In the Composition
Firstly, The Lord of The Rings is not a trilogy. It is a novel split into three parts because of its length. About two thirds the length of Les Miserables, it is 455,125 long. And had Tolkien had his will it would have been longer.
It took him twelve years to complete it. Ironically, Tolkien thought the end was near when Isengard, one of the “two towers” of the second book, was laid waste. At this point in the story, Tolkien estimated another six chapters were needed to complete the book. It was to be another 31. He said of it, “this story takes me in charge, and I have already taken three chapters over what was meant to be one. And I have neglected too many things to do it. I am just enmeshed in it now, and have to wrench my mind away… At this point I require to know how much later the moon gets up each night when nearing full, and how to stew a rabbit!” Tolkien’s perfectionism was often what delayed the story and kept it from completion and publication. He all but created his own almanac and atlas, and created numerous maps over which he niggled until perfection or a deadline were reached. This, and a tendency to discover unfinished writing and attempt to finish it, led C.S Lewis to call him “that great but dilatory and unmethodical man." And we can be thankful that Lewis was correct in his evaluation of him.
The Lord of the Rings also was received with enthusiasm similar to that inspired by The Hobbit. To the public it was indeed a sequel to the “children’s” novel of 1937, although much more grand and heavy, but to Tolkien it was much more. Upon “discovering” that hobbits had a large role to play in the history of Middle Earth, Tolkien, subconsciously, began writing The Lord of the Rings not as a sequel to The Hobbit but as a sequel to another work he had been working on since before The Hobbit. This work was The Silmarillion.
The Silmarillion
Tolkien wanted more than anything the publication of The Silmarillion. He thought that, perhaps with the publication of The Lord of the Rings, he could sneak this grander-yet-slighter work into the market. But he was mistaken. It wasn’t until 1977 that it was published. Tolkien considered it a necessary companion to The Lord of the Rings. Because of the significance of the events described in The Lord of the Rings and the references in that novel to events of Middle Earth occurring in The Silmarillion, he saw separation as wrong. The writer is slave to the pen – however, the author is slave to the publisher. Both masters are cruel.
The Star
Tolkien would be vexed by the process of and people involved with publishing all his life. But the process of writing was less vexing for him. He would produce many other small works and contribute greatly to the realm of philology. Among a sea of poems stand out a few pieces of prose: namely, Leaf by Niggle, Farmer Giles of Ham, and Smith of Wootten Major. The last of these tells the story of a blacksmith who comes across a fay-star, which is implanted in his forehead and allows him to travel to the lands of Faery and have adventures there. At the close of the story, the blacksmith must return his star to the king of Faery, who passes it on to another. This was to be Tolkien’s last published story, and the only work of his own that he admits is an allegory.
To Tolkien and Lewis “fans”, it is a common fact that J.R.R Tolkien despised allegories. Indeed, this was one reason why Tolkien so disapproved of C.S Lewis’s The Chronicles of Narnia. Why then should he choose to write one so close to his death, which he felt was near?
– Perhaps because his death was so near. Smith of Wootten Major is an allegory of Tolkien’s gift as a writer. With it he could travel to beautiful and magical lands, and have amazing adventures there – but he would have to give it up at some point. Tolkien felt he was drawing near to that point.
Giving It Up
His beloved Edith was growing old and had trouble walking, and John Ronald felt weary. But nothing had yet hit him as hard as the news of a dear friend’s parting. At the age of 64, C.S. Lewis died on the 22nd of November, 1963. Tolkien wrote to his daughter Priscilla, “so far I have felt the normal feelings of a man of my age – like an old tree that is losing all its leaves one by one: this feels like an axe-blow near the roots.” The days after Lewis’s death saw Tolkien beginning anew the practice of keeping a diary. In it he wrote with a language he had created and called the New English Alphabet. The translations show his innermost despair. In one entry he wrote, “Life is grey and grim. I can get nothing done, between staleness and boredom (confined to quarters), and anxiety and distraction. What am I going to do? Be sucked down into residence in a hotel or old-people’s home or club, without books or contacts or talk with men? God help me!” This depression led to his writing Smith of Wootton Major, and he used this work as a vent, as often writers do.
