NECESSARY STUFF:
The OP above gave full permission to use their post as a launchpad for this
commentary, so please don’t mistake this as either endorsement or criticism, and please do not mistake it as a group invitation to attack. I’ve
written about this phenomenon in the Rowling fandom before and this gives me another
excuse. Plus, as someone who tried to join
a fandom via this writing strategy and failed, I think I can contribute some thought
fodder on the issue of content sameness.
I’m bout to drop an essay, hobbits. This essay isn’t,
however, a critique. This is a non-evaluative observation and a writing theory. And, finally, an open
question to fellow fic writers.
BASE OBSERVATION: The
dominant writing styles in book-based fandoms mirror and pay homage to the style
of the original author.
WOW, holy heck this is a beautiful theory, and one I agree with absolutely.
I’ve noticed that stylistic imitation seems to happen more often in fandoms where the canon is heavily book-based, such as Harry Potter or Tolkien. In Avengers fandom, though, the writing was far more varied in style. I think this is bc it is mostly a visual canon (movies/comics) and people can explore different avenues of capturing it.
I’ve seen the argument made that folks enjoy the atmosphere and language of the books, and so seek out works that remind them of it.
I’ve mentioned before that I set out in Sansukh to try and channel Tolkien’s style, and so yeah, that’s a totally spot-on observation to make. Really pleased that you feel I did so, too 🙂 Thanks!
The main aim though, for me, was to capture the ‘feel’ of Tolkien’s work whilst also making it a little more accessible and fluid, bc the man could get so dense and impenetrable – less so in The Hobbit, absolutely, but LOTR can be slow and a bit arduous at times. So, I’ve stepped right away from some of his more idiosyncratic writing quirks, such as the gigantic block of descriptive text, slipping into ‘high style’ with the ‘thees and thous’ every so often – this seems to happen mostly in emotional moments – and the heroic declamations, as some examples. (Aragorn has SO MANY DECLAMATIONS)
Something else I tried to implement as the story progresses – I add more and more of my own stylistic interpretation, rather than Tolkien’s. I try to, in effect, transition away from a purely faithful ‘Tolkienesque’ style, to something sliiiiiightly more modern and blended – and far, far more emotional.
I do enjoy his dialogue syntax very much, though – particularly for the hobbits!
When it comes to your three choices detailed, I definitely fell into the first category:
Faithfully reconstruct and largely adhere to Tolkien’s style. (This is the choice most Big Fic writers in any book-based fandom make. On the downside, this limitation can feel creatively constricting. It should, however, be mentioned that some writers find this strategy ultimately increases their creativity – the stylistic constraints demand they make more daring creative choices in other realms, such as plot or characterization.)
I ABSOLUTELY find that constraints make me more creative! Well, 90 times out of 100, I do, hahaha. I enjoy writing myself into a corner and then finding the way out – it is something I’ve done again and again, it forces me to up my game. Further, the restraints placed on me by following an existing timeline/story forced me to get even more inventive! I knew that readers weren’t interested in reading the same story all over again (I mean, they could just read the book instead, sooo….) and thus I had to find new ways and new angles from which to view it, and new language with which to tell it. I am a lot fonder of simile and metaphor than Tolkien, that is for sure
In regard to your supporting/opposing notes: I would agree once again. I also personally find them irritating, both the patriarchal cultural concepts, and the feminisation of Bilbo. Both of these are aspects I have striven to eschew. I will have only succeeded imperfectly, I know, bc i am a fallible meatbag, but I hope I have managed to a greater rather than a lesser degree.
Addressing the open question now: god, I have no idea. I obviously plumped for your first option for the big fic! I have smaller Tolkien works (The Long Road, or Yours Faithfully, for instance) in which I have experimented with a very different authorial style and made very different syntactic choices. They didn’t ever reach the same sort of readership as the more Tolkien-flavoured fics. So, I don’t know, but I would be thrilled to hear more of your thoughts on the matter. Thank you so much for an engaging and thoughtful read!
Hi there @callalillyg! I would LOVE to chat further on this, absolutely! Under the cut:
I absolutely ABSOLUTE agree with the Dwarves=Jews angle – if indeed it can even be called an angle, as Tolkien himself said that they were based upon the Jewish people. I’ve explored this in some further detail (with the help of some Jewish friends, as I am a Gentile) in ‘Midwinter’, one of the Sansukh Appendices.
