Ash Wednesday Post

It is the first day of Lent. And I took a walk.

This in itself is not unusual. I have been trying to be more active for a good few years now, and have been taking fairly regular walks at least since last academic year, when I was out of work from May 2018-April 2019.

What was unusual is that instead of taking a walk for health (a given) and to try to process what was in my head, I tried not to process what was in my head. The sun was shining. The clouds had a tinge of grey to their underside but were otherwise bright and cottony. It was cold, and the air burned my nostrils and lungs. My hands stung. And above the noise of the cars coming and going, it was glorious.

I have had too much on my mind for years. So I want to try to give that up. Perhaps not to Google this or that ailment. Not to obsess about what major sin I might commit on a regular basis and just how bad the Church says it is. Maybe--just maybe--it does me more spiritual harm than good to obsess about it. Maybe I won't think about my job and my career and what it isn't and what it never will be, because that's not going to help anyone anyway.

I wrote on Facebook this morning:

I will not obsess this Lent. I will not obsess this Lent. I will not obsess this Lent. I will not obsess this Lent. I will not obsess this Lent.

Is this working yet?

And that's the joke. Of course it's not working.

So what will I do? I did two things. I downloaded an app--Noteworthy. It is a notes app, but it has the ability to set an alarm for each note. I have not set the alarm yet. Maybe I won't need to. But I filled it up with six prayers, that I will try to turn to when I begin to obsess. From various internet sources, here they are:

Prayer #1 – Your Peace

God, who is more than we can ever comprehend,

help us to seek you and you alone.

Help us to stand before all that we could do

and seek what you would do, and do that.

Lift from us our need to achieve all that we can be,

and instead surrender to what you can be in us.

Give us ways to refrain from the busyness

that will put us on edge and off center,

give us today your peace.

Prayer #2 – Inner Peace

Lord, please put Your peace in my heart.

I'm worried and anxious.

My mind races and obsesses.

I can't help thinking about my problems.

And the more I think about them,

the more depressed I become.

I feel like I'm sinking down in quicksand

and can't get out.

Calm me, Lord.

Slow me down, put Your peace in my heart.

No matter what problem I have, Lord,

You are bigger,

You are more powerful than it is.

So I bring my problem to You.

I know what I want.

I know my will.

I do not know Yours.

I do not know how You will use this problem for my salvation.

I do not know what good You will work out from this evil.

But I trust You.

I trust Your goodness and Your wisdom.

So I place myself in Your hands.

Please fill my heart with peace.

Prayer #3 – Whittier, Peace and Calm

Dear Lord and Father of humankind,

Forgive our foolish ways;

Reclothe us in our rightful mind,

In purer lives Thy service find,

In deeper reverence, praise.

Drop Thy still dews of quietness,

Till all our strivings cease;

Take from our souls the strain and stress,

And let our ordered lives confess

The beauty of Thy peace.

Breathe through the heats of our desire

Thy coolness and Thy balm;

Let sense be dumb, let flesh retire;

Speak through the earthquake, wind, and fire,

O still, small voice of calm.

Prayer #4 – St. Theresa of Avila

Let nothing disturb you,

Let nothing frighten you,

All things are passing;

God only is changeless.

Patience gains all things.

Who has God wants nothing.

God alone suffices.

Prayer #5 – To Let Go

Dear God,

I let go of my need to be perfect, and I let You fill me with Your perfect love.

I let go of my ideas of fulfillment, and I let You fill me with what I truly desire.

I let go of what I think of myself, and I let You define my worth.

I let go of what others think of me, and I let You tell me who I am to You.

I let go of my appearance, and I let You shine through me.

I let go of my unreasonable standards, and I let You work through me.

I let go of my will for my life, and I let You reveal Your plan for me.

I let go of all of my past sins, and I let You forgive me.

I let go of my reliance on myself, and I let You be my Redeemer.

I let go of how I view others, and I let You love them through me.

Prayer #6 – For Peace of Mind and Heart

Eternal, Holy God,

I come to you burdened with worries,

fears, doubts, and troubles.

Calm and quiet me with peace of mind.

Empty me of the anxiety that disturbs me,

of the concerns that weary my spirit,

and weigh heavy on my heart.

Loosen my grip on the disappointments and grievances

I hold on to so tightly.

Release me from the pain of past hurts,

of present anger and tension, of future fears.

Renew me spiritually and emotionally.

Give me new strength, hope, and confidence.

Prepare me to meet the constant struggles of daily life

with a deeper faith and trust in You.

Let your love set me free, for peace,

for joy, for grace, for life, for others, forever.

Step one of not obsessing, perhaps, is not to worry about their authenticity, and not to look up the exact title of the Whittier poem. Not to verify that St. Theresa of Avila actually did write those lines. It doesn't matter. They are for me.

The second thing I did (that first one had a couple of parts--not obsessing) was to take a walk. And I tried to really do that "mindfulness" thing, which is yoga and New Age and whatever, but also valuable and healing. Thoughts intruded, like, "hey, I'm going to type these things up and actually post them to the blog!" and "I will describe breathing in the cold air just like this." I did not, however, criticize myself for the cliché. How's that for not obsessing?

The third thing I plan to do is to switch my reading material in a rather counterintuitive way. I had already decided to do this; it's related to what I've been doing the past few years. I take a break from purely escapist reads--the kind of thing that keeps me from thinking--and switch to literature with more substance, things that I can mull over a bit. Yesterday I worked a bit on a tentative list. Today, I realized that substantive reading, the kinds of things I can mull over, actually keep the mind occupied, and prevent me from obsessing. I knew this once, but I forgot it. I rediscover it once a year, but this time more deliberately.

My (tentative) list (of works to choose from; I won't read them all, I'm sure):

The Fifth Vital Sign: Master Your Cycles and Optimize Your Fertility by Lisa Hendrickson-Jack

This is necessary for me right now. I need a refresher on NFP/Fertility Awareness principles. My confidence is shaken and I'm completely shattered after an unexpected pregnancy and miscarriage. I chart. I know the basics. But I've grown complacent and relied on apps and I just need to read up on the signs. This book is also encouraging because it tells me things I need to know: if your menstrual cycle falls outside of certain parameters, there's something going on in your body that needs to be diagnosed. On the other hand, if there is something going wrong in your body, your cycle will reflect that. The wisdom here: if there's something wrong with your body, your body will tell you and you won't have to guess and fear and panic. I do a lot of guessing and fearing and panicking. This is my first read by default, and it's a thoroughly secular, fast read.

Three to Get Married by Fulton Sheen

I'm not looking for marriage advice, but I have been gathering Church teaching (especially historical Church teaching) on marriage for a while. I have been working off and on on Tolkien and marriage (or marriage in Tolkien) for a few years now, and I have a book contract! It's bound to be instructive to read what Fulton Sheen had to say, particularly since I haven't read him before and he's something of a big deal, as I understand it.

In This House of Brede by Rumer Godden

 Godden showed up on more than one list of "novels to read during Lent," which was my starting place--I didn't want spiritual self-help or devotional texts. This one and Five for Sorrow, Ten for Joy popped up. I know that Godden's work was the basis for the film Black Narcissus, so I expect something beautiful and perhaps haunting or disturbing. I selected Brede because Five For Sorrow seemed potential too sordid--too much like something I might read because it's a little bit sordid. A friend mentioned that I might want to be aware that there is a sub-plot involving child loss, but somehow that strengthens by resolve. I was also swayed by the fact that it's available through Kindle Unlimited, so I don't have to buy it unless I really want to.

Reflections on the Psalms by C. S. Lewis

This is an odd choice because it has that devotional/religious self-help component that I was convinced I didn't want. This one actually seems to be one of those engineered collections of Lewis's works that is marketed specifically to "Christian readers who want X from C. S. Lewis." But it is a very convenient package. And really, what I wanted was a small volume of a poetic but still Catholic translation of the psalms, so that I might appreciate their beauty. But I figured that whatever C. S. Lewis has to say about them is the next best thing, really.

Our Lady of the Lost and Found by Diane Schomperlen

I believe I found this one and the next on a "Lenten reads" list. This one seems not to be entirely fiction--or it slips into memoir, but is written as fiction. It is another that is entirely secular, in spite of its subject. It even slips into predictable "Mary-as-goddess" territory at least once, according to my friend Melanie, who was very ambivalent about the book. But it seems to be a book of searching and working things out, and maybe never getting there. I like those.  

 Eifelheim by Michael Flynn

Between my conflicted feelings about this one and the contradictory (but mainly glowing) reviews I've had from people whose opinions I trust, I should probably read this one first. It sounds like it has a fair amount of morality to chew on, and I feel conflicted about that. It sounds like it has a lot of SFF world- and race-building, and I feel conflicted about that. I mean, I want spiritual substance, and I love SFF, so where's the problem? I should just jump in and see if there is any problem, and call it done. But something stops me...

Maybe if I read some books, I'll blog about some books. We'll see. I'm not making promises because promises and discipline don't work out so well for me. But I will read. I always read. And maybe, just maybe, I can keep myself from obsessing and grow in some kind of important way.

Tolkien: The Movie - a Review and/or Analysis

**Spoilers**

I'm not sure if this is the kind of film that people watch to find out what will  happen, but I tell both the what, and the how, and speculate on the why.  

