The Science of Middle-earth: A New Understanding of Tolkien and His World

WORLD-BUILDING

TOLKIEN: SCHOLAR, ILLUSTRATOR… AND DREAMER

CÉCILE BRETON, scientific journalist

Science is what makes me dream.

Mr. Z (personal communication)

ow was a professor of philology, so conventional in appearance and domestic in lifestyle, able to create such remarkable fictional worlds? This is the first question that comes to mind when looking at a portrait of John Ronald Reuel Tolkien in his tweed jacket, pipe in his mouth, posing in his cozy library.

We could dismiss this question by listing the many paradoxical literary figures counted among Her Majesty’s subjects, but that would be taking the easy way out—and it would also mean forgetting the idea, deeply rooted in our culture, that scientists are necessarily devoid of imagination and feeling, given that their work is devoted to understanding reality. But let us resist the siren call of oversimplification that panders to our intellectual laziness, and, thanks to Tolkien the scholar, illustrator, and dreamer, let us try to show how absurd it is to consider science and imagination mutually exclusive. To do this, we will discuss that talent of his which, according to the prejudice described above, distances him the furthest from rationality: drawing.

Tolkien loved to draw. He would fill nearly any piece of paper with doodles, from his own manuscripts to newspaper clippings. He had little regard for these creations, and was reluctant to let his publishers print them; this was a private pleasure. The image we have of Middle-earth and its inhabitants—rather stereotyped, ultimately—was popularized, well after the publication of Tolkien’s work, by illustrators such as Jon Howe and Alan Lee. But what do Tolkien’s drawings reveal to us about the way in which he visualized his universe, and about the artists that inspired him? We will focus in this chapter on those sketches of Tolkien’s that depict The Lord of the Rings, though he also produced drawings from nature (family life and landscapes) and illustrations for children (for his Letters from Father Christmas and Mr. Bliss), which are deliberately far more simplistic in style and deserve analysis elsewhere.

THE ORIGIN OF THE STORY: MEDIEVAL MAPS AND MANUSCRIPTS

The first edition of The Hobbit, or There and Back Again, released in September 1937, included two maps and eight drawings in black ink by Tolkien. These were sometimes colorized by others and republished, as in The J.R.R. Tolkien Calendars in 1973 and 1974, and in The Hobbit Calendar in 1976, with his son Christopher collecting forty-nine of them in Pictures by J.R.R. Tolkien. Later, Wayne Hammond and Christina Scull published around two hundred drawings in their J.R.R. Tolkien, Artist and Illustrator. Most of these are landscapes, but the volume also includes pages of calligraphy and decorative patterns.

The Hobbit, a book intended for children, contains far more illustrations than does The Lord of the Rings trilogy, the first editions of which include only maps. Concerning The Hobbit, Tolkien wrote in a 1955 letter (Letters, no. 163) that "…for a long time, and for some years [The Hobbit] got no further than the production of Thror’s Map." Methodical by nature, Tolkien was obsessive about maintaining temporal and spatial consistency in the story, and his maps were the cornerstone of this. Daydreaming with his nose buried in an atlas was a favorite pastime of this little man born in the 1880s. Tolkien invented languages before he created the people that spoke them; he drew maps in order to imagine those who roamed them.

The cartography of his two main books, produced with the help of his son Christopher, uses the graphic codes common until the 16th century, combining plan view and figurative relief in perspective. Waterways are filled in with parallel lines, lakes with concentric lines. Captions, compass roses, and map scales are almost always present, and marine creatures such as dolphins can sometimes be seen at play in the ocean. Here, relieved of the need for realism, there is no desire other than to create ancientness, to give the impression of reproduction. And, of course, as a linguist as well as an illustrator, Tolkien pays great attention to calligraphy.

