- Joined
- Sep 15, 2021
- Messages
- 1,454
- Reaction score
- 4,433
- Awards
- 254
Yeah I guess I'm gonna vent out a little. I've been listening to the audio book of Tolkien and the Great War and it's striking how the man managed to write such beautiful poetry in the middle of a certified Hell on Earth. I got the same impression when I read the Penguin book of First World War poetry (TM). Here is an excerpt from a poem Tolkien wrote while in the war.
O fading town upon a little hill, Old memory is waning in thine ancient gates,
Thy robe gone gray, thine old heart almost still; The castle only, frowning, ever waits
And ponders how among the towering elms
The Gliding Water leaves these inland realms And slips between long meadows to the western sea –
Still bearing downward over murmurous falls One year and then another to the sea;
And slowly thither have a many gone Since first the fairies built Kortirion.
How can you write such kino bro. Of course the poem is sad and melancholic, but it's deeply beautiful and innocent in an ineffable sort of way. I think you can clearly tell this was written from a man of another age, an age long and distant that it feels impossible to journey into. And perhaps this is my greatest frustration and aching sadness right now. Here we have men who were experiencing more horrors than we'll probably even experience in our lifetime and yet they managed to write such beautiful and hopeful prose stuff. You can call this sort of faith a cope, but really can you say that about someone that experienced the Somme? Nevermind that, John Garth makes a great defense of Tolkien's imagination:
But this was not the escapist urge it appears at first glance. The West of Tolkien's imagination was the heartland of a revolution of sorts: a cultural and spiritual revolution. (...) There he had written that it was from Kôr, west over the ocean, that 'the fairies came to teach men song and holiness'.
And
The overriding metaphor of the seasons also provides a note of consolation, suggesting not only loss and death but also renewal and rebirth. To similar effect, the fairies of faded Kortirion sing a 'wistful song of things that were, and could be yet'. Thus it is not sadness that finally prevails in 'Kortirion' but an acceptance of approaching contentment.
Of course not every modernist who experience WW1 came out with a curious whitepill. WW1 also produced the Hollow Men, and as far as I'm aware most modernist I've read feel 'black-pilled'. Though the fact still remains that this was the generation that produced the Inklings, that sprouted Christian Humanism. Now compare that to us zoomers, and zoomer writers especially. I can't imagine any of us producing anything as beautiful or with the vision of someone like Tolkien. As for me, I just feel like everything I write is hideous, not hideous in the proud 'omg I'm such a bad writer you guys', but rather in the sense that I feel like I can only write about vulgarity and disgusting and debauched stuff. There's a sense that if you want to be taken seriously, you have to write trashy, ironic, posmo, degen, unhinged, hentai stuff. When I write I sometimes feel disgusted at myself, I often find myself surprised by the things I write down in the moment like, Shit this really is inside of me huh. For example curse words. I don't use cursewords because I wanna write like a Big Boy or whatever, I just do it cause it's literally how my inner monologue works, I curse all the time, and how can you even hope to come back from that and towards a more beautified view of things? I say shit more than I say thank you, probably. You end up feeling cursed.
And you end up feeling especially like a pussy. Like fucking hell if men who went through literal war can write about the Higher Things why can't we if we haven't suffered for shit. Most of us anyways. Maybe that's why? Because we haven't suffered? But I don't think that's right either, in a way I feel like we zoomers suffer from a meaningless that previous generations could only fear and philosophize about, but we're the ones actually experiencing it. Though this view risks being perhaps too flattering and too meta-narrative focused for zoomers, it really feels like we've got a special kind of suffering that renders most of us incapable of producing beauty. And we're still a bunch of brats really, according to Jean Twenge, most of us don't know how to drive or have ever had a job. Reading about Tolkien and his Oxford buddies, a good amount of them died in the war btw, and they died very young, like at ages 20-22, then you realize how lowly you truly are. Men who died at age 21 (I'm 23) and already did more than you can probably ever hope to accomplish in your lifetime.
