"The Grey Havens" - Eric's Thoughts

Ralph Waldo Emerson once said that life is a journey, not a destination. In the spirit of Emerson, I've used this opportunity to peek at our old posts and see how we progressed through the years (along with Frodo and Company).

And what progress! Jacob, Ben, and I have wrote our way through sixty-two lengthy chapters, and between school, and children, and marriages, it's taken a little under three years to complete this project. At the time we started (January 2014), I was just out of law school, Ben had just finished his clerkship, and Jacob was working on his Ph.D.

Since that time, we've visited Yellowstone (June 2015), Capital Reef / Arches / Canyonlands (June 2016), and Yosemite (June 2017). Marriages, and kids, and Ph.Ds happened. Most certainly we have all grown as Frodo and Co. did within Tolkien's wonderland.

The Grey Havens is a haunting chapter that is enigmatic and a pleasure to read.The growth of the hobbits really wouldn't have been apparent without the Scouring of the Shire and the Grey Havens. This is classic hero's journey -- the transformed character(s) return with a boon.

So what is the boon? I would submit that the greatest boon the hobbits bring back to the shire are their changed selves, with skillsets and leadership that allows the hobbits to drive out evil before it fully takes root. Of course, this is a boon that is only seen through the hobbits' acts and deeds. The literal boon is that Sam brings back Galadriel's earth that allows the Shire to heal and grow stronger than before. Most memorable to me (even from many years ago) is how Sam replants seeds of trees that are buffered with a single grain of Galadriel's gift of earth, and of course the mallorn tree with silver leaves (that replaces the old party tree).

Interspersed between these denouements lies Frodo, where Tolkien describes Frodo clutching a jewel and muttering to himself. Indeed, Frodo's behavior foreshadows that he cannot live a life of peace amongst the shire (though he does seem to try). Frodo's war wounds are simply too great:

"Where are you going master?" cried Sam[.]

"To the Havens, Sam," said Frodo.

"And I can't come."

"No, Sam. Not yet, anyway, not further than the Havens . . ."

"But," said Sam, and tears started in his eyes, "I thought you were going to enjoy the Shire too, for years and years, after all you have done."

"So I thought too, once. But I have been too deeply hurt, Sam. I tried to save the Shire, and it has been saved, but not for me. It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger: some one has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them . . ."

Frodo then embarks on a ship with Gandalf, the elves, to go on a journey to the Havens A haven, in the literal sense, means a place of refuge or safety. Interestingly, it also can mean a harbor or a port, that is to say a place of departure or destination for a ship. (In his descriptions, Tolkien hints that the Havens is both a place of departure and a place of destination.) And Tolkien complicates this description by calling the havens "grey," which signifies images of age, fog, clouds, and blurring.

The only real clue in the text is that "And then it seemed to [Frodo] that as in his dream in the house of Bombadil, the grey rain-curtain turned all to a silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise." In contrast, "But to Sam the evening deepened to darkness as he stood at the Haven, and as he looked at the grey sea he saw only a shadow on the waters that was soon lost in the West."

I would study those words in church growing up, Lord of the Rings hidden between my bible, and ponder them. At the time, Tolkien's uncertainty left me scratching my head and bothered me. My younger self always wanted a clear answer to what the Havens was.

But now, I appreciate Tolkien's ambiguity. He ends the story in a way that signifies new beginnings. Sam returns home, ready to start his next adventure. Frodo goes on to see a "swift sunrise" in a land with far greener pastures.

In essence, Frodo and his friends become legends, and an older age lives on through the Red Book, reality turning to fantasy as years pass.

"The Scouring of the Shire" - Eric's Thoughts

The “Scouring of the Shire” is a story within a story—a self-contained dramatic arc that probably could be read independently, understood, and enjoyed as a great work of literature unto itself without having read one page of Lord of the Rings.

Structurally, the story begins with the hobbits Merry, Pippin, Sam, and Frodo approaching their old stomping grounds. They’ve had a long journey and are “homeward bound” at last. But the expected hero’s welcome is an illusion—instead they are greeted by looming gates, skepticism, fear, and silly regulations. Tolkien makes clear that the Shire, painted earlier in the story as a utopia of green countryside and peaceful farmers, has been invaded and touched by the world of men.

Tolkien plays with structure even as he embraces it—the “Scouring of the Shire” is oddly out of place with the rest of the novel. As we were taught since grade school, after the story’s climax comes the resolution.

But The Lord of the Rings does not follow this structure. The climax of Tolkien’s Middle Earth epic is undoubtedly the destruction of the Ring earlier in “Mount Doom.” There, Sam and Frodo confront Baggins old nemesis Gollum, spare him yet again, and the doom of the story unfolds. The story then engages in resolution chapters, which are to be expected. But then LOTR suddenly diverges into a sub-plot (Scouring of the Shire) that is mostly unrelated to the main tale.

Interestingly, not one mention of the Ring is made in “Scouring of the Shire.” The Scouring of the Shire tells of a different arc—a washed up villain who was rejected and defeated in Middle Earth takes up the only abode he can—the place not up to speed on current events. Of course, what is interesting is that “Sharkey” is not the cause of the problem—and merely takes up an abode where Lotho already had created a tyrannical regime. Sharkey merely steps into Lotho’s shoes and attempts to increase the harm. So the root of tyranny in the Shire was actually the result of only one hobbit’s greed.

Of course, while this chapter could be read independently from The Lord of the Rings as a short story, the characters of Merry and Pippin are enriched because of this chapter—Scouring changes Merry and Pippin from clueless hobbits to bold leaders. Frodo benefits from the cruel mercy he bestows upon Saruman. (And it is nice to see the villains finally turn on one another.)

In short, Scouring of the Shire certainly carries deeper depth because of the backstory of Lord of the Rings, but the full LOTR treatment is not necessary here to appreciate this self-contained tale. “Scouring” has an immediate problem, rising tension, and a climax (homeward bound crew encounters something sinister afoot with the lack of reception coupled with mountains of regulations à confrontation with Shiriffs à confrontation with men à a battle involving hundreds of men and hobbits à a twist that Lotho was killed and replaced by Saruman à villains killing each other off). Scouring is really its own short story contained within the greater work of the novel.

As Ben and Jacob point out, there’s a lot going on here. Tolkien fills his narrative with jabs at the industrial world, describing a mill with many gears and wheels. In his description, Tolkien appears to question why we need faster and more efficient contraptions, especially if the price of such contraptions is pollution. And, obviously, Tolkien posits the silliness of the government state that interferes with a free-market farming economy. Tolkien also has fun poking fun at communism, where the hobbits talk about “sharers” that come along and collect the food and only give it to Lotho and his cronies. In short, Tolkien’s thesis seems to be that a farming culture free of technology and government intervention seems to be the ideal. Of course, Tolkien advances this ideology even as as he mocks it—the only reason such a world can exist is because men and elves embraced technologies and progress that allowed them to withstand the evil of Sauron.

"Homeward Bound" - Eric's Thoughts

Wherein herein lies a transitional chapter, wherein herein it only deserves a transitional analysis.

Homeward Bound (the chapter) could be best described by Homeward Bound (the movie), which assuredly everyone watched growing up. Remember that one? No?

I will summarize. There are two dogs and a cat in that movie (I think). The animals get lost. They have to find their way home. Antics ensue, including a porcupine attack to one of the dog's faces. (I'm pretty sure that happened. Anyone willing to (re)watch it to make sure?)

All right, maybe the chapter is not all that similar with the movie, but you get the point. The hobbits are bounding towards home -- i.e. they are homeward bound. Along the way they see Butterbeer, err, Butterbur. Him and Knob and Cobb are much more suspicious towards outsiders. Tolkien is doing this to show that the world the hobbits left behind has changed. As have the hobbits.

Gandalf leaves, again. (You may be be wondering: why is that wizard always running off at critical moments?? He did the same thing in The Hobbit! [Spoiler below***])

The chapter ends with a real cliffhanger as the hobbits approach home. Is everyone the way it was??? Can Sam go back to a peaceful life of gardening notwithstanding the visions that he saw in Lothlorien and Butterbur's ominous foreshadowing in Bree??? Dum - dum - dum!!!! We'll have to see!!!!

***Answer: Because that way the characters can develop without a crutch. The wizard / helper figure generally has to be taken out of the equation so that the hero can truly demonstrate his/her apotheosis. See Campbell.

"Many Partings" - Eric's Thoughts

The highlight of this chapter is the brief appearance of the villain Saruman, who is described as an old ragged beggar leaning on a staff. In his ragged form, once again, Saruman is offered mercy. And once again, Saruman rejects it.

I can't help but suspect that Tolkien and C.S. Lewis had a talk about theology once or twice. Saruman's repeated rejection of mercy is very similar to Lewis' Great Divorce. Indeed, Saruman's infinite, unrelenting pride gives him the incapacity to understand why Gandalf and the others offer mercy in the first place. Saruman cannot accept others' mercy because he once dominated the council of wizards and was one of the most powerful beings in Middle Earth. Even Gandalf would take Saruman's counsel. To be seen in rags by his former friends; that must gnaw him from the inside. To accept their mercy, well, that would just be giving them the satisfaction that he was wrong, right? Humbug!

As will be seen, sympathy for Saruman is not the best approach, however. The man is a snake, and Saruman's capacity for evil is not done yet. Perhaps spurred by his close encounter, Saruman turns to the Shire to seek revenge. One thing I wonder -- is Saruman aware that the hobbits Merry and Pippin spurred the Ents to war? If so, it adds another layer of pettiness to the man--even though he has lost, he wishes to destroy as many lives as possible before he is caught and taken from the world.

"The Grey Havens" - Ben's Thoughts

The final chapter of The Lord of the Rings never fails to put chills through me, because of its beauty, poignancy, and staggering sense of inevitability.

Frodo has long since realized that he cannot retain this "dream" he had, of comfortable life in the Shire. He is too damaged, too changed by his experiences to do so. This fact is something that the Wise--Gandalf, Elrond, Galadriel--have been hinting and and telling him about practically since the first moment he realized that Bilbo's "ring" was in fact the "Ring"--the Ring of Power of the Dark Lord of Mordor. Taking part in the Quest irrevocably changed him.

