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.

What is it like to be me?

''How odd is his voice, how odd his manner of speaking and his way of moving. It is no surprise, therefore, that this boy also lacks understanding of other people's expressions and cannot react to them appropriately.'' (Hans Asperger, 1944).

When I tell people that I have Asperger Syndrome, they react differently. Some ask what it means (by which, presumably, they mean what the symptoms are and whether or not they have it, or it is contagious), some either stare blankly at me or look away or downwards, whatever the implications of this reaction may or may not be; others look at me as if to say: ''I know what you are,'' in the most condescending fashion. Confessedly, when I first heard the term said of me, I initially thought it incorrect - how could anything possibly be wrong with me (of all people) - it was everyone else who was wrong. When I went to a Child Guidance Clinic (after a referral from my Primary School for disruptive behaviour), my hippy therapist (that is how my father described them, by which he meant that they were all politically liberal and correct) wrote that I was ''living in a bubble.'' I have thought about this phrase almost constantly since I first saw it on my medical records three years ago, and I am yet to determine whether it is especially profound or stupid. Maybe Time will tell. Time, if anyone remembers Riddles in the Dark, is the destroyer of all things, the eater of worlds.

When I first received my diagnosis (in hindsight, I cannot believe that I condescended to be treated as a laboratory hamster for months), it was rather upsetting, and my head spun with conflicting thoughts and feelings; it was very loud, almost as if there were a war of sentiments and notions going on in my head. I get a similar feeling when more than one person is talking to me at the same time. I felt as though I didn't seem to quite fit in anywhere; I was not quite far along the Autism Spectrum to be classically Autistic; Asperger Syndrome sounded like a road that went nowhere, a window into nothing (like the Eye of Sauron), or a stream that went into the sand. It seemed like a magnet, pulling and pulling at my mind, pulling me into the realms of solitary wandering and pain, seeing the world through the bars of a cage, a prison that one could not see or feel, or escape from. I could only look from a distance at the relationships and friendships of other people, which I wanted to be part of, and I just felt alone, and bitter. For a long while, I belied reality with the notion that this was what I wanted, the other children were naturally less intelligent than I, less artistic, less sensitive to music and art, they all seemed to be more interested in frivolity than thinking, which I liked to do best. Boys were especially disgusting, and I had more girlfriends in Primary school - maybe because they were more like me than the boys were. Girls at any rate were sensitive to things with a particular quality of beauty, such as art. Among boys, any aesthetic appreciation was scoffed at as ''gay.'' I certainly cannot explain my preferences, even if I would. I was alone, perforce and by choice, a lot of the time, but it was a reluctant choice or acceptance. Perhaps it was a case of ''beware of wishing for your heart's true desire, lest you end by getting it.''

I often find that by writing things like this I am trying to articulate something very personal but incomprehensible. I hope these posts are at least intelligible and readable. Last night when I said that I was in pain and in dire want of personal literature, I meant it sincerely. But, most of my books have been read again and again, and like Tolkien and Lewis in the early 1940s, I have decided that not enough literature to my personal taste exists - so I shall have to compose some myself. Perhaps this is why, in a moment of temporary insanity, I proposed to the others my vague idea of writing a blog. Names for the blog were suggested - amusingly Mac proposed ''Attack of the Orcs'' - I thought then ''it won't be a blog about writers of The Tablet'' but I thought better of actually saying that. This is a Catholic blog, uncompromisingly so, but it has also become an eclectic blog, and I hope readers enjoy it.

As is my wont, I have strayed from the topic. Sometimes I feel that I am rather useless. I little sympathise with others who have Asperger Syndrome. They mostly seem to be great mathematicians or scientists or engineers. As my father said of me once, ''you don't even know how to change a light bulb.'' I suppose being entirely impractical does in fact make me useless. What can I say? My mind is rather peculiar. I suppose to a lot of people I am that rather odd young man who knows a lot about Tolkien. But what possible use is knowledge of Tolkien? The other day, a young boy asked me why, at 21, I hadn't moved out, married and had my own house. I suppose the answer to that, other than the obvious pecuniary reasons, is that I simply can't. I am not sure that I could live on my own, so when I said in answer to another question (why I wasn't married) that ''I just want someone to look after me,'' I was actually being serious.

