Christmas with J.R.R. Tolkien: The Wonder of Christmas

As my thoughts are now on the annual holiday, considering Christmas and the great story of the nativity of our Lord, I have discovered another real gem from J.R.R. Tolkien:  Letters from Father Christmas.  The third of Tolkien’s books published posthumously (in 1976), it is an enjoyable little book; the audio recording comes in at slightly under 2 hours.  (From a library, I read an audio edition that provides different voices for the different characters of Father Christmas and the Polar Bear; the print versions include illustrations.)  These were Tolkien’s letters as “Father Christmas” to his children, starting in 1920 when his oldest son John was three years old, through 1943 (a short, last letter to Priscilla, then age 14).  These letters show the wonder and joy of Christmas for children, and a father’s great love for his children, as well as Tolkien’s creative genius.  As I read these I was reminded of Tolkien’s more “business” letters written during these years — the publishing of The Hobbit and then his start on the Hobbit sequel.  That book (The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien) often indicates how busy Tolkien was with his family and work responsibilities, but here in Letters from Father Christmas we see where he spent some of that time that the publishers wanted 🙂.

It is fun to get caught up in the enjoyment of Christmas, “looking along the beam” as C.S. Lewis described the actual experience of an event: the presence of God, feelings of joy and wonder, and other emotions and feelings.  From my previous post, that series on C.S. Lewis described the difference between looking along a ray of sunlight (the enjoyment and actual experience) versus “looking at the beam,” which is the contemplative, analytical approach, the thinking about the thing.

So here I am writing about the experience of reading Letters from Father Christmas, after a recent experience of the actual enjoyment.  These letters tell various stories about Father Christmas’ adventures at the north pole, with the elves and other characters who work with him, and especially tales about “North Polar Bear,” sometimes referred to “P.B.” — various accidents and mishaps of a hilarious nature.  Along the way, Tolkien mentions the back story of Father Christmas, in Saint Nicholas who is remembered every year on December 6, and includes several stories about goblins, characters with other languages and even some runes, hobbits, and a character named “Ilbereth” (similar to Middle Earth’s Elbereth).  Tolkien interacts with his children’s gift requests, sometimes sending two or even three letters per year (evidently some years the children started writing to Father Christmas in November or even September, Lol!), expressing (as Father Christmas) his love for them, while also telling about all the children throughout Europe and America that he visits, and the “timetable” of how fast he is able to deliver presents, such as being able to deliver presents to 1000 homes per minute with his sleigh and reindeer.  Father Christmas also reminds them of other children throughout the world who are suffering and in need, including the hard economic times of the early 1930s and then especially during the war years of Christmas, the letters from 1939 through 1943, the World War II years in England.

Reading Tolkien’s Christmas letters is refreshing and delightful, something to get the focus back on the annual Christmas holiday, to be a child at heart.  This focus is so needful in our modernist/post-modernist world when some people advocate to not celebrate Christmas at all.  “It’s a pagan holiday!”  — actually it is not, as clearly explained in this online article: December 25 was selected by the early church for specific reasons, including that it is nine months after March 25 (which is also a very significant date in Tolkien’s works, as the date that the One Ring was destroyed with Gollum on Mount Doom), and had nothing to do with incorporating pagan holidays.  Or as another example of this modernist tendency, a local Baptist church has selected for its Christmas sermon texts this year, three New Testament theological texts that speak about the Incarnation (Hebrews 1:1-3, Colossians 1:15, and John 1:14-18) and only these three texts — and is exegeting these texts verse by verse, talking “about” the Incarnation (the “looking AT the beam”) as described in these texts, with no mention of the actual story of Christmas.  (Nothing wrong with these texts in and of themselves, but the Incarnation and Christmas story is so much more than the intellectual only, doctrinal aspect.)

The Incarnation (Christmas as we remember it each year) actually happened in our space and time world, and involved real characters, and a story with multiple events – a great wonder and a story to be remembered at this time of year, as we meditate on and appreciate the fact of Christ’s coming to Earth and becoming one of us, a real flesh and blood man.  A story that we will never exhaust the meaning of, as we annually remember the birth of our Lord, remembering also the real people involved: Mary, Joseph, Herod and the wise men, the shepherds and the angels, and Zechariah and Elizabeth, and Simeon and Anna and the others who witnessed the events at the time of Christ’s birth.

