![CLT_Exam's tweet photo. C. S. Lewis’s Letter to Tolkien upon First Reading The Lord of the Rings:
My dear Tollers—
Uton herian holbytlas indeed. I have drained the rich cup and satisfied a long thirst. Once it really gets under weigh the steady upward slope of grandeur and terror (not unrelieved by green dells, without which it would indeed be intolerable) is almost unequalled in the whole range of narrative art known to me. In two virtues I think it excels: sheer sub-creation—Bombadil, Barrow Wights, Elves, Ents—as if from inexhaustible resources, and construction—the construction Tasso aimed at (but did not equally achieve) which was to combine the variety of Ariosto with the unity of Virgil. Also, in gravitas. No romance can repell [sic] the charge of ‘escapism’ with such confidence. If it errs, it errs precisely in the opposite direction: the sickness of hope deferred and the merciless piling up of odds against the heroes are near to being too painful. And the long coda after the eucatastrophe, whether you intended it or no, has the effect of reminding us that victory is as transitory as conflict, that (as Byron says) ‘There’s no sterner moralist than pleasure’ and so leaving a final impression of profound melancholy.
No doubt this is increased for me by the circumstances in which I heard most of it for the first time: when there was great danger around us but, in me at any rate, a happier heart than now. But that only accounts for a small part of my total impression. I am sure it is in itself a great and hard and bitter book which, though I love it, I shall never open without a certain shrinking. It will rank, along with the Aeneid as one of what I call my ‘immediately sub-religious’ books.
Indeed (unexpectedly) the general aroma seems to me more like the Aeneid than anything else, in spite of your Northernness. This is partly because both (a.) Are so often sylvan (b.) Have strategy, as distinct from mere combat, (c.) Suggest an enormous past behind the action.
All the alliterative verse I liked.
Of course this is not the whole story. There are many passages I could wish you had written otherwise or omitted altogether. If I include more of my adverse criticism in this letter that is because you heard and rejected most of them already (rejected is perhaps too mild a word for your reaction on to least one occasion!) and even if I now convinced you on any point, the conviction would, I take it, be too late to bear fruit. And even if all my objections were just (which is of course unlikely) the faults I think I find could only delay and impair appreciation: the substantial splendour of the tale can carry them all. Ubi plura nitent in carmine non ego paucis offendo maculis.
I congratulate you. All the long years you have spent on it are justified. Morris and Eddison, in so far as they are comparable, are now mere ‘precursors’.
The mappemound [sic: mappemundo=”map of the world”] is, as you warn me, now inaccurate. But on a rather different point—do you mean the Shire to be so large?
I miss you very much
Yours
Jack Lewis](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/HKcwMsaWIAA-yf7.jpg)
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It’s older than the fall of the Roman Empire.
https://t.co/XtlS7y0HFR
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C. S. Lewis’s Letter to Tolkien upon First Reading The Lord of the Rings:
My dear Tollers—
Uton herian holbytlas indeed. I have drained the rich cup and satisfied a long thirst. Once it really gets under weigh the steady upward slope of grandeur and terror (not unrelieved by green dells, without which it would indeed be intolerable) is almost unequalled in the whole range of narrative art known to me. In two virtues I think it excels: sheer sub-creation—Bombadil, Barrow Wights, Elves, Ents—as if from inexhaustible resources, and construction—the construction Tasso aimed at (but did not equally achieve) which was to combine the variety of Ariosto with the unity of Virgil. Also, in gravitas. No romance can repell [sic] the charge of ‘escapism’ with such confidence. If it errs, it errs precisely in the opposite direction: the sickness of hope deferred and the merciless piling up of odds against the heroes are near to being too painful. And the long coda after the eucatastrophe, whether you intended it or no, has the effect of reminding us that victory is as transitory as conflict, that (as Byron says) ‘There’s no sterner moralist than pleasure’ and so leaving a final impression of profound melancholy.