With most of my friends, I have little in common beyond the most obvious things (faith, biological gender etc), and I am yet to meet someone with as much of a knowledge of Tolkien as myself. Someone I work with told me, when he saw that I was reading The Book of Lost Tales, that he had read The Children of Húrin, but he happens to be a non-believer, and worse, one of those vegetarians, so what little we had to talk about suddenly dried up. Am I too dismissive?

One of the most tragic things about having Asperger Syndrome is my impaired Theory of Mind abilities. Theory of Mind is a psychological term which means the ability to recognize and understand the thoughts, beliefs, desires and intentions of other people in order to make sense of their behaviour and predict what they are going to do next. My mother often says, in other words, that I can't ''walk in other people's shoes.'' This is not always a bad thing - for example, I am not interested in how Protestants or other heathens see things because they are irretrievably wrong. But it is tragic when someone is upset and I lack the ability to console them. All I see is that someone is upset, and I am expected to do something, or say something, but I am altogether inept. When trying to explain to a young boy how declensions and conjugations work in Latin once, it just would not sink in, and I said to him ''it's not difficult; I can understand it, why can't you?'' My mother then told me that people have minds different to my own. In hindsight, I don't think I understood that until I was about 8 years old.

So the question: what is it like to be me? Now that I think of it, I can't answer that question, because I don't know myself. Having Asperger Syndrome can have personal and intellectual benefits, but these are always at the clear expense of something fundamental to the human person. It's almost like being forced to carry, or drag, an immense weight that hinders me in the course through life. I am, therefore, naturally melancholic, and I suppose because of all of the above, I am doomed to walk through this world alone, to my life's end.

By the way, I actually think that my voice is beautifully deep and melodious, whatever Hans Asperger may have said! The above photo is of my favourite flower, the beautiful Purple Saxifrage.

Patricius is learning...

When my beloved Latin teacher introduced me to a monk from Ealing Abbey, she said of me ''he knows everything about Tolkien.'' Now, while I do enjoy the occasional censing (such as during the Holy Sacrifice), I believe that she erred on this particular occasion. While going through The History of Middle-earth this evening, Volume IV, I turned to the altogether unknowable Anglo-Saxon version of the Annals of Valinor (interestingly, these Annals were first composed in Anglo-Saxon). Now, I know no Anglo-Saxon at all (my cousin suggested that I learn it in order to better understand Tolkien - yeah right!), but I discovered for the first time this evening the etymology of the famous Arkenstone from The Hobbit, which Thorin prized over all the riches of Erebor. Tolkien renders ''silmarils'' as ''Eorclanstánas'', which Christopher Tolkien speculates is related to the Gothic airkns, which is ''holy.'' When I first read The Hobbit (now many years ago), I assumed (then knowing nothing about Tolkien the man) that all the strange names were arbitrary, just as they seem to be in inferior works of fiction, and in all honesty, I haven't given it any thought since then. I seldom read The Hobbit, and haven't read it at all this year - this must be rectified soon.

I have spent a while in pain this evening, and when I came in from work, longed to read something very personal and resonant, but not even Tolkien worked, and I didn't even like my music - it all seemed very stale and ''samey.'' Any suggestions for November reading (other than academic stuff) would be welcome...

Those Anglicans...

See Damian Thompson's blog for news about the Anglicans. It's all very interesting, and very very generous. I wonder if this pastoral provision were on offer in the '40s, whether Tolkien's wife Edith would have remained Catholic. Finding Confession irksome (don't we all) and other things, ''arrangements'' were made for her to ''go back'' to her local Anglican church - a most grievous thing in Tolkien's life. I actually think this was because of poor catechesis. The priest who instructed her in the faith in Worcester (I can't remember his name) was not a very erudite man. But such things can never be known, and who now knows the secret counsels and griefs of that strange mind, who in the early days of their marriage, accompanied Tolkien gladly to Mass and Benediction.

The question...