***

On Saturday night, as part of an anniversary/Mother's Day weekend, my husband and I saw the film Tolkien. Leading up to watching the film, I have been engaged in conversations surrounding it, with an article I wrote even being connected to the film in a way, which is pretty exciting, as I feel like a "real scholar" or "part of the dialogue," which is something I perhaps told my students was the point of scholarly publishing, but which I only half--if half--believed in.

Because I had been following the reviews, I was not expecting accuracy.  And that bothered me only to the point that there became a divide in the conversation between the people who would remain loyal to the family and to John Garth (whose first review seemed modulated by interview comments  after the Tolkien Estate disavowed the film), and the people who were willing to give the film a chance on its own terms.  While my preference is for accuracy, the backlash against the film rather swayed me--I now wanted to like it.  Also, it's huge that there even IS a Tolkien biopic.  And that it's smart AND sensationalist (even if it IS sensationalist).

One point of dissatisfaction with the dialogue surrounding the film is that I want to know why the Tolkien family has disavowed the film.  As in, specifically.  There are reasons I could guess, but they would be just that--guesses.  Speculation.  Knowing what, particularly, the family found offensive would give some insight into what the film got wrong--though I know it could be turned into "what the family is trying to hide."  It always does.  And, well--the family doesn't want us to know the details.  That's the point, really.  And while I understand that, it does cause some problems for scholarship and understanding.  Mistaken assumptions can't really be corrected.

The best compliment I can give to a film is that it made me think.  And this one certainly did.  It made me think about film and myth and narrative--about story.  And what story the filmmakers were trying to tell.  And at the end of the day, the story that the film was trying to tell was not, in fact, the one I thought I was going to see.  But let me address the individual narratives first...

I say narratives, because there were several.  And these, as I will discuss them initially, are the stories of aspects of Tolkien's life--his war experience; being orphaned and taken away from the country; his courtship of Edith; his school friendships; his education.  These, I would argue, are simply supporting narratives.  They are not the story that the film sets out to tell.  But as these are what we look for when we read or watch "A Biography," these are naturally going to be the usual points of focus and criticism.

Tolkien's War Experience or The Fever Dream

The Great War is used in Tolkien in a way that is interesting and compelling, though a bit overdone. It is the frame narrative, but it provides that artistic framework for the filmmakers without dominating the other narratives.  Rather, it helps to keep those other narratives separate--mimicking the "separation of spheres" that is--since Humphrey Carpenter's biography of Tolkien--characteristic of the author's life as we know it.  And yet, it holds things together and communicates the Story--the main Story--which is not a story of a life, but of a creation.

The war narrative is, in many ways, done very well.  It is visually stunning. Having recently seen Peter Jackson's They Shall Not Grow Old, I couldn't help comparing the images that Jackson was working with--the actual footage from World War I--with the depiction of the war in Tolkien.  And the comparison holds up. The filmmakers have also chosen to dramatize the influence of the war on Tolkien's creation of The Lord of the Rings--a fact acknowledged by the critics and, famously, by Tolkien who, in disavowing the influence of WWII (a matter of scholarly debate) affirms the interest of WWI.  Images of the war are set up in ways that evoke scenes of Frodo in Mordor; ghosts of ring-wraiths flit in and out of the battlefield along with other figures from Middle-earth in sequences that are reminiscent of the "Tale of the Three Brothers" sequence from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part One, albeit more realistic (?), being set against the backdrop of a war that actually did occur.

In this narrative, which contains scenes that are cut throughout the film as a whole, reality and illusion are conflated. This, in fact, is one of the problems.  I believe I could have more easily, as a viewer, suspended disbelief and enjoyed the sequences, had I not clearly been expected to swallow other things that were clearly fantasy--the presence of a batman named Sam (referring not to a person, but to Tolkien's admission that Sam Gamgee functions--among other things--as a quintessential batman from WWI), and the wandering of a British officer suffering from trench fever all over the front line and in and out of trenches during the Battle of the Somme.  Had Edith, bending over Tolkien in the hospital, said to him, "That must all have been a dream," making the whole thing, including the wandering and the batman Sam, a fever dream, I would have remained in the illusion to a greater degree than having to accept as "reality" the fiction of Tolkien wandering, looking for something that could not be found, amid the chaos of the war. The fact that Tolkien uses vaguely prophetic dreams to great effect throughout The Lord of the Rings, a fact that I don't think is lost on the filmmakers. That lost "something"--Tolkien's friend G.B. Smith, also a solder-- provides the strongest bond between the war narrative and the other narrative(s) of the film.

The Lost Family/Orphan Narrative

Having set up the 'friendship' narrative, I nevertheless have to move chronologically, or this narrative will be completely lost--as it almost is.  The lost family/orphan narrative is the first sub-narrative, if you will, introduced as a flashback away from the chaos of the war. Here, the bleakness of the war contrasts with the countryside and (if memory serves) the very different battle tactics of capture the flag and wooden swordplay.  Sadly, the happiness of living in the country is about to end, as Mabel Tolkien has been forced to announce that they will be moving because of "impecuniary circumstances." The very short sequence that follows establishes the affection in the small family (John Ronald, Hilary, and their mother) and Mabel Tolkien's own influence (which might have been more linguistic and less fantastic than the film implies, but it's nice anyway).  There is no tinge of the purported irrationality that sources attribute to Tolkien's attachment to his mother.  There is beauty and affection... and swift loss.  And while this is, no doubt, appropriate, since his time with her was so fleeting, this is a lost opportunity--to show a strong, intellectually robust female influence (though this was made clear in a small way) and also to give us beauty for the journey (as Tolkien does, even in Mordor).  The connection to the war is tenuous--all soldiers think of their mothers? Too soon, she is dead, and we are not given the cause, though it was known that she had diabetes--there was simply no treatment, and the impact of nutrition was not known.  Tolkien did not regret that she could have been cured by doctors had they had money; I do seem to recall a lament from his letters that they were eating poorly, and that poverty did hasten her death.

There is a split here, and two divergent narratives erupt: the education/schoolboy narrative, and the courtship narrative.

The Schoolboy Narrative

This narrative has the closest connection to the war narrative--because boyhood friends have become comrades-in-arms--and so assumes co-importance with that framing device.  This narrative is one of the more delightful in the film--reminiscent as it is of Dead Poets Society, which it resembles in the cameraderie centered around a belief in literature as important and vital, and in the coming-of-ageness of it all (including challenging of purportedly oppressive parental authority), but without the dynamic role model, which seems to be unnecessary.  It also has a semi-pagan feel that is not quite out of line with Dead Poets, either, with the chanting of Helheima and throwbacks to that goddess who became their muse.  It seems an odd choice, here, for the very Christian boys to take a goddess associated with something like Hell (in the movie's explanation) as their Muse, but it does not spoil the thing; it merely registers as a missed opportunity.

As the friendship matures, there are some other strange additions--excursions with the purpose of "wooing women"; Edith's engagement to another as a means of establishing how the T.C.B.S. would always be there for each other.  Here we simply see how the fabrications and alterations operate in service of the myth-building: boys bond over these things, apparently--at least, in the eyes of the filmmakers.

I quibble a bit with the strong suggestion that G.B. Smith was gay, and in love with Tolkien.  This features in two scenes--one with Tolkien and Smith; one with Tolkien and Smith's mother, after Smith's death. I quibble not because it's not possible; C.S. Lewis waxes poetic (or something) about homosexuality at boys' schools--and I think that we are meant to think of Lewis here, as we are meant to think of the Kolbitar society when we see the T.C.B.S. (The film is not for the uninitiated Tolkien fan.)  But we do not necessarily know this about Smith--at least to my knowledge--and it seems problematic to ascribe a sexual identity to a real person who is unlikely to be known to most except through a film.  However, it is subtle, and may be made much or little of, as critics and viewers decide.  Having Smith depicted as gay can add meaning to the lost-comerade-in-arms motif--albeit a historical stereotypical one that limits male friendship.  I wonder, here, whether this narrative choice would have been counteracted by depiction of the boys' Christianity--or whether it would have been made more poignant.

The Courtship Narrative

Enter the "lovely Miss Bratt."  Once again, I thought that there were parts of the courtship narrative that were quite fine.  When Tolkien first sees/hears her at the piano, he is smitten immediately, and it is lovely to behold. The finest acting was arguably done by the youngest actors. Edith dances for Tolkien in the woods--admittedly out of chronology--and his devotion is clear and the scene is set for his creation of Beren and Lúthien (though again, if we don't already know this, we will not get it from the film).  Edith has spunk and personality, which is a good thing, since her "vivacity" (Tolkien's word) is usually overlooked in favor of her timidity or her nagging.  She has a sense of humor, even in her self-consciousness about being dressed differently from her fellow customers (no hat); she initiates throwing sugar cubes in their hats (which is something she and Tolkien actually did).

