As those of you who know me well know, I have a fond liking for The Lord of the Rings (hereafter known as LotR) and everything to do with it. It’s one of my only serious obsessions. Its meaning, its characters, its story, its writing…I could go on for days, but that really isn’t the point. Today I mean to exonerate just a few of the characters and a bit of the story (though knowing how I ramble, it may…branch out, if you take my meaning).
The reason for this is that Tuesday, September 22, was, as we Ringers call it, Tolkien day, the birthday of the two most adored Bagginses, Frodo and Bilbo. The Bagginses’ birthday is a milestone event every year, and I’ve heard that many really obsessive people (that’s right, I’m only the tip of the iceberg) hold parties on it. So, I guess it’s all right for me to write this blog post to celebrate it.
I’ll start off with a bit of rambling on my thoughts about the two. Each has starred in his own story, Bilbo in his (relatively) small adventure and Frodo in his monumental one. Of course, both had a fair amount of help, Bilbo the dwarves (Thorin, Fili, Kili, Balin, Dwalin, Glòin, Òin, Bombur, Dori, Ori, Nori, Bifur, and Bofur, I believe) as well as Gandalf, and Frodo had the Fellowship (Gandalf, Sam, Merry, Pippin, Legolas, Gimli, Aragorn, and Boromir) but mostly and paramountly he had dear Sam. Oh, I’m not saying that Gandalf’s wisdom and Aragorn’s sword and Legolas’s bow and Gimli’s axe and all that didn’t help, at least for the first part, but it is Sam’s steadfastness and loyalty that sticks in our minds as the thing that helped Frodo most. It’s one of the books’ greatest themes, I think, that of a friend resolving to be true no matter what, even as he watches Frodo sink under the Ring’s influence. However, as has been said many times, no matter how much Sam could help the burden was still Frodo’s to bear, and it was still his courage that saved Middle-Earth (even though it wasn’t really him who managed to destroy the Ring in the end). I’m one of those of the mind that Sam probably couldn’t have carried the Ring all the way to Mordor if he’d been the one. Frodo is unique in the characteristics he possesses—a Halfling with other stuff than food and gaiety on his mind (which seem to be the hobbits’ happiest delights), but still after peace, not arrogant, only wanting to get the job done, hardy, courageous, and much more. Coupling this with his background and the way he came into his task, it becomes plain that this was fate, as far as that goes. And the chance that the Ring and the task of bearing it would fall into his hands was a miracle for that world.
Of course, it was indeed by means of his cousin Bilbo that Frodo had it. Bilbo’s courage in this matter was of a different sort. When he first had it, he did not know it was much more than a ring with the power to make one unseen, which he found very useful. But as the years went by, and Sauron stirred, and the Ring responded, it was him that was affected. “Why, I feel all thin, sort of stretched, if you know what I mean: like butter that has been scraped over too much bread,” he said. But he went on hardily as it took its toll, and when the time had come, he managed to give the Ring away, to break the bond. Such courage, both of theirs, is worth much more than many men’s swords.
And what courage they had is what made them so great. Though the victory of the forces of good over Sauron’s evil was not solely theirs, theirs was the main quest, to bring the Ring to Mount Doom, Orodruin, Amon Amarth. And they did it.
I’ve only mentioned a slight part of the epic, a slight part of the characters, and the tiniest bit of meaning contained in the trilogy in this post. I’ll probably write more about these books this year. Truly, though, if you want to know more, if it draws you, as it should, just get out there and read the books. You won’t regret it.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Good Fiction
The list of books I’ve read in my life is extensive. The list of books I count as my favorites is smaller, yet still extensive. But a thought came to me yesterday (while speaking with a friend, actually). The list of books that made me cry is much shorter. And perhaps is a more accurate judge of the elusive title of “good fiction”. Closer, at least, I think.
