Why do we like Tolkien’s stories? This question has puzzled many authors who have dedicated books, studies, and essays to Middle-earth. Even some of the critics who have downplayed the value of the British author, considering him an unserious writer who invented escapist fairy tales for adults, could not suppress their curiosity when The Lord of the Rings trilogy was declared by Waterstones to be the most read novel of the 20th century. “How is this possible?” they wondered. “A storyteller, even if he is an Oxford professor, became the most influential author of the 20th century? Surely Hesse, Joyce, Kafka, Hemingway, Marquez, and many others were the most read, the most beloved citizens of the Republic of Letters. Why do readers like Tolkien’s stories?”
Aspirants to the title of writer, and the celebrity it can bring, have tried to find the ‘key to success,’ or the ‘recipe’ that brought Tolkien fame. Despite all their efforts, they have never managed to appear as more than they are: authorial Lilliputians trying to climb onto the shoulders of a sleeping literary giant. This has not stopped them from inventing species and subspecies of the fantasy genre, searching for the writerly philosopher’s stone that can transform words into gold. Inevitably, they have twisted and turned the question posed at the beginning. And yet, although I have read some of their contributions with interest, my conclusion has been crystal clear: neither style, nor narrative, nor even invented languages can explain the charm of Tolkien’s stories. The answer must be sought in a horizon broader and deeper than that of literary aesthetics—an area of study which, even though necessary, is not sufficient to address such a crucial issue.
Since the classical era of Greek culture, the myths of antiquity have undergone a process of erosion and depreciation through the demythologizing critique carried out by the Holy Fathers of Church. In the context of European culture, the parables and teachings of the New Testament have gradually replaced pagan myths. The last centuries are marked by the alarming tendency to ‘demythologize’ the Bible. The historical-critical method, with the assistance of certain Protestant and Catholic exegetes, undermined the Christian revelation preserved within the pages of the Holy Bible. For individuals like the (in)famous Rudolf Bultmann, the modern man, who uses electricity and all artifacts based on the tireless dance of electrons, could no longer believe in angels, demons, and miracles. This type of message has accelerated the disenchantment of the world, which now appears to many people as a strictly material universe, devoid of purpose and meaning.
Engulfed in an unprecedented religious crisis, today’s generations are more eager than ever for parables, symbols, myths, and sacred stories. It seems that this yearning increases proportionally with the distancing of (post)modern individuals from Christian supernatural teachings. Against the backdrop of this void of meaning, faith, and religion, there were the active members of “The Inklings” group, among whom J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis shone brightly. They perfectly sensed the modern human’s need for myth, an intuition that lay at the heart of both Tolkien’s stories and The Chronicles of Narnia created by his friend, Lewis.
People cannot live without true stories, without sacred texts, without myths. Here is, in a nutshell, my shortest answer to the question I posed at the outset: being woven from stories themselves, people give preference to those authors who help them, as best they can, to remember the essential story that is hidden in the anonymity of their gray lives. This is, in my opinion, Tolkien’s secret (if he indeed had one).
Reading Tolkien’s stories, the characters with whom we are primarily invited to identify are the hobbits. Neither the lives of the majestic, immortal elves, nor the harshness and grandeur of the lives of kings like Aragorn or Theoden, nor the wisdom of a Maia like Gandalf are accessible to us. Instead, the little hobbits, with whom Tolkien himself happily identified, possess all those traits that any of us, the readers, would be glad to have: hardworking and disciplined; lovers of comfort, fun, and peaceful living; joyful in friendship; prudent and reserved when it came to foolish adventures; and wise, brave, and steadfast in serving a worthy cause. In short, they have noble souls hidden beneath the mask of humor and friendliness, just as we would (and could) wish to be. However, what this identification with the hobbit-heroes offers us is a superior awareness of the meaning of life. Initially undisclosed and confused, this awareness grows as the adventures unfold. But it all starts with the Great Surprise:
By some curious chance one morning long ago in the quiet of the world, when there was less noise and more green, and the hobbits were still numerous and prosperous, and Bilbo Baggins was standing at his door after breakfast, smoking an enormous long wooden pipe that reached nearly down to his woolly toes (neatly brushed)–Gandalf came by. Gandalf!
However, it is not so much the first encounter with Gandalf that represents the surprise that triggers the Adventure, but the second, in which the wizard was joined by thirteen dwarves whose ancient tales managed to enchant Bilbo. Only now—after the consummation of the first moments of the historic meeting with Gandalf, Thorin, and the company—was Frodo’s uncle to ask his first truly important question, namely “whether a most wretched adventure had not come right into his house.” He certainly guessed correctly.
