Because everyone loves a good story
“On Fairy-Stories,” Part 4: Escape
What do you do when you need a break from the grind of everyday life? Binge on Seinfeld reruns? Take a bubble bath? Enjoy some comfort food? Read my blog? Tolkien’s remedy was even better, although it wouldn’t be the default for most of us: he suggested escaping into the world of fairy-stories.
As a quick review, we’ve already mentioned the four purposes of fairy-stories: Fantasy, Recovery, Escape, and Consolation. By “Fantasy,” Tolkien means that fairy-stories can be a form of verbal art when the author sub-creates something with his or her imagination. When he talks about “Recovery,” he means that fairy stories can cure us of a snobbish dislike of what’s beautiful simply because it’s old. And this week we’ll take a quick peek at the idea of “Escape.” While Tolkien does point out that Escape and Consolation are closely related, I’d rather look at them one at a time. Then I won’t get too carried away, thereby sending one or both of us into mental conniptions.
What Do You Mean, Escape?
In typical Tolkien fashion, he wants to redefine the popular connotation of the word before he goes on to tell you what he intends to say about it. In the case of the word “Escape,” he takes offense at the negative tone that literary critics (or those who parrot the critics) use when talking about his beloved fairy-stories. They dismiss them as stories either for children or for adults who want to keep thinking like children. The critics refuse to acknowledge any real value or benefit from a story that ends “happily ever after.” In his use of the word Escape, Tolkien rejects this negative tone and redefines the word in its original sense of breaking free from confinement.
Far from denying that fairy-stories offer a kind of Escape to modern readers, Tolkien heartily affirms it. “Though fairy-stories are of course by no means the only means of Escape,” he says, “they are today one of the most obvious and (to some) outrageous forms of ‘escapist’ literature” (147). But to those of us who, like Tolkien, feel that the modern world is lacking in moral goodness, creative freshness, and artistic beauty, the fairy-story’s promise of Escape is not a child’s trinket but a jailer’s key.
What’s Wrong with Escape?
As I said, Tolkien doesn’t deny that fairy-stories offer a form of Escape. Instead, he denies that there is any problem with wanting to escape. “In what the misusers of Escape are fond of calling Real Life, Escape is evidently as a rule very practical, and may even be heroic. In real life it is difficult to blame it, unless it fails; in criticism it would seem to be the worse the better it succeeds” (148).
If you were to wake up and find yourself in a prison cell when you hadn’t done anything wrong, wouldn’t you be justified in wanting to escape? Could anyone blame you for thinking and talking about things other than the cell, the bars, and the cot? This is the analogy that Tolkien gives for the imaginative mind imprisoned in the modern world. When critics accuse authors and readers of fairy-stories with being escapist, “they are confusing…the Escape of the Prisoner with the Flight of the Deserter” (148). We aren’t betraying the United States of Reality; we are breaking out of Modernism Penitentiary.
Escape from What?
Although I’ve hinted at several things from which the writer or reader of fairy-stories would like to escape, Tolkien gets even more specific: he cites modern, electric street lamps. If you’ve read much by Tolkien, you know that he despises recent inventions that favor speed, uniformity, and efficiency over quality, beauty, and craftsmanship. For proof of this, just contrast the fiery forges of Isengard with the tranquil paths of Rivendell.
But why street lamps? Because, to Tolkien, they are just one more example of how ugly, modern conveniences are replacing lovely, traditional ones. Refusing to include such inventions in a fairy-story often proceeds “from a considered disgust for so typical a product of the Robot Age, that combines elaboration and ingenuity of means with ugliness, and (often) with inferiority of result” (148). He sees nothing wrong with crafting a story that doesn’t parade all the modern aspects of reality. Since we’re surrounded with these things in our everyday lives, Tolkien prefers to read and write literature that provides some variety in the form of beauty.
Escape to What?
So he proposes escaping from the drudgery of ugly technological conveniences by means of literature. I think we could all benefit from this kind of Escape once in a while. But does this mean that we all have to read fairy-stories, or fantasy tales, in order to escape? Definitely not!
Tolkien points out that your preference doesn’t always have to be for dragons and witches and fairies. You can enjoy escaping to ancient times when you read historical fiction. You can escape to the imagined future when you read science fiction. In Tolkien’s mind, the destination doesn’t matter, so long as it takes you out of our age of ever-increasing technology and the grim tide of progress.
“It is indeed an age of ‘improved means to deteriorated ends.’ It is part of the essential malady of such days—producing the desire to escape not indeed from life but from our present time and self-made misery—that we are acutely conscious both of the ugliness of our works, and of their evil” (151). Notice one distinction that he makes here: it’s not good to desire escape from all reality or from life itself. To live perpetually in a fantasy realm, to dream your life away like Miniver Cheevy, and to despise this world to the point of trying to leave it are all unhealthy reactions. Tolkien’s alternative is to make the best of the world we’re in while enjoying the Escape that well-written literature provides.
