Sometimes I think, “All the great questions have been asked and debated.” And then someone comes along and asks something new. Or, if it’s not new, they ask an old question in a fresh way. One of the latest examples I’ve run across is “Who slashed the bolsters?” That is, in the chapter “A Knife in the Dark”, someone breaks into the Prancing Pony and slashes the bolsters that have been made up look like Frodo’s party of Hobbits.
Naturally, more than one answer has been provided to the question.
There is an old story circulating in fandom about how Isaac Asimov attended a panel where someone discussed one of his books (okay, this story has probably been told about a dozen authors — I heard the Asimov version). The speaker started analyzing the author’s motivations and Asimov spoke up and politely told the speaker his analysis was wrong. The speaker allegedly told Asimov he was incorrect. “But I’m the author,” Asimov replied. “I know what I was writing about.” The speaker then bluntly informed the author that his opinion didn’t matter.
Tolkien tells the reader, through Aragorn, that the bolsters were most likely slashed by Bill Ferny, Harry Goatleaf (the gatekeeper), and maybe the sallow-faced Southerner who was standing with Ferny in the common room of the Prancing Pony. Is that sufficient for everyone? Absolutely not. Ask a group of people who slashed the bolsters, get out a copy of The Fellowship of the Ring, cite the Aragorn passage, and then count noses as people start suggesting that it could have been the Nazgul (in fact, some people may insist it could only have been the Nazgul). The author’s opinions don’t really matter in these debates.
Was it the Nazgul? I don’t see any reason to believe so, but this is only one of hundreds if not thousands of questions where you can pull out the book, read a very straightforward passage, and then be told it means something completely off the wall.
For example, when Gollum attacks Frodo on Mount Doom, Sam sees the confrontation between Frodo and Gollum with “other vision” and during the brief interaction a voice speaks to Gollum: “Begone, and trouble me no more! If you touch me ever again, you shall yourself be cast into the Fire of Doom.”
Whose voice is that? Frodo’s? The Ring’s? Would you believe that I have seriously been told that it could or should have been Gandalf rather than the Ring?
Tolkien went to considerable effort to make it clear that Frodo wasn’t speaking, but once again the author’s opinion doesn’t matter. As Sam looks on with “other vision” he sees a figure robed in white (Frodo, although I’ve been told it could also have been Iluvatar) facing a cowering shadow (Gollum — no one seems to dispute this identification). The robed figure clutches a wheel of fire at its breast — precisely where the Ring hung on its chain about Frodo’s neck, precisely where Frodo’s hand is grasping his shirt, holding the Ring, when Sam sees with his “usual vision” once again.
Tolkien has by this point in the story already identified the Ring with the wheel of fire — twice. Nonetheless, some people question whether the wheel of fire that Sam sees with “other vision” can really be the Ring. Why is the identification so important? Because the voice Sam hears (while he is seeing with “other vision”) comes from the wheel of fire (the text says “out of the fire there spoke a commanding voice”, but since there is only one firey thing that Sam sees…well, some people have even argued that the voice didn’t come from the wheel of fire).
So, J.R.R. Tolkien tells us that Frodo sees the Ring as a wheel of fire…that the Ring becomes so burdensome to him that is all Frodo can really see. Sam then sees Frodo clutching a wheel of fire at his breast. It should seem fairly straightforward to identify the wheel of fire as the Ring.
But that pesky commanding voice gets in the way of allowing the wheel of fire to be the Ring. One person went so far as to suggest that Frodo was literally holding the Ring to his mouth to speak through it to Gollum. When I asked how one should account for the fact that Frodo is suddenly clutching the Ring at his breast when Sam’s normal vision returns, I was told that the “wheel of fire” was the size of a tire or wagon wheel while Frodo spoke. So, even though Tolkien never referred to this ability, the One Ring apparently has an incredible expanding and shrinking power.
Note: I have been accused of sophistry on numerous occasions after merely citing the book. So, on the basis of such sound logic and reasoning, I must concede that given how irrelevant The Lord of the Rings is to any discussion of The Lord of the Rings, it may be misleading to actually consider what the book says….