The above painting is by the Tolkien artist John Howe. In many ways, I prefer his work to that of Ted Nasmith, although I don't think I can explain why adequately - I can put it no better than ''I know what I hate.'' Anyway, it depicts the Doors of Night, the ''dragon-headed door'' or the ''gateway of the moon'' as it is called in ancient tales, set against the Wall of Things - imagine the airs, the three airs, coming to a sudden end, the fence or wall of the world, a vast dome, within which there is a portal into the Void. The Doors of Night are one of the oldest things in Tolkien, going back even to before the Lost Tales. The Lost Tales themselves tell us somewhat of their origin:

''Thus came it that the Gods dared a very great deed, the most mighty of all their works; for making a fleet of magic rafts and boats with Ulmo's aid - and otherwise had none of these endured to sail upon the waters of Vai - they drew to the Wall of Things, and there they made the Door of Night (Moritarnon or Tarn Fui as the Eldar name it in their tongues). There it still stands, utterly black and huge against the deep-blue walls. Its pillars are of the mightiest basalt and its lintel likewise, but great dragons of black stone are carved thereon, and shadowy smoke pours slowly from their jaws. Gates it has unbreakable, and none know how they were made or set, for the Eldar were not suffered to be in that dread building, and it is the last secret of the Gods; and not the onset of the world will force that door, which opens to a mystic word alone. That word Urwendi only knows and Manwë who spake it to her; for beyond the Door of Night is the outer dark, and he who passes therethrough may escape the world and death and hear things not yet for the ears of Earth-dwellers, and this may not be.'' (The Book of Lost Tales, Volume I, Chapter IX, The Hiding of Valinor).

The above quotation is not ''canonical.'' The tales comprising the early History of Middle-earth were revised extensively over the years into what is now the published Silmarillion, and so there is no reason to go by what this says to the letter. The names Vai, Moritarnon, Tarn Fui and Urwendi are of course obsolete. I sometimes prefer the old tales, if just because they are more ''unknowable'' or rudimentary or mysterious. The question is this: when exactly were they wrought by the Valar? No definitive answer is given in the canonical Legendarium; indeed, there is no entry for ''Door of Night'' given in the Index of The Silmarillion, and it only crops up once in the tale - right at the end. They are certainly not mentioned in the Appendices of The Lord of the Rings.

One theory concerning their origin goes that they were created at the dawn of the first light of the Sun and Moon, as a sort of ''portal'' into the Outer Void, where the Sun and Moon would go out and return. Another is that they were created at the end of the First Age of the Sun as a portal to cast out Morgoth. Which is more in fitting with the rest of the tale I wonder? My supposition is that the former is more likely; if only because the latter seems to suggest too great a creative labour for the Valar so late into the history of Arda, and it seems nicer. Although I have often wondered about the presence of ''dragons'' - creatures of Morgoth, even if they are lifeless. Smoke is said to constantly issue from their jaws. Perhaps they are like gargoyles? Morgoth, in the Outer Void, is impotent and perhaps blind, until towards the end of the history of Arda he regains somewhat of his former might and closes in about Arda as a great shadow - so maybe the Dragons were set there to guard against his return, a way rather after the manner of Cathedral gargoyles of cheating the Devil into thinking that the Kingdom of Arda is a place already evil with the purpose of driving him off. Who knows?

I dreamt of it once, when I was staying with my grandmother; I stood on the edge of a vast precipice and beheld the world mapped out below, romantically as an unbroken ''forest kingdom'' and beheld the sky, from which there seemed to be suspended a kind of candelabra or chandelier, great candles perched upon vast tree branches, with leaves of the most divers and sweetest green, and at the four corners of the earth there were four pillars around which there were steep stairs. I longed to fly like a bird to that place. It was eerily beautiful. That's when I woke up and I remember no more...

Fireworks...

I am appalled that I can hear fireworks going off on Remembrance Sunday - you'd think people would have a bit of respect. But then, I suppose that a great many people take freedom for granted. In my opinion, fireworks should be restricted to public displays for a few nights a year, and only Gandalf should make them...

Numquam Mortuorum obliviscemur...

...may we never be forgetful of the dead.

