Hobbit Moments

Last week I entered the virtual Hobbit-hole (via Skype) of Tolkienista Milo Broadbelt, the creator of the wonderful site Hobbit Moments. Milo lives in England in a place that very much resembles a real version of the Shire of Middle-earth. He takes stunning photographs of his world, documenting the often overlooked miracles of life: a fallen autumn leaf on a rock; mushrooms springing up amongst leaves; fledglings on a power line.

Milo talks about the world around him with beautiful prose that is often reminiscent of his hero J.R.R. Tolkien, and Milo’s philosophy stirs something in my soul:

“By taking the time to look around us, wherever we are, each and every day – to look, really look, not merely glance – the changes each day can be seen and felt and enjoyed. Nature is changing with the seasons, be a part of it and who knows what might change in you?”

Reading Milo’s blogs feels like you’re taking a walk with Bilbo or Frodo around the Shire. He creates an entrancing link between Tolkien’s works and reality. One of these days I wouldn’t be surprised if Milo ran into some real Elves, or maybe even Tom Bombadil!

Milo also writes great reviews about Tolkien-related books, posts The Hobbit film news, and talks about cool things like the newest Hobbit Trilogy replicas from Weta (such as Thorin’s key).

Listen to Milo interview me about my book The Wisdom of the Shire.

iTunes

or via Milo’s website

What Would Bilbo Do?

Let’s face it. At the start of The Hobbit Bilbo Baggins is a twerp. He’s one of those inveterate (and annoying) bachelors obsessed with his own daily routine. Get up, brush copious foot hair, shine the big brass knob in center of door until it gleams like gold, have tea and pipe on the porch, avoid all contact with mysterious strangers (e.g. door-to-door button salesmen or vagabond Wizards).

He has become his own inner child.

Gandalf, however, senses great things in Bilbo. “There is a seed of courage,” Tolkien wrote about the Hobbits, “hidden (often deeply, it is true) in the heart of the fattest and most timid Hobbit, waiting for some final and desperate danger to make it grow.” The Wizard thinks Bilbo’s seed of courage is ready to sprout, and that’s why he browbeats him into joining Thorin & Co. on their quest to the Lonely Mountain.

Perhaps it is Gandalf’s goading that finally lures Bilbo off on the adventure. Or maybe it’s the rousing Dwarven song that bewitches the poor Hobbit (“We must away ere break of day/To seek the pale enchanted gold.”) Whatever the case, it’s a whingeing, frightened little fellow who dashes away from Bag End, forgetting even to bring his “pocket-handkerchiefs.”

For the first part of the journey to the Lonely Mountain Bilbo is a terrible companion. He’s constantly complaining about their trials. “My stomach feels like an empty sack,” he whimpers to Thorin. And not only that—he’s missing blackberry picking back home! (Bilbo “Berries” Baggins isn’t exactly the toughest burglar to send into the den of a homicidal dragon.)

Bilbo’s “seed of courage” grows throughout the tale, from facing the horde of spiders in Mirkwood (and single-handedly saving all the Dwarves), to freeing his captive companions from the Elven-king’s dungeons, to sneaking into the very heart of Smaug’s lair and facing the monster, albeit wearing a ring of invisibility.

But the most courageous act Bilbo commits in the entire story is not what most people would consider to be an act of valor. It is, in fact, an act of pacifism. When Bilbo sees that his Dwarf friends bewitched by the “pale enchanted gold” he realizes the entire adventure has been mere folly. He doesn’t want riches, anymore. All he desires is the taste of pure water from one of Beorn’s wooden bowls. He just wants to get back home to his snug little hole.

And when he understands that the Dwarves—led by the pigheaded and treasure-possessed Thorin—are going to take on an entire army of Men and Elves (and thereby almost certainly get slaughtered), Bilbo’s true “seed of courage” finally bursts fully to life. He takes the jewel called the Arkenstone—the one thing from Smaug’s hoard that Thorin prizes above all others—and brings it to Thranduil. He presents the jewel to the Elven-king as a peace offering, knowing full well that Thorin will probably kill him for the act. Bilbo willingly gives up his share in the treasure (the equivalent of billions of dollars!) to stop a war. How many people in our world have been tempted by wealth to do the exact opposite?

The enraged Thorin very nearly does commit Hobbit-murder. The Dwarf comes perilously close to throwing Bilbo off a high wall before Gandalf steps in and saves him. In the end, upon his deathbed, Thorin begs Bilbo for his forgiveness. He tells Bilbo, “If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”

Bilbo returns to the Shire with more than enough wealth to last him a lifetime. And he spends the rest of his days in peace, adopting his young cousin Frodo (whom he fondly refers to as his nephew). Bilbo is the first stay-at-home single dad in the history of literature! The cheerful, kind and generous master of Bag End is a much-changed person from the callow Hobbit who started out the tale.

He’s become, for lack of a better word, a man.

Missing Wizards

For a perfect example of Tolkien’s wildly creative genius, one needs to look no further than the Istari—his Wizards.

