Tree of Life or Tree of Death? -Kristine Larsen

Tree of Life or Tree of Death? Science and Sin in Middle-Earth

Kristine Larsen

Central Connecticut State University

I am delighted to welcome Professor Kristine Larsen as the latest of our contributors to the Scholars Forum.

Since August 2002 Professor Larsen has been Professor of Physics and Astronomy at Central Connecticut State University, New Britain, CT. USA. Apart from her many academic contributions in the fields of physics and astronomy Professor Larsen is a noted educationalist, particularly well known for her use of  fantasy writing as a medium for scientific educational development. In Tolkien circles, she is, of course, seen as the expert par excellence on the subject of the astronomy of Middle-earth.

Among her many publications, published or pending, of particular interest to Plaza members are:

"Behold Your Music!: The Themes of Iluvatar, The Song of Aslan, and the Real Music of the Spheres." In Music in Middle-earth, edited by Heidi Steimel. Walking Tree Press (English version) and Edition Stein and Baum (German version).

"A Little Earth of His Own: Tolkien's Lunar Creation Myths." In The Ring Goes Ever On: Proceedings of the Tolkien 2005 Conference, The Tolkien Society, 2008

"Shadow and Flame: Myth, Monsters, and Mother Nature in Middle-earth." In The Mirror Crack'd: Fear and Horror in J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings and its Sources, Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2008.

"A Elbereth Gilthoniel: The Cosmological 'Goddesses' of The Silmarillion." Parme Nole: Journal of the Northeast Tolkien Society #19-20, 2008: 43-51.

"SAURON, Mount Doom, and Elvish Moths: The Influence of Tolkien on Modern Science." Tolkien Studies, 4, 2007: 223-33.

Further details of Professor Larsen’s many publications can be obtained here:

http://www.physics.ccsu.edu/larsen/resume.htm

Regarding her paper –specially written for the Plaza – Professor Larsen comments:

This paper will therefore explore Tolkien’s works as a cautionary tale of the potential of science (and scientists) to suffer a Fall, despite the idealistic purity to which science aspires, and the good intentions of those who practice it.

On behalf of the Plaza I would like to thank Professor Larsen for giving us her time and sharing with us her expertise. We are truly grateful.

Tree of Life or Tree of Death? Science and Sin in Middle-Earth

Art is the Tree of Life. Science is the Tree of Death. – William Blake, Laocoön

In his famous 1959 lecture The Two Cultures, British scientist and novelist C.P. Snow lamented the apparent split of the “intellectual life of the whole Western society” into “two polar groups…. Literary intellectuals at one pole – at the other scientists, and as the most representative, the physical scientists” (Snow 11-12). Snow warned that such a division had serious consequences “for our creative, intellectual, and above all, our moral life. It is leading us to interpret the past wrongly, to misjudge the present and to deny our hopes of the future” (Snow 59). Given J.R.R. Tolkien’s well-known love for the natural world (especially trees) and open disdain for the increasingly destructive technologies of industry and war, one might be tempted to offer Tolkien as a prime example of what Snow took as the stereotype of the literary intelligentsia. However, a closer examination of Tolkien’s life and work clearly demonstrates that in fact he moved seamlessly between the two cultures in his own mind, aided by strong personal ethics, morals, and religious values which allowed him to evaluate the benefits and flaws of both culture’s particular point of view.
            For example, his published personal letters frequently reflect keen observations and knowledge of weather, flora and fauna. His grand mythology of Middle-earth (which was, as he often stated, actually Earth itself) contains an impressive litany of astronomical knowledge (including such items as constellations, motions and phases of the moon, eclipses, meteors, and aurora) as well as attention to biological detail, such as the observation that “Elves and Men are evidently in biological terms one race, or they could not breed and produce fertile offspring” (Letters 189). His self-reported childhood interests included not only fairy-stories, but also “astronomy, geology, history, [and] philology” (Flieger and Anderson 189). He argued in his famous essay “On Fairy-stories” that fantasy “does not either blunt the appetite for, nor obscure the perception of, scientific verity. On the contrary. The keener and the clearer is the reason, the better fantasy will it make” (Flieger and Anderson 65).  Even his choice of a career – “I am primarily a scientific philologist” -- reflected his internal integration of the “two cultures” (Letters 345). Perhaps the clearest and most concise statement of his personal view on the preferred relationship between scientific and the creative cultures is found in a letter to Milton Waldman, where he writes that

The Light of Valinor (derived from light before any fall) is the light of art undivorced from reason, that sees things both scientifically (or philosophically) and imaginatively (or subcreatively) and says that they are good…. (Letters 148)