But the touching thing about this change is that Frodo accepts it. He doesn't rail against it, or try to cling to his old life. He doesn't hang on to the Deputy Mayorship and push poor old Will Whitfoot aside in a desperate attempt to retain a place in the Shire. No--slowly, he diminishes, just as Galadriel said she would diminish (and yet, "remain Galadriel"--a powerful message to anyone engaged in that sort of struggle. You can lose yourself in trying to hang onto some past version of yourself). He moves aside for Pippin, and Merry, and Sam, and their descendants, and the new generation of hobbit-children that fill the Shire. He stays just long enough to record his account of what happened in the war and pass it on to Sam, who will hopefully in turn pass it on to his descendants. And then he moves on to the next great adventure. I think that is a strong message to all of us about letting go and moving on.

But that of course leaves us with Sam, standing in many ways alone on the shore, listening to the waves and watching where the ship vanished over the horizon long after the light of Galadriel faded into the darkness. Parting is one of the hardest things we ever do in life. Being separated from those we love, separated in time from experiences we have cherished. The loss of those memories, those people, those places is powerful; it's something that stays with us. As Sam says, we feel torn in two. We know that we must move forward, that we have joys and responsibilities and relationships in the here and now; but something continues to tug on us, pulling us back, causing us to look over our shoulder.

I think Tolkien is telling us that it's all right to keep looking over your shoulder. Far from the story of Lot's wife, we are not going to be turned into a pillar of salt for keeping these feelings, these experiences, these memories close to us. It is true: on the one hand, too much reliance on past experiences and relationships can hamper those we have in the present. But on the other, if they inform and support rather than consume, they can be used as founts of strength, information, experience, and empathy to buoy us up rather than drag us down.

This all sounds very trite when I read it back over. But Tolkien has managed to capture powerful essences of our human experience and portray them in plot and narrative. It's a rare author who manages to do this for me. This feels real to me, unlike so much other literature which instead feels like a pale copy, if it's striving to capture anything at all.

As I stand with Sam there on the shores of Middle-earth, I think about my quests, my adventures, and the ones that I have yet to experience. Tolkien has managed, once again, to assist me in my travels.

"The Scouring of the Shire" - Ben's Thoughts

Sometimes I wonder why Peter Jackson didn't include the Scouring in his final film. It's full of drama and tension, with a wonderful climax, and all of the characters (except perhaps Pippin) are put to good use in reaching the final terrible conclusion. Perhaps it's because it's just something that could have been easily excised from what was already a lengthy movie. Or perhaps it's because Jackon's Shire is one far different from the Shire of the books -- where hobbits are real people and not just caricatures, where choices have consequences, where hobbits die and men are struck by arrows and Saruman tries to stab Frodo and makes his last, tragic mistakes. Yes, the films by comparison are trite indeed. (Another regret is how frequently we compare these books to the movies. The mediums and narrative and thematic choices are so different, are they even that comparable?)

The chapter works on multiple levels. It's at once a comedy, a dystopian cautionary tale, a Greek tragedy, and a thrilling war story. As we've mentioned before, it's one of those chapters that is just so good that it makes the entirety of LOTR that much better. I'd like to touch on just a few aspects.

As dystopia, it's fairly chilling. This is the same Shire the hobbits left before, where the only evil was exterior -- the threat of the Black Riders. There was never any worry about rot from within. But now, we have collaborators, opportunists, Bosses, power-hungry "Shirriffs"; indeed, as Frodo says about Ted Sandyman (nasty from the start, but not malicious until when our Heroes see him at his mill): "I hope there are not many more hobbits that have become like this. It would be a worse trouble than all the damage the Men have done." The "great spiked gate," the depressing guardhouses, the "whips, knives, and clubs" of the ruffians, the blockades, the curfews, the illegal imprisonment... I could continue, but all are hallmarks of a dystopia as compelling as George Orwell's (which, I might note, predates LOTR by only a few years).

Tied into all of this is Tolkien's obvious distaste for industrialization. This is the extreme example of what we've seen earlier: the evil forces of Mordor and Saruman are all about destroying the old order and installing or rebuilding a new order on the ashes of the old like a twisted palimpsest. The new is harsh and rigid and functional and cheap and dirty and dead. In the Shire, the old holes have been ripped out (literally dug out of the earth in the case of Bagshot Row and replaced with a sandpit) and replaced with functional yet tragic houses (removing the hobbits that live in them further from their mother earth). Old, functioning mills have been replaced with new ones that have no grist; instead they trundle on, day and night, producing who knows what other than pollution that flows into the water and the air (this brings to mind in Dr. Suess' The Lorax, where the by-product of the Once-ler's factory is Gloppity-Glopp and Schluppity-Schlupp, which proceeds to schlupp up the land). Shanties have been throw up, and "heaps of refuse" disgrace the lawns of Bag End.

All of this seems fairly over-the-top, especially when contrasted with the glorious utopia that "returning to the land" creates in the next chapter, but I can't fault Tolkien for his love of nature and a simpler, rural lifestyle. I also feel rejuvenated when I return to nature. But it's equally hard to reject the fact that industrialization has led to incredible advancements in technology, science, and medicine that have allowed us not only to better understand the world around us, but prolong the human life-span. Tolkien kind of cheats with hobbit society, because hobbits are naturally long-lived; Bilbo starts out the story turning 111, and is 131 by the end of the book (by comparison, Otho Sackville-Baggins is 102 when he dies, an age described as both "ripe" and "disappointed"). If we were all as naturally long-lived as hobbits (and think of what they could do if they laid off of the beer, pipe-weed, and rich food!) I'd argue a bit more forcefully for a return to nature, too.

But on to Saruman. Is there a more conceited, spiteful, and rage-inducing character in all of literature than Saruman in this chapter? He's all too successful in his attempts to wound the Shire, and unpleasantly on the nose with his critiques of our Heroes and their wanderings. Ultimately, one gets the sense that he knows he'll ultimately be unsuccessful in destroying the Shire; he just wants to hurt it as much and as soon as possible: "It would have been a sharper lesson, if only you had given me a little more time and more Men. Still I have already done much that you will find it hard to mend or undo in your lives."

What I want to focus on, though, is Frodo's mercy to counterpoint Saruman's spite. Even after his ruthless, underhanded assassination attempt, Frodo spares his life. "He is fallen, and his cure is beyond us; but I would still spare him, in the hope that he may find it." Saruman, however, completely misunderstands Frodo's mercy: "You have grown, Halfling. . . . Yes, you have grown very much. You are wise, and cruel. You have robbed my revenge of sweetness". Saruman is incapable of understanding Frodo's gesture, and his hope. He sees only malice and cruelty in Frodo's response. Perhaps that is the most tragic aspect of all about Saruman's state, there at the end. It tends to belie Frodo's hope and indicate that there really is no turning back for Saruman, once so great and so wise. I think Saruman's fall is more impactful than Sauron's, because of these glimpses that we get of him.

But that's not all! Sam flirting! Pippin threatening a thug with his "troll's bane" sword! Crotchety old hobbits making wisecracks! Poking fun at ridiculous authority figures! Chases, escapes, hobbits using military techniques to outmaneuver ruffians! Wormtongue's final tragic revenge! The chapter has it all. It's a masterwork, and one that lives on in one's memory well after the words are read. I've said it before, but this chapter is an example of why Tolkien's work lives through the ages.

"Homeward Bound" - Ben's Thoughts

Jacob touched on it briefly at the end of his post, but I want to highlight it a bit further: the differences between how the hobbits approach their "adventure," to use a somewhat inapplicable term. Merry says "it seems almost like a dream that has slowly faded." Frodo, however, says "To me it feels more like falling asleep again."

I never realized what that meant growing up. In every single one of my prior reads, I think I glossed over that line as a flippant joke in my hurry to get to the excitement of "Scouring of the Shire," like Frodo was saying that he sure was sleepy and won't it be great to get to a nice warm fireside again. Only this time around have I read that as it's truly meant: his prior life was a dream, and his real life was the adventure.

Of course, for Frodo, the truly heartbreaking thing about his "real life" is that it was full of trauma. The comment about "falling asleep" back into his old life is the second bookend to the chapter opener, where he reveals to Gandalf that "There is no real going back. Though I may come to the Shire, it will not seem the same; for I shall not be the same. I am wounded with knife, sting, and tooth, and a long burden. Where shall I find rest?" His experiences were all to horrifyingly "real" to him, and in the face of that trauma, the seemingly idyllic life of the Shire seems suddenly empty.

Merry and Pippin, and probably to a lesser extent, Sam, are returning to their lives in the Shire. Looking at the later chronologies, Merry and Pippin become civic leaders in their respective ethnic communities, and Sam becomes Mayor of the Shire many times over. Each of them marry and have many children. For them, their adventures were formative experiences, with "wishes come true" (as Sam states) along the way. Frodo, on the other hand, never marries, never has children, never engaged with the community, and swiftly leaves the Shire -- and Middle-earth in its entirety -- behind. He has a choice between a dream and a nightmare. He chooses escape instead.

The other joy of these chapters is revisiting our old stomping grounds to see how the community has reacted to difficult circumstances. In "Prancing Pony" way back in Book I, everyone was bewildered by the strange events and dangerous creatures come among them. Now, everyone's hardened -- Butturbur comes out with a cudgel, for heaven's sake. Hidden depths indeed, but it took hard lessons to get them there. The same will be shown in the following chapter, one of the best in the trilogy. Looking forward to it.

"The Steward and the King" - Eric's Thoughts

For some reason Tolkien's prose stood out to me in this chapter. Tolkien used archaic words. And the language had the rhythm of an older text:

• "That I know," Faramir said. "You desired to have the love of the Lord Aragorn. Because he was high and puissant, and you wished to have renown and glory and to be lifted far above the mean things that crawl on the earth."