Have a very blessed Merry Christmas, everyone!

 

Further Up and Further In: Narnia, C.S. Lewis, and the V-Shaped Christian Conversion Experience

I’ve seen Hillsdale College advertisements on Facebook over the years (along with mention of it by a few online friends), but since it seemed that mostly their offerings were about American history and political related issues of American government, I had not tried it out.  A new offering from them, though, caught my eye: C.S. Lewis on Christianity.  The format is simple and straightforward — listen to several video lectures (this course has seven), and answer some multiple choice questions after each lecture.  Since I’m already familiar with C.S. Lewis, though it’s been many years since I last read his non-fiction, the lectures are a good overview of the major ideas in his non-fiction, such as Lewis’ Abolition of Man and Mere Christianity, and include some things that I had either forgotten or not come across before.

The third lecture talks about C.S. Lewis’ conversion to Christianity, and Lewis’ view of conversion as V-shaped: we must first go down, then further down, hit bottom and experience initial conversion, then gradually come back up, in the new life.  We can observe this pattern in much of Lewis’ fiction writing.  The lecturer mentions the number of steps into and out of the wardrobe, though I’m not sure if that is a really clear example; nothing in the text says that Lucy or the others stepped down and then stepped up, just that there were a certain number of steps.

However, other examples certainly do make the point.  The Silver Chair‘s overall structure is certainly that of a V: starting at the school Eustace and Jill attended, then to a very high cliff place above Narnia, then down to Narnia itself.  Then falling down into the giant-made letters of “Under Me” then down to Underland.  Puddleglum, Eustace and Jill finally accomplish the mission from Aslan while in Underland.  Then the return trip, back to Narnia, then back to Aslan, and then returning to the where it all started, at Jill and Eustace’s school.  The other Narnia travels from our world — The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Prince Caspian and following — certainly have the beginning and end same, since that was in the nature of the travel itself — a point really noted in the first two stories, not so much in Voyage of the Dawn Treader.  Yet The Silver Chair especially makes the V-shaped story in a very literal, geographical way.

Voyage of the Dawn Treader especially gives a picture of Christian conversion.  Eustace started out a real twit, then quickly worsened as he was put into difficult situations that revealed his bad character.  The downhill slide continued, until he ended up down in a valley, then became a dragon.  Upon finally becoming a dragon, the rock-bottom point of the V, in a great narrative account Eustace finally came to his senses:

his first feeling was one of relief.  There was nothing to be afraid of any more.  He was a terror himself now and nothing in the world but a knight (and not all of those) would dare to attack him. …

But the moment he thought this he realised that he didn’t want to.  He wanted to be friends.  He wanted to get back among humans and talk and laugh and share things.  He realised that he was a monster cut off from the human race.  An appalling loneliness came over him.  He began to see the others had not really been fiends at all.  He began to wonder if he himself had been such a nice person as he had always supposed.  He longed for their voices.  He would have been grateful for a kind word even from Reepicheep.

But then it was still a long way back up the “V”: he first became nicer and more helpful as a dragon.  After some time, then he met Aslan, and even then he first tried removing his own dragon skin, which still revealed more dragon skin under; then Aslan removed all the dragon and restored him back to a human boy.  Afterwards, as Lewis notes, Eustace began to be a different boy.  He had relapses.  There were still many days when he could be very tiresome.  But most of those I shall not notice.  The cure had begun.  The upward climb of that V had begun and would continue for the rest of his life — the “further up and further in.”  What a great picture of salvation is provided here: not merely a one-time event back in the past.  That was the cure that began.  Salvation then continues in the present life, and to the future glorification and perfection.

Then of course comes the glorious ending to the Chronicles of Narnia, with the idea of “further up and further in” in its fullness with the ushering in of the New Narnia, leading to the real, new England and New Earth.

