5 libros fundamentales para la espada y brujería

Luz y Oscuridad: La Guerra Eterna dará cuenta de mis progresos en mi último proyecto: Un JDR de Fantasía Medieval Épica adulto y renovador. Los comentarios son siempre bien recibidos. ¡Muchas gracias y que lo disfruteis!

Hace pocos días, el propio Del Toro reconocía que, tras posponer la fecha de inicio de rodaje en varias ocasiones, no podía fijar un día para el comienzo de una filmación que se lleva demorando más de un año. Los problemas financieros de la Metro Goldwyn Mayer dejaban todo en el aire de un impotente Del Toro que, finalmente, ha tirado la toalla.
En una carta abierta, el director de El laberinto del Fauno explica la que dice ha sido "la decisión más difícil" de su vida. "Después de casi dos años viviendo, respirando y diseñando un mundo tan fascinante como la Tierra Media de Tolkien, debo con gran pesar dejar de encabezar esas maravillosas películas", afirma Del Toro.
Tras expresar su agradecimiento a Peter Jackson, Fran Walsh y Philippa Boyens, con quienes diseñó durante meses los guiones de las dos películas, y a las productoras (New Line, Warner Bros y a todo mi equipo en Nueva Zelanda), Del Toro destaca que ha sido un auténtico "privilegio" trabajar con "algunos de los mejores profesionales de nuestro oficio", una labor que ha cambiado su vida "para siempre".
Pero, reconoce, aunque las alegrías "han sido muchas", los conflictos de agenda y la presiones hacen que se haya superado "el período de tiempo que originalmente destiné para el proyecto". Así, el mexicano desea "la mejor de las suertes", al proyecto, en el que seguirá colaborando para facilitar "la transición para el nuevo director" y asegura que será "el primero de la fila" a la hora de ir al cine para ver terminadas las películas.
La decisión de Del Toro supone un tremendo varapalo para los millones de seguidores de la obra de Tolkien y deja huérfano un proyecto que, no podemos olvidar, acumula varios años de retraso. Y es que cuando a principios de 2008 el cineasta fue confirmado para dirigir las dos películas de El Hobbit, la primera tenía fijada su fecha de estreno en las Navidades de 2010 y la segunda en 2011.
Tras varias demoras notables, las fechas fijadas, y todavía en pie aunque fijan el estreno para diciembre de 2012 y diciembre de 2013. Pero nada es seguro. La crisis de la MGM, a la espera de una buena oferta de compra que la rescate de la bancarrota, es el máximo obstáculo que impide poner fecha para el inicio de un rodaje que ahora tiene además que buscar un director de garantías. Para disgusto de los fans, el culebrón en la Tierra Media continúa...
In J. R. R. Tolkien's Middle-earth legendarium, the Nazgûl (from Black Speech nazg, "ring", and gûl, "wraith, spirit"; also called Ringwraiths, Ring-wraiths, Black Riders, Dark Riders, the Nine Riders, or simply the Nine) were nine men who succumbed to Sauron's power and attained near-immortality as wraiths, servants bound to the power of the One Ring. They are first mentioned in his book The Lord of the Rings, originally published in 1954–1955. The book calls the Nazgûl Sauron's "most terrible servants."
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According to Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings, the Nazgûl arose as Sauron's most powerful servants in the Second Age of Middle-earth. They were once mortal Men, three being "great lords" of Númenor. Sauron gave each of them one of the nine Rings of Power. Sauron also gave seven Rings of Power to the Dwarves, and Celebrimbor forged three, untainted by Sauron's evil, for the Elves. It was Sauron's design to control all these rings and their bearers through the One Ring, forged in secret for this purpose, but only the Nine succumbed completely to its power:
Those who used the Nine Rings became mighty in their day, kings, sorcerers, and warriors of old. They obtained glory and great wealth, yet it turned to their undoing. They had, as it seemed, unending life, yet life became unendurable to them. They could walk, if they would, unseen by all eyes in this world beneath the sun, and they could see things in worlds invisible to mortal men; but too often they beheld only the phantoms and delusions of Sauron. And one by one, sooner or later, according to their native strength and to the good or evil of their wills in the beginning, they fell under the thraldom of the ring that they bore and of the domination of the One which was Sauron's. And they became forever invisible save to him that wore the Ruling Ring, and they entered into the realm of shadows. The Nazgûl were they, the Ringwraiths, the Ulairi, the Enemy's most terrible servants; darkness went with them, and they cried with the voices of death — The Silmarillion, "Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age", 346
The corrupting effect of the rings extended the bearers' earthly lives far beyond their normal lifespans. The exact disposition of their rings at the time of the LOTR is somewhat confused. Some passages in the novel suggest that the Nazgûl wore their rings, while others suggest that Sauron actually held them.
