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The wolf-pits, the wine harvest, the festival in hell
The first time I heard the story of Beren and Lúthien, I was taking the Green Line to the MFA to look at the cinerary urn of A. Folius Felix and his wife Manilia Optata, and ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
captainbutler was telling it to me. My efforts to read The Silmarillion kept bouncing off the theogony of the Valar and the sense that I was reading the kind of nineteenth-century translation from the Sindarin that would have lost all the heft and strangeness of the language and retained only the word order; I never made it more than about fifty pages in. But when I went tonight to dinner with yhlee and other awesome people—these last seven days have almost been better than anything in the previous half-year—I brought with me the same jacketless first-edition hardcover I've been throwing myself at since high school, so I wouldn't have anything else to read on the subway.
Now fair and marvellous was that vessel made, and it was filled with a wavering flame, pure and bright; and Eärendil the Mariner sat at the helm, glistening with dust of elven-gems, and the Silmaril was bound upon his brow. Far he journeyed in that ship, even into the starless voids; but most often was he seen at morning or at evening, glimmering in sunrise or sunset, as he came back to Valinor from voyages beyond the confines of the world.
On those journeys Elwing did not go, for she might not endure the cold and the pathless voids, and she loved rather the earth and the sweet winds that blow on sea and hill. Therefore there was built for her a white tower northward upon the borders of the Sundering Sea; and thither at times all the sea-birds of the earth repaired. And it is said that Elwing learned the tongues of birds, who herself had once worn their shape; and they taught her the craft of flight, and her wings were of white and silver-grey. And at times, when Eärendil returning drew near to Arda, she would fly to meet him, even as she had flown long ago, when she was rescued from the sea. Then the far-sighted among the Elves that dwelt in the Lonely Isle would see her like a white bird, shining, rose-stained in the sunset, as she soared in joy to greet the coming of Vingilot to haven.
Maybe I will read The Children of Húrin after all.
captainbutler was telling it to me. My efforts to read The Silmarillion kept bouncing off the theogony of the Valar and the sense that I was reading the kind of nineteenth-century translation from the Sindarin that would have lost all the heft and strangeness of the language and retained only the word order; I never made it more than about fifty pages in. But when I went tonight to dinner with yhlee and other awesome people—these last seven days have almost been better than anything in the previous half-year—I brought with me the same jacketless first-edition hardcover I've been throwing myself at since high school, so I wouldn't have anything else to read on the subway.Now fair and marvellous was that vessel made, and it was filled with a wavering flame, pure and bright; and Eärendil the Mariner sat at the helm, glistening with dust of elven-gems, and the Silmaril was bound upon his brow. Far he journeyed in that ship, even into the starless voids; but most often was he seen at morning or at evening, glimmering in sunrise or sunset, as he came back to Valinor from voyages beyond the confines of the world.
On those journeys Elwing did not go, for she might not endure the cold and the pathless voids, and she loved rather the earth and the sweet winds that blow on sea and hill. Therefore there was built for her a white tower northward upon the borders of the Sundering Sea; and thither at times all the sea-birds of the earth repaired. And it is said that Elwing learned the tongues of birds, who herself had once worn their shape; and they taught her the craft of flight, and her wings were of white and silver-grey. And at times, when Eärendil returning drew near to Arda, she would fly to meet him, even as she had flown long ago, when she was rescued from the sea. Then the far-sighted among the Elves that dwelt in the Lonely Isle would see her like a white bird, shining, rose-stained in the sunset, as she soared in joy to greet the coming of Vingilot to haven.
Maybe I will read The Children of Húrin after all.
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Anon....
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Now I might just have to pick it back up again. Thanks for sharing.
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I think that is wonderful.
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I will consider myself warned.
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We do not seem to own Unfinished Tales. There needs to be a library later this afternoon.
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Beren and Lúthien was brilliant. It has the compression and stray striking detail of a familiarly retold story; I couldn't decide whether I would have wanted to read a more extended version (as The Lord of the Rings is itself retold in a few paragraphs very near the end of The Silmarillion) or whether I like it best in this abbreviated, field-recorded form.
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If you take a break from Postcards to read The Silmarillion, I can hardly be offended.
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Yes. I think it may work better aloud than on the page, actually. It needs voice and audience.
And The Children of Hurin is definitely worth reading, though much more dark and tragic than the prose you quote.