The Hillsdale College lecture mentions a few other examples of a V-shaped experience, such as in  Lewis’ last novel, Till We Have Faces:  the heroine goes down into a green valley, a picture of the conversion experience — descent and loss, but such descent into greenness and fertility — which signifies gain and new life.  The bottom of the V is the “turn” — the “cure begun” in Eustace, also what J.R.R. Tolkien referred to as the eucatastrophe (see previous post link:   ).  Other examples of this bitter-sweet conversion, where the turn occurs, can be found in The Great Divorce (a character with a lizard on the shoulder), and also in the third volume of the Space Trilogy, That Hideous Strength, with the conversion of Jane:  It was a person (not the person she had thought), yet also a thing, a made thing, made to please Another and in Him to please all others, a thing made at this very moment… And the making went on amidst a kind of splendour or sorrow or both.

I’ll continue through this set of C.S. Lewis lectures, and then on to more lecture series from Hillsdale, for further insights into particulars of Lewis’ writing and then other topics such as classic literature.  Hillsdale also offers an introductory course on C.S. Lewis with another nine lectures.

The Tolkien “Canon?”: J.R.R. Tolkien the Sub-Creator

The more I learn about the early Christian church, and the world of the ancients, the better I understand and appreciate J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, and his full legendarium.  One interesting aspect of Tolkien’s world, similar to that of Holy Scripture, is the question of “canon” and what it includes.  For Tolkien’s massive collection about Middle Earth has an interesting historical feature in common with the word of God and our Bibles, something that truly highlights the “sub-creation” aspect of Tolkien’s work and his role as a “sub-creator.”

As we know, the Bible is a collection of many books that were written at many different times and places, and for which exist numerous manuscript versions with some manuscript differences.  Similarly, Tolkien’s world actually consists of multiple writings, from numerous times during Tolkien’s life — starting around the time of World War I, up until shortly before his death; he continued revisions, creating different versions of stories.  In our real world, in ancient times Christians worked with many different books within the full collection of what would later be bound together as “The Bible,” forming an official “canon” after several hundred years; and in modern times, scholars have studied the variations in Bible manuscripts within this canon collection.  Again, within the Tolkien fandom world, many people have tried to come up with an official, definitive canon of Tolkien’s legendarium, examining the differences in the different manuscript versions of Tolkien’s stories.  After all, J.R.R. Tolkien’s massive writing collection — of which he never discarded old versions — became a lifetime work for his son Christopher, to sift through all of the writings and publish the various works such as Unfinished Tales, Lost Tales, and numerous volumes of the History of Middle Earth.  Note these web pages that talk about the Tolkien canon: Tolkien Gateway Canon and an Ask Middle Earth post.  Note this observation from the second link:

This is a question that every reader has to – or gets to, depending on your point of view – answer for themselves. Some readers believe that whichever version was published in one of the “main” works (The Hobbit, LotR, and The Silmarillion) is canon. Others believe that whichever version Tolkien wrote last is canon. Others go on a case-by-case basis, essentially choosing their favorite versions of each story to be canon. And of course there’s the Global Theory, which argues that they’re all canon. It’s entirely up to you, and (no matter what anybody might tell you) there really isn’t a wrong answer.

As mentioned on one of the older Amon Sul podcasts, when we look at Tolkien’s own words within the story, we see that even Tolkien himself did not have a final, definitive version of all the tales, in his own imagination — as though the world existed on its own, outside of Tolkien’s imagination.  Tolkien himself seemed to be content with some level of “mystery” and lack of conclusion regarding these legends within Middle Earth.  Here I recall also, from reading The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, places where Tolkien described certain characters coming onto the scene, and his own reaction to these new characters — such as Faramir, in letter 66:

A new character has come on the scene (I am sure I did not invent him, I did not even want him, though I like him, but there he came walking into the woods of Ithilien): Faramir, the brother of Boromir – and he is holding up the ‘catastrophe’ by a lot of stuff about the history of Gondor and Rohan (with some very sound reflections no doubt on martial glory and true glory): but if he goes on much more a lot of him will have to be removed to the appendices

Regarding the uncertainty, though, we note for instance in The Silmarillion, places where the writing simply says “Some say that…”  or “others say…” such as these excerpts:

Some say that it was Mandos himself, and no lesser herald of Manwë.

Aforetime it was held among the Elves in Middle-earth that dying the Dwarves returned to the earth and the stone of which they were made; yet that is not their own belief. For they say that Aulë the Maker, whom they call Mahal, cares for them, and gathers them to Mandos in halls set apart;

What may befall their spirits after death the Elves know not. Some say that they too go to the halls of Mandos; but their place of waiting there is not that of the Elves, and Mandos under Ilúvatar alone save Manwë knows whither they go after the time of recollection in those silent halls beside the Outer Sea.

