The Theorist of the Fairy-Tale
The "escapist" label deployed by skeptics to dismiss fantasy literature has stuck to The Lord of the Rings since it was first published. Call a story fairy-tale and childrenare encouraged to read it; call it fantasy and adult readers are pilloried for escaping reality. To borrow a phrase from Tolkien's essay, "On Fairy-stories," this is "almost the truth upside-down" (MC 123). Surely it is adults, with a larger experience of the "real" world than children, who most benefit from fantasy to reconfigure, not deny, reality. The fact is, all fiction is escapist. Imaginary characters and events, andthe world in which they move, have no existence outside the work which creates them. Any reader, child or adult, immersed in fiction, however realistic, is escaping the experienced world for the one on the page.
The naysayers' assumption that what's good for children is bad for adults istypified by Edmund Wilson's 1956 "Oo! Those Awful Orcs," which called The Lord of the Rings "juvenile trash" and professed puzzlement at,
<blockquote style="margin: 0 0 0 40px; border: none; padding: 0px;">why the author should have supposed he was writing for adults. . . . there is little in The Lord of the Rings over the head of a seven-year-old child. It is essentially a children's book . . . which has somehow got out of hand.(The Nation, April 14 1956)</blockquote>
Thirty years later, Germaine Greer concurred.
<blockquote style="margin: 0 0 0 40px; border: none; padding: 0px;">Ever since I arrived at Cambridge . . . in 1964 and encountered a tribe of full-grown women wearing puffed sleeves, clutching teddies and babblingexcitedly about the doings of hobbits, it has been my nightmare that Tolkienwould turn out to be the most influential writer of the twentieth century. . . . .The books that come in Tolkien's train are more or less what you would expect; flight from reality is their dominating characteristic."(W Magazine Winter/Spring 1997)</blockquote>
Greer's teddy bear-clutching "full-grown women," more babyish than Wilson's seven-year-old, have regressed beyond childhood to infancy. Serious Tolkien scholars might challenge her view, but probably would not change it.
"On Fairy-stories" anticipated Wilson and Greer by several decades, showing that Tolkien was aware of the intellectual high ground claimed by both. He confronted their disdain with two arguments: first, by distinguishing between those who like imaginative literature and those who do not as a difference of taste, not age (MC 130); second by refuting the unexamined assumption that escape means denial rather thandistance, which offers perspective and new perception. Far from avoiding reality, Tolkien declared, Fantasy helps us see it more clearly. "We should meet the centaur and the dragon, and then perhaps suddenly behold, like the ancient shepherds, sheep, and dogs, and horses—and wolves" (MC 146).
The essay covers a host of related topics from fairy-stories to language theory to myth and folklore studies, but I will focus on the section titled "Fantasy," in which Tolkien addresses the uses of imagination, and the extent to which his own fiction fits his description.
Tolkien starts by saying that fairy-stories are not stories about fairies but stories about Faërie, "the realm or state in which fairies have their being," and about the "aventures "of men with this realm (MC 113). The medieval French word aventures —misspelled adventures in The Tolkien Reader—is important. Aventure is related to Old French avant, "forward," and connotes danger, the unknown, the extraordinary, and ultimately the supernatural. That is to say, the Otherworld, often called by medieval poets la forêt des aventures and by Tolkien the "perilous realm" of Faërie.
Even more than aventure, the word Faërie is essential to Tolkien's vision. The older spelling—fayery—may clarify his usage. The addition of the suffix ery, to the base noun fay/fée (Old French "fairy"), verbalizes the noun, as in slavery (both a practice and a condition) or bakery (both a practice and a product). Thus fay-ery/faërie is at once the creation of enchantment, the world of imagination thus created, and the mental/psychological condition of those enchanted, the readers of the story.
Tolkien proposes that the function of enchantment is precisely to provide Escape, to create a Secondary World into which the reader can enter. Admitting that "in criticism [Escape] would seem to be the worse the better it succeeds" (MC148), Tolkien champions the term, calling it "one of the main functions of fairy-stories"(MC 147-48). But he cautions, "creative Fantasy is founded upon the hard recognition that things are so in the world as it appears under the sun; on a recognition of fact but not a slavery to it" (MC 147). Even more unequivocally he declares, "Fantasy is made out of the Primary World" (MC 144).