Inorna (and Krummett) serve several purposes in the narrative – but the greatest purpose they serve is in their defeat. She was initially influenced by someone I knew in my teen years: an absolute vile bigot, a bully, a blatant twister of the truth who played victimisation games, and a contemptible manipulator of people’s sympathies. (I still have violent reactions against this sort of behaviour, even today).
When I first developed her character, aaaaaaaaaaaaall the way back in the Bofur-at-Dale scene (written more than two years ago, now), I was worried and angry at the escalating prejudice I could see in the world. There were attacks against Jewish-owned businesses in Europe at the time, for example. A lot of ‘oh well, shame – but what about US’ from many other peoples.
So, Inorna came about, both a character and a symbol. Krummett is that yes-man, the follower: he is emboldened by her outspokenness to air his own nasty attitudes.
I wanted a character to embody that sort of irrational, horrible prejudice, and I wanted the Men of Dale (through Bard and Selga) to utterly refute its place amongst them. Then I wanted the Dwarves and Elves together to both expose and DEFEAT it. With this attitude expunged, the narrative is now open to a new age of acceptance, respect and love for the Dwarves.
I didn’t predict the real-life events of the past few weeks, not at all – I can most certainly see how her vitriol feels more personal to you now, and damn, I am so sorry. I truly did not wish to poke at open wounds, and I am so, so sorry.
The climactic scene of The Lord of the Rings, when Frodo and Sam reach the Cracks of Doom, is one of my favorite scenes in all of literature. So I was very interested a little while back when noted Tolkien scholar Stephen Colbert laid out a neat little analysis of the scene. Frodo seems to fail at his appointed task – rather than throwing the ring into the fire, he claims it for himself, and the ring is only destroyed by the coincidental intervention of Gollum. Colbert then notes that Gandalf should have known that Frodo would fail. Back in the second chapter, Frodo demonstrated to Gandalf his inability to throw the ring into the much cooler fires of his own hearth, after having only possessed the ring for a few hours. Therefore, one may assume, Gandalf must have intended for one of the other members of the Fellowship to intervene and ensure the ring’s destruction.
Colbert’s analysis is clever, in the same way that the theory that Gandalf had intended all along to use the eagles to reach Mordor is clever. In its cleverness, though, I think such analyses risk treating LotR as a D&D campaign and thus losing sight of the real literary themes of the story.
One of Tolkien’s key themes is the Augustinian view of evil. Most genre fiction takes a decidedly Manichean view of evil – a view that holds that evil and good are two great opposing forces in the world, like the light and dark sides of The Force. In a Manichean view, good must triumph by opposing evil, either to eradicate it or to restore a balance to the universe.
Manichean views of evil lead to a very common type of climax to stories: the contest of wills. Our hero confronts the villain, and through superior courage, grit, love, or what-have-you, they overcome the villain and their evil power. It’s Harry going wand-to-wand with Voldemort, Thomas Covenant laughing at Lord Foul, Meg breaking IT’s hold over Charles Wallace, Luke facing down Vader and Vader facing down the Emperor.
Any other writer could have given us a very typical Manichean Cracks of Doom scene. Frodo approaches the fire, and the ring’s temptation overtakes him. He puts the ring on and begins to claim it. But a tiny voice somewhere deep inside him insists that this is wrong. Sam cries out, and thinking about Sam’s love and devotion rekindles a spark in Frodo. His Hobbitish desire for food and good cheer wells up, and he tears the ring off and throws it into the fire. A dramatic ending and a nice echo of the moral of The Hobbit.
But that’s not what happens. Frodo’s goodness – even the innocent goodness of a little old Hobbit – can’t go toe-to-toe with Sauron’s evil. Indeed, Isildur proved it. He defeated Sauron by opposing him with the force of good, and defeated him. But Isildur couldn’t destroy the ring, and within the year it had destroyed him.
Tolkien holds instead to an Augustinian view of evil. Evil, according to St. Augustine, is not a force of its own, but rather is the absence or corruption of good. We see this most explicitly in the idea that Morgoth and Sauron can’t create anything of their own, but only corrupt and warp what has been created by others. We also see it when Gandalf and Galadriel describe what would happen if they took the ring – it would warp their own desire to do good until they became evil.
