Indents, and Odovacar
Tolkien’s publisher Rayner Unwin once suggested, not entirely with tongue in cheek, that it could take centuries to achieve a printing of The Lord of the Rings with ‘typographical perfection’. One could predict just as well that there will never be an edition of The Lord of the Rings wholly without error, or if there were, it would not last for long, as errors seem to enter of their own will with every new typesetting or substantial revision. This is not to say that one should not strive to be correct, only that complete textual accuracy, and faithfulness to an author’s intentions, may be a quality that one may approach but can never quite reach.
One case in point arose from a question we received last year from our friend Andrew Ferguson. He asked if the space (indent) before ‘Elrond reveals . . .’ on p. 1089 of our edition of The Lord of the Rings (the citation is to the standard typesetting) could be an error, as it was not present in the first edition. The indented line begins a second paragraph in the entry for Third Age 2951 in the Tale of Years (Appendix B). We went to our shelves and determined that the indent was introduced in the reset edition of 1994. But the question remained: Is the indent an error, or is it wrong not to have the indent? Or even, would it be wrong in either case, if the text were meant to run on? 2951 is the only entry we can find in the Tale of Years which has a physical (line) break in the text. We felt that the entry for 3009 (p. 1090) could have a break, between ‘was captured by Sauron’ and ‘Elrond sends for Arwen’. Earlier this year, we were able to check these points on a visit to the Marquette University Tolkien papers, and made the following discoveries.
1. In Tolkien’s typescript of The Lord of the Rings (Marquette Series 3/9/6), ‘Elrond reveals . . .’ begins a new entry, under the date heading 2952. Also in the typescript, there is an entry for 3016, beginning ‘Elrond sends for Arwen . . .’ i.e. this part of the entry for 3009, as currently printed, was originally a separate entry dated seven years later.
2. In one galley proof (3/9/20) the shoulder date heading ‘2952’ is marked for deletion, but ‘Elrond reveals . . .’, beginning a new line, is not marked to run on with the text of the entry for 2951. The entry for 3016 is present, as in the typescript.
3. In another galley proof (3/9/21) ‘2952’ is not deleted. Appendix B ends erroneously with the entry for 3009, lacking ‘Elrond sends for Arwen . . .’ (i.e. the entry for 3016).
4. In still a third galley proof (3/9/22), both ‘2952’ and the entry for 3016 are present.
5. As published, in all editions, there has never been a Tale of Years entry under the date heading 2952, but ‘Elrond reveals . . .’ has always begun on a new line. Someone at HarperCollins evidently noticed the latter break in text when resetting for the edition of 1994, and felt that ‘Elrond reveals . . .’ needed to be indented as a new paragraph. Also, in all printings of the first edition, there is an entry for 3016, ‘Elrond sends for Arwen . . .’
6. With the revised and reset Appendices in the Ballantine Books edition of 1965, there was no separate entry for 3016, the text beginning ‘Elrond sends for Arwen . . .’ being conjoined with the entry for 3009. This carried over into the Allen & Unwin second edition, in which the Appendices were reset following the Ballantine printing (Tolkien’s original notes for revisions as sent to Houghton Mifflin having been lost), and is the text for all subsequent printings.
Since ‘Elrond reveals . . .’ has always begun a new line, and despite the associated date having been deleted from the one galley proof and from the printed text, we are inclined to think, following the evidence of the typescript, that Tolkien intended to begin a new entry, dated 2952. He also seems to have meant ‘Elrond sends for Arwen . . .’ to begin an entry for 3016, as in the first edition, rather than run on as part of the entry for 3009, as in the flawed Ballantine setting. Christopher Tolkien agrees that these points should be submitted to HarperCollins as further corrections.
Another question of long standing came to us from Larry Kuenning, as to whether the birth date of Odovacar Bolger, in the Bolger family tree, should be 1336, as printed in our edition of The Lord of the Rings, or 1335, as in The Peoples of Middle-earth. At Marquette, we found that Tolkien had written ‘1335’ in two holograph copies of the family tree (Marquette Series 3/9/8 and 3/9/9), but emended this to ‘1336’ in one galley proof of the printed family tree (3/9/10). In two other galley proofs, however, the date is not emended. With no final version, the Bolger family tree having been omitted from editions during Tolkien’s lifetime, Christopher Tolkien agrees with us that we cannot be sure which date his father intended, and therefore we must leave the point open to question.
The Map of Middle-earth
Like many other Tolkien enthusiasts, we were surprised when Blackwell’s Rare Books in Oxford offered for sale a proof of the original printed Lord of the Rings general map, annotated by both Tolkien and Pauline Baynes to assist Baynes in making the 1969 poster-map, A Map of Middle-earth. We wish we had known of its existence in Pauline’s collection; if we had, we could have examined it closely on one of our visits to her, and it may have helped inform our comments in The Art of The Lord of the Rings. Much has been written about it online, not always accurately. The best transcription of the annotations accompanies an article in French, ‘Découverte d’une carte de la Terre du Milieu annotée par Tolkien pour Pauline Baynes’, on the Tolkiendil site. Both Tolkien and Baynes had difficult handwriting from time to time, and there are still some points in question.
The Art of The Lord of the Rings
Our latest book appears to be selling very well. Now and then it has been listed on Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk as no. 1 in one category or another – the Amazons have many categories, such as Science Fiction and Fantasy criticism, and ‘Catalogs, Collections & Exhibitions’ in graphic arts. The Art of The Hobbit also continues to do well. We hope that those of our readers to whom Father Christmas brought one or another (or even many) of our books this year will enjoy them, and that you will all have a happy holiday season and new year.
Wayne writes: Following on Christina’s discussion of Tolkien biographies, I too will deal with two recent books, beginning with The Fellowship: The Literary Lives of the Inklings (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2015) by Philip Zaleski and Carol Zaleski. The Zaleskis teach religion at Smith College and have written a number of works on Christianity and faith.
The ‘Fellowship’ of the title is nominally all of the Inklings, but concentrates on four: J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Charles Williams, and Owen Barfield. ‘Why these four,’ the Zaleskis ask, ‘and not that graceful flower Lord David Cecil, or the lovable, ogreish Hugo Dyson? Why not Lewis’s sidekick, his admirable alcoholic brother Warnie? Lewis, Tolkien, Barfield, and Williams are the best-known of the group. . . . They are also the most original, as writers and as thinkers, and thus most likely to be read and studied by future generations. They make a perfect compass rose of faith: Tolkien the Catholic, Lewis the “mere Christian,” Williams the Anglican (and magus), Barfield the esotericist’ (p. 12).
These words are near the beginning of the text, in a ‘prologue’, and already I took issue with the Zaleskis’ style of writing. Calling Lord David Cecil an ‘admirable flower’ rides a thin edge between clever and pretentious, while the authors cross a line of discourtesy by calling Warnie Lewis – never ‘Warren’ in this book, always ‘Warnie’, except in the index – his brother’s ‘sidekick’ and labelling him ‘alcoholic’. In regard to this point, David Bratman spoke my mind when commenting on the Mythopoeic Society listserv: ‘As a description of Warnie, “admirable alcoholic” is actively nauseating. First because there’s no such thing as an admirable alcoholic; they probably mean that he was admirable albeit an alcoholic. And secondly because the (Walter Hooper-inspired) elevation of Warnie’s alcoholism to the central defining feature of his character is cruel, defaming, unfair, and grossly misleading. In the context of the Inklings he was the host – and extremely effective in that role – and a historian of 17th century France, whose books . . . are as good of their kind as Barfield’s are of theirs.’
Another early problem in The Fellowship occurs on the first two pages of the book, where the Zaleskis refer to the moment when ‘the last Inkling passed away on the eve of the twenty-first century’. Apart from stretching the meaning of eve, they mean Owen Barfield, who died in 1997. The actual last man to have been an Inkling is Christopher Tolkien, still with us at age ninety-one. The Zaleskis even mention Christopher in a list of the Inklings on the same page where they make their ‘last Inkling’ remark. I suppose they were thinking of the ‘last’ of their four featured Inklings, but the misstep gave me pause. Then, while reading the advance review copy sent me by their publisher (not in time to suggest revisions), I saw that the Zaleskis referred more than once to Cecil Harwood as an Inkling, though he never was. The Harwood references were deleted in the final published book (also given me for review), but Barfield remains ‘the last Inkling’.
