Tolkien and Clarke's Third Law: a Corollary

"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."

Arthur C. Clarke's Third Law, as just quoted, is extraordinarily well known. It has reached that hallowed stage of auctoritas (gravitas is reserved for Newton) wherein, given any triad of physical or mathematical laws, no more than one of the three will be remembered at any given time by non-specialists.

Not all magic is the same, however. It can be used to dominate or control nature or other people. It can be used to create transcendent wonder and beauty, to heal and to preserve. Motives and intentions are the key, even though they are not even clear to ourselves. While Clarke is not thinking in terms of morality or intent in his formulation, Tolkien is. He regards magic which seeks to rule others as evil, and technology or "the machine" is usually the means to this end (Letters # 131 p. 205; # 155 p. 295-96; Rev.). The One Ring is a perfect example of this in his legendarium. On the other hand, a palantir would not be. It is really only a device for communicating over great distances. Tolkien, however, would certainly regard a palantir created to surveil others and strip them of their privacy as evil.

The other kind of magic, the kind that aims at beauty, healing, and preservation, I'll call enchantment. And the means to achieve it, usually through music or song, I'll call Art (as Tolkien does). This leads me to propose Tolkien's Corollary to Clarke's Third Law:

Any sufficiently advanced Art is indistinguishable from Enchantment.

Samwise the Strong, Hero of the Age

Here's a one-paragraph excerpt from something I'm working on, which has to do with children and heroic tales in Tolkien's legendarium. First, I'll quote the passage from The Lord of the Rings I am discussing in the paragraph that follows. 

Already the Ring tempted him, gnawing at his will and reason. Wild fantasies arose in his mind; and he saw Samwise the Strong, Hero of the Age, striding with a flaming sword across the darkened land, and armies flocking to his call as he marched to the overthrow of Barad-dûr. And then all the clouds rolled away, and the white sun shone, and at his command the vale of Gorgoroth became a garden of flowers and trees and brought forth fruit. He had only to put on the Ring and claim it for his own, and all this could be. (RK 6.i.901)

Sam’s relationship to hearing and telling tales is pretty much the first thing we learn about him, and we learn it in the first real scene in The Lord of the Rings, from the very first character to speak, Sam’s own father, the Gaffer: “crazy about stories of the old days, he is, and he listens to all Mr. Bilbo’s tales” (FR 1.i.24). Despite the Gaffer’s no doubt relentless admonitions about the “trouble too big for you” that awaits Sam in the adventures he longs for, Sam knows at least some heroic poetry by heart and creates some poetry of his own. In response to one of these poems, Frodo jokes that Sam “will end up becoming a wizard—or a warrior” (FR 1.xii.208). Though Sam demurs, it’s no accident that the temptation he faces when he has the Ring takes precisely this form (RK 6.i.901). The warrior he fantasizes about becoming is also familiar. He does not walk, but strides like Aragorn, and wields a flaming sword, which recalls the name of Aragorn's sword, Andúril, the Flame of the West (RK 6.i.901). But then there's the tiniest hint of something darker. For Boromir, who would have been quite familiar with heroic tales since his boyhood, also imagined that "all men would flock to my banner" (FR 2.x.398; RK 6.i.901). 

"What really happened," or, "Was hat Ranke mit Tolkien zu tun?"

 A name I often came across when I was in school studying history and how to write it was Leopold von Ranke (1795 - 1886). Rather than try to summarize his long career as a writer and teacher of history and historiography, I'll say that he was one of those astonishing 19th century German scholars who seemed to know everything and whose days had 168 hours in them. His views on writing history were that scholars should use sources as close to the period about which they were writing as they could possibly get, and that these sources should be wide-ranging, including contemporary local documents and records not just narrative histories. The goal, Ranke believed, was to create an account of "wie es eigentlich gewesen." 

Again in the interests of brevity, I'll quote from Andreas Boldt's discussion of this phrase in Esharp's supplement from 2007. 

Many scholars have written on Ranke and analysed his understanding of history. One example of how Ranke was scrutinised is the discussion of the meaning of his most famous phrase of ‘wie es eigentlich gewesen’. The book History of the Latin and Germanic Nations is known chiefly for the statement that:

Man hat der Historie das Amt, die Vergangenheit zu richten, die Mitwelt zum Nutzen zukünftiger Jahre zu belehren beygemessen: so hoher Aemter unterwindet sich gegenwärtiger Versuch nicht: er will bloß sagen, wie es eigentlich gewesen. (Ranke, 1824, pp.v-vi).

To history has been assigned the office of judging the past, of instructing the present for the benefit of future ages. To such high offices this work does not aspire: It wants only to show what actually happened. (Stern, 1973, p.57, translation by Fritz Stern).

The meaning of Ranke’s aim to study the past ‘wie es eigentlich gewesen’ has been the subject of much debate among historians. A number of writers have translated the phrase as ‘what actually happened’, ‘as it really was’ or ‘simply tell how it was’ and have understood it as an endorsement of ‘colourless’ history. Historians, Ranke claimed, should stick to the facts and there should be no evidence of their views and commitments in their writing. It is only when they remove all trace of themselves that they can revive the past. More recent commentators, such as Iggers, have argued that such a translation is not accurate because it does not reveal Ranke’s ‘idealistic’ conception of history. He pointed out that the term ‘eigentlich’ does not only mean ‘actually’, but also ‘essentially’ or ‘characteristically’. Therefore Iggers preferred to translate the phrase as ‘[History] merely wants to show how, essentially, things happened’ (1988, p.67). The translation of Ranke’s quotation into English has its problems. One thing is certain, however, Ranke’s famous sentence is a conscious formula that contains a very complex meaning. The word ‘bloß’ shows Ranke’s modesty while the word ‘eigentlich’ touches on issues like ‘truth’ and ‘the greatest good’. The translation ‘happened’ describes an event or condition; it does not describe a development. The usual translation ‘how it really was’ is too short and does not describe what Ranke intended to say. As a more correct translation, I would suggest ‘how things really were’.

