Hello, I’m Tiffany, your local town hermit. Welcome to my fellowship—a haven where you’re free to talk about taboo subjects you can’t anywhere else. Upgrade for full access and to meet kindred spirits.
Dear Inklings,
We are reading The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien. If you’re new here, my essays for this book challenge will always be free to read, but the journaling exercises and discussions are for patrons only. I also share more of my personal experiences in that section. We will be going deep and I want the space to be an intimate one. I hope you will choose to participate in our Fellowship.
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“War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.”
Ah Faramir, best loved character of the whole book, rivaled only by Sam. Butchered by Peter Jackson in one of the worst character assassinations I’ve ever seen on screen.
But we won’t talk about that now.
Instead, let’s draw some parallels between Sam and Faramir while we’re looking at these two characters—beloved for good reason.
Like Faramir, Sam has not set out on this quest for love of war or glory; rather, for the love of his master, Frodo. In these same chapters, Sam reflects on war when he and Frodo come face to face with it for the first time.
It was Sam’s first view of a battle of Men against Men, and he did not like it much. He was glad that he could not see the dead face. He wondered what the man’s name was and where he came from; and if he was really evil of heart, or what lies or threats had led him on the long march from his home; and if he would not really rather have stayed there in peace …
I can’t help but suspect that Sam may be projecting onto this dead man who had fallen before him. It also reveals something of Sam’s heart—his ability to empathise, even with enemies. He does not see a faceless evil here; he sees a human being. This seems especially important to point out, as division continues to grow. It’s more essential than ever to find our common humanity, even amidst seemingly insurmountable differences.
In the film, Faramir is the one who voices these thoughts, but I think them both equally likely to share the sentiments.
There’s a common theme that shows up in Tolkien’s work: the lowly are raised high, while the great are brought low. As this also runs throughout the Bible in the way God treats those overlooked by the powerful, I’m sure Tolkien’s faith informed the way he wrote.
Sam is a gardener, as we’ve established previously. He is the least impressive of even the hobbits—a race that is already small and overlooked by the wise and powerful.
Faramir is a second son, despised by his father, Denethor. Boromir was the loved one, the one who regularly brought glory to his kingdom.
And yet, in The Lord of the Rings, Sam and Faramir end up having tremendous influence over the outcome of the story. Not because they are powerful, but because of those very attributes the world deemed unworthy.
Most telling is the fact that the Ring doesn’t hold the same temptation over either of them as it does others. Think of this: Sam has been traveling with Frodo from the very beginning of his journey, yet has not expressed even the slightest desire to possess it.
By contrast, Gollum has not ceased lusting after the Ring since even before he became the hobbits’ guide. Boromir also saw the Ring for only a moment during the Council of Elrond, and it haunted him until the bitter end.
Meanwhile Faramir, his brother, keeps his word that he would not take the Ring, “Even if I were such a man as to desire this thing … But I am not such a man.”
Why are Sam and Faramir so easily able to resist the Ring’s lure?
While I’m sure there are many layers to this, I keep going back to Faramir’s famous quote: “I love only that which (swords) defend.” To him and Sam, their chief aim is not to empower themselves, but to protect those whom they love. This act of protection is worth more than their own power or glory. They love individual people, yes, but also their homes, and even the future generations.
Remember that Bilbo began his possession of the Ring with an act of mercy by sparing Gollum’s life in The Hobbit. This strength of character also gave him a protection against its corrupting influence. It allowed him the fortitude to relinquish the Ring of his own will (with help from Gandalf).
The present is not all that matters
In previous essays, I’ve written about the importance of knowing our own history. These chapters illustrate something of equal significance: taking the future into account.
Faramir tells the hobbits of the decline of Gondor, when “Kings made tombs more splendid than houses of the living, and counted old names in the rolls of their descent dearer than the names of sons.”
It calls to mind the conversation during the Council of Elrond, when Gandalf entreated them to think of a solution that would take into account the generations to come, not just their own.
In Tolkien’s world, it is considered good and wise to care for the future, even beyond their own lifetimes. This is not seen as optional; it is a responsibility.
The theme of generational responsibility appears to me a strong factor bolstering characters against the Ring’s power. It is like delayed gratification taken to an extreme. Boromir, on the other hand, wanted to use the Ring to save Gondor—a noble cause, but he was unable to take the long-term consequences into account—unlike his brother, Faramir.
Gollum, of course, is an even more extreme example. He simply wants the Ring for himself, to possess and hide it in the most selfish way—the complete antithesis of what our heroes strive for. Gollum has no thought beyond his own self-preservation.
Within these themes is the grander theme we’ve been exploring: that of existing in a much larger story.
Just as the past influences our present, so our actions of today influence the future generations. This is not something we should take lightly. It is also not just something for people who have children. Acknowledging our smallness in the great tapestry of our world is counter-cultural in this time of puffing ourselves up. It requires us to think a lot more of people other than ourselves.
We are seeing a huge decline in society as individualism is raised up as the holy grail. We want our boundaries. We want to live happily at any cost, even that of others.
To do so is to be short-sighted.
All of us will have times when we are like Frodo and need to be carried by a Sam. Other times, we will be able to be a Sam for someone else. This is how community survives. This is how society survives.
While Sam’s profound speech is not in our reading this week, I still want to conclude with it:
“…and the Silmaril went on and came to Eärendil. And why, sir, I never thought of that before! We’ve got—you’ve got some of the light of it in the starglass that the Lady gave you! Why, to think of it, we’re in the same tale still! It’s going on. Don’t the great tales never end?”
“No, they never end as tales,” said Frodo. “But the people in them come, and go when their part’s ended. Our part will end later—or sooner.”
Our choices and actions do not exist in a vacuum. While this truth should not paralyse us from doing anything, it should remind us to be more mindful.
For next week, read the rest of The Two Towers.
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