"The Window on the West" - Jacob's Thoughts

"War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory." (pg. 355).

Faramir at this moment becomes I think a mouth-piece for Tolkien's own attitudes towards war; it feels a companion piece to the contemporaneous "Helm's Deep," which, as we previously discussed, likewise considers war to be an inglorious slog, no matter how just the cause.  "Helm's Deep" shows it, while "The Window of the West" is the commentary, it seems.  Tolkien seems intent on ensuring that his fellow Englishmen do not learn the wrong lessons from WWII.

Yet overall, this chapter overall feels an odd one to parse; in terms of modes for providing info-dumps and back-story, I can think of worse vehicles than an interrogation of world-weary Frodo by enigmatic Faramir (already one of the most likable, intriguing, and fleshed-out new characters we've met in awhile).  Really, the verbal chess match between Frodo and Faramir, two fundamentally decent men who nonetheless have strong reason to distrust each other, is the highlight of the chapter; theirs is an oddly noble form of conversational combat, such that when Frodo ultimately loses thanks to Samwise running is big fat mouth off about Boromir and the One Ring at the end, it still doesn't feel quite like a defeat.  Quite the contrary, it appears to seal the bond between the two men.

It would seem that Frodo has at last, however briefly, found a kindred spirit who can, in his way, understand what it means to resist the awful temptation of the Ring as he, and that is no small thing (no offense to Sam, but he feels the perennial outsider looking in with all things Ring related; he can love and serve Frodo, but that is not the same as understanding him).   It appears that it takes a genuine love of freedom and people, along with a real abhorrence for war and destruction, to refuse the power that the Ring represents.

Nevertheless, so much of what Frodo and Faramir discuss here are things that we've already read ourselves just a short while ago.  All this needless rehashing and review was a problem that plagued Book III as well, what with characters recounting the time they last recounted things that they already recounted about, in an irritatingly recursive fashion.  This chapter could've definitely used a pruning.

As for locus of their conversation, Boromir: once again, the son of Denethor is more interesting in death than he ever was in life.  A cipher much like most the Fellowship throughout Book II, we get a much fuller feel for the complexity of the man in Frodo and Faramir's eulogies and note-swapping, than we ever got when he was still walking amongst the living.  It would appear that I was wrong to assume that Tolkien was in a rush to push Boromir off the stage at the start of Two Towers; it wasn't that Tolkien didn't particularly feel like eulogizing him, but rather that Tolkien knew that Boromir would be back, and what's more, would be even more influential dead than alive.

"The Black Gate is Closed" - Eric's Thoughts

Tolkien seems to obliquely be hinting at something in this chapter. Can't quite put my finger on it . . . perhaps it's that it's difficult to get into Mordor . . . yep. I think that's what he was trying to say.

What really needs to happen is Middle Earth needs a U.N., so that the forces of good can have Mordor join, and then they could work things out. Why not a little diplomacy? Did anyone think of that? I guess the only problem with that is that Mordor would probably get a veto vote, being a world super-power and all.

The U.S. could probably take that Mordor nonsense on, though. We wouldn't need Frodo to infiltrate into Mordor, to cast away a puny ring. We'd nuke the orcs! And the good thing is, since Mordor is already the equivalent of nuclear fallout, there would be no collateral impact to the environment.

Perhaps that is what the ring itself symbolizes--nuclear technology. Using the power corrupts, and leads to another tyrant. But, wait, I guess that metaphor is no good, cause that would make us the bad guys. Shoot.

Let's try again. Err, oh shucks. Who am I kidding? I just don't have much to say about this chapter.  Frodo, Sam and Gollum see an impassable wall, Gollum suggests an alternate route, and off they go. The wall represents an obvious hurdle the protagonists must overcome. It is a literal obstacle. (I suppose sometimes chapters really aren't built for commentary.)

I guess one thing I could say is that entering into the land of evil is a common trope. You have to go into the villain's lair to do the deed. Here, Mordor is becoming more real than ever, and you get a sense what a horrible place this is. Tolkien does a great job of establishing mood. I enjoyed the chapter. But I don't have much to say about it.

"Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit" - Jacob's Thoughts

I don't have nearly as much insight to provide into this chapter, in no small part because the chapter doesn't provide me much to reflect upon.  It is primarily a table-setting chapter, one that sets us up the chess-board for the next round of chapters.  We can sense that the tension is starting to brew warmer between Sam and Gollum, what with Sam's casual abuse of the poor creature he still doesn't trust, as well as Sam's blithe disregard for Gollum's warning that starting a cooking fire will draw unwanted attention--which of course is exactly what Sam does.  Goodness, Sam, you don't have to like Gollum, but could you at least listen to him once in awhile?!  He hasn't made nearly as many unforced errors as you ridiculous Hobbits have.

Really, Sam is incredibly lucky that it was Men whom his cooking-fire attracted to their position--it could have easily been orcs, and then it's game-over for our heroes.  So, Sam and Frodo are OK for now, but they have now been cut off from their guide Gollum, and though my memories of Book IV are hazy, I can already tell that this apparent abandonment and betrayal of the poor wretch, however unintentional, will have serious ramifications for their relationship, and sets up a fiercer showdown to come between Sam and Gollum.

But again, this is all in the future; for now, all that really happens of note is Frodo and Sam have been put in the path of Faramir, which also portends bigger things--as is shown (a little on the nose, if you ask me), by Sam's much-wished-for Oliphaunt rampaging through the forest right by them.

One final note on Frodo's sudden embrace of honesty-is-the-best-policy when he gives his full biographical data to Faramir: is this a sign of Frodo's growing maturity (the whole "Mr. Underhill" schtick went over so poorly at the Prancing Pony that he figured the truth would be less clumsy this time 'round), or a sign of his growing pessimism and resignation in this quest, such that he scarcely bothers to disguise himself anymore, for what does it matter?

"The Passage of the Marshes" - Eric's Thoughts

This chapter is about Gollum, and it's about the terrain. As the hobbits approach their goal, they cross through the land of the dead. As The Hobbit explains, out of the frying pan, into the fire. As they exit the land of the dead, they cross into poisonous pits--and eventually at the gates of Mordor itself.

Similarly, as the terrain grows more treacherous, so does their host Gollum. The reader learns that Gollum intends to serve the precious, but also will not allow it to fall into His hands again. Gollum is experiencing what literary critics call "internal conflict." That means, by the way, that Gollum feels conflicting emotions.

So, our little helpful guide through the marshes turns out to not necessarily be a reformed angel at all. Not that the reader is surprised by this. Tolkien ups the suspense by making it ambiguous whom Gollum serves. Does Gollum serve Frodo? Hardly likely. But at the same time,  the conflict itself makes Gollum sympathetic, because the reader understands that part of Gollum wants to help Frodo. The reader wants Gollum to triumph over his lust, and even hoping, knows that tragedy is the only outcome.

As Jacob right points out, the characters of Sam and Frodo tease out this internal tension within Gollum. Just as Gollum is evil, so he is good. For now, the good in Gollum has sway over the evil. Just by a hair. Frodo sees the good within Gollum. Sam sees only the bad.

Sam is right, of course. But Frodo's mercy is what allows evil to undo itself. Gollum is the product of the Ring--and is ultimately what destroys the Ring.

"The Black Gate Is Closed" - Jacob's Thoughts

You guys ever watch The Office back in the day?  Not just the U.S. version, but the original U.K. one?  They both have a strong thread of despair running through them as is well known, but in the U.S. iteration it gets largely subsumed by the light-hearted tone, good humor, and an irrepressible American optimism that renders us constitutionally incapable of ever wallowing in the darkness for too long, or of ever taking it too seriously.  The British version, to put it mildly, serves it straight.  The bleakness is perpetually foregrounded, and the humor only serves to highlight it all the more starkly.  For the British, hope is a luxury, not a necessity; despair is not the exception to existence but its general rule; and if anything ever goes right, it is a strange thing that has happened.

I was reminded of this innately English pessimism throughout this chapter; we've already discussed how Aragorn post-Moriah claims we no longer live for hope, but only revenge, and now here both Frodo and Sam confess--to their innermost selves if no one else--that neither of them had any real hope for this quest, either.  Frodo is determined to cross the Black Gate alone--just as he had always assumed he would have to finally carry this awful burden alone--not because he ever thought he would ever actually make it to Mt. Doom, but only because fate had decreed this his own awful burden to carry, his duty alone to fail in.

Sam, for his part, must admit that the best his native cheerfulness could offer was never any real hope, but only a postponement of despair, one which he can no longer escape now that he stands before the all-too-guarded Black Gate.  Even Gollum is just playing an end-game of delaying the inevitable, of not defeating Sauron but just keeping the Ring out of his hands as long as possible; he straight up tells Frodo that he only guided him to the Black Gate to fulfill the terms of his terrible oath to the "Precious," not because he thought Frodo was crazy enough to try to enter!  Indeed, Gollum rants and raves that it is a terrible idea to try and enter Mordor at all, that he only offers this highly-specious alternate route because if you must enter Mordor, well, you'll have slightly better luck over at this other place--where Sauron's eye isn't as watchful, "he can't see everything, not yet"--which still isn't all that encouraging.

I don't know why it didn't strike me till this chapter, but this entire series is permeated by a very English pessimism, one that refuses to even entertain the possibility of success.  For despite its grand popularity in America, LotR is not an American novel at all.  This text is like the U.K. version of The Office, where all of its despair on the surface, where all humor is gallows humor, where all situations are hopeless.

But then also, like The Office, there comes a joke, and someone says something utterly ridiculous, as Sam recites that nursery poem about "oliphaunts" (by far the dumbest poem Tolkien has published yet), and that somehow relieves all the tension and they are all able to carry on besides.  For although America's source of confidence lies in our unflagging sense of optimism in the face of all contrary evidence, Britain's, by contrast, lies in their calm certainty that all is hopeless and everything and everyone is terrible, which somehow imbues them with the resolve to continue forward anyways.  It's a very English type of despair that almost becomes its own form of optimism.

Almost.

