Blogging The Silmarillion: Out of ruined lands and cities, a star of hope arises

Part seven of Blogging the Silmarillion concludes the Quenta Silmarillion with a look at Chapters 22-24.

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No careful reader of Tolkien’s fiction can fail to be aware of the polarities that give it form and tension. His work is built on contrasts—between hope and despair, between good and evil, between enlightenment and ignorance—and these contrasts are embodied in the polarities of light and dark that are the creative outgrowth of his contrary moods, the “antitheses” of his nature.

–Verlyn Flieger, Splintered Light: Logos and Language in Tolkien’s World

J.R.R. Tolkien was, paradoxically, a man of deep faith who was subject to extreme bouts of despair. He believed that life here on earth is a long defeat, an inevitable march toward the destruction of man and all his creations. However, he also believed in an afterlife. Despite numerous defeats and endured miseries, there existed for Tolkien the possibility of final, unlooked-for victory (coined by Tolkien as a “eucatastrophe”) in this world or the next.

These contrasting sides to Tolkien’s personality are revealed in the final three chapters of the Quenta Silmarillion. In chapters 22-24 we experience (Middle)-earthian defeats that result in unimaginable ruin, followed by the Valar-backed defeat of Morgoth, a victory of truly epic scale.

It’s foolish to think that we can ever have a paradise on earth, for life here is transitory, a passing thing. So too it was in the First Age of Middle-earth. The Elves built cities of surpassing beauty and strength, but each in turn fall into ruin. While Part Six of Blogging The Silmarillion revisited the sack of Nargothrond, in this section of The Silmarillion we witness the ruin of the kingdom of Doriath, followed by the fall of the hidden mountain city of Gondolin. This is the culmination of the Long Defeat for the Elves, whose greatest and seemingly most enduring works come to a violent and ruinous end.

In this re-read of The Silmarillion I noted that all three cities seem to fall as a direct result of (or due in part to) human intervention. In summary:

1. Túrin’s pride and unwillingness to cut the bridge to Nargothrond resuls in the sack of that city.

2. Húrin, freed by Morgoth and wandering in the hidden realm of Gondolin cries out in despair. Morgoth, listening, discerns the rough location of the city. Later Tuor, human son of Húrin’s brother Huor, wins the heart of Idril, daughter of high king Turgon. This incites the hate of the Elf Maeglin, who ultimately betrays the city to Morgoth.

3. After wandering through the ruins of sacked Nargothrond, Húrin retrieves the priceless Dwarven necklace Nauglamír and brings it to the caves of Menegroth in Doriath. The Elven King Thingol takes it and employs Dwarven smiths to mount a Silmaril on its chain. Incited by wealth-lust, the Dwarves slay Thingol. His death leaves Doriath leaderless and open to its enemies, and the kingdom is consumed by civil war and kinslaying.

Perhaps these examples are Tolkien’s way of saying: Thus do men’s prying eyes always rid the world of its wonder; some things are best left as they are (he may have uttered the same words regarding the prying eyes of literary critics…) The fall of these cities is also a refutation of the criticism that Tolkien was an incorrigible isolationist; the fate of those who would hide behind walls or seek refuge in seclusion is clear.

When I first read The Silmarillion many years ago I was disappointed in its lack of details, particularly in the descriptions of the battles of Gondolin and Nargothrond. Now, Tolkien was never one to revel in bloodshed (in a recent lecture I attended featuring Tolkien scholar Tom Shippey, Shippey explained that “Everyone who Tolkien knew was a veteran—there were things you didn’t have to explain”). But even so, I wondered why the clashes at Minas Tirith and Helm’s Deep in The Lord of the Rings are more detailed than just about anything we find in The Silmarillion.

But now that I understand Tolkien’s intent in writing The Silmarillion a little better it’s clear that the work was written as a mythology, and accordingly we’re not given blow-by-blow treatments. This elevated, distant style lends the work a mythic feel, like a retelling of legendary events that might really have occurred in some distant once-upon-a-time.

For example, the scene where Maedhros is shackled to a cliff in the mountains of Thangorodrim before he is freed by Fingon is scarcely two pages of text. But it’s the context of these striking images which lend them such an epic scope.

In short, do we need a blow-by-blow treatment, or can we let our minds fill in the details?

Still, even painted with broad brush-strokes, what few details we have in “The Fall of Gondolin” are quite awesome. Here are some of my favorites:

• The attacking host of Morgoth, which includes Balrogs, Orcs, wolves, and dragon-brood of Glaurung (such a host would have made mince-meat out of Minas Tirith)

• Tuor hurling the traitorous Maeglin over the wall of Gondolin, consigning him to the same splattered fate as his father Eol (“his body as it fell smote the rocky slopes of Amon Gwareth thrice ere it pitched into the flames below.”)

Glorfindel and the Balrog.

• The Elf Glorfindel battling a Balrog in the dreadful pass of Cirith Thoronath; both he and it are slain in the duel after falling from a great height.

 It’s fortunate that circumstances led to the publication of The Lord of the Rings before The Silmarillion because the former works gives the latter a certain gravitas. For example, the account in The Silmarillion of Glorfindel’s battle with the Balrog is quite impressive, both as a striking image and an act of bravery. But with our foreknowledge of the might of the Balrog from Moria—how the heroes of the Fellowship were incapable of fighting it with normal weapons, and that only a Maia like Gandalf was a match—we have a frame through which we can view its battle with Glorfindel for the awe-inspiring, epic clash that it is. The great heroes of the First Age of Middle-earth thus seem all the greater in stature and imbued with a mythic quality; like a Sigurd or an Achilles are they in comparison to their Third Age counterparts.