Today is Remembrance Sunday, a solemn and grave day in the secular calendar which rightly remembers those who gave their lives nobly in the defence of liberty against thraldom, monarchy against tyranny. As such, the Church (uniquely on a Sunday) can offer one Mass of Requiem for the repose of the souls of those who made the supreme sacrifice in the Two World Wars; ''Greater love hath no man than this'' said our Incarnate Lord.

All of us will have relatives, close and distant, who died in both Wars. My great-great uncle was awarded the Victoria Cross posthumously for valour in the defence of Great Britain during the First World War (I have never seen it, but my mother has; it was given to my great-grandmother who kept it - to my knowledge, the family still have it somewhere). My great-uncle John died at Monte Cassino in 1944, aged 24 years. On his anniversary some years ago, my father found his information on the Commonwealth War Graves Commission website and printed it off and had it framed for my grandmother (his younger brother my grandfather died a year or two before). All but one of Tolkien's best friends were killed in the grievous Battle of the Somme, and when Humphrey Carpenter published Tolkien's biography in 1977, he dedicated the work to the memory of the ''T.C.B.S'' - ''the Tea Club and Barrovian Society'' (an allusion to their fondness for having tea, illicitly, in the school Library at King Edwards, and in Barrow's stores near the school) - one of the many ''clubs'' of Tolkien's life and in many ways the forerunner of the famous Inklings. All but two members of this informal club would be dead by 1918, lives tragically cut short.

Tolkien has a plethora of very moving stuff on the subject of War, and I have been hard-put-to-it (God grant that this does not sound slovenly) to choose what to include in this post, but I have here a short selection from his Letters and a quote from The Lord of the Rings. Alas, though, that some are too great to be posted. For anyone with a copy of Tolkien's Letters, I would strongly recommend letter 5, which was written in 1916 to Geoffrey Smith, a member of the T.C.B.S, on receiving the news of the death of Rob Gilson. It is very beautiful, and deals chiefly in matters of grief and about the great holiness of selfless sacrifice and courage.

In the summer of 1940, two evacuees from Ashford stayed with the Tolkiens at their house at 20 Northmoor Road. On their departure, Tolkien wrote this to his son Michael, then serving as an anti-aircraft gunner in the RAF (for which he was later awarded the George Medal):

''Our evacuees went off again this morning, back home to Ashford (they were railway folk), after scenes of comedy and pathos. I have never come across more simple, helpless, gentle and unhappy souls (mother and daughter-in-law). They had been away from their husbands for the first time in their married lives, and found they would prefer to be blown to bits.'' (The Letters of J.R.R Tolkien, no.39).

This next one was written to Tolkien's youngest son Christopher on 30th January 1945, number 78 of ''Pater ad Filium natu (sed haud alioquin) minimum'' (The father to the son born the youngest but by no means the least) when he was in the RAF:

''I can see clearly now in my mind's eye the old trenches and the squalid houses and the long roads of Artois, and I would visit them again if I could...

''I have just heard the news...Russians 60 miles from Berlin. It does look as if something decisive might happen soon. The appalling destruction and misery of this war mount hourly: destruction of what should be (indeed is) the common wealth of Europe, and the world, if mankind were not so besotted, wealth the loss of which will affect us all, victors or not. Yet people gloat to hear of the endless lines, 40 miles long, of miserable refugees, women and children pouring West, dying on the way. There seem no bowels of mercy or compassion, no imagination, left in this dark diabolical hour. By which I do not mean that it may not all, in the present situation, mainly (not solely) created by Germany, be necessary and inevitable. But why gloat! We were supposed to have reached a stage of civilization in which it might still be necessary to execute a criminal, but not to gloat, or to hang his wife and child by him while the orc-crowd hooted. The destruction of Germany, be it 100 times merited, is one of the most appalling world-catastrophes. Well, well - you and I can do nothing about it. And that shd. be a measure of the amount of guilt that can justly be assumed to attach to any member of a country who is not a member of its actual Government. Well the first War of the Machines seems to be drawing to its final and inconclusive chapter - leaving, alas, everyone the poorer, many bereaved or maimed and millions dead, and only one thing triumphant: the Machines. As the servants of the Machines are becoming a privileged class, the Machines are going to be enormously more powerful.'' (The Letters of J.R.R Tolkien, no. 96).