Very interesting, Tom, but what has Ranke to do with Tolkien? I can see the eyes rolling back in my readers' heads, like the guests at Bilbo's party when he won't shut up about his adventures. 

So here it is. Every time I read Letter 180 (p. 336) in Tolkien's Letters, I run into the following sentence:

"I have long ceased to invent (though even patronizing or sneering critics on the side praise my ‘invention’): I wait till I seem to know what really happened." (italics mine)

And when I think of "what really happened" and "wie es eigentlich gewesen," I think of Tolkien's famous rejection of allegory in the "Foreword to the Second Edition" of The Lord of the Rings (xxiv):

... I cordially dislike allegory in all its manifestations, and always have done so since I grew old and wary enough to detect its presence. I much prefer history, true or feigned, with its varied applicability to the thought and experience of readers. I think that many confuse "applicability" with "allegory"; but the one resides in the freedom of the reader, and the other in the purposed domination of the author.

Andreas Boldt's apt comment on the humility in Ranke's choice of the word bloß, "only" -- "to say only how things really were" -- fits beautifully with the humility in Tolkien's preference of "the freedom of the reader" to "the purposed domination of the author."

I can't say if Tolkien knew Ranke's work firsthand, or whether the similarity of phrasing is just coincidental. Still, Ranke would have been far better known in Tolkien's day than he is today, and the phrase "wie es eigentlich gewesen" has been quoted more and more since 1900. A Google Ngram of the phrase shows that it's been on a steeply downward trend since 2017. I guess, starting in 2017, people no longer wish to know how things really are. I'll leave it in the freedom of the reader to decide what that really means.

 ______________________________

I was curious to see how a German translation of Tolkien's Letters rendered Tolkien's statement -- "I wait till I seem to know really happened" -- and whether it would end up echoing Ranke's original phrase. Thanks to Marcel R. Bülles, Der Tolkienist, I can quote Helmut Pesch's translation: 'Ich warte, bis mir scheint, ich wüßte, was wirklich geschehen ist.'

______________________________

In the long quotation from Andreas Boldt above, he refers to the following works: 

• Iggers, G.G. 1988. The German conception of history. Hanover: Wesleyan University Press.
• Ranke, Leopold von. 1824. Geschichten der romanischen und germanischen Völker von 1494 bis 1535. Leipzig: Reimer. 
• Stern, F. 1973. The varieties of history from Voltaire to the Present. New York: Vintage.

Star Trek: "The Man Trap" -- the First Episode Ever Broadcast.

 I have to admit when I watched the very first episode of Star Trek ever shown on television, there were lots of things I never noticed. First of all, I was six in September 1966. Second, my parents, though hardly perfect, were not racist or sexist, and didn’t mention certain defining features of the show that some today are in denial about.

Even before the opening credits, we see a Black woman officer sitting at the station we later learn is navigation. This of course is Lieutenant Uhura, who is more usually found at communications, where she will appear later in the episode.

Also before the opening credits, we see a non-human with pointed ears sitting in the captain’s chair in command of the ship while the captain is visiting the planet below. This is Lieutenant-Commander Spock, the ship’s first officer and chief science officer.

An alien man and a black woman, officers on the bridge of the starship Enterprise, a name packed with meaning a little more than twenty years after the end of the Second World War in the Pacific, a war whose bloody history was exacerbated by racial hatred on both sides, some of it prejudice, some of it arising because it is very easy to dehumanize an enemy who looks so different. The American aircraft carrier Enterprise had played a leading role throughout that war, even taking part in an attack on Tokyo in in February 1945.

Speaking of the war (sorry, Basil), another character debuts later in the episode, Lieutenant Sulu, who seems to work as a botanist. Although his ethnic background is not mentioned any more than Uhura’s or Spock’s, there would have been many in the audience that night who would have looked at him and immediately assumed him to be Japanese (as the character is later revealed to be). That would have raised a fair number of eyebrows. Even more surprising, Sulu is next seen on the bridge running security on the ship. In the final scene, Sulu is seen again on the bridge sitting at the helm, the station he will become most well known for.

In 1966, as I said, I was six years old. My parents and the parents of everyone in my generation had lived through the Second World War. So many had fought and suffered, lost friends and family. There was still great and widespread bitterness about the war. To put a Japanese officer in so prominent a position of authority on a television show was bold, just as it was bold to put a Black woman officer. By comparison, making an alien the second in command was minor.

One of the great ironies, of course, is that the actor who played Sulu, George Takei, is a Japanese-American. As a child he had been unjustly imprisoned along with thousands of other Japanese-Americans in concentration camps just because they were of Japanese descent. I don’t know how my parents felt about this in 1942, but in the 1960s they were teaching me what a disgraceful wrong our country had done to them. Over and over my father spoke of the extraordinary courage Japanese-American soldiers displayed when the government allowed them to enlist and fight in their own units in Europe. They were done wrong by their country, and did their country only right in return. And they were not the only ones. Nichelle Nichols could have told some stories, too.

When you look at this or other episodes of Star Trek (No bloody TOS, TNG, DS9, VGR — to paraphrase Mr. Scott), there are plenty of opportunities to shake our heads at things that wouldn’t fly today. The ridiculously short completely impractical uniform skirts worn by the women in Starfleet, and the insanely skimpy attire worn by the non-human yet still very enticingly human-passing alien women, costumes designed to look like they just might fall off, are only the beginning of things we could mention. The 1960s were poised between two worlds. Some were holding desperately onto the way things had been, and some had let go to reach out for what could be.

