Etymologies...

This book is absolutely fascinating. I have reached Part III now, Word Studies, and I have reached ''nasturtian.'' This part gives a list of (mostly) Germanic words revived or some even coined by Tolkien and goes through the etymological significance of each in detail. It is greatly interesting - so absorbing even that while reading it this morning, my mother had to shake me after having called my name twice! It seems strange to me that many names Tolkien uses have far more philological significance than I had hitherto thought, but it doesn't surprise me, and I reproach myself for having underestimated the genius of the man so impertinently. Tolkien had an immense knowledge of languages and could ''invent'' them backwards, as he did with the tongues of Rohan (Anglo-Saxon) and Dale (Old Norse), or could even (non-Middle-earth fashion) invent words to fill gaps in old dictionaries, as he did to supplement the Gothic language. More on this (perhaps) later.

For now, I wish to comment on a rare Latinate word which appears in Bilbo's song of Eärendil in Rivendell. In this wonderful song, full of wonderful philological archaisms, Bilbo calls Eärendil (I am still undecided as to whether he means Eärendil the man, the Mariner, or the Morning Star, but perhaps this is besides the point - comments below would be welcome) the ''flammifer'' of Westernesse. I say it is a rare Latinate word because it is unusual for Tolkien to deliberately use a poetic word of Latin derivation in a Middle-earth setting - most others, such as Westernesse or Easterling, Oakenshield etc, are of Anglo-Saxon or Old Norse derivation. The word ''flammifer'' means ''flame-bearer'' and is, of course, related to the familiar words Conifer (Cone-bearer), Signifer (Standard-bearer), Aquifer (Water-bearer), Crucifer (Cross-bearer), Thurifer (Incense-bearer), and even Lucifer (Light-bearer) - although we seldom use the fair latter form because of its Satanic connotations.

While the word flammifer does not itself appear in the Oxford English Dictionary, the Dictionary lists a rare (very rare, I had never heard of it!) adjective form ''flammiferous'' - a word deriving from the 17th century. Interestingly, Eärendil was the first Middle-earth character to be invented. In 1913, when he was my age, Tolkien discovered the name Earendel in Crist, an Anglo-Saxon poem about Christ. The famous stanza goes:

éala éarendel engla beorhtast
ofer middangeard monnum sended

[Hail Earendel, brightest of angels,

over Middle-earth sent unto Men]

Tolkien identified Earendel (the name means star or radiance) with St John the Baptist, the Prophet who heralded the coming of the Messias. While no such coming happens in Middle-earth (although Andreth alludes to a possible ''incarnation'' in the Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth - see The History of Middle-earth, Volume X), a very moving moment occurs towards the end of The Silmarillion when Eärendil first ascends the heavens; the miserable people of Beleriand look up and behold! their despair is turned suddenly to hope, and they call the new Star Gil-Estel, the Star of High Hope - even the Sons of Fëanor rejoice that it is now forever beyond the grasp of evil hands - for each of them sees the new Star as a sign for the fall of Morgoth.

I have to go to work now! I have used the above image recently; it is John Howe's depiction of The Doors of Night. The ship is, of course, the Flammifer of Westernesse, Eärendil the Mariner.

Interesting book...

A while ago, I posted about this very interesting book. Two people recommended it to me; my Latin teacher (who has excellent literary taste) and my old therapist. The book takes on the nature of a kind of Sherlock Holmes murder mystery. If you can mind the swearing and the blasphemy (the author is unfortunately an atheist) it is rather edifying. I can't say that I entirely identify with the boy, since he likes Science and Maths (two subjects for which at school I had a heartfelt loathing), is an atheist, for so-called ''logical'' and ''reasonable'' reasons, and has some strange ideas about colours and days of the week. I suppose that with books, memoirs, diaries etc, written by people with mental illnesses (such as Girl, Interrupted by Susanna Kaysen - a very bright lady who has Borderline Personality Disorder, or The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, a woman who suffered Clinical Depression), one is to expect something untoward somewhere, but they explore regions of the mind which are altogether dark or full of nightmares. I have found that reading some of my own stuff back to myself, often it is very ''bitter'' sounding. You'll often find that some of the most brilliant persons ever to have contributed to the vast tapestry of human genius have had something ''wrong'' with them. Mozart and Einstein (arguably) had Asperger Syndrome; John Nash (the brilliant Mathematician) has Schizophrenia; Plato, Michelangelo, Leonardo Da Vinci,Tchaikovsky and Oscar Wilde were homosexual. I wonder whether something being wrong somewhere is integral to genius? Therefore, is it a ''sin'' to try and cure the defect? Is it a defect? I ask because one of the qualities of having Asperger Syndrome is being a natural expert in a particular area of interest. Would I be interesting at all if I were not a Tolkienist? What does cure entail? Were I to change anything, I would that I were not more or less ''shunned'' by people for whom I have cordial love and respect.

