less except in his own opinion, but his role at the end of the world isn't in The Book of Lost Tales.) This unmerited purification is what Tolkien would call grace. "Every gift of grace raises [the recipient] to something that is above human nature," says Thomas Aquinas (ST 2-2.171.2 ad 3). We need to draw a distinction here. Aquinas identifies two different kinds of grace, that which sanctifies and that which he calls gratuitous. Sanctifying grace brings its recipient closer to God; gratuitous grace helps its recipient help others (ST 1-2.111.1c, 4c; SCG 3.155). As such, gratuitous grace may empower that recipient, though temporarily and without changing their nature, to perform miracles, to prophesy, and so on. Gratuitous grace is sometimes also called actual grace because it is directed to acts. It is this grace that better explains what happens with Túrin after his death, if we are to view it through the lens of Tolkien's faith. Even so, that same faith must note that Túrin never repents. However distraught he may become after killing Orgof/Saeros, Beleg, Brodda, Orlin, and Tamar/Brandir, he never changes except to become worse. That same faith must also note that after death repentance is impossible. So, while the idea of the grace of Ilúvatar offers a reasonable explanation for Túrin's cleansing and enhancement, the metaphysics of Arda are not the same as those of the primary world, where Tolkien practiced his faith. The grace of Ilúvatar is not the same as the grace of God as Roman Catholicism understands it.

In The Book of Lost Tales the death of Túrin and Nienor is not the catastrophic ending to The Tale of the Children of Húrin, full of pity and horror, that it later becomes, or seems to become. But because the story continues even unto the ending of the world, their death becomes a turning point not just in their story, but in the story of the world. For in it we can see the first signs of the gifts of Men: the power to go beyond the Music and help to complete Ilúvatar's design for the world; and the connection between this power and Death. As Túrin's role on the last day becomes more significant and central, the gift that he receives in death will become the Gift of Death.

_________________________________

* Prior to the writing of the Ainulindalë as a separate text its story of creation appeared in the second chapter of The Book of Lost Tales, called "The Music of the Ainur." The Sketch and the Quenta Noldorinwa contained much less detailed accounts in their first chapters. This could indicate that Tolkien was planning to shift the story of the Music into its own text as early as the mid to late 1920s.

** Within the legendarium "virtue" almost always means "power." Think of the "virtue" lembas possesses to give Sam and Frodo the strength to go on. By contrast, within Tolkien's letters "virtue" almost always has its more common modern meanings, such as a superior quality or particular excellence of character.

*** In The Book of Lost Tales the killing of Melkor at the Last Battle is explicitly attributed to Fionwë, who is better known by his later name, Eonwë (LT I.219). While Túrin fights beside him and causes Melkor to rue his presence, he does not kill Melkor (LT II.116).

I am limiting my comments here to the story of Túrin and its various forms before Tolkien set the Silmarillion aside in late 1937 to write The Lord of the Rings. So, I do not address whether Christopher Tolkien was right or wrong to leave the Second Prophecy of Mandos, where Túrin's return is prophesied, out of the published Silmarillion. While I agree with Douglas Charles Kane's argument in Arda Reconstructed that Christopher made a mistake here, the evidence that Christopher uses to justify the omission of the prophecy dates from after Tolkien's return to the Silmarillion after 1949. 

**** Consider Christopher's comment on the difficulty of knowing whether his father's removal of something from a particular text meant it had been abandoned for good or only for the time being. 

"The wizard Tû and the Dark Elf Nuin disappeared from the mythology and never appear again, together with the marvellous story of Nuin’s coming upon the forms of the Fathers of Mankind still asleep in the Vale of Murmenalda—though from the nature of the work and the different degrees of attention that my father later gave to its different parts one cannot always distinguish between elements definitively abandoned and elements held in ‘indefinite abeyance’"

(LT I.233, italics added)

***** Gratuitous has had a sad time of it in recent times. Commonly now, at least in much of the US, it means uncalled for or unjustifiable, as in a gratuitous remark or criticism. Here, it means freely given without expectation of return. The phrase is the standard English translation of the Latin gratia gratis data, literally grace freely given.

A sad tale of Milton Waldman, to whom Tolkien wrote a famous letter

Lately, I've spent a fair amount of time reading, outlining, and thinking about Tolkien's famous letter (# 131) to Milton Waldman of Collins Publishing. For a letter it's huge, much larger than we've been led to believe. It's always spoken of as being "some ten thousand words long" as the introduction to it in The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien has it, but in truth it's over 14,000 words. That's quite a difference. It's also huge in a much more important way because it really represents the first time Tolkien steps back and attempts to explain his entire legendarium, from the Music of the Ainur to The Lord of the Rings to someone outside his immediate circle of family and members of the Inklings. Fans and scholars, myself included, have long mined it for information, but no one that I have come across has sat down to read it as an essay of sorts, which I have come to believe is as important to the study of Tolkien as Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics and On Fairy-stories. 

The other day I was looking at the following passage in which Tolkien is explaining the Valar:

"On the side of mere narrative device, this is, of course, meant to provide beings of the same order of beauty, power, and majesty as the ‘gods’ of higher mythology, which can yet be accepted – well, shall we say baldly, by a mind that believes in the Blessed Trinity."

(Letters, revised, # 133, p. 206)

The nature of the Valar is of course of great interest on its own, but what caught my attention this time through was that last bit of explanation from "which" to "Trinity." In particular the odd phrase "well, shall we say baldly" reads as an attempt to be delicate yet candid. So, I decided to see what more I could learn about Milton Waldman. What I learned was as heartbreaking as it is intriguing. Be warned. The tale involves three people dying, two of them small children.

First I discovered that in the 1920s Waldman had been married to Barbara Hazel Guggenheim, daughter of Benjamin Guggenheim, whose older brother, Solomon, later founded the well-known museum at 1071 Fifth Avenue in New York City. Benjamin did not have a museum named after him, but perhaps he should have. He went down on the Titanic, choosing to make sure women and children made it aboard the lifeboats at the cost of his own life. When last seen he was dressed in formal attire and smoking a cigar. 