Finally, what is in some ways the most challenging and the most relevant aspect of that episode, is the interaction between Captain Kirk and Professor Crater. Crater is trying to protect “a creature,” which is the last of its kind, sentient, intelligent, and capable of love, but whose extreme need for salt to survive drives it to kill some of Kirk’s crew. The professor likens it to the American buffalo, of which there had been 50,000,000 or more circa 1800, but only a few thousand remained in North America by 1900. When Crater argues that the creature is just trying to survive, Kirk, who is just as desperate to protect his crew, replies:

“You bleed too much, Crater. You’re too pure and noble.”

In effect, Kirk has just called him “woke.”

Even so, after the creature has been killed attempting to kill Kirk, Spock sees Kirk looking pensive and sad. Approaching him, Spock says:

“Something wrong, Captain?”

With a rueful smile, Kirk replies:

“I was thinking about the buffalo, Mr. Spock.”

He, Spock, and McCoy exchange thoughtful looks, and the episode ends with Kirk ordering Sulu, now at the helm, to resume their journey, while Uhura works at communications in the background.

We’ll see this dynamic over and over again throughout the history of Star Trek in all its incarnations. The characters, who have already put certain attitudes behind them, are confronted by their need to do the same again in another context. This is what boldly going is all about. 

"Fled from the Company" -- Frodo and Sam not looking back

At the beginning of Book 4, in the chapter called "The Taming of Sméagol," there's a beautifully subtle little touch, a single word that I've read countless times without catching its implications. Since the last time we saw Frodo and Sam is 200 very eventful pages ago, we can easily lose track of how little time has passed since Boromir tried to take the Ring and Frodo and Sam left all their companions behind. The drama of "The Breaking of the Fellowship" no longer stands out quite so prominently. For us. That is, for the readers. It's easy to find ourselves looking ahead, as Frodo and Sam do, as they stare out from the top of the Emyn Muil across the plain beyond which lies Mordor: 

‘What a fix!’ said Sam. ‘That’s the one place in all the lands we’ve ever heard of that we don’t want to see any closer; and that’s the one place we’re trying to get to! And that’s just where we can’t get, nohow.' (TT 4.i.603)

Gollum, too, has been following them, as they know. There may also be orcs about. And the bare hills of the Emyn Muil, which they haven't been able to find their way out of despite several days of trying, leave them feeling terribly exposed. A fix indeed. All of this draws our attention in to where they are and what they are doing. Frodo and Sam are so focused on where they are trying to go that they are no longer entirely sure of how long they've been wandering around the Emyn Muil.  

"It was the third evening since they had fled from the Company, as far as they could tell" (TT 4.i.603).

That word, fled, compresses all the drama of "The Breaking of the Fellowship"--Frodo's indecision, Boromir's attempt to compel Frodo to give him the Ring, Frodo's escape from him, his even more dangerous brush with the Eye of Sauron, the panic of the Company, the attack of the orcs--all this and more that Frodo and Sam don't know about. Of Boromir's recovery, his courageous attempt to save Merry and Pippin, and his death, they are entirely ignorant. For all they know, Boromir might be hunting them as well.

Let's look back, though, for just a moment at what Frodo had fled from:

Frodo rose to his feet. A great weariness was on him, but his will was firm and his heart lighter. He spoke aloud to himself. "I will do now what I must," he said. "This at least is plain: the evil of the Ring is already at work even in the Company, and the Ring must leave them before it does more harm. I will go alone. Some I cannot trust, and those I can trust are too dear to me: poor old Sam, and Merry and Pippin. Strider, too: his heart yearns for Minas Tirith, and he will be needed there, now Boromir has fallen into evil. I will go alone. At once."

(FR 2.x.401)

These are Frodo's thoughts as he thinks through the choice he must make. The Ring is not just a danger to him, but to his companions. We can even, I believe, see the Ring at work on him. He says "some I cannot trust." If he had said "one I cannot trust," it would have been perfectly clear whom he meant. But "some" is more than "one." Does he not trust Legolas and Gimli? They are the only members of the Company he does not name. "None" or "almost none" would have been more accurate and more honest. And it's the Company he is said to have "fled," not simply Boromir (or even "some" of his companions), which again would have been completely understandable. 

Not also that it could have said "left the Company," "(de)parted from the Company," "separated from the Company," "exited the Company," "abandoned the Company," or many other words with connotations that have nothing to do with escape. But the text doesn't choose a different word. No. It chooses fled.

Quite a fix indeed.

 

As if the Story of Túrin Weren't Already Tragic Enough

While analyzing the death scenes of Nienor Níniel and Túrin in the chapter "Turambar and the Foalókë" in The Book of Lost Tales, I noticed that parts of the last words of each character seemed to be iambic verse. 

Before leaping to her death in a waterfall, Níniel addresses the river with a statement that begins and ends with the same sentence: "O waters of the forest whither do ye go?" I believe the text in between also scans as iambic with slight variations like an extra unstressed syllable or a very brief switch to trochees. 

For reference, an iamb or an iambic foot is two syllables long, the first unstressed, the second stressed. In the following example, I have indicated the stressed syllable with an acute accent:

Tomórrow ánd tomórrow ánd tomórrow

A trochee or a trochaic foot, which we'll also be looking at today, is the opposite of an iamb, a stressed syllable followed by an unstressed syllable. Trochees go fast. The word trochee derives from the Greek verb τρέχω, meaning run. Iambs walk; trochees run. Here's another example from Macbeth, but this time trochees:

Doúble, doúble toíl, and troúble

Fíre búrn and caúldron búbble

The prose text "Turambar and the Foalókë" reads :

“O waters of the forest whither do ye go? Wilt thou take Nienóri, Nienóri daughter of Úrin, child of woe? O ye white foams, would that ye might lave me clean—but deep, deep must be the waters that would wash my memory of this nameless curse. O bear me hence, far far away, where are the waters of the unremembering sea. O waters of the forest whither do ye go?” (LT II.109) 

Recast as verse, it might read: 

"O waters of the forest whither do ye go?
Wilt thou take Nienóri, Nienóri, daughter
of Úrin, child of woe? O ye white foams,
would that ye might lave me clean—but deep, deep must be
the waters that would wash my memory of this (5)
nameless curse. O bear me hence, far far away,
where are the waters of the unrememb'ring sea.
O waters of the forest whither do ye go?”

