The Hobbit: Five Responses to Fairy Tales
Tolkien has always been a source of wisdom for approaching the fairy tale, particularly his classic essay, “On Fairy Stories,” about which I have written here before. That is, he teaches us, as an outsider or even trespasser in the land of Faerie, how to enter it and appreciate it. But on re-reading The Hobbit, I found a fascinating trick he plays on his readers: Identifying with the story and plight of Bilbo, he makes us the fairy tale, and shows us how others respond to it.
Here’s what I mean:
We’ve been part of this adventure with Bilbo from the beginning. We’ve found ourselves comfortable in the Shire and suddenly thrown, partially against our will, into an adventure with a band of dwarves and a quirky wizard. We escaped trolls, goblins, Gollum, spiders, and wood-elves; we’ve discovered a magic ring and a sword. At this point, about 2/3 of the way into the book, Tolkien makes a very deliberate story transition: “…we are now drawing near the end of the eastward journey and coming to the last and greatest adventure, so we must hurry on” (end of chapter 9, “Barrels out of Bond”).
From here, we step into Lake-town, a small wooden village of people (not elves or dwarves) a few days from Dale and the Lonely Mountain. Dale is the town and the Lonely Mountain the dwarf dwelling places that were destroyed by the dragon Smaug, and the reason for the whole adventure: The dwarves are returning to reclaim their treasure and defeat Smaug. In Lake-town, a fascinating little legend (or fairy tale) had been told for many years that the Dwarf kings Thror and Thrain would return “and gold would flow in rivers through the mountain-gates, and all that land would be filled with new song and new laughter.”
In other words, a land plunged into darkness by an evil dragon would be returned to a state of glory by the return of a king. Sound familiar?
As we journey with Bilbo, King Thorin (son of Thror son of Thrain), and the dwarves, we are journeying with the fairy tale into the land in need of magic. And here’s how we’re received. There are five responses to the fairy tale:
“But this pleasant legend did not much affect their daily business.” This editorial comment by Tolkien in Chapter 10 gives us the way most of the world responds to the old magic, the true magic of the one true fairy tale. It doesn’t much affect our daily business. This is unfortunately as true for many of us Christians as it is for the rest of the world.
“Some of the more foolish ran out of the hut as if they expected the Mountain to go golden in the night and all the waters of the lake to turn yellow right away.” Some, in other words, thought that the redemption of these lands could happen in an instant, as though a simple magic spell could automatically do away with all evil. There are at least two faults here: A certain gullible disposition that will believe almost anything, and a miscalculation about the devastation caused by Smaug. Smaug’s evil was too great to be undone because a few dwarves simply walked into town. In the same way, some do not take adequate stock of the extent and depth and power of the Fall, and think that Jesus just makes everything “ok” in an instant.
“The Elvenking was very powerful in those parts and the Master wished for no enmity with him, nor did he think much of old songs, giving his mind to trade and tolls, to cargoes and gold, to which habit he owed his position.” The “Master,” the ruler of Lake-town, was far too concerned with money, power, and privilege to pay any attention to old songs and tales that might change things. It matters not to some what kind of suffering and tragedy happens, or what kind of redemption or change might be possible, as long as one’s own power stays intact.
“It was easier to believe in the Dragon and less easy to believe in Thorin in these wild parts.” In the shadow of the Lonely Mountain, the effects of Smaug’s evil actions were so potent that it was very difficult, near impossible, to have hope or trust in old tales. The man about whom this statement was made was standing in the presence of Thorin, the very fulfillment of the legend, but believed more in the terror of Smaug than in the tale. This is the exact opposite of the foolish response above, which took Smaug’s evil lightly. These are so affected by evil and the Fall and all the terror it has caused, that hope seems an impossibility.
The fifth response, of course, is that of Bilbo and the dwarves themselves. Fairy tales, you see, will not be disbelieved. If they are disbelieved, they continue to exist. The story goes on. The tale retains all its potency. The magic still works. The gospel heals and saves even its strongest opponents and radical disbelievers. Dragons are slain because Hobbits and Dwarves press on.
