[Lalwendë]

This seems at first a very strange chapter, filled with odds and ends, without any centre or building towards a highpoint. Yet it has to be a chapter of decline, of disintegration as that is what is happening in the story. Not only is the Fellowship breaking up for the last time, with people gradually peeling away from the procession until very few are left, but this is the end of cultures, of Lorien and Rivendell, and the end of the Ents too.

In this chapter the story is slowly moving out of the mythic and back towards the more familiar Shire. In fact, the central idea I got from this chapter is that this is where the adventure all stops being crrent experience and slowly starts turning into story. There are numerous references to story and how it is used.

I'm becoming more impressed by the oral literature of the Rohirrim, and that they clearly place stories as very important in their culture; here we actually meet the storywriters:

Then the Riders of the King's House upon white horses rode round about the barrow and sang together a song of Theoden Thengel's son that Gleowine his minstrel made, and he made no other song after.

Then a minstrel and loremaster stood up and named all the names of the Lords of the Mark in their order

Here there are at least two minstrels, as the first 'made no other song after', which suggests he retired from his profession, at least from making songs about the King. I wonder do all the Kings each have their very own personal minstrel? Do they all have a style of poetry which each King finds to his taste (suggesting development in the poetry of Rohan)? It is like the position of Poet Laureate, but of much more importance as these personal minstrels must also record the history of the King, not only for his sake but for the future. It is sobering to think that we have not known Theoden for a long time, and he is now dead and already a part of history, or of story.

The next mention of story is at Isengard:

Hoom! I gave him some long tales, or at least what might be thought long in your speech.'

These stories are Treebeard's version of news items, delivered with extra information, maybe a lesson or two by the sound of it. Here the stories are long to the listener, maybe they even bore him or annoy him.

The next mention is from Galadriel who refers to both old stories and future stories:

Not in Middle-earth, nor until the lands that lie under the wave are lifted up again. Then in the willow-meads of Tasarinan we may meet in the Spring. Farewell!'

Often long after the hobbits were wrapped in sleep they would sit together under the stars, recalling the ages that were gone and all their joys and labours in the world, or holding council, concerning the days to come. If any wanderer had chanced to pass, little would he have seen or heard, and it would have seemed to him only that he saw grey figures, carved in stone, memorials of forgotten things now lost in unpeopled lands. For they did not move or speak with mouth, looking from mind to mind; and only their shining eyes stirred and kindled as their thoughts went to and fro.

Again, when the Elves and Gandalf sit together 'talking', their talk is becoming more like story. They talk together of the past, of what they have seen and done; it seems they do this so that none of them may forget the tale of the other. Their appearance is as 'memorials of forgotten things'; they tell each other stories but they do not tell them to anybody else.

Finally the chapter turns to Bilbo, who I think is the most famous (or infamous?) storyteller we have met.

Sitting round the fire they told him in turn all that they could remember of their journeys and adventures. At first he pretended to take some notes; but he often fell asleep; and when he woke he would say: 'How splendid! How wonderful! But where were we?' Then they went on with the story from the point where he had begun to nod.

It is incredibly sad that Bilbo now cannot concentrate on the great story the younger Hobbits have to tell. He tries to appear serious, taking notes, but really he just wants to listen, if he can stay awake. All those great deeds that Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin have been involved in have now become fireside tales to send an elderly Hobbit off to sleep. That's what happens with great deeds and big adventures, if they are lucky, they become stories.

'I don't think, Mr. Frodo, that he's done much writing while we've been away. He won't ever write our story now.'
At that Bilbo opened an eye, almost as if he had heard. Then he roused himself. 'You see, I am getting so sleepy,' he said. 'And when I have time to write, I only really like writing poetry. I wonder, Frodo my dear fellow, if you would very much mind tidying things up a bit before you go? Collect all my notes and papers, and my diary too, and take them with you, if you will.

You see, I haven't much time for the selection and the arrangement and all that. Get Sam to help, and when you've knocked things into shape, come back, and I'll run over it. I won't be too critical.'

Then there is this passage, which is so sad, and refers to the end of a writer's life, to the stage when he has no more time or energy for long stories, just enough for poetry, where he can express his thoughts and reflect upon what he has seen. It could apply to any writer, but I cannot help noticing just how much it makes me think of Tolkien himself. As he aged, his writing seemed to become more thoughtful and reflective, and he never did finish his legendarium; it had to be completed by Christopher Tolkien, just as Bilbo's great story had to be finished by another writer. It seems to show that in the end, those stories which do get lucky and get written down, can sometimes be too big for any one person, too overwhelming. Lives turn into stories, and stories take up whole lives.
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