When Gandalf first teaches Frodo about the Rings of Power he says "The Nine he had gathered to himself; the Seven also, or else they are destroyed. The Three are hidden still." [1] This suggests that Sauron is in possession of the nine rings. Also, Galadriel tells Frodo, "You saw the Eye of him that holds the Seven and the Nine." However, at The Council of Elrond, Gandalf says "The Nine the Nazgûl keep."
In other works, however, Tolkien says explicitly that Sauron held the rings:
They would have obeyed . . . any minor command of his that did not interfere with their errand - laid upon them by Sauron, who still through their nine rings (which he held) had primary control of their wills . . . — The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, Letter 246
They were by far the most powerful of his servants, and the most suitable for such a mission, since they were entirely enslaved to their Nine Rings, which he now himself held . . . — Unfinished Tales, p. 338
The lack of mention of a ring when the Witch-king is destroyed, or of Frodo seeing rings on the hands of the Nazgûl when he is attacked on Weathertop are consistent with Sauron holding the rings. Gandalf's speech at the Council is the only contradictory statement, but seems a clear, and direct, contradiction. It is possible that the idea of Sauron keeping the rings is a later concept, coming after the completion of the novel (as do the letter cited and Unfinished Tales). There is no mention of when or where Sauron would have reclaimed the rings from the Nazgûl.
The Nazgûl did wear their rings long enough so that their bodily forms faded until they had become entirely invisible to mortal eyes. They assumed visible form only with their black attire. During the assault on Minas Tirith, the leader of The Nine casts back his hood to reveal a crown, but the head it rests on is invisible. While wearing the One Ring, Frodo perceives them as pale figures, robed in white, wearing crowns and with "haggard hands".
In The Fellowship of the Ring they are armed with steel swords, while their leader, the Witch-king of Angmar, wields a Morgul blade that could turn its victim into a wraith. During the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, the Witch-king bears a "long pale sword", and later uses a mace against Éowyn.
The Lord of the Nazgûl practices black sorcery, and uses it to break the gates of Minas Tirith. But Tolkien said of the Nazgûl ". . . their chief weapon was terror. This was actually greater when they were unclad and invisible; and it was greater also when they were gathered together." [2] They exude an aura of fear. Early in the novel it is a sense of unease or dread. By the end it has risen to a miasma that induces terror, despair, and loss of physical control, even at distance:
The Nazgûl came again . . . like vultures that expect their fill of doomed men's flesh. Out of sight and shot they flew, and yet were ever present, and their deadly voices rent the air. More unbearable they became, not less, at each new cry. At length even the stout-hearted would fling themselves to the ground as the hidden menace passed over them, or they would stand, letting their weapons fall from nerveless hands while into their minds a blackness came, and they thought no more of war, but only of hiding and of crawling, and of death. — The Return of the King, p.97
The wordless cries of the Nazgûl seem to amplify their terror. Close or prolonged encounters with a Nazgûl cause unconsciousness and nightmares, an effect known as "the Black Breath". Aragorn uses the fictional herb athelas to treat victims of the Black Breath including Frodo, Faramir, Éowyn, and Merry.
The Nazgûl first appeared around S.A. 2251, less than three centuries after the rings were forged, and were soon established as Sauron's principal servants. They were dispersed after the first overthrow of Sauron in 3441 at the hands of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, but their survival was assured since the One Ring survived.
They re-emerged around T.A. 1300, when the Witch-king led Sauron's forces against the successor kingdoms of Arnor: Rhudaur, Cardolan and Arthedain. He effectively destroyed all the successor kingdoms, but was defeated in 1975 and returned to Mordor. There he gathered the other Nazgûl in preparation for the return of Sauron to that realm.
In 2000, the Nazgûl besieged Minas Ithil and after two years captured it and acquired its palantír for the Dark Lord. The city thereafter became Minas Morgul, the stronghold of the Nazgûl. Sauron returned to Mordor in 2942 and declared himself openly in 2951. Two or three of the Nazgûl (led by the Second of the Nine) were sent to garrison Dol Guldur, his fortress in Mirkwood.
By 3017, near the beginning of the story told in The Lord of the Rings, Sauron had learned from Gollum that "Baggins of the Shire" had the One Ring in his possession. Sauron entrusted its recovery to the Nazgûl, his most trusted servants. They reappeared "west of the River", riding black horses that were bred or trained in Mordor to endure their terror. They learned that the Ring had passed to Bilbo's heir, Frodo. Five of them cornered Frodo and his company at Weathertop, where the Witch-king stabbed Frodo in the arm with the Morgul blade, breaking off a piece of the blade in the hobbit's flesh. When all Nine were swept away by the waters of the river Bruinen, their horses were drowned, and the Ringwraiths were forced to return to Mordor to regroup.