After the ruin of Doriath and the Fall of Gondolin we set sail for the final chapter of the Quenta Silmarillion, “Of the Voyage of Eärendil and the War of Wrath.” Eärendil is the Halfelven son of Tuor and Turgon’s daughter Idril. He escapes the sack of Gondolin, and living near the mouths of Sirion on the coast becomes the greatest mariner of his age, save for Círdan the Shipwright (Eärendil means “Lover of the Sea”). Eärendil is blessed not only with unparalleled nautical ability but also a clear vision, unclouded by Noldorin pride. To quote Blind Guardian, he knows that “true hope lies beyond the coast,” in the west, in the strength and truth of the Valar. His eye is on the eternal, the divine, and thus he triumphs where heroes of greater martial might— Fëanor, Húrin, Túrin —all fail. While Túrin trusted in his own strength, Earendil places his trust in something greater, in faith. On his ship Vinglot, the Foam-flower, fairest of the ships of song, he begins his journey across the sea.

Voyage of Eärendil.

Ultimately Eärendil’s voyage succeeds because he refuses to succumb to despair. We learn that prior to his final journey Eärendil failed, time and again, to reach Valinor. When he left on his final trip, the weight of his troubles might have crushed a lesser Half-Elf. Morgoth was at the height of his power. Elven cities were falling at an alarming rate. Eärendil’s wife and all he loves stood in mortal peril. But he reached the Undying Lands by not giving up.

In contrast are Húrin and Túrin, who give in to despair and commit the ultimate capitulation, that of self-annihilation. Despair is a tool of the enemy (think of the Ringwraiths, whose primary weapon is sewing fear and despair); if you give up, Morgoth/Sauron has won. Despair is a sin, and suicide is not an answer. Because of the possibility of eucatastrophe, we have to fight on. Even a bitter defeat can be a step towards ultimate victory. It’s one of the greatest lessons that The Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion have to teach us, in my opinion.

So Eärendil’s voyage across the sea succeeds, and he persuades the Valar, the Vanyar, the Noldor, and even the Teleri (who provide transport, not combat troops) to return to Middle-earth and wage war on Morgoth. Thus begins the final Battle of Beleriand, the War of Wrath.

Unfortunately the details Tolkien provides of the battle are scarce, but there are a few awesome scenes worth mentioning. Balrogs and dragons fight Valar and great First Age heroes. There are hordes of orcs too, but in such a clash, these are like cavalry meeting tanks: They perish in waves like straw in flame. Even the Balrogs are scattered before the might of the host of Valinor. So great is the shock that much of Beleriand is ruined and Sirion is covered in flood.

Morgoth forces a brief bulge when he releases a horde of dragons from Angband, but Eärendil strikes down their chief, Ancalagon the Black. Morgoth is finished. The Valar place him in chains and thrust him through the Door of Night beyond the Walls of the World, into the Timeless Void, and a guard is set on those walls. The surviving Noldor are pardoned by the Valar and forgiven by the Teleri and admitted to Valinor: Their ancient curse is laid to rest.

But his evil is not dispersed. The Quenta Silmarillion ends with a picture of the earth largely as we now know it: Arda Marred, a fallen world. Though some Elves and Dwarves remain, Man in all his complexity is coming into ascendancy with his propensity for great good and unspeakable evil. In him are planted dark seeds that continually sprout up, but also “the strains of the spirits divine.”

Maglor casts a Silmaril into the sea.

The Valar place Eärendil in the sky as a beacon of light and hope, a reminder that there is something greater beyond the great grey rain-curtain of this world. He is a star in the void with a Silmaril on his brow, a reminder of a time of unfractured light before the Fall. The other two Silmarils are lost—Maedhros and Maglor, unable to forsake the oath of Fëanor, steal the two precious gems. Wracked with a burning pain (for the Silmarils, being made of the light of Valinor, belong to the Valar and not the Noldor), Maedhros hurls himself into a gaping chasm filled with fire; Maglor hurls his Silmaril into the sea. Never more will they be found “unless the world be broken and remade.”

Terrific Tolkien: Of layering and The Fall of Gondolin

Arguably Tolkien’s greatest strength as a writer is his ability to make Middle-earth seem so three dimensional and historical. I’ve heard it called the illusion of depth, though I don’t think illusion is the correct word. Middle-earth has the actual depth of the Marianas Trench; some scholars have made it plumbing its depths a life-long calling. This is because Tolkien had a remarkable ability to layer his stories in deep history.

One of my favorite examples of layering is found in “Of Tuor and the Fall of Gondolin,” a brief passage which states that the real story of the fall of Gondolin is told in yet another tale:

“Of the deeds of desperate valour there done, by the chieftains of the noble houses and their warriors, and not least by Tuor, much is told in The Fall of Gondolin: of the battle of Ecthelion of the Fountain with Gothmog Lord of the Balrogs in the very square of the King, where each slew the other.”

For Tolkien, there was always another story to tell, older lore to discover, deeper myths to illuminate. Me, I’d settle for a few more tales of Middle-earth from any Age. I’m not picky.

In the meantime, if you happen to find an original copy of The Fall of Gondolin (on which the story in The Book of Lost Tales Volume 2 is based), let me know, I’ll make a fair offer.

(Artwork by John Howe and Ted Nasmith)

Blogging The Silmarillion: Of Túrin Turambar and the sightless dark of Tolkien’s vision

Thus was the fate of Túrin woven, which is foretold in that lay that is called Narn i Hîn Húrin, the Tale of the Children of Húrin, and is the longest of all the lays that speak of those days. Here that tale is told in brief, for it is woven with the fate of the Silmarils and of the Elves; and it is called the Tale of Grief, for it is sorrowful, and in it are revealed most evil works of Morgoth Bauglir.

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Are our lives lived in vain? Are we ultimately slaves to our own weaknesses and pre-programmed natures? Does life have any real significance when death’s mouth yawns blackly at its end?

These are some of the questions with which J.R.R. Tolkien grapples in his writing, but perhaps never so clearly and forthrightly as in Chapter 21 of The Silmarillion, “Of Túrin Turambar.”