"The Taming of Sméagol" - Ben's Thoughts

Jacob delved deeply into some Gollum-y psychoanalysis; I'll stick to commenting on the beauty and depth of this chapter. It's very refreshing to return to Frodo and Sam. I feel like Tolkien, as well, must have breathed a sigh of relief when he wrote about the Hobbits. Frodo and Sam are written with neither the goofy joviality of Merry and Pippin, nor the almost bombastic epic style of Gandalf and Aragorn. Instead, the prose here is calm and down-to-earth, almost jarringly anachronistic thanks to Sam's vernacular (probably the weakest part of these chapters, in my opinion), and manages to delve deeply into the minds of both Frodo and Sam to the benefit of the reader. Notably, we do stay out of Gollum's mind; Tolkien does provide sharp descriptions of Gollum's mannerisms and even facial expressions that provide clues about his thoughts and feelings, but Tolkien chooses not to express his point of view at this point. A wise decision, in my opinion, but we will get to dig inside Gollum's mind in later chapters.

First a few words on the beauty of this chapter. When I was a kid I think I rushed through the early sections to get to the plot-advancing confrontation between Gollum and the hobbits. However, I did myself a disservice through skimming because I missed some of the most beautiful description Tolkien has provided to date. The way he describes the storm, for example, is simply stunning:

"The skirts of the storm were lifting, ragged and wet, and the main battle had passed to spread its great wings over the Emyn Muil; upon which the dark thought of Sauron brooded for a while. Thence it turned, smiting the Vale of Anduin with hail and lightning, and casting its shadow upon Minas Tirith with threat of war. Then, lowering in the mountains, and gathering its great spires, it rolled on slowly over Gondor and the skirts of Rohan, until far away the Riders on the plain saw its black towers moving behind the sun, as they rode into the West. But here, over the desert and the reeking marshes the deep blue sky of evening opened once more, and a few pallid stars appeared, like small white holes in the canopy above the crescent moon."

I felt compelled to quote the whole passage because it does so much: it provides a sense of location for the reader, while reminding them of the struggle of the other characters taking place elsewhere, while orienting the reader as to the exact time of the present setting (because we have gone back in time some weeks from where we left Gandalf and Pippin), while reminding the reader of the ever-present danger of Sauron, while being just a lovely passage in and of iself, chock full of imagery and metaphor. The Professor's done it again, students.

Just a few thoughts on the plot: Frodo is really trusting in the power of the Ring to bind Gollum to his promise at the end of the chapter. This seems... unwise, especially since he himself acknowledges how dangerous touching one's life to the Ring can be: "It is more treacherous than you are. It may twist your words. Beware!" This seems to be another clue that by declaring himself the Master of the Precious, Frodo is already far deeper under its sway than the reader can outwardly discern. Frodo when weilding the power of the Ring is nowhere close to where Gandalf or Sauron himself would be if he claimed it, but still is an imposing figure: "A tall stern shadow, a mighty lord who hid his brightness in grey cloud."

Finally, it's interesting to note the parallels, as Jacob has done already to some extent, between our trio. Each share notable characteristics. Gollum and Frodo are both, as Jacob noted, affected by the power of the Ring and have a connection that Sam cannot fathom therein. Frodo and Sam are linked by friendship and their roots in the Shire, although here Tolkien's notions of class and gentry come back to the forefront with the clear superior-subservient relationship between "Mr. Frodo" and Sam (remember, Frodo is gentry and Sam is working-class -- although it is worthwhile to remember that Sam, while older than Merry and Pippin, is younger than Frodo by something like twenty years). And finally, Sam and Gollum share Frodo as their master, superior, and leader, and one must wonder whether Sam's animosity towards Gollum stems in part from the sense that the two have an unseen connection that he will never share.

Love Book IV and these chapters. Looking forward to the rest.

"The Passage of the Marshes" - Jacob's Thoughts

"I think this food would do you good, if you would try it.  But perhaps you can't even try, not yet anyway."

Oh Frodo, you incorrigible optimist!

What I admire about this chapter is how Frodo and Sam are both right: Sam is right to be deeply suspicious of Sméagol (Gollum's late-night conversation with himself is sure evidence of that), while Frodo is right to be kind, to be this poor creature's first friend in an age, to follow the counsel of Gandalf and example of Bilbo in showing mercy to this miserable wretch.  And not just for altruistic reasons, either: Remember how Frodo and crew could scarcely get through the Old Forest without getting eaten by willow-trees??  And now they're gonna hike frickin' Mordor where the shadows lie?!  These hobbits seriously need Sméagol's help right now. 

I likewise admire how Frodo and Sam are both wrong: for that same late-night conversation should have made clear to Sam that there is still a sliver of an honorable man still lurking deep within Sméagol, one that needs to be fed encouragement and kindness, not hatred and callousness; and Frodo needs to seriously be way less naive about his chances of reforming this murderous creature, of undoing literal centuries of corruption.

I also appreciate how Frodo and Sams' attitudes towards Sméagol are rooted in both their best and their worst motivations: e.g. Sam's suspicions are fueled in part by his love for his master and friend yes, but also by his own xenophobia and hobbit-peavishness.  Frodo's trust in turn is fueled in part by his humanity and decency yes, but also because he understands the seductive hold the Ring wields over his own heart...a fact which he has thus far selfishly neglected to share with Sam.  

Sméagol is just such a delightfully complex character, and he brings out the complexity in others, too!  I do believe we have learned more about Frodo and Sam in just the chapter and a half that Sméagol's been around than in the entire book and a half preceding.

On a less-related note: I'm prepping for my comprehensive exams coming up in 2 short months, which has involved me reading a ton about Anglo-Modernism.  A study I read just the other day, A Shrinking Island by scholar Jed Esty, makes the argument that the Modernist period ends in part because England turns towards its own mythologized pre-modern, folklorish past, as they are cut off from the folklores of other countries due to 1) their massive overseas Empire falling apart (especially in Ireland and India), and 2) the rise of fascism in continental Europe.  He cites examples of this inward turn of the English in the late-period works of TS Eliot, Virginia Woolf...and JRR Tolkien!  Esty's is the first scholarly work I've come across thus far that actually acknowledges Tolkien as a significant writer of this era, citing The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings as symptomatic of this late-Modernist turn towards Shires, countrysides, and ancient Breton mythology.  Esty even cites the hobbits as analogous to the English self-perception, as "a race that is parochial, conventional...but capable of immense loyalty, devotion and--when pushed to it--heroism" (122) in the face of the Nazi--er, Mordor--menace. Ironically then, Lord of the Rings, in its self-conscious turn towards the pre-modern, is quintessentially Modern.

I bring this up because the other quintessentially Modern work I encounter over and over again in my readings (to the point that I'm gettin' kinda sick of it), is of course TS Eliot's "The Waste Land."  And what have we here in this chapter?  None other than another Waste Land, one that reminds us why England turned towards its Shires in the first place.  For like Eliot's, this waste land is haunted by the spectres of battlefields, of the ghosts of a lost generation, on an "arid plain" filled with fragments shored against ruins.  Eliot had based his poem upon an ancient Arthurian legend, of knights of the Round Table seeking to break the infertile curse on the land; but now in modern times, though the curse again smites the land, there are no more knights, only these hobbits, these doddering, parochial English hobbits far removed from any sort of heroic past, trudging dutifully across the waste land in the twilight of their age, towards what they are sure is their final end and dissolution.  Shantih, Shantih, Shantih...

Guys, don't let the neo-Medievalism fool you: Lord of the Rings is incredibly Modern!

"The Palantír" - Ben's Thoughts

It's nice how this chapter is such a smooth transition back into the minds of the hobbits. Tolkien is prepping us for our reintroduction to Frodo and Sam in the next book; he eases us into it with the point of view shifting the Merry and Pippin here. After all the time being spent with Aragorn and Friends, who ostensibly know most of what is going on (Aragorn more so than Gimli, of course), it's strange to be back in the heads of the hobbits, who know so little about what is happening and what will be expected of them. In a way, they are just "rag-tag," following Gandalf's tailcoats; it may sting a little, but Merry at least recognizes that very clearly. Pippin is of course more pragmatic about it: "Our whole life for months has been one long meddling in the affairs of wizards." In a way, it's good to be back with you, hobbits. Especially now that the annoying jolly duo of Merry and Pippin is about to be split up for a while.

Pippin and Merry get quite a bit of character development in these few pages, with their separate takes on their situation and Pippin's focus on the "glass ball" that turns out to be quite a serious matter indeed. I wonder if Merry would have been so quick to fall under the spell of the palantír; Merry is just so much more pragmatic and sensible, it seems doubtful to me that the allure of the unknown would have been able to snare him as easily as it did Pippin. Pippin was always the hobbit excited about "adventures," while Merry embarked on the quest out of solidarity with his cousin Frodo. As Gandalf notes at the end of the chapter, "You knew you were behaving wrongly and foolishly; and you told yourself so, though you did not listen." But Pippin's impulsiveness turns out to be for the benefit of the good guys; what would have happened if Gandalf had been the first to gaze into the palantír?

In any case, Pippin gets a heck of a sendoff at the end of the chapter, with one of Tolkien's most beautiful conclusory lines in the entire trilogy: "As he fell slowly into sleep, Pippin had a strange feeling: he and Gandalf were still as stones, seated upon the statute of a running horse, while the world rolled away beneath his feet with a great noise of wind." Things are moving fast now; Saruman has been dealt with and now the true enemy is upon them. It's time to deal with Sauron face to face.

And does the Lord of all evil come off particularly well in this chapter? No, not really, in my estimation. Instead of taking the time to extract any really useful information from Pippin, when he has him under his control, he just jumps to some hasty conclusions and tortures him for fun for a little bit before releasing him. Sauron's undoing will be what we stated before -- he is so sure that the Ring will be used against him by one of the Great or Wise that he never considers the peril approaching his own land. He is so confident that he knows exactly how Pippin and the palantír fit into things that he doesn't bother to confirm his idea; he just proceeds, arrogantly believing that his assumptions are gospel truth. Sauron, for all his power, does not seem very self-aware. He has no concept of his own limitations; his own blind spots. Maybe that's because he is alone at the pinnacle of his own success? He has no confidants, no trusted advisors. He is absolute, and thus he is solitary. So the very existance of absolute power is its own undoing, in Tolkien's portrayal of the Dark Lord, because he cannot possibly be aware of his own weaknesses without others to point them out to him.