In 3018 the nine companions of the Fellowship of the Ring left Rivendell as the "Nine Walkers", in opposition to the Nazgûl, the "Nine Riders". The latter reappeared mounted on hideous flying beasts (reminiscent of — and in part suggested by — pterodactyls);[3][4] they were then called Winged Nazgûl.
During the Battle of the Pelennor Fields the Witch-king himself was slain by Éowyn and Merry: Merry's surreptitious stroke with an enchanted Barrow-blade drove the Witch-king to his knees, allowing Éowyn, the niece of Théoden, to drive her sword between his crown and mantle. Thus was the Witch-king destroyed by a woman and a hobbit, fulfilling the prophecy that "not by the hand of man will he fall".[5] Both weapons that pierced him disintegrated, and both assailants were stricken with the Black Breath.
The remaining eight Ringwraiths attacked the Army of the West during the last battle at the Black Gate. But when Frodo put on the Ring near the fires of Mount Doom, Sauron quickly ordered the eight to fly to intercept him. They arrived too late: the Ring fell into the Cracks of Doom, and the Nazgûl perished with its destruction.
The Nazgûl are featured in all adaptations of The Lord of the Rings on radio, film, and stage.
In Ralph Bakshi's 1978 animated film version of The Lord of the Rings, the Nazgûl hack and slash the hobbits' beds at The Prancing Pony inn themselves. In the book, the attackers are not precisely identified, but Tolkien implies that the attack was carried out by agents of the Nazgûl, possibly including one Bill Ferny, not the Nazgûl themselves (though they were present in the town).[6]
In the Rankin-Bass adaptation of Return of the King, the Nazgûl are robed skeletons with white hair.
In the 1981 BBC Radio serial of The Lord of the Rings, the Nazgûl can be heard chanting the Ring-inscription. [1]
In the Lord of the Rings movie trilogy (2001–2003) by Peter Jackson, the Nazgûl also attack the inn themselves. Emphasis is given to their loud shrieks, which are made deafening, and their use of the fell beasts in battle is expanded, notably at the siege of Minas Tirith, when they destroy numerous trebuchets and kill many soldiers. The cries of the Nazgûl as interpreted in Peter Jackson's films are mixed from that of his partner and co-screenwriter, Fran Walsh.
The Nazgûl are featured in many products based on Tolkien's writings and more recently, the Jackson films.
Some examples include the real-time strategy computer games The Lord of the Rings: War of the Ring, not based on the Jackson films, and The Lord of the Rings: The Battle for Middle-earth and its sequels,The Lord of the Rings: The Battle for Middle-earth II and its expansion pack The Rise of the Witch-king, which are based on the films.
In The Lord of the Rings: War of the Ring the Witch-king is a hero for the Evil faction, similar to the movie-based games (whose evil factions are realm-specific). In The Rise of the Witch-king there are three named Ringwraiths: the Witch-king, Khamûl, and "Morgomir", Lieutenant of Carn Dûm. The last Ringwraith's name is invented for the game, developed by Electronic Arts.
In the massive multiplayer online role-playing game The Lord of the Rings Online, the Nazgûl, in particular the Witch-king, play a prominent part in the storyline; the premise of the game at release is to fight the armies of the Witch-king in his realm of Angmar.
In the Middle-earth Collectible Card Game produced by Iron Crown Enterprises, most of the Nazgûl had invented names, shared with Middle-earth Role Playing by the same company. Liz Danforth created the art for each of the Nazgûl in the game.
George R. R. Martin's novel The Armageddon Rag is about a fictional rock band named the Nazgûl. The band's manager and promoter is referred to as Sauron, its lead singer is nicknamed Hobbit, and its logo is an Eye of Mordor. Many of its song and album titles make reference to Tolkien's Middle-earth.
The term Ringwraith is used in the song "The Battle of Evermore" by popular classic rock band Led Zeppelin, in the line "the ringwraiths ride in black".
The Ringwraiths appear in the game Angband and many of its variants under the names "Uvatha the Horseman", "Adunaphel the Quiet", "Akhorahil the Blind", "Ren the Unclean", "Ji Indur Dawndeath", "Dwar, Dog Lord of Waw", "Hoarmurath of Dir", "Khamûl, the Black Easterling" and "The Witch-King of Angmar". They are amongst the nastiest of the opponents within the game.
The rarely used Quenya word for the Nazgûl is Úlairi (a plural); from this a Sindarin form Ulaer has been conjectured.
They are also called the Fell Riders and the Black Wings (when they ride the fell beasts), as well as the Shadows, the Servants of Sauron, and the Nine Servants of the Lord of the Rings. The Orcs of the Tower of Cirith Ungol call them Shriekers.