The characters also play out their roles archaically. Faramir acknowledges that Eowyn loves Aragorn, professes his love, and then suddenly after Faramir makes his grand speech, "[t]hen the heart of Eowyn changed, or else at last she understood it. And suddenly her winter passed, and the sun shone on her." Then Eowyn says, "No longer do I desire to be a queen."

Ah, voila, if only real life was this simple (pardon my French). By any normal standard, this is pretty shoddy plotting.

• Eowyn loves Aragorn --> Faramir makes a cheesy speech --> Eowyn no longer loves Aragorn and instead loves Faramir

If you're doubtful that the above plot outline works, you have good reason. But actually, Tolkien's high-chant prose seems to make it work. The language almost seems to take on a charaterization of its own which makes the characters in the story more than just people. They are beings from an epic poem that existed in a different age. Of course Eowyn should change her heart so suddenly. That's what happens in epic poems, after all!

Of course, Tolkien's high chant comes with a price. It is difficult to empathize with Faramir or Eowyn. So while I may believe Eowyn the demi-goddess was quick to change her feelings in epic-poem fashion, Tolkien's approach makes the text read like a summary of a Greek myth, not like something real people are doing. Perhaps the beauty of language in a book is inversely proportional to how realistic the book is?

"The Field of Cormallen" - Eric's Thoughts

Jacob and Ben came down too harshly on this chapter, in my view. As Ben points out, the chapter is really divided into two chapters.

The first mini chapter involves the forces of good conquering the forces of Sauron and the rescue of the Hobbits. I think Ben and Jacob's criticisms are unfair. The Ring is destroyed. That was the true battle between the forces of good and evil. After all, as Tolkien demonstrated in the last chapter, this actually is not a battle of force. It is a battle of the minds and will (e.g. Sam lifting Frodo, and Frodo being light). It is a battle of small, relatively helpless hobbits versus the might of a powerful empire. It is the battle of everyday folks imposing their will against evil. If Frodo and Sam triumph, Sauron is vanquished. If they fail, then Sauron triumphs. The fate of the little people bearing the Ring determines the fate of Middle Earth.

To dive into an actual battle after the Ring was destroyed, or create guerilla holdouts, would have been inconsistent with these important themes and anti-climatic. Mount Doom elevated Lord of the Rings into the realm of literary. I would argue Tolkien's approach to the forces of evil so suddenly crumbling only builds on that. Tolkien continues to establish through this chapter that the forces are merely an idea--when the idea is destroyed, evil quickly is vanquished. I wholeheartedly agree with Tolkien's approach here. Swords ringing against plate mail would have rang hollow.

(However, I do agree this chapter should have been split into two chapters--the battle and rescue as one chapter, and then the hobbits waking up and finding themselves among old friends as another.)

The second mini chapter involves the king of Gondor kneeling to the hobbits. In my view, contrary to Ben's argument, the second part of chapter is hardly tripe. The hobbits have just literally descended into the bowels of hell and destroyed the root of all evil through both Frodo and Sam's mercy. (Note that the hobbits could not destroy evil by any direct act, but only indirectly--through acts of mercy and kindness.)

This chapter progresses the characters of Frodo and Sam. Who would have thought that the gardener from the Shire would have the most powerful lords of the world kneeling to him, and being praised with great praise? The hobbits deserve their triumph, and I felt pleased that they were awarded such  boons.  This chapter works to help resolve everything. The book could have ended with this chapter, with perhaps just a little more package tying.

What is interesting, though, is that the Return of the King continues for a while yet. This of course goes against classic story structure, where normally after the climax, the story quickly resolves. Instead, Tolkien pulls a strange one and continues the story. We shall see how this unusual structure holds up on the re-read. But, if I remember correctly, at this point we are so invested in this world, and the last few chapters have been so interesting, I am not prepared to leave Middle Earth just yet.

"Mount Doom" - Eric's Thoughts

This chapter IS Lord of the Rings. The whole is greater than the sum. Imagery, character, literal crushing weight. It is a keystone chapter that upholds vast world building by Tolkien. Suddenly everything Tolkien has done wrong seems to work. Not-scary wights in Barrow Downs? World building. Bombadil? Just world building. Feet dragging in Return of the King? World Building.

At this stage, the reader has been through forests, marshes,  mountains, and Elf-Kingdoms. Middle Earth exists, and the reader believes. Tolkien finishes the journey by forcing the hobbits to endure a final march of death:

• As the light grew a little he saw to his surprise that what from a distance had seemed wide and featureless flats were in fact all broken and tumbled. Indeed the whole surface of the plains of Gorgoroth was pocked with great holes, as if, while it was still a waste of soft mud, it had been smitten with a shower of bolts and huge slingstones. The largest of these holes were rimmed with ridges of broken rock, and broad fissures ran out from them in all directions . . . For the hungry and worn, who had far to go before life failed, it had an evil look.

Of course, what would be the external obstacles without internal conflict to match? Tolkien lets the Ring wreck havoc among old friends, foreshadowing Frodo's doom, causing the reader to wonder if Frodo is ready for the final test:

• ‘I can’t manage it, Sam,’ [Frodo] said. ‘It is such a weight to carry, such a weight.’ Sam knew before he spoke, that it was vain, and that such words might do more harm than good, but in his pity he could not keep silent. ‘Then let me carry it a bit for you, Master,’ he said. ‘You know I would, and gladly, as long as I have any strength.’ A wild light came into Frodo’s eyes. ‘Stand away! Don’t touch me!’ he cried. ‘It is mine, I say. Be off!’ His hand strayed to his sword-hilt. But then quickly his voice changed. ‘No, no, Sam,’ he said sadly. ‘But you must understand. It is my burden, and no one else can bear it. It is too late now, Sam dear. You can’t help me in that way again. I am almost in its power now. I could not give it up, and if you tried to take it I should go mad.

• ‘Do you remember that bit of rabbit, Mr. Frodo?’ he said. ‘And our place under the warm bank in Captain Faramir’s country, the day I saw an oliphaunt?’ ‘No, I am afraid not, Sam,’ said Frodo. ‘At least, I know that such things happened, but I cannot see them. No taste of food, no feel of water, no sound of wind, no memory of tree or grass or flower, no image of moon or star are left to me. I am naked in the dark, Sam, and there is no veil between me and the wheel of fire. I begin to see it even with my waking eyes, and all else fades.’

After addressing internal conflict, Tolkien again pivots back to describing the world and painting images:

• The Mountain crept up ever nearer, until, if they lifted their heavy heads, it filled all their sight, looming vast before them: a huge mass of ash and slag and burned stone, out of which a sheer-sided cone was raised into the clouds. Before the daylong dusk ended and true night came again they had crawled and stumbled to its very feet.

Back and forth, internal to external and back to internal, and the mountain and final test only looms ever closer. Mount doom, of course, is more than just a mountain. It represents an impassable obstacle given the Hobbits' weak strength. Frodo cannot do it. He begins to crawl. And whether Tolkien did it purposefully (or was it chance just like Gollum's slip and fall?), Tolkien captures something absolutely brilliant when Sam picks up Frodo and carries him up the mountain:

• As Frodo clung upon his back, arms loosely about his neck, legs clasped firmly under his arms, Sam staggered to his feet; and then to his amazement he felt the burden light. He had feared that he would have barely strength to lift his master alone, and beyond that he had expected to share in the dreadful dragging weight of the accursed Ring. But it was not so. Whether because Frodo was so worn by his long pains, wound of knife, and venomous sting, and sorrow, fear, and homeless wandering, or because some gift of final strength was given to him, Sam lifted Frodo with no more difficulty than if he were carrying a hobbit-child pig-a-back in some romp on the lawns or hayfields of the Shire. He took a deep breath and started off.

To Frodo, the Ring's burden is crushing. But to Sam, the Ring weighs absolutely nothing. Tolkien shows that the Ring is merely a psychological burden; it exists solely in the mind of the wearer. Tolkien does not advertise this fact, however. He almost addresses it in passing. Mount Doom (the chapter) is epic in scope but also contains subtleties even the most astute reader might miss given the chapter's page-turning nature.

The strangeness and other-worldliness of the chapter compounds. Gollum attacks, and the attack lights a fire under what life remains in Frodo.  Frodo commands Gollum to be gone, and Sam takes a more practical view: 'Look out!' cried Sam. 'He'll Spring!'

Frodo looked at [Sam], as if at one now far away. 'Yes, I must go on,' he said. 'Farewell, Sam! This is the end at last. On Mount Doom doom shall fall. Farewell!'

(Frodo's comments are to say the least . . . ominous.)

Gollum is defeated and instead of fighting back, curls into a ball. Suddenly Sam then sees "Gollum's shrivelled mind and body, enslaved to that Ring, unable to find peace of relief ever in life again." Sam forgives Gollum and turns to join Frodo at the summit.

What does Sam find? The light of Galadriel fails, and walls on either side cloven by a great fissure , out of which the red glare came, now leaping up, now dying down into darkenss; and all the while far below there was a rumour and a trouble as of great engines throbbing and labouring.

The light springs up, and there on the brink of the chasm, at the very Crack of Doom, stood Frodo, black against the glare, tense, erect, but still as if he had been turned to stone.

And in one of the creepiest moments in all of literature, Frodo claims the Ring:

• ‘I have come,’ he said. ‘But I do not choose now to do what I came to do. I will not do this deed. The Ring is mine!’

Frodo attacks Sam and knocks Sam out cold. Sometime later, Sam awakes to find Gollum battling an invisible thing:

• Suddenly Sam saw Gollum’s long hands draw upwards to his mouth; his white fangs gleamed, and then snapped as they bit. Frodo gave a cry, and there he was, fallen upon his knees at the chasm’s edge. But Gollum, dancing like a mad thing, held aloft the ring, a finger still thrust within its circle. It shone now as if verily it was wrought of living fire.

Of course, we all know what happens. Gollum slips, and with that single unlucky slip Sauron's entire empire collapses.

What to make of this chapter? Has Tolkien dragged the reader through page after page, chapter after chapter, only to reveal that no one is capable of this task? That good conquers evil only as a matter of chance?