As for me, though I suspect this is a common sentiment, I suspect this is why some of us are so into My Little Pony. The early seasons managed to touch a sense of childhood, innocence, wonder, and moral imagination that feels lost in our modern world, it's a sort of refugee from modernity or postmodernity or metamodernity or whatever you wanna call it. Speaking of meta-modernity, in his memeable TV essay, DFW wrote the following copypasta:
The next real literary "rebels" in this country might wel emerge as some weird bunch of anti-rebels, born oglers who dare somehow to back away from ironic watching, who have the childish gal actual y to endorse and instantiate single-entendre principles. Who treat of plain old untrendy human troubles and emotions in U.S. life with reverence and conviction. Who eschew self-consciousness and hip fatigue. These anti-rebels would be outdated, of course, before they even started. Dead on the page. Too sincere. Clearly repressed. Backward, quaint, naïve, anachronistic. Maybe that'l be the point. Maybe that's why they'l be the next real rebels. Real rebels, as far as I can see, risk disapproval. The old postmodern insurgents risked the gasp and squeal: shock, disgust, outrage, censorship, accusations of socialism, anarchism, nihilism. Today's risks are different. The new rebels might be artists wil ing to risk the yawn, the rol ed eyes, the cool smile, the nudged ribs, the parody of gifted ironists, the "Oh how banal." To risk accusations of sentimentality, melodrama. Of overcredulity. Of softness. Of wil ingness to be suckered by a world of lurkers and starers who fear gaze and ridicule above imprisonment without law. Who knows. Today's most engaged young fiction does seem like some kind of line's end's end. I guess that means we al get to draw our own conclusions. Have to. Are you immensely pleased.
The highlighted parts, that's all stuff Tolkien has been accused of. And I have to wonder, for all this talk about how to overcome le postmodernism, maybe the answer has always been in the literary sense of christian humanists like Tolkien. And Tolkien is a very serious author, the J.R.R Tolkien Encyclopedia: Scholarship and Critical assessment, is 800 pages long, the Blackwell companion to J.R.R Tolkien is 600 pages. That's a lot of scholarship. And it's not like Tolkien hid in his own wine cellar ignoring the philosophy of his day either. Tolkien scholars like Theresa Freda and Bradley Birzer have pointed out that The Lord of the Rings was very much an indirect response against modernism and modernist literature. And of course modernism sprouted postmodernism.
I don't feel confident in calling Tolkien proto new sincerity, that might be anachronistic, but the vision that Tolkien give us seems like a better antidote for postmodernity and etc than new sincerity with its My Little Pony, Star Wars prequels, Wes Anderson, and K-On. New Sincerity arguably gave us the Alt Right and the wokies too. That's what I think at least, but the problem still persists, how can such a nihilistic generation engage with the moral vision of someone like Tolkien? Perhaps this is the ultimate blackpill, how can we enter Faeri when it's way easier to enter hentai? My christian itching says that God works the greatest through the lowly. But who knows, my more cool zoomer self is yelling Coooope!
O fading town upon a little hill, Old memory is waning in thine ancient gates,
Thy robe gone gray, thine old heart almost still; The castle only, frowning, ever waits
And ponders how among the towering elms
The Gliding Water leaves these inland realms And slips between long meadows to the western sea –
Still bearing downward over murmurous falls One year and then another to the sea;
And slowly thither have a many gone Since first the fairies built Kortirion.
How can you write such kino bro. Of course the poem is sad and melancholic, but it's deeply beautiful and innocent in an ineffable sort of way. I think you can clearly tell this was written from a man of another age, an age long and distant that it feels impossible to journey into. And perhaps this is my greatest frustration and aching sadness right now. Here we have men who were experiencing more horrors than we'll probably even experience in our lifetime and yet they managed to write such beautiful and hopeful prose stuff. You can call this sort of faith a cope, but really can you say that about someone that experienced the Somme? Nevermind that, John Garth makes a great defense of Tolkien's imagination:
But this was not the escapist urge it appears at first glance. The West of Tolkien's imagination was the heartland of a revolution of sorts: a cultural and spiritual revolution. (...) There he had written that it was from Kôr, west over the ocean, that 'the fairies came to teach men song and holiness'.
And
The overriding metaphor of the seasons also provides a note of consolation, suggesting not only loss and death but also renewal and rebirth. To similar effect, the fairies of faded Kortirion sing a 'wistful song of things that were, and could be yet'. Thus it is not sadness that finally prevails in 'Kortirion' but an acceptance of approaching contentment.
