The Locus Amoenus in Middle Earth: Elvish Spaces

It's been a while since I've written a notable moment post, or written about Tolkien or the locus amoenus in Lord of the Rings in particular, but I bought myself a copy of the complete Lord of the Rings for Kindle (on sale for $5!) with my Christmas gift card, and started reading on a recent trip back from New Orleans, so it seemed an opportune time to resume.  (Quotes will be from the three-volume Houghton-Mifflin edition, copyright 1994.)

I started at the beginning again, reading the Forward and the Prologue, and a very long textual note that outlined all of the many times errors were introduced into the volumes and corrected by Tolkien and his publishers.

Reading very specifically with the locus amoenus in mind, I am approaching the farm of Farmer Maggot, with Black Riders on the road--Farmer Maggot is an important personage, and even though his farm is not a locus amoenus, per se, it is a resting place where the weary have food and drink, and Tom Bombadil himself attests to the farmer's wisdom.  Before the hobbits find Farmer Maggot, however, they encounter first a Black Rider, and second Gildor Inglorian of the House of Finrod with a host of High Elves.

I resist discussing the elves when analyzing the locus amoenus and the priesthood of Middle Earth.  Elves are the most obvious priests of Middle Earth.  They are in possession of two of the three Rings of Power.  They posess the wisdom (at least of their own kind).  They are fair and have the most fair dwellings.  Their dwellings--to which they admit outsiders in the Ring quest and in The Hobbit--offer food, drink, and rest.  They feature stories of the sacred history of Middle Earth.  They are the closest to Illuvatar (with the possible exception of Gandalf); they know--and evoke--the name of Elbereth.  They drive away Black Riders simply with their presence.  When Frodo journeys with them to their banquet placr, a "veil is lifted"--more or less--and the hobbits glimpse different stars than the ones they have yet glimpsed on their journey.  These elves are not rooted to the particular place, but with their presence and their celebration they consecrate the place.  This is the first time on the journey that the hobbits receive the food and drink of the elves.

But there is a problem with elves.  They are remote.  As a result, they are held in awe, but they are also feared.  They are concerned with their own affairs to the exclusion of all other races.  They are also leaving--their time is done.  So while the dwellings and sacred places of the elves obviously represent the locus amoenus as sanctuary, and priestly sanctuary in particular, the places that are sanctuaries and sacred spaces, priestly dwellings, rest for the journey, but are not associated with elves seem the more significant--both because they are less expected, and because they tap more specifically into the sacred that is grounded in Middle Earth.  Nevertheless, elves--and elvish spaces--set the standard.

So what of the elvish space on the road from the Shire to Buckleberry Ferry?

It is in the "woods on the hills above [the town of] Woodhall" (79).  When they approach the space, the trees become denser and younger.  The clearing is surrounded by woods on three sides, but "eastward the ground fell steeply" and the tops of trees are far below (80).  Time is significant--the time for celebration is marked by the movement of the stars:

Away high in the East swung Remmirath, the Netted Stars, and slowly above the mists red Borgil rose, glowing like a jewel of fire.  Then by some shift of airs all the mist was drawn away like a veil, and there leaned up, as he climbed over the rim of the world, the Swordsman of the Sky, Menelvagor with his shining belt.  The Elves all burst into song.  Suddenly under the trees a fire sprang up with a red light. (80)

The veil of mist--presumably revealing stars that would have been seen on Middle Earth anyway--anticipates the veil that separates Middle Earth from Valinor, through which Frodo, Bilbo, Galadriel, Gandalf, and Elrond pass after the aftermath of the War of the Ring.  The same veil recalls the veil of the temple, "rent in two" when Jesus died.

The boughs of trees make a kind of roof over the natural space, which is like a hall.  There is a fire and food--"good enough for a birthday-party" (81), although Gildor apologizes for the poor fare.  Specifically, the food is eucharistic: "bread, surpassing the savour of a fair white loaf to one who is starving," fruit of the vine "sweet as wildberries and richer than the tended fruits of gardens," and "a cup that was filled with a fragrant draught, cool as a clear fountain, golden as a summer afternoon"--a foretaste of heaven indeed.

Though Gildor is friendly and responsive to the hobbits' fears and wish for information, he remains distinctly above them.  Sam, who has wished to see elves above all elves, is speechless and wears "an expression half of fear and half of astonished joy" (79-80).  When Gildor attempts to give Frodo warning, Frodo "cannot imagine what information could be more terrifying than [Gildor's] hints and warnings" (82), and cites a proverb: "Go not to the Elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes" (83).  Gildor's advice is guarded because "advice is a dangerous gift," but also because

[t]he Elves have their own labours and their own sorrows, and they are little concerned with the ways of hobbits, or of any other creatures upon earth.  Our paths cross theirs seldom, by chance or purpose. (83)

The wisdom of the Elves is great but has limits, as Gildor discerns that there may be a purpose to their meeting, but he does not know what it might be, and thus is even more hesitant to give advice.

After the meeting with the Elves, who do provide sanctuary, the hobbits are rested and refreshed, and provided with (literal) food for their journey.

Sam's reflective observation proves particularly insightful:  that Elves "seem a bit above [his] likes and dislikes" (85).  While all of the consecrated of Middle Earth are beyond the hobbits' understanding, the Elves occupy the space that is the most remote.  The relationships that the hobbits form with other priestly figures close some of the distance, while also bringing the humble hobbits closer to experience of the divine.

On Authors, Fans, and Audience: Written in My Own Heart's Blood (MOBY - Outlander Book 8)

Last night, I polished off the remainder of another Outlander colossus--Written in My Own Heart's Blood.  Did you know that there are virtually no nouns that refer to 'a huge thing' without the connotation of a monster or a demon?  My first impulse was to call it a behemoth, but that wouldn't do at all, because I like 800+ page books if they are engaging.  (Now, the title, on the other hand, is somewhat of a behemoth!)

Disclaimer:  This is basically a review.  Yes, of course there are spoilers.

Those of you who know me know that when I undertake a review, it is generally not to praise the work.  If I find the work praiseworthy, I generally start by analyzing it, as I have with the Hunger Games series, and with a few volumes of the Outlander series as well.  Generally, for me, 'review' means 'critique.'

The Outlander series, written by Diana Gabaldon, is on Book 8 now.  I have written extensively on this blog about three of the books:  Outlander, Dragonfly in Amber, and Voyager.  I became stuck in Voyager because there is so much to say about the themes that interest me--I became bogged down, finished my reread without writing out everything I thought, and moved on.  When I started rereading The Fiery Cross with an eye to blogging it, I realized that I just wasn't that interested in that particular volume, which had a lot to do with Jamie and Claire's daughter Brianna and her intended, Roger, with establishing "Fraser's Ridge," and with a minor peacekeeping skirmish that just wasn't terribly heroic.  Also with preventing pregnancy (a theme that was on the rise from the second book on) and the unlikely parentage of Brianna's son Jem (you will never convince me that it is more likely for a child to have been conceived when the couple practiced coitus interruptus than when she was raped by a pirate the next day).  In spite of The Fiery Cross, and a few moments when it was impossible to suspend disbelief, I was still enjoying the series, and waiting, perhaps not as anxiously as Diana's fans, for the next installment.

