Idiosophy

A physicist loose among the liberal arts

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The Anti-Gollum

Over at Earth and Oak, there’s an interesting discussion going on about how seeking after knowledge can destroy characters in Tolkien’s writing. The two that are held up for our inspection are Gollum and Saruman.

By chance, a wonderful contrast to Gollum just came across my twitter feed. The Japanese space agency has just landed a pair of rovers on an asteroid, and photos are coming in.  Gollum was disappointed to learn that ‘all the “great secrets” under the mountain had turned out to be just empty night…” (LotR, I, ii). Hayabusa 2 took off into the empty night, knowing perfectly well that there were things there “which have not been discovered since the beginning.” (ibid.) Let’s go find out what they are.

The surface of asteroid Ryugu. Source

I’ve joviated at length about how I disagree with JRRT about the morality of seeking knowledge. He seems to come down on it pretty hard in LotR, despite his interest in science in real life. [1] I think the resolution is one layer down: the problem is more about keeping things secret than about finding them out in the first place. C.S. Lewis was on about the same thing in That Hideous Strength, after all.

I feel confident that the team running the Minerva II1 rovers will not come to a bad end because they’re not trying to keep secrets.  Publishing discoveries the moment they come in is a foolproof antidote for any of the moral hazards faced by scientists.

You can guess what Idiosophers think about current intellectual-property law.


[1] Now that I think of it, why is breaking white light into its component colors foolish when Saruman does it, but a thing of beauty and wonder when the Men of Gondor divert a waterfall at Henneth Annûn?

Beurre à Hobbit

In this week’s Matter of Great Import, Tom notes that hobbits seem unimpressed by pats of butter but think slabs of butter are fine, and wonders how much it actually takes to satisfy a hobbit.  The Tolkien Professor himself weighed in with a citation from The Hobbit.

On a matter of this weight, I consulted with my mother-in-law. She grew up on a subsistence farm about the time JRRT started writing The Hobbit. (As I have remarked elsewhere, rural Virginia might be closer to the Shire than any other place you can visit now.)  She says her mother’s round butter mold held a pound. After the butter sat out for a while with people cutting pieces off, the word “mass” is about the most specific shape-name you’d care to give it. We can assume Beorn had a rather larger mold.

A butter slab. Source.

A “slab”, though, is not a unit of measure – it’s how butter was presented commercially for sale. Human-sized slabs held a few pounds, from which pats were cut.  Barliman, knowing how hobbits are, apparently just brought out the whole slab when they called for a meal.

A “pat” is one tsp to 1/2 tbsp, which is an amount that’s not even big enough to mark on the paper wrapping of modern sticks. Poor Pippin’s pathetic pat paints a picture of the penury of the Pelennor, opposed to plenty at the Prancing Pony.

In answer to the specific question, I’d have to say that the amount of butter a hobbit would deem adequate is non-linear.  It appears to be a couple of pounds, regardless of how many hobbits are eating, plus another couple of pounds for the Wizard.

The Mighty

We are going through another peculiar convergence in the Tolkien Blogosphere, like the time we all decided to talk about smells.  Though the concept is too subtle for me, it may be another example of co-inherence. This time, we’re all thinking about Éowyn and the Witch-King.  Jerry started us off with a bedtime story for his daughter.  Then Tom picked up on the “Houses of Lamentation” mystery.[1]

I’ve been working from the classic English-teacher’s advice to pick on something that seems odd in a text, follow it, and see where it goes.  Here’s something that sounded odd to me:

But suddenly he too stumbled forward with a cry of bitter pain, and his stroke went wide, driving into the ground. Merry’s sword had stabbed him from behind, shearing through the black mantle, and passing up beneath the hauberk had pierced the sinew behind his mighty knee.