One of the most poignant themes in The Lord of the Rings, as seen brilliantly in the person of Samwise Gamgee, is the ennoblement of the simple by courage (brave at a pinch I think the saying goes). I have no doubt that this was inspired by Tolkien's own friends and experiences. In conclusion to this post, I shall quote a memorable passage from Tolkien's magnus opus:

''It was Sam's first view of a battle of Men against Men, and he did not like it much. He was glad that he could not see the dead man's face. He wondered what the man's name was and where he came from; and if he was really evil of heart, or what lies or threats had led him on the long march from his home; and if he would not really rather have stayed there in peace - all in a flash of thought which was quickly driven from his mind.'' (The Lord of the Rings, Book IV, Chapter IV, Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit).

Unfortunately in the great wars of this world it is the ordinary folk that suffer, and the Orcs, the drivers of the machines, the monstrous wheels of Power, wielding Men as pawns on a chess-board, grow fat on the suffering and misery of innocent people. May God grant those who died in the Two World Wars in the service of Liberty eternal rest and may their memories never be forgotten. The above photo is of a young Tolkien, scarcely older than me, when he was a Second Lieutenant in the Lancashire Fusiliers during the First World War.

Confirmations at Spanish Place...

Yesterday morning, I made my way to St James' church at Spanish Place (arguably the most beautiful church in London) with some very good friends for the Traditional Rite Confirmations. I served as Crozier-bearer, one of the four ''Capellani'' (so-called in the Caerimoniale Episcoporum) or Chaplains who wait on the Bishop. The occasion was splendid (much better than my own impoverished New Rite confirmation), with a wonderful choir and the ceremony was well-rehearsed. The Bishop decided not to use the Crozier when he addressed the candidates (so I had, perforce, to retire at this point) and he spoke most eruditely and relevantly to them about the importance of adoration in the eyes of supplicants in Religious art. I spoke to Arthur Crumly, who served Benediction as Thurifer, beforehand for the first time too. Photos of the event can be seen here.

Afterwards, my friends and I met up again outside the church and we had a lovely picnic and day out at the British Museum. I hardly recognised the place, but then I hadn't been there since Primary School. On the train home, we bumped into some of the other Blackfen people, purely by coincidence, and we all had a nice chat on the way home.

When I think of my own Sacraments, I am sometimes quite angry about having been deprived of the Traditional Liturgy for most of my life. But I then thank God that the young Servers from Blackfen, who served so well yesterday, are growing to love God through the medium of the Traditional Liturgy which I missed out on. It rather sheds a new light on that wonderful Response to the Versicle ''Introibo ad Altare Dei'' (''I shall go unto the Altar of God'') - ''ad Deum Qui laetificat iuventutem meam'' (''unto God who giveth joy to my youth'').

The above image is a detail of one of the reredos' found on one of the side altars which line the side of the nave. I am yet to fully explore this church, but I am only ever there for great occasions - indeed the last time I was there was for High Mass on the Octave Day of Christmas. Anyway, must dash now and finish the hoovering. My father was having a nap earlier, so I decided not to wake him up, but it's getting dark very early and I shall be at work all week, so best get it done now.

Confirmations...

Tomorrow morning I shall be at Spanish Place for the Traditional Rite Confirmations - my first Saturday off in Lord knows how long! I am thinking about it with enthusiasm, and about my own Confirmation 10 years ago. I was confirmed by the wonderful Bishop Henderson, in the New Rite of course. My Confirmation name was Francis - a name I chose because it is aesthetically pleasing, and because when I was 11 years old I didn't know many Saints. I am yet to actually develop a devotion to St Francis but perhaps this will come in time - I have, at any rate, read about his life. Does anyone know why the age of Confirmation candidates has gone up over the years? I was 11 when I was confirmed, my mother was 8, and my grandmother was even younger I believe...

Being so pious and decorous, the afternoon of my Confirmation, I went home to play Tomb Raider on my computer...