Written in My Own Heart's Blood became known through the author's conventions of abbreviation as MOBY on social media and on her web site.  And boy, have the past couple of years been exercises in social media promotion.  I am not certain how any author could sustain such a campaign and not emerge with utter contempt for her fan base.  For much of the last year and a half of her writing process, she (or her PR person) has been posting "Daily Lines"--sneak peeks of the forthcoming volume meant to titillate fans (sometimes literally).  Having just finished An Echo in the Bone, which I enjoyed, but which had a cliffhanger ending or two, I did eagerly consume these snippets.  Then, I tried to read them more carefully, avoiding the fan feedback, which was often in the form of "Oh, Diana, I LIVE for these books!" and "Oh, Jamie!  Oh, Claire!!" or "I just ADORE [character of choice]" or "When is the book going to be out?" or "WHY does the publication date keep moving?  I can't STAND this any more!!" or "Why are you DOING this to your fans who LOVE you?" and other ludicrous forms of praise and complaint.  Throw in the commentary on the casting of the Outlander Starz series, and it was truly nauseating.  I know, I know. Don't read the comments.  But the comments were part of this whole dog-and-pony show, since the whole Facebook page was designed to promote the book(s).  Eventually, I still consumed the snippets, but with less relish.  There were too many details revealed.  The snippets were repeated, or a slightly different paragraph break was posted, but essentially the same part of the story.  I began to fear that when I actually read the book, I would feel like I was reading all of the posts from Facebook, strung together.  This did happen to an extent.  And by the time the book came out, I was no longer eager to read it.  I waited at least a whole week before buying it (it may have been a month, actually), and probably would have waited longer had I not simply needed a book to read that would last through my husband's week-long conference in Switzerland.

That's the backstory.  But it's more than that.  It influenced how aware I was of the writer's writing process.  I did get the impression that the writing of this novel was a long, tedious haul--or at least, the combination of the Facebook campaign and the novel itself led me to that conclusion.

So before buying the book, I read a few Amazon reviews--something I rarely do.  I started with the negative reviews, because having seen fanbabble for the past 18 months, I rather knew what drivel would be in the positive reviews.  I wanted something honest.  What I learned is that some people--even self-described die-hard fans--were disappointed.  Even bored.  Here's a sampling:

I'm sad to say that MOBY was a major disappointment! I'm a huge fan of the series and have read every book, novella, etc available. Pre-purchased this book and counted the days until delivery. 

Plot lines were repetitious and somewhat boring (found myself skimming to get to point). Book lacked the flow that its predecessors possessed; in prior books I couldn't put the book down because the action was so intense. Stories seemed choppy and lacked relevance to each other, in some cases. 

Overall, for a book that took 5 years to write, it felt rushed, thrown together and lacked the authenticity that the 1st 7 books made look so simple. I didn't believe this journey...it felt forced.

***

 The book was so disjointed and did not flow with the poetry of the other 7. It made no sense that so many KEY, nay CRUCIAL components to this 24 years-to-compose series are not answered. Too many new characters were introduced, and I believe the author, Miss Galbadon, forgot to include many, many things alluded to in the story lines of the previous seven novels. Is this because she focused that information in her novellas?

***

A few things that irritated me.Jamie, raised in Scotland educated in France and now 20 years later.. In this book he talks more Gaidhlig than he ever has. Yet his sister who has never left Scotland, talk 99% great English. Felt like DG Learned some new words and had to include them. They didn't fit and it was SO over done. 

I didn't like Clair in this book, she took on the character of a know it all, always reminding us of how amazingly educated she is. We get it! So many useless filler stories that drag on and on, over detailed descriptions of surgery. Who cares when surgery are done on strangers, that have nothing to do with the continuing story. So many retold stories. Same Story different day.. War. war and.. the burning of a print shop again... At times I thought the story was about to pick up, only to find my hope die. The book is just a filler to the next book. I guess DG is dragging it out to make as much money as she can from this series. 

Ian had some great moments, His story could have been so much more with his fear of the baby's birth. Only to read Rachel water broke one page and 3 days later, Clair tells Jamie Ian has a son. Wow really, No excitement, no joy, no enjoying Ian's moment?The Greys have their own series and they should stay there. How stupid 70% of this book was the Greys searching for Ben. Who cares about Hal, who cares about Ben? I care nothing for William either. DG failed badly. If she spent half as much time building the characters as she did adding languages we didn't need and over detailed medical descriptions. 

***

I think that the build-up backfired with these readers.  But these reviews didn't put me off.  I forgot many of the criticisms--other than "boring," "surgery," and "characters."

I did not, however, find the novel boring.  Moving through, I could see what the reviewers meant--there were a lot of details of life, but I was prepared to forgive those.  More than prepared--I welcomed most of them.  One of the strengths of Gabaldon's writing is often that she does infuse purpose and significance into the ordinary... when she's not subverting the ordinary.  I did get bogged down in the character list sometimes, finding myself thinking--okay, who was that? and concluding that it didn't actually matter.

The first significant problem I noticed was the repetition of scenes from previous books.  Yes--at times, entire scenes.  Verbatim.  We relived, in brief, many events from each of the other seven books.  It felt like filler, and it felt a little insulting--like the reader could not be trusted to remember.  Now, this is an author who has direct contact with her readers via Facebook.  Many of those readers remember better than she does what happened in each of the books--or assume that they do.  In most cases, the flashback was strictly unnecessary, and rather felt like a device that should have been reserved for the mini series versions.  This was my first inkling that there was something odd in the relationship that the author had established with her audience--or fan base, since I don't think a "fan base" and an "audience" are precisely the same thing.

The third reviewer I quoted above mentions the Gaidhlig words and phrases in this book.  I will second that observation.  Though I did not remember that complaint from the review as I was reading, I developed it quite independently.  In his old age, Jamie is definitely slipping back into Gaidhlig.  Except that... I made up that "old age" part.  There is no rhyme or reason for why he--and Ian, who probably should be interspersing as  much Mohawk as Gaidhlig in his swearing and muttering--uses the Scotch Gaelic so much more in this particular book.  It becomes distracting.  But that's not all....

Speaking of vocabulary, I found myself using my Kindle dictionaries to look up obscure words and usages much more often than I have ever done before, and much more often than a casual reader with a Ph.D. in English should have to do.  I couldn't help feeling that this was another strategy--or dig--aimed at the fans she had come to know on Facebook.  First, the Gaidhlig was there for the fans, to allow them to revel in Jamie's Scottishness, and also to show off and allow them to pick up and puzzle over pronunciation and meaning.  Pure crowd-pleasing.  Meanwhile, the obscure vocabulary functioned to reinforce authorial superiority and control.  Except that the Gaidhlig did so, too.  As I read, I found myself getting the distinct impression that the author was reaching in and reminding me that she was smarter than me.  There were two things wrong with that--first, anyone can do research.  The vocabulary was a product of the nuts and bolts WORK behind the novel, just like the research into surgical techniques or military campaigns of the Revolutionary War.  Sure, a novel is work.  And in fact, more and more we're told that it's more work than inspiration.  Fine.  Whatever.  But the work should be behind-the-scenes.  The author can't imbue the work with the message, "See?  Look how much WORK I did!" Particularly when there has been a dialog on Facebook with that very implication--novels take a long time; they take a lot of work.  Gabaldon goes so far as to reprimand readers who think she is wrong about word usage in the back matter.  I was sort of incensed to read this after finishing the novel:

Owing to the interesting ideosyncracies of the Scots dialect, some words may appear to be misspelled--but they aren't.  For instance, while an English cook may have made her flapjacks on an iron griddle, her Scottish counterpart was frying sausages on a hot girdle.  (This occasional transposition of sounds results in such entertaining items as a Scottish dessert known as "creamed crud" ("curd" to the less imaginative English).  It also results in the occasional inattentive reviewer denouncing the occurance of "typos" in my books.  This is not to say that there aren'tany typos--there always are, no matter how many eyeballs have combed the pages--just that "girdle" isn't one of them.