I haven’t read as much of the Northern myths as I would like, but I can say with certainty that “Of Túrin Turambar” would fit right alongside any of the stories in The Sagas of Icelanders, for example. Along with the tale of Fëanor it is the most northern story in the book: heroic and studded with mighty deeds and feats of arms, but bleak, tragic, and ultimately fruitless. This is Tolkien in his darkest hour.

The protagonists of the Icelandic Sagas had their stories told through action and dialogue, the third person objective. Likewise Tolkien does not take us into Túrin’s head: He acts, or boasts, or cries out in agonized frustration. He flings himself into the wilderness in great rages, choosing exile over compromise. He does not fret away his hours as a philosopher brooding over questions of reality (Robert E. Howard would have appreciated the character of Túrin); he makes bold, sweeping decisions. Some are rash and ruinous, but they’re always brave and drawn with bright splashes of color.

A Clockwork Orange has nothing on Hurin.

We’re introduced to Túrin by way of his father Húrin, whose incredible last stand at the Battle of Unnumbered Tears (as described in Part Five of Blogging the Silmarillion) allows Turgon and his people to escape to the hidden mountain fortress of Gondolin. Unfortunately for himself, Húrin is taken alive. Morgoth tries to torture the location of the hidden kingdom out of Húrin but fails; Húrin defies and mocks the dark lord. In his anger Morgoth lays a curse upon him, his wife Morwen, and their offspring, pronouncing “a doom of darkness and sorrow.” Morgoth then forces Húrin to sit in a stone chair in the mountains of Thangorodrim and watch this doom unfold on his family for nearly three decades. The soul-shattering sights leave him shattered, a hollow man (I’ll repeat it again: “Of Túrin Turambar” is in my opinion the darkest section of The Silmarillion: It’s a beautiful chapter but it’s brutal to read).

Chapter 21 picks up shortly after the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Rían, wife of Huor (Húrin’s brother) seeks out her missing husband and finds only corpses: Huor is among the countless warriors slain in the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. In her grief Rían lies down upon the Hill of Slain and herself dies. This is the first paragraph of the chapter.

If this weren’t grim enough, in the very next paragraph we literally get the death of laughter itself. Lalaith, Túrin’s precious three-year-old sister, catches a pestilence borne on an evil wind out of Angband and dies (lalaith means “laughter” in the Sindarin tongue). To top off the bleakness, in Túrin’s homeland of Hithlum the Easterlings are running amok, taking land and goods and enslaving the children. Afraid Turin will be taken next, his mother Morwen sends her son away to live in the hidden kingdom of Doriath.

But there is no safe haven for Túrin: Morgoth’s curse haunts his footsteps. Says the Elf Gwindor of Túrin: “A doom lies upon him. Doubt not the power of Morgoth Bauglir.”

The implication is that evil is an outside, maleficent force that can corrupt even the strongest of men. But Tolkien has a master’s hand on the tiller. We never know whether Túrin is like a puppet on the strings of the Dark Lord, or whether he is a master of his own fate and responsible for his life’s mishaps and tragedies. Tolkien lets us, his readers, decide, through presenting a series of mishaps in Túrin’s life whose sources we can interpret either way.

Turin’s first misstep is an accidental murder he commits while in Doriath. When the jealous Elf Saeros mocks Túrin’s wild and unkempt appearance, rather than swallowing his pride Túrin hurls his drinking cup full in the Elves’ face. Saeros retaliates by ambushing Túrin in the woods the following day; Túrin responds in kind by beating Saeros and chasing him through the trees. In a panic Saeros falls into a chasm and dies. This begs the question: Are Saeros’ words calculated and placed in his mouth by Morgoth, or is this Túrin acting rashly and making his own ill bed? Rather than plead his innocence before Thingol Túrin opts to flee into the wilderness.

Turin slays Beleg.

Thingol pardons Túrin and sends one of his best warriors, Beleg Strongbow, into the wild to bring him back. But Túrin refuses the pardon and joins a band of outlaws operating in the wilderness against Morgoth. Donning the Dragon-helm of Dor-lomin, he wages war on the dark lord.  Túrin and his men are eventually trapped and slain and Túrin is taken prisoner. When Beleg attempts a rescue, cutting Túrin free from his bonds, his sword slips (or is it guided by Morgoth’s hand?). Stung by the cut and thinking himself beset by an enemy Túrin slays Beleg. By his own hand he murders his best friend.

Túrin takes up Beleg’s black sword Anglachel, which he renames Gurthang, and wanders the wilderness, distraught and alone until he reaches the Elven city of Nargothrond.  Here Túrin’s pride continues to get the better of him. He chooses to face Morgoth openly on the field of battle, thus drawing the dark lord’s net ever closer to the Elven city. When the council warns him to “shut the doors of the fortress… cast the stones of your pride into the river,” Turin ignores their wisdom.

Like the tale of Fëanor, “Of Túrin Turambar” is also a cautionary tale about the dangers of pride. The Elves warn Turin not to challenge Morgoth openly. Theirs is the safe counsel—against the dark lord it’s best to fight defensively, to hold on to what is dearest for as long as you can, and to wait for the right time, if it ever comes. In other words, to swallow your pride.

But Túrin is a man of action whose first and strongest instinct is to meet the enemy on the open field and crush him, or die honorably in the attempt (I’ll admit that I myself am sympathetic to this view). But while the Elven perspective is (probably) right, Tolkien obviously had a soft spot for the passionate race of men, the Ragnarok spirit, and of the hot-blooded Húrin and Túrin in particular. These two great warriors very closely resemble the great figures and heroes of northern myth with which Tolkien felt an obvious kinship. We cannot help but sympathize with their unyielding spirit, even when it leads them terribly astray.

Alerted by Túrin’s presence Morgoth sends a great host of orcs to capture Nargothrond with the great dragon Glaurung at its head (Túrin has a chance to destroy the bridge leading to Nargothrond but refuses, foolishly trusting in his own strength). Glaurung puts a binding spell on Túrin that roots him to the spot, then speaks wicked words to the immobile warrior that cut to his soul:

“Evil have been all thy ways, son of Húrin. Thankless fosterling, outlaw, slayer of thy friend, thief of love, usurper of Nargothrond, captain foolhardy, and deserter of thy kin.”