However in this same passage Tolkien draws our attention to one of the main themes of his – and he argues all – stories, namely the Fall. As Birzer explains, pride is the cause of nearly every Fall, the “desire to be something more than God, or what God intended” (Birzer 95). This pride can sometimes be intimately intertwined with science (and its application, namely technology), as in the classic cases of Prometheus, Icarus, Faustus, and Frankenstein. Pandora’s tale warns us that curiosity can sometimes do much more than kill the cat, and in Genesis Adam and Eve’s taste of the fruit of the forbidden Tree of Knowledge ultimately led to humanity’s Fall and expulsion from the Garden of Eden. This paper will therefore explore Tolkien’s works as a cautionary tale of the potential of science (and scientists) to suffer a Fall, despite the idealistic purity to which science aspires, and the good intentions of those who practice it.

            Science is as old as humanity itself. Archaeoastronomer E.C. Krupp theorized that “if careful observation of the world around us counts as science, then there is no doubt that our ancient and prehistoric ancestors were scientists. They would not have survived without a detailed knowledge of the environment” (Krupp 1). Aristotle argued in his Metaphysics that humans have a natural desire to understand the world, but warned of that it is wonder rather than curiosity which leads to true understanding (Harrison 266). The concept of curiosity as a vice became firmly ingrained in Western Culture during the Protestant Reformation, when the concepts of ‘forbidden fruit’ and ‘forbidden knowledge’ became nearly synonymous. John Calvin explained that although “desire of knowledge is naturally inherent in man” Eve fell into sin by “not regulating the measure of her knowledge by the will of God.” Since that time, he argued, humanity has suffered from the same grave fault, as we “desire to know more than is right, and more than God allows” (Harrison 270). Natural philosopher Francis Bacon argued that obtaining knowledge of the world is a natural human endeavor, and is actually a form of charity, as such knowledge can be used to alleviate suffering. However, he admitted that there was knowledge which led only to pride, and therefore the Fall (Harrison 279). Milton warned in Paradise Lost that although Adam’s curiosity was not evil in and of itself, knowledge is similar to food, in that both should be tasted in moderation.

            Pope Pius XII, the Holy Father whose service spanned the time of Tolkien’s writing of The Lord of the Rings, was well-known for his support for science. He proclaimed that “as with every art, every science serves God, because God is scientiarum dominus – Master of sciences – and docet hominem scientiam – Teacher of sciences to mankind” (Chinigo 145). He argued in numerous speeches that our ability to know the universe comes directly from God, and that as a “friend of truth, the Church admires and loves the progress of knowledge, as she does that of the arts and of everything connected with learning” (Chinigo 145). Pius XII clearly distinguished between the sin of Adam and Eve and the search for knowledge in general, explaining in a 1956 address to a gathering of gynecologists that although humans have lost Paradise,

God did not wish to forbid and did not forbid men to seek after and make use of all the riches of creation; to make progress step by step in culture; to make life in this world more bearable and more beautiful, to lighten the burden of fatigue, pain, sickness, and death. (Haigerty 181)

Pius XII’s most famous (and controversial) public embracing of science was his November 22, 1951 address to the Pontifical Academy of Sciences, in which he argued that the Big Bang model for the origin of the universe was not only aligned with the teachings of Genesis, but he believed actually provided irrefutable evidence of the veracity of Genesis and the existence of God. He argued that as a “mind enlightened and enriched with modern scientific knowledge” ponders the creation of the universe

with the same clear and critical look with which it examines and passes judgment on facts, it perceives and recognizes the work of creative omnipotence, whose power, set in motion by the mighty ‘Fiat’ pronounced billions of years ago by the Creating Spirit, spread out over the universe, calling into existence with a gesture of generous love matter busting with energy. (Pope Pius XII “Address to the Pontifical Academy”)

On the other hand, Pius XII warned on many occasions against the misuse of technology and embracing of materialism, paralleling Tolkien in his belief that at its worst technology “empties life of meaning, since it affects the spiritual and material values connected with man’s nature and personal dignity. Wherever technology reigns supreme, there human society will be transformed into a colorless mass, into something impersonal and unenduring, contrary to the clear designs of nature and the Creator” (McLaughlin 213).

