The Lord of the Rings and Philosophy

by Gregory Bassham

  Saruman’s insidious activities in the Shire and his manner of dying depict in brief the logic of evil in a providential world. Evil is parasitic on the good and can never supplant it; evil is able only to eat away at the good, to cause disorder in the midst of a larger order. His murder by one of his own servants illustrates the way evil deeds return to plague their doer. “Oft evil will shall evil mar” (TT, p. 221).

  Sometimes evil mars itself by acting in accord with its own distorted vision of things, by assuming that its enemies will act in the way it would act. After Gandalf’s reunion with Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, the wizard explains that Sauron “is in great fear, not knowing what mighty one may suddenly appear, wielding the Ring . . .” (TT, p. 104). This, coupled with Sauron’s knowledge that two hobbits were captured at Parth Galen by orcs from Isengard, deflects the Dark Lord’s attention from true threats to imaginary ones and allows the now scattered members of the Fellowship to continue to pursue their plan. What seemed at first to be mistakes, now seem to work in the favor of the Fellowship. Thus does providence bring good out of evil.

  Providence and Joy

  If the appropriate response to evil is courageous endurance and hopeful patience, the fitting response to unanticipated good fortune is wonder, joy, and gratitude. In one of greatest events of “chance” in the story, Aragorn arrives at the Pelennor Fields to support the forces of Gondor just at the moment when their fortunes look most bleak. As Aragorn’s side is filled with “wonder” and “great joy,” the hosts of Mordor grow despondent, realizing that the “tides of fate [have] turned against them” (RK, p. 122). The passage illustrates the way providence works to fortify the good just at the moment when they are most in need. It also shows that the natural response to such astonishing and unanticipated good fortune is not to calculate the odds of the event or demand a proof that what happened was more than chance. Instead, the appropriate response is wonder, joy, and thankfulness. If the reader feels these emotions during and especially at the end of The Lord of the Rings, then the dramatist has done his job.

  Certainly the most dramatic and most unanticipated providential event is the return of Gandalf after his battle with the Balrog in Moria. Gandalf recounts how he was “delivered,” how he and the Balrog fell into an abyss, and how he finally threw down his enemy. Then, he states, “darkness took me, and I strayed out of thought and time, and I wandered far on roads that I will not tell. Naked I was sent back—for a brief time, until my task is done” (TT, p. 111). Although what happened to Gandalf is never clearly stated, we can detect a kind of death (in his straying beyond thought and time) and a return (in his being sent back among the living). Indeed, the hand of providence is explicitly announced here. Gandalf is “sent back” to perform a “task.” Of course, his friends are shocked, and at first are not even able to recognize the transformed Gandalf:

  His hair was white as snow in the sunshine; and gleaming white was his robe; the eyes under his deep brows were bright, piercing as the rays of the sun; power was in his hand. . . .

  At last Aragorn stirred. “Gandalf,” he said. “Beyond all hope you return to us in our need!” (TT, p. 102)

  No matter how much we may feel wonder and joy at the orchestration of the events depicted in The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien makes clear that the providential restoration of order does not return all things to their previous condition. Some, like Sam, can go home again, but for others, like Bilbo and Frodo, there is, as Frodo puts it, “no real going back.” Frodo suffers intermittently from his wound, which, he says, “will never really heal” (RK, p. 333). As Sam and Rosie celebrate the birth of their first child, Frodo comes to the realization that he cannot stay in the Shire. “I tried to save the Shire, and it has been saved, but not for me. It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger: some one has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them” (RK, p. 338). So long as finite minds have to reckon with life in a temporal, imperfect world, there will still be uncertainly as to the ultimate fate of individuals. We end in this sense where we began. Just as Gandalf had to pass on the memories of the past to prepare Frodo for his tasks in the present, so now Frodo urges Sam to “keep alive the memory of the age that is gone, so that people will remember the Great Danger and so love their beloved land all the more” (RK, p. 338).