In her duel with the Witch-king, Éowyn calls him a "dwimmerlaik". This is a word in the speech of Rohan (translated into Anglo-Saxon) that Tolkien glosses in the index as a "work of necromancy", a "spectre".
Only two of the Nazgûl are named or identified individually in Tolkien's works. Their leader was the Witch-king of Angmar, and his second in command was named Khamûl, the "black Easterling" or the "shadow of the East".[7] Tolkien stated that three of them were great Númenórean lords;[8] in his notes for translators, Tolkien speculates that the Witch-king was of Númenórean origin.[9] Khamûl was a lord of the Easterlings, and the only Nazgûl whose name is given.
The early Middle-earth Role Playing games (and material derived from them) name the eight other than Khamûl; Er-Murazor (the Witch-king, of Númenórean race), Dwar of Waw, Ji Indur Dawndeath, Akhorahil (Númenórean), Hoarmurath of Dir, Adûnaphel the Quiet (female Númenórean), Ren the Unclean and Uva the Horseman,[10] but none of these names come from Tolkien. In the context of the books, it is unlikely that any of the Nazgûl would have been female.
In the Lord of the Rings Trading Card Game, chiefly based on the Jackson films, the Nazgûl are called The Witch King, Úlairë Attëa (The Easterling), Úlairë Nelya, Úlairë Cantëa, Úlairë Lemenya, Úlairë Enquëa, Úlairë Otsëa, Úlairë Toldëa and Úlairë Nertëa. These are not new names: Úlairë in Quenya means "Ringwraith", and the second word is simply a number from two to nine.
For the expansion to its real-time strategy game The Lord of the Rings: The Battle for Middle-earth II, The Rise of the Witch-king — chiefly based on the Jackson films and building much upon the original writings — Electronic Arts invented the name Morgomir for one of the Nazgûl. This appears to be a pastiche of the Sindarin words Morgoth ("Dark Enemy") and mîr ("jewel"); it is not attested in Tolkien's Elvish languages.
In The Lord of the Rings Strategy Battle Game, the Witch-king and Khamûl the Easterling retain the titles Tolkien gave them. The other seven are given honorific titles emphasising aspects of how they are used in the game: the Dark Marshall, the Shadow King, the Undying, the Tainted, the Betrayer, the Knight of Umbar and the Dwimmerlaik.
After losing their horses at the Ford of Bruinen, the Nazgûl returned to Mordor and reappeared mounted on hideous flying beasts. The author described these flying creatures as "fell beasts", but this is a description rather than a name: "fell" is used archaically, as an adjective meaning "fierce" or "cruel". Tolkien applies the adjective "fell" to a variety of other creatures throughout The Lord of the Rings. In a private letter he calls these creatures "Nazgûl-birds".[11] Though technically incorrect, "fell beast" has been adopted as a name for these creatures in derivative works such as the The Battle for Middle-earth computer game series.
The flying steeds figure prominently in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, where the Witch-king of Angmar, the Lord of the Nazgûl, rides one against King Théoden of Rohan. Tolkien describes the Witch-king's mount thus:
"...it was a winged creature: if bird, then greater than all other birds, and it was naked, and neither quill nor feather did it bear, and its vast pinions were as webs of hide between horned fingers; and it stank. A creature of an older world maybe it was...." [12]
A few paragraphs later it is said to attack with "beak and claw".[12]
Tolkien once wrote that he "did not intend the steed of the Witch-king to be what is now called a 'pterodactyl'", while acknowledging that it was "obviously ... pterodactylic and owes much" to the "new ... mythology of the 'Prehistoric'", and might even be "a last survivor of older geological eras."[13]
In Ralph Bakshi's 1978 animated version of The Lord of the Rings, one of the Nazgûl is shown riding these creatures. In the Rankin-Bass 1980 animated version of The Return of the King, the Nazgûl ride winged horses, although the Lord of the Nazgûl does ride a creature more in line with the book when he confronts Éowyn. In Peter Jackson's film trilogy based on The Lord of the Rings, all nine Nazgûl are shown onscreen riding them. Jackson's creatures explicitly differ from Tolkien's description in that they have teeth instead of beaks. They are used by the Nazgûl in battle more extensively than in the book. As confirmed in the films' audio commentary, the design of the creatures was based largely on illustrations by the popular Middle-earth artist John Howe.
Welcome to the languages section of CoE. Here you will find multiple resources to aid with your study of Tolkien's Languages. Listed below are links and resources that will be useful in the study of Tolkien's languages.
If you have any questions or comments, please bring them up in the Elvish 101 Forum.
Many believe that the world is experiencing a mass extinction of cultures, and that a loss of one culture—the collective intellect, memory, and values of a people transmitted from one generation to the next through language, stories, and art and other objects—is as profound as the loss of a biological species.