In this regard, his "escapist" world of Middle-earth is as realistic as Sherlock Holmes's London. Both are founded on observable reality, based in the facts of everyday life "under the sun." Yet both are distinct from this "real" world, free from its demands in that they never have and do not now exist in actuality but only in imagination. 221B Baker Street is no more or less "real" than Bag End, and Holmes's world, though its street and place names are familiar, is as Secondary as Hobbiton. Though one has a real-world corollary and the other does not, the difference is of degree, not kind.
Tolkien calls Fantasy a "sub-creative art," sub because it is imitation and acknowledgement of a prime creator. He calls the adjective a "part of speech in a mythical grammar," and asserts it is capable of changing reality or creating a new reality (MC 122). That the vehicle for such sub-creation is language, that the building blocks of a Secondary World are the words of the primary world, is one of the essay's most important points. The practice of "combining nouns and redistributing adjectives" (MC 143) can produce "new form" (MC 122) in the reader's imagination. When Tolkien talks later about ""inheriting the fantastic device of human language" (MC 140) he uses the word fantastic in its literal sense, not as an intensifier but as an adjectival description of the power of words to create what they name. His example of taking "green from grass" and putting it on a man's face to "produce a horror" is practical illustration of the simultaneously creative and estranging power of words to rearrange reality into fantasy. If an imagined world has a green sun, for example, that world must conform to its own "inner consistency"; it must obey its own rules. A green sun will create color values different from our own. In such fantasy, says Tolkien, "new form is made; Faërie begins; Man becomes a sub-creator" (MC 122). The Secondary World invites usto "escape" from the confines of the Primary World, but the new form makes us appreciate the familiar one.
Next, Tolkien lists his requirements for a successful fairy tale, that it provide its reader with Recovery, Escape, and Consolation. Recovery, not so much recuperation (from illness) as the regaining of a clear view, is the getting back of something lost, seeing familiar things in a new setting where they appear strange and new. The poet Marianne Moore's concept of real toads in imaginary gardens comes to mind. In agreement with Moore, Tolkien proposes, "We should look at green again" . . . "and be startled anew by blue and yellow and red" (MC 146). He meant us to look at his imaginary Elves and Hobbits and be startled anew by seeing ourselves in them. The "fantastic" personnel of The Lord of the Rings are most familiar when they are most strange. Hobbits would not work as heroes if the reader could not identify with them. Even the orcs reveal identifiable aspects of humanity, most familiar when least desirable. They are, if not real toads, at least realistic ones in a garden that seems less and less imaginary the more you look at it.
Discussion of the familiar as unfamiliar allows Tolkien to move on to the larger question of Escape. Here he argues against the elite intellectualism of Wilson and Greer. His argument is a reaction against not just literary snobbery with its focus on the ordinary, often seamy aspects of modern life, but also against the real grime and mechanistic dehumanization which were the byproducts of the growing industrial state. He had no desire to catch up, yet he felt caught up, swept along on the tide of progress. With this as his position, Tolkien contrasts to its advantage the Escape of the Prisoner with the Flight of the Deserter. The desire to avoid unpleasant circumstances, by whatever means and for however short a time, is a natural human impulse.
"But," continues Tolkien, "there are also other and more profound 'escapisms.'" He insists that it is neither inappropriate nor unworthy to want to go beyond what he calls the "ancient limitations" of the human condition to fulfill "old ambitions and desires" (MC 151); to sound the depths and heights of sea and sky like fish and bird, to communicate with other species and thus to transcend the separation of humans from the whole world of nature. The fairy-story motif of the talking animal provides this escape. And finally there is what Tolkien calls the Great Escape, the Escape from Death, exemplified by Beauty's dying Beast who arises from his death as her handsome prince, by Snow White's or Sleeping Beauty's awakening from a deathlike sleep by the prince's kiss.
To Escape Tolkien adds Consolation, the final necessity of the fairy-tale embodied in its traditional Happy Ending. Whatever dire events take place in the course of the narrative, the tale must end happily. This is the one essential component. It is what the unexamined phrase "fairy-story" means to most people. No matter how close the story comes to disaster, everything will turn out well. To explain the full meaning of Consolation Tolkien has invented a word, Eucatastrophe, the "sudden joyous 'turn'" or lift when the story unexpectedly reverses its direction. While the word is Tolkien's invention, it is built on an existing term borrowed from Greek tragedy, catastrophe, whose components are Greek kata, "down" and strephein, "turn."
