How to Teach History? Musings on my first Socratic Teacher

Why do so many high school students claim that their history classes are “boring”? — when we know that history itself is a combination of Game of Thrones and world travel, and that nobody finds those boring? I remember how, in a high school geography class in England in the 1970s, we had to spend three weeks studying the geology and terrain of Western Canadian provinces, memorizing facts and drawing detailed maps — without the geography teacher ever explaining why this should have been of interest to us. At the same time, in an English county rich with relics of industrial history,  no one ever taught us about local geology and terrain, or took us to see an 18th century factory. It is much the same with the teaching of history in American schools: the abstract and remote overview is given priority because it looks more like some curriculum designer’s conception of “knowledge.” In this essay I want to commemorate one particular teacher’s art of teaching history, because what he did really worked.

   Of course, I had my share of conventional history: five years of working through textbooks and class lessons. I remember nothing from age 11-13, but after that a lot has remained in my mind: the American Revolution, the French Revolution, the Industrial Revolution, the development of labor laws and the long fight for universal suffrage. Every now and then the teacher, Mr.Shilston, would give an exciting lecture on the history of vampires or gangsters, his two set pieces. I learned a lot from my history classes because I enjoyed writing essays in which I had to articulate the causes and consequences of complex events — and it was always the why and how that interested me, not the what or when.

   Even so, Mr. Rawlinson’s A-Level Ancient History class was a revelation: it was the first time I encountered “Socratic” teaching, decades before I even knew the word “Socratic.” Mr. Rawlinson was a svelte, dapper, soft-spoken man with short dark hair and a vicar’s smile. He was always dressed in a light grey suit, with (as I think I remember) no tie but a white shirt buttoned up to the top. In our merciless gossip he was portrayed as “queer,” but this gossip never took off because we all had a genuine respect for him. He never exerted authority, never resorted to corporal punishment, and was always quietly matter-of-fact whenever he had to chastise.  I never got to know him as a person very well, because he was pure teacher: self-effacing, dedicated to the subject and to his students, he reserved his personality for his home life. His erudition was impressive but humble; he read his Greek and Latin authors in Greek and Latin, and he would guide us through difficult passages gently and deftly, without imposing himself.

   The remarkable thing about Mr.Rawlinson was that he taught almost solely by showing us things and asking questions. When studying the Romans in Britain, we would examine photographs of Roman coins and tombs, and we would translate and decipher the inscriptions; we would stare at shards of Roman pottery, note the potter’s mark when we could find them, look up the location of this potter, and then determine which legion must have come from that location to Britain. He would have us figure out which legions came from where, how many legions there were, how many troops in those legions, what these soldiers ate and how much, and then he would make us read the Greek and Roman agricultural writers to figure out how much land and what kind of work would be required to grow that food. Thus we could hazard a good guess at how much land Julius Caesar would have needed to commandeer to quarter his troops in England over the winter. When we looked at the archaeological evidence for Caesar’s occupation, we found our calculations corroborated. Mr. Rawlinson would present the materials and ask us questions. On a few occasions we visited nearby archaeological ruins and saw and measured with our own eyes and hands.

   When we studied the Roman writers, he taught us how to interrogate them. For example, as we pored over Caesar’s account of the invasion, we would ask about his political motivations in presenting his exploits the way he did, and attempt to correlate his claims with the material evidence. When reading Tacitus’ account of Tiberius, we noticed that even the author described  Italy as being fairly well-off under that emperor — so why was the portrait so devastatingly negative? We wondered if in fact Tacitus was using Tiberius to criticize his own emperor, Domitian — so did that mean we would have to take his account of Tiberius’ foreign policy with a pinch of salt, and how exactly? 

   After doing all this work in detail, we would pull our notes together and only then read the relevant chapter in the modern textbook. We would usually find that the textbook was a restatement of what we had concluded ourselves — and the discovery was pleasant and satisfying, because we had reached the same conclusion as the experts by thinking for ourselves. Mr. Rawlinson never made a big deal of this; he just quietly led us in this process of discovery and reasoning. The essays that we wrote for the external examiners were almost entirely the results of our own engaged intelligences — for we were genuinely engaged, activated, even electrified by this direct approach to history, such that even now I vividly recall my excitement at being able to connect this potsherd and that coin with these passages in Tacitus or Suetonius.

   The main thing I got from this was not an accumulation of “things known and remembered”; indeed, I have forgotten most of it except Tacitus and Suetonius, and the dates of emperors. It was rather the activity of figuring out who did what, when, where, how, why. Mr. Rawlinson involved us in reconstructing the past and got us to do it, so that not only did we know how the authors of the textbook had pieced together the fragments of the past to make a plausible story, but we ourselves had also pieced them together. Alongside the historians, we too constructed history, and because we knew what went into this process, we unwittingly acquired a dynamic, critical relationship to history — where “facts” are not simply givens, but actively constructed. Would the teaching of history today be less “boring” if students were asked to cultivate this level of engagement with the making of history itself? In my experience, most people come alive when they know for themselves why something is so and are not just told. Moreover, in our age of “fake news” and a posture of mistrust towards everything the “other side” claims to be true, would it not be better for us in our schools to focus on how we know whether something is true or not, and how to distinguish more from less plausible, than to insist on the primacy of surveys that have been decided by faceless experts? The same thing applies to the teaching of science.

   One night, after an especially exciting class, I had a dream about Mr.Rawlinson. We were in class, on a sunny Friday afternoon in May, and the windows of the classroom were open. His eyes twinkled as he asked a characteristic question: “Why do we have to dig up ancient remains?”

   We stared at him blankly. “We don’t know what you mean, sir.”

   “Well, why are they always underground, instead of just standing around on the ground like every other building? Why do archaeologists have to use shovels?”

   We fumbled around for possible answers, until I blurted out the obvious: “Isn’t it because of the natural rising of the soil, sir, from the activities of earthworms and microbes?”

   “Ah, good guess, Venkatesh! But why would the rise of the soil be so systematic, and everything be so thoroughly buried?”

   “We are completely at a loss, sir.”

   “I will tell you! The ancient Greeks and Romans meticulously buried everything themselves.”

   A long pause. “But why would they want to do that, sir?”

   He chuckled triumphantly. “It was part of their religion, of course! Burying all buildings was a ritual to appease the gods.” We must have looked incredulous, because he added — “Well, can you think of a better explanation?”

   I’m not certain that I ever really woke up from this dream.

   

  

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Adult Consolations: Tolkien on Fantasy

Only in the English-speaking world are fairy stories relegated to the children’s section. In Germanic cultures, the Märchen is for everyone, and often too dark for children; in France, the Conte is a sophisticated, sometimes cynical genre. Tolkien is insistent that the best fairy stories are for adults. In his essay “On Fairy Stories,” written in 1939, over a decade before The Lord of the Rings, he wrote:  If fairy-story as a kind is worth reading at all it is worthy to be written for and read by adults. They will, of course, put more in and get more out than children can. (p.15) What, then, will adults “get” from a serious reading of The Lord of the Rings? Tolkien offers three benefits of reading good fantasy: Recovery, Escape, and Consolation.

   Great works of literature generally give us ways to experience our world afresh, to make the familiar unfamiliar. Our world is often lost to us through overfamiliarity, such that we no longer pay attention to the people and things around us; literature helps us to “recover” the world we have lost. Perhaps all art does this in some way. 

Recovery (which includes return and renewal of health) is a re-gaining—regaining of a clear view. I do not say “seeing things as they are” and involve myself with the philosophers, though I might venture to say “seeing things as we are (or were) meant to see them”—as things apart from ourselves. We need, in any case, to clean our windows; so that the things seen clearly may be freed from the drab blur of triteness or familiarity—from possessiveness. Of all faces those of our familiares are the ones both most difficult to play fantastic tricks with, and most difficult really to see with fresh attention, perceiving their likeness and unlikeness: that they are faces, and yet unique faces. This triteness is really the penalty of “appropriation”: the things that are trite, or (in a bad sense) familiar, are the things that we have appropriated, legally or mentally. We say we know them. They have become like the things which once attracted us by their glitter, or their colour, or their shape, and we laid hands on them, and then locked them in our hoard, acquired them, and acquiring ceased to look at them. (19)

Fantasy literature “recovers” by getting us to imagine alternative worlds composed of elements from our world, but reassembled into new combinations and reshaped. Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series illuminates the world we think we know by making us live for a while in an alternate universe the features of which bear a distorted resemblance to elements of our own. The effect is to tickle and startle us into a new perception of our lives,  in much the same way as Chesterton’s word Mooreeffoc perplexes us:

Mooreeffoc is a fantastic word, but it could be seen written up in every town in this land. It is Coffee-room, viewed from the inside through a glass door, as it was seen by Dickens on a dark London day; and it was used by Chesterton to denote the queerness of things that have become trite, when they are seen suddenly from a new angle. That kind of “fantasy” most people would allow to be wholesome enough; and it can never lack for material. But it has, I think, only a limited power; for the reason that recovery of freshness of vision is its only virtue. The word Mooreeffoc may cause you suddenly to realize that England is an utterly alien land, lost either in some remote past age glimpsed by history, or in some strange dim future to be reached only by a time-machine; to see the amazing oddity and interest of its inhabitants and their customs and feeding-habits; but it cannot do more than that: act as a time-telescope focused on one spot. (19)

Tolkien then differentiates this valuable effect from the powerful thing that happens when “creative fantasy” unlocks what is inside you (your hoard) and liberates it to surprising transformations:

Creative fantasy, because it is mainly trying to do something else (make something new), may open your hoard and let all the locked things fly away like cage-birds. The gems all turn into flowers or flames, and you will be warned that all you had (or knew) was dangerous and potent, not really effectively chained, free and wild; no more yours than they were you. (19)

What does he mean by this? In The Lord of the Rings, Frodo’s long education through Bilbo’s stories and songs frees him to imagine possibilities for himself that those around him would never consider; it opens up his ability to undertake the grinding trek to Mordor and gives him the faith that the often perilous struggle might be good for him. It also renders him incapable of simply living in the Shire any more. Creative fantasy has the power to dissolve ties that we thought were natural and unbreakable.