Both the dust-jacket of The Fellowship and its title-page give equal visual and typographic weight to Tolkien, Lewis, Barfield, and Williams, in that order. These four may be the best known among the Inkings, but Tolkien and Lewis are more popular than Barfield and Williams, as well as the most significant of the group, and the Zaleskis naturally find more to say about them. Technically, The Fellowship aims to weave the lives of the four together, with the other Inklings appearing here and there; but the result is awkward, because they were individuals, and although their lives touched each other they were still separate and distinct. Also, between Tolkien and Lewis, the Zaleskis are clearly more interested in Lewis. They admire him, as a Christian who learned the errors of his ways when he left the faith and then returned to be its champion, and as a writer and scholar who produced a substantial body of published work, which the Zaleskis admire in turn. In their treatment, he is almost without fault. Tolkien, on the other hand, is charged with ‘crimes of omission’, with ‘a long trail of starts, stumbles, and stops that typified his dilatoriness in academic labors’, which the Zaleskis attribute to his heart being instead ‘in the development of the legendarium and its offspring’ (p. 214) – though they note the importance of works such as the Beowulf lecture. Tolkien is criticized also for having ‘difficulty moving on to another full-length tale’ (p. 240) after The Hobbit, and then for being slow to finish The Lord of the Rings; ironically, the Zaleskis say that this was because ‘academic obligations kept interfering’ (p. 241), thus chastising Tolkien both for setting aside his scholarship in favour of Middle-earth and for failing to hurry up his storytelling while fulfilling academic responsibilities.
Despite the length of their book, some 645 pages, and probably in part because of its attempted scope with nominally four subjects – five if one counts the Inklings as a whole – the Zaleskis provide more breadth than depth. For the most part, they rely on secondary sources, mainly excepting previously unpublished papers in the Bodleian Library’s Barfield archive. Their biographical treatment of Tolkien is particularly superficial, and although much of it concerns Oxford, it conveys very little sense of the academic environment in which many of the Inklings lived. I wonder, as one always has to wonder when a book has more than one author, how, or if, the labour of writing was divided, and in this case whether one author wrote most of the text about Tolkien, and the other most of the text about Lewis. Especially in the early chapters, before the Inklings come together, Tolkien and Lewis are discussed separately, in distinctively different prose styles. In those portions devoted to Tolkien, the writing often tends toward the melodramatic, with the author (or authors) delighting in turns of phrase, such as that ‘with Tolkien the Inklings constellation began its ascent into the English literary firmament’ (p. 13), or that Father Francis Morgan ‘descended like a fairy godfather upon Mabel [Tolkien] and the boys, filling their straitened lives with hope and joy’ (p. 19), or that Tolkien had a ‘rapturous romance with words’ (p. 25). For the most part, the Zaleskis simplify previous biographies, especially Carpenter’s, but at times they exaggerate Tolkien’s talents. His literary ambitions, they say, ‘soared to dizzying heights’ (p. 125), reading far too much into Tolkien’s statement that he wished to create ‘a mythology for England’ and failing sufficiently to put it in context.
In contrast, the portions of text about Lewis are more restrained and more sophisticated. Is this evidence of work by one author, where there has been no attempt to find a unified ‘voice’, or did the Zaleskis feel that Lewis’s life called for a more sober and serious tone, while Tolkien’s did not? Nor is it clear who the audience for this book is supposed to be: one who may be attracted (though I would hope not) by flowerly, ‘creative’ language? If so, that reader will be out to sea with interludes of philosophical discussion and very casual references to Kant and Kierkegaard.
In any case, it’s a bold claim for the authors, or their publisher, to say that this is ‘the first group biography of the Inklings’, or ‘the first complete rendering of the Inklings’ lives and works’. The Zaleskis know about Carpenter’s Inklings: they find it ‘entertaining’ (p. 196), and note that Carpenter’s reconstruction of an Inklings meeting has been both praised (by Barfield) and panned (by Havard). But they pay little attention to The Inklings, and more to Carpenter’s Tolkien biography. They are also aware of Diana Pavlac Glyer’s The Company They Keep, calling it a “valuable study” (p. 586), and about several of Colin Duriez’s works. On the Mythopoeic Society’s listserv, David Bratman called the Zaleskis’ book (on the basis only of what he had heard; he had not yet read it) ‘a granfalloon approach to greatness in the Inklings’. The word granfalloon comes from Kurt Vonnegut’s novel Cat’s Cradle, and means ‘a group of people who affect a shared identity or purpose, but whose mutual association is actually meaningless’. ‘It’s already bad enough to treat Tolkien, Lewis, and Williams as a kind of Three Musketeers of fantasy’, Bratman wrote; ‘to add Barfield and call it a “compass rose” is even worse: imposing a pattern out of one’s own desires as a pattern-seeking animal rather than out of interest in what was actually there.’ But the book has had wide publicity, and may be found of value for its particularly Christian view of the Inklings.
J.R.R. Tolkien: Codemaker, Spy-master, Hero (self-published, 2015) by ‘Elansea’ also claims to be a biography, if an unauthorized one ‘which only sources information publicly available or previously published’, and yet is said to be ‘simply ground-breaking’, a ‘game-changer’, after which ‘nothing can be the same again’ (all quoted from the cover blurb). This would be true if its authors’ claims could be proved, or even if they could be thought likely on the balance of evidence. The authors can safely say, as they do, only that Tolkien’s writings have been ‘analysed in a way never applied to them before’.
‘Elansea’ is a pseudonym for Alex Lewis and Elizabeth Currie (Ruth Lacon), made from their initials (L and C). Lewis and Currie are named in the book as ‘executive consultants’, apparently from the thought that consultants, as opposed to authors, can’t be held liable for breach of copyright, or trademark, or propriety – or there was a desire to pull legs. Since Lewis and Currie have openly referred to themselves online as the authors of the book, there is no point in attempting to ‘disguise’ their function. Moreover, they argue that there can be no libel or slander against a deceased person: ‘to put it bluntly’, they write, ‘we can say what we like about [Tolkien] and there is nothing that anyone can do about it’ (p. iv). But they take care to suggest that their ‘contentious theories and hypotheses’ (which however are more often presented as fact) ‘do not reduce Tolkien’s reputation’ but ‘enhance it’, for in their view he was a ‘hero’ (p. iv).
Lewis and Currie’s thesis begins with what they refer to as a theme running through Humphrey Carpenter’s biography of Tolkien: ‘how could someone who was so dull and provincial write such incredible books that have inspired and moved millions?’ Indeed, Carpenter writes of Tolkien’s ‘ordinary unremarkable life led by countless other scholars; a life of academic brilliance, certainly, but only in a very narrow professional field that is really of little interest to laymen’, and to his ‘ordinary suburban life bringing up his children and tending his garden’, while wondering ‘at the fact that a mind of such brilliance and imagination should be happy to be contained in the petty routine of academic and domestic life’ (1977 edition, p. 111). ‘What do we make of that?’ he asks, but the question is rhetorical, no more than an introduction to the second half of the biography. Lewis and Currie feel that Carpenter came to no satisfactory answer, and that ‘many others have found the same insoluble dilemma’ (p. 1). They do not say who these ‘many others’ may be, and I have no idea, but neither do I think that there is a question to be asked, or that Tolkien’s life was dull. Perhaps it’s that I’ve spent most of my own life as a scholar and academic, and have never felt it to be a ‘petty routine’, in fact just the opposite.
But Lewis and Currie pursue their thought. ‘How’, they ask, ‘could a man who Sir Stanley Unwin once described as one of the few true geniuses he had ever met have lived his life in such an ordinary fashion, have accepted a very mundane existence and done so little else of real note apart from his fictional writing?’ (p. 2). I would reply, in regard to ‘little else of real note apart from his fictional writing’: what about his lecture on Beowulf, and editions of Sir Gawain and the Ancrene Wisse? What about his successful and (to his students) influential career as a teacher at Leeds and Oxford? Lewis and Currie also ask how ‘such an apparently boring ordinary person [was] able to write such gripping and imaginative stuff’ (p. 3). They say that Tolkien’s biographers, even the ‘untiring’ Scull and Hammond, have not answered this question. These other scholars don’t have the perception of ‘Elansea’ (says ‘Elansea’), aided by his or her highly experienced ‘consultants’; but also, most of the information on which earlier biographies were based is (they say) not to be trusted: it may have been deliberately falsified, while other, potentially valuable sources have been withheld from researchers, such as the greater part of Tolkien’s letters.
Lewis and Currie enumerate ‘facts’ which, for them, do not add up. Tolkien’s First World War record states that he had trench fever, but according to Lewis and Currie’s research, the described course of his ‘illness’ (one must put that word in quotation marks) does not match the disease, nor was the weather on the Somme right for its outbreak. Also, Tolkien’s convalescence, from which he never returned to the fighting in France, was (Lewis and Currie decide) much too long to be truly needed for recovery. From this, they conclude that the claim of ‘trench fever’ was false, in fact deliberately so.