In tragedy the catastrophe is the downturn, the change in fortune where, forexample, Oedipus learns the circumstances of his birth and thus his true and doomed identity. Adding to catastrophe the prefix eu, "good," Tolkien keeps the concept but changes the direction. In order for the turn to occur, there must be the imminent possibility of dyscatastrophe, another word of Tolkien's invention reinforcing the downward direction by adding dys from Greek dus, "bad or evil." Without this suggestion of "sorrow and failure" the turn has no impact. The possibility of these is what creates the joy of deliverance and makes the Ending Happy.
The relevance of all this to Tolkien's fiction is obvious, but more complex and complicated than at first appears. While both The Hobbit and The Lord of the Ringsare fantasies in that they transcend observable reality to create a Secondary Word, this classification has led to critical errors in judgment based on the assumption that fantasy is a genre for children rather than adults. The Hobbit, a children's book, has been praised as a fairy-story, albeit a complex and to some extent parodic one, while The Lord of the Rings—which its author declared to his publisher was "quite unfit for children" (Letters 136)—has been labeled a fairy-story and dismissed as a children's book (see Wilson and Greer above).
a. The Hobbit
The Hobbit is clearly a story for children. Even without the by now general knowledge that Tolkien began it as a story for his own children we can recognize by its tone, comparable to that of other children's books of the period (see for example those of E. Nesbit), that it is addressed to a juvenile audience. We also have no trouble acknowledging that by anyone's standard it is a fairy-story involving a lost treasure and pitting its hero against such traditional fairy tale figures as trolls, goblins, and elves. That it is a fairy-story by Tolkien's more exacting standards as well is clear, for it bears what he called "the trade-mark Of Faërie" (MC 135) indelibly stamped upon it.
So what is this trade-mark? It is Otherness, "arresting strangeness" (MC 139). The famous first sentence: "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit" (Hobbit 11) takes us out of this world and into another marked (indeed almost created) by the unfamiliar word hobbit. It is a Secondary World so grounded in the Primary one that we can recognize the links. Imaginary creatures called hobbits get letters in the mail, and wizards blow colored smoke-rings. Reversing Marianne Moore, we might describe Bilbo and Gandalf as imaginary toads in a real garden. Yet it is also an imaginary garden in which a bourgeois toad can hobnob with dwarves and dragons, converse with eagles and taunt spiders, possess a key tounlock a mountain, and wear a ring of invisibility.
The juxtaposition of such disparate elements, employed for humor but also to create the "arresting strangeness" that is the hallmark of Fantasy, illustrates his theory of Recovery. To find domestic chores occupying the same narrative space as the wizards and dragons is to re-imagine both kinds, and see each in terms of the other. "Good morning" said casually to a passing wizard makes the ordinary phrase extraordinary even as it domesticates the wizard. The result in both cases is estrangement followed by Recovery, a new appreciation of what we have taken for granted.
But Otherness is also experienced by the hobbit hero himself as he escapes his conventional hobbit hole to venture into a world filled with the paraphernalia of fairy-tales—trolls with talking purses, shape-changing were-bears, dark forests inhabited by white deer and peopled by partying elves who appear and disappear at will, and threaded by rivers of enchanted sleep. Escape, in both aspects of Faërie follows naturally from Recovery. In parallel with the reader, Bilbo escapes his ordinary life and transcends his Baggins nature to enter a Tookish faërie world<sup>1</sup> which introduces him not just to the "arresting strangeness" of Mirkwood and Smaug but to the arrestingly strange and Tookish side of himself. His dream on the rock shelf after rescue by the eagles, of wandering through the different rooms of his own house looking for something he cannot find or remember, is a scarcely veiled depiction of his awakening to a new self.
But can we find in Tolkien's story a true eucatastrophe and Happy Ending? The answer is both yes and no, for The Hobbit is an idiosyncratic fairy-story whosetone and ethos shift halfway through. C.S. Lewis's comment that it is as if Badger<sup>2</sup>had suddenly started talking like Njal<sup>3</sup> is apt and insightful. What began as a mock-fairy tale journey There and Back Again changes with the wrath of Smaug into a mini-epic closer to Beowulf than "Snow White," albeit one in which the hero plays a less-than-heroic part. Tolkien even deprives Bilbo of the deed which should be his by right, the slaying of the dragon, assigning this instead to Bard the Bowman, whose kingly credentials are hurried into the story almost as an afterthought.