To begin with, I thought it was just the opening sentence, but the repetition of the same phrase in the closing sentence made me wonder about the words in between. After studying the scansion for a while I noticed that structuring it with six beats per line yielded eight full lines of what we might call iambic hexameter. Now in English we are far more used to iambic pentameter, which is thought to best reproduce the rhythm of the spoken language. The ancient Greeks, however, felt that what they called iambic trimeter accomplished this end. And? So? We count iambic feet differently than the Greeks did. For us it's one iamb per foot, and a line of verse composed of five iambs is iambic pentameter. The Greeks thought of an iambic foot as having two iambs. So a line of Greek iambic trimeter has the same number of beats as a line of English iambic hexameter. 

Iambic trimeter, as Tolkien well knew, is the standard form of verse for dialogue in Greek Tragedy. Since schoolboys were often required to translate English poetry into Greek or Latin verse, Tolkien had very likely translated lines of Shakespeare into Greek and set them in iambic trimeter. The story of Túrin and his family owes much to the story of Oedipus and his family. Tolkien said so himself, and his opinion of Greek Tragedy was clearly quite high (Letters² #131 p. 210; #156 p. 297). In this same section of "Turambar and the Foalókë" the character Tamar (Brandir) reproaches Túrin with the suicide of Nienor Níniel, saying that she died "blind with horror and with woe, desiring never to see thee again" (LT II.111). This very Sophoclean line recalls Oedipus who blinded himself so he would not have to see his children who were also his siblings in this world, or his wife who was also his mother in the next. 

Just because I can make the scansion work does not completely persuade me, however. Certain parts work better than others. What most inclines me to think that Tolkien was consciously mimicking Greek Tragic Trimeters in Nienor Níniel's final words is that Túrin's final words seem to be doing the same thing. First the prose: 

“Thee only have I now—slay me therefore and be swift, for life is a curse, and all my days are creeping foul, and all my deeds are vile, and all I love is dead."

The last twelve beats of this sentence can easily be seen as two lines of iambic trimeter:

"life ís a cúrse, and áll my dáys are creéping foúl,
and áll my deéds are víle, and áll I lóve is deád."

It does not surprise me in the least to think that Tolkien embraced this tragic form to enhance the last words of his most tragic characters. If he can draw inspiration from the tragedy of Oedipus Tyrannos, he can also draw inspiration from one of its most characteristic forms of verse.

Gollum said, Sméagol said

Recently I was asked to present a 30 minute talk on the first five chapters of Book 4 of The Lord of the Rings. (When? Later in the summer. Where? That would be telling.) So, last night I was reading "The Taming of Sméagol" and "The Passage of the Marshes" and giving the matter some thought. I've thought about these chapters a lot over the years. In addition to being just so good they are essential for understanding Gollum, since Book IV is the reader's longest exposure to him.

A thought struck me as I was looking at the moment when Frodo starts calling Gollum Sméagol, after which Gollum begins using it to refer to himself. Even Sam uses it a few times. I wondered whether the narrator ever called him Sméagol when telling the story in his own voice. So, not in the speech or thoughts of the characters. Since Frodo is supposed to be the main writer of this story, what he does here might be revealing. 

I first searched for "Sméagol" plain and simple, and discovered 155 instances, not counting appendices, tables of contents, indices, etc. Scanning through these I didn't see a single instance where the narrator calls him Sméagol in direct narration. (The debate Sam overhears between Sméagol and Gollum not only represents Sam's thoughts, but also helps to distinguish for the reader which of them is speaking at a given moment.)

Without going too far down this rabbit hole, I conducted four more searches I thought could be useful. I searched:

• "said Gollum"
• "Gollum said"
• "Sméagol said"
• "said Sméagol"

The first, "said Gollum," appears forty-five times, all in Book IV. There's nothing unusual here. It's exactly what we might expect. 

The second, "Gollum said," is a bit trickier, since the search ignores punctuation. Of six results, only two represent the voice of the narrator.

• 1.i.33: "Even if Gollum said the same once," said Bilbo
• 3.iii.456: "Gollum, gollum!" said Pippin
• 4.ii.624: Gollum said nothing to them -- spoken by the narrator
• 4.iv.652: "Gollum!" said Sam
• 4.ix.717: As Gollum said -- spoken by the narrator
• 5.iv.815: "Gollum," said Pippin

The third, "Sméagol said" is much the same as the second and for the same reason. Of twelve occurrences, all in Book IV, the voice we hear is always Frodo's, Sam's, or Gollum's.

• 4.i.616 "Sméagol," said Frodo
• 4.i.618 "Sméagol," said Gollum
• 4.ii.633 "But Sméagol said..." spoken by Gollum
• 4.iii.637 "Sméagol said so" -- spoken by Gollum
• 4.iv.655 "A present from Sméagol," said Sam
• 4.vi.687 "Sméagol," said Frodo
• 4.vi.687 "Sméagol," said Frodo
• 4.vi.689 "Sméagol!" said Frodo
• 4.viii.715 "Sméagol," said Gollum
• 4.viii.715 "Sméagol," said Frodo
• 4.ix.717 "Sméagol?" said Frodo
• 4.ix.719 "Sméagol!" said Frodo

The fourth and last, "said Sméagol," is found just three times, all on 1.ii.53, when Gandalf is recounting for Frodo the conversation Sméagol had with Déagol just before he murdered him. It worth noting that Gandalf will call Gollum "Sméagol" six more times in this chapter of the The Lord of the Rings (1.ii.53, 56). Everywhere else he calls him Gollum. In this chapter, "The Shadow of the Past," Gandalf is trying to get Frodo to pity Sméagol before Frodo learns that Sméagol is Gollum.