Then there’s the matter of Tolkien’s statements, made through much of his life, that money was tight. On the contrary, Lewis and Currie say, Tolkien’s academic salary was ‘more than generous by middle class standards’, ‘certainly good enough to raise a family of four children with ease. He was a full Professor at one of the most ancient colleges in Oxford, let us not forget!’ (p. 18). Medical and education costs, they argue, would have been manageable. And if Tolkien was hard up for money, why did he exhibit ‘no drive to provide publishable material [to Allen & Unwin] to earn royalties from’ (p. 17)? Why did he not accept the job offered him by Cape Town University, which would have paid well? Why did he turn down a job during World War Two at the Government Code and Cipher School, which would have given him substantial remuneration? Lewis and Currie reject the idea, first put forward by Carpenter, that Tolkien was invited to apply for chairs at both Cape Town and Liverpool: it seems unlikely, they say, at this stage in Tolkien’s career, which Christina and I have dated to autumn 1920. ‘How could Cape Town especially have ever heard of Tolkien?’ they ask (p. 210). Still later, why was Tolkien given the Rawlinson and Bosworth chair at Oxford when (Lewis and Currie feel) he was the least qualified candidate? And why was he given the Merton chair when, by their estimate, he had such a dismal record of publication?
When considering the Middle-earth stories, especially The Lord of the Rings, Lewis and Currie question how Tolkien, whose biographers record for him relatively little travel, and that unadventurous, have written about such vast landscapes. And how could he have written so vividly about Frodo being wounded by a Ringwraith when – so the medical records say – he was never wounded himself? According to Lewis and Currie, writers write about what they know, and when they write about what they don’t know, they get into trouble. They give the example of Edgar Rice Burroughs, who did all right with Westerns, as he had visited the West, but not with the Tarzan stories, which include animals that have no business being in Africa, which Burroughs had not visited. In Lewis and Currie’s reasoning, Tolkien must have been wounded; he must have travelled widely; he must have had experiences not documented, in order to write about them so successfully.
For Lewis and Currie, there can be only one answer which fits all of their questions: Tolkien was a spy for the British government. And not merely a spy, or rather an Intelligence operative, working in different capacities, but one of the best England ever produced. In The Hobbit, Bilbo is secretive, and less ordinary than he appears; therefore, Tolkien must have been too. So, Lewis and Currie speculate, was Tolkien’s father Arthur, and they find his death at a young age suspicious. Tolkien’s gift for language, and for creating languages, and his use of coded diaries, reflect his ‘true work’ in espionage. His under-production of both fiction and non-fiction, much less than for similar academics, in Lewis and Currie’s view must have been due to Tolkien performing espionage work instead.
His tutor at Oxford, Joseph Wright, was probably the one who chose him while an undergraduate as a good recruit for Intelligence, Lewis and Currie argue, and they believe that it was Wright who persuaded Tolkien not to enlist immediately on the outbreak of war in 1914, but rather to complete his studies, not so that he might find a good job to support his family, but to be more useful to King and country. They believe that his return from the Somme with ‘trench fever’ was merely a cover story so that he could do Intelligence work back home. They also argue that Tolkien was named to the Rawlinson and Bosworth chair not because he was the best qualified, but so that he could take over from Joseph Wright as a talent-spotter for Intelligence agents. In this capacity and others, notably as someone who performed ‘mentally taxing code making work’ (p. 586), Tolkien had a ‘shadow career’ which accounts for his remarkable lack of writings – not because he was slow, or a perfectionist, or so poor that he had to spend his time marking examination papers. When he was given the prestigious Merton chair in 1945, there was no call for applicants, and – Lewis and Currie believe – C.S. Lewis was brought in as an elector to secure the deal; this makes no sense professionally, ‘yet for someone involved with Intelligence, it would do so as a “thank you”’ for his long service (p. 589).
It’s hard to know how to respond fairly to J.R.R. Tolkien: Codemaker, Spy-master, Hero. It’s another long book, more than 600 pages, so that a complete analysis or rebuttal, point by point – and there are many points one could rebut – would need yet another book, at least half as long. Here it will have to suffice to say that although I read their book in its entirety, and did so as far as possible with an open mind, I was not convinced by Lewis and Currie, and do not believe for a moment that Tolkien was a secret agent. I have seen and read too much to the contrary, about his activities and travels (or lack of travel), and cannot bring myself to believe that there has been a conspiracy to keep us all from the truth, necessarily involving a great many people over the years, as well as forged documents and the destruction of evidence. Nor – granting that I am one of the biographers whom Lewis and Currie feel has been misled to wrong conclusions – do I think that there is any reason to accept their thesis as the only answer to questions which seem to me not worth asking.
But let me attempt a few brief responses nevertheless. Tolkien did write ‘gripping and imaginative stuff’, but he was neither ordinary nor boring; even if he had been, I cannot accept the notion that someone outwardly boring and ordinary could not write imaginative fiction. That Tolkien contracted trench fever on the Somme, and that this required hospitalization and a long recuperation, seems to be settled fact; Lewis and Currie’s objection, based on an interpretation of a Red Cross report, is at odds with other, readily available information about the illness. Tolkien was indeed ‘a full Professor at one of the most ancient colleges in Oxford’, but such a position did not produce a substantial income, and Tolkien’s need for supplemental income, as from marking examination papers, by all evidence was genuine – and it would be remarkable indeed if all of the evidence Christina and I have seen in this regard were falsified for the sake of ‘cover’.
Why did Tolkien not accept the job offered him by Cape Town? His wife and baby Michael were not fit to travel, and Tolkien did not want to be separated from his family. Why did he turn down a job at the Government Code and Cipher School? According to Tolkien’s own testimony, he was never offered one; and in any event it would not ‘have given him substantial remuneration’ – not a government job, in wartime. Why would Cape Town and Liverpool not have invited him to apply for posts? Word travels in academic circles, and one might have heard about Tolkien’s work on the Oxford English Dictionary, or on the glossary for Fourteenth Century Verse and Prose, then still in progress, or even that Tolkien had been appointed earlier in the year to the readership at Leeds. Who are Lewis and Currie to judge that Tolkien was the least qualified candidate for the Rawlinson and Bosworth chair, or not qualified for the Merton chair when he had published so little? Could it have been that there are other qualities a university may want in their professors? Or that Tolkien’s genius, his talents, his enthusiasm for teaching were readily apparent, and his recommendations sterling?
Christina writes: In the Reader’s Guide volume of our J.R.R. Tolkien Companion and Guide Wayne and I devoted nearly seven pages to a review of biographies of Tolkien which had appeared to date (2006). Carpenter’s of course was, and remains, the standard life, and the source upon which most subsequent biographers of Tolkien have relied to a great extent. The major exceptions, in terms of new research, are John Garth in Tolkien and the Great War and ourselves in the Companion and Guide, but a few others have made notable contributions to the literature. Diana Pavlac Glyer in The Company They Keep: C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien as Writers in Community (2007) has a worthwhile discussion of the importance of the Inklings to Tolkien. Andrew H. Morton has produced two studies (the first in association with John Hayes) centred on Tolkien’s Aunt Jane Neave: Tolkien’s Gedling 1914: The Birth of a Legend (2008) and Tolkien’s Bag End: Threshold to Adventure (2009). Phil Mathison has filled in some details about Tolkien’s life during the First World War in Tolkien in East Yorkshire 1917–1918 (2012). And Arne Zettersten in J.R.R. Tolkien’s Double Worlds and Creative Process: Language and Life by Arne Zettersten (2011, previously published in Swedish in 2008) recalls his meetings and conversations with Tolkien in the latter’s final years (although Zettersten refers to correspondence, no quotations are given) and usefully discusses Tolkien’s academic work on the ‘AB language’.
More biographies intended for younger readers have also appeared, though we cannot recommend any of them due to their many factual errors and serious omissions. These include J.R.R. Tolkien by Vic Parker (2006), J.R.R. Tolkien by Jill C. Wheeler (2009), J.R.R. Tolkien by Mark Horne (2011), and J.R.R. Tolkien by Alexandra Wallner, the latter an unpleasant picture book in which Tolkien’s life is treated like a board game. Another, J.R.R. Tolkien by David R. Collins, was published in 2005, while we were still writing the Companion and Guide, but when we discussed biographies in the Reader’s Guide we omitted mention of it, thinking that it was only another iteration of Collins’ J.R.R. Tolkien: Master of Fantasy (1992), when in fact his 2005 text was significantly shortened and simplified, cluttered with inane sidebars (‘It’s a Fact!’), and injected with references to the Jackson films.
There are two other books, for adult readers, I would like to discuss in more detail. (Wayne will write about two more in a later post.) The first is J.R.R. Tolkien: The Making of a Legend by Colin Duriez (2012). Most of Duriez’s six earlier, sometimes repetitive books on Tolkien or C.S. Lewis are handbooks with alphabetical entries that I have found of limited use. While working on the Companion and Guide I skimmed Duriez’s one narrative work, Tolkien and C.S. Lewis: The Gift of Friendship (2003 – we should have mentioned it in our ‘Biographies’ article), but the content offered nothing new, and Duriez’s habit of suggesting Tolkien and Lewis’s thoughts does not appeal to me. I did not therefore expect a great deal from his more recent book, though I wondered how much it would take from our own work, as the first book-length life of Tolkien written since we included so much new biographical material in the Companion and Guide.