  The fascination with stories and histories, with finding one’s bearing in the cosmic history, is perfectly compatible with, indeed seems necessitated by, belief in a providentially structured universe. In such a universe individuals can have confidence that there is an order for them to discern and tasks for them to fulfill, since a providential world is one in which human history has the structure of a plot, an intelligible dramatic unity. Just before announcing his departure, Frodo gives Sam the Red Book of Westmarch, the one Bilbo began and Frodo nearly finished, relating the tale up to the return of the King. Frodo tells Sam that the last few pages are for him to fill in. Here we have a final accentuation of the indeterminacy and uncertainty of the future. Even when Sam finishes the book, there will be others to write, detailing adventures not inferior to the ones contained in The Lord of the Rings.

  _____________________

  1 Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals, translated by H.J. Paton (New York: Harper and Row, 1964), p. 95.

  2 For more on the Manichean view of evil, see Chapter 8 in this volume.

  3 Augustine, Confessions, Books V and VII, translated by F.J. Sheed (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1993).

  4 Ibid., Book II, Chapter 10.

  14

  Talking Trees and Walking Mountains: Buddhist and Taoist Themes in The Lord of the Rings

  JENNIFER L. McMAHON and B. STEVE CSAKI

  Readers of Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings may recognize similarities between it and classic epics like Homer’s Odyssey, Virgil’s Aeneid, and Dante’s Divine Comedy. Frodo’s journey certainly parallels that of Odysseus, with its perils, adventures, and final reclamation of the Shire. Similarly, Frodo’s trek through the darkness and fumes of Mordor is reminiscent of Dante’s expedition through hell in The Divine Comedy. Drawing from such classic epics as well as from familiar myths and fairy stories, Tolkien weaves a tale that is replete with archetypes that resonate with Western readers.

  Nevertheless, The Lord of the Rings also begs comparison with works and ideas issuing from Eastern traditions. This chapter will offer such a comparison. In particular, it will examine themes evident in The Lord of the Rings that are also prominent in Zen Buddhism and Taoism. Specifically, this chapter will address the themes of sentience in non-human entities, man’s relationship with nature, the importance of the master and student relationship, and the balance between good and evil. In addition to exploring the parallels between Tolkien’s work and the Zen Buddhist and Taoist traditions, special care will be taken to discuss the salient differences between them. This latter enterprise is essential to the objective of this chapter, namely to encourage an understanding of both the thematic commonalities and real differences that exist between the Eastern and Western viewpoints.

  Sentience and Sensibility

  Perhaps the most obvious point of comparison between Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings and Buddhist and Taoist texts lies in their treatment of nature. In Tolkien’s work, nature figures not only as the principal setting for the plot, but also as a vital force. Thus, far from being simply an unassuming backdrop for the action, nature is presented as a nurturing ground for the primary characters, an imposing obstacle to their endeavors, and an integral aspect of their values. In particular, there are two features of Tolkien’s treatment of nature that invite comparison with elements of the Buddhist tradition: his recognition of consciousness in natural entities and his emphasis on kinship with nature.

  Tolkien’s acknowledgement of consciousness in nature1 is most apparent in his talking trees. Tolkien introduces these entities in Chapter VI of The Fellowship of the Ring. Here, as Frodo and his friends proceed through the Old Forest, they have the uncomfortable feeli
ng that they are being watched by the trees (FR, p. 125). Later, both Tom Bombadil and the ent, Treebeard, confirm this suspicion when they tell various members of the group about the “voices” (TT, p. 16) and “thoughts” (FR, p. 147) of trees. While Treebeard has them under his care, he tells Pippin and Merry that while “most of the trees are just trees of course . . . many are half awake” (TT, p. 69). Indeed, earlier Pippin and Merry discovered just how wide awake some trees are when Old Man Willow took them captive and it required the magic of Tom Bombadil to set them free.