Thank you, Mrs. Gabaldon.  However, this is a problem for readers, and by adding this note, you indicate that you know that this is a problem for readers, but don't care, because you're too smart to care, and ultimately you are the one in control. (Your editors know that, too, don't they?)  But frankly, this damages your ethos as well as your narrative.  Because the second problem with obscure words or confusing spellings is that they disrupt the reading process.  If I have to stop and puzzle while reading, to look up a word that is too obscure for an overeducated person to know readily, I have suddenly become more aware of my reading process than of the characters and plot.  This is a narrative intrusion that is much more disruptive--and possibly more condescending--than the famed "intrusive narrator," a subject of much contempt in certain camps, particularly among children's literature critics.  In my case, I did not think it was Gabaldon's typo, but I did think it was a Kindle transciption error. Consider the context:

I had a tiny cautery iron, its handle wrapped in twisted wool, heating on Amy's girdle.  I supposed it didn't matter if it tasted like sausages.

Given Gabaldon's sense of double entendre, and knowing now that it was not a transcription error, I can't help imagining her chuckling to herself about "girdles" tasting of "sausages" (*wink, wink* *nudge, nudge*)

I have not done as much research as Gabaldon on the linguistic characteristics of Scottish dialects, clearly.  But here's a thought.  In American English, a naturally occurring linguistic change is for "nuclear" to be pronounced "nucular" or "nuculer."  However, this is not something that appears in print.  If it were to appear in a narrative, even if the intent was to represent dialect, it would not register as such with readers, and would certainly not pass muster with editors.  Let's examine this from another angle.  The story.  Perhaps you noticed that the character who was narrating this particular chapter was Claire Fraser?  Right.  The time traveler. The ENGLISH time traveler.  From the 20th Century.  Why on earth would her internal narrative reflect 18th Century Scots pronunciation?  Exactly.  So that the author can demonstrate how smart she is.  *sigh*

I'm being perhaps more snarky and belligerant than I meant to be.  However, this is a natural response to the type of authorial antagonism present in the narrative, and in the note.  And that authorial antagonism is, I believe, a natural consequence of knowing your audience too intimately.

On a less personal note...

I do agree that the novel was extremely choppy.  It did not, in fact, read as a coherent novel with... okay, a plot.  There were sub-plots, but there was not an overarching plot.  I don't consider "Get Jamie and Claire back to Fraser's Ridge" to be a plot.  That, in fact, was the only unifying problem that needed to be overcome, and it was an author's dilemma rather than a plot dilemma--which points to my other major criticism.  After a while, I was tracing the author's writing process, which again took me out of the book.  It began to feel like a laborious process, and while I could appreciate the challenges of writing the book, that is not where I wanted to be.  Nevertheless, the stories themselves were interesting.  Unlike other critical reviewers, I enjoyed the presence of the Grey family throughout the novel.  For the first time, that family does actually seem to belong in the story of the Fraser's lives.  I was interested in Hal's search for his son Ben and his (purported) widow.  Unfortunately, that plot didn't resolve.  I was interested in William's... journey, which also didn't resolve, but came to one dead end (no pun intended--more on that in a bit...).  The wedding plots were fine, and provided the opportunity for some virgin (and not-so-virgin) sex and some sex ed, which again, is a crowd-pleaser.  These scenes did feel a bit forced, but they had to be there.  It's all part of the schtick.  I did not particularly enjoy the Roger-in-the-too-distant-past interlude, which seemed pointless but provided an intersection with her short story, "A Leaf on the Wind of All Hallows" (which was not my favorite thing that Gabaldon has written).

I have not particularly enjoyed the "Bree and Roger in the 1980s" segments, and I almost think that all of their intrigues in MOBY were engineered to get them back to the past (HT: Roger Zemeckis).  While in the 1980s (and I would have to say that there was such an incredible imbalance between Roger and Bree time and the 18th C people that the overall impression was that Bree and Roger didn't fit into this book at all), there were, of course, pop culture references.  There was Fraggle Rock, which, as a fraggle fan, I appreciated, but which sort of registered along with Disneyland almost as product placement.  And then, there was the Tardis.  *sigh*  And I don't care how many Dr. Who fans are out there, I just think that to drop a Tardis reference into a time travel series is ridiculous--another somewhat pointless fan-pleaser borne of social media involvement.  I actually think of Tardismania as a very contemporary thing--I don't remember the Tardis being stressed in the 80s the way it is now, though certainly Dr. Who has many incarnations that (heh) span time.

In general, I enjoyed the surgery--though "enjoy" might be overstating it.  Some made me cringe--most decidedly.  Some were designed to make the reader cringe--in fact, I would guess that most of the surgical scenes were designed--yes, to show off the author's research, but also to make the reader squirm uncomfortably.  A different kind of squirming than the sex scenes, but I do believe that both types of scenes reach out of the book to produce a physical reaction in the reader.  And it works.  How a reader reacts to that type of forced engagement is another question--I was basically okay with it, though some things did stretch my suspension of disbelief.  For example... would incisions under the tongue really stop bleeding in 2 minutes' time with only pressure and cotton?  Having dealt with mouth injuries and extracted teeth, I doubt it.  Mouth injuries bleed profusely.  And would you really want to ply the 13 year-old with whiskey to perform the outpatient procedure, even if nothing else were available? Let's ask 'ol Hippocrates about that one. One surgery seemed placed in the novel for three purposes:  to disgust the reader, to stress the importance of birth control by depicting the (historical?) dangers of childbirth, and to introduce the ethics of forced sterilization.  I did rather feel that whereas in previous books the author's "out" when she encountered a block in writing was sex, in this book it was surgery.  I know people who could not have handled the description or their own visceral reactions to the descriptions, but though I read sympathetically/empathetically, I was able to read through them all. Not all contributed significantly to the novel overall, however.  I keep coming back to that, because being able to point to this or that as not really mattering demonstrates why the novel felt choppy and why it lacked cohesion--it could hardly have been more disjointed as a series of short stories or novellas, which seems to be the mode the author might have preferred for the separate sub-plots.

The other conspicuous authorial strategy was killing off inconvenient characters.  She does it twice.  It is terribly obvious.  And only one of the two is really forgivable, artistically speaking.   She introduced a character in the last book or two who was born a dwarf.  He has no place in 18th Century society outside of a circus, but is a delightful child.  Unable to provide for such a character, the author seems to have made a decision to kill him off.  It's a pity--he was an interesting character.  And the incident is really too random to feel satisfying, and too abrupt to be sad.  Gabaldon also introduces a prostitute and her sister as part of William's coming-to-terms-with-his-illegitimacy sub-plot.  As he struggles with what it means to have honor, shepherding a prostitute and her sister and shielding them from her professional hazards somehow begins to form part of his new identity.  Unfortunately, Jamie Fraser's son--even if illegitimate--and an Earl to boot--could not fall in love with a prostitute.  Which means that we can only find out that he probably was falling in love with her after she is dead.  *sigh*

Poor William. He has issues.  But how could he not, given his parentage?  I have to say that in this book, I cease to like the character of Jamie Fraser.  He is a barbarian at the beginning, and he is a barbarian at the end.  And poor, dear, overstimulated Claire needed to be a bit more defensive of Lord John Grey, who was, after all, trying to save her life by marrying her.  But when the red-heided battering ram (and I did not mean that as a double entendre, though it works) shows up again, all is forgotten.  Suffice it to say, other characters and certain sub-plots carried me through this one.