I had, however, apart from the question of the quality of the actual text, expected something of greater length. The book is considerably shorter than Carpenter’s biography both in page count and in the amount of text on the page. It is based to a large extent on Carpenter and supplemented by information from more recent publications, to which Duriez acknowledges debt both in his foreword and in endnotes. In contrast to Carpenter’s clear narrative from knowledge based on unrestricted access to primary materials and memories of Tolkien’s family and friends, Duriez provides a second- or third-hand view, incorporating many quotations and providing a choppy read. I see no evidence of original research, nor is there much original supplemental commentary, with one curious exception. Unless he found the information in a source unknown to us (and we have done a general search), Duriez did look into Edith Bratt’s background. We recorded in the Reader’s Guide that she was the illegitimate child of Alfred Frederick Warrilow and of Frances Bratt, governess in the Warrilow family. To this, Duriez adds the name of Warrilow’s legitimate daughter, Nellie, born in 1875, that when the scandal erupted Warrilow’s wife, Charlotte, petitioned for divorce, and that Warrilow named Frances Bratt sole executrix of his estate in the will proved on his death in 1891.
Duriez’s biography is considerably better than Michael White’s inventive treatment of 2001, but not a life of Tolkien to supplant Carpenter’s – as Duriez himself admits, describing Carpenter as ‘still indispensible, even now that so many more of Tolkien’s writings are available, not least because of his access to private documents and his ability to make sense of a universe of unfinished writings, diaries in code, and contradictory opinions’ (p. 9). Duriez explains that his book ‘is not intended for scholars but for ordinary readers wishing to explore the life of Tolkien and how it relates to his stories of Middle-earth’ (p. 9).
Although Duriez indeed drew upon our Companion and Guide and other recent works, he overlooked a few significant pieces of new biographical information and made some biographical errors. Either Andrew Morton’s Tolkien’s Gedling or my and Wayne’s online addenda and corrigenda would have informed him that when Tolkien stayed in Hove in 1904 it was with Edwin Neave, not with his Aunt Jane and Edwin, who were not yet married. Duriez sometimes writes confusingly, and I am not sure whether he really means, as implied on p. 21, that Mabel stayed in Rednal both before and after Tolkien’s time in Hove. On pp. 147–8 he seems to imply that Tolkien made one unfinished verse translation of Beowulf and two prose translations. On p. 151 he implies, probably unintentionally, that Melian was an Elf. On p. 185 he suggests that some of the Inklings gatherings attended by Charles Williams were held in Tolkien’s college rooms, but such meetings did not happen until Tolkien’s move to Merton in autumn 1945, some months after Williams’ death.
Surprisingly, given Duriez’s experience, there are several errors concerning Tolkien’s writings. Duriez states on p. 110 that Christopher Tolkien believes that the story of Túrin was in existence by mid-1917: we know of no such statement, and in The Book of Lost Tales, Part Two Christopher deals with The Tale of Tinúviel first, and says that the earliest versions of it and of Turambar and the Foalókë were erased when overwritten, and on p. 69 that there is evidence that the rewritten form of Turambar preceded the rewritten form of Tinúviel and was in existence by the middle of 1919. Perhaps Duriez’s reference to ‘1917’ is a typo for ‘1919’. Both Wayne and I and John Garth hold that there is no evidence providing a date for the first version – we suggest 1918, John suggests late 1917. Duriez says on p. 163 that Tolkien published the poem The Adventures of Tom Bombadil in a ‘poetry collection’ in 1934 – actually it was published in the Oxford Magazine on 15 February 1934, and only years later included in a collection, i.e. The Adventures of Tom Bombadil and Other Verses from the Red Book in 1962. On p. 164 Duriez implies that Farmer Giles of Ham was a new story when it was read to the Lovelace Society in 1938, rather than a much enlarged version of a story for Tolkien’s children, told and written some years earlier, and Duriez gives the wrong date for its first publication, 1950 instead of 1949. On p. 206 he refers to Rivendell as an Elven ‘kingdom’.
On p. 148 he ascribes to Austin Olney, on a Houghton Mifflin webpage, an important quote I recognized at once as from Carpenter’s biography preparatory to his account of The Hobbit: it begins: ‘So it was that during the nineteen-twenties and thirties Tolkien’s imagination was running along two distinct courses that did not meet. . . . Something was lacking, something that would bind the two sides of his imagination together and produce a story that was at once heroic and mythical and at the same time tuned to the popular imagination’ (1977 edition, p. 172). Elsewhere, Duriez buys into the idea of two towers in Birmingham being an influence on The Two Towers, a title chosen for the second volume of The Lord of the Rings only just before publication and possibly suggested by Rayner Unwin, while neither of the Birmingham towers resembles any of the towers dealt with in that book.
Duriez deals quickly with Tolkien’s final years: the years after Tolkien’s retirement in 1959 are covered in just over six pages. The book contains four leaves of small but good colour photographs of places associated with Tolkien, including both of the Birmingham towers, but the only photograph of Tolkien is one by Pamela Chandler on the cover. There is a ‘Select Bibliography’, weak on Tolkien himself, mentioning only Unfinished Tales and The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays. Much more is included in the serviceable index.
The other book I would like to discuss is Tolkien by Raymond Edwards, published at the end of September 2014. It is actually Edwards’ second Tolkien biography, following the 64-page J.R.R. Tolkien: His Life, Work & Faith published in November 2012 by the Catholic Truth Society. Edwards’ second book on Tolkien has a shorter title but a much longer text, a little longer than Carpenter’s and considerably longer than Duriez’s. Although Edwards also depends a great deal on Carpenter, his book does not give the same impression of an updated Carpenter that I received from Duriez’s. This is partly because Edwards’ biography flows at different speeds. In some places, he deals with events more quickly, e.g. there is no mention of Tolkien’s stay in Hove when dealing with Mabel’s illness (but he does knows Andrew Morton’s book), and in others more slowly, when Edwards adds background material and useful commentary both on aspects of Tolkien’s life and on his writings. This makes the book worthwhile supplemental reading to Carpenter, and both Wayne and I strongly recommend it.
The blurb on the back cover claims wrongly that it is the first Tolkien biography since Carpenter in 1977 ‘to deal with a wealth of posthumously published material’, since the same could be said of Duriez’s, but Edwards does it more thoroughly, especially in matters not covered by Carpenter. The blurb continues: ‘[Edwards’ work] sets Tolkien’s imaginative writing firmly in the context of his academic life, shows the great personal and professional difficulties he overcame to complete The Lord of the Rings. . . . It also deals with Tolkien’s role in the precipitous decline of his academic discipline, philology, as a university subject; and shows how, in one sense, his imaginative achievement is itself a triumphant vindication of his academic career.’ The biographical note on Edwards on the back flap gives his qualifications: ‘He worked for some years as researcher for the Oxford English Dictionary whilst completing doctoral research into medieval manuscripts. Before this he followed the Oxford undergraduate course originally devised by Tolkien.’ That he is also Roman Catholic is implied by a list of his publications.
The book is at its weakest in the early parts, where less new material has appeared in recent publications and Edwards had to rely mainly on Carpenter. He spends less time on the Birmingham towers than Duriez, notes that Tolkien never mentioned them, but still thinks they may have had an influence. In a survey of Tolkien’s early reading, Edwards discusses at length Francis Thompson (whom he thinks was a bad influence), Lord Dunsany, Lord Macaulay, and John Buchan. Once he reaches the time when Tolkien began to work seriously on The Book of Lost Tales and associated poems, Edwards grasps the opportunity offered by The History of Middle-earth and Parma Eldalamberon to follow the development of Tolkien’s legendarium and associated languages. When he discusses possible sources, he aims for the wider view, for example noting the various published works where Tolkien might have encountered the story of Alexander and the trees of the sun and the moon.
On several occasions, Edwards supports Tolkien against Kenneth Sisam. When Sisam asked for the glossary for the ‘Clarendon Chaucer’ to be cut, suggesting that Tolkien ‘drop references to the text, and all “easy” words’, Edwards comments: ‘the very things, in fact, that made it useful as a tool for a student to learn Middle English rather than mug up a text for an examination’ (p. 123, emphasis his). And he provides an interesting discussion of which of the six electors to the Rawlinson and Bosworth chair in 1925 probably voted for Tolkien and which for Sisam, suggesting that Joseph Wells, the Vice-chancellor, may have cast the deciding vote for Tolkien as a result of personally having had difficulties with Sisam as an editor at Oxford University Press.