I heartily recommend that book though!

More Lay of Leithian...

Forgive the lack of posts recently, but I have been unwell (violently sick in fact!) these past two days. I thought, since I wish to retain a steady readership, and readership does go down if there are no posts, that I'd continue with the wonderful Lay of Leithian. We had reached the stage of the departure of Beren from Doriath I believe. Tolkien goes on:

''A guileful oath

thou sworest, father! Thou hast both

to blade and chain his flesh now doomed

in Morgoth's dungeons deep entombed,''

said Lúthien, and welling tears

sprang in her eyes, and hideous fears

clutched at her heart. All looked away,

and later remembered the sad day

whereafter Lúthien no more sang.

Then clear in the silence the cold words rang

of Melian: ''Counsel cunning-wise,

O king!'' she said. ''Yet if mine eyes

lose not their power, 'twere well for thee

that Beren failed his errantry.

Well for thee, but for thy child

a dark doom and a wandering wild.''

''I sell not to Men those whom I love''

said Thingol, ''whom all things above

I cherish; and if hope there were

that Beren should ever living fare

to the Thousand Caves once more, I swear

he should not ever have seen the air

or light of heaven's stars again.''

But Melian smiled, and there was pain

as of far knowledge in her eyes;

for such is the sorrow of the wise.

(The History of Middle-earth, Volume III, Chapter III).

Memory...

Tolkien the Catholic, Tolkien the philologist, Tolkien the lexicographer, Tolkien the Latinist, Tolkien the scholar, Tolkien the poet, Tolkien the intellectual, Tolkien the loremaster, Tolkien the genius...don't let us forget Tolkien the artist. The above painting is by J.R.R Tolkien, found from google images, and depicts Lothlórien in the Spring. Laurelindórenan, the Land of the Valley of Singing Gold, Lórien of the Blossom, the Dreamflower - it's one of those places where I always wanted to live.

One of the central themes in Tolkien is the poignancy of Memory, that is, the Memory of fair things lost indefinitely, and since he writes chiefly of the Elves, it is a constant motif. Memory ties in significantly with Tolkien's ideas about the second ''fall'' (or error) of the Exiled Elves, the Noldor (or Gnomes - I may in fact start calling them this*). At the end of the First Age, the Eldar of Beleriand were counselled by Eönwë to return into the West to receive the pardon (or in some cases, the judgement) of the Valar. Many hearkened to the summons and left the grey shores, but some, many of the greatest and noblest of the Eldar, (eg: Galadriel and Gil-galad) decided to remain in Middle-earth, and these went eastwards into Eriador where they founded kingdoms - Ost-in-Edhil nigh to the great Dwarrowdelf of the Dwarves in Eregion and at Lindon, where there were still havens. In Eregion, the Elves struck up a friendship with the Dwarves of the Misty Mountains, such as there had never been before, to the profit of both their realms.

On a time, there appeared in Eregion a certain sage of wise and fair countenance, calling himself Annatar, Lord of Gifts, and he posed as an emissary of the Valar, sent to heal the desolate lands. He became the friend and counsellor of Celebrimbor, son of Curufin, the greatest craftsman of his age, and Celebrimbor respected Annatar, for his knowledge and subtlety were great, and together with his small band of followers, the Gwaith-i-Mírdain (The People of the Jewel-Smiths), under the tutelage of Annatar, they wrought the Rings of Power. ''Annatar'' was, of course, Sauron the Deceiver.

The chief power of the Great Rings was not, as the film trilogy makes out, for the purposes of government - it was, in fact, the prevention or slowing of decay, or change viewed as something unfortunate but inevitable, the preservation of beautiful things, things beloved or desired, or at least the semblance of all these things. The most potent of these things were the Three, unbeknown to Sauron, and these Three were never touched by him. But, as you all know, Sauron wrought in secret the One Ring in Orodruin, and with this Ring he could see the thoughts and govern the actions of the wearers of the lesser Rings (even the Three), and would eventually utterly enslave them. But when Sauron assumed the One Ring, and spoke the famous leit-motif ''One Ring to rule them all,'' etc, the Elves were immediately aware of him, and in wrath and great fear they removed the Rings, and hid them. Sauron then made war on the Elves, Eregion was destroyed, and the West-doors of Moria were shut. He seized the Great Rings (all except the Three, which were hidden) and gave them to those who would accept them, for reasons of greed or ambition. Etc., etc..

