Meditations on Middle-Earth (2 page)

N
ow it can be told: I lived with an elf.

Actually, she was my college roommate. She had, in fact, a perfectly good birth name, but she chose to call herself “Arwen Evenstar,” and put
that
name in the tin frame on the door to our room. Her boyfriend was, of course, “Strider.” Despite his moniker he preferred drag racing to walking.

I was not as nice to her—or to him—as I could have been. Maybe I had elf issues. But I really didn’t want to live with an elf, especially one who typed fan letters to Jerry Garcia at 2
A.M.
on
my
typewriter.

Not that I had anything against J. R. R. Tolkien, you understand. Thirty-odd years ago I had, of course, read The Lord of the Rings. It was practically a rite of passage.

Tolkien surprised me. I hadn’t expected to like his books. Hobbits? Wizards? Nevertheless, the power of his storytelling reached out, grabbed me, and would not let go. This was a bit dismaying. Here I was, a sophisticated high school sophomore, reading the same books as those contemptible little nerdy freshmen.

And yes, I felt the magic. Hated Sauron. Was disgusted by Gollum. I have to admit that I preferred Bilbo to Frodo; and Sam got on my nerves with all that unwavering loyalty. I had an even harder time with the heroic elves (see “elf issues,” above). I was probably just a wee bit too old and hormonally activated to fall completely under the hobbits’ spell. But I enjoyed the books.

I might have enjoyed them even more had I made the interesting connection between “hottie” elfs and Mr. Spock as Esther Friesner had (see her essay for the details). Speaking of odd “crossings in the field,” does anyone else remember watching Leonard Nimoy—on a black-and-white TV, of course—crooning in a baritone only slightly deeper and more supple than Cher’s, the lyrics to the song “Bilbo Baggins”? I remember a fragment about “the bravest little hobbit of them all . . .” It was a silly tune, and I was embarrassed to witness a sacred science-fiction icon making this unexpected transgenre move. But there, for anyone with the ears, pointed or not, to hear, was the steady percussive influence of J. R. R. Tolkien infiltrating yet another aspect of pop culture.

Remember the
Harvard Lampoon
parody
Bored of the Rings?
This good natured on-target parody made riotous fun of Tolkien’s heroes and villains. If I may lovingly quote two favorite giddy lines:

“ ‘Aiyee!’ shouted Legolam. ‘A Thesaurus!’

“ ‘Maim!’ roared the monster. ‘Mutilate, mangle, crush. See HARM.’ ”

You must admit that the base material is powerful when even the parody continues to echo down the years.

Then I graduated from high school, was done with hobbits, and even
Star Trek
. Imagine, then, my surprise—and chagrin—when I met “Arwen.” She was pretty, rather ethereal, with a lilting voice, and long pale hair. Come to think of it, she did make a convincing elf. (I never checked her ears, nor “Strider’s.”)

A mere twenty-five years later, latent karma has given me a chance to make amends for my cruelty to elves and their significant others by helming this collection of meditations about that seminal elfmeister, J. R. R. Tolkien, and the entity that is Lord of the Rings.

Aside from providing me with a college roommate dilemma, Tolkien set down the literary backbeat to my experimental reading years, circa 1968–1978. If you liked science fiction and fantasy—and I did—The Lord of the Rings was unavoidable.

With the sudden availability of paperback editions of The Lord of the Rings in the late 1960s, the demand for fantasy fiction reached tidal-wave proportions. The books had been kept out of paperback by the hardcover publisher, but once that ban was lifted, thousands of readers rushed into the bookstores, bought the trilogy, and cried for more. The hunger for fantasy fiction, once aroused, became—and remains—insatiable.

Publishers were not slow to notice. They, too, rushed: to find writers who could—and did—produce imitative trilogies. Soon the bookstores were flooded with huge hobbit-like tales, which also sold in amazing quantities. The rising tide began to float other, older, boats, among them Robert E. Howard’s Conan novels, once a cult phenomenon, now a new literary phenomenon. To its everlasting credit, Ballantine Books, Tolkien’s paperback publisher, brought out its Adult Fantasy series, edited by Lin Carter, which made the classic fantasy masterpieces by James Branch Cabell, Lord Dunsany, E. R. Eddison, and Mervyn Peake available to modern readers.

An entire subsidiary Tolkien industry sprouted like toadstools on a barrow log: calendars, tarot cards, games, postcard books, posters, audio cassettes, maps, movies. Soon it seemed that everybody wanted to sit in and jam with the master.

The beat goes on. If you look at the
New York Times
Bestseller List for any given week in any given month of the past two years, you will undoubtedly find at least one fantasy book there, usually in the top five. Harry Potter has been identified by many readers and critics as the direct descendant of Tolkien’s literary line.