Now I believe that, since the story of The Lord of the Rings claims to be written largely by Frodo, we should take that seriously enough to consider the implications of that assertion. This is not to say that we should think that no changes were made in later years long after Frodo and Sam were gone. But the pervasiveness of "said Gollum" versus the rarity of "said Sméagol," together with the narrator's exclusive use "Gollum" when speaking of this character, makes clear where the narrator stands on him. And this fits perfectly with the fact that Frodo may address him as "Sméagol" but, with only one exception, never speaks of him to others by any name but "Gollum."*

________________________________

The sole exception is when Frodo in Ithilien formally pledges to Faramir to take "this Sméagol" under his protection (TT 4.vi.690). The alternative was Gollum's execution.

Once again I am indebted to the indispensable James Tauber and The Digital Tolkien Project for their expertise and labor in the fields of Arda

The Second Tolkien Conference Switzerland -- Announcement

The 2026 Tolkien Conference Switzerland, organized by the University of Zurich, the University of Lausanne, and Friedrich Schiller University Jena, will take place on Saturday, March 14, 2026, once again at the University of Zurich as a hybrid conference.

Sign up here

The 2026 topic is: 'Leadership in Tolkien's Middle-earth'. We have already confirmed several international high-profile speakers: 

• Matthew T. Dickerson,  
• Judith Klinger, 
• Christine Lötscher,  
• José María Miranda Boto,  
• Annika Röttinger and 
• Claudio Testi.

As part of the supporting program, the two podcasters from 'Typisch Ravenclaw' will analyze and compare political systems in Middle-earth based on The Economist's Democracy Index in a live podcast (tbc).

 

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.

_________________________________

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.

---

[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).

_______________________

*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. 

The Digital Tolkien Project -- How it Helps My Work

The Digital Tolkien Project, founded by my friend, James Tauber, and brought to life by James with the help of so many dedicated and talented fans and scholars, is perhaps the most significant Tolkien related project since The History of Middle-earth was published in the 1980s and 1990s. Yes, I have just compared James to Christopher Tolkien. But I would argue that the compliment is well-deserved and so not flattery. 

I consult The Digital Tolkien Project pretty much every day. Sometimes just out of idle curiosity about Tolkien's use of a word, but more often my purpose is driven by a desire to consult it about something I am working on, either for this blog or for publication. I am currently over 200 pages into what I hope will be my next book, which will study how the Great Tales and (what I call) the Great Themes, such as Fate and Free Will, Divine Justice and the Problem of Evil, Death and Immortality, shape the legendarium in the years 1916-1937, that is, before Tolkien set aside the Silmarillion to write The Lord of the Rings. (I hope there will be a subsequent volume later on in which treat the same subjects after he returned to the Silmarillion.)

Today I want to provide an example of how The Digital Tolkien Project helps me in my studies. Below I have added an excerpt from the first of my chapters on Túrin in the early legendarium, here specifically in "Turambar and the Foalókë," the very first telling of his story, published in The Book of Lost Tales. So here's a single paragraph of my draft chapter, which I will no doubt rewrite quite a few times before I am done with it. But all those stats on the words drake, worm, dragon, Túrin, and Turambar, whose use by Tolkien suggests so much, come from The Digital Tolkien Project. Yes, I could have counted them all myself, but not so easily or accurately, or without having to separate out all the times Christopher himself uses these words in his notes and commentary.

The final words of the prophecy in “Turambar and the Foalókë” are also the final words of the tale: “and Melko and his drakes shall curse the sword of Mormakil” (LT I.116). A drake is of course a dragon, and in The Book of Lost Tales it is Tolkien’s preferred word for such creatures, appearing 23% more often than worm and 59% more often than dragon.[1] Turambar, the other word in the title, occurs 101 times in “Turambar and the Foalókë”: 99 of these 101 instances come after Túrin names himself Turambar in his first meeting with the dragon (LT II.86).[2] By contrast, Túrin appears 116 times in “Turambar and the Foalókë:” 83 of these 116 instances occur in the first sixteen pages of the text (69-86); the remaining 33 come in the last thirty pages of the text, that is, after Túrin renames himself (86-116). All or nearly all of these uses are the direct speech or reported direct speech or thought of Morwen, Nienor, Húrin, Thingol, Airin, Brandir, Glaurung, and Túrin himself. It is not simply the narrator speaking of Túrin in the normal course of narrating his actions. 24 of these 33 instances of Túrin occur in the portion of the tale devoted to the search for him undertaken by Morwen and Nienor (91-99). Turambar never appears in this section. In a tale whose title may be translated as “The Conqueror of Fate and the Drake” Tolkien’s use of words like drake, Túrin, and Turambar here disclose their essential significance to the story. Once Túrin proclaims himself the “Conqueror of Fate,” the narrator unironically accepts this declaration because he knows something the reader does not. He knows and believes the prophecy about Túrin’s return. Even when explaining the meaning of the title at the beginning of his tale, he follows up by emphasizing the connection in Men’s minds between this tale and the evils they suffered from Melkor and his drakes, a statement echoed by the prophecy in the tale’s final words (69-70, 116). It will not do to leave a Conqueror of Fate and drakes out of our calculations.

