203 From a letter to Herbert Schiro1
17 November 1957
There is no ‘symbolism’ or conscious allegory in my story. Allegory of the sort ‘five wizards=five senses’ is wholly foreign to my way of thinking. There were five wizards and that is just a unique part of history. To ask if the Orcs ‘are’ Communists is to me as sensible as asking if Communists are Orcs.
That there is no allegory does not, of course, say there is no applicability. There always is. And since I have not made the struggle wholly unequivocal: sloth and stupidity among hobbits, pride and [illegible] among Elves, grudge and greed in Dwarf-hearts, and folly and wickedness among the ‘Kings of Men’, and treachery and power-lust even among the ‘Wizards’, there is I suppose applicability in my story to present times. But I should say, if asked, the tale is not really about Power and Dominion: that only sets the wheels going; it is about Death and the desire for deathlessness. Which is hardly more than to say it is a tale written by a Man!
204 From a letter to Rayner Unwin
7 December 1957
[Lord Halsbury (see no. 174) was invited by Tolkien to read several parts of The Silmarillion in manuscript during the latter part of 1957. In December, Rayner Unwin visited Tolkien to discuss that book and borrow portions of it, and to bring information about the Swedish translation of The Lord of the Rings.]
As soon as you had gone, I found Halsbury’s letter in full view. . . . . Though his commentary and criticism (I have now received another 14 pages) is very interesting to me, and in some points useful, the covering letter is chiefly of interest as an indication that, surprising as it may seem, this Silmarillion stuff would have at least some audience. He saw what I handed to you. He wrote: ‘Thank you for the privilege of seeing this wonderful mythology. I have never read anything like it and can hardly wait for its publication. You must get it published while your sales of The Lord of the Rings are still actively developing. . . . I can quite see that there is a struggle ahead to re-mould it into the requisite form for publication and wish you luck.’. . . .
I now see quite clearly that I must, as a necessary preliminary to ‘remoulding’, get copies made of all copyable material. And I shall put that in hand as soon as possible. But I think the best way of dealing with this (at this stage, in which much of the stuff is in irreplaceable sole copies) is to install a typist in my room in college, and not let any material out of my keeping, until it is multiplied. I hope that, perhaps, then your interest will be sufficient for you to want at least a sketch of the remaining part.
Sweden. The enclosure that you brought from Almqvist &c.1 was both puzzling and irritating. A letter in Swedish from fil. dr. Åke Ohlmarks,2 and a huge list (9 pages foolscap) of names in the L.R. which he had altered. I hope that my inadequate knowledge of Swedish – no better than my kn. of Dutch, but I possess a v. much better Dutch dictionary! – tends to exaggerate the impression I received. The impression remains, nonetheless, that Dr Ohlmarks is a conceited person, less competent than charming Max Schuchart,3 though he thinks much better of himself. In the course of his letter he lectures me on the character of the Swedish language and its antipathy to borrowing foreign words (a matter which seems beside the point), a procedure made all the more ridiculous by the language of his letter, more than ⅓ of which consists of ‘loan-words’ from German, French and Latin: thriller-genre being a good specimen of good old pure Swedish.
I find this procedure puzzling, because the letter and the list seem totally pointless unless my opinion and criticism is invited. But if this is its object, then surely the timing is both unpractical and impolite, presented together with a pistol: ‘we are going to start the composition now’. Neither is my convenience consulted: the communication comes out of the blue in the second most busy academic week of the year. I have had to sit up far into the night even to survey the list. Conceding the legitimacy or necessity of translation (which I do not, except in a limited degree), the translation does not seem to me to exhibit much skill, and contains a fair number of positive errors.fn61 Even if excusable, in view of the difficulty of the material, I think this regrettable, & they could have been avoided by earlier consultation. It seems to me fairly evident that Dr. O. has stumbled along dealing with things as he came to them, without much care for the future or co-ordination, and that he has not read the Appendicesfn62 at all, in which he would have found many answers. . . . .
