Concerning the power of language
and the craft of fiction
Language and Myth in the
Fantasy Writings of J. R. R. Tolkien
William Provost
THE PAST FEW years have shown some
waning in the exceptional popularity of J.
R. R. Tolkien’s fantasy writings, but the
“Tolkien phenomenon” is a clearly
established fact of modern literary history.
I am certain that his works will be read
and studied for many decades and even
more certain that they are deserving of
such reading and study. In this essay I
would like to examine one particular
feature of his work which, 1 believe, is an
important element of its popularity and
significance: the function of and the relationship between language and myth in
those writings.
Many scholars have written on the topic
of myth in Tolkien’s works, most often
from the approach of finding sources for
various motifs he uses.l I am here interested not so much in specific myths as
sources or analogues, as in a more elemental idea of the mythic component of
the works, and hence I shall begin with an
elemental idea about myth. Professor
Stephen J. Tonsor has provided several
clear, succinct statements relating to the
idea I shall use as a starting point.
It is precisely because religion and myth accomplish the ordering of experience, particularly in the moment of crisis when we confront life’s border situations with a sense of
anomie and loss of reality and identity that
mythic thinking in its great variety has reappeared with some intensity in the Western world at the present time. The great cultural and civilizational crises of our times
have driven the human spirit back to the
basic ordering patterns of archaic man2
Many such “basic ordering patterns” exist, and I suspect that one or more constitute the deep structure of most works of
literature. Some, though, are more “transparent,” Le., more illuminative of the
essential truths of the soul, than others.
These are the most vital, the most moving,
and the most enduring. Ultimately, two
kinds stand out, and the radical difference
between them is, I believe, the real focus
of Tolkien’s work. As Tonsor says:
In Judaism and Christianity particularly as
well as in classical mythology and philosophy, the power of God is embedded in a
matrix of complementary qualities: love,
justice, and harmony. It might, indeed, be
argued that there are two great categories
of myth: the myths of power and the myths
of love. The myths of power which symbolize the divine in terms of overmastering and
unloving power are extremely common. It
is both easy and tempting to separate the
power of God from the love of God. To appropriate power without appropriating love
is the ambition of every magician, of nearly
every technician and all but a few politicians. . . .
When the mythical deals with the power
of the Gods as separate and distinct from
love, that power always has a demonic
dimension. Satan is power and the quest for
power is always Satanic in ~ h a r a c t e r . ~
Tolkien understood myth in this senseI4
and he understood that the ultimate, radical opposition existing in creation is between that which the myths of love affirm
and that which the myths of power (or,
more specifically, power divorced from
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L
love) proclaim. His fantasy writings
develop in a deliberate, consistent, and
sophisticated way both of these categories
of myth.5 From the beginning of the history of Middle-earth we find that conflict
which for all its variety of detail and of individual antagonists is the same conflict
oughly professional philologist, and I
suspect that he saw no radical distinction
between the kind of thing he did in his fiction and the kind of thing he did in his
scholarship. Certainly the influence of
scholarship on fiction is evident, where
much of the richness of texture comes
from the amazingly extensive and consistent linguistic detail he adorns the stories
with.
Language, however, does more than
adorn the stories; it appears in two distinct
forms, good and evil, and the distinction is
precisely that which is found at the heart
of the great mythic conflict. Evil language
is the language of power, of power used to
persuade or force a free creature into
some predetermined pattern; it is the language of hypocrisy and of perversion.
Good language is the language of true being, accepting the freedom and realness of
all creation; it is the language of celebration, praising, at least by implication, the
pattern of what is. By nature that pattern
is not one into which any creature can be
forced, but rather one whose harmony
any free creature can participate in by affirming rather than denying existence.
Two passages near the beginning of The
Lord of the Rings will nicely illustrate
some of the basic differences between the
opposing forms of language. Frodo and his
companions are just beginning their journey when they are pursued by a.Black
Rider, who then retreats when Elvish
voices are heard on the evening air.
The singing drew nearer. One clear voice
rose now above the others. It was singing in
the fair Elven-tongue, of which Frodo knew
only a little, and the others knew nothing.
Yet the sound blending with the melody
seemed to shape itself in their thought into
words which they only partly understood.
This was the song as Frodo heard it: “Snowwhite! Snow-white! 0 Lady clear!. . .”7
The hobbits are protected by the Elves
that night, and the next day they leave the
road and cut across country in an effort to
avoid further contact with the ominous
Black Riders. When they stop to rest, Sam
and Pippin begin singing a simple hobbit
song.
