Blogging The Silmarillion: The creation of Arda and myth-making

Blogging The Silmarillion: Series introduction

In part one of Blogging the Silmarillion, I’m sharing my thoughts on the first two sections of the book, “Ainulindalë,” and “Valaquenta,” as well as Chapter 1 of section three of the Quenta Silmarillion, “Of the Beginning of Days”.

The Silmarillion begins with “Ainulindalë,” which means “Music of the Ainur." This is Tolkien’s creation myth. As I re-read this chapter, I was struck by its affinity with John Milton’s Paradise Lost, both in terms of its imagery and characters, and in its thematic similarity to the Christian fall of man. The language is also similar, biblical and epic and “high.”

In “Ainulindalë” we learn that Ilúvatar is the creator of the known universe, including Arda. This place of wizards, heroes, orcs, dragons, and dark lords, has an omnipotent, single creator. This is an incredibly important fact. We can guess at the presence of a creator in The Lord of the Rings, but only barely. For example, Sam, journeying with Frodo in the heart of Mordor and at the nadir of his faith and endurance, senses the presence of something greater beyond this world, buoying his spirit and giving him the strength to continue:

"Far above the Ephel Duath in the West the night-sky was still dim and pale. There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach."

Though we don’t have a name for which to assign Sam’s divine revelation, upon re-reading The Silmarillion I realized that this is Varda (Elbereth), whose face radiates the light of Ilúvatar. It’s always been one of my favorite moments in Tolkien, and The Silmarillion helped me understand why.

The Silmarillion begins with Ilúvatar creating the Ainur, who are like to Norse and/or Greek gods. Each represent concepts and elements, but they are also actual beings, many of whom take shape and choose to dwell on Arda (aka., Middle-earth). This piece of the legendarium allows Tolkien to reconcile the old pagan gods, whose legends he so adored, with the Christian conception of a single creator. I always found the pagan Gods—Zeus, Odin, Thor, Ares, Athena, Baldur, etc.,—extremely interesting and entertaining, much like humans “turned up to 11.” Likewise, in The Silmarillion we’re introduced to great demigod personalities like Oromë the Hunter, Ulmo, Lord of Waters, and Aulë, master of the forge. While powerful beyond human ken, they are not omnipotent, and each comprehends only a piece of eternity.

As in Paradise Lost, Melkor/Morgoth (aka, Satan) is arguably the most interesting character in “Ainulindalë.” He is the greatest of the Ainur, and Ilúvatar imbues him with “the greatest gifts of power and knowledge.” His name means “He who arises in Might.” He’s ambitious and fearless, but also proud, impatient, and tyrannical. This begs the question: Did Ilúvatar create Melkor knowing that he was going to rebel and wreak havoc on Arda? If Ilúvatar is (like the Christian God) all-knowing and all-powerful, he must have. Think about that: He created a being that was, perhaps, fated to bring discord to the new universe. Why? Perhaps he realized that the urge to power is a necessary characteristic of a truly independent, free-willed being.

But another way of looking at this is that Melkor was not destined for evil. As I had alluded to in my introductory post, one of the benefits of reading The Silmarillion is discovering the complexity of Tolkien’s universe. For example, many critics have criticized The Lord of the Rings for its simplistic portrayal of good and evil, complaining that Sauron and the Nazgul are irredeemably evil, and the forces that oppose them are stainlessly good. Examples like Gollum and Denethor to the contrary, this mistake can be (somewhat) excused if your only exposure to Tolkien is The Lord the Rings.

However, once you read The Silmarillion, Middle-earth’s “simplistic” universe grows more complex, for Ilúvatar has created the Ainur with free will. In addition, some of the lesser Ainur (called Maiar) willingly join Melkor’s side. If you buy that Melkor chose evil, and that Sauron chose to follow Melkor, Tolkien’s depiction of good and evil becomes far grayer, and this criticism of “black and white” depictions of good and evil fails to hold water.

Here’s another important bit supporting the case of free will in Tolkien’s universe, and one I had forgotten about until this re-reading: The minor sea god Ossë joins Melkor’s side for a brief time and creates havoc in the lakes and streams. But he repents and receives absolution from Ulmo, the sea god. Ossë’s example is particularly instructive as it indicates that not only is evil a choice, but that redemption is also possible.

Since Melkor was created as the avatar of might, you could argue that rebellion may have been in his blood and an inevitable consequence of his being. But does the fact that Melkor was predisposed toward rebellion absolve him of his evil actions? Perhaps, and perhaps not. Ilúvatar is clearly angry at Melkor for creating discord, and it’s unlikely he’d feel this way if Melkor had no choice and was simply acting according to a pre-programmed, unchanging nature. My reading is that Iluvatar is expressing anger that his most exalted Ainur “failed,” and chose to walk the path of darkness.