  For most Western readers, Tolkien’s talking trees contribute to the fanciful quality of Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. They do this because most Westerners do not believe that trees are conscious. In fact, consciousness is one of the main qualities Westerners have used to distinguish humans from other living things. Thus, while we may be willing to grant animals some degree of awareness, we typically elevate ourselves above animals by virtue of the consciousness we possess, and we deny plants and most other natural entities consciousness altogether.

  While the belief that natural entities like trees possess awareness is not commonly accepted in the West, it is central to the Buddhist tradition. From the Buddhist perspective, sentience is not found only in humans, and enlightenment is not a uniquely human possibility. Rather, Buddhists believe that the myriad things of the world are sentient and have the capacity to reach enlightenment. Repeatedly, the authors of the canonical texts of Buddhism speak of “all sentient beings” and make it clear that this class includes, but also extends beyond, humans. This is particularly true of Japanese Buddhist sects, which have incorporated some of the animistic elements of Shintoism.

  It is important to note, however, that the consciousness Tolkien attributes to trees is not truly analogous to the sentience of which Buddhists speak. For example, although Zen master Dogen describes mountains as “walking,”2 his language is poetic and metaphorical, not literal. In contrast, Tolkien’s trees literally talk and act in ways similar to humans—as do hobbits, dwarves, elves, and wizards. For instance, Tolkien suggests that trees in the Old Forest “do not like strangers” (FR, p. 124). Passages like these make clear that Tolkien tends, in his fiction, to anthropomorphize natural entities. Instead of having their own type of sentience, nonhuman entities are represented as having thoughts and emotions that are essentially analogous to those of humans. Ultimately, Tolkien attributes human consciousness to nonhuman entities to various degrees. Humans are more conscious than trees, but the consciousness that trees exhibit mimics human awareness. Hobbits, dwarves, and elves manifest awareness that is essentially identical to that of humans, whereas wizards—and the Dark Lord, Sauron—exhibit a kind of super-human consciousness that is nonetheless derived from a human model.

  An obvious difference between Tolkien’s treatment of nonhuman entities and that offered by Buddhism is that Buddhists do not anthropormorphize nature. Instead of projecting the model of human consciousness onto other forms of life, Buddhists assume that sentience manifests itself in different ways in different beings. In particular, that the awareness some beings have may be primarily affective, not reflective. While some modes of sentience may be qualitatively similar to human consciousness, human consciousness is not necessarily the only or the best type. For Buddhists, the reflective form of consciousness that humans exhibit is a type of sentience, but consciousness is not the only form of sentience. Indeed, in many Buddhist texts, ordinary human consciousness is portrayed as an impediment to enlightenment.3

  Back to Nature

  Another point of comparison between Tolkien and Buddhism is their emphasis on the relationship that individuals have with nature. For example, throughout The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien stresses the relationship that Frodo and Sam have to the Shire. Clearly, Frodo and Sam are creatures whose characters are shaped by their pastoral surroundings, even as they act to shape those very settings. Indeed, their hobbit holes symbolize the depth of their connection to nature. Importantly, Tolkien suggests that the relationship that the hobbits have to their environment is not atypical. Rather, he indicates that other beings also have a profound connection to nature. For example, he suggests that orcs are formed—and fouled—by their relationship to the sordid land of Mordor. Regarding elves, he says, “whether they’ve made the land, or the land’s made them, it’s hard to say” (FR, p. 405). Finally, not only do the ents embody their relationship to nature with their bark-like hide and limb-like appendages, their connection to particular natural environments is so powerful that it has engendered a split between the males, who prefer forests, and the females, or entwives, who prefer tilled terrain. As Treebeard explains to Pippin and Merry, the force of this connection is so strong that the male ents have in fact lost the entwives and the species has become threatened as a result.