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They stopped short suddenly. Frodo sprang
to his feet. A long-drawn wail came down
the wind, like the cry of some evil and lonely creature. It rose and fell, and ended on a
high piercing note. Even as they sat and
stood, as if suddenly frozen, it was answered
by another cry, fainter and further off, but
no less chilling to the blood. . . . “And what
do you think that was?’ Pippin asked at last,
trying to speak lightly, but quavering a little.
. . . “It was not bird or beast,” said Frodo. “It
was a call, or a signal-there were words in
that cry, though 1 could not catch them. But
no hobbit has such a voice.” (I, 131)
The cries come, of course, from two Black
Riders and the language, we learn later, is
the Black Speech of Mordor, an extreme
example of the language of power.
The Elven-tongue and the Black Speech
differ obviously and significantly from
each other. The one is “fair,” and its sound
“blend[s] with the melody” suggesting a
natural, harmonious relationship. The
other, though heard from a greater distance, has a frightening, powerful effect
on the hobbits; it is totally alien to the
natural harmony of the hobbits and the
Shire (the harmony suggested by the simple hobbit song), and is characterized as
“piercing,” “evil,” and “lonely.” Neither is
a language the hobbits know, but communication takes place nonetheless,
though in different ways. The Elventongue “shapes itself” within the minds of
the hobbits. This is, no doubt, linguistically
unrealistic (as Tolkien knew full well), but
it is the way, ideally (or mythically perhaps), that good language ought to work:
directly, simply, naturally. The Black
Speech, on the other hand, freezes; it
chills the blood. Its words do not shape
themselves, but rather they forcefully pervert the simple ease and naturalness of the
hobbits and their song into something
else, an attitude of abject fear.
Two other passages from The Lord of
the Rings, containing actual examples of
the languages, further illustrate the differences between Elvish and the Black
Speech. The first occurs with Gandalf
speaking at the Council of Elrond, trying
to convince those present that the ring
Frodo bears is indeed the One Ring of the
evil Sauron. This passage is especially
noteworthy since it is the only instance of
a good character using the Black Speech,
and is the longest passage of that language
we have. Gandalf says,
“Upon this very ring . . . the letters that
lsildur reported may still be read, if one has
the strength of will to set the golden thing in
the fire a while. That 1 have done, and this I
have read:
Ash nazg durbatuluk, ash nazg girnbatul,
ash nazg thrakatuluk agh burzurn-ishi
krirnpatul!”
The change in the wizard’s voice was astounding. Suddenly it became menacing,
powerful, harsh as stone. A shadow seemed
to pass over the high sun, and the porch for
a moment grew dark. All trembled, and the
Elves stopped their ears. (I, 333)
The harsh quality of the language, evident
to the eye as well as the ear, is highly suggestive of its nature, but the effect the language has is even more indicative. The
very voice that uses it becomes menacing
and powerful, the light of the sun is blotted
out,8 and the listeners are affected much
as the hobbits had earlier been. The language itself does things, in a harsh,
destructive way.
The High-elven tongue is totally different. Galadriel, the Elven queen, sings a
farewell as Frodo and his companions
leave her refuge for the last stage of their
quest.
Then it seemed to Frodo that she lifted her
arms in a final farewell, and far but piercingclear on the following wind came the sound
of her voice singing. But now she sang in
the ancient tongue of the Elves beyond the
Sea, and he did not understand the words:
fair was the music, but it did not comfort
him.
Yet as is the way of Elvish words, they remained graven in his memory, and long
afterwards he interpreted them, as well as
he could: the language was that of Elvensong and spoke of things little known on
Middle-earth.
Ai! laurie lantar lassi surinen!
Yeni unotime ve ramar aldaron,
yeni ve linte yuldar vanier
mi oromardi lisse-miruvoreva
Andune pella Vardo tellumar
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nu luini yassen tintilar i eleni
omaryo airetari-lirinen. . . . (I, 488-89)
The liquid quality of this language is in
sharp contrast with the phonology of the
Black Speech, but again it is the effect that
is most significant in illuminating the
mythic conflict. Here, too, there is a kind
of power, but it is not a forcing or compelling sort; rather it is the power inherent in
the true nature of things, a derivative of
their loving creation, which loving creation the singer accepts and celebrates. Not
particularly comforting to Frodo because
it speaks of the sadness, the lucrimue
rerum, that is an integral part of the fabric
of creation once evil has entered, it nonetheless accepts the sadness, affirming the
truth that is in it. The words of this language do not do things to their hearers,
but remain graven in the memory: a sign I
take it of their realness, their truth.
