Among the Elves and the Orcs -- #Tolkien #adolescence #magic

Image by Prawny from Pixabay

By Lisabet Sarai

I spent a significant part of my adolescence in Middle Earth.

When did I first read the Lord of the Rings trilogy? I suspect that I first encountered Tolkien when I was twelve or thirteen, a socially awkward, intellectually precocious kid whose primary pleasure was to lose myself in fiction. The Hobbit charmed but didn’t excite me. The epic trilogy, in contrast, drew me deep into its magical realms. I read the three volumes multiple times during my teens. The geography of Middle Earth were almost as familiar to me as my home town. I had dreams set in Tolkien’s world. I painted its landscapes, recited its verse and sang its songs.

My high school senior honors thesis was entitled “Middle Earth as Macrocosm: Operation of a Chain of Being in The Lord of the Rings”. This paper begins:

“The Great River Anduin is born far up in the north, amid the tumbled ruggedness of Ered Mithrin, the Grey Mountains; it courses southward between Mirkwood and the Misty Mountains, cascades over the golden falls of Rauros, flows with regal dignity past the city of Gondor and finally pours itself through a hundred mouths into the Bay of Belfalas. To the east lie the desolate plains of Rhovanion and Rhûn, and the black land of Mordor, fenced by the perilous crags of the Ash Mountains and Mountains of Shadow, Ered Lithui and Ephel Dúath. Westward, across the mountain backbone, rolling reaches of Eriador stretch in leagues of grey-green to the Gulf of Lune and the Grey Havens. Beyond, there is only the Sea, vast and deep, separating from familiar lands these hills and moors of Middle Earth.” (*Lisabet Sarai, 1970)

I don’t recall any of this geography now, but at the time, I could have drawn you a map and guided you along the paths taken by the Fellowship of the Ring in its quest to destroy the perilous One Ring of power by unmaking it in the volcanic fires where it had been forged.

You might very well have found my obsession boring.

Why did Middle Earth have such a hold on me? When I skim through the pages now, the prose seems a bit stiff and pendantic, and the tale has lost some of its thrill. Of course, this is partly because Tolkien’s masterwork established high fantasy as a popular genre. Now elves and orcs, wizards and dwarves have become familiar and commonplace. First books are like first lovers; they make a strong impression.

One reason I enjoyed Middle Earth, I think, was the subtlety and imperfection of its magic. In Tolkien’s universe, various races and creatures have special powers, but no one, not even the Dark Lord himself, is invincible. Strands of magic weave through the story, sometimes turning the tide at a critical moment, sometimes not. Magic is not reliable; thus when it does emerge, this enhances the wonder. Furthermore, magic follows the laws and limits of the universe. In Tolkien’s Middle Earth, magic is part of nature, not outside it.

A world in which magic can surmount any problem is simply uninteresting. One problem I’ve had with many subsequent “high fantasy” tales I’ve read is that the characters are too powerful. (I have a similar criticism of some science fiction as well.)

The characters in The Lord of the Rings are engaged in both a physical and a moral struggle. The latter is far more intriguing. While Tolkien’s characterization is far less nuanced and complex than in George R. R. Martin’s Westeros (my most recently discovered magical realm!), even the great heroic figures have their weaknesses. The Fellowship sets out unified in its purpose, but gradually disintegrates as its members choose personal or racial priorities over their common goal. Even Frodo, the good-natured and unassuming hobbit charged with bearing the Ring, at the final moment yields to the temptation to keep rather than discard it. Only a satisfying twist of fate very much like karma saves the quest despite Frodo’s moral failure.

I feel as though I’ve outgrown The Lord of the Rings, but my time in that magical realm had a huge influence on me. On the other hand, my own paranormal tales tend to be set in worlds only slightly different from our own. Indeed, I’ve tended to take the notion of minimalist magic much further than Tolkien. Still, I try to evoke the same sense of wonder, though I doubt I’ll ever succeed with such brilliance.

“All the world, the land and the waters, the skies above, the sun and the stars, the Elizabethans called the ‘macrocosm’. The term has a profound significance lacking in the word ‘universe’; it automatically implies the existence of order, of a pattern and a plan. A universe may be absurd, meaningless, an existential ‘neant’, but a macrocosm can never be.

“Middle Earth is a macrocosm, organized as the Elizabethan one was, according to a great chain of being. From the Iron Hills in the north to the hot deserts of Haradwaith – from the inland Sea of Rhûn to the westermost tip of the Forlindon peninsual – throughout Middle Earth, all creatures on all levels obey and reverence laws. It is only the evil ones who strive to upset the marvelous and intricate balance of divine order.” (*Lisabet Sarai, 1970)

* Not, of course, the name under which this paper was submitted.