Readers wanted more, and they got it. For some of them, fantasy became not only an obsession but a lifestyle. For others, it became a career, as readers morphed into writers. Some began improvising upon Tolkien’s rhythms and themes. And some went on to write their own fantasy symphonies.

SMAUG FLYING AROUND THE MOUNTAIN

The Hobbit

Chapter XII: “Inside Information”

Many writers have indeed left their own marks upon fantasy literature with profound, poignant, and even funny tales. To take just a sampling from the contributors to this book, consider Ursula Le Guin’s Earthsea series, Terry Pratchett’s tales of Discworld, Raymond E. Feist’s Riftwar books, and Orson Scott Card’s Legends of Alvin Maker. All of these writers have won huge followings for their work.

In the decades since The Lord of the Rings was first published as a mass-market paperback, we’ve seen some mighty fancy performances, some impressive riffs and solos; but regardless of how progressive or decadent the melody, the plain fact is that, if you listen carefully, you can still hear J. R. R. Tolkien back there, holding steady on the pulsing heartbeat of fantasy literature.

Tolkien’s compelling story formulation was drawn from heroic myths and legends, and marked by his own distinct sense of language and verse. He didn’t invent these themes, but he brought them together in a seamless progressive tale of such charm and power that here, many years later, we are gathered to do him honor.

It’s a mark of the power of Tolkien’s storytelling that so many writers feel passionately about his work, and are willing to discuss it in these pages. The essays offered here by masters of fantastic literature are literal meditations upon J. R. R. Tolkien and his influence on them as writers, and as readers, and upon the fantasy literature field as a whole. The comments range far, wide, and wondrous. You’ll find affectionate memories, startling revelations, intriguing analyses, and heartstring-twanging sentiment.

George R. R. Martin discusses the hallmarks of epic—i.e., Tolkienesque-fantasy. Ursula K. Le Guin takes us right into the Master’s technique with a compelling analysis of Tolkien’s word rhythms. Terry Pratchett munches on the evolution of a cult favorite into a publishing phenomenon. Raymond Feist traces the emergence of the modern fantasy novel and his own discovery of fantasy literature. Paul Anderson recreates the lost world of 1950s and the impact of Tolkien’s work in that cold war era. Diane Duane remembers the longest Sunday—and Monday—of her adolescent life, spent waiting to purchase the last book of the trilogy. The Brothers Hildenbrandt review the need to “edit” Gandalf’s eyebrows. Terri Windling focuses on the metaphorical and healing uses of fantasy. Charles de Lint shares his discovery that magic promised a deeper connection with the actual world. Esther Friesner reveals for the first time the unsuspected connection between The Lord of the Rings and
Star Trek
. Harry Turtledove explains why Tolkien was bad for his academic career but good for his literary future. Robin Hobb brings us into an Alaskan meat cache, where she delved into Tolkien’s work for the first time, and as a result found the direction that her own life would take. Lisa Goldstein ruminates on the changes in the fantasy field as other bards have taken up Tolkien’s song. Michael Swanwick revisits the magic of Tolkien’s books while reading them aloud to his young son. In addition to these meditations by fantasy writers, we offer an overview of Tolkien’s work and its critcal reception by Tolkienist Douglas A. Anderson.

The point here is that, regardless of the particular writer/reader and his or her response, Tolkien touched them all, changed them, and changed fantasy literature as well. If you listen carefully now, you can still hear him, faintly, in the background. It’s the rhythm to which an entire literary genre, its readers and its practitioners, has resonated for over thirty years. Come and join the dance.

—Karen Haber

P.S.: In case you’re wondering what happened to “Arwen,” all I can report is that she didn’t return for sophomore year. I’ll admit to a teeny guilt pang over that, although I don’t think she was a good match for that particular educational institution. However, I really should have been nicer. Instead, as soon as possible, I switched roommates and spent the second half of my freshman year bunking with an earthy gal who liked to read mysteries and whose boyfriend reminded me of Gollum. Of course I was dating somebody who, in retrospect, could have passed for a Balrog, but that’s another story
. . . .

MEDITATIONS ON MIDDLE-EARTH

INTRODUCTION

GEROGE R.R. MARTIN

F
antasy existed long before J. R. R. Tolkien.

There was never an age in human history when men did not wonder what might lie beyond the next hill, and fill the blank spaces on their maps with marvels and terrors. The first fantasist spun his tales squatting by a fire, as he shared a haunch of charred mastodon with his fellows. Homer was a fantasist, and Shakespeare was another. Conan, that seminal barbarian of our times, would have been right at home quaffing a horn of mead with Siegfried and Beowulf.