I do hope that it can be arranged, if and when any further translations are negotiated, that I should be consulted at an early stage – without frightening a shy bird off the eggs. After all, I charge nothing, and can save a translator a good deal of time and puzzling; and if consulted at an early stage my remarks will appear far less in the light of peevish criticisms.
I see now that the lack of an ‘index of names’ is a serious handicap in dealing with these matters. If I had an index of names (even one with only reference to Vol. and chapter, not page) it would be a comparatively easy matter to indicate at once all names suitable for translation (as being themselves according to the fiction ‘translated’ into English), and to add a few notes on points where (I know now) translators are likely to trip. . . . .
This ‘handlist’ would be of great use to me in future corrections and in composing an index (which I think should replace some of the present appendices); also in dealing with The Silmarillion (into which some of the L.R. has to be written backwards to make the two coherent). Do you think you could do anything about this?
205 From a letter to Christopher Tolkien
21 February 1958
[Christopher Tolkien, now a university lecturer at Oxford, gave a paper to a society at St Anne’s College on ‘Barbarians and Citizens’, his subject being the heroes of northern legend as seen in different fashion by Germanic poets and Roman writers. His father was present at the reading of the paper.]
I think it was a very excellent performance. It filled me with great delight: first of all because it was so interesting that, after a day (for me) of unceasing labour & movement, I never desired to close my eyes or abstract my mind for a second – and I felt that all round me; and secondly because of parental pride. (Not that I think that this sensation is really one of the hwelpes of pe liun at all: it is a legitimate satisfaction with the least possible of egotism in it (there is never none) to feel that one has not wholly failed in one’s appointed part, and has paid forward at least a part of the debt one owes backward.)
It was enormously successful, and I realize now why you hold audiences. There was, of course, life and vividness in your phrases, but you are clear, generally unemphatic and let your stuff speak for itself by sheer placing and shaping. All the same, I suddenly realized that I am a pure philologist. I like history, and am moved by it, but its finest moments for me are those in which it throws light on words and names! Several people (and I agree) spoke to me of the art with which you made the beady-eyed Attila on his couch almost vividly present. Yet oddly, I find the thing that really thrills my nerves is the one you mentioned casually: atta, attila.1 Without those syllables the whole great drama both of history and legend loses savour for me – or would.
I do not know what I mean, because ‘aesthetic’ is always impossible to catch in a net of words. Nobody believes me when I say that my long book is an attempt to create a world in which a form of language agreeable to my personal aesthetic might seem real. But it is true. An enquirer (among many) asked what the L.R. was all about, and whether it was an ‘allegory’. And I said it was an effort to create a situation in which a common greeting would be elen síla lúmenn’ omentielmo,2 and that the phase long antedated the book. I never heard any more. But I enjoyed myself immensely and retire to bed really happy. It was obvious that the ball is right at your toes, so far as the total sphere of the academic world is concerned. (Actually I think it of vast nobility and importance.)
206 From a letter to Rayner Unwin
8 April 1958
[At the end of March 1958, Tolkien vis
ited Holland at the invitation of the Rotterdam booksellers Voorhoeve en Dietrich; his travelling expenses were paid by Allen & Unwin. He attended a ‘Hobbit Dinner’ at which he gave a speech. One item on the menu was ‘Maggot Soup’, an intended allusion to Farmer Maggot’s mushrooms in The Lord of the Rings.]
Since I had the remarkable, and in the event extremely enjoyable, experience in Holland by the generosity of ‘A. and U.’, I think some kind of report would be proper. I have had time to simmer down a bit, and recover some sense of proportion. The incense was thick and very heady; and the kindness overwhelming. My journey was very comfortable, and the reservations magnificent: the outward boat was packed, and the train from L[iverpool] Street went in two parts. I arrived in cold mist and drizzle, but by the time I had found my way to Rotterdam the sun was shining, and it remained so for two days. Ouboter of V[oorhoeve] and D[ietrich] was waving a Lord of the Rings and so easy to pick out of the crowd, but I did not fit his expectations, as he confessed (after dinner); my ‘build-up’ by letter had been too successful, and he was looking for something much smaller and more shy and hobbit-like.