As proof of the anxiety Tolkien felt at the idea of representing living beings, his landscapes are usually deserted, their inhabitants absent or reduced to tiny silhouettes. The only beast that seems to find favor in his eyes is the dragon Smaug, whom he shows several times, guarding his heap of gold or attacking Lake Town. This figure is wholly consistent with the common medieval image of the dragon, albeit sometimes touched with an Asiatic influence: the horse-like head, long, reptilian body, and bat wings. We know how much Tolkien loved dragons, from the one that slew Beowulf to Sigurd’s Fáfnir.I

THE PREHISTORIC IMAGINARY

In Smaug’s fiery attack on Lake Town, a quickly-executed pencil sketch, the dragon, hit by a black arrow, comes crashing down on the flaming city, portrayed as a long row of pilings and a palisade. Another image, far more elaborate and titled simply Lake Town, shows the lakeside city viewed from the shore. A bridge leads to a vast platform on pilings, atop which an impressive settlement has been built. Several barrels strewn around, a ferryman, and a boat attest to its commercial activity. Tolkien—and the images that moved him. One of the great archaeological discoveries of the mid-nineteenth century was the protohistoric lakeside habitat of the Swiss lakes: the exceptionally cold and dry winter of 1853–54 caused an extreme drop in water levels, revealing veritable forests of wooden posts. More than two hundred ‘villages’ were discovered in this way throughout the Alpine region over the next two decades, and the image of these so-called palafitte cities,II

spread through depictions in popular science books, left a profound impression on the popular imagination. These lakeside cities were also naturally represented by the master painter of Swiss pastoral scenes Albert Anker (1831–1910), known for his Rousseau-esque depictions of family and country life, as well as for his many intimate portraits of children. In Der Pfahlbauer, a palafitte-dweller with a Gaulois mustache lies in wait for prey, bow in hand, stretched out on his belly on a rocky outcrop overlooking his lakeside home. How can we fail to be reminded of the American Indians that populated young Tolkien’s books? These archaeological discoveries crystallized in a popular imagination that blended their exoticism with an image of man in his natural state, freed from the constraints of civilization, with its codified social relationships, giving numerous artists license to depict alluringly wild, half-naked women being assaulted by virile warriors, as in Paul Jamin’s (1853–1903)III

magnificent painting Rapt à l’âge du Bronze, or A Rape in the Bronze Age.

The boat with its zoomorphic prow (dragon? horse?), which seems to be headed back toward the city in Tolkien’s sketch, immediately calls to mind a Viking ship, and Beorn’s Hall, another of Tolkien’s drawings, also points us toward the Nordic world. With its transverse beams and its large, sunken, quadrangular hall, this interior is evocative of mead halls, communal Viking structures used for both political and religious purposes. Hammond and Scull consider this drawing to have been inspired by another, published by his medievalist colleague E.V. Gordon, author of An Introduction to Old Norse, in 1927. Thus, we can rightfully see Lake Town as a Neolithic-Viking-inspired city, based on romantic interpretations of the archaeological discoveries of the century.

THE ENVIRONMENTAL IMAGINARY

In a letter of October 25, 1958 (Letters, no. 213), Tolkien writes: I am in fact a Hobbit (in all but size). I like gardens, trees and unmechanized farmlands. What is so striking in his drawings, particularly if we compare them to the battle scenes, monsters, and dark towers emphasized by those who illustrated the books later, is their peaceful, bucolic quality; the deep, dark forests, soaring, craggy mountains, and even the trolls lack any real sense of menace. It is difficult not to make a connection here with his childhood and his love for the green valleys of the Midlands. He was born in South Africa, and it was to protect her children from the heat that his mother decided to return to England when little John Ronald Reuel was a mere three years old. The family settled first in Worcestershire, and then in Sarehole, near Birmingham. Tolkien often spoke fondly of this happy time, which ended five years later when he began attending school in the Birmingham city center.

The landscape of Hobbiton, The Hill: Hobbiton-across-the-Water, may be interpreted as Tolkien’s own image of an earthy paradise: hedged farmland, a river, and a hill overlooked by the circular windows of Bag End and its neighboring houses. Tolkien was a hobbit who loved trees above all else, not only for their majestic beauty, but also because he saw in them an illustration of how myths are constructed. He referred to The Lord of the Rings in a September 1962 letter (Letters, no. 241) as my own internal Tree. Trees are omnipresent in his work, and a large number of them appear in one of his own favorite drawings, Bilbo Comes to the Huts of the Raft-Elves. The style of this piece, even more, perhaps, than The Elvenking’s Gate or The Doors of Durin, is strongly Art Nouveau.

