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.
