The Nightmare World of Tolkien

[Lalwendë]

Originally Posted by The Saucepan Man

Lal, if by "pulp" you are picking up on my reference to the works of HP Lovecraft, I am afraid that I will have to disagree with you. He is often given this label and I acknowledge that his works are not considered literary classics. Then again, we often complain that Tolkien's works similarly are not accorded classic status. I would argue that Lovecraft's works are actually a lot better than he is generally given credit for and are certainly not deserving of the "pulp" label they seem to have acquired.

Not at all! Blimey, 'pulp' is the last thing I'd call Lovecraft! Not least of all as Lovecraft often featured on reading lists on the various modules available for study on my degree (Gothic, Modern Horror etc). Lovecraft is one of the clasic writers in the Gothic/Horror genre you'll be pleased to know.

I'll admit now I've not read much - but I'm sure I've spied a Lovecraft book on the shelf at home so I might give it a whirl.

[Anguirel]

Those beautiful yet horrible flowers actually scream Baudelaire to me!

[Lalwendë]

Gardeners' Gothic World

Originally Posted by Anguirel

Those beautiful yet horrible flowers actually scream Baudelaire to me!

They make me think of those Purple Passion Plants. Ugh. I used to work with a woman who had one and she was a bit odd (the woman, though she did have a 1st edition of LotR), and delighted in the fact that the luminous orange flowers on this plant smell of rotten, cheesy feet. They also have hairy, purple leaves and look quite sinister and Triffid-like. Thankfully the thing never flowered while I was working with her.

Like how Tolkien even has evil flowers though. It shows up just how evil really has infused everything in Arda.

Still, even a Ringwraith must have to get flowers for the girlfriends from somewhere.

[The Saucepan Man]

Originally Posted by Lalwendë

Lovecraft is one of the clasic writers in the Gothic/Horror genre you'll be pleased to know.

Indeed I am!

It's a long time since I read any of his novels. As I recall, some are rather turgid at times. But they are well worth a try if you like gothic horror (his novels are generally described as "weird horror", although I wonder whether "fantasy horror" might be a more apt descriptor). I recall finding the world that he created (or, rather, his depiction of our world) both fascinating and horrifiying.

[Lalwendë]

I've been looking for some more of "the old bogey-stories Fatty's nurses used to tell him, about goblins and wolves and things of that sort".

How is this for a dream worthy of the fevered imaginings of Mary Shelley:

In the dead night, Frodo lay in a dream without light. Then he saw the young moon rising; under its thin light there loomed before him a black wall of rock, pierced by a dark arch like a great gate. It seemed to Frodo that he was lifted up, and passing over he saw that the rock-wall was a circle of hills, and that within it was a plain, and in the midst of the plain stood a pinnacle of stone, like a vast tower but not made by hands. On its top stood the figure of a man. The moon as it rose seemed to hang for a moment above his head and glistened in his white hair as the wind stirred it. Up from the dark plain below came the crying of fell voices, and the howling of many wolves. Suddenly a shadow, like the shape of great wings, passed across the moon. The figure lifted his arms and a light flashed from the staff that he wielded. A mighty eagle swept down and bore him away. The voices wailed and the wolves yammered. There was a noise like a strong wind blowing, and on it was borne the sound of hoofs, galloping, galloping, galloping from the East.

And not without some good alliteration, even rhythm. There's a high Gothic tower. A mysterious man, his physical being somehow tangled up with the elements themselves. Eerie sounds. Darkness and pale, glacially cool moonlight. And not just an eagle but a mighty eagle.

Another favourite incident that I've remembered was the attack by the wolves on the Fellowship, and I'm sure that must loom large in a fair few minds, judging by the Werewolf craze on the Downs.

It builds up with unseen fears surrounding them, Bill the pony betraying his animal sixth sense. Like a pack of Black Shucks creeping up on the Fellowship.