THE SYMBOLIST IMAGINARY

The Parisian metro stations designed by Hector Guimard (1867–1942) are the most famous expression of Art Nouveau, an artistic movement that emerged around 1890. The painters, illustrators, and architects who identified themselves with this movement drew extensively on shapes and forms found in nature, exalting the grace of curves both botanical and feminine. Animal life is also omnipresent in Art Nouveau and, among the forerunners of this anti-positivist movement, we find—paradoxically—a scientist who left his mark on the history of biology, Ernst Hæckel (1834–1919). His famous illustrative plates were used to support descriptions of numerous species, such as the jellyfish and octopi sagely coiling their tentacles in perfectly symmetrical spirals.IV

Art Nouveau is considered to be one of the offshoots of Symbolism, an artistic movement with its origins in the mid-nineteenth century that emerged in reaction to Naturalism and Impressionism, postulating that art should attempt to represent a reality situated beyond the sensory world. Symbolism itself had its roots in a strictly British movement, the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, whose preferred subjects were medieval mythology, Shakespearean theater, Dante’s Divine Comedy, and, of course, the Bible. Ophelia, Merlin, Chaucer,V

and Saint Agnes mingle on their canvases in an atmosphere blending the exaltation of religious sentiment and a prehistoric/medieval dress code. In a letter dated March 16, 1972, Tolkien wrote: "The great bank in the Fellows’ GardenVI

looks like the foreground of a pre-Raphaelite picture."

It is to the Pre-Raphaelites that we owe the unrestrained use of color and the resurgence in popularity of stained glass (solid areas of rich color framed by line patterns), a style found in many of Tolkien’s watercolors, such as Rivendell. These artists represent the pictorial expression of the nineteenth century craze for a romanticized medieval era.

Tolkien was also a great admirer of William Morris (1834–1896), that political figure emblematic of British socialism and possessor of many talents: writer, (another) translator of medieval literature, painter, architect, illustrator, and designer of textile patterns. A friend of Edward Burne-Jones (1833–1898), the driving force behind the Pre-Raphaelite movement, William Morris illustrated his own books with striking borders, intertwined botanical designs, and neo-medieval typeface. Many of Tolkien’s watercolors feature these motif-embellished borders and captions surrounding the title of the piece. His admiration for Morris is impossible to miss in Númenórean Tile and Textiles and Heraldic Devices. He also said that while the Dead Marshes owed much to his dreadful experiences in the trenches of the Somme, Morris was the principal inspirer.

To fill in and give depth to his drawings, Tolkien uses a number of graphic techniques involving the use of lines and dots, as often seen in his maps as well. Another frequent user of these techniques, drawn from wood-engraving, included Henry J. Ford (1860–1941), illustrator of The Red Fairy Book by Andrew Lang, which introduced Tolkien to Norse mythology as a child. The highly popular style, introduced by illustrators such as Aubrey Beardsley, can be seen in the trees and swirling smoke of The Trolls, a piece directly inspired by another illustrator of fairy tales, Jennie Harbour (1893–1959).

Symbolism and Pre-Raphaelitism, deemed elitist and backward-looking, have long been condemned to the purgatory of art history. However, they have found inheritors in those artists who deal in what has, since the 1950s, referred to itself as fantasy, a field of art long (still?) considered minor—undoubtedly because, like its precursors, it is subordinate to the texts in which it resides.

MAGIC AND MACHINES

The artistic atmosphere into which Tolkien was born was, of course, only one manifestation of a very specific historical and social context. The England of the late 19th century was steeped in the smoke that billowed from the factories that were the fruit of rampant industrialization, smoke that young Tolkien breathed in while living in Birmingham. Engineers were bent on definitively confirming both mankind’s subjugation of nature and the supremacy of the British Empire over the rest of the world.