While Hazel's father's story is intriguing, her story is horrifying. She and Milton had two young sons, Terrence, born in 1924, and Benjamin, born in 1926. On October 20th 1928 Hazel and her boys were visiting a relative who lived at 20 East 76th Street in New York City. Milton was not with them because he had remained at home in Paris on business. Somehow -- how is not at all clear; there seems to have been a tussle involving the children and their mother too close to the edge -- both Terrence and Benjamin fell to their deaths from the rooftop penthouse garden on the sixteenth floor. It was ruled accidental. The next day, October 21st, they were buried in the Guggenheim Mausoleum in the Salem Fields Cemetery in Brooklyn, which is connected with Temple Emanu-El on Fifth Avenue in New York City. 

The story of these two little boys, the elder four and the younger just over a year, dead almost a century ago, seems more important than the reasons behind Tolkien's words in the letter to Waldman. If only for a moment they are remembered here again. I think I will go visit their graves.

In 1930 Milton and Hazel divorced, and Milton moved to London where he remained until his death in 1976. 

 

____________________________

The sources for this post may be easily found by following the links above. I also consulted findagrave.com. 

There's also a rather scurrilous tell-all style biography of Hazel's sister, Peggy, which speaks of the incident and includes some rather horrifying gossip. The chapter in question is called "Medea," which tells you a lot about what some people thought happened. Yet no one saw it happen. The book is Peggy, the Wayward Guggenheim by Jacqueline Weld.

What Stuck With Me From All Those Years In Catholic School

I haven't attended regular church services in a very long time. So I am not at all religious in that sense. Growing up, I did, and I had nuns and priests for my teachers every year until I graduated from high school. I believe there's a god, but not that the Bible is literally true. I don't believe god is of a particular race or sex or gender. I can't think of any good reason for why a person would think that matters. I pray pretty much every day, mostly for strength, courage, and understanding. I don't think god finds me parking places or jobs, but what do I know? There have been more than a couple of very odd coincidences in my life. I am not going to rule anything out. 

What has stuck with me, what has meant the most to me, regardless of anything else that may or may not be true, is the lessons Jesus taught people about caring for each other, feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, and treating the one who is different as one of our one. Just as we would want someone to treat us if we were hungry or naked or strangers in a strange land. I regret how very frightful and strange the land I grew up in has become in my lifetime. It's only disheartening on a very good day. On a bad day it's hard to imagine the situation we find ourselves in ending in anything less horrible than a torrent of blood such as we haven't seen since the Civil War.

What has stuck with me is a simple lesson I have thought about a lot over the years. It's something I have tried to live by because I can't really see a better way. Of course, I have often failed spectacularly to live by it. Spectacularly. Like the Hindenberg.

Anyway, what has me thinking of this lately is a photo I keep seeing on the internet. It shows a guy with a bunch of really badly done tattoos, the sort you used to be able to get if you drank enough Night Train Express or Mad Dog 20/20 down on the corner or under the boardwalk. One of these tattoos says "Deus Vult," usually translated as "God Wills It" or "It Is God's Will." It has been the rallying cry and the ruin of many a poor boy for a very long time. Obviously, Christians are not the only ones who have expressed so presumptuous a sentiment. Competition has been lively. 

The lesson that these words make me think of comes from the Gospel of Matthew 22: 37-40, which for simplicity I'll quote from the NIV version. Someone asks Jesus what the greatest commandment is.

37. Jesus replied: “ ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ 38. This is the first and greatest commandment. 39. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ 40. All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.”

This is what I think of when I think of how to know "God's Will." I can only imagine that if I am doing these two things, I cannot be far off. I also figure that, if God has anything more specific in mind for me, I will find it in my path in a way I can't ignore. Like the Samaritan. Like those who have entertained angels unawares. 

Tolkien: The Monsters and the Fascists

 

War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend: the city of the Men of Númenor; and I would have her loved for her memory, her ancientry, her beauty, and her present wisdom. Not feared, save as men may fear the dignity of a man, old and wise.

(TT v.672)

With the rise of fascism from its too shallow grave, the liking so many of its adherents have for The Lord of the Rings as well as for other books they don't understand, like the Iliad and the Odyssey, has received a lot of attention. Tolkien himself didn't have much time for fascists, composing a famously salty 1938 letter to Rütten & Loenig, a German publisher who wished to publish a translation of The Hobbit but had the effrontery to ask Tolkien whether he was Aryan (Letters #29 & 30 pp. 47-48). Tolkien recognized, however, that his own publisher, Allen & Unwin, had a substantial financial interest in this matter, and that he could not assume that he could speak for them. So, he composed another letter, less scathing, and told Allen & Unwin to send the one they deemed more appropriate. Unfortunately, the letter that was actually sent has not yet been discovered. Yet the surviving letter makes clear the anger and contempt Tolkien feels towards the Nazi regime that required publishers to ask such questions. In any event, whatever precisely Tolkien said in the letter that Allen & Unwin sent to the German publisher, nothing further seems to have happened.

In a 1941 letter he called Hitler "that ruddy little ignoramus" and said that the "burning private grudge" he bore the Nazis for their perversion of pagan Germanic mythology and literature to serve their racist nationalism "would probably make me a better soldier at 49 than I was at 22" during the Great War (Letters # 45 p. 77). In this same letter he said that Germany in the Nazi era was "under the curse of God." As Tolkien well knew, saying this consigned the Nazis to the same hellish status as the Beowulf-poet banished Cain and his descendants, most prominently Grendel and his mother.

He was also aware that fascism could grow in other lands, including his own, provided there was malice enough to nurture it. He wrote to his son, Christopher, in 1944 in a letter of particular relevance to more recent times: 

"We knew Hitler was a vulgar and ignorant little cad, in addition to any other defects (or the source of them); but there seem to be many v. and i. l. cads who don’t speak German, and who given the same chance would show most of the other Hitlerian characteristics" exterminating of the entire German nation as the only proper course after military victory: because, if you please, they are rattlesnakes, and don’t know the difference between good and evil! (What of the writer?) The Germans have just as much right to declare the Poles and Jews exterminable vermin, subhuman, as we have to select the Germans: in other words, no right, whatever they have done. Of course there is still a difference here. The article was answered, and the answer printed. The Vulgar and Ignorant Cad is not yet a boss with power; but he is a very great deal nearer to becoming one in this green and pleasant isle than he was.