One of the best indicators of the health of the world's cultures may be the state of its languages—and many are rapidly disappearing. Cultural anthropologist and National Geographic Explorer-in-Residence Wade Davis explains: "A language isn't just a body of vocabulary or a set of grammatical rules. It is a flash of the human spirit, a vehicle though which the soul of a particular culture comes into the material world. And when we lose a language, we lose a vital element of the human dream."
Despair over the loss of cultures and languages resonates throughout Tolkien's narrative in The Lord of the Rings. The Elves are disappearing from Middle-earth. High and Common Elvish, languages that few outside of the Elves speak or understand, are vanishing along with thousands of years of Elvish culture and knowledge.
Likewise, the cultural realm of the Dwarves is dwindling, with only a few strongholds remaining. And though in many ways the hobbits live an idyllic life, they are culturally isolated and have little knowledge of the outside world—a characteristic that threatens to destroy them.
Yet it is from the hobbits—thought of by Elves and Dwarves as insignificant and powerless—that hope arises against the threat of extinction for all of Middle-earth's cultures.
Tolkien's Love of Languages
Tolkien was a scholar with deep knowledge of languages both modern and ancient. His mother introduced him to the study of languages and cultures by teaching him Latin, French, and German at home; he expanded into others when he entered grammar school. He continued to learn many other languages throughout his schooling and career, including Welsh, Finnish, and Old Norse.
Tolkien's fascination with language and culture resonates throughout The Lord of the Rings. Professor of English Jane Chance explains that Tolkien was enchanted by language and by the power of language:
Tolkien well understood the power of the written and spoken word, philologist that he was—he knew that words were magic. ... For Tolkien, words provide the means to unify and extend the social community, to understand the various species of nature, and to cross the boundaries of time (past and present) and space (the equivalent of earthly supernal, and infernal in Middle-earth).*
One of the most vivid expressions of Tolkien's ability and interest in languages was the creation of his own. Over the course of his life he invented several languages, such as Elvish (including Quenya and Sindarin), Dwarvish (Khuzdul), Entish, and Black Speech.
For Tolkien, language was the beginning of a culture rather than merely a product of it. "The invention of languages," he wrote, "is the foundation. The 'stories' were made rather to provide a world for the languages than the reverse."**
Many character and place names in The Lord of the Rings are related to words from old and modern languages. In his book Hobbits, Elves, and Wizards, Michael N. Stanton provides examples of the historical links for some of Tolkien's characters and settings. A few examples follow:
Tolkien's High Elvish language, Quenya, was inspired by Finnish. Tolkien taught himself Finnish in order to read the Kalevala, a 19th-century compilation of old Finnish songs and stories arranged by Elias Lönnrot into a linear epic poem and completed in 1835 and revised in the mid-1800s.
The Kalevala epic parallels the real history of the Finns. It played a key role in preserving the oral legends and songs of the Finns, which linguists think date back to preagricultural Finland. As cultural anthropologist Wade Davis notes, "it goes back to the time of the shaman ... when people lived by poetry of an oral tradition. ... By definition, the entire language was the vocabulary of the best storyteller." In 2001 Wade Davis traveled to Finland to meet Jussi Juovinen, one of Finland's last great rune singers, and to hear him sing the Kalevala. Juovinen began to learn the poems from the elders of his village when he was a child and committed the songs to memory.
Hear part of the Kalevala.
The publication of the Kalevala helped protect the ancient Finnish poems and the Finnish language itself, while helping to solidify a sense of national identity among many Finns. Although Finnish is now safeguarded by its status as a national language, it was once in danger of fading, as are many languages today.
Some experts believe as many as 10,000 languages were once spoken around the world. Today around 6,000 languages remain, and that number could be reduced to 3,000 in the next hundred years.
Tolkien created Middle-earth as a home for his invented languages. Just as the artistry, beauty, and essence of the Kalevala is intricately tied to the Finnish language, each invented language in The Lord of the Rings plays a seminal role in the evolution of events and development of the characters in Tolkien's story.
Examples of Tolkien's Languages in The Lord of the Rings
• Black Speech: "Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul—One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them"
• Quenya: "Elen sila lûmenn' omentielvo—A star shines on the hour of our meeting" (
• Dwarvish: "Khazâd-ai-mênu!—The Dwarves are upon you!"
ADDITIONAL RESOURCES
*Reprinted from The Lord of the Rings: The Mythology of Power, (Revised Edition, by Jane Chance, copyright 2001) by permission of the University Press of Kentucky
**Reprinted from J.R.R. Tolkien: Author of the Century, (by T.A. Shippey, copyright 2001) by permission of Houghton Mifflin
***Reprinted from Hobbits, Elves, and Wizards: Exploring the Wonders and Worlds of J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings, (by Michael N. Stanton, copyright 2001) by permission of Palgrave
How J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis' all-night argument about God paved the way for both "The Lord of the Rings" and "The Chronicles of Narnia."