Thus it was in reaction to what they denounced as the tyranny of reason that the Symbolists developed a style of art touched with spirituality. Equally paradoxically, it was writers such as Mary ShelleyVII

(1797–1851) and Auguste Villiers de L’Isle-AdamVIII

who established the foundations for science fiction literature, with the intent of denouncing the way in which technology made man’s most ludicrous desires into reality. Readers would do well to remember, incidentally, Tolkien’s great admiration for the visionary American science fiction author Isaac Asimov (1920–1992).

The conflict between philosophies is unmistakable, and Tolkien perhaps put it best when he described a parallel between magic and machinery, both human creations intended to alter the natural order of things. In a 1951 letter (no. 131), he wrote:

By the last [machines] I intend all use of external plans or devices (apparatus) instead of development of the inherent inner powers or talents—or even the use of these talents with the corrupted motive of dominating: bulldozing the real world, or coercing other wills. The Machine is our more obvious modern form though more closely related to Magic than is usually recognised.

Progress, for Tolkien, is a Sauron which, through empty promises of power, alienates and distances us from the beneficial effects of the very nature we wish to dominate.

With the first social conflicts and railway disasters of the early twentieth century, the cult of progress took a hit, eventually becoming mired in the trenches of the Great War. The fallen angel of positivism took a collateral victim down with it as well: the scientist, who was suddenly seen as a lackey of power, a man-machine who posed a threat to the arts as well as to all forms of spirituality. And yet it was the knowledge he had acquired that fed Tolkien’s inspiration: ancient texts in which knightly values were exalted and dragons still lived; archaeology that revived the image of a vanished Eden in which Neolithic hobbit-men enjoyed the simple pleasures of life in the open air.

Researchers seeking to explain the current rise of religious extremism, or the success of astrology, in a world where one might expect belief to have been weakened by advances in knowledge, point out, in the words of sociologist Romy Sauvayre, that scientific discoveries and theories that science is attempting to prove are so stimulating to both non-scientists and insiders that they open doors to the imaginary, to the inexhaustible realm of the possible. It is undeniable that science nourishes the imagination. Fantasy, while turned toward a mythical past, and science fiction are two sides of the same coin.

Let us return to our question, a deliberately provocative one: do scientists have imagination? How could a man who never traveled farther from home than Switzerland invent Barad-dûr and Lothlórien? The question is answerable thanks to Tolkien, living proof that his objective understanding of medieval myths and legends, of the way in which they were constructed and subsequently evolved, and of the language that expressed them, nourished and informed his dream. It was his scientific, methodical mind—thought by some to be so devoid of romanticism—that enabled him to construct his complex universe on such solid foundations. Tolkien’s work is fantastical without being absurd, and it is in its very consistency and logic that its evocative power lies.

The antagonism between scientific curiosity and an attraction to fantasy, then, exists only in those unhappy minds that remain bound by preconceived notions. Tolkien understood this very quickly. I was an undergraduate before thought and experience revealed to me that these were not divergent interests—opposite poles of science and romance—but integrally related, he wrote in late 1951 (letter no. 131). Readers of this book will undoubtedly understand it, too.

I

. Beowulf and Sigurd are heroes, the former from Anglo-Saxon epic literature and the latter from Norse mythology. Beowulf is killed by a nameless dragon, while Sigurd vanquishes the dragon Fáfnir, guardian of a treasure hoard. Sigurd is the ancient form of the hero Siegfried from the Nibelungenlied, or Song of the Nibelungs.

II

. From the Italian palafitta, the etymology of which is subject to debate, but which broadly connotes the concepts of ‘marshland’ and ‘wooden stakes driven into the ground’. This was the name given to Neolithic and Bronze Age cities atop pilings when they were discovered.

III

. French painter of the Academic Classicist school who drew much inspiration from archaeological discoveries, depicting scenes from Roman and Gallic antiquity, touched with patriotism but also serving as a pretext for erotic representations, such as Le Brenn et sa part de butin (Brennus and His Share of the Spoils), which shows a Gallic soldier entering a gynaeceum, or Le rapt – âge de la pierre (A Rape in the Stone Age), which shows a similar scene to the one in Le rapt a l’âge du Bronze, but set in the Stone Age.