Some critics have suggested that the film makes her too much Tolkien's intellectual equal.  To which I would reply--you don't have to be a master of all languages in order to ponder the word "hand." Someone can be thoughtful, and yet not a genius.  And genius doesn't find its equal often enough to be able to wait for it in a spouse.  For me the problem is not her discussion of words with Tolkien; it is the very, very strong scene in which we see Edith brought into, then abruptly removed from the T.C.B.S. because she shows the potential to intellectually engage Tolkien's school friends, and he will have none of it.  In this scene we see a mini-myth:  the myth that Tolkien rigidly enforced Edith's separation from his friends.  This is a feature of virtually all writing about Tolkien and Edith.  It is based on the policies of the Inklings, and in particular of C.S. Lewis, and the assumption that Lewis's particular brand of bigotry toward women, and his strong and firm belief (pre-Joy), articulated in The Four Loves, that women could only destroy the society of men must certainly be shared by his friend.  We see this in action as the T.C.B.S. are tongue-tied in her presence.  And then we see her break past that to engage Wiseman in a conversation about Wagner, which she has apparently craved her entire life, and which Tolkien has denied her (and always will deny her once they are married--so the scholarly wisdom runs).

In this we see very clearly what others have pointed out:  this is not a documentary, and it is not intended to teach people the facts about Tolkien.  It is a film that, ironically enough, speaks into the heart of the people who seem to be producing the strongest negative reactions to the film:  Tolkien scholars.  This is the Tolkien narrative that has been created over time.  The factual inaccuracies are in fact less important than what it tells us about what we believe about Tolkien and Edith.

The Making of the Professor

My very favorite moments of the film take place in Oxford, away from the company of the T.C.B.S. (for the most part), and involve Tolkien's discovery of what will be his vocation.  After a (highly unlikely) drunken night on the green, shouting up at the faculty in a manner very reminiscent of Frank in Educating Rita, albeit in an invented language.  One professor--Professor Wright, as it turns out--looks up the young Tolkien, here adrift and astray, on the verge of being sent down as uninterested in Greek, and more or less taunts him into proving himself, which results in Tolkien's transfer to Wright's course.  The interaction with Wright is one of the gems of the film, and if I'm not very much mistaken, the accent given to Wright in the film bespeaks his working class origins.

The Myths

In telling a story about Tolkien--and in analyzing how a story about Tolkien has been told--what could be more appropriate than evoking myth?  Here, I will use "myth" in a sense that is substantially Tolkienian.  Myths are stories that we tell to help us understand truths about the world.  To be fair, this is probably Tolkien moderated by Pratchett with the capital-T "Truth" of one and the cynical humor of the other stripped away.  Be that as it may--filmmakers are myth-makers, and what you are seeing when you see Tolkien is a product not of discrete myth-making, but collective myth-making.  Quibble as the scholars may, what we are seeing dramatized are some of the myths most dear to scholarship.  Should I confess here that I am a bit of an iconoclast?

The first myth is not a myth, but an observation about men and women in the Victorian era--how the
It has become a sort of origin myth for feminist scholars of post-industrial patriarchy.  Herein lies the "angel of the house"--the mythic counterpart. I don't mean to challenge that designation.  It's a useful image, particularly pedagogically.  And there certainly was a phenomenon of how men and women came to have dominion in certain spaces.  Like all observations of this kind, it can be overstated and permitted to dominate all analyses.

The schoolboy narrative and the courtship narrative are separate--this is important.  There is even a dramatic turning point (completely fabricated) that emphasizes how separate they are--or are meant to be: the meeting of the T.C.B.S.  Here is a moment when the facts are incorrect, but the drama results in a forced separation of spheres. Which leads to Edith as oppressed wife.

Edith is shown to have talent for music, and suffers constraints under Mrs. Faulkner that were based in reality.  This reality of her personality becomes morphed into a passion for intellectual discussion of music, which is not a necessary consequence of a passion for playing music, even if that passion comes from a deep understanding of the music itself.  With music in particular, a deep connection to the music does not demand the ability to articulate that connection.  Humphrey Carpenter asserts that Edith should have had a brilliant career in music.  This has been accepted as truth.  Tolkien is seen to be the means of ruining her career goals.  These assumptions need challenging: she did, in fact, engage herself to another.  Why was she not out developing her career?  This is a complicated question that has a lot to do with the options available to women at the time, her particular circumstances, and class.  But in Tolkien, Edith wants to discourse intellectually on music.  She is a music teacher when engaged to another--as she tells Tolkien.  These narrative choices reinforce the idea that she has willingly or unwillingly sacrificed her ambition for Tolkien's.

There is another myth that involves Edith--the myth of Tolkien's creative and scholarly impotence. Why did he work so hard and long and not accomplish more than he did?  There are many answers to this question--including the extra work he took in to support his family.  And certain demanding friends.  But the film shows us a Tolkien who stays in his study and neglects his family and still does not produce anything.  Edith nags him into producing, apparently.  Which leads to the overarching myth...

 The BIG MYTH: The Myth of Creativity

The big thing that no one is talking about is this:  Tolkien is not a narrative of Tolkien's life.  It is a Myth of the Creative Process. Truly, it's the only way it can be understood.  And this is a very interesting thing, because it is based in the struggle to figure out how someone who had such an outwardly normal, boring life could have created such a profound work of fantasy.  This is a struggle that may originate with Humphrey Carpenter, who asks the question more or less in those terms--how can this comical little uninteresting guy produce this great work of fantasy literature?  Or it simply might originate in our own concepts of genius and artistic production.  Genius and insanity are separated by a thin line, we are told.  Creativity requires torment.  Perhaps we are moving past these concepts, but I'm not so sure.  Lacking other inspiration, Carpenter plays up domestic conflict.  Tolkien the biopic chooses the war--a better choice.  As the framing device, and the manifestation of Tolkien's creative production (ghosts of ringwraiths and whatnot), the War pulls in his other experiences to turn them into something worthy.  What becomes problematic is that we receive a formula for Middle-earth.  War + linguistic genius + love (+ oh yeah friendship) = LOTR.  Or perhaps the War is the catalyst.  This is different from seeing the person as the product of his experiences.  Since we know that these experiences are not actually Tolkien's, the effect is that the person is negated.  In the end, this is, for me, what I emerge with from the film:  the question of how we understand genius and creativity, and why Tolkien seems not to fit in with anyone's--and this includes mainstream academia (looking at you, unnamed department of English)--concept of what a creative genius should be.

Goodreads Review: Gaudy Night by Dorothy Sayers

Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Not a mystery reader, I jumped into Gaudy Night as an introduction to Sayers, in part because a description or summary I read intrigued me, in part because several friends highly recommended it, and ultimately because the price was right for the Kindle version for a short period of time. My main complaint was that it was very, very slow-moving. A lesser complaint, because I do like smart books, is that it did rather beat me over the head with its smart-ness. It's wearying to have to look up Latin quote after Latin quote, particularly when they do lend meaning to the text and are not simply window-dressing. A friend supplied an excellent online article that provided a footnote to the text, but I only read it after-the-fact.

Most of the action of the book takes place in Oxford leading up to the Second World War. By contrast with novels simply "set" in a time period--that is, "historical" fiction--this novel was written with the assumption that readers were also living in this time. Lost British slang and social contexts abound--and especially social contexts of English university life, and women in academic spheres--that make this much more foreign than, say, Dickens, whose context is much better known. The action is slow, in part, because the protagonist Harriet, a fascinating character, has a lot of baggage that she's working through from previous books. This backstory is easily recoverable from the information given in the novel, but the social context--the norms of sexual relationships and the behavioral expectations of academic women--is less so. I believe that these contexts as well as the dilemma of whether a person could love with "both heart and head," or whether an intellectual woman could truly hope to enter into an equal marriage, or whether the vocation of marriage was incompatible with an intellectual vocation were some of the reasons I felt compelled to read the book. But though I am very familiar with early Twentieth-century British social history, the strangeness--for example, of female students being considered sloppy for picnicking on a lawn--was sometimes so inaccessible as to pull the reader right out of the text, and the dilemmas that the reader was expected to take as given are no longer "givens," which gave the book the feel of a historical artifact rather than a novel to be enjoyed. The "mystery" was bound up with these questions of the proper role of women, and because of the historical distance, was much less compelling and scandalous than it should have been. I admit that the solution gave me a bit of an eyeroll. Can we have a murder, please?

The characters made me stick through to the end--though I must say: if you read this novel, especially in eBook format, keep a list of who's who. The names are similar and the titles are used interchangeably with the names so I was often not sure if Miss So-and-so was the Bursar or the Dean or what. The characters I stayed for were Harriet Vane, the protagonist, and Lord Peter Wimsey, the title character of the series (and also his nephew, who makes a dramatic appearance). These two main characters have a long-standing friendship of sorts that began when Lord Peter managed to get Harriet acquitted of murder in a previous book, putting her at a disadvantage that she has struggled with ever since. Lord Peter only appears in the second half of the book, and while this improves the novel and provides a catalyst to the actual action, this in itself is rather dissatisfying in a book that is purportedly about female intellectuals. He provides something that Harriet lacks. He completes her. This is both nice and a bit irritating--as it has been to Harriet herself. But the reader, like Harriet, simply needs to come to terms with it. Had things not resolved as they did between Lord Peter and Harriet, I might have thrown my Kindle across the room.

Having written this, the novel, while not the most readable text, is worth reading. More so, it is worth following up. Busman's Honeymoon, the next in the series (was that a spoiler? not if the book is a mystery, methinks) is everything that Gaudy Night was not (for me) precisely (but not exclusively) because it develops the relationship between Lord Peter and Harriet that is set up so painfully in Gaudy Night.

I should add that the book is very quotable. Sayers sprinkles little intellectual gems throughout that are compelling even if you're a bit bored by what is (or isn't) happening in the moment. It is worth reading for those little gems alone.