            What, then, is the dividing line between Science as servant of God and Science as serpentine sin? As C.P. Snow explained (64-5), science has two explicit motivations: the understanding of the natural world, and its domination. Henry Gee and others have noted that Tolkien viewed the former as the hallmark of pure science, and the latter as pure sin. In a letter to Michael Straight, Tolkien explained that

The Elves represent, as it were, the artistic, aesthetic, and purely scientific aspects of the Humane nature raised to a higher level than is actually seen in Men. That is: they have a devoted love of the physical world, and a desire to observe and understand it for its own sake and as ‘other’ – sc. as a reality derived from God in the same degree as themselves – not as a material for use or as a power-platform. (Letters 236)

Likewise, in several letters Tom Bombadil is said to embody this pure nature of science as a wish to merely understand the natural world rather than to apply that knowledge to ‘practical’ uses (Letters 179; 192). Interestingly, although a devote Catholic, Tolkien’s view of the line between science as godly versus godless diverges strongly from that of Pope Pius XII when it comes to the question of domination. In several of his speeches, Pius XII quoted Genesis in affirming humanity’s God-given right to “subdue the earth,” stating in a 1956 address to the Astronautical Federation that based on Genesis, it is clear that God put no boundaries on humanity’s “attempts at conquest” of the earth, and on the contrary “put the whole of creation before us… to penetrate its mysteries, and so come to see ever more clearly the infinite greatness of the Creator” (McLaughlin 205). Using Tolkien’s more restrictive definition of the division between pure and impure science, we will now examine several explicit examples of the Fall of Science (and scientists) in Middle-earth among the Valar, Maiar, Istari, Elves, and Humans.

            The first instance of sin in Middle-earth is also a sin of desiring forbidden knowledge. Melkor, the mightiest of the Ainur, to whom Ilúvatar gave “the greatest gifts of power and knowledge” (S 16), was not satisfied with what he had been given but sought to gain ultimate knowledge and power over the Flame Imperishable and thus all of Eä. Here we see an interesting twist on the tale of Prometheus. Rather than stealing the divine fire in order to help humanity, Melkor’s motivations are strictly self-aggrandizing.  In so doing, he fell into evil and sin, and through his introduction of discord into the song of creation, evil became intertwined into the very fabric of reality. Among his blasphemous thoughts was the desire to “bring into Being things of his own,” kindled by his impatience in what he perceived as Ilúvatar’s slowness in filling the Void (S 16). Here we find two of the most important recurring themes in the Fall of Science in Middle-earth: the desire to be a ‘Creator’ (a role assumed to belong solely to God), and a desire to change the pace of the natural world through artificial means.

            Geneticist J.B.S. Haldane wrote in his famed 1923 essay Daedalus that “if every physical and chemical invention is a blasphemy, every biological invention is a perversion” (Turney x). Tolkien illustrates this point on numerous occasions, most dramatically through his various writings on the role of Melkor, Sauron, and Saruman in the ‘unholy’ origin of orcs, Uruk-hai, and trolls (e.g. Morgoth 405-23). The modern reader cannot help but draw a direct connection between such twisted and ‘unnatural’ creatures (one might say abominations) and their most famous archetype, Frankenstein’s monster. Like Shelley’s The Modern Prometheus, Tolkien’s The Silmarillion contains a clear cautionary message against trying to create life (and the doom of all such endeavors to failure). Aulë, the craftsman – or engineer – of the Valar, was given by Ilúvatar “skill and knowledge scarce less than to Melkor.” Unlike Melkor, Aulë freely gave the fruits of his skills to others, and delighted in the process and outcome of his labors rather than in possessiveness and hubris (S 19). But like Victor Frankenstein, Aulë tried to master the secret of creating life (a secret which Tolkien strongly believes belongs to God alone) and thereby make living beings of his own. Frankenstein and Aulë initially believe their motivations justify their actions, but are eventually forced to face the folly of their experiments. Aulë wished to have living beings whom he could teach and share his skills with, and had grown impatient waiting for the promised arrival of the Children of Ilúvatar. Like Frankenstein, Aulë knew that his peers would not understand his motivations, and thus he labored in secret, but was unable to keep his actions hidden from the true Creator. Upon crafting the seven dwarf fathers, Aulë was visited by the Voice of Ilúvatar and faced the failure of what he had attempted to accomplish: “Why dost thou attempt a thing which thou knowest is beyond thy power and thy authority? For thou hast from me as a gift thy own being only, and no more” (S 43). Demonstrating his infinite love and pity, Ilúvatar adopts the dwarfs and gives them the autonomous spirits (souls) which Aulë does not have the power to bestow.

Tolkien’s careful distinction between creation and ‘sub-creation’ is mirrored in the teachings of Pope Pius XII, who warned that science “transforms and fetters and subdues the materials which nature offers us, but it does not create them; and it must be satisfied to follow nature as the disciple follows the master whose work he imitates” (Chinigo 145). As with Melkor before him, Aulë’s fall into sin was partially precipitated by impatience. Likewise, Pius XII warned scientists against a search for shortcuts and undue haste when studying the natural world:

Nature opens up before you like a mysterious but astonishing book, which must be turned page by page and read in an orderly manner, with the aim in mind of progressing ceaselessly. In this manner, every forward step is a continuation of the preceding ones, corrects them, and climbs continuously toward the light of a deeper understanding (Haigerty 117).