IV

. Ernst Hæckel, Kunstformen der Natur, Olaf Briedbach ed., 1904.

V

. 14th-century writer who was to Tolkien what the Italian Masters were to the Pre-Raphaelites in the field of literature; that is, the ultimate in literature itself.

VI

. The Fellows’ Garden at Oxford University.

VII

. Author of Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus, 1818.

VIII

. Author of L’Ève future (The Future Eve), among other works.

TOLKIEN AND SOCIOLOGY: FACING THE LOSS OF A WORLD

THIERRY ROGEL, Associate Professor of Economic and Social Sciences

TWO PERSPECTIVES ON A WORLD IN TRANSITION

peaking at a conference on fairy talesI

at the University of St. Andrews in 1939, Tolkien addressed two common misconceptions. The first was that fairy tales are intended for children; he, who had developed an interest in fairy stories through his study of philology, believed that adults could appreciate these tales as much as children, and that it was only by historic accident that fairy stories had become associated with childhood. The second common misconception concerned the escapist nature of these tales; while fairy stories are indeed stories of escape, Tolkien said, this is not the escape of the deserter, but that of the prisoner, and it is not duty that is being fled from, but rather a prison, in order to reach a desired world. Tolkien considered fairy tales (and fantasy, the first example of which is generally to have appeared in 1865 with Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland) to be a way of understanding the world (I think that fairy story has its own mode of reflecting ‘truth’, he wrote in Letter no. 181, dated January or February 1956) for in creating a secondary world, we are not speaking of what is possible, but of what is desirable. Stories do not stand in opposition to knowledge in this respect, and have their own view of the real world.

However, Tolkien did not use stories as a means of criticizing the world, and had no intention of making The Lord of the Rings an allegory for the modern world. He regularly dismissed the suggestion that the trilogy was meant to depict the Nazi threat, Communism, or the nuclear bomb. And yet, for all that, he did not reject the notion that the sensitivity of writers to the world around them could be seen in their work. Clear in Tolkien’s writings are his rejection of—and even disgust for—the modern era, born during the long 19th century, which spanned the years from the Industrial Revolution to the First World War, and dying in the 20th.

His rejection of modernity is plainly visible in his correspondence. He loathed the automobiles that were ruining his world: […] the spirit of ‘Isengard’, if not of Mordor, is of course always cropping up. The present design of destroying Oxford in order to accommodate motor-cars is a case (draft of letter no. 181, January or February 1956). He disliked machines in general, with the exception of the typewriterII

(he would dearly have loved to possess a model equipped with Feanorian letters, as he mentioned in Letter no. 257 on July 16, 1954): […] There is the tragedy and despair of all machinery laid bare. Unlike art, which is content to create a new secondary world in the mind, it attempts to actualize desire, and so to create power in this World; and that cannot really be done with any real satisfaction. (Letter no. 75, July 7, 1944). Likewise, he disdained modern cities, and was horrified by the lunatic destruction of the physical lands which Americans inhabit (draft of Letter no. 328, Autumn 1971). Modern entertainment found no favor in his eyes any longer either, including what was being produced by Disney, as noted in a letter written in May 1937 (just a few months before the release of Snow White, the first feature-length color cartoon in history) as part of an epistolary exchange concerning the possible publication of The Hobbit in the United States. Tolkien, speaking of possible illustrations, firmly vetoed anything from or influenced by the Disney studios (for all whose works I have a heartfelt loathing) (Letter no. 13 of May 13, 1937), an opinion which had not changed years later when he spoke of one story as a terrible presage of the most vulgar elements in Disney (Letter no. 234 of November 22, 1961). In short, he did not like the modern world: Such is modern life. Mordor in our midst, he wrote in Letter no. 135 of October 24, 1952, later describing the evil spirit (in modern but not universal terms: mechanism, ‘scientific’ materialism) (Letter no. 96, January 30, 1945).