We'll learn more and more about Sauron's tactics and points of view in the coming books. I'm interested in analyzing further where he goes wrong and what we can learn from it. And I'm also excited to rejoin my preferred characters within the more contemplative, but more emotionally and thematically expansive Book IV.

"The Voice of Saruman" - Ben's Thoughts

Saruman is such a fascinating character. Sauron is a straightforward, evil-for-evil's-sake, mustache-twirling villain, as we'll see in the next chapter, when he tortures Pippin for no reason other than gloating over his pain and doesn't have the foresight to question the hobbit before severing their contact, so sure is he of his point-of-view. (More on that in the next chapter; this "fixed gaze" theme is something Tolkien continually revisits with Sauron.) But Saruman? We see such glimpses in this chapter of Saruman's nature; his drives and passions; the man he once was and the man he almost started to become again -- and, of course, his ultimate and final rejection of that path.

Gandalf is absolutely correct in saying that Saruman's control is slipping. I'm sure the old Saruman would never have let Eomer's clumsy attempts to brush off Saruman's spell-weaving anger him as much as it does here. But he recovers quickly, with an interesting appeal to Rohan's own history: "the House of Eorl is stained with murder; for they have fought many wars, and assailed many who defied them. Yet with some they have afterwards made peace, none the worse for being politic. I say, Théoden King: shall we have peace and friendship, you and I? It is ours to command." He compares the Rohirrim to himself, without even tacitly admitting he is at fault, and thereby paints them with the same brush as himself. It's a masterful line of rhetoric.

I love that Saruman addresses each and every person that come to face him in turn, molding his description of each to fit his strategy. Gimli is summarily dismissed, his opinions irrelevant, when he objects to Saruman's words: "Far away is your home and small concern of yours are the troubles of this land." Theoden is the "mightiest king of western lands," one he seeks to save from the "unwise and evil counsels" of Gandalf, until Theoden rejects him; then he is referred to as a "dotard" and his house "a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek, and their brats roll on the floor among the dogs". Harsh, Saruman. The hobbits, for all his fascination in them, are called "small rag-tag." It's probably telling that the hobbits got a mention at all; Legolas and Aragorn he ignores entirely.

I find it fascinating that Saruman uses the peril of Mordor to his advantage. He insinuates that Gandalf is going to throw the Rohirrim against the might of Sauron: "Still I would save you, and deliver you from the ruin that drwas nigh inevitably, if you ride upon this road which you have taken." And he is not wrong: Gandalf does indeed intend to use every tool at his disposal to distract Sauron from the true peril creeping closer to his borders. The Rohirrim are just another quiver in his arrow to stave off the armies of Mordor until Frodo is able to finish his task. But Saruman's path for the Rohirrim wouldn't be any better; no doubt Saruman would ask them to fight for him in his own struggles with Sauron.

But of course it is Gandalf's conversation with Saruman that is the most compelling. Gandalf waits patiently for Saruman to betray himself in the eyes of the gathered watchers, confident in Theoden's ability to cast off the spell of the wizard's voice. He then laughs off Saruman's invitation to join him in Orthanc, with the amusing line that "the guest who has escaped from the roof, will think twice before he comes back in by the door." And finally, he offers his brother wizard a final chance to redeem himself: "Would it not be well to leave [Isengard] for a while? To turn to new things, perhaps? Think well, Saruman! Will you not come down?"

Tolkien then gives us a rare glimpse into the mind of the wizard: "they saw through the mask the anguish of a mind in doubt, loathing to stay and dreading to leave its refuge. For a second he hesitated, and no one breathed." What would have happened if Saruman had agreed to come down, to counsel with them and work with them in stopping Mordor? A more complex book than LOTR perhaps would have Saruman making that choice, and then enduring on among the forces of the good guys as a Gollum-like character, but Tolkien has set up Saruman to not be able to make that choice. "Pride and hate were conquering him," Tolkien writes. Saruman is too far gone to be able to humble himself to that degree. He is defiant to the end, despite that brief moment of hesitation.

The story of Saruman is of course a story of pride. He was jealous of Gandalf, jealous of the power of Mordor, and eager to lord over Men based on a belief of innate superiority. This Saruman could never throw himself at the mercy of Gandalf. To do so would admit that he had been right all along, and that Saruman had been wrong. Defiant to the last. "Pitiable" indeed, as Gandalf calls him. I think in Saruman there is a lesson and an example for all of us.

"The Taming of Sméagol" - Jacob's Thoughts

Interesting pronoun shifts here--almost as though Tolkien himself was unsure of quite how to properly denominate Book IV's signature creature.  First is the fact that there doesn't appear to be any clear moment when we shift from calling the guy "Gollum" to "Sméagol".  What's more, the two names continue to be used interchangeably, making it all the more difficult to properly track when we're referring to the ring-obsessed demon or the age-old former-hobbit hidden underneath--which of course compounds the confusion Frodo and Sam are likewise feeling about this creature.

Then of course there is just the problematic term "creature" itself--is this a man or a beast?  Tolkien himself can't seem to make up his mind--Gollum/Sméagol is referred in turn as "it" and as "he/him," with little apparent rhyme or reason.  Our erstwhile anti-hero is in turn dehumanized and rehumanized from paragraph to paragraph, sometimes sentence to sentence.  Somehow these endless pronoun shifts have unsettled me more about this character than all of the arid wasteland of Mordor.

Dual-identities is of course  the overriding them of Gollum--as Tolkien likewise makes explicitly clear, Sméagol is Frodo's mirror image, in both the sense of his opposite and his monstrous double.  Has René Girard ever commented on Lord of the Rings?  The famed French philosopher probably thinks such "pop" literature was beneath him, which is a shame, cause Gollum/Sméagol seems custom built for Violence and the Sacred.  For the 1972 study likewise focuses upon monstrous doubles, mimetic desire for the same scarce resources (in this case, the single Ring of Power)--and of course likewise features a "Pharmakos", the Greek root of our English word Pharmacology.  "Pharmakos" is loosely defined by Girard as simultaneously the poison and the cure (like the Ring that both poisons and extends life), which has absorbed all the potential for vengeance and violence of the larger community, and must become the sacrificial scapegoat cast out from society in order to short-circuit the never-ending cycle of retributive violence.

In Girard's model, the scapegoat, since it is the sacred talisman that prevents the spread of self-destructive communal violence, even eventually came to be worshipped, and at last deified, which is thus the ancient root of monarchy.  Hence, Louis XVI was ironically correct to claim divine right for his kingship--which divinity he was literally fulfilling as the sacrificed Pharmakos during the Reign of Terror.  The Pharmakos, then, is both what you desire and what repulses you--the monstrous double.

In one sense, the Ring is clearly the Pharmakos here--it has absorbed all violence and desire for power into itself, and consequently everyone desires it even as they fear it.  It is the scapegoat that must be destroyed to short-circuit the endless cycle of violence.  But Gollum is a Pharmakos, too--and as we all recall of from Return of the King, he is the one who will be killed to bring about this necessary sacrifice of the Ring.  Here is where Tolkien, despite all his other vaguely-drawn characters, makes a key insight into human nature--those who repulse us do so precisely because of how much they are like us, not from how different they are.  Frodo comes to recognize this as well: he sees in Gollum what he could be, indeed what he is already becoming.  The tragedy of Gollum isn't that his addiction got the best of him, but rather that he succumbed for the rest of us, so we wouldn't have to.  To quoth Isaiah, "There is no beauty in him that we should desire him."  By his stripes we are healed.

"The Taming of Sméagol" - Eric's Thoughts

The character of Smeagol/Gollum is iconic, and makes a much delayed entrance into the book here. Riddles in the dark was one of my favorite chapters in the Hobbit.

When Gollum finally appears, I realized how notable Gollum's  absence for over half the book was. It's amazing what Gollum does to pepper up a story where some of the chapters have really dragged. The entrance is delayed, but when it comes it's a true delight. It's foreshadowed properly as well--Gandalf and the Company mention that someone is following them numerous times throughout the book.

There's one scene worth mentioning before Gollum. I still remember the rope scene, where Sam bemoans the loss of the rope by tying it. He gives it one last tug lovingly, and the rope falls. Frodo jokes (and half says it seriously) that he was foolish to trust Sam's knot. Sam takes it as a personal affront. It's a lovely scene, and something that really helps to establish character. Sam becomes one of the best developed characters in the story, and it's scenes like this that really help flesh him out.

Gollum's reputation, of course, precedes himself. When Gollum appears, the Hobbits overpower him, and Gollum weeps. Frodo takes pity on Gollum, and follows Gandalf's advice and shows mercy. Sam, of course, doesn't trust Gollum, and makes that very clear. This is another great way that Tolkien brings characterization. Frodo (foolishly) seems to trust Gollum whole-heartedly, and Sam doesn't buy Gollum's act for a moment.

When Gollum wishes to swear on The Precious, Frodo's corruption shows for a moment. Frodo will not allow it. Period. It's little things like that over the course of the book that hint at Frodo's final decision at Mount Doom.

One thing I always wondered: would Sam had claimed the Ring as his own? Sam, with Frodo the whole time, seems completely immune to the Ring. Even when Sam is reluctant to hand the Ring to Frodo later on, it's not because Sam wants the Ring for his own. It's because Sam is concerned about handing another dose of heroin to a junky who demands it.

"The Palantír" - Eric's Thoughts

The title of this chapter tells you immediately what is going to happen: that Pippin is going to have a second look at the crystal ball. The execution does not disappoint. For a couple of pages Pippin wonders aloud what's in the crystal ball, and Merry tells him to mind his own business. It's the stuff of wizards, he says, so you best forget about it. Pippin tosses and turns, and can't forget about it.

Instead, he tip-toes over to Gandalf and puts a palantir-sized rock in Gandalf's hands while Gandalf snores. This is a scene that we have all read before a million times, but we love it each time. It reminds us when we would sneak cookies from on top of the fridge. (Yes, I am guilty of this too.)

The crystal ball is revealed to be a telephone by which Saruman had been speed-dial chatting with Sauron. Gandalf also speculates that this was the fall of Saruman.