No doubt this is increased for me by the circumstances in which I heard most of it for the first time: when there was great danger around us but, in me at any rate, a happier heart than now. But that only accounts for a small part of my total impression. I am sure it is in itself a great and hard and bitter book which, though I love it, I shall never open without a certain shrinking. It will rank, along with the Aeneid as one of what I call my ‘immediately sub-religious’ books.
Indeed (unexpectedly) the general aroma seems to me more like the Aeneid than anything else, in spite of your Northernness. This is partly because both (a.) Are so often sylvan (b.) Have strategy, as distinct from mere combat, (c.) Suggest an enormous past behind the action.
All the alliterative verse I liked.
Of course this is not the whole story. There are many passages I could wish you had written otherwise or omitted altogether. If I include more of my adverse criticism in this letter that is because you heard and rejected most of them already (rejected is perhaps too mild a word for your reaction on to least one occasion!) and even if I now convinced you on any point, the conviction would, I take it, be too late to bear fruit. And even if all my objections were just (which is of course unlikely) the faults I think I find could only delay and impair appreciation: the substantial splendour of the tale can carry them all. Ubi plura nitent in carmine non ego paucis offendo maculis.
I congratulate you. All the long years you have spent on it are justified. Morris and Eddison, in so far as they are comparable, are now mere ‘precursors’.
The mappemound [sic: mappemundo=”map of the world”] is, as you warn me, now inaccurate. But on a rather different point—do you mean the Shire to be so large?
I miss you very much
Yours
Jack Lewis
![CLT_Exam's tweet photo. C. S. Lewis’s Letter to Tolkien upon First Reading The Lord of the Rings:
My dear Tollers—
Uton herian holbytlas indeed. I have drained the rich cup and satisfied a long thirst. Once it really gets under weigh the steady upward slope of grandeur and terror (not unrelieved by green dells, without which it would indeed be intolerable) is almost unequalled in the whole range of narrative art known to me. In two virtues I think it excels: sheer sub-creation—Bombadil, Barrow Wights, Elves, Ents—as if from inexhaustible resources, and construction—the construction Tasso aimed at (but did not equally achieve) which was to combine the variety of Ariosto with the unity of Virgil. Also, in gravitas. No romance can repell [sic] the charge of ‘escapism’ with such confidence. If it errs, it errs precisely in the opposite direction: the sickness of hope deferred and the merciless piling up of odds against the heroes are near to being too painful. And the long coda after the eucatastrophe, whether you intended it or no, has the effect of reminding us that victory is as transitory as conflict, that (as Byron says) ‘There’s no sterner moralist than pleasure’ and so leaving a final impression of profound melancholy.
No doubt this is increased for me by the circumstances in which I heard most of it for the first time: when there was great danger around us but, in me at any rate, a happier heart than now. But that only accounts for a small part of my total impression. I am sure it is in itself a great and hard and bitter book which, though I love it, I shall never open without a certain shrinking. It will rank, along with the Aeneid as one of what I call my ‘immediately sub-religious’ books.
Indeed (unexpectedly) the general aroma seems to me more like the Aeneid than anything else, in spite of your Northernness. This is partly because both (a.) Are so often sylvan (b.) Have strategy, as distinct from mere combat, (c.) Suggest an enormous past behind the action.
All the alliterative verse I liked.
Of course this is not the whole story. There are many passages I could wish you had written otherwise or omitted altogether. If I include more of my adverse criticism in this letter that is because you heard and rejected most of them already (rejected is perhaps too mild a word for your reaction on to least one occasion!) and even if I now convinced you on any point, the conviction would, I take it, be too late to bear fruit. And even if all my objections were just (which is of course unlikely) the faults I think I find could only delay and impair appreciation: the substantial splendour of the tale can carry them all. Ubi plura nitent in carmine non ego paucis offendo maculis.
I congratulate you. All the long years you have spent on it are justified. Morris and Eddison, in so far as they are comparable, are now mere ‘precursors’.
The mappemound [sic: mappemundo=”map of the world”] is, as you warn me, now inaccurate. But on a rather different point—do you mean the Shire to be so large?
I miss you very much
Yours
Jack Lewis](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/HKcwQSCWIAAfK0i.png)
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