Not surprisingly given his background, Edwards devotes considerable space throughout the book to topics such as philology and the English School at Oxford as it was when Tolkien was an undergraduate. He contrasts the greater freedom George Gordon and Tolkien had to shape the English department at Leeds, a new foundation, with the situation in Oxford, a hidebound establishment where much of the power resided in the colleges and English became a separate faculty only in 1926. He notes the struggles of the Oxford English Faculty Board, on which Tolkien was a permanent member, to replace Hon. Moderations or Pass Moderations with a First Public Examination specifically for those studying English – not achieved until 1948 – and to reach agreement on a more appropriate syllabus. He explains that because most of the teaching staff were employees of the colleges and chosen to suit the colleges’ needs, there was a chronic shortage of teaching staff, and university employees like Tolkien tried to fill the gap by giving many more lectures and classes than were required by statute.
Edwards shows far more understanding than some other recent commentators of the demands this made on Tolkien’s time, and believes that there was a significant effect on his scholarly productivity. He admits that the legendarium took up much of Tolkien’s time and energy, but thinks the tide was running against him, and even if he had produced a great study of medieval language and literature, it would not have stemmed the decline of philology. Yet, Edwards points out, ‘outside the narrow compass of university English faculties, Tolkien’s success has been remarkable’, and ‘what marks him off from his hordes of imitators, is precisely philology: the fact that his imaginary world is deeply rooted in language, and names, and words with their own inner consistency, meaning and resonance, which have in fact arguably given rise to that world, is in the best and broadest sense a philological one, and is (I would suggest) the key to his success’ (pp. 249–50).
The book has a few of its own errors, omissions, and assumptions. Edwards repeats a short section on Hilary Tolkien (pp. 47, 89); he follows The Tolkien Family Album in saying that the trench map illustrated in Judith Priestman’s Tolkien: Life and Legend (p. 32) was drawn by Tolkien, though we, John Garth, and others reject this; he does not explain that Tolkien himself did not use the phrase ‘mythology for England’; on p. 97 he states categorically that The Cottage of Lost Play was written after The Fall of Gondolin, though the evidence is not clear-cut – Tolkien years later described The Fall of Gondolin as the first tale written, but may not have counted The Cottage of Lost Play as a ‘tale’; in note 16 to p. 270, p. 318, Edwards wrongly ascribes the 1994 ‘Note on the Text’ in The Lord of the Rings to Wayne G. Hammond rather than to Douglas A. Anderson; and on p. 275, possibly due to an elision, a list of late, dated writings erroneously includes ‘“Nomenclature” published as The Rivers and Beacon-hills of Gondor (July 1969)’.
Edwards ends with an epilogue followed by an appendix, as Tolkien had originally planned for The Lord of the Rings. In the epilogue he says of Tolkien’s achievement that ‘in one sense, like Niggle, he died with his great picture unfinished – the Silmarillion. . . . Perhaps, if Tolkien had been more focused and disciplined, less “dilatory and unmethodical”, less susceptible to despondency, inertia and sloth, he might have been able to finish the legendarium to his own satisfaction. . . . But if he had done so, he would have been a different man’ and by implication would not have written in the same way. And yet he did finish The Lord of the Rings – “aside from the incalculable delight it has brought to generations of readers, it has also unsealed a whole vast area of the human imagination (Niggle’s Parish, if you like . . . )’ (p. 289).
In the main text, Edwards says only what is necessary about religion in Tolkien’s life, and deals with other aspects in the appendix, entitled ‘Tolkien the Catholic’. The first section, ‘Life’, concerns Tolkien’s practice of his Catholic faith, finding that ‘primarily, religion consisted for him of the sacraments and private prayer; he did not, like C.S. Lewis, feel under a duty to engage in public evangelism or intellectual justification of belief’ (p. 292). Among other comments, Edwards notes that Tolkien disliked the English-language Mass, but suggests that this may have been partly dislike of the style of the translation; he made no fuss about its validity and was not one of those who signed a petition to Pope Paul VI to allow celebrations of the unreformed rite.
The second part of the appendix deals with the presence of Catholicism in Tolkien’s writings. Edwards begins by saying that its presence is ‘so structural, so basic to his imagination, that analysis of it risks . . . pushing over the tower to see where he got his building material. In one strong sense, Tolkien is not a professedly Catholic writer in the consciously assertive tradition of Belloc or Chesterton, and he seems deliberately to have avoided identifying himself in this way. . . . Efforts to recruit him posthumously as a member of such an “English Catholic tradition” should be resisted’ (p. 293). Although Tolkien wrote that The Lord of the Rings is ‘a fundamentally religious and Catholic work’, Edwards cautions against making too much of some superficial connections as Joseph Pearce has. ‘These may, in Tolkien’s terms, be legitimate applications of the story, but to suggest they are its whole meaning . . . is to reduce it to a facile allegory. . . . Insofar as any of these parallels are valid, it is only because the moral pattern of Christianity (with regard to, say, suffering and its value) is a universally valid one. . . . What makes Tolkien a specifically Christian writer, and his books specifically Christian books, is his absolute conviction of the power and validity, under God, of our capacity to tell stories’ (p. 294–5).
Wayne writes: In the July/August number of the Children’s Books History Society (CBHS) Newsletter, Peter Hunt reviewed the second edition (2015) of The Oxford Companion to Children’s Literature, edited by Daniel Hahn. The first edition of this work, edited by Humphrey Carpenter and Mari Prichard, was published by Oxford University Press (OUP) in 1984, with corrections made in its second printing that same year. In my review of the first edition in Beyond Bree for June 1987, I called it ‘an indispensable guide to its subject’, though I noted errors, ‘inevitably in a book of this length’ (xiv + 588 pp.), and that the authors injected personal opinion – this struck me (at the time) as unusual in a reference book – and had ‘a pronounced leaning toward British children’s literature to the reduction or exclusion, especially, of much American material’. Peter Hunt, a noted authority on children’s literature, dearly hoped to find (as he writes) the second edition ‘a worthy successor’ to the original, as did I; but while ‘for the non-expert reader, this is a perfectly adequate product’, Hunt concludes that those seriously interested in the subject would find better value in a second-hand copy of the first edition, if they did not already have it, supplemented by other reference works, thus avoiding ‘the need for anti-apoplexy tablets’.
Brian Alderson is even more critical of the new edition in his CBHS Newsletter editorial, in which he questions ‘the usefulness of the whole gigantic exercise’. One could be cynical and say that it’s useful to OUP to keep the book ‘fresh’, to encourage new buyers, but Alderson’s point is well taken. Even though, as Daniel Hahn notes, there has been ‘dramatic change’ in the field of children’s literature in the past thirty years, the coverage in the new edition is still disappointingly limited and no less idiosyncratic than it was in 1984. There are ‘more than 900 new headwords’, i.e. new entries, said to be in the new edition, of which ‘the most substantial’ is that for ‘Harry Potter’. Well and good: but the new edition, built on the foundation of the old, adds only 75 pages, while the font is now comparatively larger and the number of lines per column is smaller, and older entries are often abridged to make room for the new – for example, those for Madeleine L’Engle (which, however, now more properly describes her sequels to A Wrinkle in Time) and C.S. Lewis (which still, unaccountably, includes no mention of Pauline Baynes, whose illustrations account for a good share of the success of the Narnia books; on the other hand, the entry for Diana Wynne Jones is now double its old length, and does her more justice, though it is not correct to say that Jones’s work achieved ‘a global audience’ only when Studio Ghibli adapted to film Howl’s Moving Castle in 2004). Hahn admits that ‘half a million words might seem like a generous amount of space, but given the book’s scope it feels barely adequate’; in fact, it is not even barely adequate. Perhaps more has been done, or will be done, in the electronic, subscription-access version of the work, which I have not seen. An adequate edition in print would run to several volumes.
Although Hahn claims that ‘errors in the old volume have been corrected’, he must mean some errors, because there are many which remain – or, if not errors, at least arguable points. Upon purchasing the new edition I looked first at three entries on which I can speak with authority.
For Pauline Baynes, the revised entry adds her date of death, truncates her biography, and alters the rest, though much remains of the original text by Carpenter and Prichard (both still credited, along with Hahn, on the title-page of the new edition). It is still said that the first book illustrated by Baynes was Farmer Giles of Ham by J.R.R. Tolkien (1949); Carpenter and Prichard, and now Hahn, were evidently unaware of her art, starting in 1942, for several of the Perry Colour Books (for which series there is no entry; the similar and more famous Puffin Picture Books is still only briefly mentioned, under ‘Puffin books’). Nor had they heard, apparently, of mainstream publishers such as Country Life and Blackie who commissioned Baynes years before she worked with Tolkien – though Farmer Giles of Ham was, certainly, her breakthrough achievement. It is also still claimed that ‘as a result of Tolkien’s recommendation she was taken on by C.S. Lewis and his publisher to illustrate the Narnia books’, but there is no evidence that Tolkien recommended her. Lewis told her that she was recommended by a bookshop assistant as the best children’s book illustrator, or the best artist of children and animals (accounts vary), while Baynes always believed that he chose her simply because she had illustrated Farmer Giles for his friend Tolkien. In regard to another surviving statement, ‘the maps and other ephemera that [Baynes] produced as adjuncts to The Lord of the Rings, at the height of popular enthusiasm for that book’, her work for The Lord of the Rings consists of a tiny drawing for a newspaper advertisement, one poster-map (another was for The Hobbit), and a ‘triptych’ illustration for the slipcase of a deluxe edition, later adapted for paperback covers, so is more limited than the entry suggests; and The Lord of the Rings has been popular since it was published, so there is no sense in trying to pin down any ‘height of enthusiasm’, which in any case has reached probably greater levels in later years than in the late sixties and early seventies, the period to which the Companion refers.