Therefore, I often draw upon other sources of information (meaning, I suppose, that I am reading with “other vision” just as Sam is allegedly hearing with “other vision” — “other vision” is very flexible and should eventually wind up on a late-night Ronco infomercial as the newest awe-inspiring kitchen appliance).
Still, to make matters more convoluted, Tolkien’s bold declaration (in The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, one of those books I read with “other vision” in my unyielding sophistic search for truth) that Frodo has never actually used the Ring is flatly slapped aside by the assertion that he has indeed used the Ring to command Gollum in this passage. Whatever the author says really doesn’t matter, I guess, so why do people bother purchasing copies of the book? Tolkien’s versions of events just don’t seem to be popular enough to justify the expense.
Of course, what the letter actually says is that Frodo has never exercised his will in using the Ring. Some people, I guess, feel this means that Frodo has been able to use the Ring without any will whatsoever. How one accomplishes such a task escapes me. But at least we know they aren’t being sophistic like me.
If I may point out the obvious, it requires an act of will to lift a fork, but not to breathe. If using the Ring is as easy as breathing, why did Tolkien say that only Gandalf would ever have had a chance of using the Ring (against Sauron)? Elrond and Galadriel might have believed they could do so, but they never would have been able to.
But the “interpretation” which takes the cake for me is the one which states that Sauron was speaking through the Ring. Poor guy. All his attention was devoted to Aragorn’s last stand on the two slag heaps, and he never noticed how he was really participating in the drama unfolding on the slopes of Orodruin. So, why didn’t Sauron stop the battle then and send for the Nazgul, while Frodo was still outside the Sammath Naur? Did Sauron really like living on the edge?
And though the halls of fandom have long been rocked by the infamous Balrog wings debate, other great questions have also left the ranks of fandom bloodied and hostile. For instance, where did Aragorn’s people live? Well, Tolkien decided they lived in the Angle, but long before we learned that we used to carefully weigh all the pros and cons. I myself used to propose the Hills of Evendim, Minhiriath, and the Misty Mountains. Finally I started to move toward the Angle with the help of a few friends. And then we got confirmation from Tolkien himself that the Dunedain actually lived in the Angle.
What did Elves eat? I’ve seen this question more than once. Every time it comes up we truck out the citations from The Hobbit (concerning the Wood-elves’ feast, their trade in apples, and Bilbo’s theft of food from the raft-elves’ village, not to mention the fact that raft-elves attended a feast in Laketown and the Elvenking brought food to the starving survivors of Laketown) and The Lord of the Rings (Gildor’s folk supplied Frodo, Sam, and Pippin with cheese, bread, and fruit) and other sources. Never mind the fact that lembas is the waybread of the Elves. Well, the answer is that the Elves pretty much ate whatever they wanted to.
And yet some people refine the question by asking, “Did Elves eat meat?” Sure, they ate meat. All but the Green-elves of Ossiriand. The sons of Feanor and Finrod often went hunting in east Beleriand, and the Elvenking of the The Hobbit hunted the white deer and later had a roast going in one of his feast sites. Nonetheless, people aren’t sure if Elves eat meat. Why? Probably because the Green-elves of Ossiriand didn’t eat meat. Perhaps also because Legolas didn’t ride horses with a saddle. What has Legolas’ refusal to use a saddle have to do with whether Elves eat meat? The connection is in there. Ask the people who call him, “Nature boy”.
Speaking of beards (as in the title of this essay), every now and then someone asks if Aragorn had a beard. Inevitably someone drags out their copy of Unfinished Tales and cites the brief note near the end of “The History of Galadriel and Celeborn” that Christopher describes. This note, written probably in the last year of JRRT’s life about Prince Imrahil, says that his Elvish ancestry was denoted by the fact that he didn’t have a beard.
Um, the Elvenking had a beard in The Hobbit. So did Cirdan the Shipwright. Maybe this time the author really was wrong. In fact, there are many discrepancies between Tolkien’s early writings (and drawings) and what he decided later on. For example, in the painting “Taur-nu-Fuin” (which depicts Beleg finding Gwindor asleep in the forests of Dorthonion) Beleg has a beard. He also has pointy Elf-shoes.