Or, at the risk of seeming impertinently impatient, one might simply cite Treebeard’s admonition to Merry and Pippin: “Not so hasty” (TT, III, iv, 67).

            A similar example of the downward spiral into sin caused by haste and a desire to harness powers beyond one’s God-given potential can be found in Saruman. His transformation from the chief of the Istari, emissary of the Valar, and student of Aulë, into a ‘mad scientist’ consumed by a “mind of metal and wheels” (TT, III, iv, 76) and further into the pitiful Sharkey, a mere shell of his former power, is one of the more obvious cautionary lessons of The Lord of the Rings. As Saruman succumbs to his lust for knowledge, and with it power, he falls into sin and abuse of the natural world. So too does his laboratory, Isengard, transforming from a beautiful tower where “wise men” had once engaged in observing the heavens (an example of pure science) into a “child’s model or a slave’s flattery of that vast fortress, armory, prison, furnace of great power, Barad-dûr, the Dark Tower” (TT, III, viii, 160-1). Saruman’s desire for knowledge and power led him into a Faustian deal with the devil – Sauron in this case – and despite Saruman’s prideful belief that he could somehow manipulate the deal to his benefit, the reader understands Tolkien’s message that this is utter folly. Tom Shippey refers to Saruman’s fall as an extreme case of “Sandyman’s disease,” the devolution of scientific curiosity into technology and from there into an irrational hatred of the natural world and desire to utterly dominate and destroy it (Shippey 171). Pius XII echoes Tolkien’s caution against becoming “intoxicated with the spirit of technology,” warning that it may lead man to become “prostrate at its altar” and instill in him “a sense of self-sufficiency” as it sates his “boundless thirst for knowledge and power” (McLaughlin 209-10).

            Possessiveness and blind attachment to one’s scientific knowledge and technological creations are not only anathema to the spirit of open cooperation and peer review in science, but also lead to a Fall, both in our world and Tolkien’s. An example is Fred Hoyle’s single-minded decades-long crusade against the Big Bang theory (which he actually named as such in his BBC radio broadcasts in an attempt to deride the theory). Partially fueled by his disdain for Christianity in general, and Pope Pius XII’s embrace of the Big Bang in particular, Hoyle clung to his alternative Steady State model, despite the verification of the Big Bang by numerous observational tests, tests the Steady State failed to meet. As a result, Hoyle’s reputation in the scientific community suffered greatly, as noted by Tolkien’s fellow Inkling C.S. Lewis in a 1952 letter to Genia Goelz (Ward 312).  In Middle-earth, we find a more tragic example in the life and death of Fëanor. The “most subtle in mind and the most skilled in hand” of all the Noldor, Fëanor developed his own writing script and great artificial jewels “greater and brighter than those of the earth.” It was said that “seldom were the hands and mind of Fëanor at rest” (S 64). His greatest achievement was clearly the three Silmarils, an act of technology rather than pure science. The distinction can be seen in a letter to Milton Waldman, where Fëanor is called the “chief artificer” of the Elves, and the light of the Two Trees is said to have been “imprisoned” within the jewels (Letters 148). Clearly we have the subjugation of nature, despite Fëanor’s initial honorable intention to preserve some of the light of the Two Trees for posterity. But after the destruction of the Trees by Melkor and Ungoliant, Fëanor’s attachment to his ‘creations’ stays him from doing what is clearly right, as he refuses the Valar’s request to use the Silmarils to restore the dying Trees:

“For the less even as for the greater there is some deed that he may accomplish but once only; and in that deed his heart shall rest. It may be that I can unlock my jewels, but never again shall I make their like; and if I must break them, I shall break my heart, and I shall be slain….” (S 78) 

We see here an illustration of Tolkien’s warning in the aforementioned letter to Waldman of the potential for all creative activity to suffer a Fall by becoming “possessive, clinging to the things made as ‘its own’” (Letters 145). Fëanor’s obsession for his jewels overwhelms him when he discovers that they have been stolen by Melkor (and that his father was slain in the process), leading to the rebellion of the Noldor and the oath of Fëanor and his sons, to pursue to the ends of the earth any being (including Valar) who would keep the Silmarils from their possession. Ultimately, this tragic obsession for three material objects – the product of Fëanor’s secret technology – led to numerous slayings of Elf by Elf, the utter destruction of Fëanor and his sons, and the Doom of the Noldor and their banishment from Valinor – their expulsion from ‘Eden’. While thankfully few scientists or engineers exhibit such an unnatural attachment to their discoveries, the lesson is a valid one, and would certainly do no harm to members of the scientific culture to hear.