The last third of the book shifts from conventional fairy tale to a surprisingly contemporary study of greed, politics, war, and moral ambiguity. The book's climax, the Battle of Five Armies, plays out among competing groups—Elves, Dwarves and Men—which have been on the brink of war with one another until threatened by the Wolves and Goblins, who unite them against a common foe. Written in the early thirties and published late in 1937 of the last century, the book's memory of World War I and the looming shadow of World War II are scarcely hidden beneath the fantasy. The Hobbit takes an unexpected left turn almost out of its Secondary World into the Primary one.
The last-minute Eagles-to-the-rescue device may qualify as eucatastrophe, but only in a limited sense. It ends the war, but not the story. This goes on to chronicle in more Beowulfian than fairy-tale fashion the death of Thorin, who goes to the halls of waiting after telling Bilbo, "if more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world (Hobbit 243). Not merry ever after, just merrier than the world Thorin has known. Bilbo's subsequent homecoming to Bag End, laden with treasure, rounds off the story, but since he has never been in any real peril, the Happy Ending is not a "turn" but a re-turn, a restoration of fairy tale order. We may say The Hobbit has many fairy-tale elements—Secondary World, fantasy, recovery, escape—but imperfectly blended. In the final analysis, The Hobbit's greatest importance lies in its foreshadowing of things to come.
b. The Lord of the Rings
The Hobbit sequel which became The Lord of the Rings had the advantage its precursor lacked of time to mature. Ideas, motifs, characters half-developed or hurried to completion in The Hobbit were now prepared for and fleshed out. The twelve years (1937-1949) of the book's stop-and-start gestation and delivery,<sup>4</sup> during which Tolkien changed his house, his chair, and his college (FR Foreword 6) allowed Tolkien to practice lessons learned in writing its predecessor and codified into principles in the essay that followed it.
The Lord of the Rings was not intended primarily for children. Tolkien called it "an immensely long, complex, rather bitter, and very terrifying romance, quite unfit for children" (Letters 136). He was wrong only in the last four words, unless by "children" he meant people under the age of eight or nine. The Lord of the Rings been read by many children of that age and older, just as fairy-stories can been joyed by readers of any age. But as with any good story, the more mature the readers the more they are likely to get out of the story.
So multi-layered and complexly interlaced a narrative as The Lord of the Rings, extending to over a thousand pages, cannot be fully analyzed within the brief compass of an article. The best that can be done is to select for examination representative elements which conform to the requirements of fairy-story and Fantasy outlined in Tolkien's essay. Let us start with Faërie/Fantasy. As with The Hobbit, the entire world of the book is a Secondary World. For Tolkien's modern readers the little world of Hobbiton and the Shire, a nostalgic recreation of the world of his own early childhood, functions as fantasy, as we saw with The Hobbit.
Far more faërian is the Old Forest, the first and in some ways the most perilous of Tolkien's perilous realms. Leaving Bag End, Frodo, Sam and Pippin spend their first night out of doors fearing no danger, for they are "in the heart of the Shire" (LotR 71), no Secondary World to them, but their Primary World. Leaving Crickhollow two days later, the four hobbits make their first crossing into what is for both them and the reader a Secondary World, the Old Forest. Traversing the underground tunnel, they emerge on the other side to hear the ominous click as Merry shuts the gate behind them and announces that they have "left the Shire" and are "now outside, and on the edge of the Old Forest" (FR I vi 121 108). A threshold has been crossed, and what the hobbits (and we as readers) are about to enter is la forêt des aventures.
Nevertheless, the Old Forest relies on realism for its fantasy, and (with the exception of Old Man Willow) simply behaves like a forest. Its roots trip the travelers, its branches drop or snag, its paths disappear, its brambles block the way and force a change of direction. Cynthia Cohen's discussion of the Old Forest in "The Unique Representation of Trees in The Lord of the Rings" (Tolkien Studies VI, 105-111) makes the point that the hobbits' unease, the aura of menace they perceive, comes as much from their own subjective impressions as from any explicit account of the trees' intention. Yet this rather adds to than detracts from the Old Forest as Faërie, since Tolkien's point in the essay is that the enchantment of Faërie resides largely in the altered state of the reader. "Faërie contains many things besides elves and fays . . . it holds . . . ourselves, mortal men, when we are enchanted"[my emphasis] (MC 113). Old Man Willow merely takes the process a step further, (Cohen suggests he may not in fact be a tree, but rather "an entity living with or associated with a tree—some sort of spirit, or perhaps a Fairy" (TS VI 111).)<sup>6</sup>
What was implicit in the trees of the Old Forest and the hinted sentience of Old Man Willow becomes explicit in Fangorn Forest. The closest to outright Faërie is Pippin's comment that the place is "frightfully tree-ish" (TT III, iv 65). The preternatural awareness of Old Man Willow is given voice and personality with Treebeard, who is presented as not so much a tree-fairy as a tree of Faërie. In him is embodied all the otherness it previously took Tolkien an entire woodland to convey. Paradoxically, his strangeness is conveyed through familiarity. Where Old Man Willow sang at the edge of perception, Treebeard chats with Merry and Pippin directly and in the Common Speech.