Well, the beard may be a beard. Maybe it’s just a very pronounced facial outline. One really has to squint to examine Beleg’s face in that picture, and if one squints too hard one will see the Ent in the trees (no, there is no Ent in the trees).
On the other hand, I’ve been told that Beleg’s pointy red shoes prove that Elves have pointy ears. Go figure. How does one come by such a conclusion? I think it had something to do with the fact that Thorondor housed his eyries in the Echoriath (the encircling mountains). But don’t ask me to explain that because I’m still trying to figure why lembas was a wafer in the First Age and a cake in the Third Age (or was it a wafer and a cake in the Third Age? — Does it matter that Tolkien waffled on the wafers, trying to have his cake and eat it, too?). Was Galadriel slipping a little something extra into the recipe years down the road? No wonder the guys in the Fellowship felt so good after eating a cake or two. And that could explain the strange turnaround in Legolas’ and Gimli’s relationship.
Speaking of lembas, people often ask what it was made of. The safest answer seems to be “some sort of ground up meal stuff” (“meal” as in a grain which has been milled, not some poor Elvenking’s venison). Tolkien never actually provided a recipe, but he did decide that a special corn was required.
Waitaminnit, the purists say, how can there be corn in Middle-earth? Well, that leads to all sorts of questions. For example, is Middle-earth really just Europe? (No, Tolkien said it was the entire Earth, although some people insist it’s really just Europe, Asia, and Africa — so what would that make the Americas, Back-Earth? West-Earth? Opposite-Earth? Earth Prime?) Sometimes a historically minded person will point out (bravely, in my opinion) that “corn” was often used to describe grains in ancient Europe (Caesar, in fact, was constantly securing his corn supply in his Gallic campaigns — what a corn oil commercial that would make!).
On the other hand, Tolkien said the Elves picked the corn by hand and wove baskets from the husks, so I’m afraid we’re stuck with a special variety of maize (intended only for the Elves) in Europe (never mind what Middle-earth actually is). And once you point out the husks, someone inevitably asks where the corn went after the Elves left (they took it with them?). Eventually the discussion gets around to Sam’s Taters (another New World food) and Pipeweed (tobacco, also from the New World).
Oh, the Pipeweed discussions! Some people have argued it must be cannabis (I can never tell if they are serious) even though Tolkien said it came from the nicotiana family (tobacco). I once saw someone half-seriously suggest that The Lord of the Rings was heavily influenced by “Reefer Madness”. At least, I think they were only half-serious. I was laughing too hard to take the idea seriously. One must ask if Huckleberry Finn was really smoking something other than tobacco. After all, Sam Clemens (Mark Twain) doesn’t ever say that he wasn’t smoking anything other than tobacco.
The absence of denial is often trotted out as sure proof of anything that isn’t found in the books being the absolute truth about Tolkien’s world, or at least as evidence that it was highly probably a part of that world. I often point out that such logic forces one to conclude that Aragorn and the boys were secretly packing some heat, like Uzi sub-machine guns. After all, Tolkien doesn’t say they weren’t carrying such weapons. Heck, why should Hama have believed those funny-looking metal things strapped across their backs were dangerous? He was just a doorward. He was more concerned about Gandalf’s staff (no one apparently told him that Gandalf killed a Balrog without the staff).
Those blasted, pesky staves keep coming up, too. How important is a wizard’s staff to the wizard? Gandalf apparently doesn’t mind using his as a match. One would think he’d have to replace his woodwork every few years or so. But if that’s the case the staff can’t be very important. On the other hand, Gandalf breaks Saruman’s staff when he casts Saruman out of the order of the Istari. Does that mean that Saruman’s power is bound up in the staff?
If it weren’t for the fact that Gandalf breaks a huge stone bridge with his staff (destroying the staff along with the bridge) and then fights an 11-day battle with a Balrog, most everyone (perhaps even me) would be convinced the staves actually carry some sort of “wizard power”. Maybe they came out of the the Istari Acme Company boxes with the label, “Wizard energy not included”. Maybe Wile E. Coyote should get himself one of those staves (there are, btw, road runners in Middle-earth — Tolkien didn’t say there weren’t any, and Middle-earth is the entire world, after all).
