J.R.R Tolkien, RIP...

Forgive the lateness of this post, but I have been at work all day and I couldn't get on the computer this morning...

Today (in case you're reading this tomorrow, Wednesday 2nd September) is the 36th anniversary of the death of J.R.R Tolkien at the age of 81 years. In the last years of his life, he developed a chest infection, and three days before he died, he was taken to a private hospital where he was diagnosed with an acute bleeding gastric ulcer. He went to his long home early on the Sunday morning. His Requiem Mass was celebrated in the church of St Anthony of Padua in Headington, Oxford. His son John (ordained priest in 1946) was Celebrant, and he was assisted by Fr Robert Murray, SJ (a family friend) and the parish priest, Mgr Doran. All the ingredients for a High Mass of Requiem, but it was not so. No, Tolkien was ''honoured'' with a concelebrated Mass in the New Rite. He was buried beside his wife Edith (who had died two years before) in the cemetery at Wolvercote, in the area reserved for members of the Catholic Church. The headstone (wrought of Cornish granite) is inscribed thus: ''Edith Mary Tolkien, Lúthien, 1889-1971. John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, Beren, 1892-1973.'' Tolkien had wanted the name Lúthien inscribed on Edith's grave since it expressed more to him than a multitude of words. I would write a post about the significance of Lúthien in Tolkien's view, but I think it would be too personal and intrusive of me.

In August of 1952, Tolkien stayed with George Sayer (1914-2005, a former pupil of C.S Lewis, occasional Inkling, and a friend of Tolkien's) and his wife Moira at Malvern while Edith was with friends in Bournemouth. Together they walked in the Malvern hills, drove into the Black Mountains on the borders of Wales where they picked bilberries and climbed through the heather. They picnicked on bread, cheese and apples, with perry, beer and cider. Tolkien compared the hills to scenes from The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien had asked Sayer if he could help him in any way, and Sayer suggested that he do some work in the garden. Sayer recalled that Tolkien: ''chose an area of about two square yards, part flower border and part lawn and cultivated it perfectly: the border meticulously weeded and the soil made level and exceedingly fine; the grass cut with scissors closely and evenly. It took him quite a long time to do the job, but it was beautifully done. He was in all things a perfectionist.'' (''Recollections of J.R.R Tolkien,'' Proceedings of the J.R.R Tolkien Centenary Conference 1992 (1995), p.23).

When they went to Mass on Sunday, Tolkien leaned over to help some children in the pew in front of him to follow the Mass in a simple picture book Missal. Sayer recalled that: ''when we came out of the church we found that he was not with us. I went back and found him kneeling in front of the Lady Altar with the young children and their mother, talking happily and I think telling stories about Our Lady. I knew the mother and found out later that they were enthralled. This again was typical: he loved children and had the gift of getting on well with them. 'Mummy, can we always go to church with that nice man?''' (Ibid, p24).

That's just one story I know about his life. I thought it especially pertinent given his poignant love and devotion to Our Lady, who in many ways took the place of his mother Mabel (1870-1904) who died a Martyr for the faith (she died of diabetes, and the long suffering inflicted upon her by her Protestant and Unitarian family for bringing the young Tolkien and his brother Hilary into the True Faith). Tolkien's love of the Church was great; greater than many who in reforming zeal sought to change her beyond recognition. Tolkien died in the early years of the New Rite (and undoubtedly saw the worst of it) and he was moreover especially troubled by the impetuous changes brought about in the Liturgy over the last 22 years of his life.

Requiescat in pace, Amen.

The above photo is the last one to have been taken of Tolkien, taken on 9th August 1973. Tolkien is standing next to one of his favourite trees, a Black Pine, in the Botanic Gardens, Oxford.