By Steven Hart
Dec 3, 2003 | On a warm September night in 1931, three men went for an after-dinner walk on the grounds of Magdalen College, part of Oxford University. They took a stroll on Addison's Walk, a beautiful tree-shaded path along the River Cherwell, and got into an argument that lasted into the wee hours of the morning -- and left a lasting mark on world literature.
At the time, only one of the men had any kind of reputation: Henry Victor Dyson, a bon vivant scholar who had shared tables and bandied words with the likes of T.E. Lawrence, Virginia Woolf and Bertrand Russell. His two companions were little-known Oxford academics with a shared taste for Icelandic sagas, Anglo-Saxon verse and the austere cultural mystique of "the North." Few people remember Dyson now, while millions celebrate the names of his companions: C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien.
Yet the works that made their reputations -- "The Hobbit" and "The Lord of the Rings" for Tolkien, "The Chronicles of Narnia" for Lewis -- were profoundly shaped by that night-long argument and the bond it cemented. It's possible that Tolkien's Middle-earth would have remained entirely a private obsession, and quite likely that Lewis would never have found the gateway to Narnia.
"Lovers seek for privacy," Lewis wrote in "The Four Loves" (1960). "Friends find this solitude about them, this barrier between them and the herd, whether they want it or not." Lewis and Tolkien quickly found this cozy solitude after they met in 1926, during a gathering of the English faculty at Merton College. Both men had fought in World War I, and come back scarred by its industrial savagery. They had seen the worst the 20th century had to offer -- up to that point, anyway -- and took paradoxical comfort in studying blood-soaked Viking Age stories of ambiguous heroes and gods battling monsters and the outer darkness, tales short on the milk of human kindness but long on sardonic humor. ("Broad spears are becoming fashionable nowadays," a character remarks in "Grettir's Saga," just after being pierced with one.)
In the pitiless Old Norse universe, gods and their human allies face inevitable defeat, but there is no thought of surrender or negotiation with the monsters besieging them. The brave and the cowardly all come to the same end -- what then must we do? "It is the strength of the northern mythological imagination," Tolkien explained in his famous 1936 lecture on "Beowulf," "that it faced this problem, put the monsters in the center, gave them victory but no honor, and found a potent but terrible solution in naked will and courage." In the struggle against evil, there is no shame in defeat -- only in not fighting.
The solution seems to have made a bigger impact on Tolkien's writing than on Lewis'. There is an unmistakable Icelandic chill in the air when Aragorn, faced with a catastrophic loss in "The Lord of the Rings," asks what hope is left, then answers his own question: "We must do without hope. At least we may yet be avenged."
Lewis approached "the North" from the literary side, while Tolkien was a philologist immersed in the sound and history of languages. He could be spiky and opinionated: After their initial meeting, Lewis called him "a smooth, pale fluent little chap -- no harm in him: only needs a smack or so." But by the next year, Tolkien had invited him to join a group known as the Coalbiters, who were devoted to reading the Icelandic sagas in the original Old Norse. (The name was a play on "kolbitars," an old Icelandic term for tale-swappers who sat so close to the communal fire that they were almost literally biting the coals.)
Every Thursday evening the friends would gather by the fireplace, slippers on their feet and drinks at their elbows, to hear "The Saga of King Hrolf Kraki" or "The Saga of the Volsungs" or whatever epic was under study. The Coalbiters faded in the early 1930s, to be replaced by the Inklings, an informal group that lasted over the next three decades, with Tolkien and Lewis as its key members. (Much more about them can be found in such books as Humphrey Carpenter's "J.R.R. Tolkien: A Biography" and Colin Duriez's new "Tolkien and C.S. Lewis: The Story of a Friendship.")
At the time of their meeting, both men were uneasy about their literary prospects. Tolkien's curriculum vitae consisted of a 1925 translation of the important Middle English poem "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight," along with a 1929 essay on "Ancrene Wisse," a 13th century manuscript offering advice for "anchoresses," or female monks, and "Hali Meidhad," a medieval tract praising virginity. His mind was awash in anxiety over half-completed and languishing projects; "Leaf by Niggle," his 1939 tale of a painter who can never find time to complete an ambitious work, is accepted by Tolkien scholars as a byproduct of these worries.
Lewis, for his part, had published two books of the type automatically described as "slim volumes of verse" -- no further explanation necessary. He had yet to find his voice as a writer, let alone anything worthwhile to say with it. "From the age of 16 onwards," he wrote in a letter to his boyhood friend Arthur Greeves, "I had one single ambition, in which I never wavered, in the prosecution of which I spent every ounce I could, on which I really and deliberately staked my whole contentment; and I recognise myself as having unmistakeably failed in it."