LotR, V, vi

Ask any aging athlete [2]: “mighty” is not the word for a knee. What could JRRT have meant by it?  The dictionary says “mighty” has three definitions: being very strong, being very powerful, or being very large.  None of them seems to fit. Come to think of it, Eärendil was “a mighty mariner”. I assume he was not extraordinarily large. I haven’t done much marining in my life, but I do know that the water is going to do as it wills, and the mariner just has to go along with it, so “strong” seems out of the question, too.  He must have been powerful, therefore.

This sounds like a job for a textual analysis.  What does JRRT use the word to mean?  I used an e-text of LotR and The Silmarillion to search for “mighty”, “mightier”, and “mightiest”, so see what it meant.  The word was used 104 times in LotR and 135 in The Silmarillion (all the parts; not just the Quenta). The frequency of the various meanings are in Figure 1.

graph of usage of "mighty" in Tolkien

Fig 1. Meanings of the word Mighty. Arrows point from Silmarillion to LotR

The usage of the word is fairly consistent between the two books, with two exceptions.  The first is in the sense of “powerful”, which shows a big drop from the Elder Days, and accounts for the total difference between the two books.

The second difference is in the use of “mighty” as an adverb, synonymous with “very”.  Nobody in the Silmarillion talks like that.  In LotR, most of the people who talk like that are hobbits. The complete list of people who say that is: Frodo, Sam, Pippin, Maggot, the Gaffer, Treebeard, and the talking fox. We can assume the fox learned to talk by listening to hobbits, but what’s Treebeard doing in there?  It’s a mystery. (I turned that into a trivia question on Twitter. Congratulations to Emily Austin for solving the puzzle.)

Now, what are people talking about when they call something “mighty”? This shows a major theme of Tolkien’s Legendarium, and it’s in Figure 2.

comparing mighty things in LotR and Silmarillion

Figure 2. Things that are mighty. Arrows point from Silmarillion to LotR

The legendarium, in one sense, is about the twilight of the gods, the transfer of power to us little folk, and so it can be seen here.  The Valar drop out of the picture completely. The Maiar are propped up only by Gandalf and Saruman. The Elves drop by 3/4.  The word “mighty” becomes the province of Men, the things they construct, and the natural world. Notably, Men were mighty even in the Elder Days, second only to the Elves, and they increase their share in the Third Age.  The Numenoreans are described as “mighty” more often than any other single entity, in both books.

The Enemy is mighty nine times in each book. The monsters that the Enemy created drop out almost entirely – only Old Man Willow is left, where dragons once walked that page of the dictionary.

So What?

All this has confirmed that Tolkien used the word “mighty” for a reason, but it doesn’t bring us any closer to understanding the Witch-King’s knee than I was before.  Maybe it just looked big, compared to Merry.  Maybe it’s there to make a good iambic trimeter to finish the paragraph.  Eärendil is easier: he’s chosen the Elven kind, and he gets the adjective that the Elves get in the Elder days, and which goes with them when they leave the story.

Another thing to wonder about is the characters who are not mighty.  Among the good guys, the Ents are not mighty, though trees often are.  Among the bad guys, Ungoliant and Shelob are not mighty, whether due to sexism or arachnophobia is beyond me to say. And Bombadil is not mighty either, which is a triumph of style.


[1] It did not occur to me that I was joining a Tom-and-Jerry cartoon until just now.
[2] Also antique acrobats and ancient astronauts.

Too Short

A brief list of things JRRT thought were too short:

  • The Lord of the Rings. Reporting the opinion of fans
  • Out of the Silent Planet, when he was trying to persuade a publisher to pick it up.
  • A letter to Christopher. Who hasn’t closed a letter this way?
  • “Farmer Giles of Ham”. I agree completely.
  • Hobbit legs. No argument here, unless I were contracting with one to dig a hole.
  • Time

That last one is by far the dominant use of the phrase in LotR. Everyone from Bilbo to Aragorn uses it. That’s consistent with a story about the end of the Third Age, just before all the faerie elements departed. It’s also how the phrase is used in “The Fall of Arthur”.