   From unleashing the imagination it is only a small step to Escape, the second great benefit of fantasy. Tolkien disagrees strongly with people who denigrate “the literature of escape”:

I have claimed that Escape is one of the main functions of fairy-stories, and since I do not disapprove of them, it is plain that I do not accept the tone of scorn or pity with which “Escape” is now so often used: a tone for which the uses of the word outside literary criticism give no warrant at all. In what the misusers are fond of calling Real Life, Escape is evidently as a rule very practical, and may even be heroic. In real life it is difficult to blame it, unless it fails; in criticism it would seem to be the worse the better it succeeds. Evidently we are faced by a misuse of words, and also by a confusion of thought. Why should a man be scorned if, finding himself in prison, he tries to get out and go home? Or if, when he cannot do so, he thinks and talks about other topics than jailers and prison-walls? The world outside has not become less real because the prisoner cannot see it. In using escape in this way the critics have chosen the wrong word, and, what is more, they are confusing, not always by sincere error, the Escape of the Prisoner with the Flight of the Deserter. Just so a Party-spokesman might have labelled departure from the misery of the Führer’s or any other Reich and even criticism of it as treachery. In the same way these critics, to make confusion worse, and so to bring into contempt their opponents, stick their label of scorn not only on to Desertion, but on to real Escape, and what are often its companions, Disgust, Anger, Condemnation, and Revolt. Not only do they confound the escape of the prisoner with the flight of the deserter; but they would seem to prefer the acquiescence of the “quisling” to the resistance of the patriot. To such thinking you have only to say “the land you loved is doomed” to excuse any treachery, indeed to glorify it. (20)

There is nothing in itself wrong with the need to escape; in many situations, escape is understandable and justified. It might be argued that most forms of literature are “escapes” from our ordinary lives, in that through them we are taken to different times and places and meet different people. This can be a very good thing — again, loosening our chains to the world we take for granted by getting us to entertain other possibilities. The escape from ideas of natural Necessity also includes what Tolkien calls “the Great Escape: the Escape from Death,” with which fairy tales and religions share a preoccupation. This fictional freedom from necessity may be the virtue and the vice of fairy tales: on the one hand, why should there be only one necessary way for things to be? — and on the other, surely the habit of thinking in terms of Escape will trap the prospective escapee in a permanent misery of resisting what in fact cannot be resisted — such as sickness, old age, and death.

   Against the facts of the irresistible, the third benefit of fantasy literature is Consolation, which is the essence of the fairy tale and which is manifested as a “eucatastrophe”:

…Tragedy is the true form of Drama, its highest function; but the opposite is true of Fairy-story. Since we do not appear to possess a word that expresses this opposite—I will call it Eucatastrophe. The eucatastrophic tale is the true form of fairy-tale, and its highest function. (22)

Kata-strophe itself literally means “downturn,” or “overturn.” The prefix eu (“good,” “well”) expresses a reversal of the downturn, a fixing of the upset. A good example would be the confused action leading to the destruction of the Ring: in spite of Sam’s incapacitation, Frodo’s sinister change of heart, and Gollum’s frenzied triumph — or because of them — the Ring is destroyed in a sequence of events that nobody would have imagined beforehand. 

   But is the Eucatastrophe a mere plot element, just another form of peripeteia? — or is it a an irruption of grace, even when the downward plunge of plot has not been reversed? Tolkien seems to mean both of these.

The consolation of fairy-stories, the joy of the happy ending: or more correctly of the good catastrophe, the sudden joyous “turn” (for there is no true end to any fairy-tale): this joy, which is one of the things which fairy-stories can produce supremely well, is not essentially “escapist,” nor “fugitive.” In its fairy-tale—or otherworld—setting, it is a sudden and miraculous grace: never to be counted on to recur. It does not deny the existence of dyscatastrophe, of sorrow and failure: the possibility of these is necessary to the joy of deliverance; it denies (in the face of much evidence, if you will) universal final defeat and in so far is evangelium, giving a fleeting glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief.  It is the mark of a good fairy-story, of the higher or more complete kind, that however wild its events, however fantastic or terrible the adventures, it can give to child or man that hears it, when the “turn” comes, a catch of the breath, a beat and lifting of the heart, near to (or indeed accompanied by) tears, as keen as that given by any form of literary art, and having a peculiar quality. (22-23)

Far more powerful and poignant is the effect in a serious tale of Faërie. In such stories when the sudden “turn” comes we get a piercing glimpse of joy, and heart’s desire, that for a moment passes outside the frame, rends indeed the very web of story, and lets a gleam come through. (23)

These “piercing glimpses of joy” arrive as revelations of a world behind or held within our world; they irradiate the surface world of the narrative, giving it a luminous transparency in  which the hidden dimension expressed through song and poetry suddenly becomes manifest. Such moments are “eucatastrophic” because they unexpectedly redeem or save the seemingly hopeless world. Of all the characters, Sam is the most receptive to the “turn,” as when he encounters the magic of Lothlorien:

He turned and saw that Sam was now standing beside him, looking round with a puzzled expression, and rubbing his eyes as if he was not sure that he was awake. “It’s sunlight and bright day, right enough,” he said. “I thought that Elves were all for moon and stars: but this is more elvish than anything I ever heard tell of. I feel as if I was inside a song, if you take my meaning.” (Fellowship, 341-2)

Even in the depths of hardship he has the intense sensitivity to beauty that we see in Japanese literature, where a hardened warrior can be brought to tears by a glimpse of the moon:

There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach. His song in the Tower had been defiance rather than hope; for then he was thinking of himself. Now, for a moment, his own fate, and even his master’s, ceased to trouble him. (Return, 199)

There are several extraordinary moments like this throughout the book. Another memorable moment is the one at the end of the “Siege of Gondor” chapter in which Gandalf, about to be assailed by the Black Rider, hears a cock crow:
   

Gandalf did not move. And in that very moment, away behind in some courtyard of the City, a cock crowed. Shrill and clear he crowed, recking nothing of wizardry or war, welcoming only the morning that in the sky far above the shadows of death was coming with the dawn.
   And as if in answer there came from far away another note. Horns, horns, horns. In dark Mindolluin’s sides they dimly echoed. Great horns of the North wildly blowing. Rohan had come at last. (193)

Here, we have eucatastrophe on two levels: the horns of Rohan signal a happy turn of the plot, while the cock’s crow — which does nothing to further the plot — illuminates the darkness of the situation with a reminder of the beauty of the dawn.

   Without such moments, the story would be not much more than a chain of events, an action narrative, without “heart” or “soul.” Tolkien’s point is that the outer sequence of events is held together by an “inner consistency” that gives it solidity and depth. The sequence of events is not all there is, but issues from a meaning or logos that lights it up to one who is sensitive. The reader who is attuned to this inner consistency can feel how all the disparate elements of the story cohere into a meaningful pattern — just as Gandalf is able to sense at the outset that Gollum might have a function in the whole. 

Probably every writer making a secondary world, a fantasy, every sub-creator, wishes in some measure to be a real maker, or hopes that he is drawing on reality: hopes that the peculiar quality of this secondary world (if not all the details) are derived from Reality, or are flowing into it. If he indeed achieves a quality that can fairly be described by the dictionary definition: “inner consistency of reality,” it is difficult to conceive how this can be, if the work does not in some way partake of reality. The peculiar quality of the ”joy” in successful Fantasy can thus be explained as a sudden glimpse of the underlying reality or truth. It is not only a “consolation” for the sorrow of this world, but a satisfaction, and an answer to that question, “Is it true?” (23)

   Tolkien compares the eucatastrophe to the evangelium (eu-angelium: good news), a kingdom of grace that permeates the world and redeems it all from its sins and stupidities. The novel, however, does not necessarily announce any such religion: there is no God, apparently also no gods, no afterlife, no linear plot of ascension and salvation, no theology of sacrifice. A Buddhist might well experience the eucatastrophe as nirvana in samsara; a Hindu might see a flash of the One Brahman in the multifarious universe. In Middle-earth there are beings like Tom Bombadil who have existed from the beginning of an uncreated universe, and there are many hints of long ages that succeed one another with cyclical logic. The world-weary Elrond speaks as one who has seen it all before and knows that we will see it again. The history of Middle-earth is not redeemed by any Deliverer from high, but from something that glows within it and transfigures it with unearthly beauty. Tolkien is adamant that any true Fantasy will be lit by this, and that it is something that adults will be moved by more than children. The Consolation consoles because it brings us back into contact with something that we tend to lose with age: an attunement with the magic of the world, the fairy improbability of everything.

Sam’s Deep Breath: The Exquisite Ending to the LOTR

Sometimes a man gets up from his dinner
And walks outside and walks and walks and walks —
Towards a Church, that stands in the East.