  Like Tolkien, Buddhists believe that individuals have a deep relationship to nature. This belief finds expression in the Buddhist doctrine of dependent origination. According to this doctrine, things obtain their being by virtue of their connection to other things. Buddhists believe both that we are shaped by the context in which we find ourselves, and that we shape the environment in which we live and the beings that we encounter in it. Put simply, Buddhists deny that individuals exist in isolation. Instead, they believe that all beings exist and are defined in relation to one another. Rather than perceiving nature as a collection of independent beings that have only incidental relations to one another, Buddhists see nature as a matrix of connection, a dynamic totality in which each individual component is affected by and affects the whole.

  While the emphasis on the relation that individuals have to nature is something that Tolkien and the Buddhists share, they differ in how they envision that relationship. Tolkien emphasizes stewardship over, and even domestication of, the natural environment. Thus, while Tolkien acknowledges that individuals are shaped by their environment, he also suggests that they have a certain authority over nature. This point is conveyed through the text’s implicit critique of models of improper stewardship of nature as well as in its suggestion that certain beings either have, or are destined to have, dominion over all or part of the earth.

  Tolkien’s critique of improper stewardship of nature is most apparent in his treatment of the environmental destruction wrought by Saruman and Sauron as well as the industrialization that threatens the Shire. Tolkien’s portrayal of the ecological harm caused by such improper stewardship is likely expressive of the Judeo-Christian belief that individuals have a special obligation to act as stewards of their natural surroundings.

  Though Buddhists would not oppose the notion of stewardship and would likely commend Tolkien for his critique of individuals who do “not care for growing things, except as far as they serve” them (TT, p. 76), Buddhists do not see individuals as having some special authority over nature. Rather, they hold that individuals are members of nature. While Buddhists recognize that humans exert a more significant influence on the environment than other species, they do not privilege humans over other natural entities or nature generally. Instead, they seek to correct the egoistic assumption that humans are superior and thus have special rights when it comes to the control and use of nature. Buddhists stress the fact that humans are like other beings with respect to their dependency on nature. They do this in part to remind us that we risk ourselves by denying or damaging this relationship. In essence, Buddhists suggest that humans should seek the harmony or equilibrium with nature apparent in other species. While this desire for greater harmony with nature certainly seems to motivate Tolkien’s critique of the destruction wrought by improper stewardship, a subtle privileging of human types still colors The Lord of the Rings.

  A more significant difference between Tolkien and the Buddhist tradition concerns their representation of nature. In The Lord of the Rings, there are two main types of environment: quaint pastoral fields or downs and treacherous wilderness areas. Essentially, Tolkien divides nature into two categories, domesticated nature an
d wild nature. While Buddhists would certainly admit a difference between cultivated terrain and untamed forests, a difference in perspective becomes apparent when one notes Tolkien’s preference for domesticated nature. Throughout The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien characterizes the Shire and other cultivated areas positively. In contrast, Tolkien represents the forests and other wilderness areas as “sinister” (FR, p. 111), “unfriendly” (FR, p. 108), and “full of peril” (FR, p. 339). One could argue that Tolkien is merely trying to convey the threat that wild environments pose to his protagonists. However, this mode of portrayal effectively aligns wilderness areas with the forces of evil and the Shire and other domesticated areas with the forces of good, a maneuver that is certainly common in Western literature.

  Of course, it would be a mistake to think that Buddhists are uninterested in the control and cultivation of nature. Indeed, what is more contrived than a Zen garden? However, in Buddhism one does not encounter the elevation of domesticated nature and denigration of wild nature that is found in Tolkien’s work. Rather, there seems a more balanced appreciation of diverse natural environments. This appreciation may be inspired by the Buddhist goal of appreciating things in their “suchness” rather than with respect to how they affect humans. Consistent with the Buddhist notion that the ego distorts our understanding of things and impedes harmonious engagement with both nature and others, Buddhist texts and art forms influenced by them try to avoid foregrounding humans. As D.T. Suzuki reminds us, the objective in creating a Zen garden or tea room is to reproduce the appearance of unadulterated nature by avoiding the introduction of elements that are indicative of humans, such as regularity and symmetry.4