An Augustinian climax can’t involve a contest of wills between good and evil. In an Augustinian world, evil can only exist by leeching off of good. So evil must be given an opportunity to destroy itself, much like the self-defeating band of thieves described by Plato (on whose philosophy Augustine drew heavily). Good wins by renouncing evil, not by overcoming it.
And that’s exactly what happens at the Cracks of Doom. The ring isn’t destroyed because Frodo’s force of good overcame the ring’s evil. Nor is Gollum’s intervention a coincidence or deus ex machina (like the series of disarmings that happened to make Harry the master of the Elder Wand). Rather, the ring’s evil collapsed in on itself by drawing Gollum. The very corruption of Gollum that enabled the ring to escape the river drove him to wrestle desperately with Frodo for it and ultimately fall to his doom, ring in hand.
An Augustinian view of evil has definite moral implications, which are also shown throughout The Lord of the Rings. A Manichean world is a consequentialist world. To defeat the forces of evil, we need to think strategically. Sometimes we may even need to indulge in a little short-term evil in order to be able to achieve the greater good. But an Augustinian world can’t allow that kind of pragmatic approach. In an Augustinian world, any compromise with evil can only strengthen it, giving it an infusion of good that delays its self-destruction. An Augustinian world demands a deontological ethic, doing the right thing regardless of the outcome.
Again and again in The Lord of the Rings, we see that strategically pursuing the greater good fails, while remaining true to moral principles succeeds even when it looked foolish. On the cautionary side, we have Saruman and Denethor. Though they may point to the palantir as an excuse, they each ultimately made a thoroughly reasonable choice in the face of Sauron’s overwhelming advantage – to ally with him while playing the long game, or to give in to despair. Our heroes, on the other hand, repeatedly make foolish decisions based on hope. Aragorn is a good example – he decides to pursue Merry and Pippin because he owes them protection even though Frodo is the one who holds the fate of the world in his hands. Later, he decides to make a suicide attack on the Morannon rather than hunkering down in Minas Tirith, in the hopes of Frodo’s quest succeeding.
But the most important instance of doing the right thing despite the consequences comes from Frodo himself: he refuses to kill Gollum. Killing Gollum would have been an eminently reasonable idea – he’s a slinker and a stinker, and we know that he never redeemed himself or turned over a new leaf. Indeed, his main accomplishments were to lead Frodo and Sam into a death trap, then to try to kill them with his own hands at the Cracks of Doom. Both Sam and Faramir were right when they said that killing Gollum would have been a good idea!
But Frodo showed Gollum pity and spared his life because it was the right thing to do. And just like Gandalf could see Frodo’s unwillingness to destroy the ring back in Bag End, he also addressed this very issue. He instructed Frodo:
Frodo: It’s a pity Bilbo didn’t kill him when he had the chance.
Gandalf: Pity? It was pity that stayed Bilbo’s hand. Many that live deserve death. Some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them, Frodo? Do not be too eager to deal out death in judgment. Even the very wise cannot see all ends. My heart tells me that Gollum has some part to play yet, for good or ill before this is over. The pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many.
And in the end, that pity was what saved the world. Frodo’s pity made it possible for Gollum to be there at the Cracks of Doom to take the ring. Frodo refused to give in to the small, reasonable evil of killing Gollum, and so he left the great evil of the ring exposed to destroy itself. That was Gandalf’s backup plan, not Aragorn’s strength to take the ring and destroy it. And so Frodo didn’t really fail. He succeeded at his quest back when he saved Gollum’s life, when he did the right thing even though it seemed foolish.
So I was just thinking about those posts you get in the Discworld tag about the way belief works on the Disc and how Vetinari and/or Vimes is so integral to the way Ankh-Morpork works that they might just sort of… not ever die.
You know, the ones like ‘Vimes is going to become a god of policemen and he’s going to hate it”.
Well. What if it happens to both of them? There are two parts to the city, after all. ‘Proud Ankh’ needs taking down a peg or two (or seven) by Sam Vimes, and if anyone can terrify ‘pestilent Morpork’ into being better then it’s Havelock Vetinari. And they can drive each other mad with stealth puns for centuries, if they want.