And his children bless him as if he were dead.

And sometimes a man, dying in his house,
Remains inside, remains in dish and glass,
So his children are drawn out into the world
Towards the Church that he forgot.
(Rilke, Book of Hours, 2.19)

Frodo and Sam have been ones who walked and walked to the end of the quest. Since any adventure ends either in death or in a return to less adventurous reality, the chapters that ensue after the completion of the quest inevitably feel like an anticlimax in comparison to all the heroic action. Frodo is saved from the anticlimax of living by being given a special destiny in the ethereal West, but Sam has to come back down to the hobbit house of dish and glass, chair and baby. Many have felt the ending to The Lord of the Rings to be not only anticlimactic, a disappointing descent for Sam’s high aspirations — but also terrible, because in consigning him to his new domestic role Frodo has in fact abandoned Sam to a half-life in which all his rich yearning will have to be suppressed in the face of incomprehension. He apparently ends up as the third kind of person, who is not in Rilke’s poem: the one who went out, came back, and is now imprisoned for life in dish and glass. Everything depends on how we read the very last line of the novel — which, as I hope to show in this essay, is the fitting and true climax to the story, carrying the full force of the preceding thousand pages.

And he went on, and there was yellow light, and fire within; and the evening meal was ready, and he was expected. And Rose drew him in, and set him in his chair, and put little Elanor upon his lap.
   He drew a deep breath. ‘Well, I’m back,’ he said.
(311)

Rose is the mother-figure who swallows him back into comfort and domesticity. If the book had ended with this action — and put little Elanor upon his lap — we would have been left hanging in the air: we need Sam to say something, to show us where he is, to prove his commitment, otherwise the lacuna will be filled only with the reverberating grief of Frodo’s departure. What is in that “deep breath,” and what is meant when someone says “well, I’m back”?

   The final chapter takes place firmly in Sam’s point of view: The clearing up certainly needed a lot of work, but it took less time than Sam had feared. (301) For the most part it continues so, with Sam trying to make sense of what is happening:  It was a fair golden morning, and Sam did not ask where they were going: he thought he could guess. (307)  The only exception is when Frodo has a fit while Sam is away doing forestry work, but presumably the narrative gives this to us because Sam is later told about it by Farmer Cotton, who was the one who found Frodo in his fit. Three times in this short chapter the phrase “torn in two” comes up between Sam and Frodo. The first time, Sam is bringing up his dilemma of wanting to live with Rosie and Frodo at the same time:  ‘I feel torn in two, as you might say.’ (304) This is a problem with an easy practical solution, but it masks a deeper dilemma, which is not about how to live with two people, but about how to live in two worlds:

‘I wish I could go all the way with you to Rivendell, Mr. Frodo, and see Mr. Bilbo,’ said Sam. ‘And yet the only place I really want to be in is here. I am that torn in two.’
   ‘Poor Sam! It will feel like that, I am afraid,’ said Frodo. ‘But you will be healed. You were meant to be solid and whole, and you will be.’ (306)
We saw in The Fellowship of the Ring that the special thing about Sam is that he is a fusion of two opposite perfections. On the one hand he is supremely practical in taking care of people, animals, and plants; he is well suited to being the gardener of the Shire, an earthy and affectionate statesman. On the other, he is also the most lyrically rapturous of the hobbits, with his mind and heart constantly in the realm of song and legend — as when, in Lothlorien, he feels himself to be inside the song. He has two worlds, and the blessing of the quest is that for a thousand pages at least, and by the side of Frodo, he is able to inhabit them simultaneously. But how will he do that back in the Shire? Frodo understands  Sam’s torn heart, and it is striking that he interprets it as a wound: “you will be healed.” What does he mean by this? He cannot mean that both worlds will become integrated in Sam’s life in the Shire — because if that were possible, Frodo himself would not have to leave. And he cannot mean that time will take its course and sooner or later Sam’s ties to the story and to Frodo will be superseded by familial absorption; he knows all too well that Sam is governed by unshakeable loyalty, that his yearning is profound, and that if that absorption were to happen it would mean that the Sam we knew has died inside. Could Frodo’s words be mere empty consolation, based on nothing more than faith and hope? The consolation is repeated and amplified a few pages later:

‘And I can’t come.’
   ‘No, Sam. Not yet anyway, not further than the Havens. Though you too were a Ring-bearer, if only for a little while. Your time may come. Do not be too sad, Sam. You cannot be always torn in two. You will have to be one and whole, for many years. You have so much to enjoy and to be, and to do.’
   ‘But,’ said Sam, and tears started in his eyes, ‘I thought you were going to enjoy the Shire, too. for years and years, after all you have done.’
   ‘So I thought too, once. But I have been too deeply hurt, Sam. 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. But you are my heir: all that I had and might have had I leave to you. And also you have Rose, and Elanor; and Frodo-lad will come, and Rosie-lass, and Merry, and Goldilocks, and Pippin; and perhaps more that I cannot see. Your hands and your wits will be needed everywhere. You will be the Mayor, of course, as long as you want to be, and the most famous gardener in history; and you will read things out of the Red Book, and 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. And that will keep you as busy and as happy as anyone can be, as long as your part of the Story goes on. (309)
From the perspective of legend, it would be right for all the Ringbearers to leave together, and Sam must have accompanied Frodo with this possibility in mind. This moment echoes the moment when Éowyn turns up in armor and ready for battle, only to be told to stay behind; and her acceptance of Faramir instead of Aragorn, and a healer’s life, raises the same questions as Sam’s return: is she forced into domesticity, does she surrender, or does she assent? Frodo’s consolation to Sam is that he will be needed and also surrounded by love, and that there is greater growth for him along that path — whereas the sojourn in the West is a kind of final stasis and happy embalming, with no prospect of movement or growth. Frodo knows that while he himself has been completed, finished, by the quest, Sam is not and has more work to do, which he can be happy in. 

    When Frodo leaves, Sam, Merry, and Pippin are filled with a sadness that was yet blessed and without bitterness. (309) What kind of sadness is this? There is sadness at anything good coming to an end or being lost, but most endings and losses are confused, entangled, unresolved. This one is a clean finish, with nothing left undone, and with the chance to bid a real farewell. And yet the sadness is profound.

But to Sam the evening deepened to darkness as he stood at the Haven; and as he looked at the grey sea he saw only a shadow on the waters that was soon lost in the West. There still he stood far into the night, hearing only the sigh and murmur of the waves on the shores of Middle-earth, and the sound of them sank deep into his heart. Beside him stood Merry and Pippin, and they were silent.
   At last the three companions turned away, and never again looking back they rode slowly homewards; and they spoke no word to one another until they came back to the Shire. but each had great comfort in his friends on the long grey road. (311)
To understand what Sam is feeling, we have to search into our own experience and remember a time when we actually stood for hours in silence lost in emotion. I recall once, as I lay on the top bunk of a Chinese train compartment, noticing how the old man in the opposite bunk lay there gazing for six hours at a small photograph held between thumb and index finger of his right hand, his face without expression, his body absolutely still. Such is the remembrance of a person who is saying goodbye not to a person or a thing but to a whole essential history; it is almost a farewell to life. The grand story that he has been part of, the great love that he has felt, now has to reside far inside him: hearing only the sigh and murmur of the waves on the shores of Middle-earth, and the sound of them sank deep into his heart. The three hobbits know that they have concluded this part of their lives, and that it is definitively gone; this is why they never again look back. 

   Thus Sam returns with full heart, and Rosie — if she loves him — must know it, and also understand why he isn’t beaming to be home. She has to settle him back into his role physically. He drew a deep breath: he doesn’t only take a deep breath; rather, the drawing is effortful, deliberate, a slowing down of emotions and heart, a self-settling and reorienting.  This is not easy for him. Part of him had not expected to return, after all. Well, I’m back — not just I’m back. The well is like a sigh, a gasp, expressing surprise and discovery. It is acknowledgement that he might also not have come back, and also that miraculously he has found a reason to be back. If you have ever experienced the temptation to walk away from everything and then, to your own puzzlement, nonetheless refused the temptation and returned, you yourself will have drawn that deep breath and said Well, I’m back, if only to yourself. But Tolkien is not done: the last words are he said. Sam has to utter the thought before he can truly be back, for the words are a commitment. Tolkien’s phrasing could be taken to mean “Well, I’m back” was what he said, suggesting that there are things that Sam isn’t saying and perhaps will never say, at least to these people. 

   Sam’s torn nature is his peculiar completion. Whereas Frodo’s completion renders him unable to live in the Shire, Sam can live because he has two worlds and is well established in each of them. He will never be fully here, but perhaps the other world in the background can be sublimated in his earthly work — growing plants with magical elf-dirt, for example,  and being keeper of the legends for his community, and raising his children with stories from “the church in the East.” The novel’s last line gives perfect expression — in soothing iambic pentameter — to the mystery of Sam, who — like Tolkien’s readers — have no choice but to find a way to occupy two worlds, the one we imagine and the one we have to live in. 