I'm all right with dark and tragic. I grew up on Norse myths.
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You're welcome. I'm glad to have reminded you!
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Beren and Luthien: "And long ago in the Hidden Kingdom she laid her hand in his." *cries about a pint of tears* I heard that on Tolkien and Mrs. Tolkien's gravestones it says Beren and Luthien. *beams*
Turin Turamabar and his nearest and dearest should just have pulled their socks up and gone on with their lives. My God, he's like someone from a Child Ballad. "But this is a folk song, so it all ends in tears..."--Brian Peters, in a live concert I once attended.
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Heh. I wouldn't dream of taking a break from Postcards. I'm in love with that little book. Anyway, it'd be more like I was taking a break from Catch-22--I consider books of poetry and comic books separate entities from novels. It's one of the ways I cope with my slow reading. I read a bit from a novel, and then read one or maybe two poems a night. I like to let single poems sit with me as I fall asleep.
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"You say it," said Morgoth. "I am the Elder King: Melkor, first and mightiest of all the Valar, who was before the world, and made it. The shadow of my purpose lies upon Arda, and all that is in it bends slowly to my will. But upon all whom you love my thought shall weigh as a cloud of Doom, and it shall bring them down into darkness and despair. Wherever they go, evil shall arise. Whenever they speak, their words shall bring ill counsel. Whatsoever they do shall turn against them. They shall die without hope, cursing both life and death."
But Hurin answered: "Do you forget to whom you speak? Such things you spoke long ago to our fathers; but we escaped from your shadow. And now we have knowledge of you, for we have looked on the faces that have seen the Light, and heard the voices that have spoken with Manwe. Before Arda you were, but others also; and you did not make it. Neither are you the most mighty; for you have spent your strength upon yourself and wasted it in your own emptiness. No more are you now than an escaped thrall of the Valar, and their chain still awaits you."
"You have learned the lessons of your masters by rote," said Morgoth. "But such childish lore will not help you, now they are all fled away."
"This then will I say to you, thrall Morgoth," said Hurin, "and it comes not from the lore of the Eldar, but is put into my heart in this hour. You are not the Lord of Men, and shall not be, though all Arda and Menel fall in your dominion. Beyond the Circles of the World you shall not pursue those who refuse you."
"Beyond the Circles of the World I will not pursue them," said Morgoth. "For beyond the Circles of the World there is Nothing. But within them, they shall not escape me, until they enter into Nothing."
"You lie," said Hurin.
"You shall see, and you shall confess that I do not lie," said Morgoth. And taking Hurin back to Angband he set him in a chair of stone in a high place in Thangorodrim, from which he could see afar the land of Hithlum in the west and the lands of Beleriand in the south. There he was bound by the power of Morgoth; and Morgoth standing beside him cursed him again and set his power upon him, so that he could not move from that place, nor die, until Morgoth should release him.
"Sit now there," said Morgoth, "and look out upon the lands where evil and despair shall come upon those whom you have delivered to me. For you have dared to mock me, and have questioned the power of Melkor, Master of the fates of Arda. Therefore with my eyes you shall see, and with my ears you shall hear, and nothing shall be hidden from you."
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That is good. And bitter.
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I hope that is true.
"But this is a folk song, so it all ends in tears..."--Brian Peters, in a live concert I once attended.
You are familiar with Anna Russell's "Backwards with the Folk Song," yes?
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Yes (http://users.ox.ac.uk/~tolksoc/TolkiensOxford/grave.html), it is (http://www.tolkiensociety.org/tolkien/biography.html#7).
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Also, if you have not read the Lay of Leithian (Tolkien's version of the Beren & Luthien story in poetry), I recommend it. It's in The Lays of Beleriand, which I can lend you if need be.
Thy dearest treasure I desire;
nor rocks nor steel nor Morgoth's fire
nor all the power of Elfinesse
shall keep that gem I would possess.
For fairer than are born to men
A daughter hast thou, Luthien.
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Shameless plug: The Lord of the Rings Fanatics Plaza I've belonged to Minas Tirith for about five months now, and I love it dearly.
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I will check it out. Oddly, or perhaps not so much, from "Beren and Lúthien" the verse I liked best was Sauron's chanting of the Kinslaying:
. . . The wind wails,
The wolf howls. The ravens flee.
The ice mutters in the mouths of the sea.
Axe-time, sword-time, wind-time, wolf-time . . .
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