Tolkien: A Master Storyteller
Like any other
Thursday night at
CS Lewis’ http://www.bbc.co.uk/northernireland/learning/getwritingni/images/wh_lewis_gallery/6oxford_mag2.jpg
[2]
John Ronald Reuel Tolkien and C.S. Lewis were two of the most prominent members of The Inklings. They had much experience writing across various genres and kept busy working on their own fictional writings. Professor Tolkien did not appear to be an extraordinary man. At a slightly below average height, he dressed in a plain, masculine manner that stood out against the “excessive dandyism and implied homosexuality of the ‘aesthetes’, who had first made their mark on Oxford in the age of Wilde and whose successors lingered on in the nineteen-twenties and early thirties.”[3] Jack, as C.S. Lewis was called by his friends, was dressed in similar attire and sat anxiously beside the fire.
J.R.R. Tolkien http://www.stud.ntnu.no/~arneskod/tolkien.jpg
[4]
C.S. Lewis
http://www.editpresenca.pt/images/autores/C.S.Lewis.jpg
[5]
“Do you remember
when we first met?” Jack began. “We were
two young professors eyeing each other across the room during a meeting of the
English department. You were on the
other side of the room talking with your buddies in the Language camp. I was standing around, talking to the other
Literature professors, wondering what that ‘pale, little chap’[6]
across the room was doing looking in my direction. And then do you remember what happened? I walked across the room, into no man’s land,
ready to give you a smack across the face.
Instead of smacking you, I introduced myself and we started
talking. Shortly thereafter, we left the
meeting, walked to the Eagle and Child Pub and talked for the rest of the
evening. The other professors were
amazed. They hadn’t seen anything of
that magnitude since the Christmas Armistice of 1914! Look at how
“Yeah, I remember that evening,” Professor Tolkien replied dryly.
“And think about the many evenings spent together since then. ‘Those are the golden sessions, when our slippers are on, our feet spread out towards the blaze and our drinks at our elbows; when the whole world, and something beyond the world, opens itself to our minds as we talk; and no one has any claim or responsibility for another, but all are freemen and equals as if we had first met an hour ago, while at the same time an Affection mellowed by the years enfolds us. Life – natural life – has no better gift to give.’[8] These short years have gone by too quickly. To many more!” Jack cheered as he lifted his glass for a toast.
“Cheers,” Tolkien, lifting his own glass, responded unenthusiastically.
Jack knew something was wrong at this point. It was not like his dear friend, usually full of life, to be unhappy after a meeting with The Inklings or in the presence of C.S. Lewis. “What’s wrong?” Jack asked bluntly. “You haven’t been your normal, energetic self, all night.”
“I had the dream again.”
“Which dream?” Lewis asked, feigning ignorance.
“The one I always have! My Atlantis dream. ‘In sleep I had the dreadful dream of the ineluctable Wave, either coming out of the quiet sea, or coming towering in over the green inlands. It always ends by surrender, and I awake gasping out of deep water.’”[9]
Atlantis http://www.u-grenoble3.fr/gerf/_img/atlantis/atlantis.jpg
[10]
“Listen, it’s just a dream. We all dream. Freud says dreams are a reflection of our unconscious. Has something been bothering you recently or making you feel overwhelmed?”
“Freud is a babbling idiot. It is stupid to think that scientific principles can be applied to our invented dream worlds. No, my dream is not a reflection of my unconscious. In fact, it feels very conscious, almost real. That is what concerns me Jack. These dreams, they aren’t like all of my other dreams. My Atlantis dreams feel real. Through them I feel ‘some unfathomable connection to the past.’[11] It feels as if I am reliving my ancestor’s past when I have these dreams.”
“Fascinating,” Jack muttered in a dreamy state himself.
“Fascinating? Is that all you have to say about my Atlantis complex?”
“No, I mean, sorry. I was just thinking about this Atlantis dream of yours and how it would make a wonderful story. Just imagine, it could be part of that world of yours you have been trying to create for the past several years and have only ever given me fleeting glimpses of when you read manuscript excerpts.”
“No, I don’t think this story would work too well with that. It would be hard to incorporate with my mythology and still achieve an ‘inner consistency of reality.’[12] Too many leaves have fallen from my mythological tree, and too many have been created anew before the leaves first glimpsed are fully realized. I can’t just leave my other writings to pursue this Atlantis story. I’ll file it for later. Maybe something good will come out of it in the years to come.”
“Dear old Totters, your mind is full of stories. You walk through this world but live in another. When am I ever going to join you in your world?”
“I must create it first. I have ideas, but they are just fragments. I need something to tie them all together. I need a grand story to unite my lesser stories into one coherent mythology.”
“Maybe Atlantis will prove to be your grand story.”