Whether puppet or perpetrator, Túrin is guilty of all these things, and he’s about to become something worse: A perpetrator of incest, guilty of one of mankind’s oldest taboos. Glaurung places a spell of forgetfulness on Túrin’s sister Nienor and she and Turin meet, fall in love, and marry, not knowing that they are both the Children of Húrin.

The awful truth is revealed when Túrin slays Glaurung; with its dying breath the monster restores full memory to Nienor, who hurls herself over a cliff.  Túrin, knocked unconscious during the fight, also learns the truth and throws himself upon Gurthang.

While a great story and a masterful tragedy, “Of Túrin Turambar” is also something more. Tolkien uses the tale to place evil itself under the microscope.

As a philologist, Tolkien’s expertise was in words and their derivations, which reveal facets of his characters. For example, during his wanderings Túrin takes the name “Turambar,” which means “Master of Doom” (i.e., someone who controls his own destiny). But Morgoth’s curse is always at his heels, and he cannot seem to outrun it. We’re not sure therefore if Túrin is a victim of his own ill-choices, or the external, overbearing evil of Morgoth.

Tolkien is revisiting familiar ground here, as the same argument swirls over the One Ring—is its wielder bereft of choice, consumed by its terrible power, or does the Ring reflect and amplify our own weakness? Túrin is indeed cursed with terrible luck, ill circumstances devised by the cunning of Morgoth. But he always has a choice in how to react to the terrible events that befall him—perhaps his own flawed responses, more than Morgoth’s pronouncement of doom, makes him the “cursed” man that he is. In fact, his friend Gwindor openly tells Túrin that he is responsible for his own fate: “the doom lies in yourself, not in your name.” This exploration of the duality of evil makes “Of Túrin Turambar” all the more interesting, and certainly one of the most memorable chapters in the book.

At the end of the chapter Túrin commits suicide, so in this respect he is a literal master of his own doom. But his life appears to be vain: He himself has met an untimely death, both his sisters are dead, his father Húrin remains in chains, and Morgoth still sits upon his dark throne. And we readers are ready to climb into a warm tub with a razor blade. But what a journey! Was Túrin’s struggle worth it? We shall see as The Silmarillion progresses toward its conclusion.

I will now admit feeling for the first time a bit of disappointment with The Silmarillion: Since my last-reading we have seen the publication of The Children of Húrin, a full-length novel treatment of the story of Túrin (Unfinished Tales, published in 1980, also has a far more expansive version of the story). In contrast, the tale as told in The Silmarillion feels truncated, its power slightly denuded. Perhaps a Tolkien scholar can explain why this vastly shortened tale was published, whether it was simply due to an oversight or a rush to get The Silmarillion completed and in circulation for those who had their appetite whetted by The Lord of the Rings. But the cuts make this chapter feel incomplete in comparison to the longer treatments.

Terrific Tolkien: Gurthang, Iron of Death

Steve Tompkins wrote a nice piece about the echoes of cursed blades throughout fantasy literature—two noteworthy examples being Michael Moorcock’s Elric, and Poul Anderson’s The Broken Sword. The Silmarillion adds another legend with Anglachel, a black sword made of iron that fell from heaven as a blazing star (“There is malice in this sword. The dark heart of the smith still dwells in it. It will not love the hand it serves; neither will it abide with you long.”)

Túrin inherits the sword from Beleg after accidentally slaying his friend and renames it Gurthang, Iron of Death. When he’s in the throes of his final despair he asks Gurthang if it will take him out of his misery. Chillingly, Gurthang speaks.

“Yea, I will drink thy blood gladly, that so I may forget the blood of Beleg my master, and the blood of Brandir slain unjustly. I will slay thee swiftly.”

The black sword can be viewed as a metaphor for those mighty weapons whose power is too great to handle and, once employed, are cursed to destroy their wielders.

(Artwork by Ted Nasmith and Alan Lee)

A recap of Boskone 47: Talking Tolkien with Tom Shippey

Tom Shippey might be the closest connection we have to J.R.R. Tolkien himself, save for Tolkien’s son Christopher. Shippey met Tolkien and had a few conversations with him shortly before the latter’s death in 1973. He followed in Tolkien’s footsteps as a professor of Anglo-Saxon literature, inheriting Tolkien’s chair and syllabus. Most importantly of all he understands the source material of Tolkien’s legendarium probably better than any man alive, including works like the Finnish Kalevala, Beowulf, the Eddas, and the Icelandic sagas. Shippey has also written two highly regarded critical works on Tolkien (certainly the two most impressive I’ve read), J.R.R. Tolkien: Author of the Century and The Road to Middle-earth: How J.R.R. Tolkien created a new mythology.

Entering Friday’s night’s Boskone 47 conference at the Westin Boston Waterfront in Boston, MA, I was hoping to steal a minute or two of Shippey’s time to ask him some questions about my favorite author. I’m pleased to say I got much more!

I arrived at the conference a little before 6 p.m., checked in and got my badge and conference literature, then slid into an ongoing panel discussion about works of science fiction that don’t seem to be aging well (“What’s Showing Its Age?” by Daniel Dern, David Hartwell, and Peter Weston). The session let out at 7, just in time for an autographing session with Shippey, children’s author Jane Yolen, and sci-fi author Andrew Zimmerman Jones. The autographing session was being held in the Galleria, a large exhibition hall full of book dealers, purveyors of fantasy sculpture and miniatures, original artwork by the likes of John Picacio and Michael Whelan (the latter of Elric book cover fame), and much more.

When I entered the hall I saw that Yolen had a line of some 15-20 people deep waiting for autographs; Shippey had only a couple! Within minutes I was shaking the hand of perhaps the greatest Tolkien scholar ever, offering thanks for teaching me more about Tolkien than any other author, and garnering signatures for my copies of J.R.R. Tolkien: Author of the Century and The Road to Middle-earth.