1 have said that the effect of Tolkien’s
fiction does not depend primarily on a subtle examination of the relatedness of good
and evil; the existence of such relatedness,
however, is dealt with if not subtly certainly effectively in connection with language.
The Black Speech is, as we have seen, an
extreme example of evil language. There
are other examples, less absolute but significant. In the Appendix to The Lord of
the Rings, Tolkien (or rather his persona,
the translator of the Red Book) speaks of
the perversion of the Common Speech of
the West effected by various servants of
Sauron, particularly Orcs and Trolls.
The Orcs were first bred by the Dark Power
of the North in the Elder Days. It is said that
they had no language of their own, but took
what they could of other tongues and perverted it to their own liking; yet they made
only brutal jargons, scarcely sufficient even
for their own needs, unless it were for
curses and abuse. (Ill, 51 1)
But Orcs and Trolls spoke as they would,
without love of words or things; and their
language was actually more degraded and
filthy than I have shown it. I do not suppose
that any will wish for a closer rendering,
though models are easy to find. Much of the
same sort of talk can still be heard among
the orc-minded; dreary and repetitive with
hatred and contempt, too long removed
from good to retain even verbal vigour,
save in the ears of those to whom only the
squalid sounds strong. (3, 514)
Another interesting example of good
language becoming evil is seen in the
speechgof the fallen but not yet totally lost
character, Saruman. His is neither the
Black Speech nor the orcish perversion of
Westron, but simply language bent to an
evil use. As neatly as any element in the
fiction, it represents the point just beyond
the separation of power from love. It
shows skill, craft, and rhetoric used to
sway others to the will of the speaker.
Suddenly another voice spoke, low and
melodious, its very sound an enchantment.
Those who listened unwarily to that voice
could seldom report the words that they
heard; and if they did, they wondered, for
little power remained in them. Mostly they
remembered only that it was a delight to
hear. . . . For some the spell lasted only
while the voice spoke to them, and when it
spoke to another they smiled, as men do
who see through a juggler’s trick while
others gape at it. For many the sound of the
voice alone was enough to hold them enthralled; but for those whom it conquered
the spell endured when they were far away,
and ever they heard that soft voice whispering and urging them. But none were unmoved; none rejected its pleas and its commands without an effort of mind and will, so
long as its master had control of it. (11, 234)
Saruman tries to sway first Theoden,
then Eomer, and finally Gandalf himself.
Analyzed from the cold objectivity of the
printed page, it is easy to see the devices
of false rhetoric, of flattery, and of simple
hypocrisy that are the stuff of his speech.
It is elegantly used language, but empty
and false: language torn from its true link
with reality to serve the ends of a powerful being who is striving to make himself
the ultimate ground of being, the only
reality. Saruman, like the far greater and
more dangerous Sauron, is finally seen in
his language, as in all else, to be a gnostic,
a powerful magician who would use his
immense knowledge to destroy what is,
replacing it with himself. The lie that the
gnostic adept fabricates and attempts to
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force the rest of creation into is perhaps
more clearly seen in this lesser magus,
whose fabrication is still relatively incomplete, than it is in the greater. Yet the relation of Saruman’s smooth speech to the
brazen power of the Black Speech is evident. When his advances to Theoden are
rejected by that kindly old king, Saruman
momentarily loses control and his language shows its real nature:
“Gibbets and crows!” he hissed, and they
shuddered at the hideous change. “Dotard!
What is the house of Eorl but a thatched
barn where brigands drink in the reek, and
their brats roll on the floor among the dogs.
Too long have they escaped the gibbet
themselves. But the noose comes, slow in
the drawing, tight and hard in the end.
Hang if you will!” (11, 237)
Finally, when Gandalf places the truth of
the only choice actually remaining to him
before Saruman-to give up his delusions,
change sides, and join the free peoples
against Sauron-the
false wizard’s
response is non-verbal and in itself a
graphic indication of the final emptiness of
his language: “With a cry Saruman fell
back and crawled away.” (11, 241)
Good language, like evil, also exists in
various forms, of which the High-elven we
have seen is the extreme. A look at some
other examples will help characterize it
more fully, and also help to define the
mythic conflict of which that language is
such a formative element.