When he got his first look at Tolkien's fiction -- an early run at the love story of Beren and Luthien, a cornerstone of Middle-earth's invented mythology and and a tale with tremendous personal associations for Tolkien -- Lewis recognized a man who could spend long years grinding away at a single story, but who also had his own voice and used many of the pagan source materials Lewis loved. To his lasting credit, Lewis reacted to this discovery not with envy or jealousy, but with spontaneous and generous delight.
On that fateful night in 1931, Lewis was in the midst of a fretful return to religious faith. Raised as an Irish Protestant, he had become an agnostic as a teenager. Though he came back to accepting the idea of a divine presence in 1929, he continued to resist Christianity. It remained for Dyson, a High Anglican, and Tolkien, a devout Roman Catholic, to push him over the threshold -- though it literally took them all night. As they marched back and forth along Addison's Walk, Tolkien argued for the literal and mythological truth of the Resurrection of Christ.
By all accounts, the key moment came when Lewis declared that myths are lies, albeit "lies breathed through silver." Tolkien replied, "No, they are not," and demanded to know why Lewis could accept Icelandic sagas as vehicles of truth while demanding that the Gospels meet some higher standard. Hours past midnight, Tolkien finally went home to bed, leaving Dyson to carry on the campaign. Tolkien's argument -- that the Resurrection was the truest of all stories, with God as its poet -- may not sound particularly convincing to nonbelievers (nor indeed to some Christians), but to a man committed to the idea of myth as the only way to express higher truths, it was irresistible. Two weeks later, Lewis told a friend he had once again fully embraced Christianity: "My long night talk with Dyson and Tolkien had a good deal to do with it."
The effect on Lewis was explosive. Beginning in 1933 with "The Pilgrim's Regress," Lewis produced a torrent of books, essays, novels and radio talks, all works of Christian apologetics or stories with obvious spiritual preoccupations. Even as he churned out these works, Lewis prodded Tolkien to pull together and complete his stories of Middle-earth -- the private universe that had preoccupied him for most of his life. Thanks to that ceaseless, friendly prodding, Tolkien published "The Hobbit" to great acclaim in 1937. The prodding continued during the long, fitful gestation of its outsized sequel, "The Lord of the Rings," which finally saw the light of print in the mid-1950s. "The unpayable debt that I owe to [Lewis] was not 'influence' as it is ordinarily understood but sheer encouragement," Tolkien recalled. "He was for long my only audience. Only from him did I ever get the idea that my 'stuff' could be more than a private hobby."
But the debt did not end there. Lewis quickly built a reputation as an explainer of Christianity, but he would hardly be remembered today if his fame rested solely on books like "The Problem of Pain" (1940), with their bullying style and legalistic method of argument. The man who had returned to faith through myth and poetry seemed to think he could lawyer his readers through the gates of heaven. This point was not lost on Lewis' critics, particularly those within the faith. "The problem of pain is bad enough," one clergyman groused, "without Mr. Lewis making it worse."
Lewis is at his most charming and approachable in his stories, and his journey into fiction -- like his return to faith -- was in large part guided by Tolkien. In 1937, on the eve of publication for "The Hobbit," the friends found themselves deploring the state of contemporary writing. "Tollers," Lewis said, "there is too little of that we really like in stories. I am afraid we shall have to try and write some ourselves."
Tolkien's response, a time-travel story called "The Lost Road," was never finished. But Lewis completed his story, an H.G. Wells-style science fiction adventure called "Out of the Silent Planet." It was published the next year, thanks to the support of Tolkien, who was enjoying commercial success with "The Hobbit" and had a bit of clout with publishers.
"Out of the Silent Planet" was widely praised, but it was Lewis' second foray into fiction that made him a household name. "The Screwtape Letters," in which a senior demon advises his infernal student on how to achieve a human's downfall, was published in 1942 (with a dedication to Tolkien) and has apparently never been out of print since. This is all to the good, since "Screwtape" contains some of Lewis' most waspishly elegant writing. (Some years ago there was an audiobook version, narrated by John Cleese, that needs to be reissued immediately.) Less persuasive, but still successful, were the second and third volumes of the Space Trilogy: "Perelandra" (1943) and "That Hideous Strength" (1945). Tolkien approved of all but "That Hideous Strength," about which he wrote, "A bit tripish, I'm afraid." But he actively detested what was to come next.
If many of Lewis' books remain in print, it is largely as a byproduct of the continued success of "The Chronicles of Narnia," the seven-volume cycle that began in 1950 with "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe" and continued at more or less yearly intervals until "The Last Battle" appeared in 1956. Though the Christian themes are out in the open, the sheer charm of the books seems to disarm all readers -- all except Tolkien, who saw them as heavy-handed and inconsistent.