I was prepared to be swept aside by other autograph seekers, but with none coming I got to speak with Shippey for quite a while. I felt completely out of my depth and initially a bit flustered, but he put me at ease with his friendly banter, warmth, and genuine sense of humor. Shippey is a lifelong fan of fantasy and science-fiction beyond Tolkien which also helped put me at ease.

I could not resist asking such fannish questions as:

“What was Tolkien like?”

“Have you read Michael Moorcock’s Epic Pooh? What did you think?”

“Which was a greater influence on Middle-earth: Old Northern or Christian mythology?” (this last question sparked some interesting side-conversation on Joseph Pearce’s Tolkien: Man and Myth).

“Was Middle-earth our actual earth in some pre-cataclysmic age? Or did Tolkien intend it purely as a fictional creation?” (The former, Shippey said)

Shippey took the time to answer them all. I won’t share all of Shippey’s comments here as it was personal, candid conversation, but I will relay a few things. For example, he mentioned how Tolkien was very Hobbit-like: He cared about things like football scores and people’s names and their origins. Shippey also talked about the declining enrollment of English majors and the marginalization of literature studies and critics (I agree completely). It’s strange to say, but having spoken with Shippey I now feel two degrees removed from Tolkien himself (and technically, I now am)!

Afterwards I attended two panel discussions featuring Shippey and others: The Lord of the Rings Films: 5 Years Later (which ran from 8-9 p.m.) and The Problem of Glorfindel and Other Issues in Tolkien (which ran from 9-10 p.m.). These were very enjoyable.

In general, Shippey enjoyed the Peter Jackson films and thought they were well done. He has some problems with them, of course, and stated that he didn’t like what Jackson did with the character of Theoden. Aragorn’s fake death when he falls over the cliff was derided by the panel, as were some of Jackson’s over-the-top scenes of grue (his horror influences spilling through).

But in general the panel thought the films were very good, and that the changes from the book were necessary in adapting it to a film medium while ensuring that the movie remained profitable and accessible for a broader audience. Someone else asked why battle scenes were downplayed in the books, particularly their graphic details, while in contrast the battles were huge set-pieces in the movies. Shippey responded, “Everyone who Tolkien knew was a veteran—there were things you didn’t have to explain,” whereas audiences today are “civilianized.”

Speaking of profitable, Shippey quipped that Tolkien’s writing of The Lord of the Rings “must have been the biggest return on investment in the history of the universe,” noting that Tolkien used scrap paper and borrowed ink to write the early drafts, and only had to sacrifice a college professor’s spare time (which is essentially worth zero, joked Shippey, who is a professor himself).

Shippey said Jackson made some “very gutty decisions” with the script, including leaving the ending as-is, keeping its tone of sadness and loss when a Star Wars-like ending might have been more palatable for a modern audience. Fellow panelist Michael Swanwick commented that the end of The Lord of the Rings “breaks your heart,” in that it’s happy and sad all at once. One of my favorite moments was Shippey’s comment that Sam’s final line (“Well, I’m back”) is “such an Anglo-Saxon thing to say:” It’s all of three syllables and in one respect pointless (of course Sam is back!), but at the same time means so much more. Shippey noted that Sam paradoxically came back to die, but also to live with his family and as Mayor of Michel Delving.

The panel took some questions from the audience, including one from yours truly about the decision to remove the Scouring of the Shire. Other panelists than Shippey weighed in, but the general consensus was that there were already too many endings and that the Scouring was anti-climactic and works better in a book than on film (I don’t really agree, but there you have it).

As for whether or not these films still resonate, a member of the audience pretty much answered that with a story about a trip to New Zealand taken by his friend and friend’s fiancé. The two were pleased to discover that the country’s tourist maps are marked with all the sites from the films. The couple hiked up “Mount Doom” and brought him back a piece of igneous rock from its now legendary slope.

The second lecture/panel discussion I attended, The Problem of Glorfindel and Other Issues in Tolkien was a discussion of the minutea in Tolkien’s legendarium and some of its seeming inconsistencies. Panelist Mary Kay Kate of the Mythopoeic Society commented that, “We care about trivial things because [Tolkien] succeeded so well at creating his world—he can’t have just made mistakes.”

The panel opened with a discussion of Glorfindel. Elves in Tolkien’s legendarium do not reuse names, therefore the Glorfindel who died fighting a balrog in the First Age (as told in The Silmarillion) must have been reincarnated into the Glorfindel we know from The Lord of the Rings. However, it was unclear (and remains so) if Tolkien intended this, or whether he merely re-used an old name by accident. Shippey remarked that Tolkien had an uneasy attitude toward reincarnation—while he didn’t deny it, when asked whether he believed in its possibility Tolkien answered, “I’m a Catholic.”

There was a lot of conversation among the panel and the audience regarding Tom Bombadil, why this section of the book feels different, whether or not it’s important to advancement of the plot, etc. I admit that I’m rather ambivalent about this section of the book and so took few notes.

Shippey, who had been quiet for much of this discussion, then took off on a spellbinding 10 minute talk about Tolkien’s lifelong habit of revising and re-revising his work: “Niggling,” Shippey called it (Tolkien wrote a story entitled “Leaf by Niggle” which addresses this facet of his personality). This led to some problems and could have potentially wrought significant havoc with Tolkien’s creations. For example, Shippey stated that Tolkien was strongly considering a sixth revision of The Hobbit which would have significantly altered and softened the story, but fortunately reconsidered when a confidant said, “That’s all well and good John Ronald, but it’s not The Hobbit”). Shippey added that Christopher Tolkien told him that “his father never would have finished The Lord of the Rings if it were not for C.S. Lewis.” Shippey also noted that Tolkien went a large part of his latter academic career without publishing any scholarly works or papers, which was frowned upon by administration.

