The long road comes to a winding end, having taken the long way around, and one peculiar shortcut. So here – just before my beginning – is also rooted (so conveniently) something of a conclusion. If my theme in visiting these many reflections on Middle-earth has been that of textual history, it is in Sauron Defeated that we at last arrive at that spectral ambition that seems sewn throughout the late-Tolkien. A complete work for which there are several competing traditions. The Fall of Númenor, The Drowning of Anadûnê, and the Akallabeth all depict the same event, but by different perspectives. The Elvish, the Mannish, and the combined Dúnedain vantage. Here there is a neat knitting of the meta and the textual: insofar as the Akallabeth is, itself, derived from The Fall and The Drowning, both in actual fact as much as in textual tradition. It is a marrying of the two older conceptions. The qualities of these mutual-histories are not, of course, completely expressed. We wonder if the ‘Elvish’ history would contain reports of ‘flying craft’ built by the Númenóreans if the text were revisited (probably not); and therefore there is some remaining dream in how these texts may have been adapted if they had a coterminous finish. Nonetheless, they achieve the effect of ‘perspective’, both in their incompatible narratives and in their divergent use of language. The one written in appeal to Adûnaic, the others toward Elvish – and therein a different texture for each edition. Had Tolkien’s final wishes been fulfilled in the way he laid them out, perhaps we could imagine an entire Silmarillion tradition broken in this manner: the Mannish myths against the Elvish history (or vectors pointing both ways). So much of the Middle-earth project is, really, the distinction between myth and history. The point by which one yields to the other, or the degree by which both might co-exist simultaneously. This is then taken into the matter of The Notion Club Papers, an otherwise improved stake at the same idea attempted in The Lost Road. This version takes its own narrative somewhat more seriously, and – if the concept remains ludicrous – it seems built so as to excavate and justify its fiction. (Perhaps, in typical form, it expends too much energy in this disposition.) The club-members discuss early on the distinction between history and legend in the frame of psychic-dream-travelling, in which it is said that both history and legend are accessible in this means of travel, partially on the suggestion that neither is in fact an objective record, and both are in some way matted into the experienced-world. The balance is accorded by time: the further back one travels, the greater myth becomes and the smaller history; this is not merely a point at which ‘fiction’ overtakes ‘fact’, but wherein certain narratives (first understood through history) take on a grander arc, and are calcified in outsized tales. These tales represent, in their essence, a fundamental truth that is not therefore diminished in their being told in such a way. Tolkien is here exposing both his formal method, but as much determining the worth of his work and those works he admires; it is not just a means of distraction and entertainment (which, in his more defensive sallies against allegory, Tolkien sometimes appears to suggest), but an ethical-historical framework reshaped according to certain axiomatic principles. But this should be understood not as a read of Europe, or Christendom, or any such thing: the principles on which most myth, and most Tolkien is based are more abstract and fundamental than a particular edition/reflection of the record as it exists. Had Tolkien achieved his multiple-stream narrative, we might have seen Middle-earth itself (as a project) doubled within itself: in which the people of Middle-earth create their own mythological structure, which both misrepresents history but (perhaps) captures some essential quality that history cannot render.
Though, in this last assay into the Tolkien blueprints, it is perhaps worth suggesting another point of interest, rather than all those things that did not come to be. Because these books, and their affluence of drafts and abandonments, are not strictly an expression of failed designs and regretful stoppages. I was reminded frequently of Peter Jackson’s Get Back, in which the sessions to Let It Be are expressed in long, circuitous, laborious detail. The classic music biopic will typically light on the moment of inspiration, forgetting that the creative act is only determined by such moments on occasion (perhaps Tolkien’s ‘In a hole’ sentence appeals to this fancy). In large it is a long action, filled with dead-ends and sudden shifts; it contains much in the way of repetition; a work is not so much invented as it is discovered. Tolkien uses similar wording when he talks about his languages, and makes this a very literal experience in The Notion Club Papers – and it applies just as much to the rest of his legendarium. These long, sedulous books express this mode and this feeling: it is a tracing, not only of the essential but also of the inessential, patching an artist together by means of negative space. If Tolkien was once understood on the output of two novels, we can now understand the rootwork beneath them: an enormous tangle of subterranean complexity, which seem to determine not merely a ‘project’, or an artwork, but a significant portion of life. We see here the creative lifeblood; we see here the creative impulse. In ending this volume, Christopher writes appositely on the incomplete Adûnaic grammar: ‘For ‘completion’, the achievement of a fixed Grammar and Lexicon, was not, in my belief, the overriding aim. Delight lay in the creation itself, the creation of new linguistic form evolving within the compass of an imagined time. ‘Incompletion’ and unceasing change, often frustrating to those who study these languages, was inherent in this art.’ In miniature, Christopher describes the art of his father. Not a study in finality (perhaps excepting the volumes on The Lord of the Rings – which I have yet to read), but of change, of the distance between one state and another. We cannot see this as the ruin of a failed artist: delight lay in the creation itself.