                (Letters # 81 pp. 133-34). 

Earlier that same year Christopher, had written to him complaining about some of his comrades in the RAF at the post where he was stationed, apparently comparing them to orcs. Tolkien replied "I think the orcs as real a creation as anything in ‘realistic’ fiction... only in real life they are on both sides, of course.... In real (exterior) life men are on both sides" (Letters # 71 p. 118).  

And so here we are, a hundred years and a few weeks after the German publication of Hitler's Mein Kampf, a work so stuffed with hatred of the Jews, daft misunderstandings of the world, and conspiracy theories that we could rename it "Project 1925." Are we really so surprised that Grishnákh can read? Yet those who consider empathy a weakness or a sin and the lethality of our weapons a virtue can never fully understand what they read, especially if it's fiction, which depends so much on a shared humanity. They look at Homer or Tolkien and see only the sharpness of the sword, the swiftness of the arrow, and the glory of the warrior (TT 4.v.672). They never see how extremely important a moment it is when Sam looks upon the enemy soldier dead before him in Ithilien:

It was Sam’s first view of a battle of Men against Men, and he did not like it much. He was glad that he could not see the dead face. He wondered what the man’s name was and where he came from; and if he was really evil of heart, or what lies or threats had led him on the long march from his home; and if he would not really rather have stayed there in peace – all in a flash of thought which was quickly driven from his mind. (TT 4.iv.661)

Sam's "flash of thought" echoes other such moments in Tolkien, as when in The Hobbit Bilbo stands armed and invisible behind Gollum and his immediate desire is to kill him, but "a sudden understanding" came upon him in a "flash," in which he grasped the horror of Gollum's life and pitied him; and then a second "flash" gave him the "strength and resolve" to turn his back on murder (The Annotated Hobbit 133). Frodo has a similar moment when he and Sam catch Gollum near the Dead Marshes (TT 4.i.614-15). Another occurs on the stairs of Cirith Ungol, though there it is the readers who, guided by the narrator, look upon Gollum with pity and wish that Sam had seen all that they had (TT 4.viii.713-14). And again on the slopes of Mount Doom Sam, sword in hand, looks down at Gollum, meaning to kill him, but instead pities and spares him (RK 6.iii.943-44).

Without all these moments in which Bilbo, Frodo, and Sam choose pity and show mercy, Gollum is not there on Mount Doom to make sure, however inadvertently, that the Ring goes into the fire. He regains his Precious, but he is also set free from the misery he brought upon himself when he murdered Déagol instead of sparing him. As Gandalf replies when Strider explains why he, Legolas and Gimli, pursued the orcs who had captured Merry and Pippin rather than going after Frodo and Sam, "the choice was just, and it has been rewarded" (TT 3.v.500). Sméagol's choice 500 years earlier in the Gladden Fields was unjust and its own punishment. The pity of Bilbo, Frodo, and Sam finally allowed him to be released from that sentence.

So much depends upon what governs our actions. Are pity and mercy, born of empathy for another, our guide? Or is it the self-centeredness that has lost sight of everything but its own immediate desire? The Lord of the Rings shows how very large the implications of pity can be for the world. I analyzed it at great length in my book. But such moments are crucial as far back as the Iliad, too, and the fates of individuals and cities depend on them. When Achilles kills Hector near the end of Book Twenty-two, he knows full well that he is quite literally determining his own fate.

In the Iliad Hector's death is the last and loudest note in a long crescendo of death, which many readers never fully experience because of the way we often read Homer nowadays. In the classroom, where the dearth of time conspires with the limits of interest, we often jump over Books Ten through Fifteen, which provide a grim, bloody account of the steadily worsening fortunes of the Greeks in the absence of Achilles. Over and over in these books Homer catalogs the men killed, telling their names and speaking of their homes and of their families who will never see them again. The dead have "lost the day of their homecoming," a phrase Homer employs more than once in the Odyssey, which is of course all about coming home from war. This heartbreak is true for both Greeks and Trojans, and by being told their names -- 95 out of 108 of the dead are named -- and about their families it is as if we meet them before they die. In Book Sixteen, with the Greeks on the brink of annihilation, Achilles' closest friend, Patroclus, prevails upon him to allow him to take their troops back into the battle, since Achilles still refuses to return himself. Patroclus drives back the Trojans, killing Sarpedon, a powerful Trojan ally and a son of Zeus so beloved by his father that he is tempted to set his fate aside, save him, and send him home. But Zeus decides that he must not save him. His part is to ensure that what should be shall be.

Patroclus then goes too far and tries to storm Troy, but Apollo drives him back and helps Hector kill him. Neither Sarpedon nor Patroclus will see the day of their homecoming. Their climactic deaths, one on each side, touch and involve the very gods. The killing continues through Book Seventeen, which ends with the day begun at the start of Book Eleven. The events of these books take place on a single day, a day so heavy with the mounting burden of both sides' losses -- 141 named victims out of 154 -- that far more than one day seems to pass. Yet this pain is only a prelude to the next day's far more heartbreaking slaughters and lost homecomings as Achilles returns to the battlefield to avenge Patroclus and kill Hector, thus assuring that his own death and Troy's fall will soon follow (Books Nineteen to Twenty-two). Loss on loss, grief on grief. Small wonder, then, that the phrase κακῶν Ἰλιὰς, "an Iliad of woes," became proverbial among the Greeks and Romans for an "endless series of woes."

All those families, those fathers and mothers, wives and husbands, children and siblings who shall never meet again, all those women of Troy and their children who will be carried off into slavery when their husbands and fathers have been killed, all those lives they might have lived -- they are what the bright sword, the swift arrow, and the glorious warrior defend. These are what war strips from everyone, on every side. Even for those who make it home in the end, like Odysseus, it is a long, long road. There is a passage early in Book Sixteen, which describes the incessant blows of the assault Ajax must endure as he tries to hold the line against the Trojans trying to storm the Greek camp (16.102-111). It may also be seen as an apt metaphor for the avalanche of deaths overwhelming the readers in the sorrows of war.