Perhaps the most interesting part of the session was the panel’s discussion of the problem of orcs. Some critics have called Tolkien’s depiction of the orcs racist; also troubling is the fact that orcs seem like an unredeemable race (whereas others in Tolkien’s legendarium choose evil, so they can theoretically repent their ways and be granted mercy).

Shippey noted that orcs share many human-like values: For instance, they value loyalty and abide by rough Geneva-like conventions of warfare (Shippey quoted the “regular elvish trick” line from the orc Gorbag who finds Frodo bound in webs and abandoned on the orc-path; Gorbag is at least outwardly appalled that a soldier would leave a wounded fellow soldier to die). “Orcs are all right!” Shippey said. But he also laid his finger on the root of the orcs’ evil: The problem of Ufthak. Ufthak was the unfortunate orc who was found by his comrades alive, emeshed in Shelob’s webs. Rather than freeing him, the other orcs laughed and left him hanging in a corner to die a horrible end. Saving him wasn’t their business.

Shippey made a compelling case that the problem of Ufthak demonstrates that the orcs have a thoroughly modern mindset: They know the difference between right and wrong and have a theoretical knowledge of good and evil, but don’t put into practice. They act self-centeredly, separate from standards of decency. This attitude resulted in the major man-made holocausts of the 20th century.

On a final note, when the moderator asked the panelists for closing remarks, Shippey with his booming voice told everyone that Tom Bombadil is “not a Maiar, or a Valar. He’s a land wight!”

Sounds reasonable to me, and who am I to argue?

A date with Tom Shippey at Boskone 47

This week I signed up for a one-day pass to attend Boskone. It's a regional convention put on by the New England Science Fiction Association (NESFA). It runs all weekend at the Westin hotel in Boston and features dozens of authors, artists, panel discussions, board and computer games, medieval weapon displays, zombies, and more.

I just found out about the convention this week, and was stunned to see that one of the special guests is Tom Shippey. Immediately I knew that I must attend.

For the uninitiated, Shippey is the premiere J.R.R. Tolkien scholar of our age, author of the incomparable works J.R.R. Tolkien: Author of the Century and The Road to Middle-earth: How J.R.R. Tolkien created a new mythology. Shippey knew Tolkien personally, teaching Old English at St. John's College during Tolkien's last years of retirement. He later followed directly in Tolkien's footsteps, inheriting JRRT's chair and syllabus.

If you own the extended versions of Peter Jackson's LOTR films, Shippey is featured prominently on the extras on these discs. I have learned more about Tolkien from Shippey than any other author. He's brilliant.

Shippey will be at Boskone throughout the weekend, but the stuff I'm most interested in all takes place tomorrow. I was able to buy a one-day pass for $17 and plan to attend the following panel sessions (you can bet I'll be bringing my copies of The Road to Middle-earth and Author of the Century for autographing):

Friday 7 p.m. Autographing
Andrew Zimmerman Jones, Tom Shippey, Jane Yolen

Commentary: I don't know AZJ, but I have read Yolen's Owl Moon to my children. She's a prolific children's author and Owl Moon is wonderful.

Friday 8 p.m. Harbor 1: The Lord of the Rings Films: 5 Years Later
How are they holding up? Any virtues or themes (or faults) that are clearer nos? Think they'll be popular for decades, watched annually on September 22 (Bilbo's birthday—but you should know that)? If computer graphics imagery keeps improving (see Avatar!), should we redo LOTR every five years? Come join the discussion of what is lost and what is gained when adapting beloved books to the silver screen, and share what your vision of a (non-Peter Jackson?) LOTR 2.0 might look like.

Ethan Gilsdorf, Laurie Mann (m), Tom Shippey, Michael Swanwick, Ann Tonsor Zeddies

Friday 9 p.m. Harbor 2: The Problem of Glorfindel—and Other Issues in Tolkien
Tolkien's elves never re-used names (they were immortal, after all) yet a Glorfindel lived and died in the First Age of Middle-Earth and another was a character in The Lord of the Rings six thousand years later—what happened? One of the joys of Tolkien's world is that it is so well-realized that minor anomalies (which in a lesser writer would be assumed to be sloppiness) only make it seem more real, since the history of the real worls also abounds in puzzles. Enjoy a walk through Middle-Earth's lesser-know byways. Who was Eldest: Treebeard or Tom Bombadil? What were orcs, actually, since Morgoth could not create anything new? Why are the wood-elves such jerks in The Hobbit? Whatever happend to Ungoliant? Arwen became mortal, but what happened to the sons of Elrond when he took ship for Valinor? Where did Sauron hide the One Ring when he was taken captive to Numinor? Let's take the time to explore these and other intriguing curiosities of Middle Earth.

Mary Kay Kare, Kate Nepveu, Mark L. Olson (m), Tom Shippey

I'd love to get the chance to ask the guy a few questions about Tolkien, but it all depends on how crazy the con is. I'll post a report here afterwards.

Blogging The Silmarillion: Of Blind Guardian’s Nightfall in Middle-earth

In this week’s Blogging the Silmarillion, I’ve decided to take a temporary detour into two tastes that taste great together: Heavy metal and J.R.R. Tolkien. Following is a review of Blind Guardian’s Nightfall in Middle-earth, aka. The Silmarillion with electric guitars.

I can’t speak for all readers of The Cimmerian and The Silver Key, but back when I was in high school—circa 1987-91—there was a bright line drawn between fantasy fiction and heavy metal. The former was the province of D&D-playing nerds, and the latter was for bad-asses who hung out in the back parking lots, wore denim and smoked cigarettes. And never the twain shall meet.
This divide was equal parts myth and reality, of course. Some people liked both. For example, I always prided myself on having one foot in each camp, and I was not alone—most of my friends were into metal, and many were also fans of books like The Lord of the Rings and The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever.

In addition, you could find a few examples of successful metal-fantasy alliances back then. For example, Iron Maiden attracted both stoners and readers alike with songs like “Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” “Alexander the Great,” and “To Tame a Land” (the latter was a song about Frank Herbert’s novel Dune). Black Sabbath’s album Heaven and Hell (fronted by Ronnie James Dio) had plenty of fantasy imagery in its lyrics, too.