Frodo’s Wound

Is The Lord of the Rings a great book or not?  In the Western tradition, from Homer and Aeschylus on, the essential mark of a great book is that it must have a dilemma. It is not enough to have a ripping yarn populated with vivid characters and eloquently written: the narrative has to be built on a crisis that cannot be solved, a conflict that cannot be won. A struggle of right versus wrong might be entertaining but is not fundamentally interesting; however, a struggle of right versus right will hold our attention for centuries. Why is this? — it must be because deep down in our hearts we know that our own lives are dilemmas, which both make us truly alive and also destroy us. Thus, the heroine of Sophocles’ Antigone is right in her stand on natural bonds, but so is her adversary Creon in his stand on political necessity. In the Iliad, who is right, Achilles or Agamemnon — and who has the greater excellence, Achilles or Hector?  In Plato’s Apology, were the Athenians right to kill Socrates, or would they have been right to let him live? All the Platonic dialogues are built on dilemmas. Even in Greek mathematics the most significant propositions involve contradiction or paradox. I would also argue that the greatest Eastern classics are also caught on horns: thus the Mahabharata, with its perplexities concerning dharma and its deep ambivalence towards its heroes, is a greater epic than the Ramayana, which is too simply black-and-white. In Chinese, Confucius and Mencius are fascinated by seemingly balanced moral alternatives; and is there a book anywhere that is as abundant with dilemmas as Sima Qian’s Records of the Historian? In short, if The Lord of the Rings is only about the war between good and evil, in which the good triumphs, then it may be a rousing and edifying epic but it is not a great book. What lifts Tolkien’s work into greatness is Frodo’s dilemma, which breaks him.

   At the beginning of the “Homeward Bound” chapter, we learn that Frodo is not well:

‘Are you in pain, Frodo?’ said Gandalf quietly as he rode by Frodo’s side.
   ‘Well, yes I am,’ said Frodo. ‘It is my shoulder. The wound aches, and the memory of darkness is heavy on me. It was a year ago today.’
   ‘Alas! there are some wounds that cannot be wholly cured,’ said Gandalf.
   ‘I fear it may be so with mine,’ said Frodo. ‘There is no real going back. Though I may come to the Shire, it will not seem the same; for I shall not be the same. I am wounded with knife, sting, and tooth, and a long burden. Where shall I find rest?’
   Gandalf did not answer. (268)

What is this wound? We have watched him getting physically injured several times, and he has been treated by the best possible doctors — but there is something more. The wound aches, and the memory of darkness is heavy on me. The “and” is powerful: I am hurt by a wound, but also by a memory. I am wounded with knife, sting, and tooth, and a long burden. The second “and” stands out, suggesting that the real pain is not physical. Gandalf’s “alas” says that he knows what is going on, and that he knows that Frodo knows. There is no real going back: yes, there is a kind of apparent going back, but no real going back. Their conversation is like a patient talking with his doctor about a terminal cancer diagnosis. When Frodo asks Where shall I find rest? is it a rhetorical question, or a real, desperate question? Gandalf’s silence is full of meaning: either nowhere, or who knows?

   Frodo’s anguish is the profound mystery at the heart of the book; it has been prefigured by the transformation of Smeagol into Gollum. Perhaps Tolkien has too much tact to drag this mystery into the light of day and tell us straight out what it is, but it could also be that while he feels it the author himelf doesn’t comprehend it well enough to give words to it. On one level we are witnessing the post-traumatic stress of a sensitive soul who has seen pure evil and all the darkness possible in this world, face to face. After such an encounter it is not possible to return to ordinary life unshaken; the very existence of so much evil will cast everything in permanent shadow. But there is more to Frodo’s trauma. A little later, as they are heading home:

‘Well here we are, just the four of us that started out together,’ said Merry. ‘We have left all the rest behind, one after another. It seems almost like a dream that has slowly faded.’
   ‘Not to me,’ said Frodo. ‘To me it feels more like falling asleep again.’
(276)

While Merry feels that he is waking up, coming to his senses again, Frodo is sad to lose his hold on the hyper-reality of the epic world: his old hobbit life will be less vivid, less real, less interesting. The painful struggle to destroy the Ring, in all its misery and horror, is preferable to the tedium of comfortable mundane living. If it was Merry who voiced this, we would understand it more easily, because he at least has experienced the rush of battle and heroic action — but all Frodo has experienced is plodding hardship and literal torture. 

   Tolkien’s description of his fits of anguish can sound like an account of withdrawal from heroin addiction:

Sam stayed at first at the Cottons’ with Frodo; but when the New Row was ready he went with the Gaffer. In addition to all his other labours he was busy directing the cleaning up and restoring of Bag End; but he was often away in the Shire on his forestry work. So he was not at home in early March and did not know that Frodo had been ill. On the thirteenth of that month Farmer Cotton found Frodo lying on his bed; he was clutching a white gem that hung on a chain about his neck and he seemed half in a dream.
  ‘It is gone for ever,’ he said, ‘and now all is dark and empty.’
   But the fit passed, and when Sam got back on the twenty-fifth, Frodo had recovered, and he said nothing about himself. (304)

The white gem was given by Arwen in anticipation of his need: “When the memory of the fear and the darkness troubles you….this will bring you aid.” (253) It is either a magical antidote to a supernatural poison, or a more benign addiction to replace the harmful one. He clutches it in exactly the same way he used to clutch the Ring: has she given him a souvenir of hope and brightness to balance out the nightmares, or a milder version of the Ring, keeping him anchored to the period in his life when he felt most alive but without letting him be devoured by it? There is one more recurrence of the memory:

One evening Sam came into the study and found his master looking very strange. He was very pale and his eyes seemed to see things far away.
   ‘What’s the matter, Mr. Frodo?’ said Sam.
   ‘I am wounded,’ he answered, ‘wounded; it will never really heal.’
   But then he got up, and the turn seemed to pass, and he was quite himself the next day. It was not until afterwards that Sam recalled that the date was October the sixth. Two years before on that day it was dark in the dell under Weathertop.
(305)

The memory is of having been stabbed by the Witch-King and almost dying; it was Frodo’s baptism into death, his first experience of what it might be to fade away into nothing. On first consideration, this would seem to be the opposite of what I have described earlier as a more vivid hyper-reality. We have seen throughout journey to Mount Doom that Frodo has been largely absorbed in brooding, which is interrupted occasionally by Sam, who can make him laugh. It is a little like the devotional brooding of a monk, who goes through his daily tasks with his mind on God, and also like the brooding of someone enthralled by an intense inner experience that he cannot relinquish. It bears very little resemblance to Sauron’s obsession with the Ring, which is actually only an obsession with the power it represents; but we see in Frodo’s brooding, as well as in Gollum’s evident love for it, that the Ring brings much more than power. For Frodo and Gollum, putting on the Ring means connecting with something more intense than life can offer; it is not necessarily pleasant or blissful, and perhaps it cannot be expressed in any language of duality. Someone who through the Ring has experienced this higher state cannot go back and live in a world of simple moral valuations. The power of the Ring is that it releases its wearer from commitment to moral distinctions by acclimating them to the larger-than-life state of soul in which the wearer is willing to sacrifice anything to remain bound to this wonderful thing. 

   For a person of shallow character or wicked desires, this is not a problem: the Ring simply brings him what he he thinks he wants. However, for a decent person who cares about goodness and other people, the Ring comes as a terrible dilemma. It is essentially a Romantic dilemma, well expressed in poems by Coleridge, Keats, and Yeats. In Keats’ “Nightingale” Ode, the speaker seeks to escape this world of suffering into a realm of transcendent beauty through the song of the nightingale, but by the end of the poem finds himself alone and forlorn on a desolate shore. The decent, thoughtful person cannot be happy  without love, goodness, other people, the pleasures of life; but after experiencing the Ring, he also cannot live without connection to the dark, intense, inner reality in which these mere human values mean nothing. The tension between these two poles is more than Frodo can endure; it exhausts him and drains his will to live. On the surface, the epic tale is a triumph of light over darkness, with Frodo as the principal hero; but under the surface, it is a tale about the gradual breaking of a sensitive, intelligent being who loses interest in ordinary living because only the destroyed Ring could have given him something more vitally satisfying. 

   In the end Tolkien brings Frodo to a place very similar to the “magic casements opening on the foam / Of perilous seas in faery lands forlorn,” where Keats’ speaker finds himself bereft:

And the ship went out into the High Sea and passed on into the West, until at last on a night of rain Frodo smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water. And then it seemed to him that as in his dream in the house of Bombadil, the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise. (310)

The journey to the Grey Havens is an image of a beautiful, chosen death. The poetically noble, who cannot bear to live any more in the Age of Men, decide to relinquish the world to its new owners, and Frodo — incapacitated for life — disappears with them into the dream world of legend, to which he belongs more than to this life. Is this a sad or happy ending? From the point of view of life, it is sad that the most complex, lovable character in the book, the one who has undergone and achieved the most, has been rendered unfit to live; and from the point of view of legend, Frodo is complete, has achieved everything he has set out to achieve, and he can vanish now in his fulfillment. Why wish anything more for him? He gets to fade away gracefully at his climax and not be reduced over the years, like most of us, to a boring, garrulous anticlimax who lives in the past. The dilemma of Frodo was born with the germ of unrest at the beginning of the tale, where already he knows he is not a hero of legend but also cannot be content to be just a hobbit; it then grows into something that both culminates and kills him.