I guess Saruman should have chosen his speed-dial more carefully. Perhaps Tolkien's message here is that we should choose our friends more carefully. The people we talk to have the biggest influence on us. Saruman shouldn't have kept talking with Sauron. Perhaps if he had just said, "you know, Sauron, I really like you, and all, but I just can't hang out with you anymore. You don't support my values," then this never would have happened.

The problem is, that once Saruman had beheld evil, he could not turn away. The images and despair of inevitable defeat drove him to conclude, logically, that to join with Sauron's juggernaut was the only viable option. In a Citizens United world, these themes are still applicable today.

"The Palantír" - Jacob's Thoughts

So ends Book III!  And what a way to end--the battle has been won only for us to be reminded that the war is far from over.  As Gandalf frames it: "So we fly--not from danger but into greater danger."  Expertly handled, Tolkien: I've waited so impatiently to at last return to the adventures of Master Frodo and Samwise Gamgee, only for me to be left hungry to find out what happens next to Peregrin Took, of all people!

That cliffhanger is especially expert because the first part of this chapter initially felt like a dull return to the plodding wordiness of "Road to Isengard" and "Flotsam and Jetsam"--I began to fear that from here on out, chapters like "The Voice of Saruman" would be exception, not the rule.  But then the eye of Sauron appears, the Nazgul desecrate the sky, and the war-party's leisurely trot across the plains suddenly becomes a mad dash through the night.  Tolkien knows how to move when he feels like it!

As for the vision in the titular palantír: Sauron's gloating laugh over poor Pippin was of special interest to me, particularly given my discussion of Gandalf's cutting laugh against Saruman in the previous chapter.  There is nothing that Sauron cannot turn to evil use, and laughter is one of them; and whereas Gandalf uses it to punch up and puncture the powerful, Sauron uses it to punch down and oppress the weak.  It is the difference between the humor of the generous verses the humor of the cruel; indeed, whenever I read of some politician or comedian complaining about how "political correctness" is hampering humor, I've realized what they're actually complaining about is how they can no longer get away with being as big of pricks as they'd like to be--and the fact that they can't imagine comedy without cruelty speaks volumes about their own crooked character.  That is, I bet Sauron ain't big on "political correctness" either.  What a fascinating compare and contrast.

Also of interest: we finally get a brief discussion in how exactly Gandalf the White differs from Gandalf the Grey.  It's not much, but Merry's "He can be both kinder and more alarming, merrier and more solemn than before" still seems to communicate something profound.  The description reminds me of what Maslow wrote of the "self-actualized" in Motivation and Personality--how they can be both more light-hearted yet also somber, both more generous yet also more ruthless in ending friendships they perceive as corrupted, are quick and accurate judges of character, and are as comfortable leading as they are submiting (which we see with Gandalf's bow to Aragorn).  All these feel like apt descriptions of Gandalf the White--if not Gandalf the Gray.

For I vaguely recall us discussing clear back in Book I how Gandalf the Grey is frankly a bit of dick.  But here, whereas early Gandalf would have rapped Pippin's ears for letting himself get seduced by the palantír, now Gandalf's "face grew gentler, and the shadow of a smile appeared.  He laid his hand softly on Pippin's head."  That is, Gandalf has become self-actualized in Maslow's model--though boy has he ever earned it!  But then, it's not an actualization that ever comes cheap; indeed, it has been my experience generally that the most genuine, kind, and generous people I have ever met are the ones who have passed through the most searing pain, who have seen the most.  It is petty small-mindedness that makes us cruel (as shown by Sauron's obsession with that tiny ring); it is a broad-mindedness born of soul-expanding tragedy that makes us generous. 

We are now half way to the end.  I stop here waiting for you.  Until Book IV, gentlemen.

"The Voice of Saruman" - Jacob's Thoughts

"Then Gandalf laughed.  The fantasy vanished like a puff of smoke."  

"Humorous" is certainly not the adjective anyone would use to describe LoTR (especially when compared to The Hobbit), but it is reassuring to see that Tolkien has not forgotten the subversive power of a good laugh.

Because that's what breaks the spell, isn't it--a good strong belly laugh, one that shakes everyone awake, utterly deflates Saruman's pretensions, puts him in his place and sets Gandalf the White as the new head of the Counsel.  I've heard it argued before that humor can actually be inherently cruel, even tyrannical, for by its very nature it must exclude and ostracize those who don't get the joke, and functions primarily by cutting others down to size.  And indeed, if one is a bully who punches down, then yes, humor can be a vicious (not to mention petty) tool of the oppressor indeed.

But against the vicious, the cruel, the bullying and the tyrannical themselves, humor can be an effective weapon of liberation, and Gandalf seems to intuit this.  In contrast to the two previous meandering chapters, Tolkien here does a masterful job of describing succinctly, through both show and tell, just how smooth a talker Saruman can be, how honeyed sweet his words are, how easy he is to like, how simple, natural, rationale it must feel to believe him.  It's clear now that Grimace Wormtongue was but the apprentice to the master--in another life, Saruman could have been the world's greatest salesman.

I know the type well; real-life salesmen use the exact same tactics.  I'd wondered aloud in previous chapters if Sauron had once been able to sell the major races of Middle Earth on his Rings of Power precisely because he did not then appear as the living embodiment of evil, but because he was such a smooth-talking salesman, a handsome young gent appearing as an angel of light, with a sharp suit and a winning smile who threw his arm around your shoulders and assured you he was your best friend, and boy did he have a deal for you!  But I guess I don't need to see ages-old Sauron in action anymore, because I have now seen the exact same tactics on display with Saruman, who has learned from the Dark Lord well.

 And Saruman even here follows the exact same trajectory as Sauron--for once the sales-pitch either finishes or fails, then the whole smiley facade drops, and the real malice that undergirded the sales-pitch comes swiftly simmering to the surface.  If the sale succeeded, then they have you lashed under an impossible contract filled with hidden fees that they will exact to their fullest; and if the sale failed, then they lash out petulantly and hypocritically, as though you were the one who tried to rob them. 

The first scenario Sauron has fulfilled to a T, and the latter Saruman has followed to the letter.  Sauron is still too dangerous to laugh at just yet, but Saruman has elicited from Gandalf the White the only response he deserves--he has laughed at him.  For what poor, fallen Saruman has sought above all else is power, authority, control, to be respected and taken seriously--and nothing signifies that no one takes you seriously anymore than to be laughed at.  I suspect that with that guffaw, Gandalf cut an even deeper wound into Saruman than all the destructive fury of Ents--and that Gandalf emasculated him even more fully than when he commanded his staff to snap in two.  It is one of the most satisfying laughs in literature.

Eric's right, this chapter is wonderful!  It's right up there with "A Knife in the Dark" and "The Bridge of Khazad-dûm" as one of the highlights of the entire series--and the wonder of it is there is scarcely any action at all (aside from the apparent off-screen murder of Grima by Saruman), just a war of words with greater tension and sense of stakes than the entire Battle of Helm's Deep.  I've noticed that as we've progressed, we have all begrudgingly sided more and more with Peter Jackson's artistic choices over Tolkien's, but this scene is not one of them--whereas in the film Saruman is just a generic baddie and the final confrontation is a forgettable cut-scene, here on the pages it is a masterful battle between two former friends for whom the tables have turned totally.  Gandalf the White doesn't even use magic to defeat Saruman this time--he doesn't have to anymore.

"The Voice of Saruman" - Eric's Thoughts

So. Here we are at what I remember to be one of my favorite chapters of the whole series. Everyone else seems psyched about Saruman's cameo just like I do. The question is -- does it live up to the hype???

Fortunately -- it does! Hooray! A true engaging chapter. I remember many times while being bored at church I would jump to and read this chapter. Something about it is really fun.

The plot is simple: the characters approach Saruman, who is holed up in Orthanc. The purpose of the meeting seems completely unclear and pointless. If he's that dangerous, why even bother talking to him? Gandalf reveals near the end was that the purpose was to give Saruman a chance of redemption, even though Gandalf knows that Saruman will reject it.

Besides the obvious -- that showing mercy is distinguishing factor of good from evil -- the point of this chapter really is to have a marvelous confrontation. A chapter like this shows that the most engaging parts of a story are not when fights occur, but when characters confront one another and really try to **** each other through dialogue.

Not dialogue that says "We meet again, Mr. Bond. You'll never escape this time. I think a nice . . . shark tank is what's in order here." But dialogue where the characters are trying to influence each other, and there's a decision where the influence could lead to a pivotal choice. This is what creates the most memorable moments in fiction.

Thus, a simple plot. But the confrontation is complex. Many paragraphs are spent describing the power of the voice. What Saruman says itself is not particularly convincing. But Tolkien spends so much time describing the voice, and its power, that the reader can visually see these puny mortals falling under its spell. It's an enchanting effect, both to the characters in the story, and the reader.

I found myself almost WANTING Saruman to prevail. And when he was beaten, it was a most unpleasant sensation. I too, had fallen under Saruman's spell.

"Flotsam and Jetsam" - Ben's Thoughts

I have a lot less to say about this chapter than the last one. It's certainly deflating to hear about the assault on Isengard after the fact; the outcome is predetermined, so the reader is robbed of any sort of tension. We even know that Quickbeam, the only other Ent we have had any kind of connection with from the text, is going to be all right when he goes chasing after Saruman, because the party saw him alive and well in the last chapter guarding the doors of Orthanc.

So I do have to question Tolkien's choice in giving this afterthought of an explanation to the hobbits' simplified rendition. Wouldn't it have been better to see the thing in person? The question, I suppose, is whether a direct depiction of the assault is more important than the buildup to the big reveal that Gandalf & Co. don't have to attack the place themselves; it's already been done for them. I'd argue that a direct depiction would have been much more useful than this awkward recounting. The astute reader can already guess that Isengard has been taken care of: Gandalf's complete nonchalance about the whole matter, as well as the fact that the Ents and Hurons are obviously hanging about the area kind of gives up the game well before we see the torn-down doors and flooded interior.