All good characters in Tolkien’s fiction
love language. They delight in its use,
whether that involves listening to, composing, or reciting poems and songs on the
deeds of ancient heroes or the pleasures of
a hot bath, or whether it involves an ordinary chat. When we first meet Bilbo Baggins, for example, we hear him inviting
Gandalf, whom he believes to be just a
stranger passing on the road, to join him
in a smoke and a morning’s conversation.l0 He has heard of Gandalf and when
he discovers that that is who the stranger
is, he responds with the following enthusiastic outburst, and in so doing shows a
typical hobbit’s love of language:
Gandalf, Gandalf! Good gracious me! Not
the wandering wizard that gave Old Took a
pair of magic diamond studs that fastened
themselves and never came undone till
ordered? Not the fellow who used to tell
such wonderful tales at parties, about
dragons and goblins and giants and the
rescue of princesses and the unexpected
luck of widows’ sons? Not the man that used
to make such particularly excellent fireworks! I remember those! Old Took used to
have them on Midsummer’s Eve. Splendid!
They used to go up like great lilies and snapdragons and laburnums of fire and hang in
the twilight all evening! (Hobb., 13)
It would be wrong to try to derive any
profound meaning or myth from this
delightful little passage, but several of its
features can at least be noted briefly.
Things-flowers, fireworks, summer evenings, diamond studs-are appreciated,
perhaps even celebrated. They are worth
talking about and remembering, simply
because they are what they are. And they
are worth talking about well. The simple,
effective rhetoric of Bilbo’s speech with its
pleasing use of anaphora, gradatio, alliteration, and simile is in sharp contrast with,
for example, Saruman’shypocritical use of
similar rhetorical devices to compel the
will of others.
A closely related feature of good language can be illustrated even more clearly
in the speech of a character vastly different from Bilbo: Treebeard, or Fangorn,
the Ent. “Old Entish” as Tolkien refers to it
in a little scholarly joke, seems to be an example of what used to be called an incorporative language, one in which many discrete sentence elements (discrete that is in
the grammatical presuppositions of, say,
an English speaker) are merged into single
words.11 When Treebeard is speaking with
Merry and Pippin, in their language, he
momentarily forgets the word for “this,
a-lalla-lalla-rumba-karnanda-lind-orburume. Excuse me: that is a part of my
name for it; 1 do not know what the word
is in the outside languages: you know, the
thing we are on, where I stand and look
out on fine mornings, and think about the
Sun, and the grass beyond the wood, and
the horses, and the clouds, and the unfold-
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ing of the world.” (LOTR 11, 86) Merry suggests the word hill, and Treebeard says,
“Hill. Yes, that was it. But it is a hasty
word for a thing that has stood here ever
since this part of the world was shaped.”
(11, 87)
The point I find interesting is the close,
accepting, vital relationship between this
language and the reality it derives from.
The importance and sacredness of the
naming power of language is, of course,
common to many cultures and mythologies, but in his particular adaptation of
that common idea Tolkien seems to take
special care to make clear that the true
power of a name is not a power of force or
control or magic; it is simply the power of
the essence of the thing itself. As with the
“Old Entish,” another of Tolkien’s languages, that of Rohan, is beloved of its
users and has a living relationship to its
environment. On hearing it for the first
time, Legolas the Elf says, “That, I guess, is
the language of the Rohirrim . . . for it is
like to this land itself; rich and rolling in
part, and else hard and stern as the mountains. But I cannot guess what it means,
save that it is laden with the sadness of
Mortal Men.” (LOTR 11, 142) Throughout
Tolkien’s fiction good language celebrates
the sacredness of creation, and it is thereby a means-perhaps almost sacramental,
certainly loving-of the speaker’s and the
hearer’s taking part in that celebration.1z
Thus far in considering the differences
between good and evil language I have
focused on specific languages-Elvish, the
Black Speech, Entish, etc.-for the most
part in their spoken (or written) forms.
Another mode of language is also of great
significance in Tolkien’s fiction and to my
thesis: the mode of song.13 Song is used all
but invariably as a constituent of the myth
of love, as would be expected given the
special characteristics of this mode.
Figures of speech and imagery, for example, are non-discursive representations of
the realness, the trueness of what is; meter
imitates and ultimately derives from the
harmony of the overall plan of creation;
beauty, the special province of song, is, as
the poet says, truth. Because of such char-
acteristics, it would seem that the perversion of songs to evil would be a harder
thing to accomplish than the perversion of
ordinary speech; harder, but not impossible, and hence the very few examples of
“bad” song in Tolkien’s fiction are of
special interest.
Orcs or goblins are the foot soldiers of
the evil forces, and in The Lord of the
Rings they never sing. In The Hobbit they
do twice, and each time both the words of
the song and the introduction to it emphasize its perverted nature.
The goblins began to sing, or croak, keeping
time with the flap of their flat feet on the
stone, and shaking their prisoners as well.
Clap! Snap! the black crack!