Quick Takes - Blog Post Drafts

Piggy-backing off of Just Another Jenny's "Quick Takes-Draft Edition," I've dug up some historical blog drafts.  Some I did not pull because, well, they became articles!  But here's a sampling of widely scattered topics that have heretofore never been seen...

What is Literacy Criticism?

What does it mean to engage in literacy criticism based in literacy theory?

How does it compare to how other people discuss "literacy" with reference to literature?

Cultural literacy
Media literacy
-or- popular books as simply promoting literacy by getting kids to read

Analyzing a novel in terms of literacy theory is not simply putting it in the service of literacy education.  It is using it to identify what our ideas of literacy and literacy education really are--to examining our assumptions, and considering what we gain--and lose--by achieving a certain level of literacy, and what we maintain--or miss--by failing to achieve that level.  It takes literacy off of its pedestal, though this is perhaps to put it on a different pedestal.  It rolls our theoretical idea of literacy through the mud, beats it up, dusts it off, and sees what is left, often in order to compare it to how we are currently living our lives with literacy as a part of our personal, political, and social existence.

Wellinghall: Treebeard's Sanctuary as Locus Amoenus

This is the first of the Ent posts I have in mind.  One of the reasons The Two Towers is my favorite of the three books of Lord of the Rings is because of the Ents.  The Ents show us what is worth "getting roused" for--what is worth fighting and dying for.  And that is what was missing from the Peter Jackson film, which was all devastation and ugliness.  While Fangorn forest is not a locus amoenus--it is tense, and stuffy, rather like a version of the Old Forest that borders the Shire, but with righteous indignation instead of corruption and malice--the Ents, and particularly Treebeard, as the oldest Ent, are very closely associated with beautiful, sacred sanctuary spaces in Middle Earth.  And we are shown those places along with Merry and Pippin.

It was in fact with reference to Wellinghall--Treebeard's closest Ent House--that I first thought of the locus amoenus as central to Lord of the Rings.

Drums:  Not so Romantic in Real Life

If Voyager concerned itself to a large degree with the literary, Drums of Autumn takes great pains to separate the reality from the fantasy, or to infuse real life into what still remains a time travel fantasy--and more so with the appearance of Bree and Roger from the 1960s.  The overwhelming example of this is the emphasis on birth control.  However, the attentive reader will also find a retroactive commentary on the romance novel motif that runs throughout Voyager  in the person, and actions, of Stephen Bonnet.

"The formidable Bonnet with a love token? Could be, Roger supposed; some women might find the Captain’s air of subdued violence attractive."

What is a Good Book?

It might be a fetish, or a talisman, or a touchstone.

Books that have merit/value are books that deserve to be taken seriously (that aren't, necessarily) or books that reward rereading because they have the potential to provoke serious thought and speculation. An amusing read may be an amusing read and not be a book with merit, or a book that has value.

Notes on Widows and Widowers

I am gathering these tidbits as part of a conversation about Finwë, father of Feanor, who remarried after the death of his wife.

from The Body and Society by Peter Brown

In his discussion of the "first decades of the second century," Brown says that, "Christian marital codes were rendered yet more idiosyncratic by a few novel features, such as the relinquishment of divorce and a growing prejudice against the remarriage of widows and widowers" (60)

***

A bit of insight into Tertullian's opposition to remarriage for widowers: coming out of an ever-developing tradition that continence was, first, a sign of, and in later thought, preparation for or necessary for a prophet,

Tertullian's view of the ideal leadership of the Church was a Spiritfulled gerontocracy. Those who sat on the benches reserved for the clergy and leaders of the community were elderly widows and widowers. They had long experience of life. This experience had included the begetting and the rearing of children, in the distant, hot years of youth, before the sexual urge "fizzled out" with the approach of age. The addressee of his Exhortation to Chastity was one such widower. He was to be no charismatic wanderer. He needed to be warned against temptations no more lurid than a hankering for remarriage. Tertullian set about advising him to take in a Christian "sister," to live with him, as a companion, to keep house for him. Sexual urges that had to be sternly repressed in the young were unlikely, in Tertullian's opinion, to afflict an elderly gentleman of prophetic inclinations. (79).

Beren and Luthien and the Elephant in the Room

I have started one conference paper and its corresponding article with the observation that the couple most associated with J. R. R. Tolkien and his wife Edith is Beren and Lúthien, the name inscribed on the couple's tombstone. The remaining discussion in both versions of the paper has nothing to do with Beren and Lúthien. Why, you may ask?  Well, although it was a good hook, I find the story of Beren and Lúthien intimidating. It is the pinnacle of Tolkien for those who are so into Tolkien that they are devotees of The Silmarillion rather than Lord of the Rings. I am not one of those people because, whatever The Silmarillion meant to Tolkien, it is not a coherent story as it might have been had he finished it; it was largely a creation of other people who compiled the author's notes such as they were and made their own choices, and because Tolkien himself, in this case and only this one, might have needed an editor to direct his own choices and to make it a coherent tale. Even great writers do, sometimes, need editors.

The tale of Beren and Lúthien is not only mythic in Tolkien's Legendarium, it is mythic among Tolkien scholars and enthusiasts.  And yet, it needs to be pieced together from The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, and other sources--and now, from a new publication that presents its expanded, true, or draft form, who knows? And it is not a story that enchants me, except insofar as it echoes a mythical past in The Lord of the Rings, giving the reader a taste of the vast history of Middle-earth.  And yet, to talk about marriage, of the great love stories of Middle-earth, requires wrestling with the story of Beren and Lúthien.  And frankly, I want to limit my scope rather than expand it, and I'm not sure whether this will be possible with the publication of The Tale of Beren and Lúthien in book form.  So I admit that, in my re-reading and blog-note-taking, when Aragorn recites the song of Lúthien, I stopped. I put the book down and started other research. Which brings me to the present.

Beren and Lúthien are a bigger roadblock for me than Tom and Goldberry, so they have to be tackled sooner or later.  One question that came up in a recent conversation was whether or not Beren and Lúthien are actually married; I puzzled over this one without investigating (because roadblock...), but it occurred to me that Arwen is descended from the pair, which for Tolkien, would generally imply marriage. So how are they married? How does the reader come to understand the nature of their "marriage"?  There's an article somewhere about sex/consummation between Beren and Lúthien.  It was weird, but if it's part of the scholarship, I might have to deal with that as well. The story of Beren and Lúthien is also used to support the theory that elves are reincarnated, which I do also need to look into a bit more, as that element of the mythos does not seem to fit within a Christian worldview. There are many questions I have about the Legendarium. I do not have an encyclopedic knowledge.  BUT I also do not trust received wisdom on the topics.  And so, I investigate.  You have been warned.

***
The first mention of Lúthien Tinúviel is in Book I of The Lord of the Rings, in the chapter "A Knife in the Dark," after the hobbits and Strider have left Bree.  On Weathertop, as they keep vigil, Merry asks for the tale of Gil-galad, but Aragorn refuses because of the nature of the tale, involving as it does the defeat of the Enemy. Instead, he offers the "tale of Tinúviel," which he describes as "a long tale of which the end is not known; and there are none now, except Elrond, that remember it aright as it was told of old. It is a fair tale, though it is sad, as are all the tales of Middle-earth, and yet it may lift up your hearts" (I.11.191). Aragorn chants rather than sings or recites the tale, which is written in the text as nine 8-line stanzas (octaves). Each stanza has an abacbabc rhyme scheme, with a gerund as the "c" rhyme in each stanza except the last, and two of the gerund pairs--"shimmering" and "glimmering" and "glistening" and "listening" are repeated (first and eighth stanza, and third and seventh stanza, respectively); the meter is iambic tetrameter.

By way of chronicling the narrative structure of the poem:

Stanza 1: Sets the stage. The first two lines, "The leaves were long, the grass was green,/ The hemlock-umbels tall and fair," echo other poems in Middle-earth. Notably, Gimli will begin the song of Durin with the lines, "The world was young, the mountains green,/ No stain yet on the Moon was seen," which is written in 10-line rather than 8-line stanzas, setting the scene common to both--an uncorrupted vision of nature. The poem introduces Lúthien first, by her elvish name, "Tinúviel." We learn that she is dancing as if to music, or to music that only she hears, or to music that is heard, but seems to have no discernible source: "Tinúviel was dancing there/ to music of a pipe unseen" (l. 5-6). The "light of stars" in her hair and clothing is conspicuous in the last two lines of this stanza. 

Stanza 2: Enter Beren. "He walked alone and sorrowing" (l. 12). Lost and alone, he catches a glimpse of Tinúviel. Notable details include the "hemlock-leaves" through which Beren peers and the "flowers of gold" on Lúthien's garments, the former perhaps foreshadowing death (the death of mortals), the latter, (for the reader of Lord of the Rings) Lothlórien (?) (an abode of immortals). 

Stanza 3: Beren's weariness is taken away as he watches Lúthien, and he attempts to run to her, but catches only moonbeams.  She flees to what is referred to as "Elvenhome," but though this generally refers to Eldamar, the home of the Elves in the Blessed Realm of Aman, which includes Valinor, the home of the Valar, "Elvenhome" in this poem refers to a location in Middle-earth, which is not specifically disclosed in the poem, but which we know from Aragorn's exposition following the poem is the realm of Thingol, her father, who was king of Doriath, which was eventually destroyed with Beleriand, none of which is included in the poem itself.* Beren is left "lonely still to roam/ In the silent forest listening" (l. 23-24). 