Did I like the book?  It hardly matters.  I was distracted enough by form and function that I don't know that I had the opportunity to like it.  When I wasn't thinking about how it was constructed and why, I liked it well enough, but don't get me started on the chapter titles (more crowd-pleasing, self-conscious cleverness).  There were certainly things I liked about it.  The book has not, by any means, put me off of the series (though Jamie's character came close--both at the beginning and at the end). I guess there are still too many plot holes--and that's it:  I want to know what happens next.  This one was not a cliffhanger, but in spite of its bulk, with many sub-plots and no overarching, unifying plot structure, it feels incomplete. Things that I still want to know:

• Is Ben Grey really dead?
• What is the story behind Amaranthus--Ben's purported widow?
• Will William ever love again? 
• Will Benedict Arnold turn his coat, and why?
• Where are Dottie and Denzell?
• What about that sticky business of someone knowing that Lord John is homosexual?
• Why did Ian try to kill Rachel in his sleep?
• How will the Revolutionary War end?
• Are these characters secretly immortal, and not in the literary sense?

You might notice that none of these relate directly to Claire, Jamie, & co.  Well, okay.  The last one does.  In fact, my curiousity about Jamie's ghost in Book 1 is beginning to wane.  The mystery is likely more intriguing than any answer could be.

Written in My Own Heart's Blood is a transitional point in the Outlander story--sustained only by the fact that it is part of a series.  I hope that the author works through her attraction to the short story/novella genres before plotting--or plodding through--the next full-fledged Outlander installment. But anyway, I will be waiting for the next installment.  In 5 or 10 years, I'll be ready.

Thoughts on the Grisha Trilogy by Leigh Bardugo (with a note on God in fiction)

Last night I finished, for all practical purposes, the Grisha Trilogy by Leigh Bardugo.  The third book, Ruin and Rising, came out on June 17, and I bought it on Kindle the same day.  The books are compelling--interesting, and to me, different.  For one thing, the female protagonist has three potential love interests! Okay, I'm kidding.  Mostly.  I found the characters well developed and the writing lucid and un-self-conscious.  I was not burdened, as some readers were, by the Russian-sounding names, wondering whether they were accurate.  It was simply a different approach to fantasy naming conventions.  I particularly liked some of the snappy dialog in the third book, which really brought the personalities of the characters to the forefront.  And I liked the character of Nickolai, the bastard prince/pirate/potential love interest.

I may at some point go back and reread them, but even though some of the names of places were getting fuzzy, I don't feel the need to revisit the stories yet.  (I also won't be reading the extensive extra-novel material that sells for $0.99 a short story.  That's cheating, in my book...) For one thing, I technically have 9 minutes left in the book, according to the Kindle.  There's a loooong denouement.  I guess something significant could still happen.  But I rather doubt it.  It will be interesting to see the "After" chapter--each book has started with a "Before" that was written in a more formal storytelling voice, meant to mimic something like a "Lives of the Saints" prose style, if I'm reading it correctly.

But when I reread, I do it for two reasons:  sheer enjoyment, and analysis.  If I badly want to relive something, I reread it.  If I want to delve further in, I reread it.  I did enjoy the books, but I'm not captivated by the world.  It's an ugly place, and not a place in which I want to spend more time.  I'm also not convinced that there's anything for me to analyze.  The themes are large and hard to miss, and the literacy is not tied to theme in a significant way.  There is, however, one thing that fascinated me that seems to need to be addressed before I can move on--or back--to the Hunger Games article that I've been trying to write since February or March (and then ultimately to Lord of the Rings):  religion.

This ties in a strange way to the Hunger Games.  When critics of the Hunger Games go searching for religion, they come up short, here and here and here and here and here and here... and so on.  The "spiritual but not religious" claim is the one that makes me chuckle.  I would venture to argue that the critical perception of how religion and God can be manifest in literary texts is extraordinarily narrow, and that there are enough very small hints to betray a rather sophisticated religious sensibility--what, after all, is all that bread doing there?  And what do we make of the fact that along with the bread, the marriage rituals maintain the flavor of the districts?  There is a sacramental subtext to the Hunger Games that has, as far as I know, not been mentioned outside of this blog and one of my Facebook threads.

I bring this up because the presence or absence of "religion" or "God" in a text has nothing to do with explicit reference to religion or the trappings of religion, which becomes clear in The Grisha Trilogy--and in Ruin and Rising in particular.  One of the things that intrigued me early on--but not what kept me reading, by any means--was the mention of Saints. There is a book of lives of the Saints, which the priest-figure, who is himself a creepy, opportunistic, exploitative figure, gives to the female protagonist, Alina.  There are churches and icons and miracles, and at the center, a mysterious Sankta Ilya, as well as the adoption of Alina as a saint becuase of her powers, and the potential she has to act as a deliverer for Ravka.  There are also throngs of believers. THRONGS of faceless believers.  But there is, ultimately, no God.

While faith is not actually condemned--it is occasionally useful, and two of the more important characters are devotees of the novel's religion--the narrative leaves no room for God to exist.  In fact, the religion is saint-based rather than God-based, which is interesting considering the Russian influence on the setting.  It also has nothing to do with morality.  Alina has a strong ethical sense, and she is unique because of her capacity for mercy and forgiveness, and she happens to be chaste until a pledge that substitutes for a wedding-that-can-never-be before battle, but there is no moral code.  The treatment of sexuality is occasionally blasé, but not in the way you might think with Young Adult fiction.  It is also not subject to morality or ethics of any sort.  Promiscuity sort of... happens.  But again, it's not really a big thing, and it's not a central part of the novel.  In fact, it's rather a mistake, if a slight one that doesn't hurt anyone too much.  It rather reminds me of how I felt about sex as a teen.

Beyond the "no moral code" thing, I would say that I just kept waiting for religion to be developed.  It was there, but it was wholly a construction of people--mortals. Specifically, mortals who are either pathetic and desperate, or opportunisitic and manipulative. The immortals in the story are either completely corrupt and cruel or cruelly bitter.  Alina is different, and it is hinted that she, too, is immortal, but we never get to see that for certain.  But where the life is sucked from religion is in the treatment of saints.  They are not holy.  They are not even good, necessarily.  They are simply presumed to have been Grisha whose powers to manipulate the elements--or, really, the particles of creation--were used in service to humanity in some way.  It is almost an atheistic vision--we are all there is.  And so I wonder whether that is why I am not rushing to reread.  For all of its outcome, there is still an absence of hope or substance.  There is dark.  There is light.  There is struggle.  But ultimately, we are all there is.

**It is interesting to note that the author was born in Jerusalem.  I don't have any basis for knowing what cultural influences might have contributed to the worldview of the novels, but that might be an interesting question to explore.

On the Edge of Ruin...: Rereading and what is "Notable."

I cried last night while reading The Two Towers.

Unlike Mrs. Gibson, the teacher who cried while reading Charlotte's Web to our 5th grade class, the I rarely cry for any fictional character--in fact, the death of Théoden may be the only time time it has happened, and it is certainly the only time it has happened repeatedly, even predictably.  But I was not reading of Théoden's death.  Rather, I cried as Théoden rode to meet with Saruman, his parting after his first meeting with Merry and Pippin:

"Farewell, my hobbits! May we meet again in my house! There you shall sit beside me and tell me all that your hearts desire: the deeds of your grandsires, as far as you can reckon them; and we will speak also of Tobold the Old and his herb-lore. Farewell!" (545)

It is a truly notable moment, and one that could easily be missed in a first reading of Lord of the Rings.  What we have in this scene is a reunion between the members of the Fellowship who still remain West of the Anduin.  Merry and Pippin are introduced to Théoden and learn that the Rohirrim, having come from the North, preserve a memory of hobbits in oral, folk memory, whereas the scholars of Middle Earth (the Elronds, Sarumons, and Denethors), and even the Ents, who also carry oral wisdom, have none.  Théoden in particular seems to remember tales of hobbits--holbytlan, in the language of the Mark--particularly fondly, and in his goodbye ("Farewell, my hobbits!") I hear a good deal of wonder, and ownership not only of their acquaintance, but of the discovery that they do exist.  More than in battle, this exchange seems to make the years fall away from Théoden, Lord of the Mark.