Some of Tolkien's attitude may have been grounded in chagrin. The Narnia books marched out of Lewis' brain and into bookstores with assembly-line efficiency; "The Lord of the Rings," meanwhile, wallowed for over a decade in dithering and endless rewrites. Lewis was unswervingly supportive of Tolkien during the long gestation, but the other Inklings could be brutal: Dyson, for one, was known to snarl, "Oh fuck, not another elf!" as Tolkien read another section of the epic in his usual rapid-fire mumble.
Tolkien's chief objections, however, were those of a craftsman. He considered "The Lord of the Rings" a Christian work, but its religious themes were carefully buried in the story. (Even die-hard Lewis fans may be tempted to groan when, in the first Narnia book, Aslan sacrifices himself to redeem the human children.) Tolkien presented Middle-earth as a sort of prehistoric Europe, employing elements from the Icelandic sagas, "Beowulf" and the Finnish "Kalevala" as though they were half-understood memories of the events described in "The Lord of the Rings." But Tolkien's systematic approach used folklore from northern Europe. The Narnia book, in which the Germanic figure of Santa Claus rubbed elbows with Greco-Roman divinities, struck him as simply lazy and undisciplined.
This drove something of a wedge into Tolkien and Lewis' friendship, and they were not nearly as close in their later years. But when "The Lord of the Rings" was finally ready for publication in three hefty volumes, Lewis understood that it was a major work. He put any sense of personal injury aside and placed his considerable reputation on the line to sing its praises. The mutual support that began with that argument on Addison's Walk was still going strong (at least on one side of the equation).
It was only natural that literary gamesmanship would crop up in each man's work. Lewis made the first move by using Tolkien as the model for John Ransom, the philologist hero of the Space Trilogy. Tolkien steadfastly denied any connection with Ransom beyond choice of profession and "some of my opinions and ideas Lewisified." In this he has backup from Lewis biographer A.N. Wilson, who calls the hero "fairly unlike" Tolkien. Readers may want to take these denials with a few grains of salt.
In "Out of the Silent Planet," Ransom finds himself confronted by terrifying monsters on the red planet Malacandra (aka Mars), but immediately lays plans for a grammar as soon as he discovers the creatures use language. "If you are not yourself a philologist," Lewis explains, "I'm afraid you must take on trust the prodigious emotional consequences of this realization on Ransom's mind ... The love of knowledge is a kind of madness." In "That Hideous Strength," the final book of the Space Trilogy, Lewis gives Ransom a speech that might have been lifted whole from one of Tolkien's letters:
"However far you went you would find the machines, the crowded cities, the empty thrones, the false writings, the barren books: men maddened with false promises and soured with true miseries, worshipping the iron works of their own hands, cut off from Earth their mother and the Father in Heaven. You might go East so far that East became West and returned to Britain across the great ocean, but even so you would not have come out anywhere into the light. The shadow of one dark wing is over all."
Tolkien repaid the favor in "The Lord of the Rings" by giving some of Lewis' mannerisms to Treebeard, the ligneous leader of the tree-like Ents -- chiefly his booming voice and constant throat-clearing. And it's not too far a stretch to find a faint dig at Lewis' nonstop literary productivity when Tolkien has Treebeard describe Entish as "a lovely language, but it takes a very long time to say anything in it, because we do not say anything in it unless it is worth taking a long time to say."
Shortly after Lewis died, in November 1963, Tolkien wrote to his daughter: "So far I have felt the normal feelings of a man my age -- like an old tree that is losing all its leaves one by one: this feels like an axe-blow near the roots." By then, both men had definitively answered any self-doubts about their ability to succeed as writers. Tolkien, in fact, was about to become an international celebrity as the paperback edition of "The Lord of the Rings" caught on with college students. When he died in 1973, the Oxford don was a campus favorite alongside Hermann Hesse and Carlos Castaneda. It hardly needs to be pointed out that his epic has only grown in popularity over the decades, withstanding the sneers of critics, the songwriting of Led Zeppelin, the kitsch-sodden calendar art of the Brothers Hildebrandt, the rise of legions of subpar imitators, and animated films from Ralph Bakshi and Rankin-Bass that can still astonish viewers with their sheer awfulness.
The long-overdue arrival of a proper film adaptation of "The Lord of the Rings," courtesy of Peter Jackson, gives this story a fitting coda. A film version of the first of the Narnia books, "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe," will soon go into production in New Zealand. The enterprise was finally able to go forward because of the huge success of Jackson's "Lord of the Rings," and will use some of the same production and design people, including the Weta special-effects shop that helped bring Middle-earth to earth.
The repercussions of that 1931 conversation along the River Cherwell are still being felt. Even now, it seems, Tolkien and Lewis are helping each other out.