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.
Wednesday, August 30, 2017
Thursday, August 24, 2017
"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.
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.
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.
Saturday, August 5, 2017
"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:
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.
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?
- "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?
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