Now, I don’t intend this to be confused with “well-written” or “with good plot” or anything like that. True, much of what comes under “good fiction” probably does have those characteristics. But then, many books do. The thought that struck me, though, is this… “Good fiction” is that which made an impact on you. Fiction is our way of communicating truth in a more creative way. A book I recently read mentioned the difference between being “truth” and being “truthful”. Nonfiction, historical accounts, those are “truth”. Fiction is, or at least should be, “truthful”—a message of truth in a body that may not be true. Good fiction is that which contains fundamental messages of truth—the ones that remind us of life, death, and what matters in between. Good fiction is that which contains such powerful examples of what’s important to everyone that it touches you deeply. In my case, anything that touches me deeply is very likely to make me cry. The books I’ve read that have small, wrinkled, circular deformations (in other words, tearmarks) on their pages bear some of what I think are the most important themes in human life, history, and mind. Isn’t that what good fiction is? It should teach us, remind us through our wonder and excitement that what holds in the world it describes also holds for us here. Good fiction is that which makes us better, more understanding, kinder people—closer to our own truths—through stories.
You know, stories have always held power. The title of this blog itself is “Truth, Myth, Legend”—commemorating how legend surrounds a seed of truth, and how that seed transforms into a legend. Every culture has its own stories. Since ages ago stories have been used to teach the young their principles. And they still teach older people, in different forms, a constant reminder; they use different images, but many of the messages are still the same. It reminds me of what I just read in Dan Brown’s new book The Lost Symbol, how the ancients knew what people are rediscovering today. The view through the eyes of children, what seems long ago, is often more pure and right than that is seen later in life; things happen, those views get twisted, doubts surface. Stories remain as guideposts from the people that rediscovered it themselves to bring you back on the path, to help you rediscover what you’ve known all along.
And that brings me back to the main subject of this entry. They’re still stories, yes, still fiction, still created by the imagination (or perhaps, as I may discuss in a later entry, recorded by an eye that sees farther than the mind can believe); but they have truth, and power. And good fiction is that which has both the right truth, and the right power. It’s that which reminds you of things forgotten so forcibly that it brings tears to your eyes—tears of pain, tears of remembrance, tears of memory, tears of joy. Good fiction holds at least some of the keys to our search for innate peace.
Now, I don’t intend this to be confused with “well-written” or “with good plot” or anything like that. True, much of what comes under “good fiction” probably does have those characteristics. But then, many books do. The thought that struck me, though, is this… “Good fiction” is that which made an impact on you. Fiction is our way of communicating truth in a more creative way. A book I recently read mentioned the difference between being “truth” and being “truthful”. Nonfiction, historical accounts, those are “truth”. Fiction is, or at least should be, “truthful”—a message of truth in a body that may not be true. Good fiction is that which contains fundamental messages of truth—the ones that remind us of life, death, and what matters in between. Good fiction is that which contains such powerful examples of what’s important to everyone that it touches you deeply. In my case, anything that touches me deeply is very likely to make me cry. The books I’ve read that have small, wrinkled, circular deformations (in other words, tearmarks) on their pages bear some of what I think are the most important themes in human life, history, and mind. Isn’t that what good fiction is? It should teach us, remind us through our wonder and excitement that what holds in the world it describes also holds for us here. Good fiction is that which makes us better, more understanding, kinder people—closer to our own truths—through stories.
You know, stories have always held power. The title of this blog itself is “Truth, Myth, Legend”—commemorating how legend surrounds a seed of truth, and how that seed transforms into a legend. Every culture has its own stories. Since ages ago stories have been used to teach the young their principles. And they still teach older people, in different forms, a constant reminder; they use different images, but many of the messages are still the same. It reminds me of what I just read in Dan Brown’s new book The Lost Symbol, how the ancients knew what people are rediscovering today. The view through the eyes of children, what seems long ago, is often more pure and right than that is seen later in life; things happen, those views get twisted, doubts surface. Stories remain as guideposts from the people that rediscovered it themselves to bring you back on the path, to help you rediscover what you’ve known all along.