---

[1] In “Turambar” Tolkien uses drake 27 times; worm 22 times; dragon 17 times; and serpent 3 times. Tolkien’s seeming avoidance of serpent might indicate a desire not to recall the serpent of Genesis 3.

[2] Eltas twice employs Turumart, which he glosses as Gnomish for Turambar, once when giving the title of the tale and once when explaining the meaning of the name Turambar (LT II.70, 86).

My Life in Middle-earth, or was that Kenya?

If you've ever seen the wonderful British show "As Time Goes By," you probably remember one of the running gags early on. (If you've never seen the show, it's romantic, charming, and funny. Plus it has Jud Dench.) The male lead in the show, played by Geoffrey Palmer, had spent decades living in Kenya. Upon his retirement, he published a memoir which he called My Life in Kenya. Whenever he talked to a stranger about his book, they would ask him what it was called. He would reply "My life in Kenya." Then they would ask "What's it about?" And he would reply "My Life in Kenya," with a look on his face that was equal parts incredulity and exasperation. 

Today I was at a funeral and someone I knew a little bit in the dim past said to me: "I hear you've written a book about Tolkien. What's it called?" 

"Pity, Power, and Tolkien's Ring," I replied.

"What's it about?" he asked.

"Pity, Power, and Tolkien's Ring," I replied with a look on my face that was equal parts incredulity and exasperation.

The Last Word of Tolkien's Teacher, Joseph Wright

Joseph Wright was a remarkable man, especially for his day. He was born in a time when the children of poor families only rarely learned to read and write, let alone rise to be the Professor of Comparative Philology at Oxford University. As if that weren't enough, his crowning achievement was his English Dialect Dictionary, which held 80,000 entries in its six massive volumes. His was the life Jude Fawley wanted to live, Jude the Obscure with a happy ending. Almost.

Many fans of Tolkien will know that Wright taught Tolkien philology in his years at Oxford. When Wright died, his wife, Elizabeth Mary Wright, wrote a two volume biography of him. She describes his death and their relationship, both personal and professional, on p. 682 of the second volume:

There was only one thing more which had to be done, a last message to leave behind on the last day of all: and so he gathered up his strength in the midst of a long stretch of silence, and framed his lips to say to me quite clearly the one word ‘Dictionary’. It was, in essence, a humble echo of the words of One greater than he, when the hour had come : ‘I have glorified thee on the earth; I have finished the work which thou gavest me to do.’ At the time I thought all he wanted to say was to remind me of his wish to be ‘remembered by’ that one literary achievement. Later, when I came to re-read his letters which had lain in an old red morocco case for over thirty-four years, I saw in that one word a message and a reminder of deeper significance. Might it not be that he was thinking of the Dictionary as the seal and token of that priceless and imperishable gift he had given me long years ago, which had sustained every moment of our life together, the love which is stronger than death ? He wrote of the Dictionary : ‘It is a work that is a most sacred task to me. . . . Had it not been for you, nothing in the world could have induced me to undertake what seemed an impossibility to everybody else. But deep genuine love can overcome impossibilities’ ; and also —as I have already quoted among the extracts from these letters: ‘It would be premature to enlighten the world at present, but someday it will all be made known what a man’s deep love for a woman can inspire him to do.’

He died in the evening of February 27, 1930.

Really, what more is there to say? 

Joseph and Elizabeth Wright with their children, ca. 1907.
Photographer unknown. Public Domain.

 

"...the language ... of Mordor, which I will not utter here."

 ‘I cannot read the fiery letters,’ said Frodo in a quavering voice. 

‘No,’ said Gandalf, ‘but I can. The letters are Elvish, of an ancient mode, but the language is that of Mordor, which I will not utter here. But this in the Common Tongue is what is said, close enough: 

One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, 
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.

(FR 1.ii.50)

From time to time someone will ask why Gandalf will not utter the Black Speech in Bag End, but will do so in Rivendell. I saw this just the other day. It's a reasonable question. Here's the passage from The Council of Elrond for comparison. 

Upon this very ring which you have here seen held aloft, round and unadorned, the letters that Isildur reported may still be read, if one has the strength of will to set the golden thing in the fire a while. That I have done, and this I have read: 

            Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk
                                        agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.

The change in the wizard’s voice was astounding. Suddenly it became menacing, powerful, harsh as stone. A shadow seemed to pass over the high sun, and the porch for a moment grew dark. All trembled, and the Elves stopped their ears.

‘Never before has any voice dared to utter words of that tongue in Imladris, Gandalf the Grey,’ said Elrond, as the shadow passed and the company breathed once more.

(FR 2.ii.254)

Gandalf recites the enchantment in the Common Speech in Bag End. Nothing happens. Gandalf recites the enchantment in the Black Speech in Rivendell, the power of the Ring is invoked. The Elves don't just cover their ears because Gandalf has said some ugly words. His indiscretion is not social. He is not Gandalf the Gauche. He is Gandalf the Grey, a being of great power, calling upon the Ring of Sauron in a language it understands, as it were. A moment later he again recites the spell in the Common Speech. Again, nothing happens.

So, when Gandalf said to Frodo that he would "not utter [the language of Mordor] here," the word here does not mean here in the Shire. It means here in the presence of the Ring. He won't do it because he has an idea of what is going to happen. True, he doesn't want to frighten Frodo any more than he is already frightened. True, he doesn't want to risk drawing the attention of the Eye. The Shire is not safe enough. Rivendell is much safer than Hobbiton. Why does he do it at all? He is making a point and removing all doubt that this is in fact the One Ring.