As I have said, the Elves desired only the memory of ancient bliss to be made a reality in Middle-earth - which is, I suppose, where the source of their error lay. They wanted the perfection of the West but in Middle-earth, where they were comfortably above the other uncouth inhabitants (the wild Men and the Dwarves - the Men of Númenor came seldom to Middle-earth in those days). Therefore, the Elves became obsessed with ''fading'', and they were sad. Their art, therefore, became also sad. When Sauron posed as Annatar, he feigned sympathy with this ideal, for it suited his purposes, and therein he sought to twist it, and proposed to them that with his aid, they might endeavour to make Middle-earth a separate paradise, against the Valar. Sure enough, when Sauron was vanquished at the end of the Second Age, his control over the Great Rings was lost, and the Three (while never openly declared) were released, free to act according to their initial design.

Interestingly, there are two important aspects of the ''memory'' of the Eldar depicted in The Lord of the Rings. The one is in the House of Elrond (or perhaps even in the person of Elrond Halfelven himself), a place where Tradition (songs, tales, customs, all concerning the good) is preserved in reverent memory. The House of Elrond is a place of reflection, a veritable mirror or seeing-glass into the history of Arda. The other place is Lothlórien, where the history of Arda seemed to be alive and not just seen in Memory, just as real as the trees and grass. The Hobbits, Frodo and Sam, stood in wonder at it:

''The others cast themselves down upon the fragrant grass, but Frodo stood awhile still lost in wonder. It seemed to him that he had stepped through a high window that looked on a vanished world. A light was upon it for which his language had no name. All that he saw was shapely, but the shapes seemed at once clear cut, as if they had been first conceived and drawn at the uncovering of his eyes, and ancient as if they had endured for ever. He saw no colour but those he knew, gold and white and blue and green, but they were fresh and poignant, as if he had at that moment first perceived them and made for them names new and wonderful. In winter here no heart could mourn for summer or for spring. No blemish or sickness or deformity could be seen in anything that grew upon the earth. On the land of Lórien there was no stain.'' (The Lord of the Rings, Book II, Chapter VI, Lothlórien).

When Sam described the feeling, that it was like ''being inside a song'' as it were, Haldir knew immediately what he meant. Sam felt, of course, the power of Nenya, the Ring of Adamant (one of the Three), which preserved the land of Lothlórien against the menace of Dol Guldur. All outside was dark. But, all the beauty and the memory of good depended upon the Quest of Mount Doom. Galadriel told Frodo that he was not responsible for the fate of Lothlórien, but only for the completion of his task (which encompassed the fate of all realms where the memory of good things was kept in reverence, such as in Gondor (although in the case of Gondor, things are more complex, and arguably, as Faramir says, they had less lore and had become more like the Men of Rohan). But, since the beauty of Lothlórien was preserved with the power of Nenya, what would happen to that beauty if the One Ring were in fact destroyed? Some had argued at the Council of Elrond that the Three would be eternally released, and that the Elves would be free to heal the hurts of the world, and to preserve in a vivid tradition the memory of ancient days. But, as Elrond himself believed, wise in all lore, the other proved the case. The One Ring was indeed destroyed, but the powers of the Three were not enhanced or set free, but were made impotent. ''For our spring,'' said Galadriel, ''and our summer are gone by, and they will never be seen on earth again save in memory.''

I suppose these are all the reasons I find Tolkien's work so beautiful and so resonant, for I too dislike change and would preserve what Memory there was unstained of things of past beauty and happiness. But, inevitably, things grow stale, ends come, beauty is forgotten, Death comes. One of the most beautiful, but sadly seldom read, passages in Tolkien comes from Appendix A of The Lord of the Rings, the Death-bed of Aragorn, and so we might endeavour to reckon the present life of Men:

''Now, therefore, I will sleep.'' said Aragorn. ''I speak no comfort to you, for there is no comfort for such pain within the circles of the world. The uttermost choice is before you: to repent and go to the Havens and bear away into the West the memory of our days together that shall there be evergreen but never more than memory; or else to abide the Doom of Men.''

''Nay, dear lord,'' said Arwen, ''that choice is long over. There is now no ship that would bear me hence, and I must indeed abide the Doom of Men, whether I will or I nill: the loss and the silence. But I say to you, King of the Númenoreans, not till now have I understood the tale of your people and their fall. As wicked fools I scorned them, but I pity them at last. For if this is indeed, as the Eldar say, the gift of the One [God] to Men, it is bitter to receive.''

''So it seems,'' he said. ''But let us not be overthrown at the final test, who of old renounced the Shadow and the Ring. In sorrow we must go, but not in despair. Behold! we are not bound for ever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory. Farewell!''

Graves...

Today's wonderful Mass with the blessing of the graves at Chislehurst has put me in mind of my mother's youngest brother Sean, who died young (aged 18) in 1990. Since my grandparents moved back to Ireland, his grave at a nearby cemetery has been turfed over, and (to my knowledge) no one has been near or by it since early this year. I spoke to my friend about this over lunch today, and she suggested planting snowdrops. I must at least visit the cemetery myself, maybe tomorrow after Mass. He was, afterall, my godfather.