Stanza 4: Beren continues to wander in the woods. He hears faint sounds of footsteps (or dancing) and music.  The seasons change.  Here again, we have the hemlocks, now withering as winter comes. 

Stanza 5: Beren continues to search for Lúthien, explicitly in this stanza, though it was only implicit in stanza 4.  He wanders deep into the woods until he finds her, dancing on a distant hilltop.  Imagery in this stanza includes moonlight and starlight, frost, and silver mist at Lúthien's feet. 

Stanza 6: Takes us beyond winter. Lúthien's song "released the sudden spring."  Beren watches and longs to dance near her.  "Spring" is ryhmed with "spring" in lines 2 and 5 of this stanza--used as a noun the first time and a verb the second. Though the first seems to refer to the season, neither use of "spring" is capitalized. This stanza has strange syntax in the last lines: "He longed by her to dance and sing/ Upon the grass untroubling." "Untroubling" seems to refer to the grass because of placement, but more likely refers to how he would dance near her--dancing near not with her, not troubling her.  Mere closeness is enough. 

Stanza 7: The climax: Lúthien tries again to flee, but beren is swift, and he calls her by name, which he has somehow learned (there's more to this that is not explained in the poem, but it is clear that this is important: "He called her by her Elvish name" (l. 51). Either his voice, or her name, or both, cause Lúthien to pause, allowing Beren to approach. First, it seems that she is entranced or intrigued to hear him speak her "Elvish name." Then, it seems to be his voice: "a spell/ His voice laid on her" (l. 53-54). His voice and his presence determine her fate ("doom fell on Tinúviel"). Our final image in this stanza is Lúthien, glistening in Beren's arms.  Joined to him, she is now doomed. We do not learn, from the poem, the nature of her doom, though Aragorn explains after finishing his poem. 

Stanza 8: Beren looks into Lúthien's eyes and sees starlight.  This stanza seems to convey his awe at having her, "immortal maiden elven-wise," for his own, in his arms. Notable details include Lúthien's eyes, "the shadows of her hair" (an image repeated twice), and her arms "like silver glimmering." Hence, we know that she is not fair-haired.  Her dark hair contrasts with her pale, silvery skin. 

Stanza 9: This stanza is the only one in which the "c" rhymes do not end in "-ing."  Instead, we are left with "morrowless" and "sorrowless."  The final stanza summarizes and projects their fate and journey:  

Long was the way that fate them bore,    

    O'er stony mountains cold and grey, 

Through halls of iron and darkling door,  

    And woods of nightshade morrowless. 

The Sundering Seas between them lay,    

    And yet at last they met once more, 

And long ago they passed away,    

    In the forest singing sorrowless. 

Striking in stanza 9 are the "morrowless" woods, an allusion, perhaps, to the destruction of Beleriand, and the "sorrowless" singers in the forest (woods).  There is both sorrow and the absence of sorrow in this final stanza.

When Aragorn is finished the poem, he fills in some of the gaps in the story for the hobbits.  First, and perhaps most importantly, he clarifies that Beren is mortal, while Lúthien the daughter of a King of Elves, Thingol. He introduces Morgoth, "of whom Sauron of Mordor was but a servant," and the Silmarils, which were the envy of all.  Conspicuously, the Elves' war upon Morgoth to regain the Silmarils is described in purely heroic terms.  There is no mention of the vast hubris of Fëanor, or even of Fëanor himself and the curse upon him and upon his kin and any who would try to possess the Silmarils. In Aragorn's telling, reclaiming the Silmarils is a just and noble pursuit, which in some ways it might be, but the entirety is infinitely more complicated than we know. We do learn that Beren and his father were aiding the Elves in this when Beren's father was killed, and that Beren was wandering away from the battle when he came upon Lúthien.

The naming of Lúthien in Aragorn's telling is curious; in the poem it seems that he has foreknowledge of her name, or that he has discovered it.  In Aragorn's account, Beren "named her Tinúviel, that is Nightingale in the language of old" (I.11.193). The first seems more Rumplestiltskin-like. The second, more like he is asserting a kind of control over Lúthien. This, for me, is a puzzle that holds some clue to their dynamic. Either way I am reading it, there is the hint that naming is important, and that Beren, in naming her, possesses a kind of power over her, or gains a kind of access to her. There is an intimate knowledge implied here, which is probably where the poem and account tend--a knowledge that is instinctive and spiritual. Nevertheless, it is hard to separate this from something more creepy or insidious to a contemporary sensibility.

Aragorn also gives a very short account of the trials of Beren and Lúthien:

Many sorrows befell them afterwards, and they were parted long. Tinúviel rescued Beren from the dungeons of Sauron, and together they passed through great dangers, and cast down even the Great Enemy from his throne, and took from his iron crown one of the three Silmarils, brightest of all jewels, to be the bride-price of Lúthien to Thingol her father. Yet at the last Beren was slain by the Wolf that came from the gates of Angband, and he died in the arms of Tinúviel. But she chose mortality, and to die from the world, so that she might follow him; and it is sung that they met again beyond the Sundering Seas, and after a brief time walking alive once more in the green woods, together they passed, long ago, beyond the confines of this world. So it is that Lúthien Tinúvuel alone of the Elf-kindred has died indeed and left the world, and they have lost her whom they most loved. (I.11.193-194)

Aragorn concludes with an account of the lineage of Beren and Lúthien, though it is unclear at what point in their story Lúthien would have conceived a child.

So what are the important points here? There are, I believe, more insights in Aragorn's introduction and exposition than in the poem itself, with the possible exception of the last four lines, and the question of naming Lúthien, which I intend to investigate further in the Silmarillion account.  Aragorn's introduction specifies that he will be telling "a long tale of which the end is not known"; conspicuous here is that end not known.  Why?  Is it because no one quite knows what happened to Beren and Lúthien in their time together beyond the Sundering Seas, and that no one quite knows what happens to souls beyond death, particularly those that are joined in life? Or the more prosaic and likely interpretation, that the story in which the story of Beren and Lúthien is part is the same story of which the story of Frodo and the Ring is part?

In Aragorn's exposition after the poem, we learn that Beren and Lúthien were unified in their pursuits. Regardless of how we might interpret their courtship, with Beren bringing doom onto Lúthien when she hears his voice, with Beren seeming to have a hold over Lúthien, with Lúthien being "captured" (not literally), and laying passive in Beren's arms, we learn that she is an active participant in her fate and Beren's, and that we need have no fear of her willingness and consent.  She is fierce in her consent and willingness to face every trial with him.

We also learn of what becomes "the choice of Lúthien": to choose mortality to remain with her beloved, her mate. We do not learn how she was granted this choice. But it seems to be Beren's death that prompts her--that, losing him, she should not be sundered from him forever.

***
Interestingly, the second time Lúthien is mentioned in The Lord of the Rings is when Frodo resists the Black Riders in "The Flight to the Ford." On the far bank, Frodo cries out,

"By Elbereth and Lúthien the Fair, [...] you shall have neither the Ring nor me!" (I.12.214)

This seems to anger the rider, who causes Frodo's tongue to cleave to his mouth. Frodo has evoked the name of Elbereth before against the Riders, but never Lúthien.  As Lúthien was born an elf-maid, but died a mortal, her inclusion with Elbereth, who is Varda, High Queen among the Valar, is conspicuous, and perhaps not entirely appropriate? Certainly the two are not equivalent, even in legend. And yet, the reader is lead to associate the two because Frodo has done so.

What is interesting about this association is that Lúthien is evoked with the revered Elbereth, but Beren, her beloved, is not.  The poem tells the story of Beren and Lúthien as though they are an inseparable unit, but Lúthien has her own importance and, presumably, her own power.

***


*This illustrates what I find a bit maddening about analysis of the story of Beren and Lúthien or some of the other half-hidden glimpses of the history of Middle-earth that we find embedded in The Lord of the Rings. I love that they are there as glimpses; following rabbit-holes to recreate the history in order to write intelligently about the glimpses is another thing, as I like my stories to be self-contained.  I see The Lord of the Rings to be complete in itself, and the allusions to the complete Legendarium add depth and the feeling of history, but I do not need to know the minutiae in order to appreciate the allusions.  This is also how I read T. S. Eliot's The Waste Land. Telling me about the tarot deck does not increase my pleasure in the poem.

Notes on Tom and Goldberry

Tom Bombadil and Goldberry have what might be the most perfect marriage.  In his letters, Tolkien expresses the importance of the "homely love" of Sam and Rosie, without explaining what "homely love" refers to.  I imagine the Maggots having a similar kind of homely love, although theirs is a "hard pastoral" to the "soft pastoral" of Sam and Rosie--the Maggots labor on the farm, while Sam's family is relatively leisured.

Tom and Goldberry fit, somehow, into the same category, but idealized. Their house is the center of their world, and they tend the land around, and their home is a place where hospitality is freely offered.  It is one of the "safe spaces" of Middle-earth--a locus amoenus, as I've mentioned before. It differs from the hobbits sharply, however (and even from the Elves) in that it is childless.  This might indicate something about the nature of Tom (and Goldberry, though we already know that she is the daughter of the River). None of the Valar procreate. Maiar can marry and have children, as in the case of Melian, who weds Thingol,  though marriage to an Elf, as Elves are inherently corporeal, might provide the difference, and the marriage of two spiritual beings, however, clothed, might simply not produce offspring.  This is speculation, as Tolkien did not provide a clear indication of why he decided and one point that the Valar would not have children.  Certainly, the absence of children from their unions is conspicuous, and might direct us to consider their other creative activities in that light (looking at you, Aulë and Yavanna).