"So let us forgive him" -- from the stairs of Cirith Ungol to the slopes of Mt Doom

The scene in The Two Towers where Gollum comes back down the stairs of Cirith Ungol to find Frodo and Sam asleep is remarkable for many reasons. Gollum, looking upon them, nearly repents of his decision to betray the hobbits to Shelob so he can get the Ring back. Sam, who has every reason to suspect Gollum is up to no good, treats Gollum harshly and Gollum responds in kind. Gollum's "repentance is blighted," as Tolkien says in one of his letters (Letters #246 p. 466). The reader is left in the unaccustomed position of pitying Gollum and being disappointed in Sam. Gollum, who began the scene close to repentance, ends it with a renewed commitment to treachery. Sam, who began in anger and suspicion, ends in grudging remorse and apology. Frodo's attempt at conciliation fails utterly.

The scene is about two pages long. Gollum is the only character awake for the first half page. Sam wakes up and clashes with Gollum on the second half of that page. At the start of the second page Sam awakens Frodo. Just before Sam wakes up, the narrator draws attention to the fact that neither Frodo nor Sam could have witnessed Gollum's moment of near repentance, and explains what they would have seen if they had been awake. It is the moment that sets up the astonishing pathos of the scene:

Gollum looked at them. A strange expression passed over his lean hungry face. The gleam faded from his eyes, and they went dim and grey, old and tired. A spasm of pain seemed to twist him, and he turned away, peering back up towards the pass, shaking his head, as if engaged in some interior debate. Then he came back, and slowly putting out a trembling hand, very cautiously he touched Frodo’s knee – but almost the touch was a caress. For a fleeting moment, could one of the sleepers have seen him, they would have thought that they beheld an old weary hobbit, shrunken by the years that had carried him far beyond his time, beyond friends and kin, and the fields and streams of youth, an old starved pitiable thing.

(TT 4.viii.714). 

One of the most basic conceits of The Lord of the Rings is that Frodo largely wrote the book he gave to Sam to finish. Obviously, Frodo could have written what he saw after he woke up, and Sam could have told him about what had gone on after he woke up. Not only would Gollum have been unlikely to have filled Frodo and Sam in on what he was experiencing at the start of the scene, but after the end of this scene they see very little of Gollum for the rest of the book. So the narrator of the book isn't supposed to be omniscient, and Sam couldn't have seen more than an old weary looking Gollum touching Frodo's knee. Incredulity is a very weak argument, but it is very hard to believe that Tolkien both slipped up on the narrator's perspective and then called attention to that slip by pointing out that no one could have seen Gollum before Sam woke up. What we see here is one of the most thematically significant moments in the whole story, the moment in which the reader suddenly sees Gollum precisely as Bilbo saw him in The Hobbit, precisely as Gandalf thought Frodo needed to see him, though he at first refused to do so, and precisely as Sam sees him on the slopes of Mt Doom. With pity. If this happened by chance, it's chance-if-chance-you-call it.

But what is more important than how we might square the creation of this scene with the supposed narrator's limited perspective -- and I have my theories -- is how we read this moment in the thematic context of the book. We need to read it in the context of the movement from pity to mercy and thence to forgiveness. That forgiveness comes only after Gollum betrays them once more and is again shown mercy, this time by Sam who has finally suffered enough to realize what he saw when he opened his eyes on the stairs of Cirith Ungol. That mercy enabled the eucatastrophe in the Chambers of Fire. I think we may be able to fully understand the importance of what happens on the stairs if we read it in dialogue with Frodo's words after the Ring is destroyed:

‘Your poor hand!’ he said. ‘And I have nothing to bind it with, or comfort it. I would have spared him a whole hand of mine rather. But he’s gone now beyond recall, gone for ever.’ ‘

Yes,’ said Frodo. ‘But do you remember Gandalf’s words: Even Gollum may have something yet to do? But for him, Sam, I could not have destroyed the Ring. The Quest would have been in vain, even at the bitter end. So let us forgive him! For the Quest is achieved, and now all is over. I am glad you are here with me. Here at the end of all things, Sam.' 

(RK 6.iii.947)

I really think that reading the second scene in the context of the first is much more important than sorting out the narrative questions arising from the sudden seeming omniscience of the narrator on the stairs. Going forward from the forgiveness meted out on the slopes of Mt Doom, there is no further context to consider, unless it's Frodo's attempt to spare Saruman and Wormtongue in the Shire. For Gollum is never mentioned again within the story. Frodo's last word on Gollum is "So let us forgive him."

"Foul" and "Vile" in The Book of Lost Tales

The Book of Lost Tales uses the words "foul" and "vile" in pretty much the way you'd expect.

"Foul" describes the following beings or things associated with them:

• Orcs: LT II 14, 159, 193, 232
• Karkaras (Carcharoth): LT II 34, 38, 239
• Melkor: LT I 55; LT II 37, 42 
• Glaurung (Glorund): LT II 85, 86 (3 times), 98
• Thingol, reproached by Tinúviel for Beren's "foul captivity" by Melkor: LT II 37 
• Brandir (Tamar), his "foul speech" that Nienor committed suicide, as described by Túrin: LT II 111
• Ungoliant (Wirilómë): 152
• Water, as polluted by blood or evil: LT II 38, 287

"Vile" describes the following beings or things associated with them:

• Glaurung: LT II 106, 107
• The dragon's hoard is Thingol's "vile reward": LT  II 135

"Foul" occurs more often in direct or indirect connection with the dragon than with anyone or anything else. So, too, of course, it occurs most often in "Of Turambar and the Foalókë," seven out of a total of sixteen times in both volumes of The Book of Lost Tales. Túrin and Morwen both address Glaurung with this word, calling him "foul worm," and "foul beast" (LT II.86, 98). It appears four times in a single page when he first enters the tale and meets Túrin (LT II 85-86). "Vile" is twice applied to Glaurung, again in "Of Turambar and the Foalókë," and once in a deleted passage by Húrin when he scornfully gives him Glaurung's hoard from Nargothrond as his "vile reward" for what he wrongly thinks is Thingol's failure to care for Húrin's family (LT 135).