Today’s Question: What is your favorite kind of “escapist” literature?
Check out the next post here!
Source:
Robinson, Edward Arlington. “Miniver Cheevy.” https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44978/miniver-cheevy
Tolkien, J.R.R. The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays. London, Harper Collins, 2006.
“On Fairy-Stories,” Part 3: Recovery
A woman find a fabulous necklace that she absolutely adores, so she buys it but leaves it locked in her jewelry case. A man falls in love with the exquisite face of a woman, so he marries her and soon forgets to appreciate the features he once dreamt about. An art collector purchases a rare and intricate painting, but when he hangs it on his wall, he never remembers to look up at it. In Tolkien’s opinion, what these three need is Recovery.
Last time we began looking at the purpose of fairy-stories. In Tolkien’s opinion, creating believable, artfully-written Fantasy is a purpose in and of itself. But this week we’ll see another purpose for Fantasy: Recovery.
Recovery From What?
When you hear that someone needs recovery, you probably think of it in relation to a sickness or injury. After all, if there’s no malady, then from what is he recovering? But Tolkien describes some artistic sicknesses that had begun plaguing literature during his lifetime, and the symptoms are still around today.
For example, he describes those who out of “boredom or of an anxiety to be original” have developed a dislike for literature and art that is “fine…delicate…and pretty” (145). Instead, they prefer “mere manipulation and overelaboration of old material, clever and heartless” (145). They’d rather see something new and hollow than old and beautiful. He also describes those who prefer to create distorted, misshapen stories. They enjoy “making all things dark or unremittingly violent,” depicting a world without hope or goodness (145-6). There are also those who, instead of displaying the world in bright colors and familiar shapes, choose to pass on “through subtlety to drabness, and the fantastical complication of shapes to the point of silliness and on towards delirium” (146).
If you took a modern literature course in high school or college, then these descriptions may bring several “-isms” to your mind. And if you know Tolkien, you know he dislikes almost all things modern, especially modern “-isms.” That’s why he proposes Recovery.
Familiarity Breeds Apathy
Part of the problem, Tolkien says, is that we’re suffering from a contempt of the familiar. Once we put the word “my” in front of anything, we risk taking it for granted or ignoring it entirely. The world around us tends to be like treasures that we “locked…in our hoard, acquired them, and acquiring ceased to look at them” (146). Rather than breeding fresh perspective, familiarity tends to breed apathy, if not contempt.
But this is why we need Recovery. Recovery, Tolkien says, is a “regaining of a clear view” in which we begin “seeing things as we are (or were) meant to see them” (146). And this is where fairy-stories come in. When we see trees or sheep or cottages or wolves in the world around us, we may not give them much thought. Well, maybe we would give some thought to a wolf, but you know what I mean. If these are just objects in “my” world, then there’s nothing very remarkable about them.
But if the cottage is on the edge of an enchanted forest, or if the wolf has mighty big teeth and your grandmother’s bonnet, then we at last begin to see them in a new light. We no longer see them through a window smudged with familiarity; we see them clearly as for the first time.
Earth Is an Alien Planet
In a similar way, we may get occasional glimpses of the world around us as though it were an alien world. Have you ever felt that way before? I sometimes have little “out-of-body” experiences where I look at what’s happening around me and think, “If I didn’t know this was normal, I would think it was very strange indeed.”
I remember feeling that way in a large auditorium after an orchestra concert one night. The room was full of people who all spontaneously and simultaneously began clapping after the song ended. I mean, what in the world? Why are we slapping the extremities of our upper appendages together? I’ve felt the same way when a group of people suddenly breaks into laughter at a joke, everyone barking, braying, wheezing, or guffawing in his own way but at the same time. What is this cacophony? And how did everyone know to do it at that moment?
Humans are very odd creatures.
Mooreeffoc
The sudden realization that the world around us is a strange and foreign land can be referred to by the term Mooreeffoc. Although G.K. Chesterton popularized the term, Charles Dickens really began it. Dickens wrote about sitting at a table in a restaurant and staring out the glass window on which was written the word Mooreeffoc. From the street, of course, the sign merely said Coffee-room. But from his perspective, Dickens felt that he was in a strange and foreign place. That one word sharpened his perspective on the rest of his surroundings.
Chesterton seized on this word, using it to “denote the queerness of things that have become trite, when they are seen suddenly from a new angle” (146). In this way, Tolkien says that we may be able to see everything and everyone around us as utterly alien. We can look around us and “see the amazing oddity and interest of [the world’s] inhabitants and their customs and feeding-habits” (147). With a change in perspective, we can see life as an observer and not a mere participant.