Αἴας δ᾽ οὐκ ἔτ᾽ ἔμιμνε: βιάζετο γὰρ βελέεσσι:

δάμνα μιν Ζηνός τε νόος καὶ Τρῶες ἀγαυοὶ

βάλλοντες: δεινὴν δὲ περὶ κροτάφοισι φαεινὴ

πήληξ βαλλομένη καναχὴν ἔχε, βάλλετο δ᾽ αἰεὶ                105

κὰπ φάλαρ᾽ εὐποίηθ᾽: ὃ δ᾽ ἀριστερὸν ὦμον ἔκαμνεν

ἔμπεδον αἰὲν ἔχων σάκος αἰόλον: οὐδὲ δύναντο

ἀμφ᾽ αὐτῷ πελεμίξαι ἐρείδοντες βελέεσσιν.

αἰεὶ δ᾽ ἀργαλέῳ ἔχετ᾽ ἄσθματι, κὰδ δέ οἱ ἱδρὼς

πάντοθεν ἐκ μελέων πολὺς ἔρρεεν, οὐδέ πῃ εἶχεν             110

ἀμπνεῦσαι: πάντῃ δὲ κακὸν κακῷ ἐστήρικτο.

Ajax could hold out no longer; he was being forced back by their spears.

Zeus's will and the noble Trojans kept striking him, overpowering him.

His shining helm rang dreadfully in his ears as it was struck, 

And he was being struck ceaselessly on his well-made helmet.

His left arm was exhausted from constantly holding up his flashing shield. 

Though the Trojans struck it hard with their spears, they could not knock it away. 

But Ajax gasped in pain all the time now. Sweat streamed down his every limb.

No way could he even catch his breath. Woe piled every which way upon woe.

Just as the will of Zeus and the ceaseless blows from the Trojan spears beat down even Ajax, the best Greek warrior after Achilles -- both "will" and "Trojans" are subjects of the verb "kept striking," which thus combines divine and human agency -- so the relentless cataloging of the dead over the course of Books Ten through Fifteen wears down the readers with its pity and horror. When Book Sixteen begins away from the battlefield in the camp of Achilles and Patroclus, it is almost a relief. Yet Patroclus and Achilles see disaster coming. Their discussion of what is to be done covers the first 101 lines of Book Sixteen, which then pivots swiftly back to the worsening fortunes of Ajax we just read about (16.102-111). I have highlighted certain words in the text and translation to show how the emphasis in this passage shifts from the relentlessness of the use of force against Ajax to the completeness and seeming endlessness of his woe. Homer then briefly pivots away again, and reinvokes the Muses, as if he needs fresh inspiration to tell the even darker tale of woe to come: "Tell me now, Muses who dwell in Olympian homes, how fire first fell upon the ships of the Achaeans" (16.112-13). Homer frames this moment of woe piled upon woe between the discussions of Patroclus and Achilles and the new invocation of the Muses, after which the story turns back again to Ajax, and then to Achilles and Patroclus once more.

Imagine, if you will, that the Iliad ended with Book Twenty-two. We would have a very different poem: Hector killed brutally outside the gates of Troy, his home; his corpse stripped, abused, and mutilated; his father and mother watching it all from the walls; lamenting the loss of their son and their city's champion, amid the wailing of the Trojans and jubilant singing of the Greeks; his wife at home, eager for his return, preparing for his return, then hearing his mother's shattering cry; overwhelmed, rushing to the wall, grief-stricken by his loss and mourning all the sorrows it entails for Troy, for herself, and for their little boy. The last line of Book Twenty-two is, and in our imagining here the last line of the Iliad would be, ὣς ἔφατο κλαίουσ᾽, ἐπὶ δὲ στενάχοντο γυναῖκες: "So she spoke, crying out in pain, and the women wailed in answer" (22.515). This would be a brutal ending of unimaginable sorrow, unnumbered tears, and wholly without consolation. Only a barbarian, Conan the barbarian in fact, could look upon such an ending without horror. Crush your enemies? Check. See them driven before you? Check. Hear the lamentations of their women? Check. In this the barbarian is more honest than the fascist. He does not romanticize his own brutality, or wrap it in flags and glory, exceptionalism and toxic delusions about masculinity.

But though Homer acknowledges the barbarous darkness, he does not embrace it. He mourns it. He does not end there any more than he began there. The last thing that Hector says to Achilles before he dies is that he, too, will soon die before the gates of Troy. Achilles knows this. The choice before Achilles has been evident since the beginning, between war, glory, and an early death on the one hand, and home, obscurity and a long life on the other. Between the glory of the warrior and that which they defend. In Book Twenty-four, when Priam risks everything to beg Achilles for the return of his Hector's body, the son who will never see his father again meets the father who will never see his son again. Both weep, not for each other but because they see the reflection of their own loss in each other. They do not become friends. How could they be anything but enemies after so much blood? But they recognize each other's humanity. For his son, Priam humbles himself before his son's murderer; and Achilles feels pity for his own father and shows mercy to Priam. At least for now, Achilles and Priam free themselves for now from the power the force of violence wields over everyone in war, stripping them of their humanity and reducing them to objects even while they still live. Through pity and mercy they create what Simone Weil called "that small space between impulse and action where thought lives," without which "there is no place for justice or prudence."† In that space, Achilles returns Hector's body and arranges a truce so the Trojans may bury Hector. And that is where the Iliad ends. In loss and sorrow, with almost total loss soon yet to come, its final quietly dignified words directed not to the sword and the warrior, but to that which they defend: "ὣς οἵ γ᾽ ἀμφίεπον τάφον Ἕκτορος ἱπποδάμοιο" (24.804) / "And so they buried Hector the tamer of horses." It brings a melancholy closure not entirely unlike Sam's "Well, I'm back"  (RK 6.ix.1031). Buried just below the surface of these words are others left unsaid: "Well, I'm back. (But Mister Frodo's not.)" Whatever a war's goal may be, whatever its result, such loss and sorrow are its cost, even for those who come home alive. 