There is one final passage to look at, in which both words occur in the same sentence. Here, Túrin, having killed Glaurung, learned that his wife is actually his sister and that she has killed herself, and then killed the man who gave him the news, asks his sword to kill him:

"Thee only have I now—slay me therefore and be swift, for life is a curse, and all my days are creeping foul, and all my deeds are vile, and all I love is dead.”

(LT II.112).

Given the usage of these two words in The Book of Lost Tales, one might conclude that Túrin feels he has become as evil as Glaurung himself.

_______________________

I noticed not long before finishing this post that the second half of Túrin's words to his sword can be read as two lines of iambic pentameter:

and all my days are creeping foul, and all

my deeds are vile, and all I love is dead.

(The first half of the sentence is not far off either)

 

Númenor: the Downfall is in the Details

Tolkien speaks of (some of) the names the island we mostly call Númenor in three different versions of "The Fall of Númenor," and in a chapter of his unfinished novel "The Lost Road." The first two versions of "The Fall of Númenor" and the chapters from "The Lost Road," all written shortly before Tolkien began The Lord of the Rings, were published by Christopher Tolkien in The Lost Road. The third version of "The Fall of Númenor," written in the mid-1940s in connection with "The Notion Club Papers," was published in Sauron Defeated.

Please note that "The Lost Road" is not the same as The Lost Road. The first is an unfinished story, and the second is the volume of The History of Middle-earth in which the first is published. So, too, "The Fall of Númenor" is not The Fall of Númenor, the elegant compendium of Númenor's history published by Brian Sibley in 2022.

The first version of "The Fall of Númenor" says:

It was called by the Gods Andor, the Land of Gift, but by its own folk Vinya, the Young; but when the men of that land spake of it to the men of Middle-earth they named it Númenor, that is Westernesse, for it lay west of all lands inhabited by mortals. Yet it was not in the true West, for there was the land of the Gods. The chief city of Númenor was in the midmost of its western coasts, and in the days of its might it was called Andúnië, because it faced the sunset; but after its fall it was named in the legends of those that fled from it Atalantë the Downfall.

(Lost Road, 19). 

The second version of "The Fall of Númenor" says:

That land was called by the Valar Andor, the Land of Gift, and by its own folk it was at first called Vinya, the Young; but in the days of its pride they named it Númenor, that is Westernesse, for it lay west of all lands inhabited by mortals; yet it was far from the true West, for that is Valinor, the land of the Gods. But its glory fell and its name perished; for after its ruin it was named in the legends of those that fled from it Atalantë, the Downfallen.

(Lost Road 24-25)

In "The Lost Road" Elendil says:

"And for the men of the Three Houses they made Vinya, the New Land, west of Middle-earth in the midst of the Great Sea, and named it Andor, the Land of Gift; and they endowed the land and all that lived thereon with good beyond other lands of mortals."

(Lost Road 64-65).  

 The third version of "The Fall of Númenor" says:

That land the Valar called Andor, the Land of Gift; and by its own folk it was at first called Vinya, the Young; but in the days of its pride they named it Númenor, that is Westernesse, for it lay west of all lands inhabited by mortals; yet it was far from the true West, for that is Valinor, the land of the Gods. But the glory of Númenor was thrown down [> overthrown] and its name perished; and after its ruin it was named in the legends of those that fled from it Atalantë, the Downfallen.

(Sauron Defeated 332-333)

Of all the names we see in these texts, "Vinya, the Young," is the one I find most interesting. In the first place "Vinya" suggests that at this point Men possess an innocence and humility before the Gods/Valar and even a sense of wonder at this island manufactured expressly for them in the midst of the Sea. Yet the shadow is always closer than we think. The name Númenor is a mark of its pride, an assertion of its preeminent glory to the seemingly lesser mortals back in Middle-earth, and above all it asserts the claim of Númenor to be "the true West." In each version of "The Fall of Númenor" the claim is swiftly rejected, and the downfall follows at once as proof of the error of false pride. 

In the other text, "The Lost Road," Elendil twice refers to the island as Vinya and twice as Andor (Lost Road 58, 64-65). The uses of Vinya are particularly revealing in a couple of ways. In the passage quoted above, he is speaking of the history of the island to his son. In the other passage he wishes that it had not been his fate to be born in Vinya because he would rather be in Tol Eressëa (58). This is a measure of his respect and admiration for the Elves and Valar. In both passages, Tolkien originally had Elendil say "Númenor" but then changed it to "Vinya" (70 n.3). In fact, "Vinya" as well as "Andor" first appeared in a replacement passage. The original was much briefer and more neutral, with any hint of the pride of the Númenóreans buried much deeper, if it is there at all:

It was called Númenor, that is Westernesse, and Andúnië or the Sunsetland, and its chief city in the midmost of its western coasts was in the days of its might called Númar or Númenos; but after its fall it was named in legend Atalantë, the Ruin.

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Vinya, the Young, disappears in the transition from the earlier versions of Númenor's story to Akallabêth, its final version. Why Tolkien made this change we do not know. Presumably, the change reflects the much greater prominence given to Eärendil as the star that guided the ships of the Edain to Númenor, and to the new name for the island, "Elenna," which means "Starwards" (S 260-61). More thought is needed on this change, but today is not that day. Still, I find something quite appealing in the notion that the name by which we all know the island, and by which everyone in The Lord of the Rings wistfully calls the island, was once a product of the pride that destroyed it. 

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Aldarion founded a great harbor on the shores of Middle-earth, which he called "Vinyalondë." This is usually taken to mean "New Haven," perhaps the "vinya" here refers to Númenor itself, and so would mean "Númenor-haven."