Grip, grab! Pinch, nab!
And down to Goblin-town
You go, my lad!
Clash, crash! Crush, smash!
Hammer and tongs! Knocker and gongs!
Pound, pound, far underground!
Ho, ho! my lad!
(Hobb., 71)
The prisoners (Bilbo and the dwarves)
escape only to be caught again shortly in
an even worse situation, and again the
goblins sing. This time it is “a horrible
song”: ’
Burn, burn tree and fern!
Shrivel and scorch! A fizzling torch
To light the night for our delight,
Ya hey!
Bake and toast ‘em, fry and roast ‘em!
till beards blaze, and eyes glaze;
till hair smells and skins crack,
fat melts, and bones black
in cinders lie
beneath the sky!
So dwarves shall die,
and light the night for our delight.
(Hobb., 116)
In The Lord of the Rings, the few songs
of evil or evil-tending characters are similarly perverted. Old Man Willow captures
the hobbits by “singing about sleep,” lulling them into a somnolence that Sam
recognizes as “uncanny.” (1, 165) He
would have killed them had not Tom
Bombadil’s song been a “stronger song.”
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Gollum sings once. Leading the hobbits
into the Dead Marshes,
He seemed greatly delighted . . . sometimes
even croaking in a sort of song.
The cold hard lands
they bite our hands,
they gnaws our feet.
The rocks and stones
are like old bones
all bare of meat . . . (11, 287-88)
The only other evil song is that of the
Barrow-wight, the ghoul-like being that
dwells in the ancient burial mounds. His is
the most chilling, and the clearest perversion of true song in the work.
Suddenly a song began: a cold murmur, rising and falling. The voice seemed far away
and immeasurably dreary, sometimes high
in the air and thin, sometimes like a low
moan from the ground. Out of the formless
stream of sad but horrible sounds, strings of
words would now and again shape themselves: grim, hard, cold words, heartless and
miserable. The night was railing against the
morning of which it was bereaved, and the
cold was cursing the warmth for which it
hungered. . . .
Cold be hand and heart and bone,
and cold be sleep under stone:
never more to wake on stony bed,
never, till the Sun fails and the Moon
is dead.
And still on gold here, let them lie,
In the black wind the stars shall die,
till the dark lord lifts his hand
over dead sea and withered land.
(I, 194-95)
Here, even in the English “translation”
the narrator provides us with, reading the
song aloud one time reveals its discordant,
disharmonious quality. This song or incantation has precisely the sort of loveless
power, casting a deadly spell over the
hobbits, that is associated with all evil language and by extension with the myth of
power central to the work. In place of
meter and intonation it has a “formless”
alternation of sounds, “sometimes high in
the air and thin, sometimes like a low
moan”; its figurative language and imagery is “grim, hard, cold words”; its
similes, the perverse linking of night and
morning, cold and warmth; its “beauty,”
the evocation of death and ultimate
destruction. The theme of this song, as of
all the evil songs, is the forced enslavement of the minds and/or bodies of free
creatures to the will of another.
True or good songs in Tolkien’s fiction
serve many particular functions, but they
all have in common the element of celebration. Whether the particular song is
grand and formal, as at the house of
Elrond where “sweet syllables of the elvish song fell like clear jewels of blended
word and melody”; simple and homely, as
Pippin’s in praise of a hot bath; comic, as
Sam’s “Troll Song”; or solitary and grieffilled, as Sam’s “In western lands beneath
the Sun”; song praises the sacredness of
what is, rejoicing in simple existence even
if the rejoicing includes grief at loss of a
good thing. The nature of song is most
clearly seen in its effects, which are invariably wholesome, and at times even
salvific. The “Troll Song,” for example,
helps give Frodo the strength to carry on
when he has been gravely wounded by a
Black Rider.
Later in the quest, when Frodo, Sam,
and Gollum have come to the very gates
of Mordor and have been overwhelmed at
the sight, becoming in their own minds
“little squeaking ghosts that wandered
among the ash heaps of the Dark Lord,”
Sam is again inspired and his simple hobbit poem restores Frodo: “Frodo stood up.
He had laughed in the midst of all his cares
when Sam trotted out the old fireside
rhyme of Oliphaunt, and the laugh had
released him from hesitation.” (LOTR 11,
323) One final example of this sort is the
most significant; it again involves Sam,
though this time he does not sing or recite,
but merely refers to song. Alone in the
high, cold pass of Cirith Ungol, Frodo and
Sam speak of their hopeless situation, and
Sam in his untutored but perceptive way
muses over the connection between the
ancient songs which preserve the stories
of heroes he loves, and his and Frodo’s
present “real-life’’situation. A link is made
clear between the mythic deeds of the
past and the deeds of the present story
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(and by extension between the deeds we
ourselves are reading of and our own
stories). Sam says:
exist (and are allowed to exist) within their
realm, to bringing the rain, to setting the
supper table.