   His dilemma is the heart of the entire book. Without it, we have just another tale of epic heroism. With it, we have a novel about the perplexed meeting of two incompatible worlds. It is not that the book contains no other dilemmas: Sam, Eowyn, Gollum, Faramir, and Denethor all have dilemmas that deepen the tale. But Frodo’s dilemma runs through the entire book like a diameter, and pierces it with an insoluble problem. We want long lives of pleasure and comfort, of material and social stability, of mundane virtues and cozy excellences, all warm and rounded — but we also want to risk ourselves in life-quests and life-missions, to be grand and save the world with a sword, to experience a great love and a great death. If we are lucky, like Merry, we get to partake in conventional heroism against a conventional monster; but if we are less lucky, we get to do the dirty, painful grind-work of the mission, in which we find ourselves transformed bit by bit into something very close to the darkness we are fighting — and from this transformation there is no going back. It is the same struggle we see in modern superhero stories, in which too our little lives are not enough and we have to do something stereotypically great, like save the world: some heroes do it by fighting, and others do it by becoming the villain in some way. At the end of the first war Isildur removed Sauron’s ring by cutting off his finger probably while his men hold him down; it is no coincidence that Frodo loses his own finger with the Ring. He knows what it is like to have been Sauron and Gollum, and this knowledge is the “long burden” that fulfills him, bringing out depths of power and goodness he never knew he had — and that also renders him unable to live in any earthly society.

   

   

The Multiple Endings of The Lord of the Rings

The Lord of the Rings has a false ending. It occurs at the end of the chapter called “The Steward and the King,”  and in any other novel this would have been a beautiful way to conclude:

And Frodo when he saw her come glimmering in the evening, with stars on her brow and a sweet fragrance about her, was moved with great wonder, and he said to Gandalf: ‘At last I understand why we have waited! This is the ending. Now not day only shall be beloved, but night too shall be beautiful and blessed and all its fear pass away!’

   Then the King welcomed his guests, and they alighted; and Elrond surrendered the sceptre, and laid the hand of his daughter in the hand of the King, and together they went up into the High City, and all the stars flowered in the sky. And Aragorn the King Elessar wedded Arwen Undómiel in the City of the Kings upon the day of Midsummer, and the tale of their long waiting and labours was come to fulfilment. (251)

In both imagery and cadence, this is a perfect ending for the book as an epic and fairy tale: the cosmic battle of good and evil has been won, the rule of the good has been re-established, and there is peace and beauty in the kngdom again. Now we can all go home to our lives. If the reader wished to stop here and not read a single word more, it would have been a satisfying tale, concluding on the heights. But we know that there are sixty more pages to come. Why then is this ending not enough for Tolkien — why can he not stop here?

We have seen throughout that the epic tale of war is not the whole book, but a large part of the book — and it is this part that “The Steward and the King” concludes. The epic tale is embedded in a novel that starts in the Shire and that must return to the Shire. This novel is about the inner impulse to seek completion, fullness of soul; it is about a handful of hobbits’ participation in the epic tale, but their trajectory begins before the war and continues after the war. As a novelist and not a mere spinner of tales, Tolkien is less interested in the events themselves than in their impact on his characters. Gandalf himself says frankly that the war has really been a training for the hobbits:

‘I am with you at present,’ said Gandalf, ‘but soon I shall not be. I am not coming to the Shire. You must settle its affairs yourselves; that is what you have been trained for. Do you not yet understand? My time is over: it is no longer my task to set things to rights, nor to help folk to do so. And as for you, my dear friends, you will need no help. You are grown up now. Grown indeed very high; among the great you are, and I have no longer any fear at all for any of you.’ (275)

That is what you have been trained for. Do you not yet understand? What exactly is it that they do not yet understand? — that the purpose of the entire tale is to help them grow up, to take charge of their own lives, and to have no more need of the Big People? At the beginning of the trilogy the Shire seemed a sufficiently pleasant and comfortable world, amiably middle-class in the narrow security of its preoccupations — but it filled Bilbo and Frodo with restlessness because it was also an asphyxiating, infantilizing world where no one could ever grow up because they had no chance to face dangerous heights and depths. On their adventure, they developed fortitude and courage, found the hidden power of love and lost their fear of death. Moreover, they gained a broader perspective on life and death: having encountered the darkest evils and luminous visions of good, they should now find life on the middle scale more manageable and more intelligible. From the heights and the depths, they must now live on earth again. In not permitting his heroes to remain in the realm of high legend, Tolkien is a realist.

The greatest problems always come not from “enemies” but from neighbors — the people who immediately surround us and who impinge on our lives every moment, night and day. This is why Jesus in his wisdom said “love your neighbor as yourself.” It is much easier to love your enemy, because the Enemy is always a little abstract and remote. The neighbor, on the other hand, is right there, wearing away at you in all his annoying concreteness. Tolkien recognizes that Sauron is actually a great boring emptiness, and that the real threat is the people whom he influences. Now in any war, the powerful Enemy will always succeed in dividing even distant communities; there will always be some who are motivated to form an alliance with the Enemy, others who will go along with them, and others who will resist. Any Enemy worth his salt will have clever strategies to divide his opponents. Even the tranquil Shire is not invulnerable to internal divisions, and the hobbits are not done with their journey until they can deal with the depredations of their neighbors. This is always a more difficult task than destroying orcs, because neighbors have friends and families; killing off large numbers of them will only create long-term strife, and leave us with no peace and harmony to return to — that is to say, no home. This was the problem of Odysseus, who, absent for two decades, returned only to have to purge all of his neighbors, leaving a terrible mess that only the gods could solve. Perhaps there is no easy way out of this; there will always be determined allies of the enemy who will have to be eliminated, and their elimination will always have consequences.

What the hobbits find when they get home bears some striking similarities to the 20th century West. First, the Shire is being run by authoritarians who have succeeded in spreading the mantra  “We’re not allowed to.” (281) Second, the land has been marred by industrialization and the love of the ugly that so frequently accompanies it:

The travellers trotted on, and as the sun began to sink towards the White Downs far away on the western horizon they came to Bywater by its wide pool; and there they had their first really painful shock. This was Frodo and Sam’s own country, and they found out now that they cared about it more than any other place in the world. Many of the houses that they had known were missing. Some seemed to have been burned down. The pleasant row of old hobbit-holes in the bank on the north side of the Pool were deserted, and their little gardens that used to run down bright to the water’s edge were rank with weeds. Worse, there was a whole line of the ugly new houses all along Pool Side, where the Hobbiton Road ran close to the bank. An avenue of trees had stood there. They were all gone. And looking with dismay up the road towards Bag End they saw a tall chimney of brick in the distance. It was pouring out black smoke into the evening air. (283)

It was one of the saddest hours in their lives. The great chimney rose up before them; and as they drew near the old village across the Water, through rows of new mean houses along each side of the road, they saw the new mill in all its frowning and dirty ugliness: a great brick building straddling the stream, which it fouled with a steaming and stinking overflow. All along the Bywater Road every tree had been felled.
   As they crossed the bridge and looked up the Hill they gasped. Even Sam’s vision in the Mirror had not prepared him for what they saw. The Old Grange on the west side had been knocked down, and its place taken by rows of tarred sheds. All the chestnuts were gone. The banks and hedgerows were broken. Great waggons were standing in disorder in a field beaten bare of grass. Bagshot Row was a yawning sand and gravel quarry. Bag End up beyond could not be seen for a clutter of large huts.
   ‘They’ve cut it down!’ cried Sam. ‘They’ve cut down the Party Tree!’ He pointed to where the tree. had stood under which Bilbo had made his Farewell Speech. It was lying lopped and dead in the field. As if this was the last straw Sam burst into tears. (296)

As with many writers who love trees — Wordsworth, Cowper, Hopkins, Chekhov, Frost — nothing in Tolkien symbolizes the desecration of nature and the destructiveness of rampant desire better than the wanton chopping down of trees. People who can cut down the Party Tree and the great chestnuts for the sake of a quarry have no perception of beauty and are enemies to life’s simple delights — yet such people are around us, and crawl into the foreground whenever a master-vandal like Sauron removes the social inhibitions. Tolkien’s lyrical realm of elves, trees, heroes, and radiant mountains is set against the tenacious, low-minded thuggery of modern life that is incarnate in the industrial wasteland, the image of nature vandalized into trash: the Party tree lying lopped and dead in the field. This mentality is the true enemy, and Sauron only its catalyst.

The impulse to soil and desecrate is fueled by envious hatred for beauty and nobility, which for a vandal are sleepy delusions cocooned far away from the spikes and rigors of the ruthless “real” world. In his defiling of other people’s contentment, the vandal characteristically uses the vocabulary of “shaking up” or “waking up”:  “This country wants waking up and setting to rights.” (284) To some extent this is not wrong; Frodo himself grew sick of Hobbiton ease and comfort, and all four of our hobbits are better for having been woken up by their adventure.

Tolkien evokes these traits of the modern vandal but does not elaborate on them. The Shire is in fact easily scoured: the bad guys are killed off without much effort and leave behind them no poisonous miasma of ill-feeling to blight the land for generations; and even the industrial disfigurement of the countryside is healed in a short time with the help of Galadriel’s magic dust. Such buoyancy may be the defining trait of hobbits in general, and it may be more poignant because every adult reader comes to the book with old, unhealed wounds, and knows that hobbits, in this respect, are not like us.