It is the following line that had me choked up, however:  "There you shall sit beside me and tell me all that your hearts desire: the deeds of your grandsires, as far as you can reckon them; and we will speak also of Tobold the Old and his herb-lore."  Gandalf has cautioned Théoden that hobbits will sit "on the edge of ruin" and discuss the minutiae of everyday life and geneology.  Théoden, while enraptured by what Merry has to tell, must ride on to meet with Sarumon, and bids them farewell until another time.  The tragedy, of course, is that this time will never come.

These words of Théoden look forward to Théoden's death, which moves me primarily because of this--the loss of opportunity to sit in peace and discuss the history of the Shire.  It almost an unfilfilled promise--a moment that never comes fruition.  Otherwise, Théoden's death is heroic--a matter, the Rohirrim might say, for song and not for tears.  Of course, there is a sense in which heriosm, pointing to something larger than mortality, is itself a matter for tears, if not quite for tears of sadness.

The words also look back--at least, in the structure of the book.  The Prologue, "Concerning Hobbits," has seemingly been written in reference to this conversation with Théoden.  The phrase "concerning hobbits" occurs within the exchange ("never till now have I found a people that knew any story concerning hobbits" - p. 544), while the section "Concerning Pipe-weed" quotes a volume of herblore written by Merry, undoubtedly in memory of Théoden, that tells of "Tobold the Old and his herb-lore."  This moment contains the Beginning, Middle, and End of The Lord of the Rings--all three books!--though "Concerning Hobbits" and "Concerning Pipe-weed" were "written" ( by Merry) long after the events have concluded.  I have not yet considered the fact that a very scholarly, written tract functions as a dedication to the king of Rohan, which still exists (more or less) as a primary oral culture.

Though I do not attribute to my own experience the emotional impact of the scene, I can't help but recall the months leading up to my grandfather's death.  When he was in the hospital after his heart attack, I went to read to him.  Having recently finished a college course on Ancient Greek literature, I thought he would particularly enjoy Robert Fitzgerald's translation of The Odyssey.  I began reading, but became overwhelmed by the hospital setting--seeing him hooked to machines.  Feeling dizzy, and watching the edges of the world become black, I patted his hand and told him that I would be back--then I turned and left.  Although he was in the hospital for 6 more months, that was the last time I saw him, and I did not return to read more of The Odyssey.  It is something I have come to terms with, though I don't think I exactly blamed myself.  Rather, like the words of Théoden, my promise was one that did not come to fruition.  It was a lost opportunity--and interestingly, an opportunity that centered on stories and history.

Sometimes, it is good to cry.  Even in the lost opportunity of Merry and Théoden, there is connection, and the desire to share with someone else something that is precious to us, though I feel the irony in using that particular word, and to know that they are eager to sit and hear the tale.  My tears are as much for Théoden's wonder at the existance of the holbytlan, and for the beauty that is interrupted but can still be recalled, as for the sadness of the unfulfilled promise, and for my certain knowledge of Théoden's glorious death.  It is impossible, perhaps, not to think of Fallenness, and Promises, and Glory in this moment--so that even in tears, there is Hope.

Note:  I made a small change to the paragraphs about the Prologue, since Merry is not the primary author, only a source.  I think the overall reading of symmetry in the moment "on the edge of ruin" still holds, however!

Tolkien and Nuance: Dwarf as 'Other' in Rohan

Sometimes, we are too close to a topic emotionally to be able to write about it well, or to get started with what we want to say.  Would it be strange to say that I feel that way about the Ents? But never fear--an Ent post is coming.

In the meantime, I have pased the compelling part of the Ent story in The Two Towers, and moved into Rohan, which I also love.  From the earliest encounter with the Rohirrim, Gimli's difference is the most pronounced of the three travelers--Aragon, Legolas, and Gimli--as compared to the Rohirrim.  Though the Riders think it is strange for a dwarf and an elf to be travelling in company, Gimli is singled out for his difference more often.  Having gotten on the wrong side of Éomer by being hasty, as Treebeard might say, over the matter of Galadriel, the Lady of the Wood, whom the Rohirrim call a sorceress, Gimli becomes the focus of Éomer's attention and menace.  The dialog that follows might be called trash talk, Middle Earth style (hence its inclusion in Peter Jackson's film), if not for Éomer's spear and sword:

"I would cut off your head, beard and all, Master Dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground."

Though the Rohirrim are also bearded (a fact we learn from Theoden's snow-white beard, though in the initial description of Éomer and his men, there are no beards), Gimli's beard is noteworthy enough to be a focus of Éomer's threat.  However, Gimli's height is the focus of greater insult.  We know that the Rohirrim are tall; Gimli's stature makes him, in Éomer's insult, unfit to kill.

While the particular insult is racial, the tension between the two is not--except insofar as a dwarf is defending the honor of an elf to a man who has insulted her.  But this scene offers to the reader the sense that dwarves are particularly strange in Rohan, though their ways are known.

This is not the notable moment that inspired me to write, however.  The moment occurs in Helm's Deep--in a chapter that I hate and dread because Peter Jackson has made me expect the Battle of Helm's Deep to be interminable as his portrayal of it.  My mantra as I enter the chapter:  "It's only ONE chapter.  It's only ONE chapter.  It's only ONE chapter.  And there's only ONE elf."  During this particular reading, I found myself anticipating a particular meeting of man of Rohan and dwarf, and thinking about a critique that some level at Tolkien--that he lacks nuance.  One example is the age-old accusation, more recently based in the movie adaptations and largely ignoring traditional literary dichotomies, that Tolkien equates blackness and dark races with evil and whiteness or white races with goodness.  More recently, the "no nuance" argument has been a characteristic of George R. R. Martin's attempts to differentiate himself from Tolkien, which were brought to my attention by Darwin's post on the topic.

In Helm's Deep, we see an encounter between Gimli the Dwarf and Gamling the Old, a defender of the Hornburg who describes himself as having "seen too many winters," that shows a rather nuanced understanding of encounters with difference:

     "We must stop this rat-hole," said Gamling.  "Dwarves are said to be cunning folk with stone.  Lend us your aid, master!"
     "We do not shape stone with battle-axes, nor with our finger-nails," said Gimli.  "But I will help as I may."
     They gathered such small boulders and broken stones as they could find to hand, and under Gimli's direction the Westfold-men blocked up the inner end of the culvery, until only a narrow outlet remained.

On the surface, Gimli's frustration may seem to be with the lack of tools for the task, though it never seemed so to me.  Reading this now, I think of the posts that appear on Facebook, promoting sensitivity and understanding for one or another group (most recently, families who adopt and Autistic individuals) from others--sometimes well-meaning, sometimes not--who regard them as strange or different.  Posts like the photo essay by one mother who poses her daughters with signs displaying rude and inappropriate comments made by strangers draw support for sensitivity, inform, and shame those who have behaved in rude, inconsiderate, unthinking, or blatantly hostile ways.  Many times, we are intended to squirm, because who hasn't been in a situation in which we have not known what to say, and have inadvertently said the wrong thing--or remained silent, which is often considered just as discriminatory?

Here, in Helm's Deep, Gamling draws on what he knows of dwarves to make a connection with Gimli, to offer a compliment, and yes, to solicit assistance in Rohan's need.  However, the situation and his particular way of soliciting help with a compliment reveals--at least to Gimli--the man's utter ignorance of the way of dwarves.  It is pehaps the stress of battle and frustration with the lack of tools, but may also be a crotchety yet ultimately good-natured ribbing and correction of an ignorant view of dwarves that prompts Gimli's words:  "'We do not shape stone with battle-axes, nor with our finger-nails,' said Gimli.  'But I will help as I may.'"  That Gimli's words are instructive is borne out by the narrative:  "...under Gimli's direction the Westfold-men blocked up the inner end of the culvery, until only a narrow outlet remained."  Gimli counters the man's ignorance of the ways of dwarves and stonework, but also demonstrates what skill he has to apply to the situation.