In his old age, Tolkien began anew work on The Silmarillion. Edith and he moved to the seaside town of Bournemouth, which held a resort which Edith grew fond of. But catastrophe struck soon. In early winter, 1971, Edith was taken to the hospital with an inflamed gall-bladder. After a few days of severe illness, her soul departed, on a Monday, the 29th of November. She was 82.
Tolkien was devastated, but life for him must continue. As he recovered from the shock of Edith’s death, he returned to Oxford to live. Once he stayed many weeks with his oldest son John and visited his brother Hilary. And on one occasion the T.C.B.S was reunited as Tolkien visited his old friend Christopher Wiseman. He was called to Buckingham Palace to be presented with a C.B.E. by the Queen, and, in June of 1972, he was given an honorary Doctorate of Letters from the University of Oxford – not for The Lord of the Rings, but for his vast contribution to philology. Of this Tolkien was very proud.
But Tolkien was old, and the Grey Havens called out to him. He would answer in September of 1973, when a bleeding gastric ulcer took him to the hospital. There he developed an infection in his chest. His son Christopher, whom he had asked to take charge of his writing when death took charge of him, was away in France, and Tolkien’s youngest son Michael was in Switzerland. Neither could come to him. His eldest, John, and his daughter, Priscilla, were able to be at his bedside when the end was evident. On Sunday morning, September 2, 1973, he was called Home. He also was 81. His body was placed beside Edith’s in a tomb marked “Edith Mary Tolkien, Lúthien, 1889-1971. John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, Beren, 1892-1973.”
The Memory
John Ronald Reuel Tolkien is a name the world still remembers – but we, as Christians, ought to never forget it. Although a devout Catholic, there is little doubt as to whether he was a Christian; his writings, life, and words all point to the Creator, and, in the midst of his despair, he would always turn to God for fortitude. J.R.R. Tolkien proved that in this era a Christian writer can soar to amazing heights; faith indeed is not a hindrance but an advantage to the one who wields the pen. Tolkien’s name has been placed beside those of Lewis Carroll, Rudyard Kipling, W.B. Yeats, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and he has been called the father of modern fantasy. Indeed, he did better than anyone what few have done in this age. He created a world that needed not a motion picture to bring it to life. He created a world so realistic that if we were greeted by a “black rider” searching for a certain hobbit, asking us for the location of the Shire – we could tell him. But we wouldn’t. Because Tolkien, in his mythological world of Arda, created a clear line between good and evil and right and wrong, and portrays correctly the triumph of good and the ultimate downfall of evil. Tolkien used his gifts to the best of his abilities, and it was measured out to him accordingly. Will we let his example die with his flesh, or will we take it as a precedent that we must strive for? J.R.R. Tolkien’s life on earth has ceased to “eä”, to “be” – but his creation shall live on, perhaps as long as that in which we reside for a time. J.R.R. Tolkien was the scribe of a world only he could see, writing for a world we cannot yet see, writing to the world we do see. But his story must end, and his star must be surrendered.
Firstly, The Lord of The Rings is not a trilogy. It is a novel split into three parts because of its length. About two thirds the length of Les Miserables, it is 455,125 long. And had Tolkien had his will it would have been longer.
It took him twelve years to complete it. Ironically, Tolkien thought the end was near when Isengard, one of the “two towers” of the second book, was laid waste. At this point in the story, Tolkien estimated another six chapters were needed to complete the book. It was to be another 31. He said of it, “this story takes me in charge, and I have already taken three chapters over what was meant to be one. And I have neglected too many things to do it. I am just enmeshed in it now, and have to wrench my mind away… At this point I require to know how much later the moon gets up each night when nearing full, and how to stew a rabbit!” Tolkien’s perfectionism was often what delayed the story and kept it from completion and publication. He all but created his own almanac and atlas, and created numerous maps over which he niggled until perfection or a deadline were reached. This, and a tendency to discover unfinished writing and attempt to finish it, led C.S Lewis to call him “that great but dilatory and unmethodical man." And we can be thankful that Lewis was correct in his evaluation of him.
