A truly engaging story is unbelievably hard to come by. I love to read, but my expectations for a good book are so demanding that I rarely find myself truly enamored with a story. These criteria give value to how I approach my favorite stories: does the world feel as if it exists beyond the story? Are the characters considered in a way that is coherent with their narrative purpose? Were the themes alluded to worth discussing? And, often the most challenging, has it made a lasting impression on how I engage with storytelling? Even if my exacting perspective can get in the way of my enjoyment, I find that these standards allow me to pick out the truly unique items from the rabble.
A couple of years ago, I read The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien for the first time and never thought too much about it. To me, it appeared like an ordinary adventure story, in a world so abstract that I could never fully invest myself into it. The main protagonist even slept through the final act, literally. So, I set the series down for good, until a couple of months ago.
Over winter break, with plenty of time on my hands, I decided that setting away some of it for what many considered the best movie trilogy of all time, The Lord of the Rings, was warranted. To say I was enamored with the story would be selling it short. From the halls of Edoras under the White Mountains to the tranquil hills of Hobbiton and the hawkish architecture of Minas Tirith, the trilogy of movies was a grand spectacle. Immediately after this, I picked up the dusted and untouched trilogy from my bookshelf and began devouring the story from cover to cover.
Often, when dealing with works of fiction that deal with large world-consuming plots, it is too easy to lose oneself in the vastness of the world, drifting away from the microcosm of relationships and socialization. However, Tolkien doesn’t fall prey to this trap, creating a rich anthology of characters in only three books.
Among the characters is Samwise Gamgee, who, although a simple servant, exemplifies a truly unique form of masculinity. His loyalty and strength, rather than being used as weapons, are used to physically carry his friends when they are too weak to continue, assuming their burdens as his own. Éowyn, in a much-improved rewriting of Macbeth’s prophecy, steps into the traditional male warrior role, avenging her dying uncle in battle. Another, Boromir, one of Middle-Earth’s noblemen, begs his friends for forgiveness as he lies dying, revealing a moment of vulnerability from behind his stern demeanor.
These three characters, even among my favorites, are merely among the countless deuteragonists encountered. Each, though, no matter how minor, is treated with the dignity and pomp of the main cast: Frodo, Aragorn and Gandalf. Characters are not fanciful in their motivations either, as they are keenly aware of each other's sensibilities and the ulterior moves they may house. The moments of deep suspicion and unbound faith, although hyperbolic, come to highlight the qualities we might strive for, even if, oftentimes, paired with many flaws.
Thus, the vastness of the plot, as well as the individual depth cultivated, helps weave the mythology of an expansive world. In this sense, the 17 years Tolkien took to complete the work seem well-warranted, as the reader rarely overlooks the attention to detail.
Even if outwardly separate from us, many elements of the story are pulled directly from our own history, as well as Tolkien’s tragic backstory. The most striking of these, as well as the seemingly least adapted to a fantasy story, is the First World War. As a soldier, Tolkien lost countless friends, whose sentiments of loss and solidarity are translated into the story, namely Gamgee. The horrors of war-torn France helped paint the ghastly images of Mordor, the seat of greatest evil during the story. Saddest of all, however, is the story’s main protagonist, Frodo, who returns from his adventures scarred with something analogous to post-traumatic stress disorder, unable to find pleasure in his home and with his friends. Somehow, even after the greatest victory is achieved, Frodo is never quite the same, a somberness that was often characterized by the soldiers returning home after the war.
Tolkien went far beyond the call of any author, creating an entire folklore from scratch, which has inspired nearly half a century of media. With great skill, he explores both the compassion and depravity of the human condition, not through the grey areas that too many stories abuse, but, rather, through the medium of fantasy story, breathing life into a world as rich as our own.
Ayman Abou-Alfa is a sophomore in the College of Arts and Sciences. He can be reached at aaboualfa@cornellsun.com.