Simple Is Better
While this may be an interesting experiment or an entertaining pastime, Tolkien doesn’t think it’s the most helpful tool for Recovery. In fact, he believes that more recovery of perspective can come from reading fairy-stories. It’s not that the story has to contain a bunch of made up creatures or previously-unimagined colors. Instead, he says that “fairy-stories deal largely…with simple or fundamental things, untouched by Fantasy, but these simplicities are made all the more luminous by their setting” (147).
The fantastic setting of a fairy-story sanctifies, as it were, the common inhabitants of the story. In fact, as Tolkien says, “it was in fairy-stories that I first divined…the wonder of the things, such as stone, and wood, and iron; tree and grass; house and fire; bread and wine” (147). It doesn’t take much to bring Recovery to our jaded, modern souls—just the fresh perspective that comes from a good fairy-story.
Today’s Question: Have you ever had a Mooreeffoc moment? I’d love to hear about it!
Check out the next post here!
Source:
Tolkien, J.R.R. The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays. London, Harper Collins, 2006.
What Is “Christian Liberty”?
If you’ve been around churchy folk very often, you may have heard discussions about something called “Christian liberty.” But what is Christian liberty, really? Is it a blank check for believers to live however they want to, as long as the Bible doesn’t explicitly condemn their actions as sin? Is it a buzzword that salves a Christian’s conscience when he wants to indulge some little pet preference that his fellow church members may not condone? Or is it a beautiful truth that, sadly, can get rather misunderstood when we lose sight of its purpose?
Based on my wording, you may have guessed that the third option is closer to what I believe. (Also, good test takers recommend that, when you’re in doubt, you should choose option C.) Anyway, I wanted to take an ever-so-brief peek at this massive topic today. If all I accomplish here is helping you see one beautiful aspect of this truth, then I will consider my mission accomplished. So let’s begin with the passage that got my wheels turning about this in the first place:
Romans 14:17-19
For the kingdom of God is not a matter of eating and drinking but of righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit. Whoever thus serves Christ is acceptable to God and approved by men. So then let us pursue what makes for peace and for mutual upbuilding.
The context of these verses is a debate between believers in the Apostle Paul’s time. Some Christians believed that it was a sin to eat food that had been offered to idols, and other Christians believed that God had given permission to do just that. But rather than dwelling on who was right, Paul chooses instead to get to the heart of the matter: “These nit-picky rules aren’t even the point,” he says. “The point is your hearts.”
Paul encouraged them not to focus on what they were allowed to do or what others weren’t allowed to do. Rather, they were to look up from their quarrels and see the greater goals: righteousness, peace, joy, acceptance, and edification. Don’t those sound a smidge more important than demanding permission to eat what you want or demanding others to stop eating what they want? Rather than spending their energy pursuing their own preferences, Paul told them to pursue the things that make peace and cause growth.
Philippians 2:4-8
And this, really, is the whole point of “Christian liberty.” It’s not the freedom to do anything you want or everything you’re allowed to do; it’s the freedom to choose love and peace over personal preference. Because isn’t this what Jesus did for us? Who deserved more than Christ? Yet who gave up more than He did? And He did it all out of love so that we could have peace with God and with each other.
His highest priority wasn’t to squeeze as much as He deserved out of every moment on earth. Rather, His priority was to give of Himself until there was nothing left, all for the good of His brothers—us. Philippians 2 says it beautifully:
Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.
As un-American as it sounds, Christ came not to take, achieve, impress, and dominate; He came to serve, love, give, and die. This mindset is what God calls us to as well. We aren’t here to see how many things we can get away with before we break an actual commandment. We also aren’t here to see how many activities we can take away from other believers. We’re here to follow Christ’s footsteps to the cross of love.
Philippians 2:9-11
But lest I give the impression that the Christian life is nothing but sacrifice, abnegation, and doldrums, check out the verses that come right afterward:
Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.
Christ gave up His right to be worshiped during his short life on earth, but He will be rewarded with the worship of every created being at the end of time. He gave up His beauty and freedom on earth, but now He has been exalted to the place that He deserves.
So does this mean that if I choose to give up my right to enjoy this-or-that on earth, everyone will bow to me in eternity and recognize what a wonderful individual I was all along? Nope. ‘Fraid not. Christ is unique, and His sacrifice and reward are unique as well. The point of these last few verses is not that you and I will deserve worship one day. The point is that, as believers, our choice to live in love will one day be rewarded by Love Himself.
I mean, think about it: we are IN CHRIST, y’all! We are heirs of the promise of His blessing. He has been exalted in heaven? We get heaven, too! He has a new name? He has given us a new name, too! Every tongue will confess that He is Lord? That includes our tongues, too, which is great because we had already chosen to live in light of that reality! All that is His is ours. What an undeserved blessing!