The one element in “The Scouring of the Shire” that troubles me is the presence of Saruman. Would it not have been more true to life to have disposed of him at Orthanc, and then focused solely on hobbit neighbors in the Shire? In this final phase of the novel we do not need the great villains any more, and the task now is to learn how to handle the mundane ones. I can think of two good reasons why Tolkien may have felt it right to assimilate Saruman into the life of the Shire as “Sharkey” and then draw him out to an anticlimactic death. First, throughout the book he has embodied the modern spirit: he is technologist and technocrat, the one who finds nothing natural or social that cannot be manipulated, and who is consequently easily enraged by those who resist him. It is fitting then that Saruman should preside over the industrialization and spiteful vandalism of the Shire.

More important, however, is his role as Gandalf’s alter ego: “Gandalf the White” could have become Saruman, and for a time the two are indeed indistinguishable. They are two possible manifestations of the same person. Wizards with all their power can easily be tempted to use it to bend the world to their desires. It has been a distinguishing mark of Gandalf throughout the book is that he lets others be and trusts them to perform their designated parts, even though he himself may not understand these parts. He is content, for example, to leave Frodo free to do what he has to do, and accepts the danger of Gollum in the providential patterning of the whole. Saruman, on the other hand, is constantly scheming for the upper hand, and in every conversation needs to show that he is in charge: power for him is power over people and things, whereas for Gandalf true power is built upon the strength not to need power. Gandalf accompanies the hobbits at the beginning of their journey home, but it is Saruman who, after being granted mercy by Frodo, has the last word when they are finally able to settle:

Saruman rose to his feet, and stared at Frodo. There was a strange look in his eyes of mingled wonder and respect and hatred. ‘You have grown, Halfling,’ he said. ‘Yes, you have grown very much. You are wise, and cruel. You have robbed my revenge of sweetness, and now I must go hence in bitterness, in debt to your mercy. I hate it and you! (299)

Saruman’s You have grown, Halfling, you have grown very much is a twisted echo of Gandalf’s You are grown up now. In one reading of this echo, Gandalf was asserting that the hobbits have grown into strength, integrity, wisdom — a ripening into unequivocal excellence; but Saruman, on the other hand, is describing a darkly sophisticated adult mindset, for which no virtue is free of taint, and virtue and vice always equivocal. You are wise, and cruel: he is accusing Frodo of masking perceptive malevolence with apparent mercy. The act of mercy is intended to subjugate and humiliate. To Saruman, Frodo has learned and become wise in the ways of the world; he knows how to wield irony and to use goodness as an instrument of pain. Is Saruman just projecting his own tortuous paranoia onto the innocent hobbit, or is he somewhat right in his assessment of Frodo? If he is right, Frodo in the course of his journey has lost his innocence, his capacity for faith in simple goodness, and so cannot return to a life of contentment and delight in the Shire; if he is wrong, Frodo will nonetheless reflect on these words and wonder if he has indeed lost the hope of simple happiness. Saruman will have fired a poisoned dart on his way out. Yet it is because the hobbits have lost some vital part of their innocence that they are able to read the intentions of corrupted hobbits and spiteful men, and to take appropriate action against them: they have become worldly, realistic, lethal.

Thus, close to the end of the book, we get a view of Frodo through the eyes of Gandalf’s doppelganger, and these eyes give us Frodo as he has been transformed through his experiences. “The Steward and the King” chapter closes the book’s epic action, and “The Scouring of the Shire” is a necessary trammeling of elements, like Saruman, that have burst out of the epic action — but the book cannot be concluded until we understand what the main action has done to the hearts and minds of our heroes.

Tolkien’s Ceremonial Heroism


What most distinguishes a warrior from a great killing machine is an instinct for ceremony. Diomedes and Ajax have a gift for slaughter, but only Achilles, as he sends off Patroclus and the Myrmidons to fight, will perform a spontaneous ritual prayer:

Achilles went into his hut and opened up the lid
on a beautifully decorated chest
placed on board his ship by silver-footed Thetis
for him to take. She’d packed it with cloaks and tunics,
and woollen blankets, too—protection from the wind.
There he kept an ornate goblet. Other than Achilles 
no one used it to drink gleaming wine. With this cup
Achilles poured libations to no god but Father Zeus.
Taking this out of the chest, first he purified it
with sulphur, then rinsed it out in streams of water.
He washed his hands and drew some gleaming wine. 
Standing in the middle of the yard, he poured it out,
gazing up at heaven. Thunder-loving Zeus looked on.  (Iliad 16: 220-32)

We have seen that for Tolkien heroes are ennobled and beautified by ceremony. Boromir before his death was a less attractive man, resentful, truculent, and self-centered. But at his funeral — which is a perfect, spontaneous performance by three heroes, the sun, and the landscape — even those of us who previously disliked him discover now that we love him. The ceremony immerses him in a holy haze of beauty and reverence, which completes him by turning his life and death into an unforgettable picture:

Now they laid Boromir in the middle of the boat that was to bear him away. The grey hood and elven-cloak they folded and placed beneath his head. They combed his long dark hair and arrayed it upon his shoulders. The golden belt of Lórien gleamed about his waist. His helm they set beside him, and across his lap they laid the cloven horn and the hilts and shards of his sword; beneath his feet they put the swords of his enemies. Then fastening the prow to the stern of the other boat, they drew him out into the water. They rowed sadly along the shore, and turning into the swift-running channel they passed the green sward of Parth Galen. The steep sides of Tol Brandir were glowing: it was now mid-afternoon. As they went south the fume of Rauros rose and shimmered before them, a haze of gold. The rush and thunder of the falls shook the windless air. (The Two Towers, p.19)

Similarly, the war of the Ring is not concluded by the destruction of the Ring and of Sauron. A lesser novelist would have drawn out the scene at the Crack of Doom, amplified the struggle with Gollum, created a climactic fight with Sauron, and showed in detail the collapse of the evil empire, followed by a chapter to wrap it all up. For Tolkien, however, there have to be several ceremonious episodes before the war can be considered over, and to enjoy the book fully the reader has to have the capacity to enjoy ceremony and not rush over these pages. Since all rituals are conducted with solemn exactitude of speech and gesture, the reader must enjoy taking the time to visualize these and to let each moment sink in. It is not like the endings of popular films such as Star Wars, in which the ceremony consists of applause, fanfare, and smiling celebrity; all this does is embellish the action and signal to the audience that they can start to leave now. Tolkien’s ceremonies commemorate not victory but greatness and significance, together with loss and sacrifice. Indeed, the main function of slowness in ritual is to enable remembrance and contemplation, and the power of the ritual is in direct proportion to the memories of the participants and their contemplative inclinations. A film version of Tolkien’s ceremonies might effectively include slow flashbacks of crucial moments, bringing to mind the entire sequence of events and giving it a place in history or legend. The ceremony thus connects the passing particular with a timeless whole, which gives meaning and therefore motive for the warrior’s efforts. The fighter only fights, the killer only kills, but the warrior defends a whole world from disintegration into meaninglessness. 

   In the improvised perfection of Boromir’s funeral we see that ritual is not the rote repetition of traditional motions and formulas; it emanates from a deep sense for the complex harmonies of human action and natural setting. In the crowning of Aragorn, we see another improvisation without any guiding precedents. This time both Faramir and Aragorn make up the ceremony, which becomes not just a decorative flourish but a piece of theater — fusion of painting, dance, and poetry — that allows Aragorn to be manifested:

‘Men of Gondor, the loremasters tell that it was the custom of old that the king should receive the crown from his father ere he died; or if that might not be, that he should go alone and take it from the hands of his father in the tomb where he was laid. But since things must now be done otherwise, using the authority of the Steward, I have today brought hither from Rath Dínen the crown of Eärnur the last king, whose days passed in the time of our longfathers of old.’
   Then the guards stepped forward, and Faramir opened the casket, and he held up an ancient crown. It was shaped like the helms of the Guards of the Citadel, save that it was loftier, and it was all white, and the wings at either side were wrought of pearl and silver in the likeness of the wings of a sea-bird, for it was the emblem of kings who came over the Sea; and seven gems of adamant were set in the circlet, and upon its summit was set a single jewel the light of which went up like a flame.
   Then Aragorn took the crown and held it up and said:

Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn’ Ambar-metta!

And those were the words that Elendil spoke when he came up out of the Sea on the wings of the wind: ‘Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come. In this place will I abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world.’
   Then to the wonder of many Aragorn did not put the crown upon his head, but gave it back to Faramir, and said: ‘By the labour and valour of many I have come into my inheritance. In token of this I would have the Ring-bearer bring the crown to me, and let Mithrandir set it upon my head, if he will; for he has been the mover of all that has been accomplished, and this is his victory.’
   Then Frodo came forward and took the crown from Faramir and bore it to Gandalf; and Aragorn knelt, and Gandalf set the White Crown upon his head, and said:
‘Now come the days of the King, and may they be blessed while the thrones of the Valar endure!’
   But when Aragorn arose all that beheld him gazed in silence, for it seemed to them that he was revealed to them now for the first time. Tall as the sea-kings of old, he stood above all that were near; ancient of days he seemed and yet in the flower of manhood; and wisdom sat upon his brow, and strength and healing were in his hands, and a light was about him.  (245-46)

Aragorn does not become the king until this moment. It is not an identity that he has or has had all along, but it has to be conferred ceremonially, through proper timing and the right accessories. In the same way, Boromir becomes himself only at his funeral. Unlike a mere killing machine, who only has this life and this death, Aragorn and Boromir are raised by ritual into the timeless community of warrior heroes. 