Of course not every modernist who experience WW1 came out with a curious whitepill. WW1 also produced the Hollow Men, and as far as I'm aware most modernist I've read feel 'black-pilled'. Though the fact still remains that this was the generation that produced the Inklings, that sprouted Christian Humanism. Now compare that to us zoomers, and zoomer writers especially. I can't imagine any of us producing anything as beautiful or with the vision of someone like Tolkien. As for me, I just feel like everything I write is hideous, not hideous in the proud 'omg I'm such a bad writer you guys', but rather in the sense that I feel like I can only write about vulgarity and disgusting and debauched stuff. There's a sense that if you want to be taken seriously, you have to write trashy, ironic, posmo, degen, unhinged, hentai stuff. When I write I sometimes feel disgusted at myself, I often find myself surprised by the things I write down in the moment like, Shit this really is inside of me huh. For example curse words. I don't use cursewords because I wanna write like a Big Boy or whatever, I just do it cause it's literally how my inner monologue works, I curse all the time, and how can you even hope to come back from that and towards a more beautified view of things? I say shit more than I say thank you, probably. You end up feeling cursed.
And you end up feeling especially like a pussy. Like fucking hell if men who went through literal war can write about the Higher Things why can't we if we haven't suffered for shit. Most of us anyways. Maybe that's why? Because we haven't suffered? But I don't think that's right either, in a way I feel like we zoomers suffer from a meaningless that previous generations could only fear and philosophize about, but we're the ones actually experiencing it. Though this view risks being perhaps too flattering and too meta-narrative focused for zoomers, it really feels like we've got a special kind of suffering that renders most of us incapable of producing beauty. And we're still a bunch of brats really, according to Jean Twenge, most of us don't know how to drive or have ever had a job. Reading about Tolkien and his Oxford buddies, a good amount of them died in the war btw, and they died very young, like at ages 20-22, then you realize how lowly you truly are. Men who died at age 21 (I'm 23) and already did more than you can probably ever hope to accomplish in your lifetime.
As for me, though I suspect this is a common sentiment, I suspect this is why some of us are so into My Little Pony. The early seasons managed to touch a sense of childhood, innocence, wonder, and moral imagination that feels lost in our modern world, it's a sort of refugee from modernity or postmodernity or metamodernity or whatever you wanna call it. Speaking of meta-modernity, in his memeable TV essay, DFW wrote the following copypasta:
The next real literary "rebels" in this country might wel emerge as some weird bunch of anti-rebels, born oglers who dare somehow to back away from ironic watching, who have the childish gal actual y to endorse and instantiate single-entendre principles. Who treat of plain old untrendy human troubles and emotions in U.S. life with reverence and conviction. Who eschew self-consciousness and hip fatigue. These anti-rebels would be outdated, of course, before they even started. Dead on the page. Too sincere. Clearly repressed. Backward, quaint, naïve, anachronistic. Maybe that'l be the point. Maybe that's why they'l be the next real rebels. Real rebels, as far as I can see, risk disapproval. The old postmodern insurgents risked the gasp and squeal: shock, disgust, outrage, censorship, accusations of socialism, anarchism, nihilism. Today's risks are different. The new rebels might be artists wil ing to risk the yawn, the rol ed eyes, the cool smile, the nudged ribs, the parody of gifted ironists, the "Oh how banal." To risk accusations of sentimentality, melodrama. Of overcredulity. Of softness. Of wil ingness to be suckered by a world of lurkers and starers who fear gaze and ridicule above imprisonment without law. Who knows. Today's most engaged young fiction does seem like some kind of line's end's end. I guess that means we al get to draw our own conclusions. Have to. Are you immensely pleased.

The highlighted parts, that's all stuff Tolkien has been accused of. And I have to wonder, for all this talk about how to overcome le postmodernism, maybe the answer has always been in the literary sense of christian humanists like Tolkien. And Tolkien is a very serious author, the J.R.R Tolkien Encyclopedia: Scholarship and Critical assessment, is 800 pages long, the Blackwell companion to J.R.R Tolkien is 600 pages. That's a lot of scholarship. And it's not like Tolkien hid in his own wine cellar ignoring the philosophy of his day either. Tolkien scholars like Theresa Freda and Bradley Birzer have pointed out that The Lord of the Rings was very much an indirect response against modernism and modernist literature. And of course modernism sprouted postmodernism.
I don't feel confident in calling Tolkien proto new sincerity, that might be anachronistic, but the vision that Tolkien give us seems like a better antidote for postmodernity and etc than new sincerity with its My Little Pony, Star Wars prequels, Wes Anderson, and K-On. New Sincerity arguably gave us the Alt Right and the wokies too. That's what I think at least, but the problem still persists, how can such a nihilistic generation engage with the moral vision of someone like Tolkien? Perhaps this is the ultimate blackpill, how can we enter Faeri when it's way easier to enter hentai? My christian itching says that God works the greatest through the lowly. But who knows, my more cool zoomer self is yelling Coooope!

Attachments
Virtual Cafe Awards