Also, this would potentially make them literally Law And Order, and that just seems very fitting in a way that would probably annoy them both.
My favourite sort of riff on this is the idea that they aren’t there ALL the time, but if someone who’s taken over their authority or whatever starts fucking up, they become Active.
Sort of like Carrot’s comment in Men At Arms: when you need them, you REALLY need them, but when you don’t, best if they just go away and get on with things (in their cases, being dead). So when things are going all right it’s very quiet and ordinary.
And then when things start going WRONG suddenly you have things like the current patrician waking up to a Very Angry Manifestation of the Late Duke of Ankh, proceeding to remind him or her (would it be matrician, then?) about How Things Are Done (By Law).
Or the abusive Commander of the Watch coming into his or her office to find a calm man, thin man like a predatory flamingo there to discuss the virtues of temperance and accountability and not having his/her Watch-house and/or personal lodgings being literally struck from on high by a meteor (can’t be lightning, Vimes and Io can’t even exchange a civil sentence, but Vimes has always been good at getting around these things).
And yes in the mean time when things ARE quiet, they can watch everything and get on each other’s nerves and it’s basically like Colon’s office except instead of for old street monsters it’s for ancient legends of civil justice who can’t quite stand to even fade away and still have enough people believing and invoking them that they can stick around and growl when people get out of line.
Okay, so if you’re only familiar with the movies, then you don’t know this, but in the Lord of the Rings books when Boromir dies, Legolas and Aragorn sing a song at his funeral (no Gimli doesn’t sing). Now when I read the books, I fell in love with this song, because it’s a beautiful poem, and you should go read it.
Well I was thinking about it again today, and one thing that still impresses me, is that canonically, Aragorn and Legolas come up with this on the spot. There doesn’t appear to be any moment in which they sit down and write this, they just sing. And it can’t be a standard funeral song because it specifically references Boromir and their journey
Now the real reason the poem is so nice is because Tolkien was a poet and loved to fit as much poetry as he logically and illogically could into his works, and naturally he had plenty of time to revise this death-song and made it beautiful, but I came up with an in-text explanation as well.
So I’ve decided that clearly this is a well practiced skill for elves and people raised by elves. They obviously spend evenings sitting in halls coming up with spontaneous poetry which they then recite to the crowds. I am adamantly convinced this happens. Seriously, read up on Tolkien’s elves and tell me I’m being unrealistic.
But to the point, thinking about this, I decided that naturally most of the poetry we see from the elves is beautiful and flowing and elegant because that’s the style they’re familiar with. But if introduced to other styles of poetry, they likely could do quite well
So what I’m saying is, elves would be really good at freestyle rapping
damn, I was yelling Elvish rap battles! before I got halfway through the post
YES. ALL OF THIS.
I only have two tiny things to contribute to this post:
If you are like me and love the Lament for Boromir, you absolutely need to go listen to this version by @everywindintheriver. She does a lot of setting Tolkien poetry to music, but this remains one of my absolute favorites; it’s quite beautiful and haunting.
Elvish rap battles are 100% canon. In Silmarillion version of “The Tale of Beren and Luthien,” there’s a bit where Sauron captures Beren and Finrod Felagund while they’re on a quest, and “Felagund strove with Sauron in songs of power” or, in other words, they literally had a contest where they sang poetry at each other and tried to destroy each other with their words, so. Elvish rap battles definitely definitely happened.
HEY THIS IS AWESOME… and i also have a thing to add!
The reason Gimli doesn’t sing? Is because they left him the East wind. So, Aragorn first sings of the West wind, then Legolas sings of the South wind, and then Aragorn sings of the North wind, all asking of news of Boromir.
But to the East is Mordor, and you can imagine that Mordor is pretty damned pleased about the recent adjustment in Boromir’s breathing conditions.
So Gimli, tactfully, doesn’t sing.
‘You left the East Wind to me,’ said Gimli, ‘but I will say
naught of it.’
‘That is as it should be,’ said Aragorn. ‘In Minas Tirith
they endure the East Wind, but they do not ask it for tidings.’
– The Departure of Boromir, The Two Towers.
From this, I personally surmise two things.
a. Book-Aragorn is a tremendous attention-hog. WHAT A SHOWPONY.
b. it’s not uncommon or unusual for Dwarves to be warrior-bards, no less than Elves.