This sense of loathing crops up numerous times in books I and II of The Lord of the Rings, when, for example, Gandalf explains how Saruman imprisoned him on Orthanc, from whence he surveyed the landscape: the valley below seems far away. I looked on it and saw that, whereas it had once been green and fair, it was now filled with pits and forges. Wolves and orcs were housed in Isengard […]. Over all his works a dark smoke hung and wrapped itself about the sides of Orthanc. Wouldn’t this description apply equally well to England, which was at the forefront of the Industrial Revolution?

In this sense, Tolkien was like Don Quixote, battling an unbearable reality. Another way of reacting would have been to accept the real world and its changes, and to analyze them in order, perhaps, to change the course of things. The social upheavals of the time were also responsible for the surge in popularity of sociology, the vital role of which, according to the German sociologist Norbert Elias, is to trace the origins of myths.

Indeed, many classical sociologists working between 1830 and 1920III

were struck by the effects of the two great revolutions, the Democratic and the Industrial, wrote Robert Nisbet in 1966. The convulsions that gripped the world were many-faceted: industrialization, and the calling into question of traditional hierarchies; growing rationalization and disenchantment with the state of the world; the displacement of holy sites; the transformation of social bonds, etc. So much change did not come without crises, social conflicts, anomie, and a leveling of the world. These became focal points of interest for the classical sociologists, with each concentrating on a specific angle of analysis: class and production relationships (Karl Marx), rationalization and disenchantment (Max Weber), the objectification of society and the role of money (Georg Simmel), transformations in social bonds (Émile Durkheim), and so on.

Unlike Tolkien, sociologists acknowledged the global changes occurring. As Robert Nisbet wrote in 1966: Our civilization is urban, democratic, industrial, bureaucratic, rationalized; it is a civilization on a large scale that is formal, secular, and technological. […] The fact that many of us feel a certain malaise, a kind of perplexity, and even a certain nostalgia in viewing the results of these two revolutions changes nothing, and even if a few Don Quixotes attempt, now and then, to tilt against windmills, these results are here, and they are irreversible.

COMMUNITY STEPS

The reading grid that has remained foundational to modern sociology is that of Ferdinand Tönnies, emphasizing the opposition between community and society that can be seen in the background of Tolkien’s work. In his book Community and Society, published in 1887, Tönnies showed that every human grouping is the result of one of two forms of social bonding: the first, the communal bond, ensures solidarity between individuals through the depth and warmth of feeling and the recognition of mutual common feelings linked to habit and custom. This is the bond typically found in family relationships and close friendships, or the relations between neighbors in a village. In these cases, we generally belong to the group without having chosen to join it.

But, in order for humans to be able to live together, we must also have social bonds, deliberately chosen relationships usually based on logic or calculation. Contracts of association, business contracts, and commercial relationships are the most obvious examples of this type of bond; companies are the organizations that come closest to this sort of social interaction, and cosmopolitan cities the prime setting for it.

According to Tönnies, all forms of society result from a combination of these two types of bonds. However, he also specifies that the developments occurring in the 19th century caused a shift from a world in which communal bonds (families, villages, and tradition) dominate, to one where social bonds (commercial relationships, business activity, and social relations in large cities) are paramount. In other words, a shift from community to society.

Tolkien’s descriptions of hobbits and the Shire in the first chapter of book I of The Lord of the Rings are thoroughly representative of community as Tönnies meant it, based on families and clans:

The houses and the holes of Shire-hobbits were often large, and inhabited by large families. […] All hobbits were, in any case, clannish and reckoned up their relationships with great care. They drew long and elaborate family-trees with innumerable branches.

Above all, their world is rural: they love peace and quiet and good tilled earth: a well-ordered and well-farmed countryside was their favorite haunt. They have no love for knowledge for its own sake, or for the unknown that it represents: A love of learning (other than genealogical lore) was far from general among them, […] they liked to have books filled with things that they already knew, set out fair and square with no contradictions.