In the Odyssey when a bard sings of the war at Troy, Odysseus does not strut and preen. He weeps. Helen in the Iliad and Alcinous, King of the Phaeacians, in the Odyssey both say that the gods bring sorrows to humans so that there will be songs for later generations (Iliad 6.357-58; Odyssey 8.579-80).†† Homer begins the Iliad by asking the goddess to sing about the countless sorrows and deaths caused by the wrath of Achilles, which sent their ghosts down to Hades and left their bodies unburied to be eaten by the dogs and birds. So it was going to be for Hector. And while it was true that Zeus commanded Achilles to return the body, in the actual scene between Achilles and Priam in Book Twenty-four, empathy, pity, and mercy eclipse that command. It's not Zeus's command that moves our hearts, but the unfolding of the tragic drama between Achilles and Priam, the both of them weeping together.

Are we to imagine that the Greeks, who were not entirely dim, listened to bards sing Homer's Iliad and Odyssey for centuries, memorized these poems in whole or in part, and held competitions at the Olympic Games in reciting them, but heard none of this? That they heeded the ring of steel and the thrum of bowstring, but not the wailing cries of those the warriors slew or failed to save? They, too, had fathers, sons, brothers, and husbands who lost the day of their homecoming at war. In Athens, for one, a public funeral was held every year for those who had died at war in the previous twelve months. In Athens, the texts of the Iliad and Odyssey achieved their final form. In Athens, the first day of the Panathenaic Games was all about poetry and music, including contests in the performance of Homer as at the Olympic Games. In Athens, Tragic Poets like Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, received the legacy of Homer, and they streamlined it to focus on the woes of Homeric epics, not the battles, even though we seem to think that battles are more dramatic, given the endless series of car-chases, fight scenes, and explosions so common in popular entertainment in recent decades.

The Greeks knew the value of courage and skill in battle, and that sometimes, as they saw it, war was necessary. They knew the value of life and love and home. And they knew the bitter cost we have to pay to hold onto or win these things. Tolkien knew it, too. His very first tale of Middle-earth, The Fall of Gondolin, written directly after his own experiences on the Somme, draws on the story of the fall of Troy. Despite much hard fighting and truly glorious feats of prowess by the Elves, the city falls with terrible loss of life. Fifty years after Tolkien wrote this, he made clear in the "Foreword to the Second Edition" of The Lord of the Rings that he still felt sorrow for what was lost in the Great War: 

One has indeed personally to come under the shadow of war to feel fully its oppression; but as the years go by it seems now often forgotten that to be caught in youth by 1914 was no less hideous an experience than to be involved in 1939 and the following years. By 1918 all but one of my close friends were dead.

(xiv) 

So is there the thrill of glory in the sound of "the horns of the Mark at the coming of the morning" (RK 5.iv.829; 6.vi.978)? Of course there is. Or in the hobbits rising up against their oppressors in "The Scouring of the Shire" (RK 6.viii)? Again, of course. But there is also the weeping of the army of the West at the Field of Cormallen as a minstrel sings of the war, and the tears shed in the Grey Havens as Frodo is about to go into the West (RK 6.iv.954; ix.1030). There is the litany of the named dead, ending "red fell the dew in Rammas Echor," as grim, still, and final a line as the last line of the Iliad (RK 5.vi.849). There is Merry weeping at Théoden's burial and calling him father as the Riders of the King's House sing of the history of the Mark and of how Théoden's death brought hope out of loss, and therein lay its glory (RK 6.vi.976): 

Out of doubt, out of dark, to the day’s rising 

he rode singing in the sun, sword unsheathing. 

Hope he rekindled, and in hope ended;

over death, over dread, over doom lifted

out of loss, out of life, unto long glory.

And so they buried Théoden King of the Horse-lords.

 

____________________________________

† Simone Weil, Simone Weil's The Iliad or the Poem of Force. James P. Holoka ed. & trans.. 2003. Peter Lang Publishing.  (L'Iliade ou la poème de la force. Les Cahiers du Sud.1940). The translations offered in the text and below are my own.

Celui qui possède la force marche dans un milieu non résistant, sans que rien, dans la matière* humaine autour de lui, soit de nature à susciter entre l'élan et l'acte ce bref intervalle où se loge la pensée. Où la pensée n'a pas de place, la justice ni la prudence n'en ont.

One who has the power moves through a medium that offers no resistance, without which there is nothing in the human material* around him of such a nature as to create that small space between impulse and act where thought lives. Where there is no room for thought, there is room for neither justice nor prudence.

*Weil's thesis is that the use of force in war reduces humans to objects without souls. This is as true of the conqueror as of the conquered. So the "medium that offers no resistance" and "the human material around him" refer to all that is left of us once force has stripped away our soul. Impulse leads to action without pause or reflection.

†† Speaking of herself and Paris, Helen says:

  

οἷσιν ἐπὶ Ζεὺς θῆκε κακὸν μόρον, ὡς καὶ ὀπίσσω
ἀνθρώποισι πελώμεθ᾽ ἀοίδιμοι ἐσσομένοισι.

Iliad 6.357-58

[upon us] Zeus laid a destiny of woe, so that even

for men in days to come we shall be famous in song.

In Phaeacia the king Alcinous, sees Odysseus weeping to hear a bard singing of the Trojan War, and he says to him:

τὸν δὲ θεοὶ μὲν τεῦξαν, ἐπεκλώσαντο δ᾽ ὄλεθρον
ἀνθρώποις, ἵνα ᾖσι καὶ ἐσσομένοισιν ἀοιδή.