Han is all “there’s to much Vader in him,” without mentioning that there is too much Vader in Leia too.
Like, Bail Organa, bless his poor poor soul, tried to politician the Vader out of her. He tried SO FUCKING HARD.
But the fact that she abandoned politics to be a General in the Resistance says a lot about her similarities to Anakin Skywalker.
See, people get it wrong. They assume because Luke got the blond hair and the lightsaber that he is Anakin’s child. He’s not. He’s Padme’s.
Leia, though. Leia is very much Anakin’s child. She is the one with the deep anger in her. She is the one who will bring peace to her new empire freedom and justice back to the galaxy whether the galaxy wants it or not. She is the one who commands armies and amasses followers as easy as breathing. She joined the Rebellion while she was in her teens. She is the one with the spirit of a warrior.
Don’t get me wrong; Bail Organa did his damnedest to raise her in the mold of her mother, fighting her battles in the halls of power with words as her weapons. And she was very good at it. But unlike Padme, Leia’s words always had an edge to them, her tone and meaning always a little too sharp, a little too angry.
Peace and mercy are the trademarks of Luke and Padme. Justice and order, obtained by whatever means necessary, are the marks of Leia and Anakin.
How the throne room scene actually should’ve gone:
“If you will not turn to the Dark Side, perhaps she will.”
“Pffffthahahahaha yeah, okay Dad, let me know how that turns out. Look, the reason I’m here instead of her is because I want you alive and not a cloud of vaporized plastic. You know she strangled Jabba the Hutt with the chain he put around her neck, right? That’s what she does to people who try to control her. Better tell your Emperor you’re not allowed to have any more ideas.”
So we picked up reading LotR again a couple weeks ago and
forged through Book Four, and I have had another Revelation.
We got to the part where Frodo and Sam are using the Phial
to repel Shelob, and we stopped for a bit, so that my mom, since she knows the
Silmarillion now, could think out loud and confirm some stuff – mostly, you
know – the Phial -> Earendil’s star -> light of the Silmaril (tales never
really end, etc.). So she had a moment. I pointed out for extra effect that the
light of the Silmarils was direct from the Two Trees, the original and untainted
symbol of goodness and light in Arda, and so one – and then I had to stop, and have a moment.
Because who destroyed
the Two Trees?
Ungoliant.
Ungoliant did. And then she went away and bred and had Shelob, or Shelob’s
ancestors, among others. And the light of the Two Trees that she’d destroyed
lived on only in the Silmarils, until
Earendil’s was the last, and unreachable, mounted on Vingilot in the heavens. And
that remnant of the light of the Trees came down and fell on Galadriel’s mirror
and she bottled it and gave it to Frodo and he carried it all the way to Torech
Ungol where he used it to repel Ungoliant’s
scion.
Like, is that not mind-blowing and moving and I don’t know,
EVERYTHING? I want to be articulate about it, but I’ve been struck speechless
by wonder, and I’m also trying really hard not to blow the whole thing, because
I’m a total child and despite the wonder I’m having to fight really hard not to
make a really immature joke about UNGOLIANT VS. TELPERION: ROUND TWO or
something.
Frodo undertook his quest out of love – to save the world he knew from disaster at his own expense, if he could; and also in complete humility, acknowledging that he was wholly inadequate to the task. His real contract was only to do what he could, to try to find a way, and to go as far on the road as his strength of mind and body allowed. He did that. I do not myself see that the breaking of his mind and will under demonic pressure under torment was any more a moral failure than the breaking of his body would have been – say, by being strangled by Gollum, or crushed by a falling rock.
That appears to have been the judgement of Gandalf and Aragorn and of all who learned the full story of his journey. Certainly nothing would have been concealed by Frodo! But what Frodo himself felt about the events is quite another matter.
“The Letters of JRR Tolkien”, letter #246 (September 1963)
Heartbreaking.
That’s why realizing that Frodo was suffering too much and had to leave the Shire and Middle Earth broke me down.
It puzzles me when people cite LOTR as the standard of “simple” or “predictable” or “black and white” fantasy. Because in my copy, the hero fails. Frodo chooses the Ring, and it’s only Gollum’s own desperation for it that inadvertently saves the day. The fate of the world, this whole blood-soaked war, all the millennia-old machinations of elves and gods, comes down to two addicts squabbling over their Precious, and that is precisely and powerfully Tolkien’s point.