The entry for Arthur Ransome has been seriously truncated, omitting mention of many of his activities and interests that informed his writing for children – reading, acquaintances, the Lord Alfred Douglas lawsuit, fishing. Peel Island was, in fact, only one ‘original of Wild Cat Island in Swallows and Amazons’. On Ransome’s ‘escape’ to Russia, ‘for little reason other than that it was far away’, both editions pass over his hope to tell stories – his desire ‘to learn enough Russian to be able to read Russian folklore in the original and to tell those stories in the simple language that they seemed to need’, as Ransome states in his Autobiography.
In the new entry for J.R.R. Tolkien, the description of his life has been only lightly truncated, perhaps out of deference to Carpenter’s authority as the author of the standard biography of Tolkien. Even so, it would have been good to have revised some points. As in the original edition, it is said that ‘by the time [Tolkien] graduated from Oxford with a First Class in 1915, he was . . . the possessor of at least two complete languages of his own, supposedly spoken by elves’; in fact, although Tolkien began to develop Quenya and Sindarin early on, neither should be referred to as ‘complete’, particularly at that early a date, as much later scholarship into Tolkien’s linguistic creation has shown.
In regard to the phrase ‘“Middle-Earth” (supposedly the planet Earth at an earlier age)’, Carpenter knew better: Middle-earth (correct spelling) is only one part of the planet, which Tolkien called Arda (which is indeed supposed to be the Earth). The original statement ‘it was apparently the death of two school friends during the Battle of the Somme that directly inspired him to begin work in earnest on The Silmarillion’ has subsequently been argued (post-Carpenter and Prichard) by biographer John Garth, but remains arguable as a matter of degree. Having begun to develop his ‘legendarium’ early on, there is no reason to think that Tolkien would not have continued with it in any case. It is also arguable whether his experience in the trenches ‘drove him even further into his imaginative creation’ rather than ‘turn his attention to “real life”’. He was able to ‘begin work in earnest’ mainly because he was invalided home with trench fever. It is said that ‘he made no attempt to publish [The Silmarillion]’ and later, reference is made to ‘The Silmarillion, which he now [after The Lord of the Rings] wished to publish’, discounting or overlooking Tolkien’s submission of elements of ‘The Silmarillion’ to Allen & Unwin as a successor to The Hobbit and his strong desire in the 1950s that The Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings be published together as one great ‘Saga of the Three Jewels and the Rings of Power’.
To say that ‘the process of composition [of The Lord of the Rings] was long and difficult and was only sustained because of the encouragement of C.S. Lewis’ places too much emphasis on Lewis: the work was sustained as much by the interest of Tolkien’s son Christopher, to whom Tolkien sent parts of the work in progress while Christopher was on active service in World War Two, and ultimately by Tolkien’s personal investment in his creation.
‘Pauline Baynes also illustrated [in addition to Farmer Giles of Ham] Tolkien’s 1962 collection of verse, The Adventures of Tom Bombadil]’ omits her art for Smith of Wootton Major as well as her binding designs and posters for The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit. ‘The Lord of the Rings was eventually finished in 1949’: yes, finished in draft, but not yet revised or completed, especially in regard to the Appendices. (In a sense, Tolkien never completed The Lord of the Rings, but revised and corrected its text while he lived; but this is quibbling.) ‘The spectacular popularity of The Lord of the Rings, which began in the mid-1960s and kept it on the best-seller lists in Britain, America, and many other countries’: the work was popular from its first publication in 1954–55, and did not need its paperback editions in the 1960s to keep sales at respectable levels (though the paperbacks served to increase sales substantially).
Peter Hunt concludes his review by stating that ‘producing a second edition [of the Oxford Companion to Children’s Literature] by comprehensively revising it would have been an impossible task (and anyway, one suspects that the attempt might have been at least partly hamstrung by OUP’s series directives).’ Not impossible, surely; difficult, definitely, and perhaps OUP would not have allowed the number of pages needed – or perhaps they would have done, as HarperCollins allowed Christina and me to have two volumes, rather than just one, for our J.R.R. Tolkien Companion and Guide (a near thing, using thin but opaque paper to reduce the bulk, and it could have been three volumes easily). I would have given it a try, though there’s no reason to expect I would have been asked.
The Art of The Lord of the Rings
Tomorrow, October 8th, is publication day in the U.K. for The Art of The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien (HarperCollins). We hope it will please and inform. The American edition, from Houghton Mifflin Harcourt (HMH), will be published next week, on the 13th. As expected, the HMH edition will be available in a dust-jacket but not a slipcase, while the HarperCollins edition is in a slipcase but not a dust-jacket. An early review of The Art of The Lord of the Rings is being written by Ethan Gilsdorf for Wired.com. We hear that our new book has also just been published in Finnish by WSOY.
The final product still has 240 pages, as we reported earlier, with 192 numbered figures (including 10 details), around 100 of which were not previously published. In the last stages of production, we located further small instances of art in the Lord of the Rings papers at Marquette and had to revise how the pictures were presented.
Tolkien on Record
For the completist collector, or anyone interested in spoken word recordings, Tolkien’s performance of the ‘troll song’ from The Lord of the Rings, first issued on the 1975 Caedmon album J.R.R. Tolkien Reads and Sings His The Hobbit and The Fellowship of the Ring, was also included as a sample track on the 1977 Caedmon anniversary double album Caedmon: Speaking of the Best for 25 Years (SP25). We discovered this on eBay.
The Lay of Aotrou and Itroun
A new edition of Tolkien’s Lay of Aotrou and Itroun, presented in English and Serbian on facing pages and with extensive commentary, has been privately published by the translator, Aleksandar Mikić (firstname.lastname@example.org). We asked Aleksandar to hold a copy for us when he announced it, but once it became available we found it difficult to send money by wire transfer from our rural location. Fortunately, Aleksandar was able to set up payment by PayPal through a friend of his in Wales.
Tolkien’s Letters to Sterling Lanier
‘Between the Covers’ of Gloucester City, New Jersey are offering an archive of six typed letters signed by J.R.R. Tolkien, and one autograph letter signed by Edith Tolkien, to Sterling E. Lanier, author, sculptor, and the editor who convinced Chilton Books to publish Dune. These are concerned with small bronze figures based on characters in The Lord of the Rings, which Lanier made and hoped to market with Tolkien’s permission. Tolkien was amenable, but United Artists held the rights at that time. The correspondence also touches on the Ace Books affair, with Tolkien reporting on an initial overture from Ace, ‘very specious and slightly glutinous’, and later commenting on ‘very reasonable terms’ from the publisher. A small portion of one letter was published in Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, on p. 422. The entry in Between the Covers’ web catalogue includes a full description but only a very small picture, which does not seem able to be enlarged. The seller’s printed catalogue (Archives & Manuscripts no. 19) includes more and larger photos. The asking price for the collection is $40,000.
After many years in temporary form, the official Tolkien Estate website has been redesigned and much expanded, with texts in French and Spanish as well as English. It is divided into four sections, Writing, Learning, Painting, and Paths, and each of these in turn has various sub-categories.
Under Writing are ‘Tales of Middle-earth’, ‘Other Tales and Poetry’, ‘Tales for Children’, ‘Translations, Essays’, ‘The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien‘, and a brief interactive timeline of Tolkien’s life and works.
Learning includes ‘Languages and Writing Systems’, ‘Tolkien and Visual Arts’, ‘Thoughts and Studies’, and ‘On Specific Works’. The latter two contain miscellaneous essays on Tolkien studies, reading Tolkien, Tolkien the philologist, and other topics.
Painting contains brief descriptive texts leading to numerous pictures drawn or painted by Tolkien, and to photographs of Tolkien himself, some of which have not been published previously or have not previously appeared in colour. Among these are a few of the maps which will first appear in print in our forthcoming Art of The Lord of the Rings, but here can be enlarged to examine details.
Finally, although Paths at first seems to include only common website elements such as Frequently Asked Questions and site credits, on further exploration these are very interesting and lead to other links to follow.