So here's how I would have divided these chapters: I would have lumped the clean-up at Helm's Deep at the end of "Helm's Deep" itself, and then I would have had a new chapter (perhaps entitled "Rock and Stone," after Treebeard's statement about his "business" with Isengard) recounting the assault and the aftermath, ending with Treebeard talking to the hobbits about the king and Gandalf's impending arrival. Then a third chapter could have brought the company down the road to Isengard and taken them all the way to the doors of Orthanc, ready for their confrontation with Saruman that's about to take place in the next chapter. Part of me is suspicious that Tolkien had it like this at one point, what with all of the verbatim dialogue that Merry and Pippin spout out to Aragorn and friends when they're lounging about; for the life of me I can't see how the way it was done was better. Two back-to-back exciting battle chapters, each very different in format, setting, and characters than the other, seems to be better than having two completely-blase chapters like these.

The most interesting thing about this chapter is the continuation of the ominous foreshadowing about "things" going badly in the Shire in the hobbits' absence. "Scouring of the Shire" is the highlight of the end of the series for me, and it's nice to see some seeds planted slowly along the way.

"The Road to Isengard" - Ben's Thoughts

These two chapters, as Jacob guessed, are another part of the reason why I find Book 3 so tedious and disappointing. While "Helm's Deep" is far from a perfect chapter, it does provide forward-moving action as well as serving as its own self-contained narrative. But "Road to Isengard" is just a bridge chapter, taking our characters from one place to another. While the chapter does have some merit when viewed in isolation, it really doesn't contribute anything to the narrative as a whole and could easily have been condensed into "Flotsam and Jetsam" for a more consice, streamlined approach. I think Jacob has nailed it here: Tolkien should make you a little nervous, because this word count bloat will recur to haunt us in later books, particularly in both books of "Return of the King."

That's the bad; now on to the merit. Eric and Jacob both point out that the company's first impression of the hobbits and their subsequent interactions is ridiculously charming. The hobbits are never more endearing and worthwhile than when outsiders consider them with awe and respect. Tolkien invokes this theme often and effectively in the earlier books, and will employ it to schmaltzy effect after the Ring is destroyed (singers spontaneously compose and perform songs about the hobbits' valor!) but the effect does feel particularly well-earned in this chapter, to some degree. Tolkien does a respectable job of building up the imposing nature of Isengard, coupled with Gandalf's tongue-in-cheek efforts to keep the company in the dark about what happened the night before ("Gandalf, we see great smokes and fumes! Are we riding to our deaths???" "Maaaaaybe....") Thus the moment when the reader is expected to be presented with Isengard in all of its sound and fury is completely bowled over by the revelation that "the doors lay hurled and twisted on the ground" and the whole of Isengard stands in ruins. And to find the hobbits here, smoking and eating, is icing on the cake.

Finally, Tolkien manages to slip in another reminder that The Lord of the Rings is a book about endings, not beginnings (leaving the last line of the trilogy aside for a minute). Theoden, upon seeing what may be the most marvelous sight of his life -- the Ents shepherding the trees outside of Helm's Deep -- comments that "also I should be sad . . . For however the fortune of war shall go, may it not so end that much that was fair and wonderful shall pass for ever out of Middle-earth." Gandalf, always the kill-joy, responds: "It may . . . The evil of Sauron cannot be wholly cured, nor made as if it had not been." While victory may come -- and this easy triumph over Saruman's forces always led me to consider the ultimate inevitability of Sauron's defeat as well (easy at least when considering the driving thrust of Tolkien's narrative) -- it doesn't come without a heavy price, in lives and damage to men's (and hobbit's) souls. Theoden manages to come across here as a poignantly bitter-sweet character; one who relishes the victory over a ferocious enemy, but at the same time embodying an old man whose life has extended beyond the precious lives of so many fallen in battle, including that of his own son. In my line of work I come across on a regular basis tragic, wasteful death, as well as individuals who have so thoroughly squandered their time and talents as to render themselves incapable of making meaningful choices that the rest of us consider intrinsic to our human experience, so to some degree I can relate. Tolkien certainly saw this during and after the war. Now that I think about it, Tolkien probably related to Theoden a great deal.

"Flotsam and Jetsam" - Eric's Thoughts

I didn't mind this chapter. Anything that involves smoking and contemplating is far more engaging than the endless fields of the last chapter.

What I liked about this chapter was that it felt like actual characters were beginning to engage with each other. Sometimes it's hard to do that when they're just running on horses together. The hobbits describe the battle of isengard, which was done well. Tolkien shows the ruin, then describes how it happens. The details don't give a blow by blow account, but hit a few highlights. Especially fun is the cameo by Wormtongue in this chapter, and how Treebeard was aware of Wormtongue's game because of Gandalf. (Remember, Wormtongue is the most interesting character so far in the series!)

I agree with Jacob that this chapter should have been combined with the last.

"The Road to Isengard" - Eric's Thoughts

The Road to Isengard feels like an unnecessary chapter on many different levels. It begins with the entertaining resolution to Gimli and Legolas's subplot -- Gimli's 42 kills over Legolas's 41.

After that, it goes downhill as Theoden, Gandalf, and other supporting characters decide to pay Saruman a visit. That's all that literally happens in this chapter -- a journey to Isengard.

The terrain is described in great detail in this chapter. While I was reading this chapter, I was thinking about Orson Scott Card's theory that there are four different types of stories. In that article, Orson Scott Card argues there are milieu stories, idea stories, character stories, and event stories. Card argues that Lord of the Rings is an event story. While I think his model oversimplifies -- many stories include elements of all four, playing along I think Card is wrong. Perhaps Lord of the Rings is more of a milieu story than event story. Tolkien seems to focus heavily on having characters explore the world. At the very least, this chapter is a milieu chapter.

Not everything is bad. I perked up when Theoden and friends finally arrived at Isengard. Reading the description of Isengard was interesting. Reading about its ruin was fascinating. The reader had already known that the Tree Ents had marched to war, and this was the result. This is one things that Tolkien did well -- I think showing the devastation of the Ents was far more compelling than having a line by line account of Tree Ents crushing orcs.

Of course, I remember that the chapter where Saruman is introduced is one of the best of the series. Tolkien certainly takes his sweet time in building up to it.

"Flotsam and Jetsam" - Jacob's Thoughts

Some of my same concerns from "The Road to Isengard" carry over to this chapter, namely that so much of this, well, "Flotsam and Jetsam" (and Tolkien's choice to so name this material is hardly a rousing endorsement) could have been excised from both chapters and the relevant portions combined into one tighter sequence.  For example, the chapter opener, what with the reunited Fellowship shooting the breeze, wondering what's around to eat or smoke, is so aggressively low-stakes that is almost feels like a parody of all the action that came before.

Moreover, hearing these characters recount, yet again, for the umpteenth time, events that we just read about for ourselves a scarce few chapters ago, is not only needlessly redundant, but has a bizarre sort of recursive feel to it (in the next chapter, are they going to recount the time they last recounted what they recounted about?  Will they just keep remembering their remembering?  What is this, a Borjes story?).

But this chapter does at least partially justify its existence, as we finally get to hear about the Ents' righteous assault on Isengard.  I'm still on the fence about the virtue of hearing Merry and Pippin narrate it for us, but I suppose that extra level of mediation is not appreciably different from just hearing Tolkien narrate it directly; and in spite of the laid-back framing device, wherein (unlike "Helm's Deep") we already know from the start how this battle will end, it's still a rousing sequence.  It's almost as though Tolkien is preemptively declaring that spoiler alerts are overrated--already knowing the ending by no means ruins the pleasure of getting there.  Or at least he so implies.

This chapter also answers my concern as to why Merry and Pippin were so blase about Gandalf's reappearance--they had already re-met him again during the battle of Isengard, although even that reunion feels weirdly off-hand and perfunctory.  It would appear that now that Gandalf is back, Tolkien is radically disinterested in continually reemphasizing that fact (even if he lacks any similar restraint against having his characters endlessly repeat to each other what just happened).

"Helm's Deep" - Eric's Thoughts

I remember the taste of chewing cardboard as a child. It tastes something like this disaster of a chapter on oh-so-many levels.

Eagerly, I began reading this chapter. I expected epicness--and left it scratching my head. This is where Tolkien's character development and POV is really lacking. I simply did not identify with any of the characters particularly. The result? Meh. I wasn't really invested in the battle.

There are logistical problems as well. The battle made no sense. Theoden suddenly decided to charge when they were apparently outnumbered and pushed into the caves. Then, suddenly--wait for it--the charge apparently was so successful that the orcs were routed.

But wait! Now there are trees to the rescue! And Gandalf! And Dinkerbell too, err, I mean, Erkenbrand with--wait for it--1000 troops! Apparently 1000 troops and some trees were all that was needed, in addition to a magnificent charge, to route this force that is previously portrayed (between lightning flashes) as a bottomless mass of orc-power.

Literary critics have a word for this. It's called god out of the machine. In other words, everything is suddenly fine because the author says it is! The trees were in no way foreshadowed, and the charge against this infinite molasses morass of orcs just simply isn't plausible. Very disappointing.

That isn't to say there aren't great moments. Legolas and Gimli's competition is the highlight of the chapter and builds on their friendly rivalry. To be honest, all you become interested in, rather than the survival of these people, is whether Gimli or Legolas chop off more heads.

I know the only thing I was counting was the number of pages remaining in this chapter.

"The King of the Golden Hall" - Eric's Thoughts

I couldn't help but notice how flat all the characters are in this chapter. Something about these good guys just rings hollow. When Gimli threatens again to start a pointless bout, and Aragon gets upset about his sword being touched, I felt myself resisting the urge to roll my eyes. Not again, I thought. Surely Tolkien could push the boundaries of character development farther than that. Not so.

Thank goodness for Grima Wormtongue. Finally evil that seems palpable! The whole story we're just hearing about this protean threat that is brewing in a far off distant land. Even the dark riders -- they're nothing but creepy headless horsemen that have good noses. But Grima finally represents an evil that is much more sinister than the black-and-white, good/evil Balrog/Gandalf confrontations we're having. In this chapter, Gandalf and Wormtongue essentially battle wits for the ear of a king. Grima is smart, and eloquent. I found myself rooting for him in this chapter, especially since I knew that Gandalf would cheat.