Thus, we can know with certainty the vast majority of the story of Middle Earth, allowing for some variations and different versions on minor points.  But the idea of a “canon” (something that has great precision,100% defined and conclusive) may not be the best approach to Tolkien’s world.  As mentioned in my last post , there is instead a type of ritual participation within the community of Tolkien fandom, a ritual that we can return to with repeated readings of Lord of the Rings through the years, for instance.

In a similar way, the early Christian church had a number of various scrolls that were considered part of the sacred writings, which were circulated, yet would not be bound together into one volume until many centuries later.  This collection of writings — which included many books that are now considered Deuterocanonical, or as “apocrypha” (by Protestants)  — served along with apostolic tradition for the early Christians, as what they shared in their ritual participation, their Christian communal experience.

Ritual Participation, and a Lent Reading of Lord of the Rings

An interesting point brought up in an Amon Sul podcast (episode #24), in relation to myth and story:  in our modern world, people often focus on “how can I relate to this person?” and similar questions.  As for example, which character in Tolkien’s world am I most like, or which one do I want to be like?  Modern people often ask, how do I relate to such people who are not ordinary, who do not have “ordinary” lives such as mine?  So it is in our modern, very psychologized world.  This can be seen as a symptom of modernism with its stress on individualism and lack of community.  A key part of community life, in contrast with our age, is that of ritual participation: the repeated, common experiences of a group of people, such as in observances in the calendar each year.  Such was the experience in pre-modern societies, whether pagan or in the early and then medieval Church.

In our age, science fiction and fantasy fiction lend themselves to a type of ritual participation: dressing up in costume, going to Star Trek or other sci-fi or fantasy conventions, for instance.  I remember my early days attending such events every year.  Lord of the Rings is another entry into ritual participation:  Doxamoots and related convention gathering events, but also the simple pleasure of the repeated experience found in re-reading through Lord of the Rings every year or at set times of the year.

On this note, I have even come across a reading schedule for Lord of the Rings.  It’s like a yearly Bible reading schedule, but for all the days of Lent (about 2 months) – and with specific chapters for assigned reading each day.  The schedule is even adjusted each year, with the 2023 reading schedule available here.  Various blogs have followed the Lent schedule, with posts related to the reading in the Lent schedule, such as this post from a few years ago, and also this post from 2015.  There’s even a Lenten Lord of the Rings podcast that provides daily updates, brief “devotional” thoughts on each day’s reading.

It’s certainly an aggressive schedule, one that I’m not sure if I’d be able to complete every day, but I think I’ll give it a try.  I may include audio book reading, with the audio book version (unabridged) I have (read by Rob Inglis).  Of course, Lent season is still four months away, and I completed this year’s reading of Lord of the Rings a month or so ago, to start on The Silmarillion now.

What are some other ideas and reading schedules for Lord of the Rings reading, or for reading of Tolkien’s other works?

The Books That Eustace Had Not Read (Chronicles of Narnia)

In Voyage of the Dawn Treader, C.S. Lewis makes quite a point in describing Eustace, that he had read all the wrong books.  From the first page of the story we learn that Eustace liked books if they were books of information and had pictures of grain elevators or of fat foreign children doing exercises in model schools.  Then, after Eustace ran off by himself and then ran into the dragon’s cave, this special note:  Most of us know what we should expect to find in a dragon’s lair, but as I said before, Eustace had read only the wrong books.  They had a lot to say about exports and imports and governments and drains, but they were weak on dragons.

A similar plot scenario comes up in the sequel, The Silver Chair, though implied rather than directly stated.  Since that adventure only happened within 2-3 months of Eustace’s return from Narnia, and he still lived with his parents and still had to attend that progressive school, it could not be reasonably expected that Eustace would have had the time to acquire and read enough of the right books to prepare him for his second visit to Narnia.  Jill, likewise, by the fact of attending the Experiment House, no doubt had parents similar to Harold and Alberta, who had not allowed her to read the right type of books.  Thus we find that both Eustace and Jill think it would be a great idea to visit the “gentle giants” and apparently had no clue of the possible danger of being eaten by giants.