In this scenario, I have always felt a bit more sorrow and embarrassment for Gamling than amusement at Gimli's words.  After all, this is a man who has (presumably) had no encounters with dwarves apart from the songs and tales of the Rohirrim.  I imagine the mortification I would feel as an onlooker in such a situation, knowing what the person speaking could not know.  In a way, Gimli diffuses it with crotchety humor and grace, but the fact remains that these are two very different races, and that the men know very little of dwarves.  At the end of the battle, we see again this difference when Gimli comments on the glittering caverns of Helm's Deep--men hide in them in times of war, but dwarves would cultivate them to reveal their beauty.  Like the men of Rohan, Legolas has little appreciation for caves, which might signal that he is less strange to them overall.  Although the Rohirrim exhibit some superficial similarities to dwarves--they are blunt and direct, battle-hardy, and hunt orcs--and bear little resemblance to elves, it is Gimli who is revealed--over and over again--to be the Other.  Even Ents and Hobbits (the holbytla, in the tongue of the Rohirrim) have more in common with Rohan.  And yet, there is not a simple dichotomy here (Human/non-Human or Dwarf/non-Dwarf).  In a very small moment, when Gamling solicits Gimli's help, Tolkien reveals, as he does many times over, that he has a very nuanced understanding of interpersonal interactions, and of the conflict that can occur between those who are fundamentally different, even as they seek connection.

Notes Toward an Article on Blogging and Reading

In a burst of creative/critical energy this morning, I decided to collect everything I have said about notable moments--on my original class blog, which is private, in a conference presentation I gave, in an article I wrote that was rejected, and on this blog--to prepare to shape them into one of the articles I've been avoiding.  I have a number of thoughts about the benefits of the notable moment post.  However, in the meantime I had a revelation about Freud's Civilization and Its Discontents...  I had latched onto Freud's idea that intellectual activity is beneficial because it helps us to stave off suffering, but I have decided that this is only the case when the intellectual activity itself is not the source of the suffering!

I get stuck on research.  When I research, I get lost in trying to be exhaustive, fighting the urge to completely disregard everything everyone else is saying because I'm saying something different anyway.  In the meantime, I become overwhelmed by the cacophany of voices who are not quite saying the same thing, and end up comvinced that I have nothing new to add to the conversation.  This is where I was at about 2 P.M. today, and I have not yet had the courage to look back at all of those open tabs of scholarly and non-scholarly sources discussing blogs and close reading.  The last time I researched blogs and education, I was ultimately rejected by an editor for not citing the right sources (which are pretty difficult to find, frankly).  Here is where not having anyone to ask "how's that article coming," and no real mentor from whom to seek advice really hurts me--because everyone who used to be a mentor has washed their hands of me, since I failed in finding an academic job that would lend intellectual community.  And because of that failing, I am doomed to continue to spiral into failure.  But enough of that.  Trying to lift myself out now!  

I wound up finding the outline I wrote last night, which goes something like this:

• What we think about reading on the internet

• What academics/teachers say about blogging

• Where close reading happens online

• How it can shape how we read

• How it can shape the way we teach

• How it can shape literary criticism

Perhaps if I stick to finding articles that can bolster each of these, I will not need to be terribly exhaustive in order to prove that I am saying something different.

In the meantime, at the end of the above outline was a second outline--this one a little more "conversational"--meant to be expanded into a book.  What I need to decide is who my audience would be, and why they would care...

Blogging the "Notable Moment"

It started with a class…

…and continued with a blog.

It happens on political blogs…

…and religious blogs…

…but is not typically a feature of book blogging…

…or online book reviews.

It can change the way we teach…

…and the way we interact with books.


It can change online literacy, or at least bring literary culture and reading online in a less shallow sort of way--don't you think?

Four Questions on Writing

I was thrilled to be tagged by Darwin and Mrs. Darwin to answer some questions about writing as part of the blog tour (you can read more about it here), because it makes me feel like a real blogger!  At the same time, I feel guilty because my bursts of writing are so far and few between.  One commenter remarks on this post about writing that she feels like "the writer who no longer writes"--and I go through intense bouts of that, as I explain here.  Nevertheless, I am on an upswing!  Thinking about writing and posting a thing or two.  So here goes!

1. What are you working on?

Blogs: I have, at this point, three blogs that I post to occasionally--this one, which is my "Booknotes" blog, my Teaching, Training, Blogging blog, on which I try to post insights into teaching that I gain from working as a (relictant) trainer, and my sewing blog, on which I try to document sewing projects and pattern reviews.  I started a blog to record last year's NaNoWriMo efforts, and I have the blog that started it all, Words, Words, which was an everything blog, before I decided that each of my split personalities needed her own internet space.  Mostly I post to this one--Booknotes from Literacy-chic.

Articles: In addition to blogging, I have, like Damocles' sword, two articles that I would like to write--one on where the Hunger Games novels fit in the history of dystopian discourses on literacy, and one that discusses the purpose and pedagogy behind what I call "notable moments" posts.  The former, on the Hunger Games, has (I believe) been more or less accepted as part of a proposed collection on dystopia.  The latter would be an extension of the paper idea that I proposed to a conference that I did not attend (I backed out), and I would have to write it by June 1.  I have only just decided to take it seriously.  

Fiction: Hanging by a slightly more substantial horsehair is the novel that I have been working on for two NaNoWriMos now... which is completely illegal by NaNo standards (writing the same novel twice).  I am very attached at this point to the scenario and the characters, but the two efforts, the latter chronicled here, are very different.  The scenario comes from a motif in Celtic songs--particularly "Broken Token," "So Early in the Spring," and various versions of "Step it Out Mary"--in which the young man and woman are in love, and he leaves her behind for a time to seek his fortune.  As the song progresses, there are a few different scenarios.  In "Broken Token," he returns and tests her loyalty.  In "So Early in the Spring," he returns, but cannot find her, then learns from her father that she is married.  In other songs that tell a similar story, we learn why she may have married in the previous scenario:  the father has arranged a match for her, and in "Step it Out Mary," unable to sway her father with her protests, she "drowned with her soldier boy." (Why the soldier drowned with her instead of taking her away, I'm not sure...)  It was "Broken Token" that gave me the idea, though the song is particularly moving to me--what if, after he went away, the entire world changed?  What if a catastrophic event happened in their village--if they were conquored and enslaved--and she had to adapt, or die?  When he returned, would they still love each other?  Would it truly work, when each had changed according to their own separate experiences? I guess I felt like it was a little unfair for her to be expected to wait... as well as unrealistic.  My novel will one day treat that scenario.  I started first from their reunion--and she is pregnant.  Oh, and a sniper.  My second attempt started from just before their parting, as a glimpse into what will be lost.  Perhaps in November we will see what the third try will yield?  But lately I've been thinking of revisiting my second try on the blog.

2. What makes your work different from others' work in the same genre?

Blogging: As far as I know, most bloggers do not compartmentalize the way I have done, but every now and then I come across one who has different pages for different interests.  I like the separate spaces, but having separate spaces makes it seem like I'm writing less over all, and it's a lot harder to write for an audience, which I'm not sure I'm doing anyway.  I would like an audience, and I have friends who visit, but I guess the main difference between my blogging and other blogs is that I'm not consciously joining a community by writing about certain things in certain ways or contributing to a larger conversation.  It's not because I don't want to; I guess that's not really where I am right now--or I haven't figured out who wants to hear what I have to say.