Indeed, Gandalf doesn't win by intelligence. Rather, he implements a wizard-cheat-code and uses his staff to reign holy light from the sky. It's still a fun confrontation, but I would have liked to see Gandalf win on the merits.

Grima is fun because he represents the true strength of Mordor -- that the good guys can't even agree amongst themselves. Mordor, while supposedly evil, at least is united and strong in purpose. Grima represents the opposite of this.

As an aside, I wonder what Sauron's point of view from all this is? Is he really even all that bad as the protagonists make him out to be? Perhaps all he's trying to do is eliminate the annoying Gimli's in the world, so that less page-time is devoted to growling about insults to honor and drawing an axe in response. In light of all that, Grima Wormtongue actually seemed pretty reasonable, and I thought made a few good points.

The highlight of the whole chapter is when Wormtongue is faced with the unbearable thought of spending more time with these self-righteous prigs, or fleeing. Having had enough, he rightfully chose to get the heck out of there, his eyes flashing madness at the hopeless thought of spending more time with Gimli and Co.

"The Road to Isengard" - Jacob's Thoughts

In contrast to the refreshingly clipped pace of events that lead up to the Battle of Helm's Deep (seriously, every chapter seemed to have some new, grand development that kept me engaged), Tolkien is now certainly taking his sweet time building up to the climactic confrontation between Gandalf and Saruman.

It's an anxious balancing act Tolkien's trying to pull of here: string the audience along just long enough, and the final show-down will pack just that much more oomph; but string it along for too long, and the tension crosses the line into tedium.  Seeing as how the Table of Contents assures me that I'm still at least 2 chapters from Book III's ostensible climax, Tolkien frankly has me a little nervous.

For how should I engage with this chapter?  Is this like in an RPG, wherein half the purported fun is just running around exploring this world, having conversations with the various characters?  Because that's what Gimli and Legolas' wistful conversations of old haunts feels like; same with Merry and Pippin recounting the discovery of Tobacco amongst the Hobbits before Gandalf thankfully saves Theodun from the tedium. I know Ben hasn't been a fan of Merry and Pippin in Book III, and for valid reasons; nevertheless I did find their laid-back reunion with the remainder of the old Fellowship, smoking pipes and sipping wine amidst a devastated yet victorious battle-field, to be just too darn charming to hate on.  This was humor that felt well-earned.

Nevertheless, the question arises again: what is the raion d'être of this chapter?  Is this just a break after the break-neck pace of the preceding chapters?  Some long-delayed character development?  A release of the tension?  Some world building?  A reminder that no one seems to know what Hobbits are?  So much of this prose, while pleasant enough, feels a little extraneous, obstacles to getting to the good stuff.  This chapter's most charming moments feels like it could have easily been merged into the following chapters without much of a loss.

Also, it just now occurs to me: I know part of the joke of Merry and Pippin in this chapter is that they are so blase around these earth-shattering events, but how are they so blase about seeing Gandalf again?  Gandalf has basically come back from the dead, transformed into a being even more powerful than before; shouldn't the import of that strike to the heart of even Merry and Pippin?  Not that I need a constant string of characters swooning over a resurrected Gandalf, but at least an acknowledgment, or even a flippant "Aren't you dead?", feels merited here.

"Helm's Deep" - Ben's Thoughts

Again I turn in comparison to Jackson's film, because "Helm's Deep" is ever so bland. Where is the emotion, the danger, the tension, that Jackson managed to eke out of these sparse pages? Assuredly valid complaints can be made about the length of the battle scenes in the film. Yes, it dragged on too long. But in the film you can feel the bone-weariness of the soldiers who are defending this fortress, and the near-despair of Theoden that leads him to what amounts to a suicidal charge from the keep to face the armies of Saruman head-on.

It's also interesting that here, the charge doesn't seem that suicidal at all. The king and Aragorn manage to sweep the armies before them, to the point where they are "cowering" between the king's forces and the wood of Hurons that has crept up behind the orcs during the night. The text makes it seem like the orcs are all but finished even before their "final doom", Gandalf and Erkenbrand (an unintentionally hilarious name; small wonder Jackson dropped it from the film -- although he did keep the also ridiculous "Gamling") are icing on the cake, so to speak, of the orcs' destruction. They don't even have to get the heads a-rollin' -- the orcs in their terror flee into the woods where, we are told in an over-dramatic pronouncement, "from that shadow none ever came again." Sigh. I love Tolkien's prose, but perhaps the battle scene was too much for him.

Or perhaps I'm overlooking the fact that this battle chapter seems devoid of emotion because Tolkien had actually been part of a number of battles in World War I and couldn't bring himself to translate what he felt about the experience to the text. Despite Aragorn and Theoden's bleak predictions about how sour the battle is going, you just don't feel it from reading the chapter; in fact, Tolkien has his characters wisecracking throughout and even includes an interlude where Aragorn has a chat with some nasty rude orcs. The gloss perhaps hints at Tolkien's distaste for combat. You won't find drawn-out descriptions about exactly how Aragorn or Gimli hacked orcs to pieces, nor anything about spurting blood or screaming wounded. It's all quickly swept over in an oddly detached way.

It'll be interesting to see how I perceive the battle of the Pellenor Fields, found in Book 5, this time around. I will note that Tolkien skipped over the Battle of the Five Armies (in The Hobbit) entirely (whereas Jackson spent the better part of 2 hours depicting it in his latest film, a true bastardization of The Hobbit if there ever was one. More on that of course if we ever get to those films). High fantasy novels, of which Tolkien is credited as a founding father, don't get very gory or bloody, but in this day and age it makes one pause when all of that is just sped over with barely the bat of an eyelash.

Or perhaps it's just because Saruman's orc army is just "The Dragon" to the ultimate "Big Bad" figure in this book -- Saruman himself. We'll get to him eventually. Of course, as Gandalf pointed out, Saruman, too, is just another stepping stone towards fighting with Mordor. I can just imagine Sauron observing this battle with interest, and knowing that the fate of Gondor might be sealed prematurely by Saruman's victory. Sadly for him, Saruman is utterly trounced, both here and on the home front, as we'll see in the next chapter.

"The King of the Golden Hall" - Ben's Thoughts

The Rohirrim as a people always seemed a little bland to me. I think Tolkien does a fine job of capturing the singularity of the Elves and (to a lesser but still present extent) the Dwarves, but Men, for some reason, are basically just stick figures.

Jacob already compared this chapter to Jackson's film, and I agree with his sentiments -- here I'm left wondering what exactly did Gandalf do to free Theoden from Grima's influence -- and would like to add that Jackson did a wonderful job of characterizing Theoden and Eowyn. The movie characters feel like real people whereas here they are just cardboard cutouts. Eowyn, granted, will receive more characterization from Tolkien in Book 5, but Jackson wisely made her a major character in the second film. Here she just swoons over Aragorn (while he looks "troubled") and stands stoically at the doors of Meduseld while the men ride away to war (Tolkien gives with one hand, in allowing Eowyn to command the household in her relatives' absence, but then takes away with the other, with that final, traditional glimpse of the lonely woman in the empty house).

Theoden, as well, comes across in the films as a complex and realistic character. He grieves over his son's death, he is in turn defiant and defeated by the war that is coming to him unbidden. There is a marvelous scene in the film that is comprised of quick cuts between the Uruk-hai marching on Helm's Deep and Theoden being dressed in his armor by his guards, with Theoden reciting the poem that Aragorn relates to the gang throughout. The poem is marvelously depressing, and the lighting and editing of the scene is simply masterful. Theoden finishes the recital (omitting the last two lines from the text version) with the statement, "How did it come to this?" Gives me chills every time, with the follow-up images of the orcs' banners blotting out the sun. Of course, the movie manages to dilute the emotions of that scene with something like an hour and a half of orcs getting hacked to pieces by Our Heroes, so there's that. But the characterization and staging of that scene encapsulate some of the beautiful work Jackson put into the trilogy.

In comparison, Tolkien places the poem at the beginning of the chapter. It is still marvelously depressing; the poem talks about how Eorl the Young, the legendary forefather of the Rohirrim, is both an inspiring figure and long dead. The implication of course is that the long years have brought an end to countless generations of Eorls, who will not and cannot return. Legolas underscores the sorrow of the poem with his comment that even without understanding the words, " 'it is laden with the sadness of Mortal Men' ", thus translating that sorrow to the plight of Men in general.

It is interesting that Tolkien begins the chapter introducing the first kingdom of Men that the gang encounters with this rumination on the fleeting and transitory nature of human life. He certainly draws out the differences between the Elvish kingdoms and that of Rohan; the dark halls and almost buffoonish guards surrounding Theoden are a sharp contrast to what the reader remembers of the grace of the Elves in Lorien or Rivendell. But what is he trying to say by drawing our attention to these differences? If I recall, this meditation on human life does not extend into later chapters, which are more interested in taking care of Saruman and moving the gang on down the road to Gondor. I'll have to watch the Rohirrim closely in future chapters. They are certainly depicted as less High and connected to otherworldliness than the men of Gondor. It's just strange that Tolkien begins the chapter with such a somber meditation and then drops it in favor of Eomer's downright jolliness at the end.

I don't have a whole lot to say about the rest of the chapter. Gandalf isn't particularly creepy here; he doesn't bother to sleep at the beginning of the chapter, but then, neither does Aragorn. The dangerous power he displayed in the last chapter is fairly roundly dispelled by the Rohirrim taking him as their mascot at the end of the chapter ("Our king and the White Rider!") Onward to Helm's Deep, I guess.

The White Rider - Eric's Thoughts

This chapter is excellent. The reader by now is expecting Saruman to pop up, as foreshadowed  earlier in the book. Indeed, that is exactly what I expected reading this chapter for the first time long ago. When Aragon, Gimli, and Legolas are easily overpowered, you think they're doomed.

Turns out, it's Gandalf! Definitely a WTF if there ever is one. Why would Gandalf forget his friends? It made no sense when I read it as a kid, and it still makes no sense now. Just roll with it, Tolkien seems to say when Gandalf gives his vague, amnesic description about what happened. And we do, and it's fun.