Galatians 5:13-14
The summary can be wrapped up in just two little verses:
For you were called to freedom, brothers. Only do not use your freedom as an opportunity for the flesh, but through love serve one another. For the whole law is fulfilled in one word: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”
Let’s be real: if we loved other people in the same way that we love ourselves, there would be a lot less conflict. If I sought what was in your best interest as avidly as I seek it for myself, I wouldn’t have time to worry about pushing my own agenda or claiming my own rights. And that’s the whole point, isn’t it? “Through love, serve one another.”
True Christian liberty, then, is the freedom to choose love over preference, and in so doing, we model the heart of Christ.
“On Fairy-Stories,” Part 2: The Purpose
Consider this: “It may be better for [children] to read some things, especially fairy-stories, that are beyond their measure rather than short of it. Their books like their clothes should allow for growth, and their books at any rate should encourage it” (138).
At our age, it’s generally not a good idea to buy clothes that allow for too much growth (I’m looking at you, stretchy pants), but when is the last time you and I read a book that encouraged our growth? I’ll admit that for me it’s not as often as I’d like. But this essay certainly counts as one that encourages growth, as I hope you’ll see in today’s post. Let’s tackle this next section as we examine the value and function of fairy-stories!
The Value of Fairy-Stories
Last week we defined our terms, and this week we begin by asking, “So what’s the value of a fairy-story, anyway?” Sure, it may be entertaining or amusing, but does it have any real benefit? Tolkien makes a helpful observation on this point: “If written with art, the prime value of fairy-stories will simply be that value which, as literature, they share with other literary forms” (138). The qualifying statement here is that the story must be “written with art.” If it adheres to that standard, then you can gain as much from reading that fairy-story as from any other well-written literature.
As I’m sure you’ve noticed, not all literature is “written with art” or attention to skill, beauty, and the achievement of what the writer imagined. In fact, a lot of books are just plain awful in style and content. A fairy-story that seems slapped together probably was, and the same goes for romance novels, historical fiction, teen fiction, etc., regardless of its cult following. But don’t get me started on this. Today, we’ll just leave it at the fact that an artfully-written fairy-story is worth reading for its own sake.
The Function of Fairy-Stories
Now that we’ve seen the value of these stories, what about their function, or purpose? I think this is where Tolkien hits his stride in the essay, getting down to the meat of what he really intended to say all along. He asserts that the purpose of fairy-stories is fourfold: fantasy, recovery, escape, and consolation. Because it’s so chock-full of goodness, we’ll only be tackling the first one today.
The Difficulty of Fantasy
Again, Tolkien is dissatisfied with modern connotations of English words. He chooses “Fantasy” to mean the sub-creative Art that depicts the Imaginary in words. …Wait, what? Ok, so basically Tolkien wants to make clear that Imagination is something that happens in the mind. We can imagine things from the primary world—that is, the world that exists around us. We can also imagine things outside of the primary world—things that we sub-create using a combination of things from the world around us. Now, Art takes these Imaginations and puts them into words so that everyone can “see” them. This, Tolkien says, is Fantasy.
His definition seems pretty complex at first, but I think that’s part of his point. One of the essential drawbacks of Fantasy, he says, is that “it is difficult to achieve” (139). Because it’s hard to give an imaginary world the “inner consistency of reality,” many fantasy writers tend to leave their stories and their worlds undeveloped. That’s because writing this kind of a story “will probably require labour and thought, and will certainly demand a special skill, a kind of elvish craft. Few attempt such difficult tasks” (140).
An Expert in His Field
I can’t help but smile at those last two sentences. Can’t you see him coyly tooting his own authorial horn? “It isn’t just anyone who possesses the skill and discipline to create worlds as I have done, you know,” he would say as he smugly puffs his pipe. But in reality, he wrote this essay two years after the publication of The Hobbit but long before The Lord of the Rings was written. I doubt that he had even decided to tackle a trilogy of that caliber yet.
But even if he had, there is one thing we can say in defense of Tolkien: he practiced what he preached. By the time The Hobbit was published, he’d already been writing his elvish languages and Middle Earth mythologies for 20 years! Please excuse me while I go rethink my desire to write and publish a fantasy novel of my own.
Hung, Drawn, and Quartered
Now here comes one of the most controversial aspects of his essay: Tolkien believes that Fantasy should remain a verbal art, not a visual one. “But wait,” you say. “Peter Jackson directed six movies based off of Tolkien’s fantasy books!” Yes, you are correct. “But wouldn’t that have made Tolkien mad?” Yes, I believe it would. But why was Tolkien so loath to display a work of Fantasy visually? He gives two main reasons.