All of this raises an interesting point: what books should Eustace have been reading, to have been prepared for entering a dragon’s lair?  Voyage of the Dawn Treader was published in 1952 (and The Silver Chair a year later), but the England side of the story is set during World War II, the summer and fall of 1942.  On an Amon Sul podcast that I listened to recently  (episode #022), the guest Richard Rohlin mentioned Eustace not having read about dragons.  He then said that a few people he knew had looked at this question and concluded that the only book of that type that was around, that the children in Lewis’ day could have been reading that would have told them about dragons, was The Hobbit.  Thus, Rohlin saw this mention in Lewis’ book as a coded reference to his friend Tolkien’s writing; and then to follow the chain, Tolkien himself of course, in The Hobbit, had allusions to Beowulf.  (In this previous post I mentioned one interesting allusion to Beowulf, from Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings.)

That is an interesting idea, and could be true to a point.  Certainly elsewhere C.S. Lewis included references to Tolkien’s works, and much more direct ones.  The main character in his Space Trilogy, Ransom, after all, was a philologist.  And C.S. Lewis mentioned “Numinor” in his Space Trilogy — a reference which Tolkien said (in The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien) came from the audible sound of the word as Lewis had heard Tolkien’s writings, when Tolkien would read aloud to the Inklings — and thus a misspelled version of Numenor.  But in Voyage of the Dawn Treader, C.S. Lewis mentions Eustace reading “the wrong books” and that is “books” (plural), which would indicate that Lewis knew of many other books that Eustace could (and should) have been reading.

Certainly the general books of pagan mythology have been around, though school children in mid-20th century England may not have been reading those.  A look at Goodreads and its lists of popular children’s fantasy books, by decade, gives us additional possibilities from the 1930s list.    Yes, The Hobbit is on that list, along with familiar titles including Mary Poppins, and a King Arthur collection, T.H. White’s Sword in the Stone; this Arthurian legends book includes one reference to dragons, the legend of “St. George and the Dragon.”  Earlier that decade, though, another book was published, The Book of Dragons: Tales and Legends from Many Lands.  Since this book was an anthology of existing tales, it may not have become as popular over the years, but no doubt it served its purpose for that generation of children: retelling the existing dragon lore, to the next generation of English-speaking children.

So, while it’s nice to think that C.S. Lewis intended a reference to The Hobbit in his description of Eustace not reading the “right” books, it seems that in this case C.S. Lewis was thinking in more general category terms.  Certainly The Hobbit would be included, as a book published just 5 years before Edmund, Lucy, and Eustace had their adventure.  But a school boy in that era would have had at least a few other choices of books, so that he could have learned something about dragons.  Sadly, though, Eustace’s parents had kept such books away from him, and also thoroughly brainwashed the kid so that he did not even have the desire to read them.

Readers, are there any other fantasy books that you are familiar with, published in the 20th century, to add to the list of books that Eustace should have been reading?  Any further comments about the books that Eustace and Jill ought to have read?

 

The Power and ‘Place’ of Words Spoken: In Middle Earth and Ancient Civilization

One great thing I like about having an electronic edition of The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings, is the ability to do word-studies on various themes — similar to Bible word-studies; in this case to see Tolkien’s vast use of language and Middle Earth themes.  From my recent re-reading through Lord of the Rings, I am again struck by the importance of the spoken word, and the idea of words having power.  Numerous examples abound, including Saruman’s voice which has power to deceive, or the word “key lock” at the gates of Moria, and the general idea of vows and oaths taken, a topic I explored in this previous post.

As pointed out in podcast episode 16 of Amon Sul, one interesting aspect of the story is the many times that speaking is with reference to NOT speaking about a particular thing:  namely, the Black Riders / Ringwraiths.  We first see it with Gandalf in the second chapter of Fellowship of the Ring, where Gandalf is sitting by Frodo’s fireplace telling Frodo the history of the ring:

‘Last night you began to tell me strange things about my ring, Gandalf,’ he said.  ‘And then you stopped, because you said that such matters were best left until daylight.  Don’t you think you had better finish now?’  and then,when reading to Frodo the writing on the ring:  The letters are Elvish, of an ancient mode, but the language is that of Mordor, which I will not utter here.

and again in the very next chapter when Pippin asks the elves about the Black Riders: let us not discuss this here; then later Gildor speaks privately about the riders to Frodo.  Throughout Lord of the Rings, people are cautioned not to speak about certain things openly: Gandalf speaking the words of Mordor at the Council of Elrond, for instance.  After Sam questioned the amount of time they had spent in Lothlorien, Legolas talked about the slow passing of time in Lorien, and then this interesting dialogue where Frodo speaks too casually about the elven ring:

“But the wearing is slow in Lorien,” said Frodo.  “The power of the Lady is on it.  Rich are the hours, though short they seem, in Caras Galadhon, where Galadriel wields the Elven-ring.”