Beren now, he never thought he was going
to get that Silmaril from the Iron Crown in
Thangorodrim, and yet he did, and that was
a worse place and a blacker danger than
ours. But that’s a long tale, of course, and
goes on past the happiness and into grief
and beyond it-and the Silmaril went on
and came to Earendil. And why, sir, I never
thought of that before! We’ve got-you’ve
got some of the light of it in that star-glass
that the Lady gave you! Why, to think of it,
we’re in the same tale still! It’s going on.
Don’t the great tales never end?
Then Tom and Coldberry set the table; and
the hobbits sat half in wonder and half in
laughter: so fair was the grace of Goldberry
and so merry and odd the caperings of Tom.
Yet in some fashion they seemed to weave a
single dance, neither hindering the other, in
and out of the room, and round about the
table. (I, 183)
(11, 408)
The passage this comes from is deeply
moving and highly significant in many
ways, but for the present we need merely
note that even though Sam is simply talking about, not actually performing the ancient mythic songs, the effect is salvific.
“(Frodo] laughed, a long clear laugh from
his heart. Such a sound had not been
heard in those places since Sauron came
to Middle-earth.’’ (11, 408)
Before concluding with the most elemental use of song as constituent of the
myth of love, from the beginning of The
Silrnarillion, I would like to glance for a
moment at one other singing character
from The Lord of the Rings: Tom Bombadil. Tom is one of the most puzzling
characters in all of Tolkien’s
but
one feature that is perfectly clear about
him is that his very mode of existence is
song. In his house, “The guests became
suddenly aware that they were singing
merrily, as if it was easier and more
natural than talking.” (I, 175) Tom and his
consort Goldberry seem somehow to be
elementally male and female, earth and
water, Master and Lady, and they exercise
control within their realm, though it is not
the control of ownership, but more like
that of stewardship. Song, and its counterpart dance, are the means through which
the control is maintained, and accordingly
it is control of total harmony, health, and
beauty. It ranges from the occasionally
necessary limitings of the evil forces that
The Bombadil episode is the part of the
entire work that is most redolent of good
language, of song bordering on pure
myth. We learn that if the Dark Lord finally regains the One Ring and conquers,
even Tom and Goldberry will fall, but for
the present even the Ring’s awful, perverting power is held in check, and in the
lightsome, sweet, subtly sexual realm of
these two we see an intense illumination
of the truth of the myth of love. It is quite
appropriate that song is the very heart
and soul of this realm.
Myth speaks of the nature of reality, and
perhaps the two most intriguing elements
of that nature which myth can illuminate
are those of existence as we know it in the
space-time continuum, and the presence
within existence of evil. The beginning,
the radical act of creation, and the subsequent introduction of evil into it are thus
the focus of many myths, including those
which Tolkien embodies in his works. Tolkien’s creation and fall myths are presented most explicitly and fully in the
“Ainulindale” or “Music of the Ainur,”
which is the first selection of The Silmarillion.l5 As its title indicates, good language,
music and song, is an essential element of
this myth. In the “Ainulindale” we see the
language of love still wedded to the language of power, truly real, truly creative;
and we see the beginning of the great
divorce between love and power.
God, called Eru or Iluvatar, “The One,”
is. He is the one true source, end, and
reason of all being.16 From the thought of
Eru spring the Ainur, the demiurges or
angels who take part in and advance the
great song of creation, the musical themes
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that Eru propounds to them. They sing
before His throne, more and more harmoniously as they learn and develop His
great theme. Their song is the primal song
of power and love and becomes a real part
of the creative act.
Then the voices of the Ainur, like unto
harps and lutes, and pipes and trumpets,
and viols and organs, and like unto countless choirs singing with words, began to
fashion the theme of lluvatar to a great
music; . . . and the music and the echo of the
music went out into the Void, and it was not
void.”
Song, the best language, is the very
mode and process of creation, being first a
musical theme propounded by the
Creator, then actual music fashioned into
being by the demiurges. But the realness
and trueness of this creation means the
realness and trueness of the demiurges
and their language, their singing. And
realness, it seems, implies (even depends
on?) will, a choice between one thing and
another, and thus the potential for discord
is implied almost from the first, by the
realness of the harmony of accord.
