If you're a Middle-earth fan of even middling enthusiasm, you've probably noticed a blizzard of posts and tweets today, all celebrating John Ronald Reuel Tolkien's birthday. The Creator of Hobbits and the world they live in turns 126 today, or as Bilbo might have phrased it, "twelfty-six"*.
I couldn't help but think about the impact that Tolkien and his works have had on my life over the years. My first memories of Middle-earth come from a warm summer when I was eight years old and my friend down the street let me borrow his dad's battered copy of a strange little book called
The Hobbit. I spent the next week hiding behind my bed so as to avoid doing my chores, devouring a story that opened a whole new world of Hobbits and dwarves and dragons and elves to me. And more than the strange creatures and unlikely heroes, Tolkien's original fantasy filled me with a hunger to explore new worlds, both real and imagined.
Much to my delight, I discovered after reading the Hobbit that there were more books about Hobbits. So when classes started that fall I rushed to my school library and checked out each novel in the Lord of the Rings trilogy in turn. The adventures in those books took me beyond anything I'd experienced in the Hobbit, both in terms of excitement and beauty.
After reading the Lord of the Rings, several years passed during which I faithfully read that trilogy and the hobbit over and over. But it wasn't until I turned fourteen that I discovered that there was
another Tolkien book––the Silmarillion. I eagerly checked out the battered paper back copy featuring a scene from the Downfall of Númenor by Darrell Sweet, and dove into it. To my surprise, it was nothing like the Hobbit or the Lord of the Rings. In fact, it read almost like ancient scripture, like the Bible or something. And not only that, it took place in a completely different area from lands described in Tolkien's earlier books. However, after my initial shock, I found that the Silmarillion was just as wonderful as the Hobbit.
Since those early years, I have continued to return to Middle-earth whenever possible. The books have not only given me heroes to learn from, but have helped to shape my understanding of good and evil, and of hope and honor and love. And today as I reflected on all that Tolkien's work means to me, I couldn't help but think about how close I––and the world––came to never having receiving Tolkien's masterpiece.
As a young man, Tolkien enlisted in the British Army and served as an officer during World War I. He was sent to France in 1916, and participated in the infamous Battle of the Somme. When historians speak of the Battle of the Somme, they usually do so with superlatives. Friedrich Steinbrecher is quoted as saying: "Somme. The whole history of the world cannot contain a more ghastly word". David Frum, writing for the Atlantic, said, "A century later, "the Somme" remains the most harrowing place-name in the annals of . . . Great Britain." It is no exaggeration to call the battle a meat-grinder. Three million troops participated in the months-long destruction, and over a million men were killed or wounded. Tolkien himself lost many friends, including two members of the Tea Club and Barrovian Society, Geoffrey Smith and Rob Gilson. Tolkien himself escaped the battle and a likely death. He was shipped back to England after coming down with trench fever. Shortly thereafter, the battalion he had served with was destroyed almost to a man.
Consider the odds for a moment. How close did Tolkien come to dying in that muddy, blood-soaked battlefield? How close did the world come to losing a genius, to losing his vision and his subsequent writings? How many generations almost lost the timeless examples of Frodo's endurance, or of Sam's faithfulness, or of Bilbo's plucky courage? Why, when hundreds of thousands of men died, did Tolkien live?
I can't provide an answer to those questions. I suppose no one can. I can only feel grateful. Indeed, pondering Tolkien's time in the war, I can think of no better explanation than Gandalf's words to Frodo, on a dark night in the quiet of the Shire:
"I can put it no plainer than by saying that Bilbo was meant to find the Ring, and not by its maker. In which case you also were meant to have it. And that may be an encouraging thought." ––Fellowship of the Ring, Chapter 2
As with Bilbo and Frodo and the Ring, I can't help but feel that the world was meant to have Tolkien's Middle-earth. And that is indeed an encouraging thought.
Happy Birthday Professor. And thank you.