For verification, the phrase “too short” does not appear in The Silmarillion. Elves never think time is too short, unless a mortal is there to remind them. Smith of Wootton Major caught the attitude from them, so the phrase doesn’t appear in his story either.

Curiously, the phrase doesn’t seem to be in “Leaf by Niggle”. (I don’t have an electronic copy of that story so I can’t be sure.) Perhaps it’s because Niggle never knew how short his time was actually going to be.

Literature and Classics and Scientific Intruders

Just finished reading Classics: Why it Matters by Neville Morley.  Prof. Morley makes a point that strikes close to the heart of this blog. Since the beginning, I’ve been wondering what gives me leave to stick my nose into literary analysis.

Literature and classics have something in common: literary scholars can’t agree on what “literature” is, and classicists can’t agree on what constitutes “classics”.  Prof. Morley solves the problem for them, in a way that is directly transferable over here.

Classics no longer seeks to define itself in terms of an exclusive right to interpret a limited, supposedly superior body of material; it aspires rather to be an open discipline, a meeting point for different perspectives — an agora, the central space of a Greek city, where people met for trade, politics and friendship, rather than a fortified acropolis.

p.44

I’ve noticed lots of people saying things to this effect.  In the humanities, lots of work has been done by scholars of the past. Rather than trying to exceed them in the directions they chose to work (which can be quite a challenge), the humanities progresses laterally, by bringing new perspectives from other disciplines.  The bumper sticker says “The Future is Collaborative”.

Classics has recently benefited from disciplines as far-flung as palynology; why shouldn’t literature benefit from the odd scientist weighing in?

The Ágora at Thessaloniki

Kay the Sénéchal

There was quite a bit of discussion in Class 3 of Le Morte d’Arthur (starting at 50:19) about how Sir Ector asked Arthur to make Sir Kay his seneschal when he became King. What is a seneschal, anyway? The dictionary defines the seneschal as the senior officer in charge of administering the King’s household. That’s kind of skeletal. Let’s flesh it out a bit, by a combination of imagination and the medieval adage sequi pecuniam.

Any reader of medieval romances who pictures life at court is probably imagining a feast. All great events seem to happen at feasts. In reality, this isn’t far off. Whenever some important affair of state was going to happen, the King would summon his knights and lords, and these people needed to be fed. In an echo of the most ancient origins of kingship, the King could bolster his power by making sure they were extravagantly well fed.[1] The Seneschal (via a huge staff of commoners, naturally) furnished the table. He was in charge of acquiring the meat, fish, bread, wine, beer, and maybe even an occasional vegetable. As Corey Olsen said, it’s not a great office of state.[2] It’s the maximum that a middling fief-holder like Sir Ector could ask, but it’s big enough that it’s what he most needed.

So much of the king’s “soft power” depended on the seneschal that a wise king gave him a free hand and a generous budget for acquiring stuff for the court. So if we imagine Sir Kay’s first day on the job, what’s he going to do? The butchers and bakers and brewers he knows best are peasants on Sir Ector’s estates. He’s going to buy from them first, he’s going to be a reliable repeat customer, and he’s going to pay top prices to get their best product. Ector’s estates are guaranteed prosperity for as long as Kay is seneschal and King Arthur wants to hold power. With a generation of guaranteed prosperity, those estates can become very comfortable indeed, and Ector’s family will be able to use the resulting wealth to raise its position in society.

It comes at a price, though. John Steinbeck’s version of the conversation between Lancelot and Kay is heartbreaking. Kay might be the character who translates most easily into 20th-century American understanding.

Why does Kay get such a bad rap in other versions of the story? I think the seneschal is the bellator equivalent of the miller when you’re telling stories: a natural bad-guy. Every time he makes a big purchase, some other supplier loses out on the contract. Even if Kay was perfectly honest and fair in his dealings, somebody out there was bound to resent him. Maybe those somebodies had real-world counterparts who were wealthy and bought books. I doubt Chrétien de Troyes was any different from modern authors, when it comes to considering market share as they’re plotting out a story.