He had encountered an incredible story, one of those with dragons, kings, princes, and rediscovered treasures, which itself was only a fragment of the Great Story. But it would not be Bilbo who uncovered the hidden meaning of the story, even despite the grand adventure in which he had been absorbed. Only his nephew, Frodo, and Sam Gamgee would manage to decipher its deepest significance. What seems paradoxical is that they view themselves as characters in the story, as if commenting from outside of it like mere spectators. Through this narrative artifice, they offer the reader the opportunity for a complete identification with their interrogations. And this occurs precisely in the midst of the adventure, in the proximity of the infernal Mordor where Sam recalls Beren’s story that makes him raise the key-question: “Don’t the great tales never end?” Frodo’s answer describes both their destiny and also our destiny contained in the same providential plan:
No, they never end as tales. … But the people in them come, and go when their part’s ended. Our part will end later—or sooner.
Understanding that the great and only True Story never ends, Frodo and Sam afford us the deciphering of one of their creator’s most profound thoughts. All our lives are fragments of a great story with a possible happy ending. When we, the readers, finish reading Frodo and Sam’s story, we are already included in its continuation. If the reading was well-directed, we will realize that, in fact, Tolkien’s tale was merely a rare opportunity to understand that we ourselves are part of the Great Story. This meditation is reiterated, brilliantly, only once, towards the end of the adventure of the two heroes:
They stood now; and Sam still holding his master’s hand caressed it. He sighed. ‘What a tale we have been in, Mr. Frodo, haven’t we?’ he said. ‘I wish I could hear it told! … And I wonder how it will go on after our part.
We, the readers, are the ones who must continue the story. Our own lives are part of that perpetual tale that Sam describes. Like Bilbo, Frodo, Sam, Aragorn, Gandalf, and other fairy-tale characters, we live in a Great story: the story of the Creator and the creatures conceived by Him; the story of the creation of good from the beginning; the story of the fall of the rebellious angels followed by that of humans and their ceaseless struggle to regain the lost treasure. Tolkien refers to the God of the Judeo-Christian tradition either as the “Great Author” (in a letter to W.H. Auden, June 7, 1955) or as “the supreme Artist and the Author of Reality” (in a letter to Christopher Tolkien, November 7-8, 1944), and he asserts that “the Writer of the Story is not one of us” (in a letter to Miss J. Burn, July 26, 1956).
Creating the world through the Logos, God sustains it in the same way, keeping in existence all that is through the generating power of His divine verb. With a happy ending, the highest form of fairy tales—called “eucatastrophe” by Tolkien—is actually synonymous with the Gospel of Jesus Christ. It offers joy, consolation, escape, but above all, an understanding of the meaning of life. This is why we love Tolkien and this is why we love his stories: because we feel he is right. We sense that everything can end well, that everything can conclude with a happy ending. Didn’t the Savior Christ speak to us about such an unexpected and absolute happy ending?—About the Resurrection into eternal life?—About youth without aging and life without death? On this topic, Tolkien writes,
The Evangelium has not abrogated legends; it has hallowed them, especially the ‘happy ending.’ The Christian has still to work, with mind as well as body, to suffer, hope, and die; but he may now perceive that all his bents and faculties have a purpose, which can be redeemed. So great is the bounty with which he has been treated that he may now, perhaps, fairly dare to guess that in Fantasy he may actually assist in the effoliation and multiple enrichment of creation’. All tales may come true; and yet, at the last, redeemed, they may be as like and as unlike the forms that we give them as Man, finally redeemed, will be like and unlike the fallen that we know.
There is no other “recipe” more able to explain the unprecedented success of Tolkien’s novels than his profound, Catholic-inspired conviction that everything can end well for those who repent. God has reserved for us a surprise worthy of His greatness. This magnificent tale—about creation and fall, about sins and virtues, about perils and the joy at the end of the world—is the unique key that can open the doors of Tolkien’s works for us. However, it is true that there is a condition without which it cannot be used: Christian faith. In its absence, no one and nothing can elucidate the charm that Tolkien’s stories exert upon its readers.
Let us boldly state the nature of this faith: it is the belief in God’s providence and eternal life, naturally accompanied by the conviction that man is truly immortal. This supernatural truth is the only one that can determine a sinner to repent, to change his life. I know too well that many contemporaries doubt these truths in which Tolkien firmly believed all his life. For disbelieving contemporaries, such views seem outdated (“We are no longer in the Middle Ages!”), impossible to sustain and defend, unworthy of belief. But even such a skeptic soul should try, just for a moment, to imagine that they are true that indeed there exists somewhere in the “heavens” a world much better and more beautiful than the one we know now, a world of eternal life, a world similar to the Shire of the merry hobbits or to the wondrous Rivendell, where the most beautiful songs and stories of all times can be heard—a world of joy and spotless light. Would that not be a truly amazing world? And yet, that is the truth.