Saturday afternoon...

It's nice to have Saturdays off now - I can have some sort of a life besides University and work this way. At Midday today, I was privileged to attend, and serve (as Thurifer), the High Mass of Requiem followed by the blessing of the graves at St Mary's, Chislehurst. Mass was lovely, but I have more or less run out of things to say about it (having reported so many Masses recently), so instead of going over the oft-heard ''how great and marvellous Mass in the Old Rite is'', I shall say nothing repetitive...so ends Patricius lamely. I am sure there will be photos available shortly.

Afterwards, I met up with a friend of mine and together we drove out to a nice cafe for lunch. We chatted about various things, one of them being my new Tolkien book, which arrived yesterday. I have read very little of it as yet, but I shall go and sort that out presently.

The '62 Rite...

I recently attended a High Mass according to what was mostly the ''liturgical'' norms of 1962. I found the whole ceremony (the music was quite splendid) rather unedifying, untidy, somewhat ungodly (notice these words contain the prefix -un, denoting the absence or lack of a quality, which is fairly typical of the Bugnini half-arsed, DIY, stripped-to-the-bones, or in many cases, mutilated beyond recognition, approach to Liturgy - neither Old Rite nor entirely New Rite, a rather pitiful middle state, rather like your average Anglican!) and was just left with the even stronger conviction that I prefer the Old Rite, and that if you're going to do it, at least do it properly. I can think of no greater enemy to the Traditional Liturgy than pedantic adherents to '62, who would, I expect, do anything to prevent anyone from finding out that the Traditional Roman Rite is centuries older than the 20th century. For people curious about the Traditional Liturgy often turn to the ''powers-that-be,'' as did I when I first ''converted'' to the Old Rite four years ago. I can put it no better than by saying that expecting Miranda, I was greeted by Caliban...

Not having ''watched'' a '62 Rite High Mass from the Congregation for some time now, I forgot how untidy it is, and how, on certain points, it looks entirely meaningless. To give just two examples - the Epistle and Gospel. The Celebrant of High Mass, according to the rubrics of '62, reads neither (nor any other lesson, I wonder what an Ember Day would be like!), but retires to the Sedilia for the Epistle with the Deacon (since neither have a liturgical function at these points), returning to bless the Subdeacon, who transfers the Missal (again, to what purpose is this? Since the Celebrant no longer reads the Gospel, it won't be needed until the Offertory!), and stands at the Epistle corner for the Gospel. If the conduct of the Ministers and Servers is not reckoned to a nicety, it just looks awful, with people getting in each other's way etc.

I wonder to what extent this is reminiscent of the evolution of Low Mass? I am here referring to the ''laziness'' which seemed to be a part of it. If I remember rightly, Bugnini's justification for doing away with the parts of the Mass proper to the Celebrant at the Epistle and Gospel was that in the ''early church'' he didn't read them then. Even were this true, it is still a monstrous anachronism, and its purpose is plainly aliturgical, and, as Tolkien asked, since when was primitiveness any guarantee of value?

There are, of course, other examples of the liturgical ineptitude of '62, but I have not the skill to elaborate them. I leave that to readers. Suggestions in the comment box please! The above photo is, of course, of the Orc liturgist Bugnini, the Freemason who wrought the destruction of the Liturgy, and whose name, an interesting blogger recently picked up, calls to mind the Semitic god Ba'al. Do bearers of this name, by implication, promote idolatry I wonder!?

Is this the kindly face of Satan?

A few weeks ago, my mother and I watched a film called Vera Drake, set in London around 1950. I had never heard of it before, but my mother had clearly seen it. When I asked her what it was about, she simply said ''a woman called Vera Drake.'' As the film progressed, I realised what it was about and was confessedly horrified by what I saw, which was the grotesque and altogether unnatural and evil tampering with the Laws of God. The film is clearly a piece of abortionist propaganda, and is about a ''kindly'' middle-aged working class woman who procures illegal Abortions, thinking this to be an act of generosity. In other words, she was a callous witch. When she was arrested, her explanation to the police was that she ''helped out'' young women who ''couldn't cope.'' I need not explain that this manifests a tragic crisis of moral standing in someone.

