JRR Tolkien died 50 years ago, on 2 September 1973. If you ask a fan of his work what they most struggle with in his epic Lord of the Rings trilogy, they will um and ah but more often than not they will reluctantly nod at the songs. Across all the books (but featuring only in the Hobbit films) Tolkien’s characters will occasionally break out into long ponderous song, each of which often goes on for a page or more. Reading the books as an impatient teenager, they just seem to interrupt the narrative – like that friend who buys you a drink at the pub but insists on telling you about how exceptional it is while refusing to hand it over. Seen in the cold light of adulthood, however, the songs take on a different timbre. All are sung by characters of different races, each communicating something particular to their people, of their memory and essence, and deepening the mystery of the world. The Lord of the Rings describes a world in which these disparate and distinct peoples unite to face the great evil: Sauron. But it is also a world in the act of becoming, the passing of the old power of the elves and dwarves and the ascent of men. And the songs strewn throughout the long journey to final victory cement this transition. In The Fellowship of the Ring, we see this distinctness most clearly at the Council of Elrond, where the free peoples of Middle Earth meet to discuss the threat that Sauron and his servants pose. Much as each people is heard at the council, so too they are given a voice and a tune. Gimli sings of Durin, the Father of the dwarves, and the might and power of his craftsman-folk as the Fellowship passes through the dead and abandoned passages of the Dwarf kingdom of Khazad-Dûm. Legolas sings of the life and lost love of Nimrodel, the fair elven maiden, whose voice is forever trapped in the running waters in Lothlórien’s golden wood. Aragorn sings of his ancestors, prophesying the end to his wanderings and his accession to the throne. But as the members of the divided fellowship make their separate ways to Mordor, the distinctions drawn between peoples begin to fade. The different kingdoms and fiefs of men come to the aid of Gondor at the Fields of the Pelennor, finding themselves in common cause. A bard of the Rohirrim composes an elegy for the countless fallen, commemorating their sacrifice and consolidating the rekindled alliance and union of the race of men. It is all the more striking to reread this myth that tells of disparate peoples becoming one in a time when, in our world, we seem to be fracturing into smaller and smaller groups of despairing self-interest. You can see it best in bookshops. The books on display and the manner of their display are, of course, carefully curated by shop assistants and managers but they reflect the anticipated mood of their public. But, at least in British ones, they seem to lack any sense of reconciliation. More often than not, beside the mandatory military histories and the books celebrating the destruction of Hitler’s Germany, there are shelves upon shelves of books about our flaws and failings as a society, be they historic or in the present. Each questions the justice of our time from every conceivable angle and across the political spectrum: gender, sexuality, race, the decline of education and decline of culture. The reality of the modern age is that we are better able to connect with our fellows than ever before, while more alone than ever before. The myth of individuality sold to us by the internet allows us to join groups of common interests without need to compromise. In our disparate groups we are evolving apart, getting further and further away from common ground. And while each group and wing of politics has its own set of demands, they are all too often contradictory. Consider the clashes between trans activists and feminists, or the cognitive dissonance on the left when they call out Islamophobia but resist and deride Muslim parents for their concerns about their children being taught about gay relationships in schools. There is no attempt at reconciliation; it’s my way or the highway. In the Lord of the Rings, soothing of old animosity and division is also seen on a more personal plane. Gimli and Legolas, formerly at loggerheads over the old squabble between elves and dwarves, become fast friends. Each shares with the other their love of the natural world: Legolas’s fascination with the trees of old Fangorn, and the glittering caves of Helms Deep for Gimli’s dwarven eyes. And by story’s end, neither will travel without the other. Perhaps Tolkien’s ongoing message for society, 50 years after his death, is that there is always common ground to be found. Or, as Gandalf might put it, “There is always hope.”
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