And then the hero goes home, and finds home a smoking desolation, his neighbors turned on one another, that secondary villain no one finished off having destroyed Frodo’s last oasis not even out of evil so much as spite, and then that villain dies pointlessly, and then his killer dies pointlessly. The hero is left not with a cathartic homecoming, the story come full circle in another party; he is left to pick up the pieces of what was and what shall never be again.
And it’s not enough. The hero cannot heal, and so departs for the fabled western shores in what remains a blunt and bracing metaphor for death (especially given his aged companions). When Sam tells his family, “Well, I’m back” at the very end, it is an earned triumph, but the very fact that someone making it back qualifies as a triumph tells you what kind of story this is: one that is too honest to allow its characters to claim a clean victory over entropy, let alone evil.
“I can’t recall the taste of food, nor the sound of water, nor the touch of grass. I’m naked in the dark. There’s nothing–no veil between me and the wheel of fire. I can see him with my waking eyes.”
So where’s this silly shallow hippie fever-dream I’ve heard so much about? It sounds like a much lesser story than the one that actually exists.
I have seen people say that one of the tragedies of “The World Was Wide Enough” is that Hamilton and Burr both break with their natures–Burr doesn’t wait and Hamilton throws away his shot. This is perfectly, literally true, as well as excellent wordplay in the second instance, but I’ve been thinking that one of the really beautiful things about the musical is that it’s not completely true.
Hamilton throws away his (gun)shot, but that’s never–in his own mind or in the play itself–been what the metaphorical shot really is, at least not consistently. “Not throwing away your shot” is about not wasting your opportunities; it’s about making the deliberate choice. Hamilton throws away his more active military career when he signs on as Washington’s aide, but he views this–at least in the moment–as seizing his shot, because Washington has persuaded him that it’s harder and more honorable to try to live. He and his men take the bullets out of their guns at Yorktown to better secure their victory.
And it’s not only Hamilton who wins by losing, or at least by forfeiting the showier and more conventional route to victory: it’s Washington, too. LMM is explicit about this in the notes on “One Last Time”: that the song highlights Washington’s “most radical act/lasting legacy,” which is his decision to walk away from power and not seek it again. He throws away the most obvious form of power, but he doesn’t throw away his chance for meaningful action: he just redefines what meaningful action looks like. Even though Hamilton says it will make him look weak, Washington pushes through, because “they will see we’re strong.” He turns down one shot for another: he teaches a country, and a succession of presidents, and Hamilton himself, to say goodbye.
And that’s what Hamilton learns from him, and from Eliza, who chooses–consciously and actively–to forgive. He says, “If I throw away my shot, is this how you’ll remember me? What if this bullet is my legacy?” And it is, and he knows that, and he chooses this chance, this idea of meaningful action: to aim at the sky. To not kill, or even feign to kill, “[his] first friend, [his] enemy.” And we don’t say he’s weak for that; we see he’s strong.
Because kindness, in Hamilton, is always deserving of our awe and respect. Hamilton’s “non-stop” series of accomplishments is wonderful to behold, but the one thing we’re really asked if we can even imagine is Eliza offering him forgiveness. When Hamilton chooses to aim for the sky, he doesn’t throw away his shot, he takes stock of everyone he’s loved, and everyone he’s lost, and everything he’s done, and seizes the opportunity–to be kind. To make peace.
And for us, at least, that’s a substantial part of his legacy. So part of what makes Hamilton so awesome, for me, is that it recognizes that sometimes deliberately refraining from action is the most powerful action you can take, and it defines its characters by those active refusals, those conscious choices to not go after more. Hamilton throws away his shot, Eliza throws away her anger, Angelica throws away her chance, Washington throws away his reelection. Principle is sometimes most meaningfully expressed by where we draw the line and what we refuse to do, which is why Hamilton cannot back Burr after hearing that there’s “nothing [he] wouldn’t do.”
Hamilton never really gives up. As Burr says in “Wait for It,” all he does is “change the game.”
These things, too, are part of taking your shot: you take the opportunity to be better, smarter, kinder. Hey, sometimes you “take the bullets out your gun” and that’s part of how you win the war.
Aw Yiss 