Frodo the mild-mannered hobbit is not the first to try this. All of this could have been prevented if Isildur had thrown the Ring into the fires in the first instance, but he could not. Frodo similarly could not. Tolkien suggests that no one has the power to throw the Ring away and destroy it. But then, just maybe, if Frodo had not undergone his long journey and transformation, might if he stepped into Isildur's shoes been capable of destroying it? Could Sam have had the strength to do it if he took it forcefully from Frodo?

The answer from the clues of the text is plainly no, but still the reader is left wondering. Would I have been able to? Would you?

"The Land of Shadow" - Eric's Thoughts

The hobbits are nearing the end of their journey. And before they can, they face the one of the most difficult obstacles yet -- the terrain.

There are many different types of villains in stories: criminals, corrupted allies, bullies, beasts, dark lords . . . but one of the biggest antagonists in Lord of the Rings is the terrain.

The terrain is rightfully the largest antagonist in this chapter, and in actuality is the driving antagonist of the entire book. Tolkien uses geography to great effect. The hobbits fall into a bed of sharp thorns, battle against the absence of water, and find themselves circling around trying to find a way through. The clock ticks, as supplies and strength begin to fail. Tolkien takes his time as well with this chapter -- the hobbits run out of water at least twice and repeatedly guess they have at least 40 miles to go to Mount Doom. I shudder at the thought of 40 miles, which would take at least 3-4 days of hiking in normal conditions, a clear path, and plenty of supplies.

But Mordor hiking is not normal conditions. I distinctly recall hiking Navajo Knob in Capital Reef with my fellow bloggers, having run out of water and skipped lunch, and endless passes around outjetting ledges, up and down. Although we had not properly prepared for that hike, we knew a car was awaiting us when we were done.

Frodo and Sam have it far worse, with Orcs chasing after them and that sneak Gollum on the hunt. As Ben and Jacob rightly point out, this chapter is heavy on plot and light on theme, but the chapter is essential. It's the only time really spent in Mordor, and Tolkien paints the world -- through how nothing seems to grow and when it does its hideous, to the brief encounter as to how one orc kills another for threatening to tattle tale to the Nazgul.

"The Tower of Cirith Ungol" - Eric's Thoughts

Am I reading the same book? It's as if going back to the hobbits gave Tolkien a second wind and jolted the novel with coffee + Red-Bull + methamphetamine. Tolkien takes the momentum from the last chapter and builds on it. Sam storms the castle, sings a magical song, a way is revealed, and up the stairs he goes to save Frodo.

When Frodo is finally reunited with Sam, the wine flows right? Wrong! Frodo recognizes the quest has failed, because, as Frodo explains, they took everything. Everything!

Not everything, Sam replies excitedly. We have the ring after all, Mr. Frodo!

Is Frodo excited about Sam's revelation? (Maybe a thank you Sam for saving it (and me) is in order?  How about just a simple "Nice job, man"?)

Nope. In return for Sam's valiant efforts, Frodo calls Sam a thief and demands the return of the ring. But Sam is reluctant. Not out of anger at Mr. Frodo. Not because of a desire to claim the ring for his own. But because he purportedly felt that he did not want to burden Frodo with it again.

The ambiguity of Sam's reluctance to return the ring is a powerful moment in the story. What is going on here? Would Sam have been a better Ring-bearer? Or is the Ring toying with Sam? (As the reader knows, Gandalf himself admitted he would wield the ring out of a desire to do good, but the Ring inevitably would corrupt him.) Probably the latter. You see Sam being seduced like everyone else; the Ring is merely playing off of Sam's penchant for helping others. Sam just can't see it. We can. Brilliant.

Of course, what would a chapter be without watchers at the Gate? Now that the mini-quest is done, the hobbits have to escape with their boon. With a little bit of elf-mumbo-jumbo, out they go. After all, we've got to make use of that magical artifact provided by Galadriel somehow, right?

There's more going on here than just on the surface. Tolkien makes his language carry weight thematically and in terms of plot. I'll give two examples. First, Frodo has achieved death and rebirth within the hero's journey. At this point, the reader has watched Frodo die and become reborn . According to Campbell, the reader should now completely relate to Frodo and identify with him. (Perhaps there's something to that theory after all, as I certainly feel sympathy for what Frodo has been through and continue to root for him.) However, as an interesting twist, Frodo's death and rebirth does not result in a Christ-like or other demi-god hero. Instead, Frodo is even worse off. In fact, this scene foreshadows Frodo's transformation into a mini-villain. We take this for granted now, of course, but Tolkien's novel capturing the slow descent of Frodo into villain-dom is masterful.

Second, the mithril coat deserves honorable mention. In the previous scene, the Mouth of Sauron shows that the free world's position is truly hopeless. The orc's escape with the mithril coat adds a nice tie-up to that particular sub-plot, showing that the alliance is not necessarily fighting in vain. It's up to Frodo and Sam now. Can they do it? We shall see.

"Many Partings" - Ben's Thoughts

I love this chapter. It feels so very true-to-life, and fills me with real emotion. We've all had events, or periods of time in our lives, that are particularly vivid; particularly meaningful; or are filled with particularly important relationships. Moving on to the next stage of life is always so bittersweet. That's the emotion that this chapter conveys. The hobbits have undergone such difficult but rewarding experiences that to leave that behind is not easy. Sam doesn't really wish to go back to Lorien -- but he does want to relive or perhaps just re-experience, just for a moment, the feelings that he had while he was there in "Fellowship." You can never truly return to prior states of being. But the memories remain so potent, the emotions so real, that you wish it so. Nostalgia is one of the most powerful emotions, in my opinion -- often more powerful than fear, anger, or even love.

And of course, this is when "Return of the King" kicks into high gear with that theme of beginnings, endings, loss, and change. The book always was one of "dying magic"; the Elves passing across the Sea and leaving Middle-earth to Sauron and Men has always been in the background, but here it's incredibly foregrounded. Jacob is left cold by Tolkien's lack of explanation -- he seeks for meaning behind it all. But I think it's fairly true to life that everything remains kind of vague and formless. Isn't that how it works for us? The beginnings and endings in our lives are often meaningless, or imposed by factors outside our control, sometimes with very little explanation or warning.

Nevertheless, I will try to impose some sense to it all, given my knowledge of Tolkien's legendarium. The Elves were the first race of sentient beings to awaken in Middle-earth, many ages ago. They lived through Ages of Earth without sun or moon; they were the "children of the stars" that traveled to Valinor, Tolkien's version of heaven where the Vala (gods) dwelt, long ago. Many Elves -- including many we encounter in The Hobbit and LOTR (such as the Elvenking of the wood-Elves, Legolas, and most of the people of Mirkwood and Lorien) -- never traveled to Valinor and chose instead to remain in Middle-earth. Those who did and returned are the "High" Elves, who beheld the light of the Valar in ages past or are their descendants (Galadriel, Cirdan, Elrond).

But the Elves' time in LOTR was coming to an end. With the creation of the sun in the First Age of the world came the awakening of Men, who spread to fill the earth. Some Men were friendly with the Elves; many were not (see even the Rohirrim's fear of the people of the Wood), but they were all destined to become the inheritors of Middle-earth; no longer subservient or lesser than the Elves but in fact the lords of the earth. The Elves' magic (read: power, ability, ties to each other and the physical world) was naturally fading. One concrete reason for this change (something more physical, perhaps, than the vague explanation that it was just "their time") was the fact that Valinor, or heaven, the home of the gods, was physically removed from the sphere of the Earth. Only those granted a boon from the Valar could now come to Valinor. In that sense, Jacob's question about whether the Elves are actually ascending to another sphere of existence is in fact correct.

Into this cycle of change and transfer of power comes the Three Rings. Sauron was the one who introduced the Elves to ringlore, in the Second Age, before they realized his true nature as a servant of Morgoth. The purpose of the Three Rings, reading between the lines, was to heal, preserve, and inspire the Elves, despite their waning power and influence. Imagine a race confronted with the fact that your very presence in the only world or home you ever knew was becoming obsolete. (This sounds very much like growing old and seeing your children and grandchildren growing past and away from you, a similarity that I think is no coincidence.) The power of the Three Rings was to stave off the mass depression that was leaching into the Elvish people.

Of course, since Sauron was the mastermind of ringlore, we can perceive the innate selfishness (justifiable, perhaps, but selfishness nonetheless) of the Three Rings. When it is time, it is time; trying to preserve what is lost does not help anyone. But then Sauron made the One Ring, which we are told was the Master Ring, with some kind of power over even the Three that Sauron never personally touched. The power of the Three was turned from preserving the power of the Elves towards fighting the Enemy. It makes sense that when he was defeated, the purpose of the Three was utterly spent. Neither could they be used to prolong the power of the Elves when the Fourth Age was come and the ascendance of Men was cemented.

In the end, of course, Jacob is correct -- all the guff about the Rings is just some fairly transparent trimming to the story. While it's fun to learn in "Grey Havens" that Gandalf had one of the Three, the whole time we knew him, it doesn't really add anything to what came before. I am a firm believer, however, in the themes that Tolkien is espousing -- cycles, passing the torch, and fading with dignity. Bilbo is the exemplar of this cycle: retaining his humor, wit, and interest in friends and family while formally and informally passing the torch to the next generation (symbolic in the gifts he gives the hobbits). There is a warmth and dignity to those final sections of the chapter that I hope we can all achieve in our life when we confront change, loss, and the ultimate passing.

"The Steward and the King" - Ben's Thoughts

The denouement continues. This chapter can be easily split into three sections: first, the romance of Eowyn and Faramir; second, the coronation; and third, Aragorn's first days as king.

The romance is... bad. I agree with much of what Jacob says. I know that Tolkien had built Eowyn up as a major character, and he needed to resolve her story, but this is a disappointing end. I think as a kid I thought this section of the chapter a grand love story, but here it feels extremely trite. Faramir really does offer himself as "sloppy seconds," so to speak, and Eowyn just changes her mind all of a sudden, realizing that since she can't have Aragorn, now she'll give up her previous path in life and turn to nursing and gardening?