Odyssey 8.579-80

C. S. Lewis's Tortured Planet.

I discovered just the other day that C. S. Lewis abridged That Hideous Strength for publication as a mass market paperback in the United States in 1957. The new version was called The Tortured Planet and cost thirty-five cents. Having recently reread the first two books of Lewis's Space Trilogy -- Out of the Silent Planet and Perelandra -- I had been planning to reread That Hideous Strength for the first time in many, many years. Two friends whose opinions I respect had diametrically opposed opinions on the book. One said that it was not the sort of book she reread for pleasure, and the other disagreed entirely. It had been so long since I last read it that all I could remember was the general impression that it was interesting, but not a lot of fun. But the idea of the glimpse into Lewis's mind I could get from comparing the original to the abridgement seemed very interesting and even fun. What would he cut? What would he leave in?

So here is the first page or so. The words in bold indicate the text after abridgement, as published in "The Tortured Planet."

“Matrimony was ordained, thirdly,” said Jane Studdock to herself, “for the mutual society, help, and comfort that the one ought to have of the other.” She had not been to church since her schooldays until she went there six months ago to be married, and the words of the service had stuck in her mind.

Through the open door she could see the tiny kitchen of the flat and hear the loud, ungentle tick tick of the clock. She had just left the kitchen and knew how tidy it was. The breakfast things were washed up, the tea towels were hanging above the stove, and the floor was mopped. The beds were made and the rooms “done.” She had just returned from the only shopping she need do that day, and it was still a minute before eleven. Except for getting her own lunch and tea[. T]here was nothing that had to be done till six o’clock, even supposing that Mark was really coming home for dinner. But there was a College Meeting today. Almost certainly Mark would ring up about teatime to say that the meeting was taking longer than he had expected and that he would have to dine in College. The hours before her were as empty as the flat. The sun shone and the clock ticked. 

“Mutual society, help, and comfort,” said Jane bitterly. In reality marriage had proved to be the door out of a world of work and comradeship and laughter and innumerable things to do, into something like solitary confinement. For some years before their marriage she had never seen so little of Mark as she had done in the last six months. Even when he was at home he hardly ever talked. He was always either sleepy or intellectually preoccupied. While they had been friends, and later when they were lovers, life itself had seemed too short for all they had to say to each other. But now . . . why had he married her? Was he still in love? If so, “being in love” must mean totally different things to men and women. Was it the crude truth that all the endless talks which had seemed to her, before they were married, the very medium of love itself, had never been to him more than a preliminary? 

“Here I am, starting to waste another morning, mooning,” said Jane to herself sharply. “I must do some work.” By work she meant her doctorate thesis on Donne. She had always intended to continue her own career as a scholar after she was married: that was one of the reasons why they were to have no children, at any rate for a long time yet. Jane was not perhaps a very original thinker and her plan had been to lay great stress on Donne’s “triumphant vindication of the body.” She still believed that if she got out all her notebooks and editions and really sat down to the job, she could force herself back into her lost enthusiasm for the subject. But before she did so— perhaps in order to put off the moment of beginning— she turned over a newspaper which was lying on the table and glanced at a picture on the back page. 

The moment she saw the picture, she remembered her dream[;] She remembered not only the dream but the measureless time after she had crept out of bed and sat waiting for the first hint of morning, afraid to put on the light for fear Mark should wake up and fuss, yet feeling offended by the sound of his regular breathing. He was an excellent sleeper. Only one thing ever seemed able to keep him awake after he had gone to bed, and even that did not keep him awake for long.

"The Art of Mercy in Middle-earth: Paintings Inspired by Tolkien's Legen...

The Sad Tale Behind Tolkien's Famous 1938 Letter to a German Publisher

It is well known that in 1938 a German Publisher, Rütten & Loening, contacted Tolkien about publishing a German translation of The Hobbit. Under the laws in Nazi Germany it was illegal to publish works by Jewish authors. So, they asked Tolkien if he was "arisch," that is, "Aryan." Tolkien, being Tolkien, responded with all the fury of a philologist who detested the Nazis. As described in Letter 29 of The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien, he wrote two letters and sent them to Allen & Unwin, his own publisher, telling Stanley Unwin to forward whichever one he deemed it best to send. Letter 30 in The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien, the only one of the two that survives, is caustic, learned, sarcastic, and dripping with contempt for the antisemitism of the question. Letter 30 is not the one sent to Germany, but Stanley Unwin let Tolkien know how much his staff enjoyed it.

The sad tale here is that until July 1936 Rütten & Loening had been owned and operated by Jews, who were forced to sell the company precisely because they were Jewish. I wonder if Unwin and Tolkien knew this. Here is a link to the German Wikipedia page on this publisher. Below you will find a translation (by Google Translate) of the most relevant sections of that page.

In 1936, publishers Wilhelm Ernst Oswalt and Adolf Neumann received an order from the Reich Chamber of Literature, based on the Nuremberg Laws, ordering them to sell the publishing house to an "Aryan" publisher or close down. In July 1936, Rütten & Loening was sold to the Potsdam publisher Albert Hachfeld (Athenaion Verlag), and the business was immediately relocated to Potsdam, taking with it all of its assets, archives, and some employees. All "Jewish" and "international" authors (including Romain Rolland) were abandoned. During the war, the publishing house produced primarily classical literature, but also "edifying literature" for the Wehrmacht.

Forced to sell his publishing house, the principal owner and publisher of Rütten & Loening, Wilhelm Ernst Oswalt, was a broken man after the sale. In 1942, he was denounced and arrested for refusing to publicly wear the Star of David. Two weeks later, he was murdered in the Sachsenhausen concentration camp near Oranienburg. The elder son, Heinrich Oswalt, fled to Switzerland and survived the Nazi era there. The younger son, Ernst Ludwig Oswalt, was deported "to the East" and murdered.

The publishing director and 25% co-owner of Rütten & Loening, Adolf Neumann, once one of the most respected publishing figures in the German Reich, fled to Norway, and after its occupation by the Nazis, to Sweden. He survived the war. He then granted licenses to the Potsdam publishing house for several titles that had not been sold in 1936 for political reasons. Neumann died in Stockholm in 1953.