I often wonder whether this terrible yoke of the Devil over the minds of Men, especially in the last century or more, is the reason so many people, no doubt ''sincere'' (is that the right word? Where is Tolkien when you need him) in their erroneous and monstrous beliefs, are so morally corrupt. I think that it is a devastating tool devised by the Devil to weaken resistance to his will. It just strikes me as terribly discrepant that people can commit acts of atrocity, like the Nazis one minute, and can then go about their business as though nothing untoward has happened. Something is clearly wrong somewhere. Does the same principle apply, I wonder, to people who despise the Traditional Liturgy? Yea more! To people who are vegetarians, give up drinking (not Pioneers, one of my mother's cousins is a Pioneer, or those who were previously alcoholic - I am here referring to people like Ian Paisley who stupidly think that Alcohol is inherently bad - perhaps if they bothered to read the Scriptures they'd note that God invented wine!), people who join funny Eastern religions/philosophies etc. Never mind about Asperger Syndrome - they are the real lunatics!

The History of Gollum...

People often assume that literary taste is subjective. They could not be more wrong. As W.H Auden once said, if you dislike The Lord of the Rings, I shall never trust your literary judgement again! Anyway, one of the marks of objectively exquisite literature is its ability to manipulate one's emotions. The Lord of the Rings does just this for me. It is at once so sorrowful and poignant but also jovial in places and supremely melodious. It is undoubtedly one of the greatest works of mythopoeic fiction ever to have been composed, and by one man over a period of about 13 years. In one of his letters, Tolkien wrote: ''Hardly a word in its 600,000 or more has been unconsidered;'' and I suppose this gives you at least some measure of the man. I had a delightful conversation the other evening with a friend of mine about the creature Gollum, and I venture to here organise my thoughts about this tragic character, integral to the story, and paradoxically the greatest service to Frodo, who for long pursued him with evil purpose.

We are first introduced to the creature Gollum in The Hobbit, where he is the mysterious furtive creature who dwells on an island deep within the Misty Mountains and plays a riddle game with Bilbo. Tolkien writes that he knows nothing whatever about the wretch, or his origin, and since The Hobbit was not composed by Tolkien as part of the whole, it suffices to give a mere résumé of its content. It is to The Lord of the Rings that we now turn.

Gollum was akin in ancient days to Hobbits of Stoorish kind that dwelt in the Vales of Anduin - indeed, nigh to the Gladden Fields where the Ring was lost. Gandalf tells us that there was among this strange, clever-handed people a family of high repute, governed by a matriarch of some sort, and that the most curious (and devious) member of this family was young Sméagol. He was accustomed to delve into the earth to find the roots of things, the roots of plants and trees, the basins of deep pools, and the roots of the Mountains. He was also interested in the history of things; his sight was therefore constantly downwards, and backwards. On his birthday he and his friend Déagol, a creature of similar sort, went fishing on the Anduin. A great fish caught hold of Déagol's hook, and he was dragged into the river. Whilst underwater, he caught sight of something shiny in the river-bed, and so grabbing hold of it, he came back to the surface. He swam over to the bank and opened the palm of his hand, to find a gold ring.

Sméagol, having espied him from behind a tree, came to him as he gloated over his prize, and whispered into his friend's ear: ''Give us that, Déagol, my love.'' When Déagol refused to give the ring to Sméagol, Sméagol throttled him, put on the ring, and cunningly buried the body. Returning to his home, he found that while wearing the Ring, he was invisible. This was to his liking, and he turned the power to evil uses, until he was shunned by his family, who kicked him. They called him gollum, for he now muttered and cursed, making gargling sounds in his throat, and they cursed him. His grandmother, desiring peace, therefore banished him from the house and he took to wandering. He wept for the hardness of the world, and he sat by the river until the Sun burned him. Seeing, therefore, the Misty Mountains from afar, desire came over him to live there, away from the cruel Yellow Face which burned him. And so, by night he came into the highlands of that region until he discovered a cave out of which flowed a stream. And thus came Gollum, with the Ring of Power, to the Misty Mountains.

In the caves of the Misty Mountains, the Ring became a torment almost unbearable to Gollum, and all the ''great secrets'' concealed in the Mountains just turned out to be darkness. There was nothing left for Gollum to do, except gnaw at the bones of fish he caught (or not seldom, a wandering Orc he ensnared) and remember his life in bitterness. The murder of Déagol was a torment to Gollum, and he would oft repeat in the dark that his ''precious,'' his ''birthday present'' was indeed his own, Déagol ought to have given it to him, it was his birthday present etc. He was altogether ruined and wretched; the Ring devoured him. He hated everything, he hated and loved the Ring, although he could not get rid of it, having no will left in the matter. As the Shadow lengthened in Southern Mirkwood, and the Dark Lord sent forth his dark thought from the woods, it abandoned Gollum, only to be picked up by the most unlikely person imaginable: Bilbo Baggins from the Shire!