Still, in the main, the two camps were on opposing sides of the battle-line, perennially at odds like the forces of Gondor and Minas Morgul.

After high school I lost touch with the day-to-day happenings in the heavy metal scene. I kept listening to bands like Maiden and Judas Priest, but I stopped paying attention to new trends and upcoming bands. Specifically, I failed to keep up with a new metal force rising like a steel wave out of the heart of Europe, until I woke up one day to find that heavy metal and J.R.R. Tolkien had inexplicably become bedfellows. The unholy offspring of this unlikely coupling was the 1998 album Nightfall in Middle-earth by Blind Guardian.

To read the rest of this post, visit The Cimmerian Web site .

Blogging The Silmarillion: The breaking of the siege of Angband and other (myth) busting

Part five of Blogging the Silmarillion continues with chapters 16-20 of the Quenta Silmarillion.

—

By the command of Morgoth the Orcs with great labour gathered all the bodies of those who had fallen in the great battle, and all their harness and weapons, and piled them in a great mound in the midst of Anfauglith; and it was like a hill that could be seen from afar. Haudh-en-Ndengin the Elves named it, the Hill of Slain, and Haudh-en-Nirnaeth, the Hill of Tears.

—J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, “Of the Fifth Battle”

If you had but four words to describe the action of Chapters 16-20 of The Silmarillion, you could do worse than all hell’s breaking loose. It’s a section I equate to a great turning of the tide against the forces of good.

In fact, Hell breaking loose is almost a literal interpretation of what happens in the fourth great Battle of Beleriand, the Dagor Bragollach (Battle of Sudden Flame). From the deep pits and mines of hellish Angband issue great streams of fire, followed by hosts of orcs, Balrogs, and the dragon Glaurung. It’s very much as if Gehenna, on the orders of Satan, were to empty its bowels of fell spirits and demons. The Noldorin guarding Angband are destroyed or driven back as Morgoth, pent up in his fortress for nearly 400 years, breaks out with a fury and a vengeance.

Seventeen years after this eruption, the forces of good marshal for another great cast at overthrowing Morgoth and ending his reign of terror. The result is the Nirnaeth Arnoediad (Battle of Unnumbered Tears), whose enduring image is a great hill of corpses of Elves, Men, and Dwarves, captured magnificently in the above piece of art by the incomparable Ted Nasmith. The Doom of the Noldor comes home fully to roost as the grieving wives and children of the slain indeed shed “tears unnumbered.” With the defeat, Elven might in Beleriand, save in a defensive capacity only, is smashed. It’s one of the greatest and at the same time most heartbreaking scenes of battlefield ruin I’ve read.

And Morgoth came...

These two battles also contain two of the finest (I’m tempted to say the finest) passages in fantasy literature. The first is from the Dagor Bragollach when Fingolfin, overflowing with wrath and despair following the rout and destruction of his brethren, rides to the gates of Angband and challenges Morgoth to single combat:

He passed over Dor-nu-Fauglith like a wind amid the dust, and all that beheld his onset fled in amaze, thinking that Orome himself was come: for a great madness of rage was upon him, so that his eyes shone like the eyes of the Valar. Thus he came alone to Angband’s gates, and he sounded his horn, and smote once more upon the brazen doors, and challenged Morgoth to come forth to single combat. And Morgoth came.

The other passage that leaves me breathless is Hurin’s last stand at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad:

Last of all Hurin stood alone. Then he cast aside his shield, and seized the axe of an orc-captain and wielded it two-handed; and it is sung that the axe smoked in the black blood of the troll-guard of Gothmog until it withered, and each time that he slew Hurin cried aloud: ‘Aure entuluva! Day shall come again!’ Seventy times he uttered that cry; but they took him at last alive, by the command of Morgoth, who thought thus to do him more evil than by death. Therefore the Orcs grappled Hurin with their hands, which clung to him still, though he hewed off their arms; and ever their numbers were renewed, till he fell buried beneath them.

If these passages don’t move, inspire, or astound you, I encourage you to have your pulse checked.

In addition to the death of its best and bravest leaders, and the slaughter and enslavement of a great number of the Noldor, the Nirnaeth Arnoediad begins a dark age that lasts roughly one hundred years until the return of the Valar for the War of Wrath. With the power of Elves and Men destroyed and scattered, Morgoth’s forces largely have free reign to plunder and pillage. Much of Beleriand is razed.

In other words, it’s a bad ending for the forces of good, and gets at the very essence of why short-sighted critiques offered by the likes of Elric author Michael Moorcock and Richard Morgan, author of The Steel Remains, bother me so much. These guys claim to understand Tolkien, yet never bothered to read The Silmarillion. I say that with confidence because once you’ve read about Fingolfin’s battle with Morgoth at the gates of Angband, or the account of Rian weeping over the Hill of Slain, how can you reconcile such ludicrous statements as:

• There is no happy ending to the Romance of Robin Hood, however, whereas Tolkien, going against the grain of his subject matter, forces one on us – as a matter of policy. (Moorcock)

• Ponderous epic tones of Towering Archetypal Evil pitted against Irritatingly Radiant Good (oh – and guess who wins). (Morgan)

Against these two claims, I place on the other side of the scale the twin deaths of Fingon and Fingolfin. Now, you can make the case that Fëanor with his overbearing pride and Silmaril fixation had death coming to him, and therefore he’s not really a “good guy.” No such argument exists with Fingon and Fingolfin. These are beneficent, forgiving, courageous leaders of the Noldor. Yes, they were dragged along in Fëanor’s train and complicit in his rebellion against the Valar. But both paid their dues on the ice-clad sea of Helcaraxë and went on to rule their peoples with fairness and justice. They deserved victory. They didn’t get it.