First, when Tolkien wrote this essay, movies were still in their infancy. There were no special effects or CGI like we see today. Most visual art of this sort took place on the stage of a theater, which meant that every part had to be acted out by people in costumes. Regarding this, Tolkien observes that “men dressed up as talking animals may achieve buffoonery or mimicry, but they do not achieve Fantasy” (140). In fact, in reference to a play where an ogre turned into a mouse, he says, “Though [it was] done with some ingenuity of lighting, disbelief had not so much to be suspended as hung, drawn, and quartered” (141). Our minds do a much better job of envisioning a story if left unhindered by clunky costumes and quoted lines.
One World Too Many
Second, he believes that a visual drama already presents a secondary world that it asks you to believe in. In order to enjoy a play or even a movie, you have to believe in the characters and lose yourself in that secondary world. But by introducing elements of the fantastic into this secondary world, you are asking the audience to enter into a tertiary world! You are now watching people pretend to pretend that they’re in a Fantasy world. In Tolkien’s mind, this strains credulity beyond its breaking point.
Besides, trying to wrangle a true Fantasy book into stage or movie form is sure to compromise the quality of the book itself. We can all think of several examples here, I’m sure. But writing a Fantasy book with a stage or movie adaptation in mind would be equally harmful. They are separate arts, Tolkien asserts, and should not be confused. If you judge books by dramatic standards, “you are…likely to prefer characters, even the basest and dullest, to things. Very little about trees as trees can be got into a play” (142). And we all know how Tolkien feels about trees.
In Conclusion
Well, that’s all the time we have for today, folks! Tune in next time to learn about Recover and the cryptic term “Mooreeffoc.”
Today’s Question: If Tolkien were alive today and could see the realism of our movies, do you think he would change his mind and support the visual display of Fantasy on the screen?
Check out the next post here!
Source:
Tolkien, J.R.R. The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays. London, Harper Collins, 2006.
“On Fairy Stories,” Part 1: The Basics
Ah, Tolkien. Perhaps one of the most brilliantly-creative minds of the last century. Certainly one of the most influential fantasy writers in the English language. And yet he’s a bit of an acquired taste, isn’t he? Read on to discover why some people have a hard time digesting Tolkien’s works and how this blog series proposes to help (at least for one of his essays.)
The Perils of Tolkien’s Works
Many people have read The Hobbit. Fewer have read The Lord of the Rings trilogy all the way through. Even fewer souls have dared plow through “the rest of Tolkien’s stuff,” whatever oddments that may entail. And why? Personally, I think it’s because of Tolkien’s proclivity to wax eloquent. Or, if you prefer, he uses lots of words. To me, this is generally delightful, but to others, it’s understandably tedious.
So when it comes to reading Tolkien’s essay “On Fairy-Stories,” I can think of two reasons that Joe Schmoe might not settle in with a cup of Earl Grey in anticipation of an enjoyable evening’s perusal of the essay. Reason Numero Uno: Who cares about fairy stories at our ripe old age? Reason Deux: Who wants to sift through Tolkien’s verbose and seemingly-scatterbrained train of thought in this essay?
Well, to answer both questions at the same time, I do! And over the course of the next several weeks, I hope to present you with a solid, practical, enjoyable distillation of this most excellent essay. Will you promise to stick with me? If you do, I promise you’ll be glad you did, especially by the last week. You’ll see that you actually do care about fairy stories, and you’ll be glad you tracked along with me to the end. There is some fantastic stuff ahead, folks!
Definition of Fairy-Stories
As any good logician should do, Tolkien begins the essay by defining his terms. What, he asks, is a fairy-story? You and I may think we have a pretty good idea, right? It’s Cinderella. It’s Gulliver’s Travels. It’s Alice in Wonderland and “The Tortoise and the Hare.” In other words, you and I would define a fairy-story, or fairy-tale, as pretty much any imaginative story. To this confident assertion, Tolkien would proclaim, “Wrong, sir!”
But don’t feel bad. He said the same thing to the Oxford English Dictionary when they defined it as “a tale about fairies, or generally a fairy legend” (110). He also rejected their definition of fairies as “supernatural beings of diminutive size” (110). He’s a pretty picky guy, but I guess that’s why he was a professor and a philologist.
In fact, of the four story examples I gave above, only the first would (probably) qualify as a fairy-tale in Tolkien’s opinion. The reason is that he rules out traveler’s tales (Gulliver’s Travels), dreams (Alice in Wonderland), and beast fables (“The Tortoise and the Hare”). To Tolkien, fairy-stories are “stories about Fairy, that is Faërie, the realm or state in which fairies have their being” (113). Basically, it’s an adventure set in that magical realm in which anything could happen. Its purpose could be nearly anything, including “satire, adventure, morality, [or] fantasy,” so long as it doesn’t try to explain away or ridicule the magic itself (114).