In contrast to the Old Forest and Fangorn, Lothlórien embodies the conventional notion of "fairyland," its otherworldly beauty designed to cast a spell. The silver trunks and golden leaves, the tree-dwelling elves, the presence of what Sam calls magic, all fulfill Tolkien's definition of faërie as "the realm or state in which fairies have their being," and are meant to enchant both the reader and the fellowship. Although Lothlórien has nothing in it that is not in the "real" world, (if you accept Elves as aspects of humanity), although it does not have the aura of otherness, the sense of estrangement that give the Old Forest its power, Lórien carries more clearly than any other region of Middle-earth the trademark "Of Faërie."
Much of this comes from its treatment of time, for like the fairylands of mythology and folktale, Lórien is not bound by the laws of time and space—two of the "ancient limitations" Tolkien's essay lists—that rule the Primary World. I have discussed elsewhere Tolkien's efforts to temporally differentiate Lórien from the world around it,<sup>7</sup> and will only observe here that it is through the perception of Frodo we get the notion that Lórien exists in a different time-frame from the outside world. Frodo feels as if he has "stepped over a bridge of time into a corner of the Elder Days (FR II vi 364) and is in "a timeless land" (365).
This enables Tolkien to move seamlessly from Escape to Recovery, for in the timeless land of Lórien Frodo's sharpened senses experience the familiar world as fresh and new. Blindfolded, he can smell the trees and the grass under his feet. He can distinguish different notes in the rustle of the leaves, the murmur of the river,the "thin clear" voices of the birds (FR II vi 363). At Cerin Amroth and without the blindfold this experience is not just repeated, it is heightened. "All that he saw was shapely . . . at once clear cut . . . and ancient. He saw no colour but those he knew . . .but they were fresh and poignant, as if he had at that moment first perceived them"(FR II vi 364). If this is not Recovery, I don't know what is.
Where The Lord of the Rings challenges the fairy-story ethos of Tolkien's essay is in the last requirement, Consolation. Certainly there is a turn and a eucatastrophe. The moment at the Cracks of Doom when Frodo claims the Ring is a perfect catastrophe, a sudden disastrous downturn leading to the brink of tragedy. Gollum's attack and biting off of Frodo's finger followed immediately by his fall intothe fire provide an upturn so stunning it leaves the first-time reader breathless. It is a perfect eucatastrophe, and leads to an extended, undeniable Happy Ending. Sam's question when he wakes in Ithilien and sees Gandalf alive, "Is everything sad going to come untrue?" seems to demand a 'yes' for its answer. Far more than in The Hobbit, Tolkien has given his story a resolution conforming in all particulars to his own criteria for the fairy-story Happy Ending. Except for Frodo.
The Beowulfian death of Thorin becomes in The Lord of the Rings the far greater and more tragic fall of Frodo, who inevitably succumbs to the power of the Ring. Thorin's death brings grief but not tragedy to Bilbo, whose story then continues to its happy end. In contrast, the tragic irony of The Lord of the Rings is that the events at the Cracks of Doom bring about a Happy Ending for everyone but the person responsible for it. While everyone else rejoices, marries, settles down to a post-war life of prosperity and security, Frodo not only derives no benefit from his sacrifice; he suffers permanent damage. In addition to his finger, he has lost his innocence, his home, and his sense of himself. Most damaging of all, both physically and psychologically, he has lost the Ring. He has given everything and recovered nothing, bringing back from Mount Doom only a maimed hand and knowledge of his own failure.
The Scouring of the Shire, its re-greening and its post-war Happy Ending, highlight Frodo's tragedy through his post-traumatic stress. Now, post-traumatic stress is not a usual feature of fairy-story, and Tolkien's inclusion of it is the measure of how far his story transcends conventional fairy tale, epic, even tragedy. "I am a Christian, and indeed a Roman Catholic," wrote Tolkien in 1956, "so that I do not expect 'history' to be anything but a long defeat" (Letters 255).