Not only are both to die on the battlefield, but the manner of their deaths is quite grim, even gruesome (or as gruesome as Tolkien gets). First, we have Fingon pounded into gristle by Gothmog and the maces of his Balrogs:

Then Gothmog hewed him with his black axe, and a white flame sprang up from the helm of Fingon as it was cloven. Thus fell the High King of the Noldor; and they beat him into the dust with their maces, and his banner, blue and silver, they trod into the mire of his blood.

Then we get Fingolfin, his neck and body broken by Morgoth:

Thrice he was crushed to his knees, and thrice arose again and bore up his broken shield and stricken helm. But the earth was all rent and pitted about him, and he stumbled and fell backward before the feet of Morgoth; and Morgoth set his left foot upon his neck, and the weight of it was like a fallen hill… And Morgoth took the body of the Elven-King and broke it.

It bears mentioning that the author of said carnage saw similar scenes played out on one of mankind’s grimmest stages. Two of Tolkien’s best friends, Rob Gilson and Geoffrey Smith, were killed on World War I battlefields. Both were smart, promising young men who should have lived long and fruitful existences. Neither they—nor Fingon or Fingolfin—deserved death. But to borrow a quote from Unforgiven’s William Munny: Deserve’s got nothing to do with it. Sometimes—often times, truth be told—evil wins. War spares no one the sword or the arrow (or the machine gun bullet or the burst of shrapnel). It cuts down the worst and best alike. Tolkien understood this fact far better than his critics give him credit for.

So again I ask, happy endings? Somebody better explain that to trod-in-the-mire Fingon, or broken-bodied Fingolfin: If you find them in the Halls of Mandos, they have a different story to tell. Somebody better tell that to the people of Hithlum, who for the next hundred years after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad are to lose everything—their possessions, their homes, even their children—to roving bands of orcs and Easterlings.

In addition, somebody forgot to tell Gwindor—a Noldorin Elf forced to watch as a group of orcs brutally hack the hands, feet, and finally the head from his brother, Gelmir—that Tolkien was all about happy endings, and that better times were coming. In most authors’ hands Gwindor would have gotten his revenge and found a measure of solace, but in not Tolkien’s, who knew the realities of the long defeat and the capriciousness of death on the battlefield. Gwindor kills his brother’s tormentors, but his mission of revenge fails—all his men are slain, and he is imprisoned, spending years in toil and torment. Later he manages to escape, only to die in a hopeless defense of the Elven city of Nargothrond.

That Tolkien was soft and guilty of spoon-feeding his readers happy endings is pure myth-making, and not the definition of myth that Tolkien employed (an ancient tale told through fictional creations, but with truth at its heart). Rather, this canard fits the modern definition of myth—a perpetrated hoax that needs to be put to rest. The truth is right there in the text, and Tolkien’s ledger—the body of his legendarium—supports sadness, uncertainty, and unhappiness in the main.

In short, Moorcock and Morgan might be good writers of fiction, but as Tolkien critics they’re rather poor and imperceptive, and they certainly haven’t done their homework.

While the great defeats of the Wars of Beleriand dominate this section, there’s much more to recommend in these chapters of The Silmarillion. Some highlights include:

• Eöl the dark Elf, a short-lived but memorable character who sires the ill-fated Maeglin. Initially loyal, Maeglin, through a series of unfortunate events (his father is executed, and his love for a beautiful Elf princess goes unrequited), becomes a dark seed of evil who will eventually betray hidden Gondolin.

The first Bard's song...

• The coming of Men into the west. Tolkien paints a great scene of Finrod traveling alone in Ossiriand and finding the first Men to cross the mountains of Ered Lindon. Finrod waits until they’re sleeping, then, sitting beside their dying fire, picks up a harp and begins to play songs of the making of Arda and the bliss of Aman beyond the shadows of the sea. Slowly the Men awake, and listen in amazement: “Each thought that he was in some fair dream, until he saw that his fellows were awake also beside him.” Tolkien notes that these Men have a “darkness behind them,” which seems to imply some Edenic Fall, though this is never fully explained.

• Guerilla warfare waged by the Elves and Men after the Battle of Sudden Flame. The most famous of these is Beren (see below).

Terrific Tolkien: The tale of Beren and Lúthien

Handed a book with the synopsis, “Hero attempts to steal a great treasure, is thrown into a dark pit in which his companion wrestles and kills a werewolf,” most fantasy readers would naturally ask, Sounds awesome: What Robert E. Howard story is that again?

That this is actually a scene from “Of Beren and Luthien,” chapter 19 of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Silmarillion, speaks to both Tolkien’s surprising range as an author (he did write about more than just Elves and Hobbits), but also the sheer otherworldliness of this remarkable tale. In the midst of the two horrible battles described above comes this tale of remarkable bravery, sacrifice, and a love so powerful that it literally transcends death. Of all Tolkien’s stories, “Of Beren and Lúthien” feels the most otherworldly to me, a myth within a myth. It’s a work of unparalleled imagination that I can’t possibly do justice to here. Read it yourself.

Beren is of the race of Men, a valiant warrior who fights on guerilla-style with a small group of survivors after the Battle of Sudden Flame. Beren gains notoriety for his ferocious attacks on Morgoth’s forces, drawing the attention of the dark lord himself. Sauron dispatches orcs to kill off this band of fighters (one of whom is Barahir, Beren’s father), and with the hunters on his trail Beren is forced to flee. In the woods of Doriath he finds Lúthien dancing and singing. The pair soon falls in love.

Unfortunately, Lúthien is the daughter of Thingol, suspicious Elven king of Doriath. Thingol considers Beren unworthy of his daughter and saddles him with a seemingly impossible task: He can have his daughter’s hand in marriage only if he wrests one of the Silmarils from Morgoth’s iron crown. Beren responds that “when we meet again my hand shall hold a Silmaril from the Iron Crown.” It does, of course; Beren’s hand just happens to be in the belly of a wolf at the time. But he does fulfill his vow.

Artwork by Ted Nasmith.