And that brings me back to the main subject of this entry. They’re still stories, yes, still fiction, still created by the imagination (or perhaps, as I may discuss in a later entry, recorded by an eye that sees farther than the mind can believe); but they have truth, and power. And good fiction is that which has both the right truth, and the right power. It’s that which reminds you of things forgotten so forcibly that it brings tears to your eyes—tears of pain, tears of remembrance, tears of memory, tears of joy. Good fiction holds at least some of the keys to our search for innate peace.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
A Reflection
As you all know, yesterday marked the 8th anniversary of Patriot’s day, more infamously known as 9/11. On September 11, 2001, terrorists hijacked and crashed airplanes into the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. They killed everyone on board, and many, many more died inside the buildings. Another plane hit the Pentagon and the last crashed in Pennsylvania.
The sole purpose in what terrorists do is, put simply, to cause terror. They do what they do to cause destruction, fear, terror, and pain, usually in complete knowledge of what they do. Oh, they may have other ideas of what they are doing, and may believe they are dispensing justice. Some do it for religious purposes, citing their holy works. But in the end does it make it any different? They killed almost three thousand people, including themselves. Families were ripped apart. Children orphaned, having to hear a stranger tell them mommy or daddy is never coming home. Thousands of innocent lives obliterated or damaged for far distant peoples’ ideals. It is impossible to justify.
We know this, but we also must learn a lesson. We were attacked by hate, but this reminds us that we cannot respond with hate, lest we be just as bad. We must show that their purpose has been deflected; where met with hate we must show compassion, and courage, and unity. United we stand, divided we fall; united we can repair the damage that was done physically, rebuild the towers, rebuild the damaged lives with love and hope and aid. We can never replace those who died, but we can go on, taking strength from their courage, their memory. We can face those who did it with justice, with right anger, but not with hate, which will burn and twist as many lives as it did ours. We are Americans and proud of it; of our progressiveness in being free and just and equal. Let us show the same progressiveness in NOT showing hate, in NOT seeking revenge of the same kind, and removing our prejudice against the innocents from THEIR countries who have as little part in what they do as we have in what they blamed us for. Though it has been 8 years since it happened, the memory lives on as burned in our minds, and problems still exist, and the possibility of something like it still exists.
This is what Patriot’s Day means to me—a reminder of what happened, a warning against the forces of terror, a reminder that there are still people out there who would oppose what we believe and that, truly, we pay prices for what we have here. We must still uphold the ideals of the American dream. And, perhaps one day, we’ll have a world where things like this don’t happen, where children can grow up safe and supported, where the whole world is at peace. And when that happens, every sacrifice that people have made over the years may finally be justified.
The sole purpose in what terrorists do is, put simply, to cause terror. They do what they do to cause destruction, fear, terror, and pain, usually in complete knowledge of what they do. Oh, they may have other ideas of what they are doing, and may believe they are dispensing justice. Some do it for religious purposes, citing their holy works. But in the end does it make it any different? They killed almost three thousand people, including themselves. Families were ripped apart. Children orphaned, having to hear a stranger tell them mommy or daddy is never coming home. Thousands of innocent lives obliterated or damaged for far distant peoples’ ideals. It is impossible to justify.
We know this, but we also must learn a lesson. We were attacked by hate, but this reminds us that we cannot respond with hate, lest we be just as bad. We must show that their purpose has been deflected; where met with hate we must show compassion, and courage, and unity. United we stand, divided we fall; united we can repair the damage that was done physically, rebuild the towers, rebuild the damaged lives with love and hope and aid. We can never replace those who died, but we can go on, taking strength from their courage, their memory. We can face those who did it with justice, with right anger, but not with hate, which will burn and twist as many lives as it did ours. We are Americans and proud of it; of our progressiveness in being free and just and equal. Let us show the same progressiveness in NOT showing hate, in NOT seeking revenge of the same kind, and removing our prejudice against the innocents from THEIR countries who have as little part in what they do as we have in what they blamed us for. Though it has been 8 years since it happened, the memory lives on as burned in our minds, and problems still exist, and the possibility of something like it still exists.
This is what Patriot’s Day means to me—a reminder of what happened, a warning against the forces of terror, a reminder that there are still people out there who would oppose what we believe and that, truly, we pay prices for what we have here. We must still uphold the ideals of the American dream. And, perhaps one day, we’ll have a world where things like this don’t happen, where children can grow up safe and supported, where the whole world is at peace. And when that happens, every sacrifice that people have made over the years may finally be justified.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)