And they dislike machines: They do not and did not understand or like machines more complicated than a forge-bellows, a water-mill, or a hand-loom, though they were skilful with tools.

Most importantly, the community formed by hobbits is quite closed ([They] meddled not at all with events in the world outside) and, mostly impervious to the passage of time, they do not hurry unnecessarily. Tolkien was unquestionably describing a lifestyle to which he aspired himself, modeled on an England that was disappearing. Change will occur in the hobbits’ world as well, however, caused by two things: the different individual, and the outside world.

TOWARD FELLOWSHIP

The sociologist Émile Durkheim, discussing the concept of mechanical solidarity in his Division of Labour in Society, believed that community based its vital cohesion on the conformity of individuals to a collective model, and on their submission to a collective consciousness. Anyone who is different is therefore perceived as a threat by the group, and will be irrevocably rejected. This is precisely what happens to Bilbo; seen as a friend of the Elves, honored by Dwarves and wizards, he is suspected of associating with all sorts of strangers, and his reputation is blackened by it.

However, while deviants are rejected by the group, they are also agents necessary for its evolution, for what is seen as a crime today may be the harbinger of normality to come. Likewise, the change at the center of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings is not initiated by just any individual; Bilbo and Frodo are very particular hobbits, unmarried at the beginning of the story, each adventurous in his own way, and, in the end, friends with outsiders. Tolkien states this explicitly in book 1 of The Lord of the Rings (Concerning Hobbits): The houses and the holes of Shire-hobbits were often large, and inhabited by large families. (Bilbo and Frodo Baggins were as bachelors very exceptional, as they were also in many other ways, such as their friendship with the Elves.)

Bilbo is also remarkable because he leaves his cocoon and embarks on an adventure, as a thief, with Gandalf and Thorin’s Dwarves. It is in this that we see the beginnings of change. In point of fact, the association between Bilbo and the Dwarves is not based on their belonging to the same group, or on mutual feelings, but on converging interests, and has all the hallmarks of a social bond. The symbol left on Bilbo’s door (undoubtedly written by Gandalf) attests to this, resembling as it does an application for employment: Burglar wants a good job, plenty of Excitement and reasonable Reward. Any doubt about the commercial nature of the undertaking is eliminated when Thorin addresses himself to Bilbo the next morning:

Thorin and Company to Burglar Bilbo greeting! For your hospitality our sincerest thanks, and for your offer of professional assistance our grateful acceptance. Terms: cash on delivery, up to and not exceeding one fourteenth of total profits (if any); all traveling expenses guaranteed in any event; funeral expenses to be defrayed by us or our representatives, if occasion arises and the matter is not otherwise arranged for.

That and Company is more reminiscent of a trading company than it is of a medieval company of soldiers—indeed, conditions of payment and of compensation in case of loss are clearly laid out. There is no honor or set of values to be defended here; a commercial relationship is indisputably being formed.

The same is true at the beginning of Book One of the Trilogy, when Gandalf returns to ward off the threat posed by Sauron’s acquisition of the One Ring. This is certainly not a business association, but neither is it a communal relationship as meant by Tönnies. It is no longer a question of remunerating Frodo, but one of saving Middle-earth, which explains the coming together of representatives of the land’s various free peoples. Nine companions to face the nine Black Riders: Gandalf for the Wizards (but sometimes closely connected to the Elves), Legolas for the Elves, Gimli for the Dwarves, Aragorn and Boromir for the Men, and finally the four hobbits, Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin. The fellowship is not commercial, but voluntary, and destined to destroy the One Ring in order to vanquish Sauron; therefore, it is not a true community. Community or association? It is noteworthy that Gérard Klein, discussing The Lord of the Rings in 1969, before its French-language publication, translated the original title The Fellowship of the Ring as The Company of the Ring and not The Community of the Ring.IV

Gandalf surveying the devastation of Isengard.