“I doubt it. It has been used too many times in the past. I could use the Atlantis archetype, but it is Greek in origin. I couldn’t ever mix a Greek story into my English mythology. But the archetype... Atlantis is a wonderful idea. I could incorporate it in many ways.”
“As an archetype, Atlantis could be the basis of a magnificent story, of a whole mythology.”
“I don’t think it will be the basis of an entire mythology, but I think I know how I may use it. I must go home to mull this over. Maybe in the coming months you will find out what ever happened to my Atlantis complex. Then you might be afforded a visit to my world.”
Lewis and Tolkien
finished their drinks and bade each other a good night. Tolkien left Lewis’s room in
http://www.cwrl.utexas.edu/~bump/oxford/Magdalen/streetviewsm.jpg
[14]
Tolkien reached his home some time later. With the kids put into bed hours ago and Edith upstairs, already asleep, John Ronald Reuel Tolkien was finally free to get to the day’s real work. After lighting the office stove and his customary pipe, Tolkien pulled his journal out of his bag and sat down with it at his cramped desk.
If any other person were to peer inside Tolkien’s journal, he would find himself lost amid one of the several invented languages Professor Tolkien made for his own amusement as a philologist. Tolkien also kept all of his journals in a coded rune alphabet[15] as he enjoyed the visual beauty of written script along with the aural beauty of spoken words.
“The problem with an invented language,” Tolkien thought to himself, “is that one tends to find a truer meaning for a created word as the language is developed, causing words to mean completely different things with one turn of the page in my journal.”
“There is much you have yet to do” in Elvish[16]
Professor Tolkien continued to decipher an entry from several weeks ago that pertained to the topic he would write about tonight. He had been working on a group of poems about a lost sailor who washes upon the shore of a foreign land and is told fantastical stories of elves and men. He needed the name of one of the elves mentioned earlier in passing that would be the primary subject of tonight’s piece.
“Oh, if I could only remember his name,” the professor murmured to himself, “What is it, what is it?”
“My name is Gaiman,” spoke a voice suddenly from behind.
At hearing the voice of this unexpected visitor, Tolkien jumped in his chair. In the process, his hand knocked over the bottle of ink, ruining several pages in his journal. Tolkien, quite angry at this point, turned around to see who this uninvited guest was.
He
was astonished to see a creature wearing a brown traveler’s cloak and muddied
leather leggings. While the creature resembled
a man, Tolkien thought it looked rather more like the elves that had resided in
his mind since reading the stories of Andrew Lang as a child.[17] The creature possessed elongated ears and a
demeanor about him that suggested he belonged amid an ancient forest rather
than the boxes of books that remained to be unpacked from the Tolkien family’s
move more than a month ago. Tolkien
stared at the creature wordlessly – a rather unusual state for an
“Hello. As I said before, my name is Gaiman,” the creature spoke. “From the look on your face, I gather that you have realized I am not entirely of this world. I live in the world of Faerie. I believe you are familiar with this, yes?”
“Yes! Yes!” replied Tolkien, “I have read much
about the
“The work of amateurs,” Gaiman interjected, “What you have read is the work of men who have only stolen glimpses of my realm! They have looked through a dirtied glass with blind eyes at my world and conjured up childish images to write about.”
Gaiman
continued on for several more minutes denouncing the writings of men concerning
the
Gaiman eventually came to a stop, finally noticing that Tolkien was no longer listening. “It’s now time that we go,” Gaiman said.
“Go? Go where? This isn’t the time to be going anywhere,” Tolkien answered in a bewildered manner.
“No, we must go now,” Gaiman answered. “Timing is of the essence. There are terrible forces at work in the realm of Faerie. It is too late to stop them. Now, we must only worry ourselves with survival and preservation.”
“Survival and preservation? How can there be terrible forces that we can’t stop? The realm of Faerie is supposed to reflect a balanced world where there is always good to stop evil.”
“You draw upon the knowledge of a misinformed man,” Gaiman answered angrily, now furious over the ignorance of this educated professor. “This evil is unlike any that has ever been encountered. Its reach has gone so far as to affect your own world. Just look around you. There is plenty being affected by evil. Your world is on the verge of a catastrophic war just as mine is.”
“Catastrophic war may come,” Tolkien said, “but evil can always be stopped.”
“Childish notions,” Gaiman replied. “It is time. We will go now.”
The elf reached into his cloak and pulled out an object wrapped in a brown cloth. He threw it at Tolkien and told him to unwrap it. Tolkien took off the leather strapping and removed the brown cloth to find a large knife. The knife gleamed under the dim light of the fire in his office.
“That is a very ancient knife,” Gaiman said, “You will not be fighting where we are going, but you will need it in order to pass into the realm of Faerie. No man can enter Faerie unless under an enchantment. The knife you hold was used by a great warrior once and still contains some of his power. It will do under the circumstances.”