Another question with which I’m unclear is whether Ilúvatar is “God,” i.e., the Christian God. Nothing in the text of The Silmarillion suggests this, but neither is this interpretation invalidated. Personally I like the equivocation, as Tolkien’s universe supports Christianity while not invalidating other interpretations, including pagan/other beliefs, even atheism (for those who believe that all such myths are plain fiction). It’s worth repeating that Tolkien was himself a devout Catholic, and that he was seeking to if not wholly align the myths of Middle Earth with Christian belief, than to create the former without invalidating the latter. Tolkien also makes mention in “Ainulindalë” of the end of days in which the choirs of the Ainur and the Children of Ilúvatar (i.e., men and elves) will make music together, and the purpose of the universe will be revealed. This is much like the Christian conception of revelation.

After creating the Ainur, Ilúvatar creates Ea, The World that Is, which is a shapeless mass. Some of the Ainur choose to descend to Ea to give it beauty and form, and these are henceforth called the Valar, the Powers of the World. Arda is, of course, coveted by Melkor, and shortly after their Valar arrive the first battle for its dominion ensues. We’ll see a similar pattern repeated again and again in The Silmarillion. Strife is woven into the fabric of Middle-earth. It’s already there in the earliest stages of Tolkien’s primordial work, and it will follow the history of Middle-earth down through its Ages.

The next section of The Silmarillion is called the Quenta Silmarillion. This section comprises the bulk of the book and encapsulates all of the First Age of Middle-earth, including the shaping of Arda by the Valar, the creation of men and elves, and a chronology of the great events and wars of age, ending with the War of Wrath (awesome) and the overthrow of Melkor.

Chapter 1, “Of the Beginning of Days,” continues the creation myth of Arda. In this chapter we get our second major conflict of The Silmarillion. Aule fashions two mighty lamps and the Valar set them on high pillars, allowing the first rays of light to shine on Middle-earth. Melkor, who has been dwelling in the darkness of the void since his first defeat, has come to love the dark and hate the light. He returns to Arda and delves a vast fortress under the earth, marshalling his forces for a second sortie. When he attacks, he smashes the lights of Aulë, breaking the lands in the process and throwing the seas into tumult.

Arda’s beautiful symmetry is thereafter marred. While Melkor is defeated and dispersed for a second time, Arda’s spring—its period of Edenic peace, to again draw a comparison with Christianity and the myth of man’s fall from innocence—is over. The Valar’s dwelling in Middle-earth is utterly destroyed, and they depart to the Land of Aman, the westernmost of all lands in the world. There the Valar establish their domain of Valinor. This is hereafter known as The Blessed Realm, which lies beyond the reach of mortal men.

Valinor is a place of wonders, beautiful beyond anything in Middle-earth. Here the goddess Yavanna sings and calls forth the Two Trees of Valinor, whose flowering begins the first march of time in Middle-earth, which was previously timeless and unchanging. Recalling the end of The Return of the King, Aragorn (directed by Gandalf) finds one of the seedlings of these trees on the slopes of Mount Mindolluin. The tree is a metaphor for Aragorn’s arrival as king and also signifies a preservation of the glorious past days of Middle-earth.

Poor Middle-earth is dark and wretched in comparison to Valinor, but the Valar don’t completely abandon it. Manwe, the spirit of the skies, watches over it; Ulmo dwells in its Outer Ocean and hovers on its shores, and Yavanna blesses it with spring. This is wonderful myth-making by Tolkien: These gods are the sources of our reverence of the skies, the eternal call of the sea, and the joy we experience with the ending of winter and the coming of spring.

Yet despite the continued attention of the Valar, these two lands—Valinor and Middle-earth—are hereafter sundered, a word which takes on great meaning in Tolkien’s legendarium. A deep, tragic loss, the sense of something great that once was and is irreparably gone (but whose presence we can sense, resulting in great sadness and nostalgia), is at the heart of Tolkien’s works. This separation starts here, in The Silmarillion, and is woven into the fabric of Middle-earth from its earliest days.

And as we’ll see in the later history of Middle-earth, when the Children of Ilúvatar try to reclaim what was lost by forcing passage to Valinor (a metaphor for cheating death), big trouble ensues.

Terrific Tolkien: Oromë the Hunter

(I added this last section to highlight cool scenes/characters from The Silmarillion, in an effort to prove to the  types that cry “dry as dust!” and “A telephone directly in Elvish!” that this book does bring the awesome).

After the Valar leave Middle-earth, a few return as distant watchers and (half-hearted) stewards. One returns to kick ass: Oromë the Hunter, tamer of beasts, rides in the darkness of the unlit forests of Middle-earth. His prey are the fell beasts and followers of Melkor.

“As a mighty hunter he came with spear and bow, pursuing to the death the monsters and fell creatures of the kingdom of Melkor, and his white horse Nahar shone like silver in the shadows,” Tolkien writes. Oromë blows his great horn Valaroma as he rides, striking fear into the heart of his enemies. Remember how the Lord of the Nazgul is checked by the blowing of the horns of the Rohirrim at Minas Tirith? His fear derives from the legend of Oromë, the fierce, pale rider of the dark.

It’s a beautiful image by Tolkien and yet another example of his stellar myth-making.