In 1942, as was customary after the murder of Jews, Wilhelm Ernst Oswalt's private assets were publicly auctioned on behalf of the Gestapo, and the proceeds were confiscated for the benefit of the Reich. The extremely valuable and extensive private library, comprising over 10,000 volumes, compiled over a nearly century-old family tradition, was acquired by the renowned antiquarian bookshop "Frankfurter Bücherstube Schumann & Cobet" (known before 1937 as the Frankfurter Jugendbücherstube Walter Schatzki), which operated until the 1990s, for the ridiculous price of 8,500 Reichsmarks.

________________________________

"Nazis, I hate these guys" -- J.R.R. Tolkien (no, not really a Tolkien quote. Marcel 

‪@thetolkienist.com‬ will confirm this.)

Dreamflowers and Lotus-eaters.

Upon meeting Merry and Pippin, Treebeard exchanges names with them. As he does so, he teaches them about the connection between the name of a thing and its history. Since in his language "real names tell you the story of the things they belong to," names grow longer the longer the story goes on (TT 3.iv.465). Thus, Treebeard's real "name is growing all the time." 

When he later learns that Merry and Pippin got both into and out of Lothlórien, he is surprised. The reflections on Lothlórien he offers speak very much to his idea of how names work. 

"...Laurelindórenan! That is what the Elves used to call it, but now they make the name shorter: Lothlórien they call it. Perhaps they are right: maybe it is fading, not growing. Land of the Valley of Singing Gold, that was it, once upon a time. Now it is the Dreamflower. Ah well! But it is a queer place...." (3.iv.467, emphasis mine)

From Laurelindórenan to Lothlórien, from the Land of the Valley of Singing Gold to the Dreamflower, the name is becoming shorter when it should be growing longer. To him that makes it a "queer place," which may be fading rather than growing. Treebeard does not see this as a good sign. Yet he doesn't know the half of it. He does not know, apparently, that the name is now cut even shorter, to just Lórien, which he would know could be translated as "Dreamland" (“Lórien.” Parf Edhellen, https://www.elfdict.com/wt/502964). The Golden Wood is called Lórien twice as often by the characters and narrator as it is called Lothlórien.*

The first element in Lothlórien is loth-, which is Sindarin for flower or blossom (Quenya lóte). It may be that Tolkien is remembering something from his school days and working in an obscure philological allusion to a type of dreamland he encountered in Homer's Odyssey. In the Odyssey ix.80-104 Odysseus arrives in the land of the Lotus-Eaters (λωτοφάγοι/lotophagoi), where eating the fruit of the lotus/λωτός leaves his crew in a dreamlike, happy state. As Alfred Heubeck has observed, “the λωτός- plant, with its magical properties of suppressing the desire to return home, is symbolic of the insecurity of human existence poised precariously between the spheres of empirical reality and mythical unreality” (Heubeck et al. 18, emphasis mine).** 

Heubeck's assessment of the λωτός-plant's significance resonates rather eerily with Galadriel's words to the Company when they arrive in Lórien: "your Quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and it will fail, to the ruin of all. Yet hope remains while all the Company is true" (FR 2.vii.357). That Odysseus has to drag his companions back to the ship by force echoes Treebeard's surprise that Merry and Pippin "ever got out"  of Laurelindórenan (TT 3.iv.465). Faramir, who is the only other character in The Lord of the Rings to call the Golden Wood by the name Laurelindórenan, will later express his own surprise that Frodo and Sam had been there, citing ancient wisdom: "For it is perilous for mortal man to walk out of the world of this Sun, and few of old came thence unchanged, ’tis said" (TT 4.v.667).

So, did Tolkien derive the loth of Lothlórien from Greek? Perhaps, perhaps not. Yet it remains an intriguing convergence of sound, meaning, and context. 

___________

*Not counting the Prologue, Appendices, and Index, Lórien occurs 74 times and Lothlórien 37 times. Treebeard of course mostly calls it Laurelindórenan, and a couple of times Lothlórien, but never Lórien.

** Alfred Heubeck, et al. A Commentary On Homer's Odyssey. Vol. II: Books IX-XVI. Oxford University Press. 1990.

Elrond's long westward road

Before I retired I listened to several podcasts while driving back and forth to work. For me, driving seemed the best time. Now I don't listen very often, since when I'm sitting at home I am usually trying to write or research something. Lately I've been doing a lot of walking and often use that time to listen to a podcast. One of the advantages of listening to others speak about things I am interested in is that I get ideas arising from observations made by others, whether I am agreeing or disagreeing. 

Today I was listening to The Prancing Pony Podcast with the inimitable Alan Sisto and the redoubtable Sara Brown. They were discussing the "Tale of Aragorn and Arwen" in Appendix A of The Lord of the Rings. So as I was walking through Prospect Park I heard them talk about Celebrían, wife of Elrond and mother of Arwen. According to Appendix B orcs captured and tortured her in 2509 of the Third Age. Although she was soon rescued by her husband and sons, she had suffered so much that in 2510 she set sail across the sea for Valinor, the only place where she might be healed.

Now here's where the idea comes in.

Five hundred years later in 3018 at the Council of Elrond, Elrond says  "The world has changed much since I last was on the westward roads." 

So, was the last time Elrond traveled on these roads when he took Celebrían to the Grey Havens?

Since he had gone with his sons to rescue her, imagining that he also escorted her to the Grey Havens is hardly far-fetched. Now from what I can tell Celebrían was not invented until long after that sentence appeared in "The Council of Elrond." So there's no evidence that Tolkien wrote this sentence with an allusion to her departure built into it (for those with eyes to see), but it can certainly be read as one after she has been invented. As he often did, Tolkien invested the old words with new meaning through a change of context. I can't say whether he realized how the creation of Celebrían would recontextualize this sentence. Maybe, maybe not. Still Celebrían's subsequently invented story allows us to discover Elrond's reminiscence of his faraway wife in his words. 

My thanks to Alan and Sara for prompting this thought. I like it.

Tolkien Reading Day 2025

 

Pearls before swine, Aelfric of Eynsham, and the catherdral at Chartres

Aelfric, pulling no punches and insulting his congregation, while delivering a sermon on Job:

"Wē sǣdon ēow and ġȳt secgað þæt wē ne magon ealle ðās race ēow be endebyrdnysse secgan, for ðan ðe sēo bōc is swīðe miċel, and hire dīgele andġyt is ofer ūre mǣðe tō smēaġenne."