I think I know what Tolkien intended Eowyn's arc to consist of. She lived a hopeless life -- doomed to tending her dotard uncle (who truly was a dotard under the ministration of Wormtongue and the enchantment of Saruman), never to live or thrive or grow. She sees in Aragorn a chance to break the cycle, to forge a new path for herself, tethering herself to his rising star. When he rejects her, she sinks back into hopelessness -- not because he rejected her love, but because he denied her freedom. And finally, Faramir presents her with an opportunity to...

...to what? This is where the arc falls apart. Eowyn is revealed to be, under Tolkien's characterization, nothing more than an empty shell. She doesn't actually want anything at the end of the day; she trades the cold iron bars of Meduseld for the gilded cage of being Faramir's wife. As I said, it rings false. A disservice to what could have been an interesting character. Jackson's films tried to do something with her, but if I recall correctly, the character is completely dropped after the Pelennor Fields sequence, so it flops on its belly as well. Perhaps that's also an indicator that the source material left something to be desired as far as guidance was concerned.

The second section is mostly filler, a chance to depict the grand ceremony, see everybody get their just desserts (although that annoying singing eagle got away scot-free, I think; somebody should have held him accountable for that awful song), and see Aragorn crowned. I'm not sure what I think about the tonal dissonance of the narrative of the coronation being interrupted multiple times by the Middle-Earth equivalent of Pride and Prejudice's Mrs. Bennett; perhaps Tolkien as well was rolling his eyes at all the pomp and portent.

The final section, I feel, is the weightiest, with Frodo's yearning for home (although as we shall see, it is to be a never-ending quest for solace that can never truly be achieved -- the closest thing he has to home is when he is with Bilbo) and Aragorn's fear regarding the one thing he truly wants but has not yet arrived. The description of the mountain and the view of Aragorn's new realm is stunning, and Gandalf's words, as always, help things be put in perspective: "[I]t is your task to order its beginning and to preserve what may be preserved. For though much has been saved, much must now pass away." With every beginning comes endings.

I feel like Aragorn's joy in this final section puts his character in context, and provides a deep insight into all his actions that came before. We knew that he loved and wanted to marry Arwen, but here is the emotion behind his books-long quest: the kingship is his duty, and he acknowledges that; but what truly inspired him was the knowledge that he could never be with Arwen unless he defeated Sauron and attained his birthright. (The ugly implications about Arwen as chattel we'll gloss over for now; hopefully we'll get to the appendicies and can talk about this more troubling aspect of the story in a bit greater detail.)

The chapter's title, in the end, turns out to be clever: the steward is featured in the first section, the king in the third, and they come together for the coronation in the middle. While previous chapters didn't thematically flow, this one does, no matter how flat the first romance feels. The chapter improves as you read.

"The Black Gate Opens" - Eric's Thoughts

So far, The Black Gate Opens is the best structured chapter in the Return of the King as of yet. Between Minis Tirith and the close of this portion of the story, it probably is the best chapter.

I find little to critique here. The writing is solid. The objective is clear: go to the black gate to distract Sauron -- and die in the attempt. The setting also plays an evocative role in developing the characters. Aragon's rag-tag army become increasing disturbed by what is around them.The reader stays with the characters and eagerly turns the page to see where this is going. After all, what good is a futile assault on Mordor with fewer than 6,000 soldiers? There are high schools that are bigger than that.

The soldiers dragging their feet to their doom would have been a solid chapter in itself. Tolkien goes further and executes well. A lesser writer would have launched into some kind of battle scene immediately when the troops reached the black gate. Not Tolkien. Tolkien shifts viewpoints as he so often does, and notes that Sauron wanted to toy with the army first before crushing it. While this hubris is so frustrating in the Hollywood structure of Bond villains (why not just shoot James Bond?), it really works here. Sauron doesn't just want to win; he wants to gloat about it.

So how does Sauron gloat, as he is more an idea than a form? Enter one of the best villains in the story--better than any Ringwraith or two-bit orc. The Mouth of Sauron. This foul-mouthed cretin wants to rule over all the West, which is clear when the Mouth describes the terms of surrender. Gandalf wisely points out what guarantees does one have when bargaining with the master of treachery, and the Mouth responds honestly that there are no guarantees at all. So much for bargaining. Of course, Sauron didn't want a bargain. He just wanted to taunt. Both sides know this.

So well done is this scene, that Tolkien even uses this scene to ratchet up the tension offstage. As far as the reader knows, Frodo has been taken alive by the enemy and tortured. The Mouth reveals the tokens of Frodo and Sam -- e.g. the mithril coat -- showing that the hobbits have been captured by the enemy.

So much for Gandalf's gambit. The heroes suddenly realize that their last throw of the dice is for naught. Frodo has been taken and is being tortured, and Sauron has the One Ring. At this moment, the title of the chapter, The Black Gate Opens, reveals more than tides of endless orcs. The Black Gate opens to reveal indisputable evidence, from the Mouth of Sauron, that all truly is lost. The heroes of the light rally and fight anyway.

Masterful.

"The Field of Cormallen" - Ben's Thoughts

This chapter always occupies an awkward place, because it contains both the conclusion of the climax and the beginning of the denouement. The smashed-together feel of the chapter does not serve it well, in my opinion.

I wish I could offer Tolkien a better alternative. I feel like the stinger at the end of "Mount Doom" ("Here we are at the end of all things, Sam") is such an evocative closing line that I hesitate to make a recommendation that it should just be turned into a mere line prior to a section break. A different writer might have turned the four paragraphs of the Eagles and Gandalf saving the hobbits into a larger section; indeed, perhaps an entire chapter in and of itself. Such a theoretical chapter could have involved a more complete description of the battle before the Black Gate from Gandalf or Aragorn's perspectives -- or even from Legolas or Gimli's, since the text is so intent on separating itself from Gandalf or Aragorn's personal thoughts (the better to keep them as heroic savior figures, I suppose). The section could have heightened the tension that the reader has felt since the end of Book V, the question of "so what?" The Ring is destroyed, but what does that mean for the characters we know and love? Did Pippin survive, did the forces of the West triumph?

The trouble is, as Jacob pointed out in his comments, that Tolkien doesn't seem to care much about getting Frodo and Sam from point A to point B; it's all just rushed along without much thought or energy spent on the journey. I do find myself wishing we got a little more insight into what hold, exactly, Sauron had over his minions (especially since we had fairly complex insights into the lives and opinions of the orcs in the preceding chapters), and how exactly his end affected them and their involvement in the war. How it's resolved is all very hand-wavey and convenient.

As for the rest of the chapter, it's just tripe. Pure sugar. Even at my height of Lord of the Rings awe, I rolled my eyes at the bard trotting out with his lute or whatever like a character in the animated Disney "Robin Hood" movie and singing about Frodo's mystical journey or whatever. C'mon. A war just ended. Probably thousands of people lost their lives at the battle before the Black Gate, and Frodo just got his finger bitten off. It's still too raw to sing about it like it was a long-ago tale. And the way the Fellowship is reunited, especially with Merry and Pippin being all like, "Naw, ya'll, we so important now" is just ludicrous. This is a meeting that shouldn't be as joyful as Tolkien tries to make it out to be. So to conclude: not a good chapter. And the last part is unadulterated tripe.

"Mount Doom" - Ben's Thoughts

This chapter is why The Lord of the Rings holds its place in the pantheon of the great works of speculative fiction of the ages -- and I would argue, fiction in general. It ties up the plot and themes of the text so perfectly, and leaves the reader stunned with the description, action, and resolution of the characters we've come to relate to over the course of three books. I've read this chapter a dozen times or more over the course of my life (although this is the first time in the last fifteen years), and the climax still managed to move me, to astound me anew.

But why? Why does it have so much power? I think the answer is three-fold: description, character, and ambiguity.

First, description. I've always argued that Tolkien's command of language in the pursuit of imagery is all but unparalleled. Many of the passages describing the character's journey and the landscape they passed through leaped out to me as exhileratingly familiar, despite my fifteen-year absence from them. Despite the time that's passed, I remembered them and they resonated with me anew. Other passages were exciting in that they seemed completely new to me. Years of experience reading and writing allowed me to conjure up completely new images of setting and action. I think that is one of the most important jobs of a work of fiction -- it must transport the reader to a new place, must evoke new pictures and ideas. Take some of these passages:

"Indeed the whole surface of the plains of Gorgoroth was pocked with great holes, as if, while it was still a waste of soft mud, it had been smitten with a shower of bolts and huge slingstones. The largest of these holes were rimmed with ridges of broken rock, and broad fissures ran out from them in all directions. It was a land in which it would be possible to creep from hiding to hiding, unseen by all but the most watchful eyes: possible at least for one who was strong and had no need for speed. For the hungry and worn, who had far to go before life failed, it had an evil look."

"The confused and tumbled shoulders of [the mountain's] great base rose for maybe three thousand feet above the plain, and above them was reared half as high again its tall central cone, like a vast oast or chimney capped with a jagged crater. But already Sam was more than half way up the base, and the plain of Gorgoroth was dim below him, wrapped in fume and shadow.... [A]mid the rugged humps and shoulders above him he saw plainly a path or road. It climbed like a rising girdle from the west and wound snakelike about the Mountain, until before it went round out of view it reached the foot of the cone upon its eastern side."

And finally:

"Fearfully he took a few uncertain steps in the dark, and then all at once there came a flash of red that leaped upward, and smote the high black roof. Then Sam saw that he was in a long cave or tunnel that bored into the Mountain’s smoking cone. But only a short way ahead its floor and the walls on either side were cloven by a great fissure, out of which the red glare came, now leaping up, now dying down into darkness; and all the while far below there was a rumour and a trouble as of great engines throbbing and labouring. The light sprang up again, and there on the brink of the chasm, at the very Crack of Doom, stood Frodo, black against the glare, tense, erect, but still as if he had been turned to stone."

Objects anthropomorphized; subtle alliteration; stark imagery evoked by harsh adjectives. My command of sentence structure and my ability to articulate how the precise use of words generates a particular effect is at a low ebb; it's been almost a decade since I've performed any such analysis. But I know a master of the art when I see one.