Book Blogging: My book blogging is different from other book blogs because I don't like to give overviews and reviews.  I have reviewed a few books along the way, but mostly to get what I have to say out of my head, not to recommend the book to other, like-minded readers, or to support a favorite author.  When I write them, my reviews are fairly critical, and they are usually the advice I would give to writers who have good ideas and a lot of promise, whom I (in the arrogance of my academic training) think could be doing better than they are.  One reason for keeping up with the Booknotes blog is to keep my analytical skills sharp and to collect ideas for scholarship, if I ever motivate myself to return to scholarship.  But if I'm being truthful, I would ideally like to share my readings with people who might not have seen what I see.  I'm pointing out the things in the books that I would have pointed out to students in the classroom.  I'm starting the discussion that I would start with a nonexistant book group.

My method is to blog what I call "notable moments."  I asked students to do this throughout my teaching apprenticeship (because truly, it was never a "career")--to write a short analysis of a moment in a novel that interested them, and explain what it was that they found so fascinating.  These can be more or less personal, but ideally would get the students to pay attention while reading, to make note of what they responded to, and to look a little bit closer at a scene or paragraph before trying to understand the work as a whole.  The last time I taught an upper-level (college) literature class, I had students keep blogs that would document their reading process. The "notable moment" became more developed in that class, and really enriched our class conversations.  Now I blog notable moments myself!  It's not something I see too many people doing on blogs, and it really works better on the second or third read of a book.

Fiction: What makes my fiction attempts different is that I seem to want to write Young Adultish fiction scenarios, with a little bit of sex or grittiness that pushes it out of what I think is okay for YA (but is still present in YA), with more mature relationships and 20-something characters.  So I seem to write a novel that is not quite adult fiction, but is not quite YA, though it resembles YA a bit more than any adult genres.

3. Why do you write what you do?

As I say on my blog profile, "I am a compulsive writer in search of a subject."  I have written as long as I can remember, though I have never written a journal or diary because I felt foolish writing to myself, or because I didn't quite know how to write a genre that was, by definition, private.  I wrote silly things and wound up destroying them from embarrassment.  The same fate befell most of my poetry from high school--though the undergraduate poetry stuck around.

I blog notable moments because they're how I read--they get stuck in my head and I just need to say something about them.  I also think they're a good mode for blogs, and a great research and pedagogical tool.  But mostly, it's how I read.  And I fear to lose the ideas I have when I'm reading, because they will most likely not become articles or research papers now.  So I blog them.

I blog on my Teaching, Training, Blogging blog in order to reflect on my current job and think about how I can apply those ideas to teaching if I ever get back there.

I blog on my sewing blog because sewing blogs are cool, and I want to be one of those people who sew things and write about them.

As for fiction... When I was in high school, I wrote some fiction, but mostly drama and poetry.  Only the poetry really came naturally to me, and I produced a fair amount of poetry as an undergraduate, some of it good.  Being happily married with children whom I like doesn't lend itself as well to poetry as I might like, but I guess I'm okay with the tradeoff!  I read more fiction than poetry now, as I did when I was younger, but I've never felt like I was particularly good at writing it.  I have a hard time with plot, in particular.  I'm writing this novel because I participated in NaNoWriMo 2011 with Mrs. Darwin, and I loved it.  I loved the creative energy, and the sense of actually having produced something original--a story.  I think I did a marginally better job than some published writers, and I would love to do something with that story (titled "The Merman's Daughter") some day.  I would also like to continue writing the story that I started in 2012 and started again in 2013--the one about the estranged lovers.  There's something I need to say about love and friendship and sex and commitment and memory and pain.  At least, I think that's it.

4. How does your writing process work?

I have never managed a writing discipline.  Even when I was writing my dissertation, and I was told to write SOMETHING every day, I couldn't.  Or didn't.  I'm thinking of Wordsworth's "spontaneous overflow... recollected in tranquility."  My writing process looks something like that, even if it's not terribly emotional.  Rather, I write the thoughts that don't want to stay contained in my head.  The things that I turn over and over and seem to be too large for thought alone.  When I've thought it out to a certain point, I fear losing nuances, and so I write.

Although I am a night person by nature, and I still write on the weekend, one of the impediments to my writing is work--specifically, working a 40 hour week.  When I get up early to be at work, say 6:30, I can't stay up late and write.  If I get up after 9, I can write late.  During the week, even if I feel creative, I don't have the energy after 10 P.M.  But since I am awake earlier, I actually find that my creative energy occurs earlier in the day.  So I want to write in the morning.  Preferably before I get any real work done.  However, I am at work, and I really shouldn't.  It's quite a problem.

When I read on my Kindle, I usually make note of a passage I would like to write about and then go to the computer when I'm ready and use the desktop Kindle software to copy and paste the passage(s) into separate blog posts, often titling them according to the idea I have about the passage and maybe typing a few notes to remind myself what I'd like to say.  Sometimes, they end up as full blog posts.  Sometimes not.  I have about 20 posts queued up related to the Outlander series that I never actually completed, and one or two about the Hunger Games trilogy--not entirely satisfactory, but not completely lost, either.  When I'm reading a paper book, I do something similar, though I don't always type the whole passage before I start.  Sometimes I do, though.  I like titles, and I do usually think in titles as a starting point!

***

Melanie from Wine Dark Sea, how do you write?  I would also love to know about my favorite craft blogger's writing process--LiEr from IkatBag.  

Language and Race, Nostalgia and Place - Stopping in Hollin/Eregion: A Notable Moment

It's a funny thing about Notable Moments.  Once I commit one to writing, my mind becomes oriented in that direction--seeking, finding, and writing notable moments.  (And now I need to publish this one so that I can write about the Ents and Entwives...) This is another thing I hoped to inspire in my students during that second-to-last semester teaching when I introduced the "notable moments" blog assignment--a habit of thought and a pattern of writing down thoughtful analyses and questions.  Because Notable Moments don't have to come to conclusions, and unlike research papers (particularly graduate research papers), there is no pressure to say something that no one else has said or thought.  In fact, on the internet, saying something original is not particularly important.  Saying things that others have thought, in fact, builds community.

***

A few pages past my last post, when Elrond sends the fellowship on their way(s), they reach Hollin, which had been Eregion.  It is a moment of beauty and longing, and I paused over it fondly to think about what it is that I find so compelling about the passage:

     "I need no map," said Gimli, who had come up with Legolas, and was gazing out before him with a strange light in his deep eyes.  "There is the land where our fathers worked of old, and we have wrought the image of those mountains into many works of metal and of stone, and into many songs and tales.  They stand tall in our dreams: Baraz, Zirak, Shathûr.

     "Only once before have I seen them from afar in waking life, but I know them and their names, for under them lies Khazad-dûm,the Dwarrowdelf, that is now called the Black Pit, Moria in the Elvish tongue.  Yonder stands Baranzinbar, the Redhorn, cruel Caradhras; and beyond him are Silvertine and Cloudyhead: Celebdil the White, and Fanuidhol the Grey, that we call Zirakzigil and Bundushathûr.

     "There the Misty Mountains divide, and between their arms lies the deep-shadowed valley which we cannot forget: Azanulbizar, the Dimrill Dale, which the Elves call Nanduhirion."

[....]

     "Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram," said Gimli, "and cold are the springs of Kibil-nâla.  My heart trembles with joy that I may see them soon."

     "May you have joy of the sight, my good dwarf!" said Gandalf.  "But whatever you may do, we at least cannot stay in that valley.  We must go down the Silverlode into the secret woods, and so the Great River, and then---"

     He paused.

     "Yes, and where then?" asked Merry.

     "To the end of the journey--in the end," said Gandalf.  "We cannot look too far ahead.  Let us be glad that the first stage is safely over.  I think we will rest here, not only today but tonight as well.  There is a wholesome air about Hollin.  Much evil must befall a country before it forgets the Elves, if once they dwelt there."