Melkor, the greatest of the demiurges,
seeks to expand “the power and glory of
the part assigned to himself.” (Si/.,
16) In
the beginning, though, even this seeking is
good; it comes because of Melkor’s eagerness to imitate the creativity of Eru,
because of his impatience of the Void and
his desire to fill it more quickly.
Eventually, however, Melkor’s desire
comes to be not for a hastening but for a
replacement of true creativity; it comes to
be a desire that he, Melkor, should possess
“the Imperishable Flame.” In Tolkien’s
work, this phrase seems to stand for being
itself and of itself; and this only Being Itself
Of ltself can have or impart. Melkor’s attempts in this direction, which bring discord to the song of the Ainur, evoke at
first only a smile from Eru, who “lifted up
his left hand, and a new theme began
amid the storm [i.e., the storm of Melkor’s
discord], like and yet unlike to the former
theme, and it gathered power and had
new beauty.” (Si/.,
16)Again Melkor introduces discord into the song, and again
Eru, this time with a stern look, begins a
new theme.
And it seemed at last that there were two
musics progressing at one time before the
seat of Iluvatar, and they were utterly at
variance. The one was deep and wide and
beautiful, but slow and blended with an immeasurable sorrow, from which its beauty
chiefly came. The other had now achieved a
unity of its own; but it was loud, and vain,
and endlessly repeated; and it had little harmony, but rather a clamorous unison as of
many trumpets braying upon a few notes.
And it essayed to drown the other music by
the violence of its voice, but it seemed that
its most triumphant notes were taken by the
other and woven into its own solemn pat16-17)
tern. (Si/.,
1 have ended by mostly quoting from
early pages of the “Ainulindale,” offering
relatively little explication. But of course,
that is the way with the most purely
mythic language; it cannot be explained
well apart from itself, unless one wants to
risk introducing into the clarity of the
theme the discordant braying of a Melkor.
But perhaps the point I am trying to make
can be summed up briefly without danger.
At the very beginning of all, the purest
form of language, song, is in Tolkien’s
work a central element for communicating the essential nature of creation, including within itself the appearance of evil.
Good language speaks forth the power of
primal creation itself, a power elementally
related by love to harmony, beauty, and
truth. It is the myth of love. Evil language
has power, but it is power specifically and
totally bereft of these qualities. It is vain,
discordant, a lie. Finally, it is nothingness.
The ongoing conflict between these two
myths is the world as we know it; it is the
great tale that never ends. Our part, as
free creatures, is to choose the myth we
would be part of, to sing the song of our
choice, to speak the language of love or
that of power. Tolkien’s great artistic rendering of the basic myth choice which is
the crux of existence uses language not
only as the stuff of which the art is crafted,
but also as an important constituent for illuminating the mythic pattern his art afSpring 1990
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firms and celebrates-and draws us into
with its own beauty. I believe that it is his
powerful and loving use of language in
both these ways which lies behind the a p
peal his work has for so many readers.
l
I
I
‘Lin Carter, Tolkien: A Look Behind The Lord of
the Rings (New York, 19691, and Ruth S. Noel in The
Mythology of Tolkien’s Middle-earth (Boston, 1979)
suggest sources from Germanic, Celtic. and other
mythologies for various elements of the fiction.
Timothy R. O’IVeill reads Tolkien in relation to
Jungian myth, and makes a much better case for his
ideas than one would expect, given the subject: The
hdiuiduated Hobbit (Boston, 1919). Jane Chance
Nitzche in Tolkienk Art: A Mythology for England
(New York, 1979) explores the ramifications of
Tolkien’s stated intention of creating a mythology
for the English people, and discusses relationships
between mythological elements in Old and Middle
English literature and Tolkien’s fantasy writings.
2“The Use and the Abuse of Myth,” The Intercollegiate Review, vol. 15 (Spring, 1980), p, 68. Tonsor,
“The Use and the Abuse of Myth,” pp, 70-71. 4The
best introduction to Tolkien‘s ideas on myth is found
in his essay “On Fairy Stories“ in The Toikien Reader
(New York. 1966), pp. 33-99, esp. pp. 45-57. Tolkein’s coileague and friend, C. S. Lewis, has a
complementary discussion of myth in a chapter entitled ”On Myth in An Experiment in Criticism (Cambridge, Eng,, 19611, pp. 40-49. Lewis makes brief
reference to The Lord of the Rings in his djscussion.