Origins of Fairy Stories
And now that he’s settled, more or less, on a definition, he believes that we want to know where fairy-stories come from. Honestly, that is a question that has never kept me up at night, and I suspect you may feel the same way. That being the case, I’ll really whittle down his ideas for you.
He begins by noticing that many fairy-stories contain similar elements such as enchanted fruit or magic rings. How, he asks, did different cultures in different times end up using the same theme or device? After examining several possible theories, he rejects them all and says that “the incarnate mind, the tongue, and the tale are in our world coeval” (122). In other words, stories and their themes have been around as long as people and language have existed. This is because we have what I’ll call the Power of the Adjective. Grammar lovers, rejoice!
He explains how we can take any descriptive word and stick it where it doesn’t naturally occur, such as hot fire in the cold belly of a snake. Viola! The dragon is born. By doing this with language, we are exercising our power to sub-create creatures and places using the basic ingredients we see around us. In this way, all of our ingredients—both real and sub-created—are constantly simmering in the “pot of soup” that is Story itself. Each story teller dips in his or her ladle and pulls out a different combination of the ingredients, but you will certainly see repeated elements from time to time. To Tolkien, that is evidence of the value of that ingredient.
Fairy Stories Are for Children…Right?
In Tolkien’s time as well as in ours, fairly-tales are considered children’s literature. But Tolkien protests, asking, “Is there any essential connection between children and fairy-stories? Is there any call for comment, if an adult reads them for himself? Reads them as tales, that is, not studies them as curios. Adults are allowed to collect and study anything, even old theatre-programmes or paper bags” (130). Here Tolkien rather sassily enquires why fairy-stories should be considered fit only for children. Why should it be abnormal for an adult to read a fairy-story for recreational rather than academic purposes?
He asserts that most good fairy-tales should be just as interesting to an adult as they are to a child. Otherwise, the story has probably been watered down or “adapted” for children, thereby robbing it of any real charm or power. In a well-crafted story, he says, you don’t need a “willing suspension of disbelief;” rather, you really do believe that in this world the author has pains-takingly crafted, the events of the story do happen. They are consistent with the laws of that sub-created world, and so long as the story is told well, anyone can enter into it with delight. So, in a word, no—fairy-stories are not primarily for children.
You Made It!
If you made it through this post, I heartily congratulate you! This was the densest, least-easily-applicable section of his essay, and it was still enjoyable, wasn’t it? (Right, guys? …Guys?) Anyway, it’s only going to get better from here, so be sure to tune in next week when we look at the purpose of fairy-stories. See you then!
Today’s Question: Can you think of a “fairy-story” that you’ve enjoyed as an adult?
Check out the next post here!
Source:
Tolkien, J.R.R. The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays. London, Harper Collins, 2006.
J.R.R. Tolkien: A Brief Biography
It’s no surprise that I have kind of a thing for J.R.R. Tolkien. To say I am a fan is a bit of an understatement, although I know he has inspired a cult-like following of which I am unworthy to count myself. I have, however, enjoyed multiple readings of The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and The Silmarillion as well as various essays, short stories, letters, translations, and biographies. That’s all. Just a casual fan.
And while I’d love to spend many moons extrapolating and discussing all of his works, I think I’ll begin with an unlikely essay entitled “On Fairy-Stories.” It really is foundational and explanational (I’m allowed to do that, right?) to most of his later fiction, and it isn’t even about the Elvish languages! But before we dive in, I want to make sure I’ve given you an ultra-brief introduction to my good friend, John Ronald Ruel Tolkien. So here we go.
A Man of Singular Mind
One word I would use to describe Tolkien’s character is “committed.” He was committed to everything he put his mind to, including his first love, the Catholic church, his studies, and his craft. This trait enabled him to accomplish the wonderful things that make his legacy one-of-a-kind, despite various setbacks.
Committed to His First Love
Tolkien was born in 1892, and just four years later his father passed away. Tolkien (or “Ronald,” as he was called) was raised by his mother until her death when he was twelve years old. After that, Tolkien and his brother were cared for by Father Francis Morgan, the family’s Catholic priest. They eventually came to live in a boarding house where Tolkien met Edith Bratt, a lovely young pianist who was three years his senior. They became friends and, within two years, became interested in more than friendship. But, as with any good story, their love was about to be put to the test.