This association is also a likely harbinger of other connections and alliances, including the friendships between certain hobbits and Elves, and the upcoming marriage of a Man, Aragorn, to the Elf (or half-Elf) Arwen. And so, the diverse peoples that are Elves, men, Dwarves, and hobbits will live their respective lives while following a common path, thus creating a shared sense of belonging. Without going so far as to speak of a nation, which would be anachronistic, we might borrow the terms employed by the philosopher Ernest Renan in his famous lecture What is a nation?: having common glories in the past and a will to continue them in the present; having made great things together and wishing to make them again; these are the essential conditions of being a people. […] A long past of efforts, sacrifices, and devotions [and] a will to continue them in the present. This is what is in the making, throughout the entire journey of The Lord of the Rings.

ON THE BORDERS

Above all, a sense of community lies in the awareness of that community’s border with the outside, which strengthens its internal cohesion in return, as explained by the sociologist Georg Simmel. The arrival of a foreigner, a stranger, can disturb this border, and the community. Simmel employs the stranger as a sociological concept designating one who is simultaneously inside and outside of the group (traveling salesmen, tourists, travelers, but also those who are deviant, or represent a minority group); for him, a human collective defines itself by the attitude it adopts regarding strangers. And the small world of the hobbits is built, in part, around the fear of those who prowl along the borders:

At the time when this story begins, the Bounders, as they were called, had been greatly increased. There were many reports and complaints of strange persons and creatures prowling about the borders, or over them: the first sign that all was not quite as it should be, and always had been except in tales and legends of long ago.

(From The Fellowship of the Ring, Prologue, Concerning Hobbits)

We think immediately of Sauron and his accomplices, but the true figure of the stranger is Gandalf. Arriving from elsewhere, he has kept up ancient connections with a few members of the community, and is therefore both a member of the group and an outsider. It is he who will take the home-loving Bilbo out of his familiar world, and lead him to discover other peoples. This will change Bilbo profoundly, as forging alliances with Elves and Dwarves means understanding them (in the sociological sense of the word; that is, giving meaning to their customs and their way of life). Understanding may then replace other ways of encountering the other, such as conflict, rejection, and the desire for domination. Wasn’t this the challenge Europe faced at the turn of the twentieth century? Whereas, before the nineteenth century, Europeans were interested in the other countries of the world only as objects of curiosity, pagan lands to be converted, or sources of wealth and labor, now they became subjects of scientific interest, with the flourishing of ethnology and anthropology. And while there are no Elves or Dwarves on our Earth, still we have ceased to believe that any of its creatures are monstrous half-humans half-animals, embracing unity of humankind at last.

I

. Tolkien assigned a broader meaning to this term than the common definition: for him, a fairy tale was a story that dealt with fantasy (or magic).

II

. Though he was wary of tape recorders… Humphrey Carpenter, J.R.R. Tolkien—Une biographie, Paris, Christian Bourgois, 1980, p. 193.

III

. Such as Karl Marx (1818–1883), Alexis de Tocqueville (1805–1859), Ferdinand Tönnies (1855–1936), Max Weber (1864–1920), Émile Durkheim (1858–1917), and Georg Simmel (1858–1918).

IV

. The first French translation was by Francis Ledoux (1972). In the new translation by Daniel Lauzon (2004), the title becomes The Brotherhood of the Ring.

MYTHOLOGY VS. MYTHOLOGY: TOLKIEN AND ECONOMICS

THIERRY ROGEL, Associate Professor of Economic and Social Sciences

A PRE-ECONOMIC WORLD

f there is one social science that dominates our world, it is undoubtedly economics. It has always been necessary to produce and exchange in order to be able to consume, but it was only in the 18th century that companies ceased to be founded mainly on the respect due to allies, religious duties, and political issues. Two years stand out in the history of economics: 1776, which saw the publication of The Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith (1723–1790), considered to be the seminal work on political economy in the modern sense of the term, and 1834, which marked the abolition of the Speenhamland System,I

which, by imposing the creation of a true labor market, ushered in the first example of a market economy in the full sense of the term.

Yet, there are few traces of economics in Tolkien’s writing, given that he is describing a time (and an imaginary one at that) when the economy was not at the center of social life.

Middle-earth is indisputably a pre-economic world. Tolkien himself admitted that