            The last surviving member of the House of Fëanor, his grandson Celebrimbor, likewise suffered greatly due to an attachment to technology and a lust for secret knowledge. During the Second Age, the Gwaith-í-Mírdan (People of the Jewel-smiths) dwelled in Eregion and achieved legendary skills as metal-smiths and jewelry-makers. Chief amongst them was Celebrimbor, who had inherited much of his grandfather’s skills (but apparently learned few lessons from his family’s fate). In the smiths of Eregion Sauron found a willing audience for his offer of secret knowledge, ensnaring the Noldor through their desire to “increase the skill and subtlety of their works” (S 287). In a letter to Peter Hastings, Tolkien explained that the Noldor “were always on the side of ‘science and technology’, as we should call it” and hence ignored the sage warnings of their High King Gil-galad and his counselor Elrond. Tolkien also called the Eregion Elves’ desire for knowledge an “‘allegory’ if you like of a love of machinery, and technical devices’ (Letters 190).

            Celebrimbor and his smiths utilized the arcane knowledge they had received from Sauron to craft the Three Rings of Power – Vilya, Nenya, and Narya – and although Sauron never touched them, they were ultimately slaves to the One Ring, just as Celebrimbor and his fellow Noldor had become (albeit unwittingly) intellectual servants of Sauron. Although the Elvish Rings never fell into Sauron’s hand, Eregion was destroyed in the resulting war, and Celebrimbor and many of his craftsmen slain.

            Interestingly, perhaps Tolkien’s most interesting cautionary tale against an unfettered desire for knowledge and the danger of Faustian bargains is found buried in his notes to one of the works posthumously published in the History of Middle-earth volumes, “Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth” (written circa 1959). In the main text of this “Debate of Finrod and Andreth,” the Fall of humanity, presumably under the seduction of Melkor, is strongly hinted at, but remains an unspoken taboo in the main work. It is only in Tolkien’s notes to his Commentary on the work that we are granted access to this hidden knowledge, in the form of “The Tale of Adanel” (Morgoth 346). Here it is accounted how the disembodied Voice of Ilúvatar spoke to the newly awoken humans with words quite reminiscent of Genesis: “In time ye will inherit all this Earth, but first ye must be children and learn” (Morgoth 346). At first humans obeyed the Voice of their Creator, and as often happens, Ilúvatar’s human students discovered that “learning was difficult” and sought the easy and immediate answers from Ilúvatar himself. In response, Ilúvatar cautioned them to “First seek to find the answer for yourselves. For ye will have joy in the finding, and so grow from childhood and become wise. Do not seek to leave childhood before your time” (Morgoth 356-6). As with most students thus addressed, the first humans became impatient and “desired to order things to our will; and the shapes of many things that we wished to make awoke in our minds. Therefore we spoke less and less to the Voice” (Morgoth 345-6). Thus humanity fell from science into technology, from the satisfaction of merely understanding into a desire for practical uses, and their personal relationship with their Creator suffered. For as Tolkien wrote in a letter to Camilla Unwin, although the universe itself is not worthy of worship, the “devoted study of it may be one of the ways of honouring Him” (Letters 400). Pandora’s box beckoned humanity, and all it would take is the offer of a shortcut to knowledge for the Fall into sin to be complete.

Such a promised shortcut came in the form of Melkor, who appeared not in the guise of a serpent, but one of beauty, promising to help humanity attain the “marvelous riches which knowledge can unlock. Ye could have food more abundant and more delicious than the poor things that ye now eat. Ye could have dwellings of ease, in which ye could keep light and shut out the night….” (Morgoth 346). Thus tempted, Man takes on this false teacher, who retains their continued loyalty with the occasional gifts of knowledge and goods. All gifts were accepted without question, and with the fear that they would cease without warning. With the trap set, Melkor sealed the deal, using the somewhat theatrical device of a solar eclipse to frighten humanity into final unquestioning obedience to him alone and repudiation of the Voice, their true Creator. When Ilúvatar finally spoke to them again, it was to warn them of their Fall from initial grace, and the resulting punishment – the shortening of their lives from the span initially gifted by their Creator. Thus Man fell into sin and the worship of a false god – the blasphemy of devil-worship in essence – leading to their expulsion from the paradise of innocence and one presumes some sort of longevity (although not on par with that of the Elves). As a result humanity was afterwards plagued “by weariness, and hunger, and sickness; and the Earth and all things in it were turned against us. Fire and Water rebelled against us. The birds and beasts shunned us, or if they were strong they assailed us. Plants gave us poison; and we feared the shadows under trees” (Morgoth 348). Not surprisingly, Tolkien openly mused whether or not the inclusion of this tale would make the “Athrabeth” a “parody of Christianity” (Morgoth 356). After their initial Fall, humanity fell further still into sin and blasphemy, ultimately leading to human sacrifice and the granting of secret (one might say arcane) knowledge to selected individuals in exchange for unwavering loyalty and the subjugation of fellow humans. Indeed, this cautionary tale illustrates the following lines from Tolkien’s famous essay, “On Fairy-stories”:

Men have conceived not only of elves, but they have imagined gods, and worshipped them, even worshipped those most deformed by their authors’ own evil. But they have made false gods out of other materials: their notions, their banners, their monies; even their sciences and their social and economic theories have demanded human sacrifice. (Flieger and Anderson 66).

Tolkien himself noted the parallels between the “Tale of Adanel” and the more well-known story of the second Fall of Man in Middle-earth, the “Akallabeth.” In this case, Sauron, Melkor’s chief disciple, ensnares many of the Númenóreans with the promise of secret knowledge, playing on their increasingly obsessive desire for prolonged life and ultimately immortality. Seeking these vain scientific goals, goals clearly at odds with the nature imbued on them by Ilúvatar, their Creator, the Númenóreans delayed death “by all means that they could; and they began to build great house for their dead, while their wise men laboured unceasingly to discover if they might the secret of recalling life, or at the least of the prolonging of Men’s days” (S 266). The parallels with Frankenstein are clear. Even many of those descendents of Númenor who survived the destruction of the island when its king openly rebelled against the Valar and Ilúvatar (by setting foot in the Undying Lands) eventually succumbed to the same obsessive fear of death, as Faramir explained to Frodo:

As they had in their old kingdom, and so lost it, [they] hungered after endless life unchanging. Kings made tombs more splendid than houses of the living, and counted old names in the rolls of their descent dearer than the names of sons. Childless lords sat in aged halls musing on heraldry; in secret chambers withered men compounded strong elixirs, or in high cold towers asked questions of the stars. (TT, IV, v, 286)

Hence when science fails to deliver the answers desired, pseudoscience and the occult find an open door. Philosophers, theologians, and scientists, from St. Augustine through James I and onward, have warned of falling into such a trap (Harrison 268; Sagan 25). Although Tolkien is clear to relegate the use of occult practices such as alchemy and astrology to malicious characters (or characters under the influence of great evil) in his legendarium (in agreement with the teachings of the Catholic Church), his writings on the topic of the connections between magic, technology, and science are complex and in places contradictory (e.g. Flieger and Anderson 139-45). Tolkien clearly warned of one significant difference between true science and wizardry, with the latter being “a technique, rather than an investigation of physical Truth” (Flieger and Anderson 139-40).

What are we to make of these disparate examples of Science and the Fall, and what relevant lessons can today’s generation of scientists and science students, and the general reader alike, take away from them? Bacon argued in the 17^th century that science was related to charity because its results could alleviate suffering. But do noble intentions always result in noble outcomes? Tolkien reflected in his 1951 letter to Milton Waldman that “frightful evil can and does arise from an apparently good root, the desire to benefit the world and others” (Letters 146). Such was the case with the Elvish Rings of Power. While their ultimate purpose was the “prevention or slowing of decay,” because they “enhanced the natural powers of a possessor” they approached “‘magic’, a motive easily corruptible into evil, a lust for domination” (Letters 152). We see here one of the two previously posited paths to the Fall, the desire to change the pace of the natural world, in this case the disruption of the natural process of aging and decay. While Lothlorien and Rivendell appear to have remained safe havens during the Third Age under the protection of their respective Rings, it was an artificial and temporary respite against the ravages of time. They were ultimately doomed to pass into the sands of time, like Shelley’s Ozymandias. The time-stalling properties of the One Ring were not as benign, as seen in its effects on Bilbo and especially Gollum. One can also see similar results on the nightly television entertainment news or in supermarket tabloids in what appears to be an increasing number of stories about botched plastic surgeries and ineffective anti-aging procedures. Indeed, how different is current American culture from that of Númenor or Gondor, when one considers our obsession with youth and prolonging life, and the wide-spread prevalence of various pseudosciences?