this essay I wilt refer specifically to the three major works of fantasy: The Lord oftheRings, The Hobbit, and The Silmarillion. The points I make are applicable, mutatis mutandi, to the other works of the
corpus: Leaf by Niggle, Smith of Wootton Major, The
Adventures of Tom Bombadil, Farmer Giles o f Ham,
The Road Goes Ever On, and Unfinished Tales. The
editions I will cite of the three major works are as
follows: The Lord of the Rings (New York, 19651, 3
vols.; The Hobbit (Boston, 1966); The Silmaritlion
(Boston, 1977). 6The fine biography of Tolkien by
Humphrey Carpenter, Tolkien (Boston, 1973, documents this interest clearly and convincingly. See
especially pp. 31-40, 87-108, and 131-52.Tolkien’s
essay “English and Welsh,” published in Angles and
Britons: O’DonneN Lectures (Cardiff, Wales, 1963),
pp. 1-41, is a particularly informative discussion on
the “feel” of language, Not, perhaps, scientifically
linguistic, it is in the best sense of the word professionally philological. ’The Lord of the Rings, vol. I, p.
117. See note 5 above for the edition cited. Further
citations wiH be indicated parenthetically in the text
by volume and page number or, where necessary,
by the abbreviation LOTR plus volume and page
number. Wr at least it seems to be blotted out. The
distinction may be significant. There is no question
but that the power of evil affects creatures with free
will. It also can affect non-sentient, physical nature
as, for example, it obviously and sickeningly has
affected the land around Mordor. But ultimately,
evil can onIy distort and pervert the goodness
of creation; of itself it is nothingness. 91 move
here from a discussion of langue to one of parole
in de Saussure’s famous distinction, ‘Osee note
5 above for the edition of The Hobbit, which will be
cited parenthetically in the text by the abbreviation
Hobb. and the page number. iJ5eefor example, John
Algeo, Problems in the Origins and Development of
The English Language (New York, 1982), pp. 7881.
“In the Appendix to The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien’s
persona speaks of language that comes to be used
primarily or solely for ceremony and for the preservation of lore, a kind of ”Elvish Latin,” vol. 111, p. 506.
Thus language is, in the fiction, at least potentially
sacramental. In his own life, Tolkien, an orthodox
Christian, certainly accepted the sacramental function of language. am using the term song throughout in a very general and inclusive sense to refer to
any verse or poem, as well as to any lyric which is
actually performed musically. At the end of the
essay I will use song and music almost interchangeably, since in the songs of the Ainur it seem that the
language of song and the music of song are blended
into a single, perfect entity. The entire subject of
song in Tolkien’s fiction is a large and fascinating
one, many elements of which will not even be
touched on here. The fullest and best classification of
the types and functions of song in The Lord of the
Rings is Thomas F. Deitz, “The Uses of Song and
Poetry in The Lord of the Rings,” unpublished
master’s thesis, the University of Georgia, Athens,
1978. ‘‘Some readers find him and his episode very
unpleasantly puzzling. His function in the work
needs critical commentary, but I believe that a
proper anatysis of it depends on seeing Tom as an
alter ego of Tolkien himself, appearing in the work in
something of the same way as, say, the Franklin can
be seen as an alter ego of Chaucer who takes part in
the story of the Canterbury Tales. Many details associated with Tom (and Coldberry, who of course is
then Edith Bratt Tolkien)-his special powers, his
singing, and his unique relationship to the quest and
the Ring-become clear and artistically significant it
we see him thus. These are points 1 hope to enlarge
on at a later date. %ee Christopher Tolkien’s comments in the foreword to his edition of his father‘s
The Silmariilion (note 5 above) for an explanation of
the place of the “Ainulindale” in the overall corpus.
These “old legends,” says Christopher Tolkien,
“became the vehicle and depository of his profoundest reflections” @. 7). ’“Tolkein’s words for the
Creator are significant linguistically. Eru suggests
association with an Indo-European root for being,
cognate with the English are and is as well as with
numerous other forms in Greek, Latin, Sanskrit, etc.
lluoatar suggests relationships with the roots of
avatar and also the father or perhaps ur-father.
Tolkien provides etymotogical and linguistic explanations of the languages of the fiction in the index of
names in The Silmarillion, in the appendices to The
Lord of the Rings, and sprinkled elsewhere throughout the works. These explanations are accurate and
consistent within the subcreation of the fiction, but
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like other eJernents of it. they also have a relationship or an "applicability" (see LOTR,vol. I, p. xi) to
the outer world ofreality. The linguistic applicabilities are principally to the Indo-European language
family. "TheSihorIkon, p. 15. See note 5 above for
the edition. Further citations will be indicated parenthetically within the text by the abbreviation Sil. and
the page number.
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