So Tom Bombadil, who is "oldest and fatherless," is, however, not a father.

What else do we know about Tom and Goldberry?

***
I always hit somewhat of a mental block when I try to write about Tom and Goldberry.  I think it's because there's so much to say, and yet so much of it seems obvious! So I say to myself, "I won't move on in the book until I've discussed Tom and Goldberry," and 6 months later I realize that I have abandoned the project.  Thankfully, it hasn't even been 6 weeks, so let's see if perhaps I can jot down a few notes...

What is immediately conspicuous when taking a closer look at the marriage of Tom Bombadil and Goldberry is that, when the hobbits first encounter Tom, he is returning from an errand that is specifically focused on Goldberry.  He tells the hobbits after their first dinner in his house:

I had an errand there: gathering water-lillies, 

green leaves and lilies white to please my pretty lady, 

the last ere the year's end to keep them from the winter, 

to flower by her pretty feet till the snows are melted. 

Each year at summer's end I go to find them for her, 

in a wide pool, deep and clear, far down Withywindle; 

there they open first in spring and there they linger latest. (I.VII.124)

 He carries out his errand with very conspicuous care--first, he seems to "freeze" Sam and Frodo, or certainly stop them in their tracks, in order to avoid having his lilies crushed:

'Whoa! Whoa! steady there' cried the old man, holding up one hand, and they stopped short, as if they had been struck stiff.  'Now, my little fellows, where be you a-going to, puffing like a bellows? What's the matter here then? Do you know who I am? I'm Tom Bombadil. Tell me what's your trouble! Tom's in a hurry now. Don't you crush my lilies!' (I.VI.117)

Before he deals with Old Man Willow, the reader sees Tom "setting down his lilies carefully on the grass" (I.VI.117).  After dealing with the Willow-Man, he picks up his lilies again and heads home, hobbits following. When the reader first has a vision of Goldberry, the purpose of Tom's gift becomes apparent:

In a chair, at the far side of the room facing the outer door, sat a woman. Her long yellow hair rippled down her shoulders; her gown was green, green as young reeds, shot with silver like beads of dew; and her belt was of gold, shaped like a chain of flag-lilies set with the pale-blue eyes of forget-me-nots. About her feet in wide vessels of green and brown earthenware, white water-lilies were floating, so that she seemed to be enthroned in the midst of a pool. (I.VII.121)

***
Goldberry speaks to the hobbits--the first woman to do so, and the last until Galadriel. They have the opportunity to ask her questions, mostly about Tom, which reveal, in a way, the intimacy that the two share--an understanding that presupposes knowledge in others, and prevents real communication.

  'Fair lady!' said Frodo again after a while. 'Tell me, if my asking does not seem foolish, who is Tom Bombadil?'

  'He is,' said Goldberry, staying her swift movements and smiling.

  Frodo looked at her questioningly. 'He is, as you have seen him,' she said in answer to his look. 'He is the Master of wood, water, and hill.'

Her answer seems cryptic, perplexing, unless understood to be spoken in a tone of voice that suggests that Goldberry might slightly misunderstand the nature of the question:  he is, rather than he is.  The difference is the distinction between asking "Who is the lord of Rivendell?" and being told, with a nod at Elrond, "he is," and asking "Who is Elrond Half-elven?" and expecting that the answer will provide the lineage, background, and lordship of Elrond along with any personal details the hearer might be willing to share. Frodo asks the latter; Goldberry's brief answer seems to answer the former. The answer, to her, is so simple--Tom himself so plainly known--that another understanding does not seem possible. Eventually she reveals a bit more, but in some ways not more than Tom himself reveals:

"Tom Bombadil is the Master. No one has ever caught old Tom walking in the forest, wading in the water, leaping on the hill-tops under light and shadow. He has no fear. Tom Bombadil is the master." 

She knows, too, Tom's perspective on the hobbits' assumptions, when Frodo asks, for example, whether "all this strange land belongs to him":

"No indeed!' she answered, and her smile faded. 'That would indeed be a burden,' she added in a low voice to herself. (I.VII.122)

While not superior to her husband in the way Galadriel may seem to be in the volume of Lord of the Rings, or even, perhaps, equal, as Tom's care for her seems almost to possess the care of chivalry, which elevates the position of the woman while causing her to seem frail, Goldberry seems to anticipate Galadriel in a more homely, less distant way.  She has some power, though it does not seem like "magic"; rather, she seems to orchestrate, to move or move with, the natural world around her. When the hobbits awake, we/they have a vision of Goldberry:

As they looked out of the window there came falling gently as if it was flowing down the rain out of the sky, the clear voice of Goldberry singing up above them. They could hear few words, but it seemed plain to them that the song was a rain-song, as sweet as showers on dry hills, that told the tale of a river from the spring in the highlands to the Sea far below. (I.VII.127)

We learn from Tom that "This is Goldberry's washing day," which sounds as if she is washing their corner of the world.

***
In the house of Tom Bombadil, Tom and Goldberry dwell in harmony.  They sing together--forming a literal harmony, which is an important symbol for Tolkien. They also move in complementary ways. The first night the hobbits dine in their house, they clear the table together while the guests sit quiet (I.VII.123). The next meal they have with Tom and Goldberry is set by both together:

Quickly he returned, bearing a large and laden tray. Then Tom and Goldberry set the table; and the hobbits sat half in wonder and half in laughter: so fair was the grace of Goldberry and so merry and odd the caperings of Tom. Yet in some fashion they seemed to weave a single dance, neither hindering the other, in and out of the room, and round about the table; and with great speed food and vessels and lights were set in order. The boards blazed with candles, white and yellow. Tom bowed to his guests. "Supper is ready," said Goldberry; and now the hobbits saw that she was clothed all in silver with a white girdle, and her shoes were like fishes' mail. But Tom was all in clean blue, blue as rain-washed forget-me-nots, and he had green stockings. (I.VII.129)

In a way that is similar to the Maggots, Tom and Goldberry model hospitality and spousal concern for one another. Goldberry is the agent of Tom's (and the household's) hospitality, as is Mrs. Maggot:

"Fear Nothing! For tonight you are under the roof of Tom Bombadil!" (I.VII.121)

She is, however, a gracious hostess surpassing Mrs. Maggot, by virtue of her own supernatural nature:

The hobbits sat down gladly in low rush-seated chairs, while Goldberry busied herself about the table; and their eyes followed her, for the slender grace of her movement filled them with quiet delight. (I.VII.122)

Goldberry gently reminds Tom when he neglects his responsibility to his guests:

   "Here's my pretty lady!" he said, bowing to the hobbits. "Here's my Goldberry clothed all in silver-green with flowers in her girdle! Is the table laden? I see yellow cream and honeycomb, and white bread, and butter; milk cheese, and green herbs and ripe berries gathered. Is that enough for us? Is the supper ready?"

   "It is," said Goldberry; "but the guests perhaps are not?"

   Tom clapped his hands and cried: "Tom, Tom! Your guests are tired, and you had near forgotten! Come now, my merry friends, and Tom will refresh you! You shall clean grimy hands, and wash your weary faces; cast off your muddy cloaks, and comb out your tangles!"  

Their intimacy--or his nature--is such that she can recognize and address a (perhaps typical) forgetfulness, and Tom responds with slightly self-effacing good humor.

In recounting Goldberry's role in welcoming the guests, I am reminded of Humphrey Carpenter's critique in J. R. R. Tolkien: A Biography of Edith Tolkien, that she was not the kind of hostess that would have advanced her husband's career:

Edith might have been able to make a positive contribution to his life in the University. A number of Oxford dons' wives managed to do this. A few lucky ones such as Joseph Wright's wife Lizzie were themselves expert in their husband's subjects, and could assist in their work. But a number of other wives who, like Edith, did not have university degrees could by their expert management of the household make their home into something of a social centre for their husbands' friends, and so participate in much of their lives. (157)

Carpenter goes on to explain how Edith was singularly unsuited for that role, being shy and having had a "very limited social life in childhood and adolescence" (157). This aside is just that--it does not prove that Carpenter's observation was a fair one, and it does not reveal any kind of hidden critique leveled at Edith by Tolkien; those are not things that a fictional scene of hospitality can reveal about the author, though some might be tempted to do so.  The Tolkiens did, in fact, entertain friends, though the kind of professional entertaining may have been beyond her. (I certainly would feel uncomfortable in a similar role, and couldn't blame her.)

Again like the Maggots, Tom is anxious to return to Goldberry when escorting the hobbits to the next stage of their journey.  After rescuing them from the wight, tells them that he will "not feel happy till he had seen them safe over the borders of his land," but always his thoughts return home:

"I've got things to do," he said: "my making and my singing, my talking and my walking, and my watching of the country. Tom can't be always near to open doors and willow-cracks. Tom has his house to mind, and Goldberry is waiting." (I.VIII.142)

He keeps a treasure from the wight's barrow for Goldberry, a tantalizing glimpse into a distant past that Tom, and presumably Goldberry with him, still remember:

He chose for himself from the pile a brooch set with blue stones, many-shaded like flax-flowers or the wings of blue butterflies. He looked long at it, as it stirred by some memory, shaking his head, and saying at last:

   "Here is a pretty toy for Tom and for his lady! Fair was she who long ago wore it on her shoulder. Goldberry shall wear it now, and we will not forget her!" (142) 

Tom's last words to the hobbits again stress that his land and his home are complete only with his wife:

Tom's country ends here: he will not pass the borders.

