[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Thanks for those, Estelyn. I've been reading Persuasion lately and remembering that the by the end of The Big Read everyone who wanted to be identified with the intelligentsia was recommending that people vote for Jane Austen to keep Tolkien out of the top spot. What occurred to me last night, as I read a conclusion that was as unnecessarily long as it was predictable, is that Austen isn't any better than Tolkien; she's just such an accepted part of the landscape of English literature that her status as a 'great' writer is simply taken as read. That's not to say that Austen doesn't deserve to be rated highly - after all, Persuasion was published posthumously and unrevised - but that if one were disposed to find fault with her novels it would not be difficult to compose quite as much vitriol about her as certain intellectuals do about Tolkien. 'Literary snobbery' was the phrase that should have occurred to me then: some people are in, some are out; artistic merit is only one of the considerations.

Further to Bêthberry's comments, I've had occasion to read other works by Tom Shippey, specifically on the subject of humour (and not in any way touching on Tolkien). When describing Anglo-Saxon humour, he sees adversarial comedy (he recycles the German term gegeneinanderlachen) as a major theme. Apparently he subscribes to the school of thought exemplified by Anthony M. Ludovici, that laughter is primarily a display of self-perceived superiority, and that humour is an attempt to provoke such a response. He was probably a little careless with his terms in Author of the Century, largely as a result of using somebody else's, and perhaps he would have done better to have found another German phrase. Certainly 'irony' is not the best term for a style of humour in which we look down on the characters, but I find myself unable to think of a better. Perhaps 'satire' or 'lampoon' would be closer to what he was trying to say.

I think, Bêthberry, that you have something in Tolkien's seriousness and realism, but I think that it causes trouble for him because it is focused on something that is not regarded as important. We have embraced empirical science as the arbiter of truth, to the extent that the terms 'truth' and 'reality' have to some extent become blurred into one another. In pursuing a more medieval view of truth, Tolkien has devoted too much seriousness to something unworthy, something that is not 'real' (a direct portrayal of an empirically demonstrable reality). Tolkien's truths are spiritual, worse still explicitly Christian. It's acceptable for the Gawain poet to talk about green giants riding into Camelot with perilously absurd challenges, but only because he wrote in the fourteenth century and is now old enough for simple membership of his readership to suggest intellectual accomplishment. More importantly, the spirit of our age is very different to that of his. We live in an age that distrusts authority, is uncomfortable with ceremony, and feels at best embarrassed by Romance in its medieval literary sense. We are an age of iconoclasts, and Tolkien was not only paying the old respects to those symbols, but building a whole museum in which to preserve them. Any form of magical or divine kingship looks to modern eyes like an attempt to establish a natural order, in which every person is assigned a role by an undeniable authority. In an age in which 'democracy' is the watchword (to the extent that the meaning of the term has been lost in a haze of incense), an age in which we applaud social mobility and fluidity, and promote equality even at its own expense, Tolkien's structured hierarchies, objective truths and rejection of advancement and progress as synonyms is bound to ruffle one or two feathers.

Witness Philip Pullman, Oxford scholar, fantasy author and poster-boy for opponents of Tolkien. He seems uncomfortable with C.S. Lewis' statements about Susan in the Chronicles of Narnia. He says that her ceasing to be a friend of Narnia by becoming more interested in invitations, nylons and so forth is a statement that reaching adulthood (perhaps I should say 'sexual maturity') made one wicked, or in some way cut one off from God. What he has apparently failed to notice is that Lewis only mentions the superficial trappings of maturity: of course an overriding interest in parties, cosmetics and fine clothes (it was post-war Britain - my grandmother still remembers painting fake stockings onto her legs) are the antithesis of spirituality. Actual spiritual maturity, expressed in placing these things in their proper perspective, is more important in this or any other time than the mere physical ability and desire to reproduce. However, somehow in Pullman's thinking the idea that spiritual growth is more important than physical experience has become confused with the actions of the Inquisition, which is one of the reasons why I find his philosophy to be adolescent and petulant.

Perhaps, far from being immature, Tolkien is too mature for an age that has invented the teenager, then made youth, beauty, wealth and pleasure its gods, democracy its king, equality its law and progress - in any direction and at any cost - its goal. The childish elements in his writing are on the surface: hobbits and goblins, whereas the deeper themes, the more serious thoughts, provide a foundation and an underpinning for them. Too often I read a novel and feel that the childish and superficial has formed the basis, whereas the profound and contemplative lie on the surface like a cheap veneer. Perhaps more than anything else, this is the result of a profoundly immature adolescent desire to appear mature. Perhaps, and I think that this is probably true of more of Tolkien's detractors than we might like to think, the dislike really does stem from the elves, dwarves, dragons and hobbits. These things belong in the nursery, and grown-ups should not take an interest in them. Otherwise we imperil our dignity and our credibility as readers: we risk appearing silly, and that would never do. Tolkien himself might add that our word 'silly' derives directly from Old English sælig, 'blessed, fortunate', but such philological flippancy scarcely aids the current discussion.

Of course, many of these things were as true in Tolkien's day as they are now. He addresses the issue of the fantastic as a theme for the nursery in his own essays, and many of the comments on the immaturity of his writings came from critics of the 1950s. Perhaps, though, this can be explained by Tolkien's situation: he adhered to Victorian narrative styles because he was himself a Victorian, albeit sufficiently late-born to qualify as an Edwardian too. His chosen field was perfectly adapted to enable him to live in the past, and his own convictions, so out of step with the fashionable intellectual mood of his time, were only reinforced by his immersing himself in a literature that took for granted his own outlook. I doubt that it was possible for a man like him to write something fashionably intellectual after about 1650, but had he been writing then, I expect that The Lord of the Rings would appear in the same course syllabi as The Faerie Queene. It would appear that in terms of literary merit, time heals all faults as well as all wounds.