      "That is true," said Legolas.  "But the Elves of this land were of a race strange to us of the silvan folk, and the trees and the grass do not now remember them.  Only I hear the stones lament them: deep they delved us, fair they wrought us, high they builded us; but they are gone.  They are gone.  They sought the Havens long ago." (FOTR 276)

And might I just take this moment to say that the feature of Mac OS that allows you to hold down a letter key to bring up all of the accented letters (à, á, â, etc.) and choose one with a number key or a click is AWESOME?

In this passage, the first thing I notice is language.   This is new to this particular reading--although I am well aware of Tolkien's attention to languages, when I have read Fellowship of the Ring before, or listened to the audiobook, I did not necessarily register how many different names were given for the mountains.  Only Caradhras registered--the important one.  And yet, consider:

Baraz	Baranzinbar	the Redhorn	Caradhras
Zirak	Zirakzigil	Silvertine	Celebdil the White
Shathûr	Bundushathûr	Cloudyhead	Fanuidhol the Grey

There are four distinct designations for each mountain.  The six names in dwarvish are interesting in that the first are shortened versions of the second, and that each is shortened in a different way.  Baraz takes the first two syllables of "Baranzinbar," but omits the "n," perhaps because, linguistically, the first "n" in "Baranzinbar" mirrors the second, in the syllable "zin," while also creating a full stop before the third syllable.  In the shortened form, there is no need for the mirroring--particularly when the "n" would become "swallowed" by the "az" anyway (there's a linguistic term for this, but my Old English is far behind me...)--and since the "z" is now part of the second syllable rather than the third, there is no need for a pause within the word.  "Zirak" is a more simply shortened form--simply the first two syllables of "Zirakzigil"--while "Shathûr" is the last two syllables of "Bundushathûr."

In addition, you have the elvish names--Caradhras, Celebdil, and Fanuidhol, presumably the Redhorn, Silvertine, and Cloudyhead in the common tongue.  On the umpteenth reading, I think I finally noticed that "Caradhras" and "the Redhorn" are the same mountain, which others no doubt caught on the first reading...  That "Silvertine" is the mountain designated "the White" by the elves is interesting to me; I wanted the clouds ("Cloudyhead") to be white and Fanuidhol the Grey to be silver ("Silvertine"), but my instinctive preference does not account for the fact that there is a reason present in the description.  Fanuidhol is grey because of the clouds, presumably.  And it is the bright white of Celebdil that makes it shine like silver--in the names are embedded more clues as to the appearance of the mountains.

I would argue that Tolkien's deep studied and instinctive connection to language is on display in this passage in more varied and obvious ways than it is almost anywhere else in Fellowship of the Ring--and it centers on the dwarves, who are evoked more poignantly in this scene than in the whole journey through Khazad-dûm.  The phrase, "Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram, and cold are the springs of Kibil-nâla," sends a little thrill through me every time I read it, though "dark water" and "cold springs" are, in themselves, unremarkable.  Quite apart from the place-names, which are exotic and strange and evoke the unknown culture and history of dwarves, the phrasing itself--the syntax--is made ritualistic through parallelism:  "dark is the water," "cold are the springs."  One can imagine this being a responsorial chant (and dwarf poetry, as Tolkien shows us, has the feel of a chant, a march, a procession) or a greeting.  And indeed, it becomes a greeting when Galadriel, to comfort Gimli and show her understanding, says also, "Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram, and cold are the springs of Kibil-nâla," and adds that "fair were the many-pillared halls of Khazad-dûm in Elder Days before the fall of mighty kings beneath the stone."  It does not simply evoke a place and a description, but a custom, and a culture, and, in fact, a spirituality.

The passage is also replete with nostalgia, and nowhere more clearly than in Gimli's recitation of the dwarf proverb.  However, the passage holds a less distinct nostalgia as well.  Gimli feels nostalgia for Khazad-dûm, but though they are passing through Hollin, which was Eregion, a great kingdom of elves in the Second Age, Legolas, who represents the race of elves on the quest, does not feel nostalgia.  While Gandalf asserts that "much evil must befall a country before it forgets the Elves, if once they dwelt there," Legolas feels only strangeness:

"That is true," said Legolas.  "But the Elves of this land were of a race strange to us of the silvan folk, and the trees and the grass do not now remember them.  Only I hear the stones lament them: deep they delved us, fair they wrought us, high they builded us; but they are gone.  They are gone.  They sought the Havens long ago."

Here, there is a different kind of nostalgia.  The narrative makes it clear that something is lost, and gives the reader a sense of nostalgia without using the memory (personal or collective) of a character.  Rather, the fact that Legolas should not be able to remember or to feel the imprint of his kin--except that the elves who dwelt there were not of the same race as Legolas, exactly--seems to evoke a different kind of sadness.  The loss of Eregion is a more complete loss than the loss of Khazad-dûm.  And yet, the rocks, which were directly manipulated by the elves, and which did not continue to live, die, and replace themselves like trees and grass, do still bear the imprint.  In that which is not living, the memory survives--hauntingly, since the memory and their handling by the elves grants the stones a sense of life... almost a soul.

In this lost place, we see a small hint of a recurring motif in Tolkien:  the locus amœnus.  This is a literary term that I learned in the context of a graduate class on Dante, and which I have not encountered elsewhere in literary scholarship.  Perhaps it is an outdated concept; perhaps it is simply foreign to the American tradition of literary criticism, which seems likely, even given the advent of ecocriticism, which purports to root itself in place.  I have not ever found an answer to this question, but the locus amœnus is a concept I find useful and compelling, particularly with reference to Tolkien.  Wikipedia has a brief entry on the term that encapsulates most of what I was taught.  Locus amœnus means "pleasant place," but more--there is a hint of heaven or Elysium.  It is a place of safety.  In the Commedia, a locus amœnus is a resting place, particularly when there is a transition--some kind of shift in the journey. There are multiple loci amœni in the Purgatorio, and some have said that Dante's representation of Limbo, itself a nod to pagan Elysium, is a locus amœnus.  They are shadows and foretastes of heaven, safe places, resting places, pauses on the journey.

By this definition, a reader of Tolkien could, fairly easily, trace the loci amœni through Lord of the Rings.  I am not going to count the Shire, because except in memory, it does not seem imbued with power the same way that others are--though Farmer Maggot's house is a decent candidate for a locus amœnus.  Tom Bombadil's house is most certainly one, as is Rivendell.  As the reader progresses further into Lord of the Rings, the power of the locus amœnus becomes more apparent, and patterns emerge:  there is a priest-figure; there is water; there is a sacred or solemn or celebratory feast.  Many of these places are revealed in The Two Towers--my favorite of the three parts of the journey, perhaps for this reason.

So what about Hollin?  It has "a wholesome air."  But it is not safe for very long.  They are forced to continue along after being detected by spies of Saurumon (presumably).  The priests--if ever there were priests--were gone.  And yet... the stones seem still to bear the mark.  Were they consecrated?  Even if the elves are corrupt, which these were--descendents of Fëanor for those who know the Silmarillion--elves are still powerful and, in their very essence, good.  Or so it seems in this age of Middle Earth.  In Hollin, formerly Eregion, we have the memory of a place that had been a locus amœnus, but is no more.  It shows how even a foretaste of heaven can be subject to destruction--utterly obliterated, except for the memory of the stones:  a small trace of holiness.  A former locus amœnus offers no protection, and the fellowship must continue on, while the reader might remember Elrond's words--that if the Ring were kept in Rivendell, they would hold out as long as possible, but eventually would fail.  And perhaps only the stones would hold the memory of the elves who had once lived there.