As Tolkien explained in a letter to Naomi Mitchison, both magic and machines serve the same basic purpose, namely the achievement of “immediacy: speed, reduction of labour, and reduction also to a minimum (or vanishing point) of the gap between the idea or desire and the result or effect” (Letters 200). One does not have to be a Luddite to question the double-edged sword posed by the countless modes of nearly instantaneous electronic communication available today. From fast food to drive-through pharmacies, liquor stores, and even wedding chapels, today’s society demands instant gratification at an every-increasing pace, a demand which the wizards of technology are in a competitive race to fulfill. It is little wonder that a 2004 poll by the National Science Board found that one third of Americans surveyed felt that “science makes our way of life change too fast” (National Science Board A7-16). Tolkien argues that “labour-saving machinery only creates endless and worse labour,” as anyone with a virus-ridden laptop can attest. He also warns that in addition to our Fall from grace, our machines fall as well, both in their failure to satisfy our desires, and also their propensity to “turn to a new and horrible evil. So we come inevitably from Daedalus and Icarus to the Giant Bomber.” He adds that this “is not an advance in wisdom” (Letters 88).

Despite all that we have achieved technologically, there is the insatiable craving for a faster computer, a smaller cellphone, or an MP3 player that can hold more songs. Likewise, the first humans of Middle-earth were not satisfied with the gifts of knowledge they were granted, as Melkor had also “awakened many desires” previously unknown. Like knowledge addicts, the more Melkor taught, the more humans desired to know, “about the beasts and birds, and the plants that grew in the Earth; about our own making; and about the lights of heaven, and the countless stars, and the Dark in which they are set” (Morgoth 346). To this scientist, this list seems uncomfortably close to a summary of the main scientific discoveries of the twentieth century. Is Tolkien accusing the scientific community of his age of making their own Faustian deals in order to attain the unheralded leaps in knowledge Tolkien witnessed in his own life? Importantly, what has been the result of this hasty exploration of the most intimate secrets of the microcosm and the macrocosm?

This brings us to the final scientific lesson of Tolkien’s legendarium, namely the concept of responsibility for one’s actions. In the case of the scientific community, this has been a point of contention, especially since World War II. One point of view is that scientists are beholden to the scientific method alone. Their sole responsibility is the search for knowledge, without concern for any eventual applications or implications of their discoveries (Commoner 104). This perspective sometimes results in righteous indignation, as in the following argument by chemistry professor Brian Silver:

As a scientist, I am offended when science is falsely accused and the real criminal, irresponsible technology, roams the streets free. The tank was not invented by a scientific “loony”, neither was the sword, the musket, the bow, the bayonet, or gunpowder. (Silver 481).

Tolkien has some sympathy for this point of view, with clear limitations. He describes Celebrimbor and the smiths of Eregion as

No more wicked or foolish (but in much the same peril) as Catholics engaged in certain kinds of physical research (e.g. those producing, if only as by-products, poisonous gases and explosives): things not necessarily evil, but which, things being as they are, and the nature and motives of the economic masters who provide all the means for their work being as they are, are pretty certain to serve evil ends. For which they will not necessarily be to blame, even if aware of them. (Letters 190)

Where Tolkien clearly draws the line with responsibility is the direct development of weapons by scientists, most especially nuclear weapons. In an August 9, 1945 letter to his son Christopher, Tolkien lamented that “the news today about ‘Atomic bombs’ is so horrifying one is stunned. The utter folly of these lunatic physicists to consent to do such work for war-purposes: calmly plotting the destruction of the world!” (Letters 116). Time does not permit a lengthy review of the politics and motivations of the Manhattan Project, but one finds a haunting parallel in Fëanor’s ill-fated speech to the Noldor, promising them that when they have “regained the Silmarils, then we and we alone shall be lords of the unsullied Light, and masters of the bliss and beauty of Arda. No other race shall oust us!” (S 83). In a 1947 lecture at M.I.T., J. Robert Oppenheimer, ‘Creator’ of the atomic bomb, warned that “in some sort of crude sense which no vulgarity, no humor, no over-statement can quite extinguish, the physicists have known sin, and this is a knowledge which they cannot lose” (Mendelsohn 31). But as Wartofsky has argued, science and scientists can be said to have ‘fallen’ long before the Trinity test or the bombing of Hiroshima, in each of its “dalliances with the temptation of power whose corruption is recognized only in retrospect. The road to hell, then, is paved with the innocent detachment of pure science from concern with or responsibility for its practical consequences or its prospective applications” (Wartofsky 5).