Coda

When I type a Malory-word on this iOS device, autocorrect decides I must have meant to type the French word and tweaks the spelling accordingly. I’m enjoying that, so I’m leaving the title as it stands.


[1] Which is where we get things like fire-breathing swans on the dinner table. Countless political squabbles in the Middle Ages were averted because the would-be recréant knight, doing his benefit-cost calculation, had to account for losing his seat at the table and decided it wasn’t worth it.

[2] In England. The cognate French office was a really powerful position.

Testing the Narrator’s Assertion

The narrator of The Hobbit tells us

“Now, it is a strange thing, but things that are good to have and days that are good to spend are soon told about, and not much to listen to; while things that are uncomfortable, palpitating, and gruesome, may make a good tale, and take a deal of telling anyway.”

Chapter 3, p.60

Is this true? We note that narrators of fiction are not universally applauded for their veracity, and subject the assertion to proper statistical verification.

Experimental Approach

Our team of Idiosophical researchers:

  1. Counted the number of pages in each chapter (a matter of reading the Table of Contents);
  2. Classified each chapter as to whether the events in it are Good or Uncomfortable, Palpitating, and Gruesome (a matter of arch opinion).

Results

LotR chapter lengths by type

Figure 1. Histogram of chapter lengths by type

A visual inspection of the histograms in Figure 1 shows them not to be obviously distinct.  Statistically, Pearson’s χ2 test was applied to distinguish the two.  The null hypothesis that the two histograms are the same is not rejected by the data: χ2 = 16.8 on 19 degrees of freedom; p=0.6.

The outlier at 35 pages is “The Council of Elrond”.  Although listening to ancient blowhards relate the history of the world for five or six hours is uncomfortable, the specification was “uncomfortable, palpitating, and gruesome”, which the council was not.  Especially for us, who can set the book down and go re-fill our glass any time we need to.

Conclusion

We infer from these data that the narrator was practicing upon our credulity.


Works Cited

Tolkien, J. R. R. The Hobbit. New York: Ballantine Books, 1965.
——— The Lord of the Rings. New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2002.

The more things change

This is a funny line from the beginning of The Tale of King Arthur:

And the thyrd syster, Morgan le Fey, was put to scole in a nonnery, and ther she lerned so moche that she was a grete clerke of nygromancye.  (p.5, lines 28-9.)

The Mythgard Academy class broke a number of staves of wit on the abbess of Morgan’s convent. (about 40:00)

It’s hard not to hear an echo of parents who send their children off to college, and then lament that they’ve come back with their heads full of funny ideas.  To a modern-day capitalist father, Marxism might be an exact parallel to black magic in medieval times.

Friday and Saturday Papers at Mythmoot

Commentary on some talks I heard at Mythmoot V. They were recorded; when the recordings are posted I’ll add a link here.

Lee Smith – Getting sick of it

Lee looks at sickness in two sagas: Egils Saga Skallagrímssonar and Laxdæla Saga, and there is no way I could have spelled those correctly without looking it up in her abstract.

Illness is housekeeping, as she puts it. It’s a way to get characters off stage, if the author is denying them death in battle. The only three ways to die are battle, sickness, and old age. This is something I’d never noticed before: no accidents? Nobody gets kicked by a horse, or gets caught in an avalanche? Maybe vikings thought those were comedy, not fit for a saga. 3 characters who die of illness pair certainty that their illness will be fatal with noting they’ve never been sick before. People in real life do this, too, but these days they’re frequently wrong. These guys want to establish houses, and keep watch over them after they die. They’re aiming for “post-mortem agency” (another gem from Lee’s unique idiom), an naturally their descendants go mad from the haunting.

This was a funny talk about illness and death, which I think is probably the right attitude to take when reading sagas.