(I thought he was charming and intelligent; but he was still a little upset about the hilarity caused by ‘maggot-soup’ on the Menu. It was, of course, mushroom soup; but he said he would not have chosen the name if he had known ‘all the names of the English vermins’.) I met a representative of Het Spectrum,1 and saw a good deal of the depressing world of ruined and half-rebuilt Rotterdam. I think it is largely the breach between this comfortless world, with its gigantic and largely dehumanised reconstruction, and the natural and ancestral tastes of the Dutch, that has (as it seems) made them, in R[otterdam] especially, almost intoxicated with hobbits! It was almost entirely of hobbits that they spoke.
At 5.30 on Friday I faced quite a large concourse in an assembly hall. Apparently over 200 (largely ordinary people) had paid to be present, and many had been turned away. Professor Harting2 was even more astonished than I was. The dinner was certainly ‘abundant and prolonged’: the latter, because the speeches were interleaved between the courses. In the event they were all in English; and all but one quite sensible (if one deducts the high pitch of the eulogy, which was rather embarrassing). The exception was a lunatic phycholog, but the able chairman held him to five minutes. My final reply was I hope adequate, and was I believe audible; but I need not dwell on it. It was partly a parody of Bilbo’s speech in Chapter I.3
In this home of ‘smoking’, pipe-weed seems specially to have caught on. There were clay pipes on the table and large jars of tobacco – provided, I believe, by the firm of Van Rossem. The walls were decorated with Van Rossem posters over-printed Pipe-weed for Hobbits: In 3 qualities: Longbottom Leaf, Old Toby, and Southern Star. V. Rossem has since sent me pipes and tobacco! I carried off one of the posters. You might like to see it. . . . .
I cannot thank you enough for providing me with this short but memorable expedition – the only one I am likely to get after all out of my ‘leave’ – and for gently pressing me to go.
207 From a letter to Rayner Unwin
8 April 1958
[Negotiations were proceeding with the American film company. The synopsis of the proposed film of The Lord of the Rings was the work of Morton Grady Zimmerman.]
Zimmerman – ‘Story-Line’
Of course, I will get busy on this at once, now that Easter is over, and the Dutch incense is dissipated. Thank you for the copy of the Story-line, which I will go through again.
I am entirely ignorant of the process of producing an ‘animated picture’ from a book, and of the jargon connected with it. Could you let me know exactly what is a ‘story-line’, and its function in the process?
It is not necessary (or advisable) for me to waste time on mere expressions if these are simply directions to picture-producers. But this document, as it stands, is sufficient to give me grave anxiety about the actual dialogue that (I suppose) will be used. I should say Zimmerman, the constructor of this s-l, is quite incapable of excerpting or adapting the ‘spoken words’ of the book. He is hasty, insensitive, and impertinent.
He does not read books. It seems to me evident that he has skimmed through the L.R. at a great pace, and then constructed his s.l. from partly confused memories, and with the minimum of references back to the original. Thus he gets most of the names wrong in form – not occasionally by casual error but fixedly (always Borimor for Boromir); or he misapplies them: Radagast becomes an Eagle. The introduction of characters and the indications of what they are to say have little or no reference to the book. Bombadil comes in with ‘a gentle laugh’!. . . .
I feel very unhappy about the extreme silliness and incompetence of Z and his complete lack of respect for the original (it seems wilfully wrong without discernible technical reasons at nearly every point). But I need, and shall soon need very much indeed, money, and I am conscious of your rights and interests; so that I shall endeavour to restrain myself, and avoid all avoidable offence. I will send you my remarks, particular and general, as soon as I can; and of course nothing will go to Ackerman1 except through you and with at least your assent.