In the end, Bilbo is surprised, in his conversation years later with Gandalf and Balin, that the old tales, songs, and prophecies have come true.
“Of course!” said Gandalf. “And why should they not prove true? Surely you don’t disbelieve the prophecies, because you had a hand in bringing them about yourself? You don’t really suppose, do you, that all your adventures and escapes were managed by mere luck, just for your sole benefit?”
As with Bilbo, so with us in our response to the great Fairy Tale, the True Myth. We get to enter into it and be part of the story.
A.S. Peterson has crafted a work of compelling historical fiction which begs the question, “Can this really be a debut novel?” With dogged fidelity, Peterson captures the spirit, manners, and social conditions present during the American Revolutionary War. We meet colorful, credible characters who navigate the high seas of life and love, dependence and independence, war and peace, truth and consequence, and despite forays into dark places, The Fiddler’s Gun is beautiful, lyrical, and redemptive.
Walt Wangerin, Jr. strikes again.
Janner Igiby lives in Glipwood, a nothing little village in the land of Skree, on the edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness. Manhood is on the horizon, but Janner finds it hard to feel much hope for the future. Skree is ruled by foreign oppressors, snake men called the Fangs of Dang, servants of a shadowy emperor named Gnag the Nameless. The Skreeans are weak and weaponless. They’re even tool-less. Any Skreean who needs to use a hoe has to borrow one from the Fangs (and fill out the requisite paperwork). And from time to time, the Black Carriage arrives in Glipwood to carry young Skreeans toward an unknown fate across the Dark Sea.
I am not a fan of Civil War literature; in fact, I have always thought of it as one of those weird sub-genres for obsessive types. They’re almost like Trekkies with their re-enactments and maniacal devotion to detail. It’s just not my thing (although I’m secretly jealous that they get to dress up and shoot cannons).
A Randall Goodgame song is like a great independent movie. Characters deliver lines like they were lifted from a break room, a truck stop, or a downtown diner. Seemingly incongruent scenes are juxtaposed and plot isn’t obvious; in fact, narrative–a good story–is often more evident than linear plot lines. An indie movie, like a Randall Goodgame song, seems to tell itself. Rather than being rudely yanked by a chain through a sequence of contrived events, with a Randall Goodgame song, I have the sense that I’m being allowed a willing, but vicarious sneak peak into the real lives of his real characters.
Sara Groves irritates me just a little bit. With each album she makes, she moves from strength to strength and is always raising the bar with the quality, depth, and lyrical ambition of her work. And as a fellow artist, that’s just a little irritating since it means the rest of us are going to have to work harder if we hope to keep up.
I am outside on my front porch. The yellowed leaves are methodically falling from the black walnut in the yard, my breath is chalky visible in the recent cold snap, and lately I have been exploring the unpleasant nuances of the dark night of a soul - my own, to be exact. It is a strange passion we live out on this over-glorified orb of rock hurtling through space at some rate that I’m sure would astound me were I to know what it was. It is an odd series of days, I am realizing, when you question your own faith more than you question your own doubt. And, indeed, it is these nagging questions which have prompted me to share my thoughts on Andrew Peterson’s 2003 album, Love and Thunder.
11-year old Reuben Land, a character in the 2001 book Peace Like a River, provides narration that is clear-eyed and insightful, yet retains the magic, wonder, and innocence of youth. I found it easy to entrust my imagination to the author’s clever method of telling the story through the sensibilities of a pre-teen boy. An author with lesser skill would have either made the boy too smart-alecky for his own good or impossibly cute.
I just finished a book that upon closing it, I felt like it finished me in a sense. A quiet meditative book that reached down and stirred the deep waters in me. It’s Marilynne Robinson’s 2005 Pulitzer prize winner Gilead, given to me by my friend Andrew Peterson.
