Tag Archives: the hyborian age

Tolkien’s mythology

As I mentioned here once recently, I am reading the letters of JRR Tolkien right. They provide a fascinating glimpse into the mind of the man — mostly, so far, into the long labour that went into The Lord of the Rings, although some highly Roman Catholic epistles and ones of more literary and philological concern have made their way through the editors’ net.

I have to confess that I have never read The Silmarillion. I tried twice, maybe a third time. I will try again — it took three tries to get me into Paradise Lost, and then I gobbled it up! (My review of Milton’s epic here.) One reason why I think I will survive my next reading of The Silmarillion is the fact that I have now read Letter 131 of late 1951, which runs pp. 143-161, to Milton Waldman of Collins, whom Tolkien hoped would publish The Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings since things seemed not to be progressing with Allen & Unwin at the time. This letter is a long description of Tolkien’s mythology as represented by The Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings.

I think it is important to think of this series of tales of Elves as mythology and not as the history of Middle Earth. First of all, Elves do not originate in Middle Earth but Valinor. Second, history to our mind is a different sort of thing from myth — even if the etymology and use of mythos by ancient Greeks was not clearly delineated from ‘historical truth’ as we think it. Tolkien wished to produce a mythology as grand, as big, as cosmic as the unified myths of the Greeks and the Norse.

Furthermore, myths are often told in a different mode from histories or modern novels. One of the things I found offputting in Jean Anouilh’s Antigone is that the power of Sophocles’ mythos was stripped away by the cynical, post-War Frenchman. There is no good and evil, not law of heaven or nature vs law of man. There is just … raw humanity? Pain and ambiguity. We certainly live our lives in a world of pain and ambiguity — but romance and mythos are not genres intended to relate that world; that is the job of historia or political science/philosophy.

Tolkien knew full well, as his letters to Christopher attest, that in real wars there are orcs on both sides, and noble men on both sides as well. This is a man who fought in WWI; one of his sons suffered PTSD because of WWII. He is not unaware of the murkiness of real humans and real human motivations.

But the good and the beautiful — to kaló. These are still real, substantial realities — and these, alongside the depths of evil in Morgoth and Sauron, are what Tolkien relates in the mythology of The Silmarillion and the romance of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. It is worth remembering the creative force of the good; it is worth remembering that is a better way to live; it is worth remembering that some things are worth fighting for — things like trees and architecture and gardens and friendship and beership.

I have suddenly moved from what makes Tolkien’s work like other mythologies to what sets it apart. Greek mythology comes to us in a vast myriad of sources written over a millennium by a combination of both Greeks and Romans. It is not a thematically united body of work, and it frequently contradicts itself. This is no surprise; it was not made to convey scientific realities, after all.

Tolkien’s work, on the other hand, as this letter shows us, is tightly controlled by a single author, auctor, creator, a single mind, a single man. As a result, he has particular themes that he explores. He has precise ideas of what makes the Valar, the Elves, the Dwarves, the Men, the Orcs, the villains what they are; he grasps their substance, their essence, in a unified way that we do not get from natural-born mythologies that arise out of the chance of cultural circumstance and hundreds of authors.

These thematic unities are, I imagine, what make The Silmarillion readable? I’ve not succeeded yet, of course. But still. They are also what make Tolkien’s work Catholic — they draw out themes such as sub-creation, the tendency of humanity towards misuse of power, the allure of power, the need to protect the simple and beautiful, the unrelenting drive towards the good. Certainly not themes exclusive to Roman Catholics; but certainly typically Catholic themes!

And because Tolkien was crafting a mythology and not a world, his work takes on a different feel. His goal is twofold: To create histories and stories that correspond to his imaginary languages and to craft a united, substantial mythology. This is similar to yet different from Robert E Howard’s pseudo-historical essay, ‘The Hyborian Age.’ This essay exists to provide a grand backdrop for Howard’s adventure stories; this is a necessary thing for the good fantasy writer — it gives verisimilitude, and a clear idea of what Hyperborea is, who Picts are, and where Cimmerians live, as well as all of this in relation to Atlantis, helps the author maintain consistency in references.

Tolkien, on the other hand, wrote The Hobbit, an adventure story ‘for boys’ (and girls!!). And as he wrote, his pre-existing mythological world invaded the story quite outside of his own intention. He did not, that is, take The Silmarillion and decide to flesh out a story from it, or to write a story set in that mythological world. In fact, there is no room for hobbits in that work, anyway! But Tolkien’s mythology invaded, anyway.

When it came time to write a sequel — something that lasted from 1937 until 1951, with revisions until 1954 (I think?) — Tolkien could not help weaving the story more and more tightly into the mythology had had already crafted. The result is a world already old, not only with its own history but with its own songs, its own divine beings, its own demons, its own magic, its own cultures, its own topography. The ruins of The Silmarillion dot the landscape of The Lord of the Rings the way acqueducts and the Villa of the Quintilii dot the landscape on the bus ride to Ciampino airport in Rome.