If we consider the possible applications of scientific inquiry, does that mean that there are questions which should not be asked, and answers which should not be sought? Should there be limits placed on science? If so, who should ultimately be responsible for setting those limits, if not the scientists themselves? Current debates around stem cell research, cloning, and other politically-charged scientific issues suggest that these are questions which do not have self-evident answers. Tolkien’s own viewpoint is clearly articulated in a 1956 letter, where he flatly states not only that nuclear physics need not be used for domination, but more importantly that it “need not be used at all. If there is any contemporary reference in my story at all it is to what seems to me the most widespread assumption of our time: that if a thing can be done, it must be done. This seems to me wholly false” (Letters 246). Compare this with the words of fictional mathematician Dr. Ian Malcolm in Michael Crichton’s famous novel Jurassic Park: “Science has attained so much power that its practical limits begin to be apparent…. Science can make a nuclear reactor, but it cannot tell us not to build it. Science can make a pesticide, but cannot tell us not to use it” (Crichton 314). In the film version, Malcolm chastises the ‘creators’ of Jurassic Park because “your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, they didn't stop to think if they should.”

            In manuscript B of his essay “On Fairy-stories”, Tolkien warns that “science (so noble in its origin and original purpose) has produced in alliance with sin nightmare horrors and perils of the night before which the giants and demons grow pale” (Flieger and Anderson 269). If science (and scientists) have fallen into sin, it is because science is a very human activity, and is therefore not infallible. Given the great potential for both good and evil in the application of scientific discoveries (and the sometimes very fine line between the two), both C.P. Snow’s essay warning of the dangers of the chasm between the Two Cultures, and Tolkien’s cautionary tales illustrating such dangers, offer a valuable opportunity for open discussion of these important issues among scientists, students of science, and the general public. But there is no doubt that despite the risks, scientific progress will and must continue. For as Pope John Paul II offered, (echoing the thoughts of Tolkien himself on the basic role of science as a human activity):

We are capable of knowing and understanding more and more about the universe and all that it contains. We can reach out and grasp its inner workings and designs, plumbing its depths with questioning reverence and with awestruck imagination. (Pope John Paul, “Address to the Vatican Conference on Cosmology”)

Perhaps the key lies in both scientists and nonscientists alike more actively balancing the questioning and the imagination with the reverence and the awe.

Works Cited

Birzer, Bradley J. J.R.R. Tolkien’s Sanctifying Myth. Wilmington, DE: ISI Books, 2002.

Chinigo, Michael, ed. The Teachings of Pope Pius XII. London: Methuen & Co., 1958.

Commoner, Barry. Science and Survival. New York: Viking Press, 1967.

Crichton, Michael. Jurassic Park. New York: Knopf, 1990.

Flieger, Verlyn, and Douglas A. Anderson, eds. Tolkien on Fairy-stories. London: Harper Collins, 2008.

Gee, Henry. The Science of Middle-earth. Cold Spring Harbor, NY: Cold Spring Press, 2004.

Haigerty, Rev. Leo J., ed. Pope Pius XII and Technology. Milwaukee: Bruce Publishing, 1962.

Harrison, Peter. “Curiosity, Forbidden Knowledge, and the Reformation of Natural Philosophy in Early Modern England.” Isis 92 (2001): 265-90.

Krupp, E.C., ed. Archaeology and the Roots of Science. Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1984.

McLaughlin, P.J. The Church and Modern Science. New York: Philosophical Library, 1957.

Mendelsohn, Everett. “Knowledge and Power in the Sciences.” Science Under Scrutiny, ed. R.W. Home. Dordrecht, Holland: D. Reidel, 1983.

National Science Board. Science and Engineering Indicators 2006. Washington, D.C.: National Science Foundation, 2006.

Pope John-Paul II. “Address to the Vatican Conference on Cosmology.” Vatican Home Page. http://www.vatican.va/holy_father/john_paul_ii/speeches/1985 (accessed November 1, 2008).

Pope Pius XII. “Address to the Pontifical Academy of Sciences, November 22, 1951.” Global Catholic Network. http://www.ewtn.com/library/PAPALDOC/P12EXIST.THM (Accessed November 1, 2008).

Sagan, Carl. The Demon-haunted World. New York: Ballantine Books, 1997.

Shippey, T.A. J.R.R. Tolkien: Author of the Century. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2002.

Silver, Brian L. The Ascent of Science. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998.

Snow, C.P.  The Two Cultures: And A Second Look. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1963.

Turney, Jon. Frankenstein’s Footsteps: Science, Genetics and Popular Culture. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998.

Ward, Michael Planet Narnia. New York: Oxford University Press, 2008.

Wartofsky, Marx W. “The Critique of Impure Reason II: Sin, Science, and Society.” Science, Technology, and Human Values 6, 33(1980): 5-23.