Tolkien was mesmerized by the knife. How old could the knife really be? And who is this ancient warrior that Gaiman speaks of? He couldn’t answer these questions, but he knew that there would be a great story to be told if he could. Running his fingers along the hilt of the knife, he felt a new empowerment, as if an ancient force was flowing through his veins. After savoring this feeling, Tolkien secured the knife to his belt.
“Ready?” Gaiman asked. “Step closer to me.”
Professor Tolkien,
wearing the slacks, waistcoat and jacket of a conservative
Meadow in Faerie http://www.serenretreat.com/polarity/images/gallery/seren/meadow.gif
[18]
Professor Tolkien
opened his eyes to the scene of a beautiful English meadow in springtime. On the outskirts of the meadow was a dense,
dark forest with many trees that had to be hundreds of years old. He sensed something sinister about the
trees. Even though the stories he read
may have been written by amateurs, he had read enough to know that the
“Are we going to the castle?” Tolkien asked.
“Yes,” Gaiman replied. “That is Castle Oxenford, and in it resides the sole reason for your visit to Faerie.”
“The castle, it
reminds me so much of where I work,
Spires of http://www.cwrl.utexas.edu/~bump/oxford/Oxfordviews/center.jpg
[20]
“Have you not
understood anything I have told you?” Gaiman asked hastily as he continued to
walk towards the castle. “Your world is
a mere shadow of Faerie. Castle Oxenford
is the greatest repository of knowledge in all worlds. In Castle Oxenford are numerous chambers with
shelves reaching as high as the spires you see from here. The shelves of Castle Oxenford contain the
annals of Faerie and all other worlds from the First Creation onwards. Along with these books are an equally
impressive amount of relics and items of magical interest. The wisdom of Castle Oxenford dwarfs the
knowledge contained within the walls of your
The two hurried
along the path and finally approached the castle gates. Tolkien was in awe at the immense size of
Castle Oxenford. It was beyond anything
Tolkien had ever imagined possible.
Despite this, he felt strangely comfortable in the presence of the
castle. He was reminded of the day he
moved into
Library at http://www.cwrl.utexas.edu/~bump/oxford/Magdalen/library.jpg
[22]
“Please explain to me again why I am here,” Tolkien asked as his mind struggled to follow his body’s trip into Faerie.
“Men, they always need to know,” Gaiman said. “They can never accept that something just is. We must hurry if we are to save any of the wisdom of Castle Oxenford.”
Gaiman grabbed Professor Tolkien by the arm and dragged him through the gates and into the castle. They traveled along numerous corridors of the castle. Tolkien tried to keep track of how many doors they went through and how many turns they made but lost count after the first seventy. Tolkien did not dare to guess how long they traveled through the dark corridors of Castle Oxenford. It could have easily been an eternity, because in the realm of Faerie, time is not required to progress in constant, forward motion. Time, like many other concepts, is solely dependent on the observer’s point of view. To an observer in Faerie, time could even progress in a backwards manner.
They suddenly stopped in the middle of one of the corridors and entered a door similar to the thousands they had already passed. Stepping into the room, Tolkien was immediately taken aback by its immense size. He looked ahead to see an endless number of bookcases extending to his left. Gaiman again grabbed Tolkien’s arm and continued onward past the many bookcases. When they passed these bookcases, Tolkien looked down the aisles to find that the bookcases extended as far as the eye could see. He then glanced up to find that he could not see the tops of the bookcases or even a ceiling to this room.
Gaiman eventually
directed Tolkien down one of the many aisles.
They passed a multitude of books in a variety of conditions. Some were like the leather-bound manuscripts
Tolkien had seen many times before in the
For no apparent reason Gaiman stopped. After a moment of stillness he slowly turned around and said, “We are here.”
“Listen closely now,” Gaiman continued, “because I only have time to tell you this once. Many ages ago the realm of Men and the realm of Faerie were one. Men coexisted with elves and many other creatures in one world. An evil force came into this world that threatened the coexistence. Men and elves joined together and defeated this great evil with the help of many other races. After evil left their world, elves and men grew further apart because there was nothing to bring them together. After many ages without the contact of elves and other magical creatures, men faded into a different world. This world did not depend on magic. Instead, men learned to live off of their own invent-”
Gaiman was cut off by a sudden jolt of the ground. The earth continued to shake as books starting fall off of the shelves and into the aisle. Tolkien couldn’t bear what was happening as he thought about the thousands of fragile, ancient books that were being destroyed as he stood there and received a brief lecture on the history of older worlds.
“Don’t worry about the books,” Gaiman said knowingly. He took one small, red book off of the shelf and held it in his hands. “This book is the most important and the only one that needs be saved. The rest of the books are already known by humans, but they will only be remembered if this book survives.”