Of course, absence of denial isn’t always the final authority on Tolkien’s world. Sometimes credible authors like David Day and Karen Fonstad are used to prove points. Well, Day’s books are almost universally reviled by people who have been on the Internet for any length of time, but Fonstad comes up every now and then as the end-all, be-all authority on Tolkien’s geography.
Never mind the fact she places Rhosgobel in two locations, shaves 100 miles off the width of Eriador, shrinks the kingdom of Dale to almost nothing (it reminds me of Lotharingia — a kingdom most people have probably never heard of) and moves it west, sticks Nogrod and Belegost south of the Gulf of Lune, adds the city of Kortirion to Tol Eressea (quick, how many of you know which English city is really Kortirion?), makes Numenor too large, places Numenor too far east and north, shows the wrong migration paths for the Edain and Swarthy Men into Beleriand, leaves Minas Morgul off two maps, and then puts Minas Morgul in the wrong place (with the wrong landscape),….
People ask me if I have a problem with Fonstad. No, I don’t have a problem with her…as long I have Tolkien’s books to consult. But try persuading folks not to bring her into a discussion of Middle-earth geography. And let’s not even get into Barbara Strachey. Sorry, folks. There’s no substitute for a Tolkien map.
Fonstad also took on the difficult question of just how many men fought in the battle of the Pelennor Fields. Um, the correct answer is, “We don’t know.” Tolkien didn’t tell us. So, what the heck. We’ll just make up some numbers and go with them! Yes, if Tolkien’s absence of denial doesn’t prove there were really only 50 hill-men at Minas Tirith and that 1,000 men came up the river with Aragorn, Fonstad’s well-reasoned “estimates” do prove these numbers.
Okay, she’s the only author in print to offer any numbers. Maybe there’s a reason for why even J.E.A. Tyler didn’t stick his neck out and suggest there were X number of “Guard of Minas Tirith” (who are the Guard of Minas Tirith anyway? — what the heck, Tolkien didn’t say there wasn’t such a group, so Fonstad must be right again!).
Anyone is free to guess, but that’s really all we can do: guess. Make up numbers. How Fonstad got promoted to an authority on Tolkien’s armies (she’s a cartographer, not a collaborator) escapes me.
Of course, the old Rohirrim argument raises its head every now and then and someone points out how the Rohirrim were really just Anglo-Saxons because Tolkien used Old English to represent their language. Sauron spoke English in the book. Does that make him the Queen of England? Or, worse, is he the Prince Consort? Tolkien said his use of Old English to represent the Rohirrim doesn’t mean they were actually to be identified with the Anglo-Saxons. Not to worry, Professor Tom Shippey assures us: Tolkien is a liar. What a profound sense of reasoning! But nonetheless, Shippey’s conclusion is presented as the absolute proof positive that Tolkien’s Rohirrim are Anglo-Saxons. Tolkien really didn’t know what he was talking about.
So, if Tolkien didn’t know what he was up to, then why should we settle for the deplorable answer to the all-time greatest most often-asked Tolkien question: What was Tom Bombadil? Tolkien merely said he was an enigma. Nothing more. Nonetheless, people have tried to prove he was Aule, Manwe, Iluvatar, a manifestation of the Earth, a Maia, an Elf, something else altogether, and J.R.R. Tolkien himself.
It is quite possible we have struck a reasonable compromise in one recent Xenite.Org discussion about how old Bombadil really is: we don’t know. But that may not be sufficient, especially since it could have been Bombadil speaking through the Ring on Mount Doom as he and Goldberry spazzed out on some of Galadriel’s juiced-up lembas.
On the other hand, I don’t think people will ever reach any sort of compromise on the origin of Orcs. Tolkien is certainly no help in this department. Some people believe he says they were corrupted Elves in The Silmarillion (he doesn’t, actually, but the passage which speaks of the Orcs’ origin suggests very strongly they were bred from Elves Melkor captured before Orome and the Valar put an end to his nefarious schemes). Some of us are quick to point out that Tolkien never really made up his mind. He wandered all over the place, and eventually started redesigning the entire cosmology just so Orcs could be bred from Men.