Second, character. I won't belabor this point too much, since Jacob already addressed it to great effect, but Tolkien takes Frodo, Sam, and Gollum (who, along with Aragorn are the central figures of the narrative) to the peak of their development in the climax. What's wonderful is that these characters are changing, evolving, reacting in what feels like a real way, to the events of the plot up until the very last instant.

Sam is presented with the reality that there is no coming back from the Mountain, and his resolve hardens, rather than shatters, as a result. Later, he comes to grips with his relationship with Gollum, something he's grappled with and we as readers have criticized him for throughout the last few books. In the end, faced with the choice of whether to kill Gollum, Sam makes the decision to spare his life -- just as Frodo and Bilbo did before him -- and thus forges the latest chain in the link that results in the victory of good over evil. Frodo, acted upon by the power of the Ring from almost the first moments that he becomes its bearer, makes the choice to seize it for himself. This turn of events was presaged throughout the chapter, with Frodo uttering increasingly ominous phrases ("It is mine, I say"; "I am almost in its power now"; "all else fades"), and yet it is still a shock to hear him utter it with such finality in the depths of the Sammath Naur. And Gollum, that pitiable creature, is at his lowest-ever moment (the realization that his Master is here to destroy his Precious) as well as his highest-ever moment ("his eyes were lifted up to gloat on his prize, he stepped too far...") Readers speak of the success of texts in terms of how dynamic characters are written. These feel real. We know them. And yet we are surprised by them. Just like life.

Third and finally, ambiguity. More than ever, at the end of the chapter, I was left wondering just what Tolkien meant for us to take away from all of this. Is it an extended Christian allegory -- Frodo, the everyman, cannot complete the journey on his own and must be carried, and the burden lifted, by other parties? But that doesn't square with Frodo's utter failure in the face of the temptation and power of the Ring -- and the fact that Gollum is not an enabling figure, but one who takes away the source of temptation by force. Is it an illustration of Gollum as the ultimate addict -- his desire is his ultimate undoing? But that doesn't square with the realization that Gollum's addiction is the only thing that saved Middle-earth in that moment. What exactly are we to make of Frodo's failure? Is Tolkien saying that there is no such thing as someone who is truly heroic in the face of unspeakable evil? After all, Sam, now a Ring-bearer himself, acknowledges the unspeakable weight of that burden, with the implication that he himself might have fared no better than Gollum: "[N]ow dimly he guessed the agony of Gollum’s shrivelled mind and body, enslaved to that Ring, unable to find peace or relief ever in life again."

This ambiguity of meaning is found in the title of the chapter itself: "Mount Doom." The origin of the word "doom" is Germanic, where it meant "to put in place," signifying an inescapable outcome, sometimes with a legal connotation, as in the inescapable consequences of a broken law or poor choice. Was Frodo's decision to claim the Ring inescapable? Given what he went through during the last three books, it's hard to say it wasn't; his will was finally overcome. But at the same time, we have Sam's pivotal choice to spare Gollum, as others did before him -- the choice that saved the world. Was that outcome, too, inevitable?

So why is it, as I walk with Sam down into the mountain, that I wait with baited breath that maybe, maybe this time, Frodo will make the right choice, and throw the Ring into the fire? There has to be a choice, doesn't there?


Therein, perhaps, lies the power of the text. It's one that keeps you asking questions long after the chapter itself has been read. It forces you to confront the characters' choices and experiences in light of your own tendencies, strengths, and weaknesses. Something we all do far too infrequently.

"The Last Debate" - Eric's Thoughts

As Ben points out, this chapter is awkwardly divided into two parts: one where Legolas and Gimli describe the behind-the-scenes employment of the ghosts, and another part where Gandalf, Aragon, and an elf-lord or two hang out in Aragon's tent and decide to launch a futile assault on Mordor to distract Sauron.

The first part I found tepid and yawn-inducing. Once again, Tolkien unravels his action scenes via flashback rather than in-the-moment narrative. Not effective. And the tale was less than compelling, and sometimes I had no idea what he was talking about. The gist I got was that the army of the dead scared the bad guys so much they jumped into the sea and drowned. Then, Aragon released the captives which then majestically rose up--at the last moment--to save Minas Tirith.

The hobbits are nothing more than foils for Gimli and Legolas to share that narrative, and offer no commentary or anything at all. The better narrative structure should have been to place this subplot in real-time alongside the siege of Gondor and cut back and forth between the two once or twice. Then, Aragon's sudden appearance wouldn't have been so deus-ex-machina-ish.

The second portion of the chapter was more interesting to me, and actually was one of my favorite chapters growing up in Return of the King besides the Scouring of the Shire. (And on a re-read, I think the latter half of this chapter still stands up as one of my favorite parts in the whole trilogy).

What happens in this excellent second act? Gandalf ponders the grim words of Denethor: You may triumph on the fields of the Pelennor for a day, but against the Power that has now arisen there is no victory.

Gandalf's reaction to Denethor's words is to not dismiss them as the ravings of a madman, but to analyze the words of a man that has seen the future and despaired. This chapter really develops the character of Gandalf--he does not pretend to be an all-knowing wizard that dictates what happens next, but instead reveals himself to be a shrewd logician.

In that regard, Gandalf spots a riddle in Denethor's words, unpacks the words, and arrives at a conclusion. The chapter guides the reader through Gandalf's thought processes on what they should do next: launch a futile assault of Mordor, likely to die, just so that Sauron's Eye is distracted from the real gambit. Really effective (and subtle) character development in my opinion.

Even more compelling, the characters themselves acknowledge this noble sacrifice does not fix everything, but merely offers a chance of a chance to rid the world of but one evil: "It is not our part to master all the tides of the world, but to do what is in us for the succour of those years wherein we are set, uprooting the evil in the fields that we know, so that those who live after may have clean earth to till. What weather they shall have is not ours to rule."

Duty indeed. The stakes are clear. This is exactly why we are rooting for these characters.

"The Grey Havens" - Jacob's Thoughts

"I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil." -Gandalf

So ends our long and unexpected journey.  What do I even say now that I'm here?  I suppose I'll begin by noting one last time that Tolkein's medievalism is ironically what marks him as distinctly Modern.  Jed Esty has argued that as the global rise of industrialization, fascism, dialectical materialism, and laissez-faire capitalism left the modern subject feeling all the more alienated, isolated, and adrift, that the British in particular began to turn inexorably towards their own pre-modern past, to the forgotten lore of their countrysides, mining their own cultural resources in hopes of re-configuring a lost sense of national unity.  J.R.R. Tolkein consciously participated in this same national reclamation project; despite his own devout Catholicism, he considered the disappearance of Britain's ancient pre-Christian mythology to be a tragic and irreparable loss--he arguably wrote Lord of the Rings in no small part as a replacement mythology for Great Britain.
Another more "High Brow" example of this Anglo-Modernist turn towards the pre-modern can be found in T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land.  In his own footnotes to this watershed 1922 poem, Eliot announces that:

"Not only the title, but the plan and a good deal of the incidental symbolism of the poem were suggested by Miss Jessie L. Weston’s book on the Grail legend: From Ritual to Romance (Macmillan). Indeed, so deeply am I indebted, Miss Weston’s book will elucidate the difficulties of the poem much better than my notes can do; and I recommend it (apart from the great interest of the book itself) to any who think such elucidation of the poem worth the trouble."

Ancient Arthurian Grail Legend is the chief organizing principle of The Waste Land, which is itself perhaps the single most definitive work of Anglo-Modernism (besides Joyce's Ulysses, which is itself modeled on Greek legend).  Like Tolkien, Eliot turns towards the lore of a pre-modern past in order to somehow recover a lost sense of ontological and epistemological unity--"These fragments I have shored against my ruins" is one of the poem's concluding lines.

I touch on Arthurian legend because I actually once went to the trouble of reading Miss Jessie L. Weston's From Ritual to Romance (in a misbegotten quest to somehow make sense of that impossible poem), which is where I first got introduced to tale of the Fisher-King.  The account survives only in fragments of ancient Welsh manuscripts, dating back to the very earliest sources of the King Arthur mythos.  Briefly: A curse has fallen upon the land.  The crops will not grow, the cattle die, babies are still-born.  In desperation, a Knight of the Round Table is dispatched across the waste-land in search of the Fisher-King, to somehow lift the curse.

Not enough fragments survive to tell us what happens next; what's important is that the land has been wasted, and the quest of the modern subject is to traverse the waste in order to repair that which was irreparably lost.

Which, in broad strokes, is what we find at the outset of "The Grey Havens": The Shire has been wasted--and that in every sense of the word, those grand trees were wastefully felled for no other reason than sheer spite--as Saruman sought to set up a mini-Mordor.  Even after the enemy has been expelled, Sam despairs of ever setting it right again, that it will not be until his great-grandchildren that the Shire will again "look like it ought."  Something has been irrevocably lost.

But then Sam remembers his boon from Galadrial, that choice soil and seeds, and so begins planting a-new.  The ensuing harvest is better than ever--the Shire's best beer is brewed from its hops.  The Hobbits work like bees (which they apparently can when the inclination strikes them) in repairing the home-steads and tearing down that ghastly Mill.  They begin to restore the Shire to its prior Edenic glory.  These Hobbit knights of the round table have fulfilled their mission.  The curse on the land has been lifted.

The destruction of the Mill is of special interest to me, because it feels like a specific representation of industrial Modernity, in all of its diabolical pollutions, inhumanity, and alienation.  It's deconstruction is a symbolic rejection of Modernity generally, a conscious move back to a pre-modern communal unity.  I cannot help but feel that there is a sort of call to arms in Tolkien's destruction of the Mill and restoration of the Shire, for Modern Man to likewise reject Modernity.  The destruction of the Ring was likewise symbolic of the same; for unlike actual medieval texts, this series features not the conquest of a boon of great power, but the rejection of one.