"We told you before and we'll tell you again that we cannot tell you this whole story from beginning to end. For this book is very large, and its hidden meaning is beyond your ability to ponder."

When I was in high school they decided to show us some film about the cathedral at Chartres. Being 14-18 years old most of us had not yet developed that finally honed aesthetic sense which some of us later could call our own. I know I hadn't. When the priest showing us the film told us what the film was about, there was a rather loud collective groan. The priest -- let's just call him Father Aelfric -- regarded us in silence for a moment. At length he said, not quite sotto voce:

"Pearls before swine."

I can't speak for anyone else, but I knew I had just been insulted. 

"a path of ascent however hard" -- Tolkien to Lewis on the mysteries and opportunities of pain (Letters² #113)

In January 1948 Tolkien said something to C. S. Lewis that hurt him. In Letter #113 Tolkien continues what appears to be a longer conversation about the incident. This is the only letter we have from the correspondence and we don't know what Tolkien said or about what he said it. I encourage the reader to go look at this letter because it makes clear that Tolkien is truly unhappy that he has wounded his friend, who is also truly unhappy, and because the words from the letter I quote below, when read out of context, don't seem particularly contrite or apologetic. 

In an article I am working on right now I quote this letter in order to show that Tolkien did not believe that the mere fact of suffering sanctified or ennobled us. I think these few sentences make that point clearly, but that's not what I am here to write about. As I was looking at this passage again yesterday I caught an allusion to Vergil's Aeneid that I probably should have caught before. I have no doubt that Tolkien intended this allusion and that Lewis would have noticed it, probably right off.

Lewis's engagement with the Aeneid was deep and lifelong, from his school days onward, so much so that he labored on and off for decades on his own translation, and Tolkien had heard him read parts of it aloud at meetings of the Inklings. A. T. Reyes provides a good discussion of this in the introduction to his book, C. S. Lewis's Lost Aeneid. Tolkien, too, was steeped in Vergil from his own school days, as was entirely normal at that time. We even have a page from the 1920s on which Tolkien transliterated phrases from the Aeneid into one of his early Elvish alphabets (Parma Eldalamberon 16, 38-39).

What am I talking about already? Here's the quote:

I daresay under grace that [pain which you are feeling] will do good rather than harm, but that is between you and God. It is one of the mysteries of pain that it is, for the sufferer, an opportunity for good, a path of ascent however hard. But it remains an ‘evil’, and it must dismay any conscience to have caused it carelessly, or in excess, let alone wilfully.

Letters² #113 p. 180

The words I've emphasized recall some of the most famous lines in Vergil's Aeneid. In Book 6 of this work, Aeneas must journey to the underworld, but first he receives instructions about the way and its perils:

Tros Anchisiade, facilis descensus Averno:
noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis;
sed revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras,
hoc opus, hic labor est.

Trojan son of Anchises, easy is the descent to hell:
Night and day the doors of dark Dis lie open;

But to retrace your steps, and escape to the upper world,

this is the task, this the labor.

            (Aen. 6.127-130)

Notice that Tolkien isn't trying to cheer Lewis up here, or to comfort him with platitudes about how they'll get through this. Had Tolkien been trying to do that, and had he been clumsier and more obvious (like me), he would have alluded to another famous passage of Vergil, where Aeneas is trying to encourage his followers after yet another disaster has befallen them. 

“O socii—neque enim ignari sumus ante malorum—
O passi graviora, dabit deus his quoque finem.
Vos et Scyllaeam rabiem penitusque sonantis
accestis scopulos, vos et Cyclopea saxa
experti: revocate animos, maestumque timorem
mittite: forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit."

"O my Comrades -- by now we know all about evils
-- You've seen worse! God will let these end, too.
You, you've come near rabid Scylla's baying cliffs;
You've seen the giant stonework of the Cyclops's home.
Take up your courage again, let go dejection and fear:
Perhaps one day it will please us to recall these evils, too."

(Aen. 1.198-203)

Rather than pat Lewis on the back, Tolkien allows that Lewis is in pain, that he (Tolkien) has done him wrong, however unintentionally, and that the way back from this will involve hard work. He knows that when we are hurt even forgiving the offender often doesn't make the pain go away. There are times when we are downhearted because the world is just giving us a hard time; there are times when someone in particular whom we care about hurts us; and there are times when we feel the pain of hurting someone we love and losing them. Encouragement like that given by Aeneas to his followers can help in the first of these scenarios. At least it can encourage us to pull ourselves together and go on. The second and third scenarios are much harder, darker and more hellish. "This is the task, this the labor."

A Point about Elf Ears

This is a lighthearted not terribly serious post. It's a joke really. So nobody stones anybody, okay?

The other night I came across a passage in Morgoth's Ring (209-10), which made me think about the ears of Elves more than I usually do, which is almost not at all. Most people think they have pointed ears, and there is some evidence that this is so. Growing up reading Tolkien I never pictured them as having anything but ears like ours. But let's go with pointed ears since the passage I read the other night sparks an interesting question to which I offer a tongue-in-cheek solution.

The text is Ælfwine’s Preamble to "Laws and Customs among the Eldar." Ælfwine is of course a Man, writing about Elves for other Men who know nothing about them. Naturally you would expect him to point out the differences and similarities.

The Eldar grew in bodily form slower than Men, but in mind more swiftly. They learned to speak before they were one year old; and in the same time they learned to walk and to dance, for their wills came soon to the mastery of their bodies. Nonetheless there was less difference between the two Kindreds, Elves and Men, in early youth; and a man who watched elf-children at play might well have believed that they were the children of Men, of some fair and happy people. For in their early days elf-children delighted still in the world about them, and the fire of their spirit had not consumed them, and the burden of memory was still light upon them.

Ælfwine says that as little children, Men and Elves are easily mistaken for each other. That sounds like Elves, or at least Elf-children, don't have pointy ears. That should make identification easy, especially of children running around and playing. So, does this mean that for Elves pointed ears are a secondary sex characteristic?