There is much to be said for the encounter between Bilbo and Gollum in the Misty Mountains. They had much in common, as can be seen from the riddles that they chose. There was a great deal in both their minds that was similar, and certainly it must have been pleasant for Gollum to hear a kindly voice in the dark, recalling to him long forgotten memories of trees, of wind and of rain. After Bilbo's escape, Gollum endured his loss as long as he could, but in the end his desire for the Ring overcame his fear and hatred of the Orcs, the Sun and the Moon, and he left the Misty Mountains. Significantly, since he lost the Ring (or more accurately, since the Ring lost him), he began to recover somewhat, and he became conscious of his immense age, and he was famished, although cunning. He made his way towards Mirkwood following Bilbo's trail. Later, Gandalf learned that he had made his way to Esgaroth, and even to the streets of Dale, where almost certainly Gollum will have heard rumour of the Quest of Erebor, and the return journey of Bilbo to the Shire. Afterwards, Gollum tried to pursue Bilbo across the leagues of Wilderland and Eriador, but he turned aside. Gollum's trail, when the Wood-elves of Northern Mirkwood essayed to track him, led them through Mirkwood and back, but they found him not, although all the woods was full of the rumour of him. The Woodmen told tales of a new terror, a ghost that drank blood.

The trail turned southwards, out of the regions of the Woodmen and western Mirkwood, and was lost. When he was found, years later by Aragorn by the pools of the Dead Marshes, it was plain that the feet of Gollum had taken him league by league, step by step, down into the land of Mordor. No doubt Gollum felt some kind of ''summons'' (perhaps some residue of the power of the Ring), and was drawn towards the Dark Land; at least there he would find allies to help him get his revenge upon the thief Baggins! He was caught lurking on the confines of that evil realm, and was taken to the Dark Tower for questioning and examination. There he was tortured and thus Sauron discovered that the Ring was not lost, that it was a Great Ring, and that it was long in possession of a halfling, ''Baggins'' from the ''Shire.''

Aragorn brought Gollum through long leagues and much weariness and pain back to Mirkwood, where he was kept in prison by the Wood-elves, who treated him with as much kindness as their wise hearts would allow, hoping for his cure. There he was guarded unceasingly, but at length, the Elves, in the pity of their hearts, would let Gollum out of his prison, and oft in days of fair weather would lead him through the woods where he liked to climb the trees. On one such day, Gollum refused to come down from the great tree, and the Elves were attacked by Orcs from the Mountains. The Elves drove the Orcs back with great slaughter, for they were from the mountains and unused to the woods, but when they returned, they found that Gollum was gone, and the guard about the tree slain or taken prisoner. Thus they learned that the escape was planned, and much of the hidden counsels of the Elven-king were known to the Enemy. In those days, the evil things, long-since driven out since the fall of the Dragon Smaug, returned in greater numbers, and Mirkwood was once again an evil place. The Elves followed the trail of Gollum deep into Southern Mirkwood, but they gave up and dared not continue farther, for the forest was evil, and they were moreover drawing nigh to Dol Guldur.

The tale of Gollum's travels is not clear after this, but I suppose that after he escaped the Orcs, he tried again to find the Shire, and went into Moria. There he would have ''given up,'' being starving hungry and very weary, until the Fellowship of the Ring came to the West Doors, where he would have followed them. The above painting is a ''sketch'' by the Tolkien artist Ted Nasmith, and depicts Gollum by the Forbidden Pool. More on Gollum soon.

Niveus, Nivea, Niveum...

It snowed heavily on Candlemas this year. I took that photo from an upstairs window. The garden always looks so ugly during the Winter, but when it's all covered with snow, it's just lovely. If I remember rightly, that evening the Servers at Mass largely outnumbered the Congregation!

New Tolkien book...

Glyphweb.com is a valuable Tolkien resource, a near-complete Encyclopedia of Middle-earth (although I have looked some things up on there and not found them!), and sometimes they have news and updates. I found this out today. A new book is now ready in paperback; The Ring of Words: Tolkien and the Oxford English Dictionary by Peter Gilliver, Jeremy Marshall and Edmund Weiner. For anyone interested in the linguistic side of ''Tolkien studies'' (such as myself), this book is a must-have. It is on offer at Amazon at £5.73.

Between 1919 and 1920, Tolkien was an assistant lexicographer for the then ''New English Dictionary.'' One of his supervisors, Dr Henry Bradley, was highly impressed with Tolkien's scholarship, then only a man in his late 20s. He said of him: ''His work gives evidence of an unusually thorough mastery of Anglo-Saxon and of the facts and principles of the comparative grammar of the Germanic languages. Indeed, I have no hesitation in saying that I have never known a man of his age who was in these respects his equal.''