The Lord of the Rings also was received with enthusiasm similar to that inspired by The Hobbit. To the public it was indeed a sequel to the “children’s” novel of 1937, although much more grand and heavy, but to Tolkien it was much more. Upon “discovering” that hobbits had a large role to play in the history of Middle Earth, Tolkien, subconsciously, began writing The Lord of the Rings not as a sequel to The Hobbit but as a sequel to another work he had been working on since before The Hobbit. This work was The Silmarillion.
The Silmarillion
Tolkien wanted more than anything the publication of The Silmarillion. He thought that, perhaps with the publication of The Lord of the Rings, he could sneak this grander-yet-slighter work into the market. But he was mistaken. It wasn’t until 1977 that it was published. Tolkien considered it a necessary companion to The Lord of the Rings. Because of the significance of the events described in The Lord of the Rings and the references in that novel to events of Middle Earth occurring in The Silmarillion, he saw separation as wrong. The writer is slave to the pen – however, the author is slave to the publisher. Both masters are cruel.
The Star
Tolkien would be vexed by the process of and people involved with publishing all his life. But the process of writing was less vexing for him. He would produce many other small works and contribute greatly to the realm of philology. Among a sea of poems stand out a few pieces of prose: namely, Leaf by Niggle, Farmer Giles of Ham, and Smith of Wootten Major. The last of these tells the story of a blacksmith who comes across a fay-star, which is implanted in his forehead and allows him to travel to the lands of Faery and have adventures there. At the close of the story, the blacksmith must return his star to the king of Faery, who passes it on to another. This was to be Tolkien’s last published story, and the only work of his own that he admits is an allegory.
To Tolkien and Lewis “fans”, it is a common fact that J.R.R Tolkien despised allegories. Indeed, this was one reason why Tolkien so disapproved of C.S Lewis’s The Chronicles of Narnia. Why then should he choose to write one so close to his death, which he felt was near?
– Perhaps because his death was so near. Smith of Wootten Major is an allegory of Tolkien’s gift as a writer. With it he could travel to beautiful and magical lands, and have amazing adventures there – but he would have to give it up at some point. Tolkien felt he was drawing near to that point.
Giving It Up
His beloved Edith was growing old and had trouble walking, and John Ronald felt weary. But nothing had yet hit him as hard as the news of a dear friend’s parting. At the age of 64, C.S. Lewis died on the 22nd of November, 1963. Tolkien wrote to his daughter Priscilla, “so far I have felt the normal feelings of a man of my age – like an old tree that is losing all its leaves one by one: this feels like an axe-blow near the roots.” The days after Lewis’s death saw Tolkien beginning anew the practice of keeping a diary. In it he wrote with a language he had created and called the New English Alphabet. The translations show his innermost despair. In one entry he wrote, “Life is grey and grim. I can get nothing done, between staleness and boredom (confined to quarters), and anxiety and distraction. What am I going to do? Be sucked down into residence in a hotel or old-people’s home or club, without books or contacts or talk with men? God help me!” This depression led to his writing Smith of Wootton Major, and he used this work as a vent, as often writers do.
In his old age, Tolkien began anew work on The Silmarillion. Edith and he moved to the seaside town of Bournemouth, which held a resort which Edith grew fond of. But catastrophe struck soon. In early winter, 1971, Edith was taken to the hospital with an inflamed gall-bladder. After a few days of severe illness, her soul departed, on a Monday, the 29th of November. She was 82.
Tolkien was devastated, but life for him must continue. As he recovered from the shock of Edith’s death, he returned to Oxford to live. Once he stayed many weeks with his oldest son John and visited his brother Hilary. And on one occasion the T.C.B.S was reunited as Tolkien visited his old friend Christopher Wiseman. He was called to Buckingham Palace to be presented with a C.B.E. by the Queen, and, in June of 1972, he was given an honorary Doctorate of Letters from the University of Oxford – not for The Lord of the Rings, but for his vast contribution to philology. Of this Tolkien was very proud.