Except that can't ever happen, not really.  Well over a half-century after The Lord of the Ring's publication, we are only all the more entangled and embedded in the worst of Modernity, we are further away from rejecting this treacherous boon than ever.  Our pollutions are off the scale, industrialism is all the more firmly ensconced.  If the One Ring came into our possession today, there would be no hesitation: we would use it to "strengthen our borders," increase "energy independence," bolster our military, expand our surveillance apparatus.  Like Saruman, we are only too willing to cut our deals with the Dark Lord.

So what is there left to do?  Leave.  Withdraw.  Which is what Frodo does, doesn't he.

He is still too marked by the wounds of the Black Riders, by the weight of his time as the Ring-Bearer, by the forces that attempted to swallow the whole of Middle-Earth.  He has helped break the curse upon the Earth, but not upon himself.  So now he takes to the infinite expanse of the ocean, to join with something that is even bigger than all of Middle-Earth.  There is something romantic in his decision to leave behind the Shire.  There is also something tragic.

Eliot's Waste Land finishes with a "Shantih Shantih Shantih", which his own footnote says is "a formal ending to an Upanishad. 'The Peace which passeth understanding' is a feeble translation of the content of this word."  There is likewise a peace which passeth understanding at the finish of Lord of the Rings.  Except I once had to do a research paper on this poem back in undergrad, and I distinctly remember coming across an article that pointed out that a proper ending to an Upanishad would have an "Om" following those "Shantihs" (think the Beatles' "Across the Universe," with its chorus of "jai guru deva om").  In other words, Eliot's poem only invokes that Peace formalistically, without really finishing it.  The Peace is arrested.  It has not quite yet been achieved.  That primordial sense of wholeness still eludes us.  We are still left wondering what to do next.

That peace has not been fully achieved for Frodo yet, either.  He will not be able to fully recuperate his lost sense of self, anymore than will the Modern world.  For that, he must seek elsewhere.  For that he must seek over the seas and beyond the horizons. 

"The Scouring of the Shire" - Jacob's Thoughts

I've been waiting for this chapter for awhile--in no small part because there is no cinematic equivalent to compete with or override my imagination!  The rise of the Hobbits, the Battle of Bywater, the slaughter of the ruffians and the final defeat of Saruman, exists solely on the pages of the text and in the stirrings of my imagination.  There is consequently a sort of intimacy associated with this chapter, a private little portion of the Lord of the Rings trilogy that only I can see in my head--and that every other of its millions of readers can only see in their heads, as well.  In a strange sort of way, the absence of a film version of "The Scouring of the Shire" simultaneously helps me feel like the series belongs solely to me, but also helps me feel connected to every other LoTR reader out there.

It's also just a fantastic little chapter in and of itself.  It is not inappropriate to discuss Christ-analogues in LoTR, particularly given Tolkien's devout Catholicism; Gandalf's resurrection and Aragorn's messianic ascension to the throne have been the most obvious types. But here back at the entrance of the Shire, I now find myself considering if the Hobbits themselves are a sort of Christ-type as well: it is reminiscent of the parable found in Matthew 21, wherein the usurping husbandmen slay each of the representatives of the Lord of the Vineyard while he is away.  "When the lord therefore of the vineyard cometh," asks Christ, "what will he do unto those husbandmen?" "He will miserably destroy those wicked men," his inquisitors confess. 

It is a parable for the Second Coming of Christ, who will hold to account all who have tyranically misused and misruled the vineyard of the world.  Perhaps if Gandalf represents Christ's resurrection, and Aragorn represents Christ's ascension, then the scouring of the Shire represents Christ cleansing the world of wickedness.  Like Christ returning in a robe dyed red in the blood of the Atonement, Frodo and company return to redeem their people.  The Return of the King maybe refers not just to the Return to the throne of Gondor, but the Return to the Shire.

This chapter also shows the Hobbits as a community coming into their own.  Previously, it was only individual Hobbits--Bilbo, Frodo, etc.--who were venturing outside their comfort zone, learning courage, becoming more than they were.  But now it is the Shire entire that has learned to rise up, resist, to be stronger than they thought they could be.  They aren't just saved from ruffians and interlopers, but are also saved from their own complacency and timidity. As C.S. Lewis might claim, what is most important isn't just what the Hobbits do, but what they become.  To quote the Apostle Paul, Weak things have been made Strong.

Also like Christ: Frodo urges against killing whenever possible--even against the murderous ruffians, even against traitorous Lotho, even against Saruman himself, remembering that he too was once good before he turned to darkness, like Lucifer, Son of the Morning.  "Have I any pleasure that the wicked should die? saith the LORD" (Ezekial 18:23), and Frodo asks the same rhetorical question.

Saruman's death fits in with that of Sauron and the Witch-King, in that they all make the exact same mistake: they completely disregard the Hobbits until it is too late.  You would think after Merry provided the assist that allowed Eowyn to slay the Nazgul, and especially after Frodo and Sam finish off Sauron once and for all, that Saruman would be a little more on his guard.  But no, his pride would no more allow him to respect the Hobbits than it would allow him to submit to Gandalf.  That same spiteful pride is also what causes him to kick Wormtongue one time too many, resulting in his own immediate and ignominious murder.  Pride not only goeth before the fall, but before an especially humiliating fall, defeated not in glorious combat with those mighty wizards whom  he considered his peers, but by the very people he despised the most.

Even with the rather dull denouement chapters, Book VI overall has featured an embarrassment of riches, and "The Scouring of the Shire" is one of them!  It rates right up their with "Mount Doom," in my humble opinion!  We'd previously discussed how each Book seemed to have one chapter, that one chapter that made the whole journey worthwhile.  Book V didn't really have any such chapter (though it still had its moments), while Book VI has had at least two so far!  Tolkein sure knows how to finish strong.

"The Houses of Healing" - Eric's Thoughts

I thought it strange that Gandalf was so powerless in this chapter. Why would Gandalf drop everything (considering the stakes) to help transport Merry into the Houses of Healing? Why could Gandalf do nothing to help the wounded? Certainly Gandalf's skill in healing would surpass Aragon's?

Those problems aside, I actually thought this chapter was one of the better ones in Return of the King. Wait! Allow me to explain! One of the big critiques I've had of this series as a whole is that it never really focused on character. LOTR almost feels like a story about the land itself, with these people running about on it to fill great distances.

What I liked about this chapter is that it didn't involve the traversing of geography. The scene itself takes place in a house where people practice "leechcraft." (How's that for an anachronistic word?) There are multiple characters enclosed in a limited space. This leads to some fun moments, with Gandalf yelling at the verbose poet-healer that won't stop talking in verse. Finally, someone is called out on the strangeness of all of these random poems in the text. Meta.

Also in this chapter is one of the book's best lines: Merry waking up and saying, "I am hungry. What is the time?" And Aragon calling out Merry for what he is (hint: it's another word for a donkey).

The point of this chapter is to create yin with Tolkien's yang. The last chapter Eomer and Eowyn fought with the Witch King itself. This chapter creates balance by turning to the consequences of that battle. Structurally I think the chapter makes a lot of sense. Unfortunately, as my co-readers point out, Gandalf's presence is not appropriate. His helplessness makes him seems like a weak character. Is this the same Gandalf that battled the Balrog? Gandalf the White disappoints.

Of course, Aragon healing everyone establishes Aragon as a Christ-like character. He washes the feet of the disciples here, so to speak, before he becomes king of the world. Tolkien does a masterful job of using scent as a trick of the trade: the reader can certainly smell the kingsfoil when Aragon crushes it. It establishes Aragon as a force in his own right -- if Gandalf can't even do it, who can? Aragon can!

"The Pyre of Denethor" - Eric's Thoughts

Is Denethor a villain? I think so.Certainly he's not your typical evil lord lurking in a tower. But let's look at the facts.

Sacrifice your son for no reason at all by sending him into a pointless battle just to prove that you can? Then try to cremate him alive? Check.

Refuse to acknowledge the rightful heir to Gondor? Check.

Just plain creepy? Double check.

Of course, what makes the ignition of Denethor so tragic is that the reader realizes, right before the end, his creepiness wasn't entirely his fault. Turns out, Denethor had been watching Sauron News all along.

Of course, while Denethor would not be a man I would like to spend time around in real life, as literary fiction, he's one of LOTR's best characters. The reader can tell he WANTS to be good. He does try. After all, he's the last bulwark between the free world and ultimate tyranny. His cause is righteous.

The real tragedy is that the enigma is unanswerable. We have no pre-palantir Denethor and post-palantir Denethor to compare. Alas, the reader is only left to wonder what kind of man he might have been if circumstances were different.

"Homeward Bound" - Jacob's Thoughts

Back in my teen years, when I still played RPGs, I recall that there was a peculiar sort of melancholy that came with wondering back to the start of the map.  After so many hours of game-play and experience-points, you now find that all those formidable villains that gave you so much grief when you were still trying to get the hang of the controls are now pansies, push-overs.  But there's little sense of achievement, no cock-sure swagger, that comes from re-exploring those first levels; on the contrary, there's a nagging sense of waste--partly from all the irretrievable time you blew playing video-games (time that was perhaps better spent studying Spanish or Greek history or volunteering at shelters or protesting wars), but also from the feeling that you've abandoned all forward momentum, that you are exhibiting a rather childish nostalgia for places that literally never were.  You are not only not moving forward with the game, you are not moving forward with your life (that might be why I finally quit playing video-games).

That, I think, is the peculiar melancholy facing Frodo and company as they near the Shire.  From our old friends Butterbur and Nob in the Prancing Pony, we learn that all's not well in the neighborhood.  Commerce with the Shire has slowed to a stand-still, a sort of police state with checkpoints has arisen, and the people of Bree now lock their doors at night.  Swiftly we learn that Saruman is likely behind it all.  The Hobbits are initially non-plussed, because they have Gandalf with them to set it right--except that Gandalf declares that that's not his job anymore, that in fact he is going to catch-up with Tom Bombadil instead (because I guess Tolkien couldn't pass up one more chance for Tom to be completely useless).  Besides, says Gandalf, "you will need no help.  You are grown now.  Grown indeed very high; among the great you are, and I have no longer any fear at all for any of you" (340).  Don't you see, Hobbits?  You have so many more experience-points now!  The gang that once huddled in fear of Farmer Maggot have slain Shelob, Witch-Kings, Orcs, and faced the wrath of Mordor itself; nothing in the mere Shire can frighten them now.  This should be a triumphant homecoming for them.  But the knife-wound in Frodo's shoulder, the one that refuses to fully heal, says otherwise.