What were the Istari exactly? Quite simply they were angelic creatures whose souls had been deposited into corporeal vessels—bodies resembling old men. Their memories of their lives in the Blessed Realm (from whence they had come) were virtually wiped from their minds, leaving only a dim recollection of their former divine selves and life amongst the demigods called the Valar.

Even though the Istari were created as old men, they aged very slowly. When Gandalf showed up at Bilbo’s door at the start of The Hobbit, he’d been living in Middle-earth for two thousand years. (No wonder he needed that staff!) The Istari were no “conjurors of cheap tricks,” however, as Gandalf said to Bilbo in a moment of anger after Bilbo’s “eleventy-first” birthday party. They had been chosen by the Valar to come and serve the Free Peoples Middle-earth in their fight against the growing power of Sauron—the wicked servant of an even wickeder master named Morgoth (himself a fallen Vala).

The Istari were forbidden to reveal their true powers and were supposed to merely guide Men, Dwarves and Elves with good advice (and some occasional magic). And all of the Istari had been given free will to act in the ways they each thought best to achieve their mutual goal of destroying the creator of the Ring of Doom.

There were only five of these Istari in the history of Middle-earth: Gandalf the Grey, Saruman the White, Radagast the Brown and two others who are briefly mentioned but not named in The Lord of the Rings. (These two “missing” Wizards names were revealed in the posthumously published Unfinished Tales.)

Each of the Wizards reacted to their new home quite differently. Radagast became enamored of the flora and fauna of Middle-earth and eventually forgot his quest. Saruman became intoxicated by power and headed down the same crooked path as Sauron, and was eventually ensnared by the Dark Lord himself. Only Gandalf remained true to the distant memory of the Valar “a vision from afar off,” and died fighting one of Morgoth’s ancient creations—the Balrog—in the Mines of Moria. And then he was resurrected…brought back to life by the Valar and given another body (the corporeal form of Gandalf the White).

This is all visionary stuff. Spiritual beings placed into bodies manufactured by demigods, like avatars in a videogame. A main character killed off and reincarnated back into the tale—something I don’t think had ever been done in the history of literature until Tolkien’s epic. The concept of the Istari is especially inspired when one keeps in mind Tolkien conceived all of this in the middle part of the 20th century—nearly three quarters of a century ago.

In my opinion, Tolkien could have penned an entire book based on Gandalf and Saruman alone. Wizards are fascinating. Peter Jackson & Co. must have felt the same, because they’ve written both Saruman and Radagast into The Hobbit Trilogy (you can see Radagast in the film trailer being pulled in a sleigh by a gigantic bunny rabbit—a vision of inspired lunacy).

The tales of the two missing Istari would have made a great story as well. The only time a reference is made to these other two Wizards is in The Two Towers (in the chapter “The Voice of Saruman”) when, after the Ents have destroyed Isengard and trapped Saruman, the corrupted Wizard rails at Gandalf, accusing him of wanting to take control of all of Middle-earth, including seizing hold of “the rods of the Five Wizards.” Three of these “Five” Wizards are Radagast, Gandalf and Saruman himself. The other two Istari are never mentioned again, not even in the Appendices.

After Tolkien died, however, his son Christopher put together a collection of his father’s writings called Unfinished Tales that revealed selections of J.R.R. Tolkien’s notes and stories about Middle-earth that had never been published before. In the chapter concerning the Istari we learn more about these two missing Wizards. They were certainly called the “Blue Wizards” and they may have even been named Alatar and Pallando (a great subject for starting a heated debate between Tolkien geeks).

Soon after the two Blue Wizards arrived in Middle-earth they passed into the East on a mission alongside Saruman never to return. The “East” here means the distant lands of Harad (and Far Harad)—the realms populated by evil Men under the thrall of Sauron. (These are the same Men who join Sauron’s forces and attack Minas Tirith in The Return of the King.)

Did Alatar and Pallando go on a mission to study the ways of the Enemy? Were they ensnared by Sauron and become his servants, intending to do good but falling into evil? Or were they betrayed by their travelling companion Saruman out of jealousy or fear, thus starting Saruman’s downward spiral into villainy? We will never know, because Tolkien didn’t write their tale. It’s interesting to speculate, however. Perhaps Saruman killed them and absorbed their power. Or maybe they were captured and destroyed by The Dark Lord, their sprits sent flying back to the Blessed Realm. Whatever the case, by the time the events of The Lord of the Rings begin, the missing Istari are nothing more than a passing reference in Tolkien’s vast sub-creation.

Fortunately for Middle-earth there was Gandalf, the wisest Istari who never gave up hope, who always returned at the turn of the tide, the divine being sent in “human” form to help defeat Sauron and who—once his mission was accomplished—happily boarded a ship for the Blessed Realm. Before departing Middle-earth for his true home, he imparted sage advice to Merry, Sam and Pippin: “Go in peace! I will not say: do not weep: for not all tears are an evil.” This Wizard would be missed.