It seems to me that Tolkien gave Gandalf amnesia as a plot device so that he could have a tense confrontation, showcase Gandalf's power, easily resolve it, and move onto other things. I didn't know what "reincarnation" was when I was younger, but even now, I find it to be a stretch. Tolkien doesn't establish the rules, so he expects us to just accept whatever he says. Why does fighting with a Balrog cause amnesia and rebirth? Did Gandalf actually die? -- seems like he just fell in a puddle. Why wasn't Gandalf this powerful before?

Whatever the case, it makes for a strange chapter that's fun to read. Gandalf is more than a little creepy in this chapter -- he's menacing. It's an interesting change from the lovable pipe-smoking aphorism-quoting wizard.

But I guess that's what books are about, right? Watching characters progress.

"The White Rider" - Ben's Thoughts

So Gandalf is back. Let's get right down to it -- as a child, and still today, I was always vaguely unsettled by Gandalf the White. I believe that Tolkien writes him subtly differently than he did Gandalf the Grey, which is for the best and to be expected. But there was always something about him that was, well, a bit OFF to me about the character afterwards, like there was someone else entirely swimming around inside Gandalf's skin.

And I think the text, to some degree, supports this feeling on my part. Aragorn and company are completely unable to recognize Gandalf prior to the reveal of his face. I know they are not expecting to see someone who is dead, but his gait, his stance, and even his voice are not recognized. Tolkien doesn't quite come out and say it, but it's pretty clear that a spell of some kind has been laid to prevent them from attacking or doing much of anything while the wizard approaches. And then, once Legolas and Aragorn name him (Legolas, of course, with the Elvish "Mithrandir!") Gandalf's voice "was the voice of their old friend and guide." Heavily implied, of course, is the fact that prior to that point, it had not been the same at all!

Of course at this point in our lives our perception of Gandalf the White is hopelessly muddled up with Jackson's version -- the noble, calm, and reassuring Gandalf the White that laughs helplessly while Merry and Pippin jump on Frodo's bed. This Gandalf, however, is one that inspires both joy and fear, and who proclaims himself the second most dangerous (not powerful, but dangerous) being in Middle-earth. This is a Gandalf who does not even remember his own name until Aragorn and Legolas tell him. ("'As for my name!'" Gandalf says to himself before he is unmasked, laughing at the joke none of the others get: he can't tell them because he does not remember.) In some alternate universe, Tolkien takes Gandalf down a darker path and he becomes the Big Evil of a LOTR sequel.

We'll see if my subtle sense of "squick" at Gandalf's new incarnation carries forward as I read. I mention it here because it brought home for me the sense of disappointment that I always felt as a child towards this new Gandalf -- this is a different character than the one we grew to love in The Hobbit and "Fellowship." As he says: "'I have forgotten much that I thought I knew' [in other words, incorrect or false perceptions he had picked up as Gandalf the Grey] 'and learned again much that I had forgotten' [reclaiming knowledge from his true incarnation of a god-like Maia]".

The description of the battle between Gandalf and the Balrog is suitably epic and frustratingly opaque. The description, as ever, is marvelous: "His fire was quenched, but now he was a thing of slime, stronger than a strangling snake." "Thunder they heard, and lightning, they said, smote upon Celebdil, and leaped back broken into tongues of fire. . . . A great smoke rose about us, vapour and steam. Ice fell like rain." It's probably good that Tolkien didn't dwell too long on this fight, because it's only tangential to the story; the Balrog is a relic of Morgoth's evil that really has little place in LOTR; I know I wrote about this back in "Fellowship," but it's unclear whether the Balrog would have even followed Sauron's commands at all had he summoned it or sought to use it in the war. It's perhaps telling that Sauron did not have the Balrog at his command; I find it unlikely that he wouldn't have perceived its precense in Moria when he can perceive other Maia, Gandalf in particular, so keenly. If he knew it was there, he would have tried to use it if he could. The fact that he didn't speaks volumes. Sauron's power is much diminished from that of past ages.

That's about it from this chapter. There are some curious discrepancies regarding the age of Treebeard versus the Elves: Gandalf refers to Treebeard as "the oldest living thing that still walks beneath the Sun upon this Middle-earth." Well, we know that Galadriel came from Valinor in the first Age; Cirdan at the Havens as well is an ancient Elf; so is Treebeard really older than Galadriel? Perhaps Galadriel was born in Valinor after the Ents' awakening in Middle-earth. Interesting food for thought. Other tidbits include marginal characterization of Gimli as a debbie downer and all-around pessimist, but also as the most pragmatic member of the team when he recommends "axe-ing first, axe-ing questions later" when the wizard appears and Our Heroes think it's Saruman. Gandalf punctures the balloon of competence that is the reader's perception of Saruman, as well, when he basically writes him off as having already lost this war, and saying that "I look into his mind and I see his doubt."

Good chapter, good setup for the rest of Book III, but Gandalf is kinda weird and scary. That's all I've got.

"Helm's Deep" - Jacob's Thoughts

I was initially excited for this chapter--battle, siege, battering-rams, thunder, lightning, cavalry charges, orcs and slaughter--what's not to like?  In practice, however, Helm's Deep, like warfare in general, was kind of a slog to get through.  I often had difficulty following the action.  I don't necessarily mean that as a knock against it; having recently survived the Battle of Britain and the Nazi siege of England, I doubt Tolkien had a romantic bone in his body concerning war. 

Here, all is confusion, chaos, darkness, doubt, and death.   Yes, there is that friendly competition between Legolas and Gimli in how many orcs they can slay, but frankly their little rivalry smacks less of heroic gallantry than of the gallows humor soldiers must develop to keep their sanity.  And yes, we also have Aragorn's grand-standing speechifying before the hosts of the Uruk-hai; but in that moment Aragorn draws his nobility from his defiance in the face of the senseless carnage, not from any intrinsic virtue in participating in it.

And yes, the battle does in fact end in a resounding, unambiguous victory for the good guys, the first we've encountered throughout this series, as the Riders of Rohan ride out gallantly at dawn and Gandalf arrives just in the nick of time with reinforcements.  But what of that?  America also entered the war at last and helped England defeat the Nazis once and for all--all of which did not make the whole ordeal any less traumatizing, destructive, or wasteful. 

Even the absolute best case result of any battle, Tolkien seems to imply, is still a slog of madness and death.  The relief at the end of the chapter is derived not just from the defeat of the orcs, but from the fact that war itself has paused. Because for all our bloviating about the duty and glory of warfare and supporting the troops, no soldier in actual combat spends more than 5 minutes in battle without wishing they were literally anywhere else.

"Treebeard" - Eric's Thoughts

Treebeard, ironically, is (at this point) one of the best developed characters in the story. Here, Tolkien manages to do in one chapter what he has failed to do so far in the entire series -- create an interesting and human character. This is ironic because Treebeard is, in fact, not human. Unsurprisingly, he is a tree.

Every other character besides Treebeard simply lacks the passion, humanity, and--most importantly--the force of Treebeard. Other than Treebeard, characters in this story are simply reacting to events rather than making choices that drive the plot. This is what's putting a drag on everything. Aragon is merely chasing after the Hobbits (reacting), and spouting off a kingly speech now and then (reacting), and (in the next chapter) fulfilling a promise to Eomer (reacting). Gandalf is just Gandalf -- enigmatic, powerful, funny, and trying to avoid a mountain storm (reacting), dodge the tentacles of a water beast (reacting), and survive the attack of a Balrog (reacting). Little needs to be said about Gimli (reacting), Legolas (reacting), Pippin (reacting), Merry (reacting), and Sam (reacting), who are all caricatures. Frodo, the only character to yet make a choice of any impact (I will take the ring!), has disappeared from the action (and regardless he mostly does what he is told anyway, i.e. reacting). What I am trying to say is that reacting characters are boring, and characters that make choices and decide to wreak havoc are interesting. (À la, Treebeard.)

Also, all of these characters lack the passion and sorrow of Treebeard. Indeed, the saddest story so far--and the most relatable--is that of the lost Ent Wives. Certainly we would all be as devastated as Treebeard in a world without the company of women or hope of reproduction.

And when the Treebeard gets pissed off (pardon my French), and convinces the other Ents that they should be mad too, you can feel the weight of their footsteps as the Ents march to war. It doesn't take an English degree to know that the Ents are about to do some serious damage to Isengard. This gets me excited and makes me want to read on, as I assume it does for other readers. In contrast, listening the other characters talk about the end of the world, the conversation is so commonplace you'd think they were discussing having ham and eggs for breakfast.

So while this chapter is initially slow, yes, I also find it to be the most compelling and best written chapter in LOTR so far.

"The Uruk-Hai" - Eric's Thoughts

Ben and Jacob already covered my thoughts on this chapter pretty well. I have to say we seem to be on the same page.

I personally found fascinating the orc-salve that is used to heal Merry and Pippin, and the liquor they feed them that burns them inside but gives them vigor. That part came alive for me--for a moment I was Pippin, and imagined what it would be like to be imbued with harsh healing methods.

Certainly, it is a well-tried trope that evil characters are always trying to screw one another behind the scenes, and that they are only loyale insofar they can increase their own power, and your superior is useful, etc. I laughed at the capitalism example by Ben

In a way, you almost feel more sorry for the orcs than Pippin. Especially if you're at the top. Not only do you have cruel masters above you that will kill you and make an example out of you if they so much as think you've stepped out of line, but you also have alpha-wolf contests with your inferiors and have to constantly kill to stay alive. Indeed, the orcs are very much like a pack of dogs, where the alpha dog constantly is challenged, and one sign of weakness or an unlucky wound, and you'll be tomorrow's dinner. They certainly eat like dogs--foul food that Pippin and Merry won't touch. It's not good to be an orc -- you certainly won't be appreciated for who you are.

I think I can add a little backstory that might be helpful, here. We find out through blizzard entertainment that the orcs are a noble species, and that they were merely corrupted by a bunch of demons. Some literary scholar really ought to look into it, and they could figure out where the orcs really came from, and why it's a such a difficult life being an orc, and why the orcs were a noble species and got so corrupted. PhD dissertation, anyone?

"The King of the Golden Hall" - Jacob's Thoughts

I'm of two minds about the "exorcism" of King Theoden by Gandalf.

In the Peter Jackson film version, Theoden is quite obviously under Saruman's spell by means of the nefarious Wormtongue, which influence Gandalf magically expels with his staff while his compatriots battle the guards empty-handed.