Now, I have some quibbles with Gandalf's reasoning here: first of all, if his mission on Middle-Earth is (vaguely) to "set things right again," then as long as Saruman is still around to wreck mischief, well then Gandalf still hasn't quite finished his mission, now has he. Nevertheless, there is still something charming about how Gandalf sets off our little Hobbit band to defeat the final Boss for themselves.  It feels less that Gandalf can't be bothered to help than it is that he wants the Hobbits to see for themselves how much they've grown.  That's how this whole series started, isn't it; in The Hobbit, Gandalf nudged Bilbo Baggins into a treasure-hunt with the Dwarves not so much because they actually needed his help than because he wanted to help Bilbo grow a bit, get out of his comfort zone, realize some of his potential.  Frodo was forced into the Ring Quest by much more dire circumstance, but Gandalf's purposes with him are much the same: to not only save the world, but to help Frodo become more than he is, as well.  It is a personal-growth that dates clear back to the episode with the Barrow-Wights, when Frodo realized:

"There is a seed of courage hidden (often deeply, it is true) in the heart of the fattest and most timid hobbit, waiting for some final and desperate danger to make it grow.  Frodo was neither very fat nor very timid; indeed, though he did not know it, Bilbo (and Gandalf) had thought him the best hobbit in the Shire.  He thought he had come to the end of his adventure, and a terrible end, but the thought hardened him.  He found himself stiffening, as if for a final spring; he no longer felt limp like a helpless prey" (Fellowship pg. 194).

Likewise, Gandalf sends the Hobbits back to the Shire alone, so that they can realize for themselves that they now have the inner-strength and confidence necessary to solve all their problems for themselves, and not always wait for Gandalf to bail them out.  According to Joseph Campbell, that is the whole point of the Hero Cycle: for the hero to not only save the world, but to save himself, to achieve Apotheosis, resurrect, and ascend to a higher level.  The Cycle, as implied by the very term, ends with the Hero returning home triumphant, to save his people, as these Hobbits now do.  Like Odysseus in Homer's Odyssey, our heroes come home to clear out the usurpers.

But then, one of the frequent criticisms leveled against Campbell (besides his over-reliance on patternism, reductionism, and formula) is that, in myth, the Hero rarely if ever returns.  Hercules does not return home to Greece once he ascends Mt. Olympus.  Aeneus cannot return to Troy, or even to Dido. Odysseus cannot stay home in Ithaca but must travel inland with an oar o'er his shoulder to pay oblations to Poseidon.  Luke Skywalker does not return to his Uncle's farm on Tatooine.  Harry Potter never returns to finish his senior year at Hogwarts.  And Jesus Christ does not return to the carpentry shop in Nazareth.

And Frodo cannot stay in the Shire, as we will find in a couple chapters.  Hence the melancholy, that I mentioned earlier, of going back.  Probably because we cannot go back, not really, not ever.  The Hero Cycle is not a cycle at all.  Frodo is re-visiting the Shire, but not actually returning.  It's like revisiting your old home-town, or the house you were born in, your old High School .  You can maybe enjoy a few fleeting moments of pleasant nostalgia, but anything more than that makes you restless, makes you feel arrested, like you're wasting time. You didn't undergo all that growth just to return to where you started.

"It seems almost like a dream that has slowly faded", says Sam as they approach the Shire; "Not to me," says Frodo, "To me it feels more like falling asleep again" (341).  Not only can't we return home again, we shouldn't, either. The end-credits song that closes out The Two Towers film perhaps has it right: "You can never go home."

"The Land of Shadow" - Ben's Thoughts

Another chapter light on theme but heavy on plot. I tend to enjoy these "traveling" chapters, where the characters must get from point A to point B. What can I say? I enjoy the journey.

Tolkien does an excellent job at evoking Mordor. Jacob believes it's anticlimactic, but I'm with Sam: all of this lead-up has finally gotten them close to their objective, but he hadn't given much thought to what would actually happen when they got inside the eponymous "land of shadow." How are they to get across that plain, filled with armies and vigilant orcs? Especially, as we discover towards the end of the chapter, the agents of Sauron are actively looking for spies that have snuck through the outer defenses?

I feel like all of us have had dreams, nightmares even, where we've been chased by forces seen or unseen. Tolkien brings that emotion home to me in this chapter. Frodo and Sam are constantly on the run, constantly having to skulk deep in the thorny bushes (of course they're thorny), constantly having to hope beyond hope that their enemies don't simply turn around or look over the edge of the roadside curb or peer behind one more bush. There's such a fine line between lying unseen in the shadows and actually being noticed and caught.

I can further imagine Sam's mixed emotion of dread and hope as the orc-troop marches past at the end of the chapter. With each passing line that goes by, his elation had to grow; only for it all to come crashing down as the overseer with the whip noticed the pair of hobbits and forced them onto their feet. As we learn in the next chapter, that forced march is actually a blessing in disguise; it was really the only way for the two to pass across the plain, seen yet unseen as a part of the hosts of Mordor. But again, the desperation and fear that the passages convey makes the journey that much more terrifying than Pippin and Merry's in "Two Towers." The stakes are a lot higher, and our characters are a lot closer to the tipping point. How rousing is it, as well, that Sam considers going out with a bang, by killing the overseer, as he sees his master begin to flag: "At any moment now he knew that the end would come: his master would faint or fall, and all would be discovered, and their bitter efforts be in vain." Neither Merry nor Pippin considered such a course of action during their captivity. Despite their adventures, Sam is now made of sterner stuff than either of them.

The slight glimpse of worldbuilding interjected into the tale is also welcome. Jacob points out that Sam foregrounds the issue of how Sauron keeps his evil empire running properly, and while the main answer is "it's the magic," Tolkien at least makes a sally at an explanation: "Neither he nor Frodo knew anything of the great slave-worked fields away south in this wide realm, beyond the fumes of the Mountain by the dark sad waters of Lake Núrnen; nor of the great roads that ran away east and south to tributary lands, from which the soldiers of the Tower brought long waggon-trains of goods and booty and fresh slaves."

The chapter, what with its quick glimpses into the lives of the slaves of Sauron, the lethal bureaucracy of his troops, and their rumbling misgivings against their leaders, paints an effective picture of the terror and power of Mordor. It additionally highlights the growing desperation of the hobbits, as well as reminding the reader that Gollum is still a real and present threat. Somehow, the quick glimpse of our favorite "gobbler with the flapping hands" is more terrifying than all the orcs Sauron can muster. 

"The Tower of Cirith Ungol" - Ben's Thoughts

I've always found it a little bit silly that just when Sam needs access to the impregnable fortress, all the guards of said fortress murder each other. It's all very convenient, no? Of course, we can say it goes back to the theme of evil conquering itself, etc., and that the groundwork was laid at the end of the last book in Gorbag and Shagrat's conversation, yes, yes, it's true -- but nevertheless it seems like a bit of a copout. Chalk it up to plot reasons and move on, I guess.

An in-universe explanation, of course, is that Sauron's attention is directed elsewhere, namely, the battle of the Pelennor Fields. Orcs were never particularly reliable or trustworthy servants, and here that problem is clearly laid out. They're tribal to the extreme, so that when one leader gets into a tiff with another leader, the two tribes duke it out until nobody's left at all. Then the last man standing gets to have the first word with the boss about how the other guy was the "rebel" (to use Shagrat's words). I suppose it says something interesting about narratives; Snaga and Shagrat were concerned that Gorbag's men were the first ones to escape out the gate, because then they get to frame the narrative to the higher-ups. I wonder if this is something that happens regularly: a massive, pitched battle between two warring orc-factions that decimates the guard of a critically important structure designed to prevent anyone from sneaking into Mordor and, you know, destroying the Ring of Power. You'd think an evil overlord could find better help.

The textual clue that Shagrat is holding the mithril-coat and Sam's sword also kind of takes the sting away from the climax of Book V: the reader now knows that Frodo's safe and sound, at least for the moment, back with Sam, and that Sauron and his minions weren't really about to begin torturing Frodo when Gandalf and Co. reject their demands at the end of "Black Gate Opens." I vaguely remember feeling a little disappointed at some of the tension being taken out of these chapters when I realized that Frodo and Sam were fairly invulnerable, after all.

Of course, the text deals with more than just physical vulnerability. As Jacob pointed out, Frodo's sudden snap from grateful freed captive to crazed, Ring-addicted Gollum-figure is an abrupt one. In my mind, Frodo's ongoing PTSD after the Ring is destroyed is one of the most powerful themes of this final book. Tolkien also cleverly lays the foundation for the climax between Frodo, Sam, and Gollum here, as he has done throughout the entire text.

I will note that Sam's reluctance to give the Ring back to Frodo is, in the text, described this way: "Now it had come to it, Sam felt reluctant to give up the Ring and burden his master with it again." I appreciate this ambiguous line. Sam's concern for his master seems perfectly natural, and on the one hand, we did just witness Sam overcoming the Ring's temptation and press forward towards a more noble goal. It's tempting to think that his reluctance to hand over the Ring to its original bearer is nothing more than his own charitable impulse. But we know how the Ring operates. It's wholly insidious. If it can't claim an individual through outright, overt temptation, it works slowly from within to corrupt and destroy. It makes Sam's overtly self-sacrificing impulse take on a more sinister tone. Given enough time, the Ring could consume even the best of hobbits (as we of course see in the climax). And this theme of subtle corruption of course has its own real-life parallels. Our lives can take dangerous turns if we aren't constantly making proper course-corrections.

This chapter was very plot-heavy. We start grappling with more weighty issues, as the crushing weight of the Ring bears down on Frodo, starting in the next chapter.