   The real action of The Lord of the Rings is ceremonial theater, which frames the physical struggle and elevates it. The entire story exists as a tension between the sweating, striving, frail bodies of all the participants and their spiritual, mythic reality: Gandalf is Mithrandir, Frodo is The Ring-bearer. They do not shuttle between the two identities but are in fact both of them. This is one reason why the epic warriors of The Two Towers seem so flat: there, they are only one of these poles. This is also why Aragorn and Arwen are less satisfying. In contrast, Frodo and Sam are interesting because they are always wondering about how to situate themselves between rocky reality and the burdensome call of legend. 

   In our own times the ceremonial, whether religious or civic, can feel like a desperate affectation that arises from fear of change and resistance to loss. Because we either fear losing our traditions or have already lost them, we fabricate rituals that reassure us of our cultural identities: the “traditional” wedding that is in fact less than a century old, “traditional” Scottish kilts that were invented by an English industrialist and ended up using Flemish patterns, “traditional” Christmas roast turkey that would have been unheard of in Dickens’ day. Occasionally Tolkien’s ceremonialism can feel like the attempts of modern religious groups to evoke the radiant order of medieval piety. Thus, Aragorn’s stilted, archaic language when he slips into his persona of king is reminiscent of modern religious warriors who want to bring back the Caliphate. This modern traditionalism is actually an admission that the old order has been lost, and instead of the organic fluidity of a living culture we get a rigid, formal version that derives its authority from being thought of as “traditional.” In contrast, real Irishmen, unlike American Irishmen, don’t have to wear green on St.Patrick’s Day because whatever they wear is Irish. Throughout The Lord of the Rings the use of immemorial sacred props and ancient languages, the evocation of dead civilizations and the fascination with lost archives, are all acknowledgements that the world of old has passed and that we who are alive must come to terms with their passing. 

  Of the ceremonies that have to take place before the heroes can leave Gondor, most are typical of epics generally: ceremonies of feasting, hearing great deeds sung, gift-giving, the naming of heroes and of royal lineages, the burial of fallen kings. The most remarkable one involves Aragorn’s finding and transplanting of a sapling of the Eldest of Trees:

Then Aragorn cried: ‘Yé! utúvienyes! I have found it! Lo! here is a scion of the Eldest of Trees! But how comes it here? For it is not itself yet seven years old.’
   And Gandalf coming looked at it, and said: ‘Verily this is a sapling of the line of Nimloth the fair; and that was a seedling of Galathilion, and that a fruit of Telperion of many names, Eldest of Trees. Who shall say how it comes here in the appointed hour? But this is an ancient hallow, and ere the kings failed or the Tree withered in the court, a fruit must have been set here. For it is said that, though the fruit of the Tree comes seldom to ripeness, yet the life within may then lie sleeping through many long years, and none can foretell the time in which it will awake. Remember this. For if ever a fruit ripens, it should be planted, lest the line die out of the world. Here it has lain. hidden on the mountain, even as the race of Elendil lay hidden in the wastes of the North. Yet the line of Nimloth is older far than your line, King Elessar.’
   Then Aragorn laid his hand gently to the sapling, and lo! it seemed to hold only lightly to the earth, and it was removed without hurt; and Aragorn bore it back to the Citadel. Then the withered tree was uprooted, but with reverence; and they did not burn it, but laid it to rest in the silence of Rath Dínen. And Aragorn planted the new tree in the court by the fountain, and swiftly and gladly it began to grow; and when the month of June entered in it was laden with blossom.
   ‘The sign has been given,’ said Aragorn, ‘and the day is not far off.’ And he set watchmen upon the walls. (250)

   This sapling, no more than three feet high, had already put forth young leaves long and shapely, dark above and silver beneath, and upon its slender crown it bore one small cluster of flowers whose white petals shone like the sunlit snow. (250) There is something tinselly and synthetic about this young tree; indeed, it is not really a tree, but an emblem of a tree. Tolkien loved actual trees in their dense foliage and wild gnarliness, and he could have arranged for Aragorn to discover such a tree rooted deep in a mysterious valley that then becomes a place of pilgrimage for the kingdom. Instead, this sapling appears to have no roots: it is not of the kingdom, not of its earth, but can be placed anywhere at the king’s wish. It is a spiritual entity, not a natural one — essentially the same sort of thing as a plastic Christmas tree, but more elegant and somewhat alive. Tolkien has found the perfect symbol for the heroic mythology that scaffolds The Lord of the Rings: heraldic, beautiful, metallically shiny, and not fully alive. The world of the hobbits is alive: earthy, bustling, unceremonious, unsolemn, full of sensory delight and humor. Ceremony, on the other hand, cannot co-exist with humor; a single chuckle can bring down a ritual. Yet to Bilbo, Frodo, Sam, and later Merry and Pippin, the mundane comforts of hobbit existence are not enough: they need this higher solemnity to become completed. With the exception of Faramir and Éowyn, the martial warriors in this book are content to be epic figures and do not yearn for any fulfillment of their earthly natures. There is no living tension in them; they are like a silvery sapling growing in the snow, destined to reach maturity with magical speed because it is exempt from the patient labor of organic growth. 

   The faery sapling perfectly expresses Tolkien’s ambivalence towards the world of martial heroism: it is beautiful, we need it, but there is something not quite alive about it, something gleaming and superficial, without depth. In needing to have such an emblem before us,  we are confessing that we have already lost what it stood for: we no longer have an authentic, natural relationship with the higher order that gives meaning to our lives, and therefore we evoke it every now and again with ceremonial theater — or with fantasy novels. As the Daoist sage Zhuangzi put it, Those who seek to satisfy the mind of man by hampering it with ceremonies and music have already lost their original nature.

For Éowyn, a Trammel?

A hutch to trammel some wild thing in: this was Gandalf’s description of the life that had been assigned to Éowyn. In her heroic vanquishing of the Witch-King she seems to have broken out of the hutch, at least for a while. But what happens after the war? She cannot have the man she has loved for most of the book, she has lost Theoden, her shield arm is crippled, and she might have to settle for a life that is second-rate to her. Thus, when within the space a page she switches her love from Aragorn to Faramir, decides that she now has to be healer and not warrior, and sheds her desire for queenship, it is tempting to wonder if the author — in his concern not to leave her broken and unresolved — has forced her into a new captivity — a more insidious one, because this time she submits voluntarily. It turns out that Gandalf’s mixing of metaphors in combining a hutch with a trammel may be precise and appropriate after all: a tramnel is a finer-meshed, secondary net designed to trap fish that manage to escape from the main net. 

   There is a lot at stake in Éowyn’s sudden change of heart. Is it possible to relocate such an intense love-yearning so easily? Is it possible for a fierce, stubborn character like her to do so? Does Tolkien understand her? Does Tolkien understand sexual love? The questions are important because in general women are poorly or simplistically portrayed in The Lord of the Rings, and Eros — not only in its physicality, but also in the spirituality of its yearning — is practically absent, except in the figure of Éowyn. Aragorn’s ethereal love for an elf-lady doesn’t count, and we are told very little about why Arwen gives up elfdom for him. At the other end of the spectrum, there is also no Eros in the Shire. The closest we come is Sam’s cozy domestic partnership with Rose, and even though they must have sex they do not have Eros. If there is no room in Tolkien’s  world for Eros, then that world is painfully limited, with significant parts of the heart and the body amputated. In such a world, where even the strongest willed people let themselves be molded to the demands of the ruling order, there is no such thing as intractable nature, no radical mismatch of nature and state, and hence no possibility of tragedy. If Éowyn can be Éowyn and is allowed to love who and what she loves, there will be a price to pay but there will be life in this world; but if Éowyn can simply douse the fire of her yearnings and willingly finds a place in the new order by turning herself tepid, she will be confirming that in Aragorn’s realm there is really no such thing as an unruly, disordered heart. This would make Tolkien’s book a work of pure but desiccated fantasy. 

   We have seen that Tolkien can be awkward with romance, and even amidst the very beautiful exchanges between Faramir and Éowyn there are sentences that a sensitive person cannot read aloud without wincing:

‘Then, Éowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful. In the valleys of our hills there are flowers fair and bright, and maidens fairer still; but neither flower nor lady have I seen till now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful.  (238)

And so they stood on the walls of the City of Gondor, and a great wind rose and blew, and their hair, raven and golden, streamed out mingling in the air. (241) 

Engineering a romance between Faramir and Éowyn was surely one of Tolkien’s most difficult tasks as a writer. On the one hand, in Éowyn he has a strong, intransigent character who, both as male and female, seems incapable of backing down. Coming from a stock of the harsh warriors, who sing as they slay and who ruthlessly hunt down the indigenous Wild Men, Éowyn gives voice to a pure warrior ethos: ‘And it is not always good to be healed in body. Nor is it always evil to die in battle, even in bitter pain. Were I permitted, in this dark hour I would choose the latter.’ (236) She is, moreover, in love with a man whom she views as the ultimate warrior. Faramir, on the other hand, does not love fighting:

`For myself,’ said Faramir, ‘I would see the White Tree in flower again in the courts of the kings, and the Silver Crown return, and Minas Tirith in peace: Minas Anor again as of old, full of light, high and fair, beautiful as a queen among other queens: not a mistress of many slaves, nay, not even a kind mistress of willing slaves. War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend: the city of the Men of Númenor; and I would have her loved for her memory, her ancientry, her beauty, and her present wisdom. Not feared, save as men may fear the dignity of a man, old and wise.’ (“The Window on the West,” ch.5, The Two Towers, 280)

He loves civilization, beauty, and goodness — which are quite possibly things that leave Éowyn cold. But we have seen the gentle, tactful perceptiveness of his interrogation of Frodo, and have reason to think that if any man can find a way to relate to Éowyn it will be Faramir. He says that he is interested in her because of her beauty and her sorrow, but why would she be interested in him?