Jennifer Ewing – The bitter watches of the night

Jennifer’s point is that there are a lot of parallels between Anne Elliot in Jane Austen’s Persuasion to Éowyn of Rohan in The Lord of the Rings.

To begin with, both women are stuck in similar environments. Home is where tradition and memory are kept. Going out to work makes you forgetful. What Aragorn says about Éowyn in the Houses of Healing lines up nicely. Both women feel walls closing in. Both women are neglected by the men around them. It’s not Éomer who takes Éowyn’s side, it’s Gandalf and Háma. Anne is isolated by her family and others, and spends her time taking care of an aging uncle. Sounds familiar. Éowyn leaves her people to live in Ithilien, in the same way Anne wants a mariner husband who will take her far away. Captain Wentworth’s letter is parallel with Faramir’s speech in the Houses. The two do disagree about duty. Éowyn sees it as a cage; Anne sees it as a source of strength.

Jennifer’s conclusion is that JRRT can write as good a female character as writers of mainstream fiction.

Well, that started a lively discussion! John Garth noted that Jennifer carefully avoided claiming that Anne Elliot was an influence on Tolkien’s character, but the idea ought to be pursued. The context of 19th century society informed JRRT, who actually mentioned William Morris’s The Roots of the Mountains as an influence. That book contains the transitional character of a woman who goes to war. Jennifer replied that women actually were going to war by 1944, and dressing in men’s clothes while they did that.

Kay Ben-Avraham wasn’t having that last conclusion. She says you can’t put JRRT on a level with Austen, without addressing the Smurfette Principle. Jennifer’s reply was that most of the male characters in LotR are just cannon-fodder; only a few are fleshed out as fully as Éowyn. She’s better drawn than Éomer, for example.

Alicia Fox-Lenz says the centrality of the female characters is what makes the legendarium separate. The true sign of a hero in LotR is that a character can heal, and sing, and cook, and garden. Not masculine attributes. Kate Neville backed her up, pointing out that the entire concept of hobbits is a sort of feminine embodiment.

Then John Garth made a brilliant observation: LotR is a story about men going to war, not a story about women. But there’s Éowyn in the middle of it, a female hero in a men’s story exactly the way Dernhelm is concealed among the host of the Rohirrim. Applause.

Jennifer said her talk was drastically abridged from its original form. The audience clamored for her to publish the whole thing.

Tom Hillman – Lame Sovereignty in Melkor and Man in The Children of Hurin

This paper is already on line (yes, of course starting with Plutarch) so I’ll talk about the Q&A. The first question was that lameness doesn’t mean the same thing to us as it meant to the ancients, where “ancient” means “before antibiotics, X-rays, and other effective medical care”. In the ancient world, everybody knew someone who was lame. Does that affect the meanings of how these stories should be read? (I was wondering this myself.) The answer is best found in textual history – which character gets lamed by the author? The first one to appear in the development of the story, or is the lame character a foil for someone else?

Kate asked another good question – who would want to be compared to Turin? The story of Turin is the only story about Men that Elves tell each other. Alan Sisto followed up on that by pointing out that Elves can’t escape fate, and they kind of envy Men their apparent ability to change the course of the world. Turin is interesting to them because he’s more like them; he doesn’t have the human talent for wriggling out of fate. Tom wrapped it up by saying that it was a nice complement to our human fascination with Elvish immortality.

Alyssa House-Thomas – Planet of Exile and the Frontiers of the Human

planet iconPlanet of Exile is the novel that begins Ursula K. LeGuin’s Hainish cycle. She was trying out new concepts, and we can see themes partially developed here that will appear in their full form in the later novels in the series. Here, there is a conflict between a humanoid race and some marooned Earthlings, which has to be set aside as an invading force comes into view. This sets up a Romeo-and-Juliet situation. The two humanoid races can’t interbreed, which is only the most biological level of the exploration of the boundaries of what is human. There’s a development of touching, at the physical level. The top level is etiquette. Alyssa worked from the taboo on looking another person straight in the eye for a big chunk of her talk.