The problem was that Tolkien and Edith, then almost 18 and 21 respectively, would meet up in little towns and tea shops without a chaperone, which was frowned upon at that time. And since Tolkien was deeply committed to Edith, his grades and even his chances at a scholarship began to suffer. When Father Francis found out about Tolkien’s secret distraction, he asked Tolkien to stop seeing her socially so he could focus on his academics. When the young couple was spotted in town together again, Father Francis was forced to give Tolkien a strict command: he was not allowed to see or even communicate with Edith until his twenty-first birthday. And, shockingly, Tolkien obeyed. Both Edith and Tolkien moved away from the boarding house, and the three-year silence began.
Committed to His Church
At precisely midnight on his twenty-first birthday, Tolkien began crafting a letter to Edith, telling her of his unchanged affections toward her. Unfortunately, she replied that she was engaged to a farmer. Bummer. But in the end, he raced out to see Edith and convinced her to marry him instead. The catch, however, was that she would have to convert from Anglican to Catholic. He would not abandon the faith of his mother and of Father Francis.
She feared her family’s disapproval, but Tolkien was insistent. She must convert, or they could not marry. Convert she did, even though the uncle with whom she lived told her she would have to find somewhere else to stay until the wedding. She obliged, and in 1916 Edith and Ronald were married, just before Tolkien was sent to France in World War I. By then, Tolkien was twenty-four years old. He remained Catholic throughout his life.
Committed to His Studies
Sure, Tolkien’s studies took a back burner to his affections for Edith when they were younger, but once he took Father Francis’ injunction seriously, Tolkien became a dedicated scholar. He studied English Language and Literature at Oxford, continuing to pursue his education in the face of World War I. After he got the degree he was after, he enlisted in the Lancashire Fusiliers and fought in the French trenches for four months. When he contracted trench fever, he was sent back to England to recover and to serve at various stations on the home front.
When the war was over, he was accepted as Associate Professor of English Language at the University of Leeds. Later, he returned to Oxford as a Professor of Anglo-Saxon and later of English Language and Literature. These were pretty weighty appointments, but Tolkien tackled them head on, studying and tutoring to the best of his ability.
Committed to His Craft
While he was teaching at Oxford, Tolkien met C.S. Lewis. Cue the angelic chorus, please. These two literary geniuses took part in The Inklings, a literary club that helped spur them on to write more and better literature. While Tolkien didn’t exactly need encouragement to write—he had continued writing elvish languages and middle-earth backstories throughout the war and afterward—he did need encouragement to relinquish his manuscripts to the publisher. He was an eternal reviser, so his friends and publisher found it necessary to (nearly literally) wrench manuscripts out of his hands when they were “done enough.”
His book, “The Hobbit,” began as a story for his children, but after it was published, its popularity took everyone by surprise, including Tolkien. Soon there was a demand for “a new Hobbit.” Not surprisingly, The Silmarillion didn’t fit the bill, so it was back to the drawing board for Tolkien. Eventually, The Lord of the Rings was published as a trilogy, and the crowd went wild. This was also a surprise to everyone, but it has continued to be one of the most popular and influential fictional works of the century. In fact, it was so popular that Tolkien and Edith had to change their phone number and address to avoid the mob of fans. They lived out the rest of their lives together in moderate wealth and peace.
How He Done It
So how did a (rather obsessive) Oxford professor end up writing several works that have inspired generations of readers? Well, I could say that it’s just the mystery of the man or the magic of his poetry, but I believe there’s more to it than that. In fact, Tolkien himself basically describes the requisite ingredients to a successful, satisfying story of this sort. That’s right: he discusses it in the essay “On Fairy-Stories.”
And that, my friends, is why we’re going to begin looking at that masterpiece next week. Be sure to tune in!
Today’s Question: What is your favorite work by Tolkien, and why?
Check out the next post here!
Sources:
Doughan, David. “J.R.R. Tolkien: A Biographical Sketch.” The Tolkien Society, https://www.tolkiensociety.org/author/biography/.
Duriez, Colin. J.R.R. Tolkien: The Making of a Legend. Oxford, Lion Hudson, 2012.
Hiking Is my Happy Place
We all have a happy place. For some, it’s the family cabin on the lake, surrounded by trees and years of memories. For some, it’s a small gathering of close friends for no specific reason other than the joy of being together. For others, it’s binge watching 12 seasons of a show while surrounding themselves with piles of Doritos bags and Taco Bell wrappers. Hey, to each his own.
For me, hiking is my happy place. Specifically, I am in love with taking backpacking trips across miles of trails. Don’t be too jealous; I haven’t gotten to do nearly as much as I’d like to yet, but the hiking I’ve done has yielded some of my best memories over the years. I’ve backpacked with several friends, close family, and my faithful hubby. I’ve managed short hikes and attempted extensive ones. I’ve hiked in a small but varied handful of states in the U.S.
And with an impressive resume like that, I feel it’s my right—nay, my duty—to present you with a few observations I’ve collected throughout my travels. Please enjoy this selection of obvious facts that I purchased with blood, sweat, toil, and tears.