Poor Bill the pony trembled and sweated where he stood. The howling of the wolves was now all round them, sometimes nearer and sometimes further off. In the dead of night many shining eyes were seen peering over the brow of the hill. Some advanced almost to the ring of stones. At a gap in the circle a great dark wolf-shape could be seen halted, gazing at them. A shuddering howl broke from him, as if he were a captain summoning his pack to the assault

Some brave deeds worthy of an episode of Sharpe.

In the leaping light, as the fresh wood blazed up, Frodo saw many grey shapes spring over the ring of stones. More and more followed. Through the throat of one huge leader Aragorn passed his sword with a thrust; with a great sweep Boromir hewed the head off another. Beside them Gimli stood with his stout legs apart, wielding his dwarf-axe. The bow of Legolas was singing.

The image of an ancient, powerful wizard.

In the wavering firelight Gandalf seemed suddenly to grow: he rose up, a great menacing shape like the monument of some ancient king of stone set upon a hill. Stooping like a cloud, he lifted a burning branch and strode to meet the wolves.

Marvellous stuff!

[Laitoste]

Firstly, between this thread and my English class, I no longer have the appetite to finish the Pride and Prejudice re-read I started...it is FAR too tame and mundane to follow the romantic and marital difficulties of Elizabeth Bennet when I could be rejoicing in deliciously gruesome descriptions!

And now for the point. Perhaps this lack of an "inner monologue" heightens the fear and terror...because we don't know for sure what the character is thinking and/or feeling, we must put our own emotions in the character's place. So instead of the Ringwraith sniffing out the hobbits, we feel as if it is actually searching for us. Any thoughts?

Oh, and one more thing: dragons! How are they horrific? In their description, or their cunning, or malicious personality? Did Smaug frighten anyone? I personally was not scared by him, but was intrigued by his way of speech. Once I read the Sil, however, I was (naturally) far more impressed by Glaurung, for his clever manipulation of Turin if nothing else--come to think of it, Glaurung was probably my favorite character in that story... For example:

Then suddenly [Glaurung] spoke, by the evil spirit that was in him, saying: 'Hail, son of Hurin. Well met!'

Then Turin sprang about, and strode against him, and the edges of Gurthang shone as with flame; but Glaurung withheld his blast, and opened wide his serpent-eyes and gazed upon Turin. Without fear, Turin looked into them as he raised up his sword; and straightway he fell under the binding spell of the lidless eyes of the dragon, and was halted moveless...But Glaurung spoke again, taunting Turin, and he said: 'Evil have been all thy ways, son of Hurin. Thankless fosterling, outlaw, slayer of thy friend, thief of love, usurper of Nargothrond, captain foolhardy, and deserter of thy kin. As thralls thy mother and thy sister live in Dor-lomin, in misery and want. Thou art arrayed as a prince, but they go in rags.'

And so on. Glaurung's destructive qualities lay not so much in the actual fact that he was a dragon with all the physical strength and attributes of a dragon, but that he was able to manipulate Turin to make poor choices. He captivates Turin, preventing him from following the obvious choice: rescuing Finduilas. What is it about cunning and manipulation, the "dragon-spell", that is so frightening? Do we see too much of it in ourselves? Or because we are terrified of falling under the spell ourselves and having the wool pulled over our eyes?

[Mister Underhill]

I'm in the middle of a long overdue re-reading, and was recently struck by the imagery in this passage from Helm's Deep:

It was now past midnight. The sky was utterly dark, and the stillness of the heavy air foreboded storm. Suddenly the clouds were seared by a blinding flash. Branched lightning smote down upon the eastward hills. For a staring moment the watchers on the walls saw all the space between them and the Dike lit with white light: it was boiling and crawling with black shapes, some squat and broad, some tall and grim, with high helms and sable shields. Hundreds and hundreds more were pouring over the Dike and through the breach. The dark tide flowed up to the walls from cliff to cliff. Thunder rolled in the valley. Rain came lashing down.

That visual of a lightning strike suddenly illuminating a valley crawling with silent Uruks sent a tingle down my spine. There's something so insectile about it. Ugh. I shiver just thinking about it...