The compilation of the Oxford English Dictionary was interrupted by the First World War. By 1919, when Tolkien joined the staff, most of the work had been completed. And so, Tolkien was set to work on words of Anglo-Saxon and other Germanic derivation in the W section. To get a glimpse of the skill required for the etymological and philological rigours of this task, let us look at the word ''wasp.'' The entry under this word cites comparable forms in Old Saxon, Middle Dutch, Modern Dutch, Old High German, Middle Low German, Middle High German, Modern German, Old Teutonic, primitive pre-Teutonic, Lithuanian, Old Slavonic, Russian and, of course, Latin. It is hardly surprising that Tolkien himself wrote of this period: ''I learned more in those two years than in any other equal period of my life.''

As I say, well-worth the read by the looks of things (I have already ordered my copy!). Humphrey Carpenter is often woefully brief in descriptions of Tolkien's life, so this book, by three eminent lexicographers with access to the Oxford English Dictionary archives, promises to be truly edifying.

More from the Lay of Leithian...

It has been some time now since I wrote about The Lay of Leithian. We had arrived at the moment where Thingol pronounces his cunning doom upon Beren, and thus was Doriath enmeshed within a greater doom, the dreaded Doom of Mandos. Tolkien continues:

Then Thingol's warriors loud and long

they laughed; for wide renown in song

had Fëanor's gems o'er land and sea,

the peerless Silmarils; and three

alone he made and kindled slow

in the land of the Valar long ago,

and there in Tûn [Túna] of their own light

they shone like marvellous stars at night,

in the great Gnomish hoards of Tûn,

while Glingal* flowered and Belthil's* bloom

yet lit the land beyond the shore

where the Shadowy Seas' last surges roar,

ere Morgoth stole them and the Gnomes

seeking their glory left their homes,

ere sorrows fell on Elves and Men,

ere Beren was or Lúthien,

ere Fëanor's sons in madness swore

their dreadful oath. But now no more

their beauty was seen, save shining clear

in Morgoth's dungeons vast and drear.

His iron crown they must adorn,

and gleam above Orcs and slaves forlorn,

treasured in Hell above all wealth,

more than his eyes; and might nor stealth

could touch them, or even gaze too long

upon their magic. Throng on throng

of Orcs with reddened scimitars

encircled them, and mighty bars

and everlasting gates and walls,

who wore them now amidst his thralls.

Then Beren laughed more loud than they

in bitterness, and thus did say:

''For little price do elven-kings

their daughters sell - for gems and rings

and things of gold! If such thy will,

thy bidding I will now fulfill.

On Beren son of Barahir

thou hast not looked the last, I fear.

Farewell, Tinúviel, starlit maiden!

Ere the pale winter pass snowladen,

I will return, not thee to buy

with any jewel in Elfinesse,

but to find my love in loveliness,

a flower that grows beneath the sky.''

And so, bowing before the King and Queen of the realm, he departed from the land of Doriath.

*Glingal and Belthil were the original names of ''Glingol'' and ''Bansil'' - again, two archaic forms for the Two Trees of Valinor, Laurelin and Telperion. Interestingly, Tolkien retained Glingal and Belthil late into the Legendarium, and they survive as the names of the two images, wrought by Turgon in Gondolin, of the Two Trees, a fair and poignant memory of ancient bliss in exile.

Can the Devil read minds?

A parishioner asked me yesterday whether the Devil could read minds. I answered that as a finite being, he could not possibly read the minds and pay special and particular attention to each individual mind constantly. I suppose only God can do that, since He exists eternally in a constant ''moment'' being fully aware of everything in Time and Space outside the periphery of temporal and contingent things. And I don't suppose that the Devil is really interested in things not related to sin and the corruption of Men's thoughts, and so small things like the mind's perception of beauty (well perhaps this is small to him) only anger him when thrust upon his attention. The Devil is a terrifying entity all the same, and I don't suppose that there is any power conceivable greater than he, save God alone (to quote the Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth).

However, if we turn to Volume X of The History of Middle-earth, Tolkien writes very eloquently on the subject of ''mind-reading'' among the Valar. He says:

''No one, not even one of the Valar, can read the mind of other 'equal beings':* that is one cannot 'see' them or comprehend them fully and directly by simple inspection. One can deduce much of their thought, from general comparisons leading to conclusions concerning the nature and tendencies of minds and thought, and from particular knowledge of individuals, and special circumstances. But this is no more reading or inspection of another mind than is deduction concerning the contents of a closed room, or events taken place out of sight. Neither is so-called 'thought-transference' a process of mind-reading: this is but the reception, and interpretation by the receiving mind, of the impact of thought, or thought-pattern, emanating from another mind, which is no more the mind in full or in itself than is the distant sight of a man running the man himself. Minds can exhibit or reveal themselves to other minds by the action of their own wills (though it is doubtful if, even when willing or desiring this, a mind can actually reveal itself wholly to any other mind). It is thus a temptation of minds of greater power to govern or constrain the will of other, and weaker, minds, so as to induce or force them to reveal themselves. But to force such a revelation, or to induce it by any lying or deception, even for supposedly 'good' purposes (including the 'good' of the person so persuaded or dominated), is absolutely forbidden. To do so is a crime, and the 'good' in the purposes of those who commit this crime swiftly becomes corrupted.