Christina writes: Most people who read our posts know that Wayne and I have an extensive book collection, and not just of Tolkien. A substantial part constitutes a joint interest: Tolkien, Pauline Baynes, Victorian art, and children’s literature, along with other authors, artists, and subjects. But there are also areas where we have differing interests, or at least interests to differing degrees. In the area of history, for example, I am relatively more interested in the ancient, classical, and medieval periods, while Wayne tends to be more concerned with American and military history. Many may not know, though some may recall, that we also have a large collection, or rather two large collections, of music and videos, and there – apart from a little overlap, mainly in nature programming – our interests are almost entirely distinct. I collect mainly opera (on CD and DVD), but also lieder, chansons, and songs in various languages other than German and French (generally on CD), as well as ballet (on DVD). Wayne, on the other hand, prefers orchestral or instrumental classical music, with relatively little vocal, and has a substantial collection of soundtracks, with lesser numbers of jazz, pop, rock, and New Age CDs, and his DVD collection consists mainly of films and television series.
Although we enjoy acquiring books, records, and so forth by chance discovery, coming upon them in some out-of-the-way shop or otherwise serendipitously, many are sought out only after we have done research, and this is particularly important with music, where the performance and sound quality are as important as the work performed. For fifteen years, one of our most reliable sources of information about classical music recordings has been the British magazine International Record Review, or IRR. A few days ago, Wayne looked up from his computer and said: ‘I have some bad news. There will be no more issues of the International Record Review.’ He had just read in an email that due to the death of Barry Irving, sole director of the company that published IRR and evidently its financial support, the firm ceased to exist, and the March issue we received a few weeks ago was the last. We first saw the International Record Review in Blackwell’s Music Shop in Oxford during a visit to England in 2000; it was the second issue, dated April, and we read it on the flight back home. We both liked it enough to subscribe and to purchase the March number as a back issue to have a complete run. Over the years, IRR has covered the areas that interest us far better than other music magazines have done. I was particularly happy to find it, because in Autumn 1999 I had lost the International Opera Collector, which I enjoyed but which ceased publication after only thirteen issues.
I also look at several other music magazines to help me choose what to buy. It’s sometimes amusing to see how opinions differ. I subscribe to the American Opera News, but this is mainly about performers and live performances, with only a few pages devoted to reviews of CDs and DVDs. I originally subscribed to Opera News to get advance information about Metropolitan Opera broadcasts, in the days when our cable company offered an FM music channel for only a few dollars a month: the same broadcasts were carried by one of our local FM stations, but much less clearly over the air than by digital cable. This too was discontinued, because the cable firm decided that it served only a minority interest, and wasn’t worth their trouble to keep even though its fans offered to pay more for the service. Luckily, by that time I was too busy writing books to follow a broadcast schedule, and instead was buying CDs or DVDs for such moments as I could devote to music.
Wayne writes: More recently, Sirius XM, the subscription satellite radio service we have in our car, dropped their Classical Pops channel for car listening, moving it exclusively to their tabletop radio lineup where it does us no good under our particular subscription. They had only three classical channels to begin with, against umpteen pop, rock, talk, and sports channels, and are now down to only Metropolitan Opera Radio, which I don’t listen to (and Christina prefers not to listen to opera in the car), and Symphony Hall, which seems to have a preponderance of Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart, and Telemann, but not much Ravel, Debussy, Rimsky-Korsakov, Vaughan Williams, et al. which one found on Classical Pops, so it’s not a substitute. According to the Classical Pops Facebook page, Sirius lost a number of subscribers over this. We haven’t left yet, though we’re seriously considering it as our renewal date approaches. This seems to be another case of corporate accountants deciding that even though the firm serves niche interests, the classical music niche is just too small or inconsequential.
Christina writes: For reviews in the British Opera and Gramophone and the American Fanfare, I rely on the copies received by the Williams College Library. Opera, like Opera News, is mainly devoted to performances and performers, while at least half of each Gramophone and Fanfare comprises general articles on music, performers, technical matters, and so forth. Fanfare has the widest coverage of all, since half of each issue comes to nearly 300 pages, but the reviews are listed in alphabetical order by composer rather than by separate category, which makes it harder to use for my purposes, and it is published only once every two months, so reviews tend to appear later than in other sources. I might subscribe to Fanfare, as it constitutes a good historical reference source, but can’t afford the shelf space it would eat up (yes, I could subscribe to the online edition, but I find it harder and more time-consuming to read reviews on a screen than in print). And while Gramophone can be entertaining, and sometimes has an interesting article or two, both Wayne and I find it too slick and ‘popularized’ for our tastes. (BBC Music Magazine is in much the same vein.)
Apart from the quality of a performance and recording, I am particularly interested in two other factors. Firstly, with regard to DVDs, I want to know about the production. I do not like most current productions, which play to the producer’s ego and perversely make nonsense of both words and music. I do check YouTube clips when they exist, but that is not always sufficient. Secondly, for CDs of more unusual items, I want to know if the text, at least, is included, if not a translation if the work is not sung in English. International Record Review provided this information, and Fanfare still does. Gramophone has symbols which are supposed to speak to this, but they are rarely included. Indeed, recently Gramophone actually said that no libretto was included for Francesco Maria Veracini’s Adriano in Siria, and I had crossed it off my list of desiderata until the final issue of IRR stated correctly that the recording had the text of the opera but not a translation. I’ll admit that when I first removed the shrinkwrap from the jewel case I was worried, as the booklet seemed very thin, but the text was there, if rather horrible in white printed on black!
Wayne writes: I’ll miss the International Record Review too, and hope that its knowledgeable and talented reviewers fare well in other magazines or media. I was unhappy a few years ago when IRR changed its typography, making it (I thought) harder to read, and I wrote to the editor to say so – I mean, digital Perpetua looks washed-out when printed on coated paper. But either they made subtle adjustments or I got used to it. I haven’t found any good equivalent online, at least not yet. I must admit, though, that in recent years it has been for me a case of diminishing returns. I have so many recordings that new performances aren’t often better than those I already own, and I have to be careful that ‘new’ CDs aren’t just reissues I’ve already bought. I’m noticing, for instance, attractive recordings on the Helios budget reissue label which I bought years back on Hyperion. But also, I’ve read fewer reviews about unfamiliar composers that make me want to give them a try. I remember how an early number of IRR led me to try out the Russian-born Aaron Avshalomoff, some of whose orchestral works are available on Marco Polo.
Christina writes: A more serious loss was the Book and Magazine Collector. I began to collect this magazine with about its third issue in May 1984, and purchased the earlier two as back issues. We have the complete run of all 328 issues, until it folded after the Christmas number in 2010. The magazine had been taken over a short time earlier by a company who thought they could change it and make it even more profitable. They succeeded only in bringing it to an end. The greater part of each issue consisted of a number of articles on authors and topics, with bibliographies and suggested secondhand prices. The first issue, for example, contained ‘Ian Fleming and the James Bond Books’, ‘Collecting Penguins’, ‘Victorian Small Wars: A Guide to Some of the Most Valuable Books about the Colonial Wars’, ‘Rare Cookery Books’, and ‘Bibliography of U.K. Fan Magazines’. The penultimate issue carried articles on Neil Gaiman, L. Frank Baum, Enid Blyton’s ‘Secret Series’, and Victorian dust-jackets.
Articles included author biographies where relevant, and brief but tantalizing summaries or descriptions of topics or works of fiction. All of these were interesting to read even if one knew nothing much about the author or topic. Over the years, the magazine provided a wide-ranging overview of both fiction and non-fiction. Some popular topics were dealt with more than once, with later articles noting changes in popularity and prices or special anniversaries. Tolkien was dealt with in nos. 17, 57, 95, 214, and 238; the last also included an article on the Tolkien Society. There were occasional articles on aspects of collecting and selling, and a letters section. Each issue also gave considerable space to listings of books for sale and books wanted, though the latter usually took up only a few pages. While I was living in England, I did not have a subscription, but would buy B&MC as soon as it appeared for on the newsstand. I would often make a detour to Smith’s on Waterloo Station on my way to work when I knew the new number was due. Before reading the articles, I would scan the lists of books for sale, though I only ever found a few items I wanted (this was before such listings began to migrate to the Internet). My memory is not clear, but I think I found my copy of Leeds University Verse (with early Tolkien poems) through the magazine.
A good blog post about the demise of the Book and Magazine Collector, and about the differences between print and Internet resources (both content and standards), may be found here.
Wayne writes: In the late 1980s I discovered Cook’s, and enjoyed it as a good home-cook alternative to magazines like Gourmet, which featured sometimes very elaborate, professional-level recipes and articles on travel. I see now that Cook’s was started and sometimes edited by Christopher Kimball, later of America’s Test Kitchen fame. I subscribed to Cook’s, and had hardly done so, it seemed, when it folded, and in compensation for the issues remaining on my subscription I was offered one or two months of – Gourmet. I wrote a harsh letter to the publisher, saying that Gourmet wasn’t to my liking; they replied: Right, then, we won’t send you anything. A few years later, Kimball started Cook’s Illustrated, and I subscribed to that for a while, but gave it up when it seemed that the material was being more compactly presented in the America’s Test Kitchen cookbooks. Looking back at Cook’s now, I see that Kimball left as publisher very near the end, when the magazine was sold to the Condé Nast syndicate), and that the senior writer then was Mark Bittman, which explains some of the quality.