You can’t prepare too much
Normally, I am an over-preparer. But a few years ago on our backpacking trip to Yosemite, I discovered that I was not nearly prepared enough. See, we had saved our two hardest hikes for the end of the trip…on back-to-back days…days when we had to carry extra water because there was no fresh source of hydration. My sister and brother-in-law were much more prepared because
they had been doing CrossFit for months leading up to the trip. My husband and I had not. In fact, watching the four of us ascend Half Dome would have been a great commercial for their CrossFit gym.
As Mark and I struggled on, our breaks became longer and more frequent. We would collapse in any patch of shade that came along. We would have crawled through the gravel if we weren’t worried about bleeding out. We made it to the peak of each hike, but we were sagging and dragging, to say the least. My wimpy workouts had let me down. I wasn’t prepared.
Lesson learned: When it comes to getting in shape for crazy hikes, you’re not really fit unless you’re CrossFit.
Less is DEFINITELY more
Along the same lines as my obsession with overpreparation, I can tend to be an over-packer. I run through the “what if” scenarios until I’ve packed virtually everything I could ever find myself in moderate need of. And then some. In a purse or suitcase, I guess that’s ok. But in a backpack (or even a day pack) that I’ll be carrying over hill and dale for extended periods of time? That’s not ok. I’ve packed a stack of clothes for a backpacking trip before, only to wear the same thing every day anyway. I should have jettisoned the surplus on day one. After all, it’s hiking, not the opera.
Overpacking heavy food is another of my faux pas. On my first trip to Yosemite, I wanted apples and almond butter. So I packed them—a bunch of fresh apples and a glass jar of almond butter. A glass jar of almond butter. And then I scrambled up the mountainside with these strapped to my back, reminding me of gravity’s cruelty with every step. Know what I would have done if I hadn’t been a complete idiot? I would have packed dehydrated apples and almond butter packets. And on later trips, that’s just what I’ve done. Live and learn, right?
Lesson Learned: If you can’t pack just what you need to survive, you may not.
The right shoes are vital
I really hate shoe shopping, but sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gottado. By putting off this dreaded task, I ruined a perfectly good hiking trip through the Sam Houston National Forest. Another rookie move by Emily! We had planned to hike 45 miles within 3 days, which didn’t sound too crazy at first. The terrain was flat, we needed only a few days’ worth of supplies, and I thought my old hiking boots would still work for me.
I was mistaken. I think elves had shrunk my shoes.
I went through a whole fiasco of ordering, trying out, and returning shoes right up until the day before the trip itself. Needless to say, I regretted my life before the first day was even done. My new shoes were stiff, inflexible, and miserable. Again, crawling for the duration of the trail began to seem like a viable option. Instead, I finished it out within the allotted time, but never before had my feet caused me so much grief.
Lesson Learned: When wedged into constricting shoes, blisters don’t count as comfortable foot cushioning.
Misery is temporary, but memories are forever
The aforementioned blunders don’t even begin to scratch the surface of all the dumb hiking mistakes I’ve made. I’ve caused my group to donate pints of
blood to ravenous mountain mosquitoes because I assured them there weren’t any mosquitoes last time. I’ve lugged around a bulky, ancient, canvas tent because I didn’t want to buy a new one. I’ve robbed my husband of many quality photos because I was afraid the camera battery would die when, in fact, it still had hours of life at the end of the trip. I’ve had to borrow my brother-in-law’s sleeping mat because my cheap one sustained a puncture wound the first day on the trail. And the list goes on.
I’ve been at the end of my strength and far beyond the end of my comfort. I’ve spent sleepless nights and rainy days. I’ve felt sick and tired. I’ve gotten fed up with freeze-dried food. I’ve longed for the comfort of a hot bath. And when you consider all these things together, it drives one to ask, “Why on earth go hiking??”
I see where you’re coming from. I’ve asked myself the same question while in the midst of misery. But the answer remains that misery is temporary, whereas memories are forever. Sure, I may get a better night’s sleep at home, but I won’t wake up to a dazzling sunrise over a mountain range. I may eat a tastier meal in a restaurant, but it won’t be as satisfying as a dehydrated meal I’ve earned after a day of hiking. And I may be able to enjoy a scenic view on my TV from the comfort of my couch, but I won’t appreciate its depth, majesty, or vastness until I’ve spent a day clambering to the top of a precipice to see it.
See, after the sleeping bag is aired out and the filth is washed out of clothes, skin, and hair, after the soreness wears off and the blisters fade away, the memories of your trip remain. Your photos will never do it justice, but you remember. Your descriptions can’t capture the experience, but your heart knows. And after everything you went through, you know the lesson learned: it wasn’t easy, but you would do it again.
And again.
And again.
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