   In the build-up to her conversion, we can see how she becomes interested in Faramir:

‘Then if you will have it so, lady,’ he said: ‘you do not go, because only your brother called for you, and to look on the Lord Aragorn, Elendil’s heir, in his triumph would now bring you no joy. Or because I do not go, and you desire still to be near me. And maybe for both these reasons, and you yourself cannot choose between them. Éowyn, do you not love me, or will you not?’
   ‘I wished to be loved by another,’ she answered. ‘But I desire no man’s pity.’

He shows to her first that he sees precisely the main reason she will not go: he knows that she knows that if Aragorn were to summon her it would be out of pity, and the one thing she cannot endure is a man’s pity. But then he ventures a bold surmise: because I do not go, and you desire still to be near me. Why would he think that her desire to be near him might equal her feelings for Aragorn? Has she given any prior indication of such feeling? The tense of her response — I wished — suggests that he is not far off the mark: does she mean “I used to wish,” “I once wished,” or “I wished and still wish”?

   A few pages before this we saw their first meeting:

‘Do not misunderstand him, lord,’ said Éowyn. ‘It is not lack of care that grieves me. No houses could be fairer, for those who desire to be healed. But I cannot lie in sloth, idle, caged. I looked for death in battle. But I have not died, and battle still goes on.’
   At a sign from Faramir, the Warden bowed and departed. ‘What would you have me do, lady?’ said Faramir. ‘I also am a prisoner of the healers.’ He looked at her, and being a man whom pity deeply stirred, it seemed to him that her loveliness amid her grief would pierce his heart. And she looked at him and saw the grave tenderness in his eyes, and yet knew, for she was bred among men of war, that here was one whom no Rider of the Mark would outmatch in battle. (237)

I cannot think of another instance in this novel when there is the reciprocal looking of two characters trying to fathom one another, and seeing perhaps what the other sees. This meeting of two perspectives is the essence of the novel as an art form, and it is rare in Tolkien to get two perspectives merged in one paragraph. In what immediately follows, we have another novelistic moment: one character, now invested in another’s point of view, imagines, perhaps accurately, how she would be seen by him, and this imagining actually changes her. For the first time she doubted herself.

‘What do you wish?’ he said again. ‘If it lies in my power, I will do it.’

‘I would have you command this Warden, and bid him let me go,’ she said; but though her words were still proud, her heart faltered, and for the first time she doubted herself. She guessed that this tall man, both stern and gentle, might think her merely wayward, like a child that has not the firmness of mind to go on with a dull task to the end. (237)

Even characters as sensitive as Frodo and Sam never enter into another’s perspective like this. Perhaps Frodo does it with Gollum, but their relationship remains enigmatic. Gandalf does it when he gives his account of Éowyn’s unhappiness, and Aragorn tries to understand. But only Faramir and Éowyn nake a continuous effort to get under each other’s skin. It could be that between two people connected in this way, a look is sufficient to prove the bond — and the narrative emphasizes that they are always looking and intensely concerned with what the other is thinking.

‘Seven days,’ said Faramir. ‘But think not ill of me, if I say to you: they have brought me both a joy and a pain that I never thought to know. Joy to see you; but pain, because now the fear and doubt of this evil time are grown dark indeed. Éowyn, I would not have this world end now, or lose so soon what I have found.’

   ‘Lose what you have found, lord?’ she answered; but she looked at him gravely and her eyes were kind. ‘I know not what in these days you have found that you could lose. But come, my friend, let us not speak of it! Let us not speak at all! I stand upon some dreadful brink, and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet. I wait for some stroke of doom.’

  ‘Yes, we wait for the stroke of doom,’ said Faramir. And they said no more; and it seemed to them as they stood upon the wall that the wind died, and the light failed, and the Sun was bleared, and all sounds in the City or in the lands about were hushed: neither wind, nor voice, nor bird-call, nor rustle of leaf, nor their own breath could be heard; the very beating of their hearts was stilled. Time halted.

   And as they stood so, their hands met and clasped, though they did not know it. (240)

Her words hold much for a lover to ponder on. Is the phrase “my friend” a way of keeping Faramir at arm’s length, or does it signal a new warmth and trust? What does she mean by her obscure statement? — I stand upon some dreadful brink, and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet. I wait for some stroke of doom.’ While in Faramir’s response the “stroke of doom” might refer both to the outcome of the great battle being fought and to the prospect of being rejected by her, her statement encompasses both of those things and also expresses her terror at the thought of leaving her old self-image and supposed vocation behind as she leaps, or falls, into an uncertain new identity. It would suggest that for days she has been thinking of the prospect of a future very different from what she has spent her life imagining. If he has any inkling of this crisis in her, Faramir wisely leaves it unspoken; we have already seen in his conversations with Frodo that he is a man who doesn’t need to say everything he is thinking or force the other person into utterance. He has the capacity of Sam and Gandalf to wait for the moment of ripeness.

   When the fruit is ripe, it falls from the tree. When enough snow piles onto a leaf, at one moment the leaf bends and the snow slides off. There is no deliberation or intention involved, and action emerges spontaneously from a natural rightness. This is in fact what the Daoists would call non-action. And as they stood so, their hands met and clasped, though they did not know it.

   Has she in effect discovered that she already has a communion with this man? Returning to the conversation we started with, we see not only that he can understand why she might love an Aragorn but also that he is strong enough to acknowledge it calmly to her. Without saying it explicitly, he is getting her to see that she was in love with an idea. And where is she looking as he says all this? — down, to the side, or internally?   

‘That I know,’ he said. ‘You desired to have the love of the Lord Aragorn. Because he was high and puissant, and you wished to have renown and glory and to be lifted far above the mean things that crawl on the earth. And as a great captain may to a young soldier he seemed to you admirable. For so he is, a lord among men, the greatest that now is. But when he gave you only understanding and pity, then you desired to have nothing, unless a brave death in battle. Look at me, Éowyn!’
   And Éowyn looked at Faramir long and steadily; and Faramir said: ‘Do not scorn pity that is the gift of a gentle heart, Éowyn! But I do not offer you my pity. For you are a lady high and valiant and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten; and you are a lady beautiful, I deem, beyond even the words of the Elven-tongue to tell. And I love you. Once I pitied your sorrow. But now, were you sorrowless, without fear or any lack, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you. Éowyn, do you not love me?’

His Look at me, Éowyn! shakes her out of the sleep of her idealism. Look: be present, see what is before you. At me: behold the living, real man in front of you. Éowyn: I see who you are and understand you. Her response is sincere and deep, reflecting her grasp of the meaning of his words: And Éowyn looked at Faramir long and steadily. The time is ripe for his most romantic and audacious effusion, spoken like a warrior taking the greatest risk of his life: Even if you married Aragorn and were high above my hopeless love, I would still love you. Éowyn, do you not love me? Is this a real question, or an expression of granite certainty? He seems to have seen her before she sees herself.

   Now what happens in the moment of conversion? I think the climactic sentence only works if we have read the preceding four pages slowly and patiently, and have allowed them to unfold. It is because he can reflect her to herself and she is capable — through loving trust — to see herself reflected in him, that she can awaken to the recognition of feelings she didn’t know she had. 

   Then the heart of Éowyn changed, or else at last she understood it. And suddenly her winter passed, and the sun shone on her.

The phrase or else at last she understood it reveals an emotional sophistication rare in this book: it shows Éowyn to have been an idealist poorly attuned to the movements of her own heart, and that being an idealist, her heart changes only as her understanding changes. Faramir, being the more emotionally empathic of the two, happens to love this about her. Characteristically, like the warrior she is, her transformation is expressed in a vow of action and mastery — and she looks at him as she renounces her old self.

“I stand in Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun, she said; and behold the Shadow has departed! I will be a shieldmaiden no longer, nor vie with the great Riders, nor take joy only in the songs of slaying. I will be a healer, and love all things that grow and are not barren.’ And again she looked at Faramir. ‘No longer do I desire to be a queen,’ she said. (242)

   The romance is accomplished over a mere eight pages. If, believing that the destruction of the Ring is the climax, we rush over these pages to get to the end, we will have missed the delicacy of one of Tolkien’s triumphs as a writer. A rapid reading will give the impression of artificially hurried romance, and Éowyn’s change of heart will seem forced — a subtle trammel. But each section of this book has its own rhythm, and this one is slower than the “Mount Doom” chapter. Even so, at important points in the story Tolkien tends to be laconic, as if inviting us to enter into the tale and dwell in it. If we take our time and let the relationship flower slowly in the time that it needs, we will be partaking in Faramir’s gentle wisdom as he allows Éowyn to find her own heart. Like Frodo and Sam, especially at the end, Éowyn is a character who has needed a life dilemma: she is princess and warrior, woman and man, in love with the unattainable and loved by the attainable. She is radically torn, and on the horns of her dilemma she cannot live a happy, fulfilled life. It is only a character like Faramir who can get her to resolve, because he has the empathy and intelligence to see who she is and love her for it, and because they can both look at each other. Their relationship is not a trammel, trapping her back into domesticity; instead, with him she is finally free to be Éowyn.