Legendarium...

Tolkien often referred to his Middle-earth stuff as the ''legendarium.'' I wrote about the significance of this umbrella term in a post a while back. I was thinking, though, that whereas before I lamented the fact that Tolkien died before completing his great work, I now perceive that this adds somewhat to the reality of it all - all mythology is incomplete. Legendarium once meant the lives of the Saints, afterall.

I wrote before that this ''reality'' found expression in the most unlikely character of Bilbo Baggins, busy gathering from divers sources the legends that were to comprise the Red Book of Westmarch. I like to think of this book as an illuminated manuscript, like one of the old, beautiful Books of Hours of the High Middle Ages. Even more selfish, perhaps, I sometimes wish that Tolkien's work was never published, but that his wife Edith had gathered all the fair copies that she made, compiled this wonderful illuminated manuscript, and tucked it away in the Bodleian Library, ready for someone like me to come across decades, perhaps even centuries, later. I'd give anything to have that first impression of Tolkien's work again - familiarity can become stale afterall...

Gnomes et al...

No one responded to my challenge the other day! Here are the answers. I asked whether anyone could spot any discrepancies between the section of Canto IV which I posted and the published Silmarillion. There are only three, although they are quite significant. The first is Tolkien's use of the term ''Gnomes'' to refer to the Noldoli (later Noldor). I suppose Tolkien's intent, when he composed the Lost Tales, in his selection of that term was its phonetic suitability, much like Elves, Orcs and Ents, and its ''wisdom'' connotation. He continued to use it for many years, and it even appeared in early drafts of The Hobbit. However, he later abandoned it. In a draft for the last paragraph of Appendix F of The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien wrote:

''I have sometimes (not in this book) used 'Gnomes' for Noldor and 'Gnomish' for Noldorin. This I did, for whatever Paracelsus may have thought (if indeed he invented the name) to some 'Gnome' will still suggest knowledge. Now the High-elven name of this people, Noldor, signifies 'those who know;' for of the three kindreds of the Eldar from their beginning the Noldor were ever distinguished both by their knowledge of things that are and were in this world, and by their desire to know more. Yet they in no way resembled the Gnomes either of learned theory or popular fancy; and I have now abandoned this rendering as too misleading. For the Noldor belonged to a race high and beautiful, the elder Children of the world, who now are gone. Tall they were, fair-skinned and grey-eyed, and their locks were dark, save in the golden house of Finrod [Finarfin]...'' (The History of Middle-earth, Volume I, The Book of Lost Tales Part I, Chapter I).

Regarding the ''wisdom'' connotation of the word ''gnome.'' The Greek gnōmē conveys ''thought'' or ''intelligence'' and in its plural form ''proverbs'' or ''sayings.'' The 16th century writer Paracelsus used the term as a synonym of pygmaeus. Paracelsus ''says that the beings so called have the earth as their element...through which they move unobstructed as fish do through water, or birds and land animals through air.'' (Oxford English Dictionary s.v Gnome). The Oxford English Dictionary suggests that whether Paracelsus invented the word himself or not it was intended to mean ''earth-dweller,'' and discounts any connexion with the other word gnome. There is a reference to this in The Letters of J.R.R Tolkien too, no. 239.

The next discrepancy is to be found in lines 1102-1103 where Tolkien makes mention of two people, Finrod and Felagund. Finrod was the original name of Finarfin, and confusingly the name Finrod became the name of his son in later legends - although it makes more sense because the form is Sindarin. Felagund's older name was Inglor. Felagund was a name that the Dwarves gave him, in view of the fact that he delved for his dwelling the caves of Nargothrond, and it means ''Hewer of Caves.'' As the work is so vast, I haven't been able to pin-point the exact point when the names were rearranged, but often Christopher Tolkien himself, the greatest of all Tolkien scholars, is unable to provide a definitive answer.

The third discrepancy is of course Tolkien's spelling of Dairon for Daeron. The form was changed (for the better in my opinion) late in the legends, as can be seen when after the publication of The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien returned to the Lay, creating substantial edits to the Lay, and began to use the newer form. The Lay was, of course, never finished.