Of course, every time someone starts a big fight over something concerning the First Age, The Silmarillion is anted up as the first solid proof that J.R.R. Tolkien really meant things to be this way. Well, he may have meant some things to be a certain way, but he didn’t write The Silmarillion. He tried. Sadly, Christopher Tolkien had to put the book together. Okay, Christopher did a great job. But he subsequently spent the better part of twelve years telling us, no, he did a rotten job. Or call it a hack job. Given what he had to work with, I think CJRT did a fine job with the book, but it’s often a rather useless source of information in a discussion about what JRRT meant or intended.
So, any discussion of The Silmarillion almost inevitably leads to a discussion of canonicity (or is it canonicality — we can’t even agree on which word to use to describe what we’re arguing over). There is, in fact, no Silmarillion we can use as canon for discussing…what, exactly, does one discuss when using the Silmarillion (any Silmarillion) as a source? If we’re talking about The Silmarillion then we have the book itself to serve as an authority.
Or do we? Should we accept “The Ruin of Doriath” as a legitimate part of the “Quenta Silmarillion” even though Christopher has written the equivalent of, “It’s balderdash! I made it all up! Ignore it!”? It seems a bit awkward to ignore what the author says in a discussion of…scratch that! Clearly, we can use “The Ruin of Doriath” as a canonical source.
Nonetheless, a discussion of The Silmarillion leads almost inevitably to a discussion of The History of Middle-earth. I am often amazed at how people sometimes have no problem taking material from The Book of Lost Tales (composed in the years 1917-25, before Tolkien ever conceived of Hobbits) and mixing it with material from Unfinished Tales (written in the years after Tolkien published The Lord of the Rings). Of course, Tolkien never warned us NOT to mix sources like that. It all came from the same lifetime. That should be sufficient, right?
And I haven’t quite figured out the rules for using those four History of Middle-earth volumes which deal with how The Lord of the Rings was written. Apparently, it’s okay to cite any passage in the early texts which contradicts or differs greatly from the “official”, published version that J.R.R. Tolkien approved — as proof that any given passage is actually ambiguous.
After all, Tolkien wrote the same passage two different ways, clearly that means he couldn’t make up his mind, right? They really should have published all versions of the text at the same time. That would have made the principle of picking and choosing authoritative texts much more acceptable. I’m not saying it would be any easier, mind you.
There are two words which appear often in fan discussions: “interpretation” and “ambiguous”. Anything Tolkien writes is your interpretation if it happens to disagree with or (worse!) disprove what the other person says. And any passage which you use to show that someone else hasn’t been checking the text is “ambiguous” and therefore proves nothing at all (or, better yet, proves their point, too).
So, anyone who wants to master the art of Tolkien debate must understand these basic concepts: the other guy is a sophist, all his citations from Tolkien are just his interpretation, and he never cites anything but ambiguous passages anyway. Use them to prove your own point no matter how little of it relates to anything Tolkien actually wrote anyway.
Or, better yet, take a poll. And if you don’t like the way the answers fall, be quick to point out that it’s just a poll. Hence, the fact thousands of people believe Balrogs have wings and only a few hundred believe they don’t doesn’t mean the book says the Balrog of Moria is winged. It means that most people just don’t see how ambiguous the passage really is.
Okay, a Balrog wings reference from Michael Martinez is bound to send villains cursing and twitching into the cold. Fair maidens, take heed lest you find yourselves tied to the railroad tracks once again. Let’s assume, for the sake of discussion, that the word “wings” is never mentioned in “The Bridge of Khazad-dum”.
Does the Balrog command the orcs? Seriously, people want to know. Who is in charge of the army of orcs? Sauron? The Balrog? Bolg’s unnamed son?
The poor Balrog seems to get fewer votes than Sauron. Never mind the fact that the Balrog is clearly the toughest guy in the neighborhood. Apparently the mere mention of Sauron’s name should be enough to cow him into submission, right? But wait! Sauron doesn’t let his servants speak his proper name. So what would the Uruks tell the Balrog when they show? “Well, matey, Lugburz sent us to keep an eye on the place.”