But Tolkien was old, and the Grey Havens called out to him. He would answer in September of 1973, when a bleeding gastric ulcer took him to the hospital. There he developed an infection in his chest. His son Christopher, whom he had asked to take charge of his writing when death took charge of him, was away in France, and Tolkien’s youngest son Michael was in Switzerland. Neither could come to him. His eldest, John, and his daughter, Priscilla, were able to be at his bedside when the end was evident. On Sunday morning, September 2, 1973, he was called Home. He also was 81. His body was placed beside Edith’s in a tomb marked “Edith Mary Tolkien, Lúthien, 1889-1971. John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, Beren, 1892-1973.”
The Memory
John Ronald Reuel Tolkien is a name the world still remembers – but we, as Christians, ought to never forget it. Although a devout Catholic, there is little doubt as to whether he was a Christian; his writings, life, and words all point to the Creator, and, in the midst of his despair, he would always turn to God for fortitude. J.R.R. Tolkien proved that in this era a Christian writer can soar to amazing heights; faith indeed is not a hindrance but an advantage to the one who wields the pen. Tolkien’s name has been placed beside those of Lewis Carroll, Rudyard Kipling, W.B. Yeats, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and he has been called the father of modern fantasy. Indeed, he did better than anyone what few have done in this age. He created a world that needed not a motion picture to bring it to life. He created a world so realistic that if we were greeted by a “black rider” searching for a certain hobbit, asking us for the location of the Shire – we could tell him. But we wouldn’t. Because Tolkien, in his mythological world of Arda, created a clear line between good and evil and right and wrong, and portrays correctly the triumph of good and the ultimate downfall of evil. Tolkien used his gifts to the best of his abilities, and it was measured out to him accordingly. Will we let his example die with his flesh, or will we take it as a precedent that we must strive for? J.R.R. Tolkien’s life on earth has ceased to “eä”, to “be” – but his creation shall live on, perhaps as long as that in which we reside for a time. J.R.R. Tolkien was the scribe of a world only he could see, writing for a world we cannot yet see, writing to the world we do see. But his story must end, and his star must be surrendered.
Day is ended, dim my eyes,
but journey long before me lies.
Farewell, friends! I hear the call.
The ship’s beside the stony wall.
Foam is white and waves are grey;
beyond the sunset leads my way.
Foam is salt, the wind is free;
I hear the rising of the Sea.
Farewell, friends! The sails are set,
the wind is east, the moorings fret.
Shadows long before me lie,
beneath the ever-bending sky,
but islands lie behind the Sun
that I shall raise ere all is done;
lands there are to west of West,
where night is quiet and sleep is rest.
Guided by the Lonely Star,
beyond the utmost harbour-bar,
I’ll find the havens fair and free,
and beaches of the Starlit Sea.
Ship, my ship! I seek the West,
and fields and mountains ever blest.
Farewell to Middle-earth at last,
I see the Star above your mast!
- Bilbo's Last Song, 1966
but journey long before me lies.
Farewell, friends! I hear the call.
The ship’s beside the stony wall.
Foam is white and waves are grey;
beyond the sunset leads my way.
Foam is salt, the wind is free;
I hear the rising of the Sea.
Farewell, friends! The sails are set,
the wind is east, the moorings fret.
Shadows long before me lie,
beneath the ever-bending sky,
but islands lie behind the Sun
that I shall raise ere all is done;
lands there are to west of West,
where night is quiet and sleep is rest.
Guided by the Lonely Star,
beyond the utmost harbour-bar,
I’ll find the havens fair and free,
and beaches of the Starlit Sea.
Ship, my ship! I seek the West,
and fields and mountains ever blest.
Farewell to Middle-earth at last,
I see the Star above your mast!
- Bilbo's Last Song, 1966