“That should not have been said outside Lorien, not even to me,” said Aragorn.  “Speak no more of it!”

Clearly, these great matters are so grave, as to require certain spaces or places where they can be talked about.  Words, and especially spoken words, seemingly have the power of blessing and cursing, and such power is more than just a mere wish or hopeful thought.  Similarly, in C.S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia, the “deplorable word” in The Magician’s Nephew was what destroyed the world Charn.  We are never told the specific “word” but the idea again is of spoken words having power to destroy a world.

In our world, of course, it was the spoken word of God that created this world.  God spoke the world into existence.  And He later came in the flesh, the incarnate Word.  I think also of the ancient world, in which people who put great importance on spoken curses (as well as blessings).  The Old Testament especially is replete with references to spoken curses as well as blessings.  Jacob did not want a curse to fall on him, for deceiving Isaac and claiming to be Esau – Rebecca allowed the curse to fall on her instead.  Then in Judges 17 we see a son greatly concerned because of a curse his mother had spoken, regarding silver that had been taken from her.  We also have God’s promised blessings and curses put on the people of God (Leviticus and Deuteronomy), as part of their covenant with God, and again these blessings and curses were to be spoken publicly before the assembly.

As for Tolkien’s idea of words not being spoken in particular places, but sometimes allowed in other, more private and prepared places, I am also reminded of an interesting point from early church history.  The early church had the writings which became the New Testament canon, writings which were circulated among believers and available to unbelievers.  But they also had their own traditions, and particular practices, which were only dealt with orally, and only in their places of worship.  As application of Jesus’ words in Matthew 7 about not casting your pearls before swine, the early church leaders considered certain matters of such special, sacred importance, that these teachings were not to be written down and available to the unbelieving (swine and dogs) and were not for discussion (verbally) with unbelievers, but were only for the catechumens and the church congregations, as in this excerpt from St. Basil (4th century):

Of the dogmas and sermons preserved in the Church, certain ones we have from written instruction, and certain ones we have received from the Apostolic [oral] Tradition, handed down in secret [i.e., discreetly]. Both the one and the other have one and the same authority for piety, and no one who is even the least informed in the decrees of the Church will contradict this. … Is this not the silent and secret tradition? … Is it not from this unpublished and unspoken teaching which our Fathers have preserved in a silence inaccessible to curiosity and scrutiny, because they were thoroughly instructed to preserve in silence the sanctity of the Mysteries [i.e., Sacraments]? For what propriety would there be to proclaim in writing a teaching concerning that which it is not allowed for the unbaptized even to behold?

And summarized in a current-day look at this early church history  (Know the Faith, by Michael Shanbour):

Generally, however, dogma was neither preached to unbelievers nor written down for fear that it would be misunderstood, trivialized, and mocked, subjected to petty curiosity that is demeaning to holy things. As St. Basil the Great puts it, “Reverence for the mysteries is best encouraged by silence.” Although counterintuitive to our modern minds, the Church was very reticent to “throw pearls to swine” (Matt. 7:6), lest that which is holy be trampled upon. . . . Therefore the dogmas of the Church were purposely kept discreet and unwritten. Catechumens were instructed not to write down on paper what they were hearing and not to share dogma with unbelievers. The Church’s more intimate teachings and many of her practices were taught only by word of mouth or not spoken of at all until one had entered the Church and experienced her inner life. Even the Lord’s Prayer was not taught to catechumens (let alone unbelievers) until after or just prior to their baptism.

The parallels between the ancient world and ideas brought out in Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings (and in C.S. Lewis’ Narnia series) continue to fascinate me.  So much of what made Tolkien’s writing so successful and well-received, comes from his expertise in the history and literature of the ancient, pre-modern world.