Christina writes: As preface to another loss, I have to tell you that as a child, one of my favourite authors was Violet Needham (1876–1977). Many of her novels were Ruritanian, but others were historical or involved mythic elements. Most of her heroes and heroines were orphans who had to show courage, make difficult decisions, or adapt to living with strangers in different and sometimes overwhelming circumstances. She did not spare her characters – one hero dies in battle, another is tortured by the Spanish in the Netherlands in the sixteenth century. I borrowed the first few Needham titles from the library, and thereafter bought each as it came out. One of the earlier ones I read only years later, when I found it in the reserve collection of Holborn Library. A few years after that, I found a copy to buy. Although she is not one of the best remembered children’s authors of the twentieth century, Violet Needham was popular enough at the time her books were published for at least a couple to be dramatized on BBC Radio’s Children’s Hour programme.
On 18 May 1985 I attended the inaugural meeting of the Violet Needham Society. The Society thereafter produced three issues a year of a magazine called Souvenir, which soon expanded from articles on Needham to juvenile Ruritanian stories generally, and to books by Needham’s contemporaries, who, like her, had been largely forgotten. Over the years it brought back many nostalgic memories of childhood reading. Unless prevented, while I was still living in London I attended annual general meetings and went on excursions to places associated with Needham and her books, or to other literary venues. On one occasion, we visited the area described by A.A. Milne in his stories about Winnie the Pooh and stood on the bridge and played ‘Pooh sticks’. Members of the Society have included several authors of works on children’s literature, and two other Tolkien Society members beside myself: Rikki Breem and Jessica Yates. But we’re all growing old, and there are fewer people who remember reading Needham’s books, and fewer still willing and able to take on some of the burdens of running the society, and in particular editing Souvenir. There will be a final AGM this autumn (which, alas, I will be unable to attend), and a final Souvenir to be followed by a collection of the best articles from Souvenir and an Index. Thereafter there will be a website, and perhaps informal meetings, but no journal, subscription, or formal gatherings.
Wayne writes: One of my favourite authors, Arthur Ransome, still has enough popularity (for Swallows and Amazons and the other books in that series) that the Arthur Ransome Society seems in good health, at least for the moment. Its survival will depend on finding younger members to take over as officers and organizers and editors. May this good thing go on for a long time.
Images, from top: International Record Review, April 2000; Book and Magazine Collector, May 1984; Souvenir, Summer 2014.
It has been too long since we last put on our website new addenda and corrigenda to our J.R.R. Tolkien Companion and Guide: nearly a year in the case of the Chronology volume, and approaching two years since we updated the Reader’s Guide. New material is always coming our way to better document Tolkien’s life, and we still have some catching up to do in describing works by Tolkien published after the Companion and Guide appeared in 2006. We can’t be posting additions and corrections every week, but letting them accumulate for too long makes for seriously lengthy and complicated work fitting them into our various pages and keeping, or trying to keep, everything consistent in form.
We did at least post addenda and corrigenda to our Lord of the Rings: A Reader’s Companion this past January, and to the new Adventures of Tom Bombadil collection at the end of December. Most of our older books have settled down, with very few corrections or additions occurring to us or being called to our attention; but it’s tempting fate to say so, and indeed, we have sent three or four to our website in this round.
Nineteen pages have been updated, as follows, everything on our list, in fact, except Wayne’s Arthur Ransome bibliography, and that could use an update as well!
The J.R.R. Tolkien Companion and Guide in general
Supplemental bibliography to The J.R.R. Tolkien Companion and Guide
The Lord of the Rings 50th anniversary edition
The Lord of the Rings: A Reader’s Companion, 2005 edition
The Lord of the Rings: A Reader’s Companion, 2008 edition
The Lord of the Rings: A Reader’s Companion, 2014 edition
Supplemental bibliography to The Lord of the Rings: A Reader’s Companion
Image: Spine of the boxed set of The J.R.R. Tolkien Companion and Guide.
Lovers of books will enjoy posts on The New Antiquarian, the blog of the Antiquarian Booksellers Association of America. Lovers of many books (but never enough) will enjoy a recent post by Kurt Zimmerman, ‘You Know You’re a Serious Book Collector When . . .’
For example, you know you’re a serious book collector when:
You realize you may never see that rare book again but you can always make more money. We’re all for financial responsibility. We save, we spend wisely, we look for value for money. But you will never forget the book you let get away as long as you live.
You sell your piano to make room for another large bookcase. We did that! Except that it made room for three large bookcases.
You quietly worry about the structural integrity of your home. No (it’s very well built), but others certainly do.
You have book shelves in your bedroom closets. Only in two bedrooms, and there are no beds in those rooms – just books.
You order book jacket protectors and rolls of protective mylar in bulk from library suppliers. Well, yes (from Gaylord). This is part of being financially responsible.
Your vacations feature book stores and book dealers. Doesn’t everyone’s?
You can scout book stores all day long and forget to eat. Not quite, though we have been known to work straight through lunch when we’re in a library and in the middle of research.
Guests grow silent in amazement when they walk through your book-laden home. Then they ask about its structural integrity.
Wayne writes: In the March 8th Sunday Book Review of the New York Times, Sarah Manguso told of a book she read in her childhood, details of which she could recall but not its author or title. It was about a beaver family, she remembered, or it could have been woodchucks or muskrats, and one of the characters was called ‘Crackie’. When she exhausted Google Search, she turned to a blog called ‘Stump the Bookseller‘ and learned that her mystery book was probably Toodle and Noodle Flat-Tail: The Jolly Beaver Boys by Howard R. Garis, author of the ‘Uncle Wiggly’ stories. (Uncle Wiggly, I’ve heard of. Toodle and Noodle Flat-Tail, no.) Unfortunately for Ms. Manguso, the book is out of print and, at least at the moment, is not available from online sellers.
The books we read, or have read to us, in childhood stay in our memory, not always clearly, sometimes as only a ghostly presence, but there they are, part of the foundation of our personalities and our selves. At least, that has been my experience. I’ve been lucky that many of the books I knew and loved as a child were never discarded, and I can revisit them whenever I like. There are Milne’s Pooh books, with Now We Are Six and When We Were Very Young. There are the ‘Horton’ books by Dr. Seuss, and If I Ran the Zoo. There’s the set of My Book House by Olive Beaupré Miller, blue bindings (in my edition) all in a row. There are Little Golden Books, and Giant Golden Books too. There, for a boy brought up on TV westerns, is The Big Book of Cowboys by Sydney E. Fletcher.
Other books recalled from my youth were never purchased, only borrowed, from the elementary school or county libraries. I know these included at least some of the ‘Cowboy Sam’ titles by Edna Walker Chandler, though what I saw in them, as I look now at images online, I have no idea: not one of their stories and pictures has stayed with me, just the name of the series. More importantly, I also read The Wind in the Willows at a very young age, so young that for a long time the only memory I had of it was of E.H. Shepard’s illustration of Badger, Rat, Mole, and Toad routing the stoats and weasels in Toad Hall, and I didn’t link my memory specifically with that book. I was thrilled to rediscover the picture many years later and finally make the connection, when I read Kenneth Grahame’s great work again as an adult and fell in love with it.
For a long time, I remembered as well that I liked a series of books with the character ‘Zip-Zip’, and had a vague idea that they were science fiction. Thanks to the Internet, I identified these as the work of John M. Schealer, and eventually bought copies of all three: Zip-Zip and His Flying Saucer, Zip-Zip Goes to Venus, and Zip-Zip and the Red Planet. Published between 1956 and 1961, they would have been fairly new when I checked them out of the elementary school library. Read again in adulthood, they don’t appeal quite as much, in fact not much at all, but the ten-year-old in me recalls them fondly.
Now if I could only identify the book on scuba diving I often borrowed from the same library: those were the days of Sea Hunt and Assignment: Underwater on TV, and for a while I had it in mind to become an oceanographer. But I’m not sure if, in memory, I’m not mixing it up with The First Five Fathoms by Arthur C. Clarke, which I think I had as a birthday gift and is still on our shelves.
Christina tells me that she has a book memory of her own. The main character of this work is a boy or girl, who has been ill for a long time, and whose mother goes out to buy a book for her child. She meets someone who persuades her that a certain book is the very one she needs, and it has (perhaps) twelve pictures. In the course of the story, the boy or girl (as it may be) gets into the pictures and meets another child (of the opposite gender). Then there is something to do with dance, maybe a fire dance, and the children end up at some great event, where they perform. Does this sound familiar to anyone? Christina admits that it’s entirely possible that she’s mixing up more than one book.
Image: Illustration by E.H. Shepard for Chapter 12, ‘The Return of Ulysses’, in The Wind in the Willows. At least in the editions we have, the picture is divided, with a small part printed on the facing page. Here I have put it back together with Photoshop.