“What do you mean by that?” Professor Tolkien asked.
“Even though our worlds are no longer one,” Gaiman said with increasing intensity, “they still have great influence on each other. The rest of these stories exist in the unconscious minds of the human race waiting to be discovered. All that is needed is one person to make known the greatest story ever told. Then men will remember. I picked you for this task, Professor Tolkien, because I have seen how you understand a story. While the other men treated Beowulf, a story from Faerie, as a historical document to be studied and analyzed, you recognized its value as a story to be shared. You realized how Beowulf could affect the minds of men. You were the one who recognized that the story of Beowulf is the foundation English literature. Only a man who understands the magic of storytelling like you do could wrest Beowulf away from the hands of historians and philologists and elevate it to the height English literature.[23] Your Atlantis dream, for example, is not just any dream. It is the memory of your ancient past waiting to be told. Now please, tell the story in this book I give to you. Then men will remember. They will remember to tell the stories that pass through their heads as dreams. These dreams are more than just dreams. They are memories of the past passed down through the ages, waiting to be told.”
A loud crashing sound was heard. At the very end of Tolkien’s sight, he could see bookcases crashing into one another. It would be only a matter of moments before the falling wave of books reached their position. Gaiman reacted quickly to the situation by giving the red book to Professor Tolkien and taking the knife from the professor’s belt. He shouted to Tolkien, “Our two worlds are one once again!” Within moments, the enchantment wore off. Tolkien began to fade from the great room of books he was just in. He could see his desk, his journal. He also could still see Castle Oxenford in the distance. He saw a great, green wave heading towards the castle and his position, like he had already seen many times before in his dreams. It hit the castle violently and rushed over him.
The next moment, Tolkien opened his eyes to the familiar sight of his office. He was gasping for breath as if he had recently escaped the depths of a drowning water. The stove was still burning and the journal remained on his desk with ink soaked pages. He collected himself and pushed the journal aside. Tolkien focused his attention on the book he received from Gaiman’s library at Castle Oxenford. The red book sat on his desk and had the presence of an ancient, magical object. Tolkien nervously opened the old leather-bound book to its title page. In some of the most elegant script he had ever seen, he read the title, The Red Book of Westmarch. Underneath the title was what appeared to be the author’s name, Bilbo Baggins, and another note: “Copy made by Findegil, Scribe of Gondor.”[24]
The Red Book of Westmarch http://www.mock.ws/images/icons/lotr/128x128/the_red_book_of_westmarch.gif
[25]
Professor Tolkien sat down, amazed at what he had in front of him. He read through The Red Book of Westmarch for many hours that night. Tolkien realized that this was not just the story of a forgotten past. It was a story written in the mythology he had been creating for many years now. This was the one story that could unite his other fragments into a grand mythology.
Author’s Note
I, like many people, have become fascinated with Tolkien and his writings. He has been criticized by many for the escapist tendencies in his writings. I think that his escapist tendencies combined with his penchant for (sub)creating an “inner consistency of reality”[27] are precisely what make his stories so captivating. Tolkien’s biographer described him as a wanderer caught between two worlds. He has shared these wanderings with us through his stories and graciously allowed us to take part in his discoveries.
Lord of the Rings is mainly held with such high esteem because it is a fully created world, complete with its own history and part of a greater mythology. Even though Lord of the Rings is a fully realized world, its strength may lay in the fact that it leaves so much untold, unexplained for the reader to consider, to dream about. Too often in our world we possess a desire to know something fully, to, as Robert Heinlein would say, grok.[28] Tolkien rejected this notion: “I would draw some of the great tales in fullness, and leave many only placed in the scheme, and sketched. The cycles should be linked to a majestic whole, and yet leave scope for other minds and hands.”[29] In a letter to his son, Tolkien wrote: “A story must be told or there’ll be no story, yet it is the untold stories that are the most moving. I think you are moved by [the story] because it conveys a sudden sense of endless untold stories: mountains seen far away, never to be climbed, distant trees never to be approached.”[30]
I personally feel such a strong connection to Professor Tolkien and his writings because they seem to create something real – even more real than my own life at times. At the same time, they remind me to cherish the life I still have ahead of me as something unique, precious and real. I have never read any other literature that is as simultaneously exhilarating, frightful and consoling as are the writings of John Ronald Reuel Tolkien. He reminds me that there is still joy to be found in this postmodern, Fallen world.
Thank you, Professor Tolkien, for sharing your stories with us. More importantly, thank you for reminding us that there are so many more stories left to be told, so many more orcs still to be fought, so many more fellowships to be created and so many more Rings to be destroyed. You have left space for us to continue your work with our own minds and hands, and at the same time, inspired us with its completeness.
Word Count: 4,073
https://webspace.utexas.edu/twl222/web/P2B.html