These facts do not make Tolkien’s mythology and fantasy novels better, necessarily (although I still think The Lord of the Rings is the perfectly-crafted example of its genre), but they do set Tolkien’s storycraft apart, both from ‘real’ mythologies and from other fantasy stories.

Conan the Barbarian (1982, of course)

I have a cold, so I stayed in today to recuperate. And because a friend on Facebook has made some recent Conan the Barbarian soundtrack posts recently, I was in the mood for the Cimmerian’s days of High Adventure. While you read this post, enjoy Basil Poledouris’ soundtrack:

conan_1That soundtrack, in fact, is the best place to begin. Conan the Barbarian would not be the film it is with Poledouris’ soundtrack. Although I haven’t seen Conan the Destroyer since I was a kid, I have no doubt that it’s the best part of the sequel. This soundtrack is the other protagonist, some say. I believe it. Soundtracks provide the mood of a film, and the mood of this film is that of high adventure, of epic, of a grand stage on which daring deeds are performed. It’s like how either ‘the mood’ or ‘Gormenghast Castle’ are the actual main character of Titus Groan and Gormenghast, not the hypostatic characters.

At the beginning, as Conan’s father teachers him of Crom and discusses The Riddle of Steel, there is a feeling that here, in these early roots of fantasy (Robert E Howard, Conan’s creator, died in 1936), Northernism was already present.

That’s not the case. Sword and Sorcery — the subgenre to which Conan belongs — is not as Northern as Tolkien or The Worm Ouroboros by far. Howard set Conan and Kull in the Hyborian Age, between the Ice Age and the beginning of recorded history; later adaptors/continuators such as Roy Thomas in the comics and L. Sprague de Camp in print (amongst whose writing credits is the novelisation of Conan the Barbarian, one of the two Conan books I’ve read) set it ca 10,000 BC.

Whenever the Hyborian Age was, it is a time long past. It is by no means mediaeval, and, although Howard’s Cimmeria whence Conan hails is Northern, this film takes place farther south.

Indeed, the sets of Conan the Barbarian‘s cities feel like early cities, not dissimilar to Mesopotamia. Certainly the topography is not northern. We have here a land reminiscent of the Eurasian Steppe at times, at Central Asia at others (which I’m pretty sure is what they’re going for). It is refreshing, in a genre overrun by medievalism and northernism, to find a world that is consciously pre-historical yet urban, purposefully mythical and technologically primitive.

I’m sure other people could point out more, but there are a few Classical echoes in Conan the Barbarian — Conan’s homeland of Cimmeria is one of the lands in The Odyssey, Conan fights as a gladiator, reference is made to Titans, and Conan is crucified on the Tree of Woe. In the Bacchanalian scene at Thulsa Doom’s lair, there is even a tamed ‘panther’, drawing us into the world of Dionysius and his revels.

Furthermore, to show us how transgressive Thulsa Doom’s people are in relation to the wider world and how they undermine civilisation, they are anthropophagists (cannibals) — the eating of human flesh was a strong symbol of savagery and the undoing of civilised life in Greek literature; Polyneices was accused of metaphorically eating the flesh of his fellow citizens in Antigone, for example. Also, this was a bad idea:

Tydeus eats Melanippus' brain in the campaing of the Seven Against Thebes on the pediment of an Etruscan temple, now in the Villa Giulia, Rome

Tydeus eats Melanippus’ brain in the campaing of the Seven Against Thebes on the pediment of an Etruscan temple, now in the Villa Giulia, Rome

Tydeus never really lived down eating Melanippus’ brain. The gods above are quite shocked.

Here is an undoubtedly subconscious Classical resonance, but one nonetheless.

Another ancient resonance is Conan’s famous quotation that the best thing in life is:

Crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and hear the lamentation of their women.

One of the most ancient codes out there is simply: Help your friends; harm your foes. Its traces are found in Homer and a lot of archaic period Greek poetry. It is the code of Gilgamesh. It is the code of Niall’s Saga. Indeed, it underlies much feud practice, from Troy to gangland and drive-by shootings.

I don’t have very many other thoughts, except that I’m going to read some Robert E Howard soon. I’ve read a number of the Roy Thomas comics and black-and-white magazines, and I saw the original two films plus Kull, and I’ve read Kull. But it’s been a while since I’ve indulged in this, and I’ve actually read very little of Howard’s Conan output. Who knows what classical resonances I’ll find? Certainly, even if some scorn pulp and the sword and sorcery subgenre, these stories are amongst the foundations of modern fantasy.