''Much could thus 'go on behind Manwë's back': indeed the innermost being of all other minds, great and small, was hidden from him. And with regard to the Enemy, Melkor, in particular, he could not penetrate by distant mind-sight his thought and purposes, since Melkor remained in a fixed and powerful will to withhold his mind: which physically expressed took shape in the darkness and shadows that surrounded him. But Manwë could of course use, and did use, his own great knowledge, his vast experience of things and of persons, his memory of the 'Music', and his own far sight, and the tidings of his messengers.

*[marginal note] All rational minds/spirits deriving direct from Eru are 'equal' - in order and status - though not necessarily 'coëval' or of like original power.'' (The History of Middle-earth, Volume X, Morgoth's Ring, Part Five, Myths Transformed, Text VII (ii)).

Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?

This past week I have felt rather sick. I said in my previous post that for this reason I made recourse to my books, the best of friends, but they were cold and stale, as was my music. This feeling is still there, and the oft and familiar ''heaviness'' is still in my chest - I understand now how the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain felt when they had their visits from the dark horseman (a Ringwraith) during the night, and I always assumed that ''heaviness of heart'' was just a saying. At first I blamed having spent a 39 hour week at work, way beyond my contracted hours, and being tired because of it. It is, also, depressing work - or was; to be more accurate, the nature of my new work is more mind-numbingly tedious than depressing, but when you're sick, it can be just as depressing as having to deal with the great unwashed (the general public) anyway and so there is an added lethargy and time drips and drips and drips, until it seems that every time one looks at the clock, time seems either to have halted altogether or is worse, going backwards.

This morning was no different, and I couldn't face getting up - on a Sunday too! My usual favourite day of the week! I went out in the morning, greeted a neighbour (one of the odd ones we don't actually get on well with) and he studiously ignored me. I often find this with people I try to make an effort with, but I suppose that charity requires that I continue to accept abuse in good humour. Before Mass, a friend kindly (and astutely) asked what was wrong, but I didn't actually know. I still don't completely. This last week I have been thinking about things; about academia, about Latin and my obvious ineptitude at it, about family, about Love (the unrequited stuff) and about having a piece of paper to say you did a Degree, and it all seems rather sad.

I am quite certain that most readers will be sick of these ''sob-story'' posts, but it needs to be out somehow, and to what or to whom else can I turn? I sincerely hope someone takes the trouble to read it. I know for a fact that my mother doesn't read this blog, and I oft think that she, although people may gainsay this, doesn't understand me at all, and often enough doesn't seem interested in listening to my problems. My father is much the same. Then there are friends: they exist only in books. Acquaintances; I am afraid that I don't know them enough, nor do they know me enough, for me to properly go into my problems with, even if they were interested. Psychologists? They are paid to sympathise with patients and I rather doubt that they think about their work when they go home at 5:00pm. Utterly insincere. Then comes the Confessional, and how that puts me off! I suppose the most difficult thing about Confession is getting the gumption to actually go there in the first place. Before this wasn't a problem, and was rather routine for me. I would go once a week, confess my sins, and be done with it. It was a chore, but not a terrible chore like doing the washing up (which took me literally two and a half hours this evening), and it became complacent. Then I realised something terrible and wonderful about myself and I couldn't go, out of sheer fear and shame.

Until I work this out, I am rather stuck. In the last few days, I had begun to write blog posts (one about Gollum) but gave up because I couldn't think properly, or I just thought that the inarticulate nonsense I had composed would just serve to make me look stupid. So to whom shall I turn? What patron shall I ask? People say prayer, and they are probably right, but what I really want is someone genuinely interested and sympathetic to talk to - prayer is the gift of faith, but I don't want answers from the Saints revealed in parables or some other strange, unknowable way. I need something immediate, but I doubt that such a thing exists. I suppose that I actually put more people off by writing things such as this than invite them as friends. What do readers think?

The above painting is by Ted Nasmith and depicts Treebeard, one of my favourite characters from The Lord of the Rings. I like him because he is old, grave, melancholic and plain-wise, having wisdom with years (very long years) of experience. I am also fascinated by the Ents - like Elves in their longevity and their love of growing things, but also more like unto Men since they do change (albeit slowly) with the passing years. The Ents' hunt for the Entwives is probably one of the most moving things I have ever read. Treebeard is not, of course, one of the Wise on account of his age, since there are many things that he does not know or understand, but he is very interesting all the same.