The Lord of the Rings

(By John Robert Renals Tolkien, Houghton Mifflin, $15, or George Allen and Unwin, $12, 1191 pages. Issued in three volumes as THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING, THE TWO TOWERS, THE RETURN OF THE KING.)

Although the English language has never suffered a dearth of would-be epic writers, none since Milton has achieved general recognition. The latest creator of a saga for Middle Earth is an Oxford professor, J. R. R. Tolkien.

Out of the academic world of linguistics and mythology has come what at first glance appears to be a half-serious fairy tale, filled with non-existent characters in a non-existent world. Yet even the most casual reader will immediately see that, while imaginary, the whole creation is not only elaborately developed but extremely serious.

As a scholar, Tolkien is well aware of the successes and failures which have marked the progression of both the epic and the language. He has faced the obstacles of any modern epic-maker: comprehending and making meaningful an ever-more-complex pattern of human existence and understanding, and evoking both awareness and awe with an increasingly vulgarized language. In these terms, he has succeeded.

In scope, the work is at once all-comprehensive and highly sensitive. It is simultaneously a drama of man against fate, man against man, and man against himself, skillfully woven into story. Yet the perceptive author is never lost in the grandiose scheme. The eye for delineation of habit and idiosyncrasy combine with a dramatist's craftsmanship to engross the reader.

This dramatic development depends primarily on an ever-widening focus of significance. The story begins as The Hobbit, a charming "fairy tale for my children" written twenty years ago, but grows up into the trilogy on an adult level. Within this saga the emphasis expands from personal to national to historical, thus heightening the seemingly untenable dramatic pitch.

The tension depends not only on expansion but also on alternation. By varying the outlook from personal to epic, the author not only maintains the opposition between subjective and objective reality, but increases the suspense.

This success as a story-teller is, however, only one aspect of the author's technical skill. By presenting the saga in the form of a fairy tale, the author has freed himself to present his own view of the world, untrammeled by popular prejudice and preconception. To create a hero or to pit man against fate in the world of familiar experience is next to impossible, for the modern reader has long taken for granted the scientific proposition that man makes his own history, no matter how far from his hopes it may appear.

If the preconceptions are too strong, if the reader cannot make the transfer from the unknown to supernaturalism, from alien cultures to elves and orcs, he finds the entire saga meaningless. The cult which has already surrounded the book testifies, however, to the number of readers who find the system not only credible, but often more realistic than their own perceptions.

This realism is based on the completeness of the creation. Not only is it faithful to human consciousness, but it adheres strictly to its own internal laws, and the reader soon finds himself thumbing the appendix, absorbing lore and custom with enthusiasm which should shame every history teacher.

Only once does the honesty falter--in the portrayal of evil. The author has drawn the forces of darkness as inherently self-destructive, by nature incapable of exercising their full potential or adequately coping with altruism. While the history of recent totalitarianism affords a limited example of this situation, the attitude seems at times overly optimistic, and the plot structure sometimes strains to justify it. Had Tolkien converted the work into a tragedy, he might well have made his impact even greater. Yet the portrayal of the conflict's complexities, especially the use of evil to a good end, is without parallel in a work of this scope.

Structural and dramatic skill alone have never made a successful epic, however. Effectiveness of expression is probably the most important single criterion. The written word has in this respect always been at a disadvantage when compared with the oral epic. Writers, unlike bards, can test neither the effectiveness of their subject matter nor its mode of expression, for they lack the opportunity to repeat, modify, and retest their work.

The success of a written epic has therefore usually come from reliance on words and symbols already tried and accepted in the consciousness of a people. Both erudition and genius are necessary to utilize be the full potential of this tradition in both language and myth, Tolkien has been able to set forth his story in a heroic style not only appropriate but effective. His chapter endings are indicative:

"Long slopes they climbed, dark, hard-edged against the sky already red with sunset. Dusk came. They passed away, grey shadows in a stony land."

The display of verbal pyrotechnics never resorts to the archaic, however, and every nuance between the King's English and slang is both intentional and meaningful.

The mastery of expression is probably the largest single factor in the book's success, a proof that emotive language need not be confined to poetry and advertising. Yet to call a work a successful epic, even when it combines scope, structure, and expression, is always dangerous. Perhaps more fitting would be the suggestion that for the twentieth century, Tolkien is more acceptable and more comprehensive than Malory, Spenser, or Milton.