“Who is Lugburz?”
ZZZZIIPPPP! Hold it! Does that Balrog actually talk? Can it talk? Whose commanding voice is it that the Fellowship hears in Moria? This is actually (so far) one of the less inflammatory debates. I can’t really argue it one way or the other, although I believe the Balrog is the boss guy. Why? Why not? Tolkien didn’t say he wasn’t….
Nonetheless, talking about whether the Balrog can actually speak usually leads to someone mentioning letter 210, where Tolkien says the Balrog doesn’t speak. Hm. Careful inspection of the letter reveals that Tolkien was reviewing the script written by Morton Grady Zimmerman. The Balrog paragraph concerns the scene in Moria (we know this because…well, because that is the only place where one finds a Balrog!).
The Balrog never speaks or makes any vocal sound at all. Above all he does not laugh or sneer….Z may think that he knows more about Balrogs than I do, but he cannot expect me to agree with him.
Well, the fact is that the Balrog does cry out as it tumbles into the chasm in the book. Either Tolkien forgot that or else he was referring to the part of the scene where the Balrog simply comes up through the orcs and says nothing as it moves closer to the Fellowship.
Is it really important if the Balrog speaks? Not that I have seen, but then, maybe it has something to do with the fact that Bombadil doesn’t fit in a dramatic adaptation of The Lord of the Ring. Only, most such adaptations include him (the first BBC radio adaptation included him, the second BBC adaptation was revised to include him, the Mind’s Eye adaptation included him, and Morton Grady Zimmerman included him in the first attempt to create a screenplay based on the book).
I am reminded of something that H. Beam Piper wrote in Little Fuzzy: you can find a precedent for anything in colonial law. Meaning that in his future history there were supposed to have been enough court cases that every oddball grievance and conflict had been rendered as some sort of verdict.
The same can be said of Tolkien: you can find a precedent for anything in Tolkien. It’s even possible to discuss legal issues at great length, because Tolkien discussed them, or portrayed them. For example, did Aragorn rule by the divine right of kings? Well, to figure that out one needs to know whether Finrod’s gift of a ring to Barahir somehow altered the line of descent in the Beorian noble family (actually, it doesn’t matter — Barahir’s son Beren survived, Barahir’s nephews Baragund and Belegund died childless).
The nature of kingship in Tolkien is very important as well. It proves there was religion in Middle-earth. How? Tolkien said the Numenorean kings were priest-kings.
Is there anything the man didn’t discuss? Yes. All those things he didn’t have the foresight to deny were a part of Middle-earth. If Tolkien had tried to anticipate every fan “interpretation” or to clarify every “ambiguous” passage he wouldn’t have accomplished much.
Actually, even when he did answer questions rather directly, he failed to sway everyone to his point of view. For example, on various occasions Tolkien wrote that Middle-earth was “the habitable lands of Men”, “our world”, “round and inescapable”, etc. Put all these passages together and you have what should seem like a very concrete argument for showing that Middle-earth at the end of the Third Age was just a round planet called Earth (in an imaginary time in our past).
Nonetheless, I have seen people go on for weeks insisting that Tolkien didn’t actually write all that stuff (together) and therefore Middle-earth is not “round and inescapable”, “our world”, “the habitable lands of Men”. That’s just “an interpretation”. To this day, years later, I still wonder what other possible meaning Tolkien’s words could have. Perhaps he was trying to say something about the shape of Elven ears after all.
(And before anyone has a heart attack and sends me email telling me that Middle-earth is really Europe, what the Prologue says is “those days, the Third Age of Middle-earth, are now long past, and the shape of all lands has been changed; but the regions in which Hobbits then lived were doubtless the same as those in which they still linger: the North-West of the Old World, east of the Sea” — emphasis mine.)
So, take that for the sophistry it really must be. Some people may feel they know more about Middle-earth than J.R.R. Tolkien, but they surely cannot expect me to agree with them.
This article was originally published on November 24, 2000.