This of course is not how it goes down in the book.

But weirdly, it is the book that actually features the more cinematic scene, what with Gandalf revealing his white-robes and glowing in the dark and blackening the skylights and summoning thunder and striking down Wormtongue in a sudden flash of righteous lightning!

Yet I also understand why Jackson opted for the less "cinematic", sturm und drang climax to this scene, because, quite frankly...what just happened?  How did striking Wormtongue with lightning free the king, exactly?  I understand that Tolkien here was making some sort of commentary about all those smooth-tongued operators in our lives who play on our fears and vanities to manipulate us, but how does a literal flash-in-the-pan light-show and a little fresh air undo (what sounds like) literal years of rhetorical connivings?  (For crying out loud, the man had been talked into imprisoning his own nephew!).

Far more believable is the idea that Theoden was under an actual spell--and not just a spell of flattering words--which Gandalf liberates him from.  In my experience, most folks don't just give up everything they've been told over night.  I'm gonna have to side with the Jackson version on this one.

Moreover, Gandalf's victory over Saruman has a rather satisfying full-circle feel to it in the film; it's a sort of vindication, a knock-out punch against the same foe who handed his butt to him in Fellowship.  Given that Gandalf and Saruman will never have another rematch, this was as opportune a time as any for the wizard to have his Rocky moment.

Not that I disliked this chapter or anything--in fact, I was actually rather pleased when they allow Wormtongue the option to either ride with them into battle, or ride back to Saruman--but in either case he is free to choose.  Theoden even instructs his men to follow him to make he does not do anymore damage, but not to hinder him.  A lesser novel would have had Theoden or Gandalf strike down Wormtongue in a self-righteous fury.   It takes real moral fortitude to demonstrate the level of magnanimity we get instead.  As we've discussed before, Sauron's goal is to exercise complete control, such that no one has a choice--hence, if our heroes are gonna be the actual heroes, then they are gonna have to make sure that everyone has a choice.  Including their enemies.

It is easy to grant freedom to your friends, but the real test is whether you can grant freedom to your enemies, including such obvious dirtbags as Wormtongue.  As the past decade and a half of U.S. foreign policy has demonstrated, the moment we lower to the level of our enemies, is the moment when we lose all moral authority.  Tolkien here knows better.

"Treebeard" - Ben's Thoughts

I have a decidedly love-hate relationship with this chapter. On the one hand, it's a beautiful piece of lyrical prose, with (what I consider to be) lovely poetical interludes, vivid descriptions, and just the right tinge of sorrow and loss floating throughout that Treebeard's character really resonates with me, and the Ents' choice to go to war makes perfect emotional and logical sense. On the other hand, this is a massive chapter -- equivalent in length to "Council of Elrond" in Book 2, which we all agreed was just too lengthy to be of ultimate service to the narrative -- which drags down the pace of this book to a snail's crawl. Not to mention the fact that Merry and Pippin are without a doubt the least engaging characters among the Fellowship and they just don't get any better here.

So I don't really know what to say about the chapter beyond the fact that it's inventive, well-written, admirable from a literary perspective, and an absolute bore, all at the same time.

Treebeard -- the Old Ent doesn't really come across as much of a threat to anyone when he is first encountered at the beginning of the chapter, which is a strange juxtaposition when considered in the light of the threatening, sinister Old Man Willow of Book 1. He kind of comes across as a goof until we get the story of the Entwives and the sorrow behind the character and the Ents as an entire race emerges. Treebeard really doesn't come to life until that moment when he speaks and sings of the Entwives. I'm glad the Ents were given some life and motivation beyond just "shepherds of the trees". Frankly, it makes their march on Isengard all the more believable. They searched and searched for their missing wives and, when they finally gave up on finding them, retreated back to their last shrinking stronghold. And even there these orcs and dirty wizards won't leave them alone; instead they seek to destroy the last thing left to the Ents. It can't be tolerated further.

Jacob is right that the Ents' longevity really affects their characterization in these chapters; Tolkien's a little on the nose with it, in my opinion, but he gets his point across and makes the Ents quite unique in that respect. The Ents experience time in the same way as humans and hobbits do, and as a result they feel quite alien in many respects to the young hobbits. Jacob also talks about the Elves not having this same feel. I would argue that Tolkien has actually quite carefully laid out that Elves experience time quite differently than mortals do. The hobbits mention quite explicitly that in Lórien, and to a lesser extent in Rivendell, they completely lose track of the days and weeks; the hobbits are even confused about how many moons have passed while they stayed in the Golden Wood. This seems like the Elves' time-diluted lives have some kind of an effect on the mortals that surround them. Sam experiences something of the same during the evening they hobbits spent with the Wood-Elves way back at the beginning of Book 1. Tolkien, I believe, places starkly-defined lines between his mortals and immortals; the Elves, although capable of interacting with humans to the degree that they almost might seem human themselves, are actually quite different, and when the reader is reminded of these differences its effect is almost startling. (Remember just two chapters ago? Legolas didn't even need to sleep, and he could put his mind in a trance-like state while running that was just as good as sleep to him.)

Merry and Pippin -- Oh, those darn hobbits. I just can't warm up to them. They're wholly useless. I know they're given narrative purpose here, in swinging the Ents into violent action, but really, they serve as a catalyst only. They tell Treebeard what is going on in the outside world, and a very guarded version of their quest, and then Treebeard decides that enough is enough and takes the Ents to war. I can almost see why Peter Jackson changed this section so much, even though it makes the Ents come across as utter idiots. It simply makes the hobbits, who are supposed to be real characters, into something more than plot muffins. But as it is, here, they're just set dressing who distract us away from the interesting business: the Ents' discussion of whether or not to fight. Additionally, Pippin's weird flash-forward description of Treebeard's eyes is very strange and completely out of character; if there is one person who has been depicted as wholly clueless and unobservant to this point in the narrative, it's Pippin. There's no way the character as we know him would be that eloquent or articulate in describing something later on.

The concepts, the ideas, of the chapter, are wonderful. I love the Hurons (Tolkien's Ents and Hurons spawned a whole legion of tree-like characters in D&D an countless video games from these brief appearances in Lord of the Rings), the fact that Merry and Pippin can live off of the magical Ent-water (seriously, what is in that stuff?), the descriptions of the varying kinds of Ents, and the callback to "The Old Forest" with explanations of how trees might come alive or become corrupted. I also love the new perspective on Saruman; Treebeard seems dumb to have divulged so much to Saruman without receiving anything in return, but it makes perfect sence once we actually meet the White Wizard in a few chapters and see just what his superpower really can do to people.

But while the concepts are excellent, the execution and pacing is woefully turgid. I'm eager to get back to Aragorn and Friends in the next chapter.

"The White Rider" - Jacob's Thoughts

I'm honestly curious, how shocking was the resurrection of Gandalf to first time readers in 1954?  On the one hand, the Christ story of the savior who sacrifices himself, descends into hell, then returns more powerful than before, is a tale as old as, well, the Christ story.  So the trope can't have felt that novel.  Moreover, nowadays it's practically a trope unto itself to complain of the cheapness of death in comic books and film.

Captain Kirk stays dead for scarcely 10 minutes in Star Trek Into Darkness; Nick Fury dies and returns before the end of Captain America 2; Professor X is hand-waved back to life, practically as an afterthought, just in time for X-Men: Days of Future Passed; Superman, Batman, Spiderman, etc., all have been killed off and brought back to life so many times by now that the question is no longer how the series will carry on without 'em, but only in what preposterous way they'll be resurrected this time.  Ironically, stories of courageous superheros are the most cowardly of all at facing the finality of death.

Yet I suspect it didn't always used to be this way.  In Star Wars, Obi-Wan Kenobi is killed by Vader, and then stays dead; he comes back as a helpful ghost, yes, but never in a manner that can directly influence events again.  Spock is resurrected in Star Trek III, sure, but Kirk must sacrifice literally everything that matters to him--his career, his ship, his son--to bring it about.  As recently as the '80s, resurrections in fiction were apparently far more rare, costly, and meaningful than they are now.

Which takes me back to 1954: was the appearance of Gandalf the White truly an astonishing event?  Were readers really fooled into thinking our heroes were being accosted by the treacherous Saruman, not their old friend?  I'm seriously asking.

As for myself, I have vague childhood memories of being surprised by Gandalf's reappearance--as well as more than a little unnerved by his descriptions of falling "beyond light and knowledge," down into places "Far, far below the deepest delvings of the Dwarves," where "the world is gnawed by nameless things.  Even Sauron knows them not. They are older than he", as Gandalf engages in a Battle Royale wherein "If there were a year to spend, I would not tell you all," a fight that ends in a Pyrrhic Victory atop a mountain that leaves him "alone, forgotten, without escape," as he "lay staring upward, while the stars wheeled over, and each day was as long as a life-age of the earth."

A cheap, easy resurrection that robs death of its meaning Gandalf's is not.  Indeed, I do believe I had the dim feeling as young reader that if this was the cost of becoming Gandalf the White, then I wasn't entirely sure the price was worth it.  He hath drunken out of that bitter cup, yeah, to the very dregs.

Yet despite the unimaginable pains he suffered to return (all the more ominous in his lack of detail), Gandalf's reappearance still feels strangely...low-key?  In fact, there is a curious lack of stakes surrounding this chapter altogether.  Mostly it functions as an utterly redundant data-dump, wherein Aragorn et al learn all about Merry and Pippin and Treebeard and the Ents barely a chapter after we the readers have already learned it, only now we have to hear about it all over again, with no new information to add besides.  It's all so needlessly repetitive, and I seriously think at least half of this chapter could have been excised.

On a more positive note: Aragorn is a lot less indecisive in this chapter, I suppose--throughout their trackings, he makes life-and-death decisions quickly, firmly, and authoritatively, in contrast to the waffling figure from the end of Fellowship.  Whether this signifies genuine character growth on his part, or is just Tolkien trying to hurry up to the next episode, is open for debate.

And the chapter does at least have a heckuva closer:

"I see a great smoke," said Legolas, "What may that be?"

"Battle and war!" said Gandalf, "Ride on!"