Tom has his house to mind, and Goldberry is waiting! (I.VIII.144) 

 

Notes on Hobbit Marriages

Tolkien was known to have had a soft spot for what he called the "simple rustic love" of Sam and Rosie.  Hobbits in general were known to marry more or less by default (though that sounds like a cavalier way to put it) and to have large families.  But what examples of Hobbit marriages do we see?  I will record them as I encounter them, starting with "A Long-Expected Party."

In the first chapter of Lord of the Rings, we encounter the rumor of a marriage before we actually encounter a marriage, and this is interesting because we see not how marriage plays out, but how it is spoken of, casually, by old (and some young) men in a pub. Anticipating Bilbo's upcoming "party of special magnificence," "[t]he history and character of Mr. Bilbo Baggins became once again the chief topic of conversation"--and by extension, the family history of his heir, Frodo.  From Ham Gamgee, we learn that

A decent respectable hobbit was Mr. Drogo Baggins; there was never much to tell of him, till he was drownded. (I.1.22)

Before this tidbit, there has been some speculation on Drogo's marriage, as Old Noakes wonders

why any Baggins of Hobbiton should go looking for a wife away there in Buckland, where folks are so queer. (I.1.22)

This shows readers that hobbit marriages tend to be local, though a reader of The Hobbit will already know that Bilbo's mother was one of the daughters of the Old Took, the "fabulous Belladonna Took."  However, rather than relocating to Tuckborough, Bungo Baggins built a marvelous hobbit hole for his Took bride in Hobbiton, suggesting that perhaps the mystery was not so much why Drogo would take a wife from Buckland, but why a hobbit from Hobbiton would relocate to Buckland.

The Gaffer gives a further account of Drogo's marriage:

 Mr. Drogo, he married poor Miss Primula Brandybuck. She was our Mr. Bilbo's first cousin on the mother's side (her mother being the youngest of the Old Took's daughters); and Mr. Drogo was his second cousin. So Mr. Frodo is his first and second cousin, once removed either way, as the saying is, if you follow me. And Mr. Drogo was staying at Brandy Hall with his father-in-law, old Master Gorbadoc, as he often did after his marriage (him being partial to his vittles, and old Gorbadoc keeping a mighty generous table); and he went out boating on the Brandywine River; and he and his wife were drownded, and poor Mr. Frodo only a child and all. (I.1.22)

Here, we learn that marriages of kin were common, and that at least in the case of the large families, in-laws would move into the family dwelling. I find it interesting how the marriage is spoken of, not by the Gaffer, but by the mocking Sandyman:

     'I've heard they went on the water after dinner in the moonlight,' said Old Noakes; 'and it was Drogo's weight as sunk the boat.'

     'And I heard she pushed him in, and he pulled her in after him,' said Sandyman, the Hobbiton miller.  (I.1.23)

Here is the only direct evidence that we have that marital strife exists among hobbits--not because this is any kind of real testimony to the marriage of Drogo and Primula, but because the miller made this suggestion, even in cruel mockery.  This is beyond the pale for the Gaffer, who shuts Sandyman down:

'You shouldn't listen to all you hear, Sandyman,' said the Gaffer, who did not much like the miller. 'There isn't no call to go talking of pushing and pulling. Boats are quite tricky enough for those that sit still without looking further for the cause of trouble. Anyway: there was Mr. Frodo left an orphan and stranded, as you might way, among those queer Bucklanders, being brought up anyhow in Brandy Hall....' (I.1.23)

Though this passage provides a preview of Gamgee distrust of boats, which will be revisited later, and doesn't directly address the nature of the accusation--that Primula and Drogo were a volatile couple--the reprimand "There isn't no call to go talking of pushing and pulling" also seems a pointed rebuke to the kind of insult that the miller has leveled, an insult to the marriage of Frodo's parents.

The Sackville-Bagginses are mentioned in this early chapter, but though one of few hobbit marriages considered in detail, they seem to deserve separate treatment.

***

Because we see so few hobbit marriages, each one is significant.  Farmer Maggot and his wife provide sanctuary for Frodo, Sam, and Pippin on their way from Hobbiton to Crickhollow.  Though I have mentioned this pause along the way in a previous post, I did not consider how the scene gives a snapshot of the domestic lives of the Maggots.

When the three hobbits enter the farmhouse with Farmer Maggot, we see Mrs. Maggot serving them by the fire:

Mrs. Maggot brought out beer in a huge jug, and filled four large mugs.

After Maggot proposes supper and a ride to the Ferry, the household mobilizes, and we see Mrs. Maggot again:

Mrs. Maggot bustled in and out. One or two other hobbits belonging to the farm-household came in. In a short while fourteen sat down to eat.

So far, not much is revealed about the Maggots as a couple, except that each has his and her own role in the household.  Maggot speaks with the guests; Mrs. Maggot provides the more material part of the hospitality.

We learn that the Maggots have at least five children when "[t]wo of Maggot's sons and his three daughters came in" to join them for supper.

An important detail in his interaction with the guests is that Maggot seems to include his wife when he invites Frodo, Sam, and Pippin to stay for supper, using the plural first person:

 If you and Mr. Peregrin and all could stay and have a bite with us, we would be pleased!

So here, he speaks of himself and his wife as a unit, and the household hospitality belongs to and proceeds from both of them.

Though their interactions are spare, Mrs. Maggot's role in the scene as her husband leaves with the guests betrays deep knowledge of her husband and concern for his welfare:

His wife stood in the light of the open door.

     'You be careful of yourself, Maggot!' she called. 'Don't go arguing with any foreigners, and come straight back!'

     'I will!' said he, and drove out of the gate.

Finally, when Farmer Maggot prepares to return home, he expresses concern for his wife, who

'...will be worriting with the night getting thick.'

One more action of the part of Mrs. Maggot leads Frodo to designate her a 'queen among farmer's wives':

Suddenly he produced a large basket from under the seat. 'I was nearly forgetting,' he said. 'Mrs. Maggot put this up for Mr. Baggins, with her compliments.'

The basket, of course, is full of mushrooms--another gesture of hospitality!

Though understated, and very oriented around the practical existence of a farm and its division of labor, divisions which are, predictably, gendered, we see in the Maggots a portrait of an ordinary, affectionate marriage.  Each knows the other well, they work together in making the household run and offering hospitality, protect one another, and return to one another.

Frodo's remark about Mrs. Maggot, calling her 'a queen among farmer's wives' seems notable because of the tone--a 'queen among farmer's wives,' though perhaps innocent and offhanded, suggests a disconnect, either from farmers, or from wives.  This may be unremarkable for a bachelor in the company of younger, unmarried men, but it is something to think about...

***

Notes on Celibate Living in LOTR

This is not a fully-formed idea, so beware! Rather, I am continuing my notes on marriage in Middle-earth. It seems to me that the characters who do not marry are more conspicuous for not marrying, since marriage very much seems to be the default--even if some resist marriage, like Aldarion of Númenor in The Unfinished Tales.  The "Prologue: Concerning Hobbits" announces this lifestyle choice as conspicuous, at least among Hobbits, with reference to Bilbo and Frodo:

The houses and the holes of Shire-hobbits were often large, and inhabited by large families. (Bilbo and Frodo Baggins were as bachelors very exceptional, as they were also in many other ways, such as their friendship with the Elves.)

What do we learn from Frodo and Bilbo about marriage?  The first thing that comes to mind is the importance of family.  While there is no implied condemnation of a celibate life--and Frodo, in particular, has good reason to remain unmarried--what is missing for both of them is a family.  Children.  Heirs.  So much so that Frodo "adopts" Sam's family (not really), inviting them to live with him.  Sam cares for Frodo, and Frodo has the companionship of Sam's family.  Bilbo, having no children, has to adopt Frodo (really, in this case), making Frodo his heir.  Frodo is a Baggins--Bilbo's first and second cousin, once removed in either case as we learn--and so family.  He also gets along well with Bilbo, as the two seem to be of a similar temperament. And the fact that Bilbo is unmarried works well for them both--otherwise, Frodo, orphaned, lives in Buckland, where he has friends his own age, but where he seems to lack a mentor-figure.

***

Notes on the Marriages of the Valar

I remember from my undergraduate Milton course that it is actually a point of debate with reference to Paradise Lost whether or not angels have bodies, and consequently, whether they have sex.  Or perhaps it was a debate at the time of Milton, and Milton weighed in on this matter in Paradise Lost--I forget.  But I do remember that sex among angels was an issue raised in my Milton course (one of only a few things that sticks with me from that course... along with my professor's recommendation that I read Wind in the Willows, which I still have not done).

While Tolkien does not treat the matter of sex between the Valar--and really, there seems no need to do so--he addresses their occasional corporeality in The Silmarillion and grants them marriages.