Ronald & Rayner

“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.”

September 21st is the 75th anniversary of the publication of The Hobbit. J.R.R. Tolkien, as the story goes, scribbled the first line of his now famous book while taking a much-needed pause from grading English papers. The words came to him in a flash of insight—an epiphany that would change literature forever and create a whole new genre of serious fantasy, leaving behind “the gimcrack of conventional modern fairy-tales” that Tolkien so despised (think early Disney films).

But The Hobbit would never have been published if not for the recommendation of a ten-year-old. Rayner Unwin, son of the publisher Stanley Unwin, was handed a manuscript of The Hobbit by his father and paid a shilling to write a report on it (one shilling was decent pocket-change for a kid back in the 30’s). Rayner enjoyed Tolkien’s book and wrote, “…it is good and should appeal to all children between the ages of 5 and 9.” And that was enough for his father. It is one of the great ironies of publishing history that an Oxford professor’s book was given the go-ahead based simply upon the vanilla recommendation of a schoolboy.

In 1937 Hitler was on the rise in Europe. The Japanese invaded China. The Spanish Civil War raged. The inaugural NFL game was played. Charlie Chaplain’s first “talkie” motion picture came out in theaters. And The Hobbit was printed with an initial run of just 1,500 copies—predating the release of Disney’s Snow White (a film with seven whistling “Dwarfs” as opposed to thirteen ferocious “Dwarves”) by exactly three months.

The next year Tolkien started work on his unnamed “sequel” to The Hobbit. He sent the first chapter to his publisher who, of course, passed “A Long-expected Party” to none other than young Rayner who was now eleven. The publisher-in-training enjoyed the chapter but complained there was too much “hobbit-talk.” Ha!

Nearly fifteen years went by. Tolkien worked diligently on The Lord of the Rings all that time, typing out the entire 600,000 word manuscript by himself. Twice. He found a publisher, and then became furious when the publisher kept stalling on the release date, and he withdrew the manuscript in a fit of pique that he soon regretted most terribly. Thankfully Rayner—now an adult and working for the family publishing company—reappeared on the scene with the good timing of a wizard, and asked if he might see the manuscript. The rest is publishing history.

Rayner shepherded Tolkien through the arduous process of getting The Lord of the Rings ready for publication. It was Rayner’s idea to divide the massive book into three parts, much to Tolkien’s annoyance (Peter Jackson is not the first to split one of Tolkien’s books into a trilogy). The author’s exchanges with Rayner (in The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien) during this period are a wonderful and amusing window into their fascinating relationship. Tolkien is like a cantankerous but lovable Bilbo dealing with Frodo, arguing about the titles for the books (he did not like the name The Two Towers one bit), and complaining comically about finalizing the map of Middle-earth, “This map is hell!”

About a year and a half before Tolkien died he sent a letter to Rayner saying, “Everything you do for me fills me with gratitude.” He asked Rayner to please start addressing him as “Ronald”—his Christian name. This was a great honor and a mark of respect coming from someone brought up in Tolkien’s world, where even dear friends called each other by their initials: an ingrained holdover of Victorian formality. Rayner was not only Tolkien’s very old friend, he was also his literary champion and, fortunately (for all of us Tolkien fans) he had had the good sense as a ten-year-old to approve of The Hobbit. If he had not, the manuscript might have spent the last seventy-five years collecting dust, rather than living all this time in the hearts and minds of tens of millions of fans around the world.

Tolkien Throwdown Transcript: I Scour The Shire


Read transcript here

I was invited to participate in a live Facebook debate with David “wordboydave” Dickerson (author of How Tolkien Sucks). David hates The Lord of the Rings with a passion many people reserve for stinky things stuck to the bottoms of their shoes (or the loathing Gollum has for cooked food), although he admitted during our conversation that he actually loves The Hobbit.

Tolkien’s writing style, plotting, characters and use of alternate languages are anathema to David. His screed How Tolkien Sucks is actually pretty funny, but I think he’s missing a few important points about Tolkien’s conscious effort to write in a “high style” and the context in which the books were written. I made my best effort to scour him from the Shire and set him straight.

When David went off in the debate about how much he despises the long prologue to The Lord of the Rings, this was my response:

“I loved that slow entry into Middle-earth. The Lord of the Rings would never get published today. And if it did it would have to start with Ringwraiths attacking Hobbiton on the first page and burning it to the ground. Bless Professor Tolkien. An orphan at the age of 12, a survivor of the trenches of WWI, an obsessive fantasist and lover of languages who created a world that millions of people around the world have inhabited in their hearts and minds. People will still be reading his books hundreds of years from now.
”

To read the entire transcript click here (and be sure to click the “View Previous Comments” button on the Facebook page). I look forward to more debates with David, and I’m convinced one day we’ll sit around drinking beer together, reading our favorite passages of The Lord of the Rings out loud. Maybe we’ll even sing one of Tom Bombadil’s songs! Errr…maybe not.

Over a hundred people followed this debate live. Thanks for coming!