208 From a letter to C. Ouboter, Voorhoeve en Dietrich, Rotterdam
10 April 1958
As for ‘message’: I have none really, if by that is meant the conscious purpose in writing The Lord of the Rings, of preaching, or of delivering myself of a vision of truth specially revealed to me! I was primarily writing an exciting story in an atmosphere and background such as I find personally attractive. But in such a process inevitably one’s own taste, ideas, and beliefs get taken up. Though it is only in reading the work myself (with criticisms in mind) that I become aware of the dominance of the theme of Death. (Not that there is any original ‘message’ in that: most of human art & thought is similarly preoccupied.) But certainly Death is not an Enemy! I said, or meant to say, that the ‘message’ was the hideous peril of confusing true ‘immortality’ with limitless serial longevity. Freedom from Time, and clinging to Time. The confusion is the work of the Enemy, and one of the chief causes of human disaster. Compare the death of Aragorn with a Ringwraith. The Elves call ‘death’ the Gift of God (to Men). Their temptation is different: towards a fainéant melancholy, burdened with Memory, leading to an attempt to halt Time.
209 From a letter to Robert Murray, S.J.
4 May 1958
[Murray wrote to Tolkien asking if ‘I could pick your brains about “holy” words’. He wanted to know Tolkien’s views on the original meaning of, and relationships between, the various words for ‘holy’ in the Indo-European languages.]
These problems concerning the ‘original’ meanings of words (or families of formally connected words) are fascinating: strictly – that is: alluring, but not necessarily by a wholesome attraction! I often wonder what use (except historical: knowledge or glimpses of what words have meant and how they have changed in fact so far as ascertainable) we gain by such investigations. It is practically impossible to avoid the vicious circle of discovering from word-histories, or supposed histories, ‘primitive’ meanings and associations, and then using these for tracing histories of meaning. Is it not possible to discuss the ‘meaning’ now of ‘sanctity’ (for instance) without reference to the history of the meaning of the word-forms now employed in that meaning? The other way round seems rather like describing a place (or stage in a journey) in terms of the different routes by which people have arrived there, though the place has a location and existence quite independent of these routes, direct or more circuitous.
In any case in an historical enquiry we are obliged to deal simultaneously with two variables each in motions that are independent fundamentally, even when affecting one another ‘accidentally’: the meanings and associations of meaning are one, and the word-forms another, and their changes are independent. The word-form can go through a whole cycle of change, until it is phonetically unrecognizable without measurable change of meaning; and at any moment without any change in p
honetics ‘the meaning’ of a ‘word’ may change. Quite suddenlyfn63 (as far as the evidence goes) yelp which meant ‘to speak proudly’, and was especially used of proud vows (such as a knight vowing to do some dangerous deed) stopped meaning that and became used of the noise of foxes or dogs! Why? At any rate, not because of any change in ideas about vaunts or animals! It is a long way from ỏδντ- to tooth, but the changes of form have not much affected the meaning (nor has tine the equivalent of dent- moved very far).fn64
We do not know the ‘original’ meaning of any word, still less the meaning of its basic element (sc. the part it shares with or seems to share with other related words: once called its ‘root’): there is always a lost past. Thus we do not know the original meaning of or deus or god. We can, of course, make some guesses about the formation of these three quite distinct words, and then try to generalize a basic meaning from the senses shown by their relatives – but I do not think we shall necessarily by that way get any nearer to the idea ‘god’ at any actual moment in any language using one of these words. It is an odd fact that English dizzy (olim dysig) and giddy (olim gydig) seem related to and god respectively. In English they once meant ‘irrational’, and now ‘vertiginous’, but that does not help much (except to cause us to reflect that there was a long past before or god reached their forms or senses and equally queer changes may have gone on in unrecorded ages). We may, of course, guess that we have a remote effect of primitive ideas of ‘inspiration’ (to the 18th C[entury] an enthusiast was much what an Anglo-Saxon would have called a dysiga!). But that is not of much theological use? We are faced by endless minute parallels to the mystery of incarnation. Is not the idea of god ultimately independent of the ways by which a word for it has come to be?fn65 whether through √dh(e) wes (which seems to refer basically to stirring and excitement); or √d(e) jew (which seems to refer basically to brightness (esp. of the sky)); or possibly (it is a mere guess) √ghew cry, – god is originally neuter and is supposed to ‘mean’ that which is invoked: an old past participle. Possibly a taboo-word. The old deiwos word (which produced dīvus, deus) survives only in Tuesday.fn66
The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien Page 37