Thus The Lord of the Rings both challenges and supports the notion of "escapism." It challenges it with regard to Frodo, whose "escape" into the wider world beyond Hobbiton and the Shire ends for him in defeat and disillusionment. In other respects, the book supports escape. Readers escape from the Primary World into a Secondary World of such enchantment that many want to live there, and try to. Moreover, Tolkien's success has fueled the desire for more of the same, and an audience hungry for escape encourages writers to satisfy that hunger. Since The Lord of the Rings was first published a procession of fantasies has followed what Germaine Greer called "Tolkien's train."
But Tolkien is a hard act to follow. His imitators grasp the form but few if any muster the substance to rival the depth and richness of his undeniably fantastic, escapist, and ultra-realistic world.
<sup>1</sup> It is worth noting that Gandalf tells Bilbo he is looking for someone to share in an adventure (the spelling is anglicized but the medieval usage is clear), and Bilbo reacts with predictable distaste, calling adventures "nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things," all of which is true not just in Bilbo's terms but in the medieval sense as well. It is no accident that the word "adventure" occurs twelve times in the first five pages of the book.
<sup>2</sup> See Lewis's essay "On Stories" in his collection Of Other Worlds. "The Hobbit escapes the danger of degenerating into mere plot and excitement by a very curious shift of tone. As the humour and homeliness of the early chapters, the sheer "Hobbitry", dies away and we pass insensibly into the world of epic. It is as ifthe battle of Toad Hall had become a serious heimsökn and Badger had begun to talk like Njal" (19). Badger is a character in Kenneth Grahame's classic children's book, The Wind in the Willows. In genre it is a beast-fable but it transcends the genre by as much as The Lord of the Rings transcends fairy-tale. Tolkien noted in the fairy-story essay that The Wind in the Willows came close to fairy-story.
<sup>3</sup> Njal is the protagonist of one of the best-known of the Icelandic sagas, Njal's Saga, also called "The Story of Burnt Njal," a thirteenth century story of violence and blood feud culminating in the burning of Njal's house over his head. In typical saga style, the language is terse, understated, filled with irony. For Badger to talk like Njal would be an unexpected shift of tone.
<sup>4</sup> Tolkien's statement in the Foreword to the second edition of The Lord of the Rings,that the book's composition "went on at intervals during the years 1936 to 1949" is off by one year in its starting date. The Hobbit was published on 21 September 1937, not 1936. According to Humphrey Carpenter it was "a few weeks" after this publication that Tolkien and Stanley Unwin met to discuss a possible sequel (Carpenter 183).
<sup>5</sup> On 19 December 1937 Tolkien wrote to Charles Furth at Allen & Unwin that he had "written the first chapter of a new story about Hobbits—'A long expected party'" (Letters 27). Although as Tolkien wrote his way into the darker atmosphere of The Lord of the Rings the first chapter underwent several revisions, it nevertheless retained to a greater extent than the rest of the book, the light-hearted tone of The Hobbit.
<sup>6</sup> See the paragraph on daemons and tree-fairy in MS B of Tolkien on Fairy-stories. "For lack of a better word they may be called spirits, daemons: inherent powers of the created world . . . subject to moral law, capable of good an evil . . . .Thus a tree-fairy (or a dryad) is, or was, a minor spirit in the process of creation whoaided as 'agent' in the making effective of the divine Tree-idea or some part of it, oreven of some one particular example: some tree" (TOFS 254-55).
<sup>7</sup>See A Question of Time, Kent State University Press, 1997.
Carpenter, Humphrey. J.R.R. Tolkien: a biography. London: George Allen & Unwin, 1977.
Greer, Germaine. W Magazine Winter/Spring 1997.
Tolkien, J.R.R. The Hobbit. London: George Allen & Unwin, second edition, 1951.–––. The Lord of the Rings. London: HarperCollins, 1991.–––. "On Fairy-stories" in The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays, ed. Christopher Tolkien. London: George Allen & Unwin, 1983.–––. Tolkien On Fairy-stories, ed. with Notes and Commentary by Verlyn Flieger and Douglas A. Anderson. London: HarperCollins, 2008.
Wilson, Edmund. "Oo, Those Awful Orcs" in The Nation, April 14, 1956.
It is hard indeed to believe that one of so great wisdom, and of power—for many wonderful things he did among us—could perish, and so much lore be taken from the world.