What interested me was the way Alyssa called out the use of light. The skins of the two humanoid races are different colors, and the light-dark contrast is a launching point for LeGuin’s Taoist inspiration in the book. As Alyssa put it, “light means building connections”. That’s definitely a way to get an old physicist to prick up his ears. Exchanging light signals is the core of special relativity. The Hainish cycle will lead us to the physicist Shevek in The Dispossessed, who overthrows Einstein’s relativity in favor of simultaneity. And touching is an electromagnetic interaction, accomplished by the exchange of virtual photons between two extended bodies. Could this have been intentional? Like Alyssa, I’m inclined to doubt it, but the commonality of language is intriguing.

Tom Shippey – The Hero and the Zeitgeist

Heroic Fantasy, as a genre, has never been more popular. By absolute numbers this is unquestionable. I suspect that even as a fraction of the total audience of readers and viewers, it is true as well.  Tom Shippey gave a plenary address at Mythmoot V to tell us what that might signify.  (And let us pause for a moment to marvel at the fact that Prof. Shippey, whose adversarial relationship with computer technology is famous, skyped from England into a conference in Virginia which was streamed via Twitch in the cloud and watched as far away as Japan. Kudos to Ed Powell, Ringmaster!)

So: Is heroic fantasy the spirit of our age?  Because Prof. Shippey knew to whom he was talking, he started with Tolkien. In The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien doesn’t use “hero” without some kind of modifier. There’s only one sincere use.  In The Silmarillion, he doesn’t use the word at all.

Here’s what the Encyclopedia Galactica Oxford English Dictionary has to say about heroes.  The various definitions align with Northrop Frye’s literary modes, once Prof. Shippey adds a line referring to current popular usage.  The examples are mine.

Mode Earliest Use Meaning Example
Myth 1387 demigod Hercules
Romance 1586 warrior hero Horatius
High Mimesis 1661 great soul Nelson Mandela
Low Mimesis 1697 the chief male personage in a story Candide
Irony current any military veteran Norman Schwarzkopf

scruffy batmanIf we accept the historical Western idea that military glory is greater than any other, this is a clear downward trajectory. “Hero” has had its meaning lowered as the idea becomes more widespread.  Of course, the true historical progression might be a circle, as pushing through irony puts you back at the top. (cf James Joyce’s Ulysses) LotR has each kind of hero, and it’s an entertaining way to pass a long drive, thinking of which ones are which.

Why has heroic fantasy become the spirit of the age?  Prof. Shippey has been around long enough that he’s personally experienced another descending scale:

  1. Leadership
  2. Management
  3. Administration

So where once we had leaders out front, we now have administrators who are invisible.  As the old man who taught me how to be a system engineer loved to say, “You lead people. You manage resources. You administer punishment.”  (Come to think of it, he was born not far from Prof. Shippey,  a decade earlier.)

Heroic fantasy is not an escapist genre any more. It’s a response to the things we are losing. We’re pushing back up the Frye scale because we miss leadership.

Best line of the talk: “Tyrion Lannister is someone you can look up to.”

Worst scholarly reference of the talk:  Hietikko, H. Power, Leadership, Doom, and Hope. “Management by Sauron”.  Because it’s in Finnish so nobody had read it.


Question period:

Q: is the dwindling of the Elves like the dwindling of heroes? A: An intriguing idea, but no.  (JH: That sounds like a story idea.)

Q: haven’t people always thought the past was more heroic? A: If we could call back a viking hero from the past, and ask him to do what the Atlantic convoys did in WW2, he’d say hell, no. The ancient models were more personal.   We have different requirements for heroism these days. Ancient heroes wouldn’t fare any better today than ours would fare in a fight with battle-axes.


BTW: the cartoon of a hero on a downward trajectory is by Ian Ransley.

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