Eric Peters’s body of work addresses a diverse range of topics, but hope is a recurring theme that gently percolates in the midst of it all. And yet, somewhere between the 2001 masterpiece Land of the Living, and Scarce, the flavor of hope that Peters’s work emits has evolved closer to a tone that is more resolute than what came before. And though the complexion of hope has a broad range, the lyrics from Scarce–while intermittently contrite and timorous as in previous efforts, are now strengthened and bolstered by roots that have grown deeper, radiating an underlying grit and security.
Having read The Great Divorce many times over the years, I’ve found this classic from the great C.S. Lewis to be full of startling clarity and depth on the differences between Heaven and Hell. The only thing both have in common is that both begin in the human will; we can either let Heaven enter us and rule in us to blossom into love and goodness, or allow Hell to infect and reign in our hearts by the daily refusal to submit to Heaven.
Even if you haven’t heard Room to Breathe, its still likely you’ve heard Andy Gullahorn. He’s what I’d call a heavy lifter by trade. He writes lyrics, plays guitar, arranges vocals and adds production help to the work of artists like Jill Phillips and Andrew Peterson.
Allow me to preface this by telling you that I am a great despiser of gushing reviews. I’d much rather write (or read) a scathing dismemberment of the latest Brett Ratner film or Terry Goodkind book than suffer through four hundred words of overblown hyperbole about even the best of things. But when asked to write some thoughts on Frederick Buechner’s Godric, no amount of distaste for high praise was able to intervene. I hope you’ll take what I say with the understanding that I do not say it readily or lightly.
Wow, that was very well written! Thank you Travis for your insight and taking the time to put it down! Many blessings to you all on this Thursday!
And being part of the story is such a huge honor!
OH, wow, Travis. That was awesome. Especially the reminder that evil can’t be erased in an instant.
I need to reread the Hobbit again, for the millionth time, apparently, since I keep missing this!
Excellent insight. My favorite part of the LOR books is in Two Towers near the end where Sam is talking to Frodo about how great it is to listen to stories but different to be in them. He is talking about hardship and not knowing the end of the story. I love how Tolkien speaks to the reader in subtle ways that not only open the imagination, but stir in us the hope that he felt.
What character in the story are you?
Travis, this is a brilliant post. Strong food that I needed right now. In my own story I am often tempted to let outer circumstances define my faith and actions; the Dragon’s lies try to pull me away from my real identity as he tries to imbue me with a self-definition that isn’t “God’s idea of me when He devised me” (MacDonald). If I hold to that false definition, I act more and more out of a false self - really the Dragon trying to act through me, as me, in the same way that Christ wants to live through me, as me, if I rely on His life within me. The Dragon’s lies are seductive and often loud; the Holy Spirit is frank, but soft, a still, small Voice. Your post pushes me in the right direction today - thanks for being faithful to your calling.
I love the way the Bilbo and the dwarves have to persevere through all their adventures. They face danger, starvation, they swerve off the path, and their courage and resourcefulness is tested over and over again. Adventures are not all May sunshine, as Bilbo learns. In the end, evil is defeated and Bilbo is a different hobbit. Gandalf tells him - “You are not the hobbit you were!” We not only enter the Story, we persevere through all the chapters, and we are changed at the end of it. There’s the Gospel for you! Thanks for the article!
On another note, I’ve been reading this book with my ten year old son. As a family, we are about to embark on a little adventurous journey of our own, a move several states away. Moves can be hard for kids. I keep reminding him of Bilbo’s reluctance to leave his comfortable hobbit-hole and how he never would have become the hobbit he became without ever leaving. Perhaps not the most spiritual application to make, but it has been a help to him. He’s ready to leave the Shire behind and follow the road on and on…
Every so often the veil opens, maybe only for a moment, and the reality of the “fairy tale” is so real that reality seems whispy. C.S. Lewis nails it in his masterpiece “The Great Divorce” when he described the grass on the outskirts of heaven as being so “real” it actually hurts the feet of those unacustomed to it. Excellent, thoughtful post.
Wow. Thank you for opening up that new path to us. Way to pull back the curtain.
[...] loved this essay from The Rabbit Room because I think it captures the genius of Tolkien’s strategy really well. I elaborate here [...]