Of their bodies, we learn:

Moreover their shape comes of their knowledge of the visible World, rather than of the World itself; and they need it not, save only as we use raiment, and yet may be naked and suffer no loss of our being. Therefore the Valar may walk, if they will, unclad, and then even the Eldar cannot clearly perceive them, though they be present. But when they desire to clothe themselves the Valar take upon them forms some as of male and some as of female; for that difference of temper they had even from the beginning, and it is but bodied forth in the choice of each, not made by the choice, even as with us male and female may be shown by the raiment but is not made thereby. But the shapes wherein the Great Ones array themselves are not at all times like to the shapes of the kings and queens of the Children of Ilúvatar; for at times they made may clothe themselves in their own thought, made visible in forms of majesty and dread. (21)

The Valar are inherently male and female, and though the language of "performativity" could be compared to the idea of taking on their forms and walking about in them if they choose, and to the comparison of bodies to clothing that does not determine the inherent gender identity, the "difference of temper" is inherent.  The choice of the phrasing "bodied forth in the choice" rather than "made by the choice" seems deliberately to belie the notion that gender is choice.  They do not choose the gender of their bodies, they choose to be embodied, and the resulting form reflects the identity that Tolkien calls the "difference of temper." Also interesting is the fact that "male and female may be shown by the raiment but is not made thereby." Here, we might assume that for Tolkien, the human form of each individual embodies gender ("bodies forth," which is a fantastic phrase), so that there is no conflict between biological, corporeal manifestation of gender and subjective experience of gender identity. And since that identity is fixed, clothing poses no threat: male and female are not made by our clothing; they seem not to be made by the body.  This might be a risky proposition, except that there is no narrative condemnation of Eowyn's dress when she poses as Dernhelm.

***

Divided into male and female, the Valar are also divided into pairs.  The first couple among the Valar are Manwë and Varda.  They are not named husband and wife, instead we learn that

With Manwë dwells Varda, Lady of the Stars....

An interesting feature of this description is that while it may seem impermanent, since "dwelling" does not carry an inherent promise, there seems to be an echo of the Word being with God.

We learn that

Out of the deeps of Eä she came to the aid of Manwë; for Melkor she knew from before the making of the Music and rejected him, and he hated her, and feared her more than all others whom Eru made.

...

 Manwë and Varda are seldom parted, and they remain in Valinor.

...

When Manwë there ascends his throne and looks forth, if Varda is beside him, he sees further than all other eyes, through mist, and through darkness, and over the leagues of the sea. And if Manwë is with her, Varda hears more clearly than all other ears the sound of voices that cry from east to west, from the hills and the valleys, and from the dark places that Melkor has made upon Earth. (26)

In Manwë and Varda we find a model of marriage as a partnership at the highest level. They aid and complement each other.

***

Though there are other ways to organize this discussion, for now I will follow the narrative. The next of the Valar to be described in the Valaquenta after Manwë and Varda is Ulmo:

Ulmo is the Lord of Waters. He is alone.

This description of Ulmo is striking and dramatic, particularly following the account of Manwë and Varda.  However, the next line makes clear why Ulmo is alone:

He dwells nowhere long, but moves as he will in all the deep waters about the Earth or under the Earth. (26)

Being of the sea rather than the Earth, Ulmo is not easily rooted to one place, as is necessary for a spouse.  The call of the Sea, so strong for the Elves of Middle-earth, is known to be a powerful call for those who are drawn to vocations of sailing and fishing. The call of the sea and the vocation of a sailor are notably present in The Unfinished Tales, in the tale of Aldarion and Erendis, subtitled, revealingly, "The Mariner's Wife."  In this tale, it becomes clear that devotion to sailing is, for some, so compelling, that to marry and pledge devotion to something other than that duty is not only inadvisable, but disastrous. As Ulmo is alone, those called to follow Ulmo--or Ulmo's path--have an obligation to remain unmarried.

***

In the initial telling, all that is said of the marriage of Aulë and Yavanna is this:

The spouse of Aulë is Yavanna, the Giver of Fruits. (27)

Interestingly, she is first introduced after Aulë, as his spouse.  Both of them are important to the Children of Ilúvatar.  More will be said about Aulë and Yavanna later.

***

Lesser pairs:  the brothers Námo (who dwells in Mandos) and Irmo (who dwells in Lórien) are married to Vairë and Estë, respectively.  Of the marriage of Námo and Vairë, this is said:

Vairë the Weaver is his spouse, who weaves all things that have ever been in Time into her storied webs, and the halls of Mandos that ever widen as the ages pass are clothed with them. (28)

They have, perhaps, more a similarity than the complementarity or enhancement of each other that Manwë and Varda experience, as

He forgets nothing; and he knows all things that shall be, save only those that lie still in the freedom of Ilúvatar. (28)

While Mandos (Námo) is included among the High Ones of Arda, his spouse is not one of the High Ones.

Of Irmo and Estë:

 Irmo the younger is the master of visions and dreams. In Lórien are his gardens in the land of the Valar, and they are the fairest of all places in the world, filled with many spirits. Estë the gentle, healer of hurts and of weariness, is his spouse. Grey is ger raiment; and rest is her gift. She walks not by day, but sleeps upon an island in the tree-shadowed lake of Lórellin. From the fountains of Irmo and Estë all those who dwell in Valinor draw refreshment....

Is there a kind of hospitality here?  That would seem to be a stretch. But looking at this again, Irmo and Estë are joined by common purpose, and their specialties are complementary:  the visions and dreams of Irmo and the Estë's healing of hurts and weariness are both related to sleep, though we can assume that the Valar, like the elves, have no need for sleep as we know it (because of Irmo and Estë?)

***
Nienna "dwells alone," and as with Ulmo, we immediately perceive why:

She is acquainted with grief, and mourns for every wound that Arda has suffered in the Marring of Melkor. So great was her sorrow, as the Music unfolded, that her song turned to lamentation before its end, and the sound of mourning was woven in to the themes of the World before it began. But she does not weep for herself; and those who hearken to her learn pity, and endurance in hope.

Interestingly, with Nienna, we get a sense of the geography of Valinor:

Her halls are west of the West, upon the borders of the world; and she comes seldom to the city of Valimar where all is glad. She goes rather to the halls of Mandos, which are near to her own; and all those who wait in Mandos cry to her, for she brings strength to the spirit and turns sorrow to wisdom. The windows of her house look outward from the walls of the world. 

 Now, the first thing I notice, and I'm not sure whether or where it may have been noted, is that she is a Lady of Lamentation. The dead cry to her. But her morning is for others.  And she teaches pity, endurance, strength of spirit, and wisdom.  And, of course, she "mourns for every wound."  I would be hard pressed to find a place in all of Tolkien's works where the language he uses is so explicitly connected to the language used to describe Mary, perhaps Mater Dolorosa?  Reading this, my mind turns to "Hail, Holy Queen":

To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve. To thee to we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears.

With her close proximity to Mandos, and her complementarity with Námo's gathering of the dead, she could have been paired with Námo.  However, her vocation to sorrow and her solitary nature (much like Ulmo's vocation to the sea and solitary nature) seem to preclude union with another.

***
Tulkas is married to Nessa, and of these we learn:

Greatest in strength and deeds of prowess is Tulkas [....] He delights in wrestling and in contests of strength; and he rides no steed for he can outrun all things that go on feed, and he is tireless. [....] His spouse is Nessa, the sister of Oromë, and she also is lithe and fleetfooted. Deer she loves, and they follow her train whenever she goes into the wild; but she can outrun them, swift as an arrow with the wind in her hair. In dancing she delights, and she dances in Valimar on lawns of never-fading green.

Of Tulkas, we further learn that in contrast to Oromë, he "laughs ever."

In Tulkas and Nessa, we seem to have another well-matched pair. I have an image of them running together against the wind, over fields of Middle-earth.  I also imagine Tulkas as the patron of Aragorn as Ranger, and watching over the Three Hunters as they track Merry and Pippin. Nessa seems to be the patroness of Lúthien.

***
The last pair to be named are Oromë and Vána, who is the younger sister of Yavanna.  More is said about Oromë than Vána, and indeed, the name of Oromë's horn takes precedence over his wife, who seems relatively unimportant. While Oromë is a hunter, a lover of trees, and dreadful in anger, Vána is grace and beauty:

The spouse of Oromë is Vána, the Ever-young; she is the younger sister of Yavanna. All flowers spring as she passes and open if she glances upon them; and all birds sing at her coming.

They seem more like opposites than complements, and it's notable that the male Ents have a particular devotion to Oromë, though the Entwives are devoted not to Vána, but Yavanna. As with Mandos (Náma), Oromë is an Aratar, while his spouse is not:

Among them Nine were of chief power and reverence; but one was removed from their number, and Eight remain, the Aratar, the High Ones of Arda: Manwë and Varda, Ulmo, Yavanna and Aulë, Mandos, Nienna, and Oromë. Though Manwë is their King and holds their alegiance under Eru, in majesty they are peers, surpassing beyond compare all others, whether of the Valar and the Maiar, or of any other order that Ilúvatar has sent into Eä.

Of the highest order of the Valar, four are married to peers, two are unmarried, and two are married to Valar of lesser power. Marriages, then, do not have to be equal, and whether or not the marriage of equals is ideal remains to be seen (though Manwë and Varda seem to represent the highest ideal, unless being of the highest power, they simply could not be paired with anyone else).